Peter Robinson - The First Cut

“There’s not much you don’t know, is there?” Kirsten said. “As a matter of fact, yes, I have. Her name’s Laura Henderson and she’s a psychiatrist.”

Elswick smiled indulgently. “Yes, we know.”

“Don’t tell me-you checked her out?”

“It’s standard procedure in cases like this.” Elswick followed her out of the room down to the hall. “Doing you any good?”

“Yes, I think she is. She says my loss of memory might be anterograde amnesia, caused by the trauma.”

“Hmm, yes, we’d heard. And it’s consistent with the facts. All you remember is the hand, and you’ve blotted out all the violence, all the pain. According to our medical experts, the memory may or may not come back.”

“You’ve certainly done your homework, haven’t you, Superintendent?”

Elswick seemed embarrassed again. He changed moods remarkably quickly for a policeman, Kirsten thought. One minute he was all confident and superior, the next he was avuncular and then he got all tongue-tied. This time she decided to help him.

“What is it you want?” she asked. “Do you want to talk to her? Do you want access to her records of our sessions? They won’t tell you anything, you know.”

“Er, no, no, that won’t be necessary,” Elswick said as Kirsten handed them their coats from the hall cupboard. She sensed from his hesitation that he might already have had such access or could easily get it if he wanted, and she felt a surge of anger toward Laura.

“What I was wondering was,” he went on, scratching his mole again-Kirsten felt like telling him to get it seen to before it turned cancerous-“was, well, with the doctor’s permission, of course, I was wondering if you’d consider trying hypnosis?”

It was partly the way you smoke your cigarette,” Keith said. “Everybody’s different. You hold it straight out between your first two fingers like a real lady, or like you’re just pretending to smoke.” He grinned. “But why the change in appearance? You look so feminine. I mean, not that you didn’t before, it’s just…” He slowed to a halt.

Sue smiled and flicked her cigarette end onto the sand. “You know what they say: a change is as good as a rest.” Why the hell did he have to turn up? she asked herself. And what am I supposed to do about him?

“Did you need a rest?”

“No, I needed a change.”

They both laughed.

“But seriously, Martha,” he persisted, “it’s almost as if you’re trying to avoid someone. You aren’t, are you?”

“It’s nothing but a skirt and a blouse. You’re acting as if I’m dressed like Richard III or something.”

“There is the wig.”

Sue touched the false hair. “I was sick of having it short. I couldn’t wait.”

“And the makeup.”

“Can’t a girl put a bit of lipstick on anymore?”

Keith smiled. “I’m still not convinced. I think you’re a spy. I just don’t know whose side you’re on.”

He seemed happy to meet up with her again, despite the sour note they had parted on, but she could tell he was suspicious by the way he studied her. He had recognized her without much difficulty, that was clear enough. Maybe it was because he fancied her, and when you fancy someone you notice little things like how they hold their cigarettes and the way they walk. She was sure that strangers, people she had passed in the street or sat near in a pub, wouldn’t connect her with the short-haired, tomboyish Martha Browne. But Keith could be a problem.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked.

“Just taking a break for the day. And you? I’d have thought you’d be in Edinburgh by now.”

“Oh no, I’m moving very slowly. First Sandsend, then Runswick Bay, now Staithes.” Sue noticed again how pronounced his Australian accent was: Staithes came out as Stythes. “I’m in no hurry,” he went on. “I might never see these places again. And the weather’s been so bloody good. Another first in England from what I’ve heard. You still in Whitby?”

“Yes.”

“Still in the same bed and breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Still get black pudding for breakfast?”

“Most days.”

Sue’s mind was working fast. She didn’t want to be noticed with him in public, for a start, and they could hardly get more public than here on the sea wall. Luckily, though, there was hardly anyone around at the moment. One or two people sat on the beach, but they were facing the sea, and two blond children, dressed identically in white shorts and blue-and-red-striped T-shirts, stood eating ice-cream cones near the Cod and Lobster. Everyone else was either in the pub, at the shops or waiting for lunch in the restaurant. The steep hill down to the village probably put a lot of older visitors off, too, Sue thought. No matter how warm it was, people so much liked to sit in their cars right beside the sea, but they couldn’t do that here. Though it was easy enough getting down to the beach, the walk back up the hill was no doubt too great a price for many to pay for a day at the seaside.

So far, no one had so much as glanced at them. The first thing to do was get Keith away somewhere off the beaten track, then she would be able to think clearly. She didn’t like the idea that was forming, forcing itself on her, but she hadn’t thought of another way out yet.

“What are your plans?” he asked.

“Well,” Sue said, “I was intending to walk along the coast to Runswick Bay, then catch the bus back to Whitby. What do you think? Is it too far?”

“No, it’s not far at all. I’ve done it myself. Nothing to it. Tell you what, if you’ve no objection, I’ll come with you. There’s an even better walk in my guidebook, though. You walk along the cliffs to Port Mulgrave, then cut back inland through some woods and circle around to the main road. That’ll take you to your bus stop, and me back to Staithes. How about it?”

“All right. Are you sure you don’t have anything else you want to do?”

“I told you, I’m on holiday. No plans, no newspapers, no television. A vacation from the world.”

Sue remembered the bit about not reading newspapers from their last meeting. It made her feel a little safer-especially as he had made no mention of Jack Grimley’s death-but there were still too many ways that someone like Keith could come across a local news story: a photo of Grimley and a request for information in some pub or café up the coast, for example; or from the newspaper used to wrap his fish and chips one evening. Perhaps someone might be watching a local news program on the TV in the lounge of his guesthouse just as he walked in to make a cup of tea. And he would remember, that was the problem. He recognized her, even in disguise, so he would surely recognize Jack Grimley, the man he had caught her staring at in the Lucky Fisherman. Then he might remember how he had thought she knew Grimley. The more she worried about what Keith knew, the more she realized she didn’t feel safe at all. Why hadn’t he gone straight up to Scotland, or taken the plane back to Oz?

Keith took her silence for hesitation. “Look, Martha,” he said, scratching his earlobe and looking out to sea. “I know I was out of order, like, before when…you know…and I’m sorry. I want you to know I’m not on the make. I just think it’d be nice to go for a walk with you. I won’t try anything. Honest.”

Sue got to her feet and brushed the sand from the back of her long skirt. She was forming a plan and a little inducement would go a long way. “It’s all right,” she said. “I didn’t mean to seem so brusque with you before. It’s not that I’m a nun or anything. It was just too soon. I mean, I hardly knew you.” She smiled at him.