Читать книгу Only Darkness - Danuta Reah - Страница 7

City College, Moreham, is so called because it stands in the centre of the town, five minutes’ walk from the train and bus stations, and just a stone’s throw from the fine medieval church and the chapel on the bridge. The college buildings display a selection of twentieth-century architecture. The North building, the most modern, nearly twenty years old, presents a face of smoked glass to the world; its entrance is hard to find and the casual visitor can get lost in a confusing maze of corridors. The Moore building, the middle sibling, is a box of glass windows and concrete, nearly forty years old, and shabby and depressing. Inside, it is more comfortable. On the other side of the road stands the oldest, and the most beautiful despite its run-down appearance, the Broome building, an elegant art-deco construction with an oak door in its curving facade. Its windows watch you like eyes.

Debbie had overslept, and had arrived at the station two minutes before a train was leaving. She usually read the paper on the journey, but as she hadn’t had time to buy one, she stared out of the window instead. The track side was overgrown with weeds and the high walls were covered with graffiti – mostly incomprehensible and, to the uninformed eye, indistinguishable, tags, and the occasional word. Joke was written in letters about two feet high across a wall covered and over-covered in spray paint. When Debbie had been at college, the graffiti had been political: anti-government slogans, ANC slogans, comments about the Gulf War, even some left over from the bitter miners’ strike – Coal not dole, Thatcher out, Save our pits. Now it seemed to be tagging, a meaningless cry of, I’m here! or the inevitable, Fuck you, Wogs stink, Irish scum.

The train ran on through the industrial East End of Sheffield where the skeletons of the great steelworks were gradually disappearing and the streets and houses looked decayed and defeated. The toy-town dome of Meadowhall shopping centre stood among sprawling acres of car parks, already full. People struggled off the train, other people got on. They looked anxious and tense. The bridge that took the shoppers over the road was seething with people. To the shopping, a sign said. Joke … The train pulled out, past some tumbledown buildings, through areas of green where the canal ran sluggish and black close to the line. Fisto was spray-painted on a stone building, and again on a derelict shed. It looked quite decorative. The spire of Moreham church came into view, and Debbie picked up her bag as the familiar platform ran past her window.

The college day was in full swing when she pushed her way through the crowd of students on the steps leading into the Broome building. The day was fine after the storm of the night before, but cold. The steps served as an informal coffee bar, meeting place and, since the college management implemented a no-smoking policy, a smoking room for students and staff. It didn’t make a particularly attractive venue, as a busy road ran between the buildings, and conversation was interrupted by the noise of cars, and buses pulling away from the stop outside the main entrance. The air always smelt dirty, particularly on cold, still days.

Debbie nodded to Trish Allen, a psychology lecturer and hardened smoker, who was continuing her class through the coffee break with a small group of students, all huddled in a companionable, smoky ring. She saw the lanky figure of Sarah Peterson, one of her A-level students, standing uncertainly in the entrance, drawing awkwardly on a cigarette. Debbie greeted Sarah as she went past and received a quick, eyes-averted smile. She felt tempted to go back out and join the group on the steps, spend ten minutes talking to another human being – something she hadn’t done since nine-thirty the previous night, but she pushed through the double doors into the dark, high-ceilinged corridor beyond.

One of the first people she saw as she pushed through the doors was Rob Neave coming down the stairs towards her, heading out of the building. He stopped when he saw her. ‘Get wet last night?’ he asked. Debbie nodded and he laughed. She began to feel more cheerful.

‘There was something I wanted to ask you about,’ she said. ‘I had a bit of bother last night, during my class.’

‘OK. I’m on my way to a meeting now.’ He pulled an eloquent face. ‘But I’m free later. I’ll come along to your staff room – four-thirtyish?’ He directed a smile at her that made her feel pleasantly buoyant, and she turned towards her staff room. Chatting with Rob Neave was one of the grains of sugar in the otherwise worthy muesli of Debbie’s working life.

The lie on Debbie’s timetable was that Friday morning was her morning off, as payback for her evening class. The lie on her contract was that she worked a thirty-five-hour week. She was usually at her desk by ten on Friday mornings, catching up with her marking and the never-ending paperwork that was now a feature of the job.

She let herself into the small room she shared with Louise Hatfield, who was in charge of the English section which, these days, meant her and Debbie, and the changing faces of part-time staff who were employed through an agency. When Debbie had started at City, the English section had consisted of five members of staff, but financial crises and falling student numbers had led to a series of early retirements, and now there were just Louise and Debbie. ‘There goes my empire,’ Louise had remarked to Debbie at the end of last term. ‘Our days are numbered too. You mark my words, girl.’

Debbie had been hoping that Louise would be in the staff room, but the locked door told her that she must still be teaching – so no one to talk to. She began to sift through the pile of mail on her desk. She was tired. When she’d gone to bed, she hadn’t been able to sleep, and had lain awake listening to the radio until gone three. Now she was at her desk, she couldn’t concentrate. She wanted to talk to someone about the odd scene at the station the previous night, laugh about it to get rid of the lingering feeling of – what? – dread? – that the silent figure had evoked.

