Danuta Reah - Only Darkness

He read on through some of the other poems, and found more words that spoke to him – the glacier knocks in the cupboard, the desert sighs in the bed … He even found that ‘Stop all the Clocks’ poem from the last film he’d seen with Angie. He couldn’t read that. It had made Angie cry, and it would make him cry now, if he could cry, if he wanted to cry.

‘The thing is,’ Debbie said, pouring herself another glass of wine. ‘Sorry, did you want one? The thing is, I like being on my own and I don’t – if you see what I mean. When things are going OK it’s great, but when you’ve got something on your mind, you haven’t got anyone to talk to.’ She stood up, feeling the wine she’d drunk, and got another bottle out of her bag. ‘I bought a red. Is that all right?’ She had arrived about eight-thirty, and they’d spent the first hour talking about work, students, and drinking a bit too quickly.

‘Yes, fine. I dunno about all this talking it over.’ Louise had been married for twelve years and sometimes envied Debbie her freedom. ‘Dan only has conversations with the television these days. What problems? Want to talk about it?’

‘Oh, it’s complicated. A bit of it’s Tim, I suppose.’

‘Tim Godber? He’s always a problem. I wish he’d go and be a proper journalist and stop wasting my time.’ Louise had to organize curriculum and timetables, and thought that Tim didn’t take his teaching work seriously. ‘What’s your problem with Tim?’

‘Well, we had a bit of a fling and I wish we hadn’t. There’s something a bit creepy about him.’

‘Is he giving you any hassle?’ Louise’s voice sharpened.

‘No, oh no, nothing like that. I just wish, I don’t know, that I’d kept away from him, really …’

‘Did you enjoy it at the time?’ Louise refilled her glass and raised an eyebrow at Debbie.

‘Well, OK, yes, I did.’

‘Well then.’ Louise dismissed the problem. ‘Was that all? That’s worrying you, I mean? You’ve been quiet all day.’

‘Louise?’

‘Still here, still listening.’

‘You know Rob Neave?’

‘The security man? Yes. What about him? You haven’t joined the Rob Neave fan club, have you?’

‘Is there one?’

‘Oh, I think so. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed. Mind you, I wouldn’t kick Tim Godber out of bed either, if that was all I had to put up with from him.’

‘Someone told me he used to be in the police.’ Debbie had been curious about Rob for a while, but this was the first opportunity she’d had to ask questions.

‘Neave? That’s right. I don’t know much about it, though.’

‘Why did he leave, do you know?’

‘No, some kind of personal crisis, I think. Something to do with his marriage? I don’t know any more, though someone said he was drinking a lot before he came to City.’ Louise was looking at Debbie speculatively. ‘Be careful,’ she said.

Debbie wanted to leave the subject now. She hadn’t known he was married. If he still was. She went on, quickly, and rather addled by the wine, to tell Louise about the man at the station. Louise listened quietly until Debbie had finished. ‘And he, Rob Neave, said to go to the police. I can’t see how it could be to do with the killing, but …’

Louise was her efficient work self now. ‘Wait until tomorrow, then see what’s in the paper. If it is one of those killings, go and tell them. If it isn’t, then you’ve no need to worry. And I wouldn’t tell anyone else. You don’t want it all over the college.’

‘I’ve already told Tim.’

Louise’s eyebrow lifted again. ‘Bad idea,’ was all she said.

They’d moved quickly since finding the body. The men searching the embankment by the line had found a handbag discarded in the grass. A purse was still in there, intact, containing £30, a debit card, a credit card for a chain store, some miscellaneous receipts and other pieces of paper that were being checked to see if they gave any information about the woman’s movements in the weeks and days before she died. It seemed certain that this had belonged to the dead woman, as there was a brand-new travel pass with a photograph, and though her face was brutally changed, it looked very like – the same mass of fair hair, the small features. Mick Berryman, the senior investigating officer, had looked at the photo for a moment, then said, ‘Has anyone checked out this address?’

Now he was looking at the scene-of-crime photographs, with Julie Fyfe’s sightless face staring at him from the track side, half masked by the tape over her mouth, the thin cord embedded in the bruising round her neck. He looked at the initial report from the pathologist: … hands secured by tape round the wrists … cuts to the hands … numerous cuts, bruises and abrasions to the body … injuries to both eyes … He hadn’t been prepared to commit himself any further at that stage. Had she been raped? Damage to the genital area made that a possibility but he couldn’t say until after doing a postmortem. Were her injuries pre- or postmortem? Impossible to say without further examination. What kind of maniac dumped mutilated, dead women by railway lines? More your field than mine.

‘OK.’ Berryman looked at the team who were working on the strangler killings. ‘It isn’t officially confirmed yet, but we all know – we’ve got another one.’ He pinned the photograph up on the board, and ran through the known facts about this killing. ‘Young woman, twenties found’ – he indicated on the map – ‘here, just outside Rawmarsh, near the junction. Injuries to the eyes. Mouth and wrists taped. Bruising to the neck, general damage, probable sexual assault. What else?’ Berryman could see Lynne Jordan, a DS who had been involved with the team since the first murder, checking back through her notebook.

‘First week of the month,’ she said, flicking over a page. ‘That’s different. The others have all been in the last week. Poor visibility – the moon was well into its last quarter. A rainy night – it was fine when Kate and Mandy disappeared.’

‘Any thoughts about that, Lynne? Anyone?’

‘The rain – if it’s as heavy as it was last night – that makes our job more difficult,’ Lynne said. ‘A lot of evidence could just get washed away. On the other hand, it makes it more likely that he’ll leave marks. Footprints, tyre tracks.’

Berryman nodded. The problem was, the killer had left them nothing like that so far, except for one set of fingerprints, on the handbag of the first victim.

‘How could he know? If he’s planning ahead.’ That was Steve McCarthy, also a DS who had, like Lynne Jordan, been on the team since the beginning. He was looking at Jordan with some hostility. ‘What about broken glass?’

‘The light above the post was smashed. How recently we don’t yet know. They’re looking for glass on the body.’

‘Timing.’ That was Lynne again. ‘We thought his interval might be getting shorter. We’ve got a seven-month gap, a six-month gap, but now we’ve got eight months.’ She shrugged. She didn’t know what to do with the information. They wanted a pattern, not randomness.

‘Show us on the calendar, Lynne.’ Berryman believed in visual presentation of information.

Lynne went over to the calendar that was pinned to the wall next to the display board. ‘The first killing, right, was at the end of March. That was Lisa. Seven months later, we get Kate. Last week in October. Six months after that, Mandy is killed, last week in April. That looks too much like a pattern to ignore. We expected the next one at the end of September, but nothing happened. Until now. Now we get one in the first week of December. Why the change?’ There was a murmur of interest, a shifting, around the room.