Peter Robinson - The First Cut

“You must have nipped out early, love,” the woman said cheerfully. “Usually takes them all of thirty seconds to get here after the buzzer goes. Them as comes, that is. Now the Brown Cow up the road does pub lunches, there’s plenty ’as deserted poor Rose’s. Don’t hold with lunchtime drinking, myself. What’ll you have then? A nice cup of tea?”

Was there any other kind? Sue wondered. “Yes, thanks, that’ll do fine,” she said.

The woman frowned at her. “Just a cup of tea? You need a bit more than that, lass. Put some meat on your bones. How about one of these lovely potted-meat sandwiches? Or are you one of them as brings her own lunch?” Her glance had turned suspicious now.

Sue felt flustered. It was all going wrong. She was supposed to slip into the place unobtrusively and order from a bored waitress who would pay her no attention. Instead, she had gone and made herself conspicuous just because she had run for cover when the siren went and everyone had started hurrying toward her. She was too jumpy, not very good at this kind of thing.

“I’m on a diet,” she offered weakly.

“Huh!” the woman snorted. “I don’t know about young ’uns today, I really don’t. No wonder you’ve all got this annexa nirvana or whatever they calls it. Cup of tea it is, then, but don’t blame me if you start having them there dizzy spells.” She poured the black steaming liquid from a battered old aluminum pot. “Milk and sugar?”

Sue looked at the dark liquid. “Yes, please,” she said.

“New there, are you?” the woman asked, pushing the cup and saucer along the red Formica counter.

“Yes,” said Sue. “Only started today.”

“Been taking time off for shopping already, too, I see,” the woman said, looking down at Sue’s carrier bag. “Don’t see why you’d want to shop in that place when there’s a Marks and Sparks handy.” She looked at the bag again. “Pricey that lot are. They charge for the name, you know. It’s all made in Hong Kong anyroads.”

Would she never stop? Sue wondered, blushing and thinking frantically about what to say in reply. As it happened, she didn’t have to. The woman went on to ask an even more difficult question: “Who d’you work for, old Villiers?”

“Yes,” said Sue, without thinking at all.

The woman smiled knowingly. “Well take my advice, love, and watch out for him. Wandering hands, he’s got, and as many of ’em as an octopus, so I’ve heard.” She put a finger to the side of her nose. The door pinged loudly behind them. “Hey up, here they come!” she said, turning away from Sue at last. “Right, who’s first? Come on, don’t all shout at once!”

Sue managed to weave her way through the small crowd and take the table by the window. She hoped that old Villiers and his friends were among the people who had deserted Rose’s for the Brown Cow. If they were management, it was very unlikely that they spent their lunch hour eating potted-meat sandwiches and drinking tannic tea in a poky café.

Still, it was a bloody disaster. Sue had thought she could come to this place every day at about five o’clock for as long as it took without arousing much attention. After that, providing the weather improved and the police didn’t catch up with her, if she needed to stay any longer she could buy some cheap binoculars and watch from the clump of trees just above the factory site. But now she had been spotted and, what’s more, she had lied. If the woman found out that Sue really didn’t work at the factory, she would become suspicious. After all, Rose’s Café was hardly a tourist attraction. She would have to spy from the woods now, whatever the weather. The only bright spot on the horizon was the Brown Cow. If workers went there at lunchtime, perhaps some also returned in the evening after work. It was easier to be unobtrusive in a large busy pub than in a small café like Rose’s.

Annoyed with herself and with the weather, Sue lit a cigarette and examined the faces of the others in the café, making the best of what time she had. Calm down, she told herself. It won’t take that long to find him if he’s here. It can’t.

What else did you remember?” Sarah asked, leaning forward over the table and cupping her chin in her hands.

“That’s just it,” Kirsten said. “Nothing. It’s so frustrating. I’ve had two more sessions since then and got nowhere. Every time I pull back at the same point.”

It was seven o’clock in the evening. Kirsten had parked the car off Dorchester Street and met Sarah at the station about an hour earlier. They had walked up to the city center in the lightly falling snow and now sat in a pub on Cheap Street near the Abbey. The place was busy with the after-work crowd and Christmas shoppers taking a break. Kirsten and Sarah had just managed to squeeze in at a small table.

“Are you going to carry on?” Sarah asked.

Kirsten nodded. “I’ve got another session in the morning.”

“So you do want to know?”

“Yes.”

“You know there’s been another one, don’t you, just before the end of term? That makes two now-three including you.”

“Kathleen Shannon,” Kirsten said. “Aged twenty-two. She was a music student. I only wish…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Kirstie. It’s me, Sarah, remember?”

Kirsten smiled. “You’ll probably think I’m mad. I feel so empty sometimes and then I get so angry. I keep thinking of those two others. And there’s this block, like a huge black lump or a thick cloud in my mind, and the whole memory’s locked in there. I don’t think it will go away, Sarah, even if the police do get him. What if they find him and they can’t prove he did it? What if he gets off with probation or something? He might even slip away from them.”

“Well, that’s their problem, isn’t it? You know I’m not the police’s greatest fan, but I suppose they know their job when it comes to things like this. After all, it’s respectable middle-class girls getting killed, not prostitutes.”

“Maybe. But I just wish I knew who it was. I wish I could find him myself.”

Sarah stared at her and narrowed her eyes. “And what would you do?”

Kirsten paused and drew a circle on the wet table with her finger. “I think I’d kill him.”

“Vigilante justice?”

“Why not?”

“Have you ever thought that it might turn out the other way round, that he’d be the one killing you?”

“Yes,” Kirsten said quietly. “I’ve thought of that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling suicidal?”

“No, that’s gone. Dr. Henderson, Laura, helped a lot. They all say I’m making wonderful progress, and I suppose I am really, but…”

“But what?”

Kirsten fumbled for a cigarette. Sarah raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. The couple beside them left and two young men took their place. Someone put a U2 song on the jukebox and Kirsten had to speak louder to make herself heard. “They don’t know what it feels like to be me, do they? Living half a life, in limbo. I don’t feel that I’ll get out of it until I’ve met him again and I know he’s dead.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Sarah. “Besides, you wouldn’t know where to look for him any more than the police do.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Not yet, anyway.” She took a long deep drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. “Shall we have another drink? Then you can tell me all about the others and how Harridan’s doing.”

Sarah nodded and Kirsten made her way to the bar. She didn’t have to wait long to get served. The crowd had thinned out a bit now, as many of the after-work drinkers had gone home and the evening regulars hadn’t arrived yet. The two lads at the next table were still there, though, talking enthusiastically about girls. Kirsten ignored the way they looked at her as she walked back, and sat down again.