Nine Lives (9 page)

Verry was very excited. Tourist excited. And so was I. But for different reasons. I could have done without the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides and the Louvre. I was mission excited. My crusade was once again under way.

We did the tourist bits, Verry and I, and we walked a lot. I manoeuvred one of our walks to go down the rue du Seine. I paused at my chosen door, ostensibly to tie my shoelace, and in so doing, I noted that my quarry lived on the ground floor, a fact which pleased me. On the day of our departure, I deposited Verry in a coffee house near the rue du Seine and I told her that I wanted to browse in a bookshop near by. She was happy to rest her feet and I ordered her a coffee
and a brioche. She is so agreeable, my Verry. I could easily have told her I was going to Devon.

I strolled over to the site of my next quarry, putting on my gloves as I did so, holding the string at the ready. At her door, I did not hesitate. I rang the bell and prayed that she was at home. I waited, but not for long. She herself opened it. Or rather, I presumed it was she. But I had to make sure. I couldn't sully my crusade with the wrong number.

‘Mademoiselle Lacroix?' I asked.

‘
Oui
,' she said.

I was unnerved to find her rather young and beautiful, but I imaged that picture of mine in the attic, and all scruple faded.

‘
Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?
' she asked.

My French dried, but I didn't care. I didn't need words in any language. I simply pushed past her, closed the door, and measured her French neck with my string. I prayed that no one would come in or go out and I allowed her backward fall, felt her dying pulse and shut the door on her, rather as I had left poor Miss Mayling on the hall floor.

Verry had finished her coffee, and I paid the bill and hailed a cab. Once on the train, I breathed freely and welcomed the old elation, that normal after-taste of my mission. I had a sudden surge of love for Verry, and I decided that on our return home, I'd give her a good seeing to. So,

FIVE DOWN. FOUR TO GO.

Wilkins was idling …

Wilkins was idling at his desk. It was over a year now, and no further psychotherapist had been murdered. Perhaps the killer had died? Or done the decent thing, out of shame? And just as he was placing the whole shrink shebang on the back-burner, he had news that the killer, no longer deceased or a suicide, had struck again.

‘Shit,' he said.

Now Wilkins did not favour bad language, but he cursed the killer who had risen as if from the dead. But worse than that: he had spread his net wide. And God knows how much wider. Still, a trip to the scene of the crime was not something to be scoffed at. He had never been on Eurostar, and only once to Paris when he was a boy. He'd gone over on the ferry, and had been seasick all the way. The train would be smooth and an adventure. He tried not to appear too excited. He was glad that the responsibility of an arrest would now be shared, and that the gendarmes would have to get their fingers out. But from his weary experience, Wilkins had little hope of finding any clues, and if this latest killing had taken place on his home ground, he wondered whether, in his helplessness, he would have bothered to go at all. But he fitted himself out in a new suit, thinking that Paris ruled the world of fashion, and with the local French detective, who mercifully spoke very good English, he made his way to the rue du Seine.

The French detective had already visited the apartment and confirmed what Wilkins could have told him, sight unseen. Garrotting, guitar string, no prints, no forced entry.
And, unsurprisingly, no witnesses. There were too many people in the street at the time. Man or woman or even child: it could have been anybody.

There was little that Wilkins could do in Paris. He had to leave the investigation to his opposite number. But while he was in the city, he decided to savour its delights. However, one night of those delights frightened him and he fled back in the train to his decent semi in the suburbs. He wondered where the killer would strike next. There was now no stopping him and despite his despondency, it was an exciting prospect. He had a favourite cousin in Geneva whom he hadn't seen for years. Geneva must be riddled with psychotherapists, he thought. But it was a lottery. The luck of the draw. There was no obvious pattern to the killer's choice of location. Only the target was constant. So the next one, and Wilkins was sure there would be another, and others too, the next one could be anywhere.

Donald's been moved …

Donald's been moved again. They said it was for his own safety. He'd been attacked, they informed me, though his injuries were not serious.

