Peter Robinson - The First Cut

One day in early October, when the elegant old city looked gray and a cold wind drove the rain through its Georgian crescents, circles and squares, Kirsten forsook her usual walk by the Avon and drove straight home from Laura’s office. When she arrived, she noticed a strange car parked in the drive and hermother peeking out from behind the lace curtains-something she didn’t usually do-and her heart began to beat faster. Something was wrong. Was it her father? she wondered as she hurried to the door. Her ordeal had taken a terrible toll on him, and though he did seem stronger and happier of late, the bags still hung dark under his eyes and he had lost his boyish enthusiasm for things. Was his heart weak? Had he had an attack?

Her mother opened the door before Kirsten even had time to fit her key into the lock. “Someone to see you,” she said in a whisper.

“What is it?” Kirsten asked. “Is Father all right?”

Her mother frowned. “Of course he is, dear. Whatever gave you that idea?”

Kirsten hung up her coat and dashed into the split-level living room. Two men sat close to the French windows, near the spot on the carpet, now dry-cleaned back to perfection, where Kirsten had had her Scotch and pills picnic. One of the men she recognized, or thought she should, but the memory was vague: spiky gray hair, red complexion, dark mole between left nostril and upper lip. She’d seen him before. And then it came to her: the policeman, Superintendent…

“Elswick, miss,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Detective Superintendent Elswick. We have met before.”

Kirsten nodded. “Yes, yes of course.”

“And this is Detective Inspector Gregory.”

Inspector Gregory stretched out his hand, which was attached to an astonishingly long arm, and Kirsten moved forward to shake it. Then he disappeared back into the chair-her father’s favorite armchair, she noticed. Gregory was probably in his midthirties, and his dark hair was a bit too long for a policeman. He was dressed scruffily, too, with brown corduroy trousers, threadbare from being washed too many times, a tan suede jacket and no tie. Kirsten thought he seemed a bit shifty. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. Superintendent Elswick wore a navy-blue suit, a white shirt and a black-and-amber-striped tie. It was the same one he wore last time, she remembered. Probably from an old school or regiment; he looked like an ex-military type.

“How are you, Kirsten?” Elswick asked.

Kirsten sat down on the sofa before answering. Her mother hovered over them and asked if anyone would like more tea.

“I haven’t had any yet,” Kirsten said. “Yes. I’d like some, please.”

The two policemen said they wouldn’t be averse to another cup, and Kirsten’s mother walked off promising to make a fresh pot.

Kirsten looked at Elswick. “How am I? I suppose I’m doing fine.”

“Good. I’m very glad. It was a nasty business.”

“Yes.”

They sat in tense silence until Kirsten’s mother returned with the tea tray. Having deposited it on the mahogany coffee table before the stone hearth, she disappeared again, saying, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

After her sessions with Dr. Henderson, Kirsten was used to silence. At first it had disconcerted her, made her fidgety and edgy, but now they sometimes sat for as much as two minutes-which is a very long time for two people to be silent together-while Kirsten meditated on something Laura had said, or tried to frame a reply to a particularly probing and painful question. Elswick and Gregory were easy meat. There was something they wanted, obviously, so all she had to do was wait until they got to the point.

Gregory played “mother,” clearly an unsuitable role for him, and spilled as much tea in the saucer as he got in the cups. Elswick frowned at him, and added milk and sugar. Then, when they were settled again, Gregory crossed his long legs and took out a black notebook. He did his best to pretend he was part of the chair he was sitting in.

“Kirsten,” said Superintendent Elswick, “I should imagine you’ve guessed that I wouldn’t come all this way unless it was important.”

Kirsten nodded. “Have you caught him?” For a moment she panicked and thought the attacker might actually be someone she knew, someone from the party. She didn’t know if she would be able to handle that.

“No,” said Elswick, “no, we haven’t. That’s just the point.”

It was obviously very difficult for him to talk to her, Kirsten realized, but she didn’t know how to make it any easier.

Finally, he managed to blurt it out. “I’m afraid there’s been another attack.”

“Like mine?”

“Yes.”

“In the park?”

“No, it took place on some waste ground near a polytechnic not far away. Huddersfield, in fact. I thought you might have read about it in the papers.”

“I haven’t been reading the papers lately.”

“I see. Anyway, this time the victim wasn’t quite as lucky as you. She died.”

“What’s her name?”

Elswick looked puzzled. “Margaret Snell,” he answered.

Kirsten repeated the name to herself. “How old was she?” she asked.

“Nineteen.”

“What did she look like?”

Elswick tipped the tea from his saucer into his cup before answering. “She was a pretty girl,” he said finally, “and a bright one too. She had long blond hair and a big crooked smile. She was studying hotel management.”

Kirsten sat in silence.

“The reason we’re here,” Elswick continued, “is to see if you’ve remembered anything else about what happened. Anything at all that might help us catch this man.”

“Before he does it again?”

Elswick nodded gravely.

“Does that mean there’s some kind of maniac, some kind of ripper, running loose up there?”

Elswick took a deep breath. “We try to avoid alarmist terms like that,” he said. “It was a vicious attack, much the same as the one on you. From our point of view, we’re pretty sure it was the same man, so it looks like we’ve got a serial killer, yes. But the newspapers don’t know that. They don’t know anything about the similarity between your injuries and those of the dead girl, and we’re certainly not going to tell them. We’re doing our best to prevent anyone linking you to the business.”

“Why?” Kirsten asked, suddenly apprehensive.

“All the bad publicity. It would upset your parents, make your life a misery. You’ve no idea how persistent those damn reporters can be when they get on the scent of a juicy story. They’d be up here from London like a shot.”

Kirsten could tell he was lying. He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “It’s because you think he might come after me, isn’t it?” she said. “You’re worried that if he knows you connect him to two victims and he knows one is still alive, then he’ll want to finish me off in case I know something, aren’t you?”

“It’s not as simple as that, Kirsten.” Elswick shifted in his chair. “When you were in the hospital-”

“He’s already tried?”

“Yes. You must have noticed that we had a man on the door all the time. As soon as news of your survival hit the papers, the attacker came back. Apparently he must have entered the hospital dressed as an orderly. He can’t have been all that bright, otherwise he’d have known we’d be guarding you. Anyway, when he turned the corner, he spotted the constable and ducked quickly back the way he came. Our man was good. He saw from the corner of his eye that someone was behaving suspiciously, but he had orders not to leave his post. A more headstrong bobby might have done just that. But if he’d gone chasing after the intruder, looking for the glory of an arrest, then he could easily have got lost in the maze of corridors and chummy could’ve nipped back in and…”