I couldn't understand it. Donald was not a prime target. It was not as if he were a child abuser. And in any case he is innocent. Though nobody will believe him. Except me, of course. What else dare I believe?

He's been transferred to Parkhurst prison on the Isle of Wight. Although it was a long way from London, and necessitated a ferry crossing, I looked forward to my next visit. I love the sea and although it's only across the Solent, you can imagine that you're travelling abroad. But Parkhurst has an ominous ring. Only Category A prisoners are housed there, and since it is an island there's no possibility of escape. Not that my Donald would ever try it. It would make him look guilty and he wouldn't have any of that. When I think of Parkhurst, I think of Alcatraz and the birdman. I saw a film about it once. My Donald won't be a birdman, but he'll be the Painter of Parkhurst. They might even make a film about him. Silly, isn't it, the way I'm thinking? But I'm trying to put out of my mind a letter I had this morning. It's not bad news, but it means that I have to make a decision. An important one. And I'm not good at decisions. Donald always made them for me. Trouble is, it's about Donald and his business and I've got to make a decision on his behalf. It's almost a month till my next visiting permit and these people want an answer straight away. It's about his offices.
He'd paid the rent in advance. A whole year of it. And it's due again next week. The owners want to know if, in the circumstances – that's their phrase – I want to renew it. And if not, I must give written notice and clear the place of all furniture and effects within two weeks. I know it would be foolish to keep up with the rent, but giving it up seems to be giving up on Donald; seems to assume he'll never be free to start his business again. Moreover, I would be invading his privacy. I had never set foot in his office. He had always insisted it was his place, and his alone. And I would have to go through his papers too, in case there was something important he'd left unattended. It would be like prying. Still, it had to be done. So I stopped thinking about the Painter of Parkhurst and the film that they would make of him, and I wrote to the office landlords cancelling the contract and assuring them that I would have the place cleared.

I thought I would do it straight away and get it over with. I would not tell my boys. They would regard it as a sign of my surrender; that at last I was beginning to see sense. They had been in touch a few times since my birthday, asking me out to the theatre and lunches and so on. But their refusal to visit Donald still rankled and I wanted to let them know it.

The letter gave the address of the office. I didn't even know that. Donald's bunch of keys still lay on the hall table where he always left them. I took them with me. One of them would fit. I had no idea what I would find there. I'd heard that the police had stripped it after his arrest. I suspected that there would be some furniture that I would have to get rid of and I hoped that would be all, because I didn't want to make any troublesome discoveries.

The first key I selected from the bunch fitted exactly, thus giving me no excuse to delay my entry. I opened the door gingerly, as if I expected to find someone inside. And, indeed, I did call out Donald's name and wondered whether I was in my right mind. He occupied only one room in the building and that was a relief. As was the paucity of its furnishings. Just one desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet. I tried the phone and found it disconnected. The furniture, such as it was, was old and scuffed. Unsaleable. I would have to pay someone to take it away. Having made that decision, I wanted to leave but I felt obliged to examine the desk drawers and those of the filing cabinet before I could honestly tell myself that I had done a thorough job. So far I had discovered nothing to trouble me. Simply entering Donald's office and viewing a few sticks of furniture was no invasion of privacy. But going through his drawers was another matter. I sat on one of the rickety chairs, and considered whether should there be any sleeping dogs I ought to let them lie. But I confess that, despite my scruples, I was also tempted. Tempted to discover something that would throw some light on all that had happened and equally terrified of such a discovery. But I considered that the police had rifled the place, and taken away anything that could be evidence, so I felt safe in opening the first drawer of the desk. Then the second and the third and the three on the other side and all, apart from a few rubber bands and paper clips, were empty. So it was with a certain confidence that I moved to the filing cabinet. Six drawers in all. And all mercifully empty.

I left the office satisfied. On Donald's release, he could set up elsewhere.

On my way home, I had a happy moment. They happen sometimes. Rarely, and they don't last. But it's a moment one remembers for a long time, a moment that one never understands. I began to look forward to my next visit, to the crossing over the water. I could pretend I was going abroad to a country where the Painter of Parkhurst would be waiting to meet me. I gave a thought to my boys and I wondered whether the sea trip would tempt them. But they were city boys now, restaurant boys, futures and dividend boys. The only ferry that would lure them would be to an exotic island. They would find the Solent faintly insulting.

‘Bugger them,' I said to myself, as I recalled that brief moment of happiness. ‘It's their loss as well as Donald's. But for the latter, I mourned. I would try yet again, I decided. When they next asked me out, I would go with them and make a thorough nuisance of myself.

But thinking badly of my boys did not please me, and when I reached home I decided to comfort myself by looking through my photograph albums and view them once again as children. In Margate, on the sands, and in better times. I kept the album in my underwear drawer. The police had rifled that too but they seemed uninterested in seaside snaps and they had left them for my comfort. I remember feeling deeply grateful. I sat on my bed with the book on my lap, and page by page, and under the sun and in the water and on the sands, I relished our stainless past. I noted how the boys grew over the years, how the donkey rides gave way to coconut shies and the fairground. And even a rifle range with Donald clutching a lone goldfish in a polythene bag. Happy times. The last page of the album was devoted to a family portrait taken by a photographer
on the pier. And tucked into the back flap, unframed, were the boys' certificates: silver for swimming, distinction for elocution, and stars for English and maths. And I was proud of them again.

As I was closing the album, I noticed that three small pieces of paper had been clipped to the maths certificate. I hadn't noticed them before but it was a long time since I had looked at the album. The last time Donald had been with me and we had looked and laughed at it together. I was curious and I unclipped them. They were three receipts. All were from a funeral director in north London, acknowledging the payment of interment expenses. I noted the dates of the first two. Almost a year apart. I surmised that they referred to Donald's parents. I recalled the funerals he told me he had attended. But the last receipt was a puzzle. It was dated from before Donald and I had met. It confirmed Donald's collection of an urn of ashes. Whose ashes they were was not referred to, simply that Donald was the collector. I thought perhaps that the ashes had been those of an aunt or an uncle. Or they could have been those of a friend. But I doubted that. Donald had since told me that he'd never had a friend. It was a puzzle all right. I wondered why Donald had put them there. Surely he must have meant for me to discover them. His way of telling me something. But what? He had left me clues, but without any guidance at all.

I sensed I didn't want to know any further. I certainly would not question Donald on my next visit. Indeed I would not even mention the office or the cancellation of his tenancy. Whether he was innocent or guilty, I didn't want my doubts fed or my certainty threatened. I would let matters lie.

After Paris I had to take a break. Paris. I must have been out of my mind! The risks I took. But by God, it was well worth it. Paris refreshed my spirits, and I'm not referring to the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre. Just that brief encounter on the rue du Seine. It restored my faith in my mission. But I knew that nothing could top that Paris trip, so I had to lie low for a while until the elation was distilled.

I followed the newspaper accounts with diligence. Every one of them. I even bought copies of
Le Monde
to acquaint myself with the French version of events. All reported the absence of clues.
Impasse.
And all concluded, in both the English and French papers, that the murder of poor Mademoiselle Lacroix was a copy-cat, and had nothing to do with the serial murder in England. I was not in the least offended by this. On the contrary, this conclusion could lead to other imitations and it signalled that any psychotherapist, anywhere in the world, was at risk. And such a thought warmed the cockles of my heart. But it's still five down and four to go. Time to recapitulate.

Harry Winston. The good man. But good or bad, his profession qualified him for dispatch. Angela Mayling. An easy prey, a death probably unmourned, but that was no business of mine. Then the Barry Island lady, Bronwen Hughes, who saw through my petticoats and had the temerity to analyse me. So good riddance to bad rubbish. After the Welsh woman, it was back to London and Alistair Morris. He too saw through my disguise, and it was not good for him. And now
we come to the best of all. Mademoiselle Lacroix of rue du Seine. The so-called copy-cat murder. The fastest and the most exhilarating of all. It's no wonder I need a break from my mission.