Don’t be stupid. It was nothing.

She sighed and turned over the pile of post that had arrived on her desk that morning. Most of it was circulars and advertising from companies selling textbooks and training. Bin the lot. There were a couple of memos, one from the principal about an audit of class registers, and one from the union about the ever present threat of redundancy.

Debbie ran her hand through her hair, worried. She felt vulnerable. She wasn’t sure how she would manage if she lost her job. There was no point in thinking about it for the moment. She had other things on her mind – like marking. She pulled her work folder towards her, and tried to pin back a lock of hair that had freed itself from its confinement of combs. The disturbance brought the whole lot down round her shoulders, and she irritably pulled it back off her face and wound a rubber band round to hold it. Fifteen A-level essays to mark, and about thirty GCSE pieces. She picked up the first one and started reading.

She wasn’t even halfway through at twelve-thirty when hunger drove her over to the canteen in the Moore building.

Fridays usually weren’t too busy in the canteen. Most students didn’t have classes on a Friday afternoon, and a lot of those that did ‘wagged’ it. Debbie collected a mixed salad from the salad bar, struggled with her conscience and got a side order of chips, and looked around for somewhere to sit.

‘Hey, Debbie!’ Tim Godber, media studies lecturer, journalist manqué and at one time a lover of Debbie’s, was waving her over.

‘Hi, Tim.’ Debbie was wary. She’d been very attracted at one time, but once they had fallen into bed together after a departmental party, he’d turned into a game player who’d tried to control and manipulate her through different hoops via charm and indifference, and Debbie was nowadays more put off than interested. They’d gone out for drinks together a couple of weekends ago, and again ended up in Debbie’s bed, but she’d told herself the next morning that that was the last time.

He pushed his hair back from his forehead and moved his empty tray to make space at the table for her. ‘How are you, sweetheart?’

‘I’m not your sweetheart.’ Debbie had learnt to be brisk. ‘And I’m fine. How are you, lover boy?’

‘I’m not your lover boy, and I’m fine too.’ Tim no longer found it necessary to charm Debbie. They chatted in a desultory way as they ate, exchanging gossip from their different staff rooms. Debbie was fielding an invitation for a drink, when there was a flurry of discord from the coffee bar at the far side of the canteen, shouts and the sound of breaking china – breaking glass – that meant either horseplay or a fight. She got up from the table to see what was happening, though she had no intention of doing anything about it. Some of the young male students could be quite intimidating. Someone seemed to be dealing with it anyway. The shouting had died down. Rob Neave was talking to a group of students over where the trouble had been.

Tim, who had no more desire than Debbie to get involved in student fights, looked relieved, but continued to watch the situation with interest. ‘Machismo fascismo,’ he said, ‘wins out every time.’ Debbie looked at him. ‘Your friend the ex-policeman. The one laying down the law over there.’

He did look a bit authoritarian, actually, but Debbie was damned if she was going to agree with Tim about it. She liked Rob Neave. ‘I don’t think he’s laying down the law. Why should he be doing that? He’s just sorting them out. Is he an ex-policeman?’ Debbie thought that she ought to have known it.

Tim knew everything. It was partly his journalist’s love of gossip, and partly his connections at the local newspaper. ‘That’s his job. Security, antivandalism, keep the buggers down. You remember that business with the lift last term?’

Debbie shook her head. Tim’s story gradually came out about how some students at the end of last term had vandalized one of the lifts in the Moore building so badly they’d jammed it, trapping themselves inside. When they pushed the alarm button and summoned a rescue party, Neave, working the situation out, had delayed the rescue for two hours, claiming they couldn’t get the lift moving. The caretakers had stood around outside the lift, threatening to light a fire in the shaft. By the time the pair were released, they were pretty subdued, and the college authorities, faced with a bill for the lift repair, weren’t in any mood to listen to complaints. Debbie laughed as he got to the end of the story. Tim was a good raconteur. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the railway strangler has struck again.’

‘What?’ Debbie dropped her fork.

‘Didn’t you hear? It’s been all over the radio this morning. It’ll be in the paper as well, I should think. They found a body on the line last night.’

Debbie felt cold. ‘Where? When last night? Who was it?’

‘On the way to Mexborough, I think. They haven’t given a name and they haven’t said it’s him again, but it must be.’ He picked up one of Debbie’s chips and ate it. ‘You’ll get fat.’ He ate another.

‘Not at this rate. Look, Tim, this woman, she wasn’t killed in Moreham, at the station, was she?’

‘Don’t know, shouldn’t think so for a minute.’ He began to look at her more closely. ‘Why? Come on, tell me.’

Debbie found herself telling him about her encounter at the station last night, and the way the strange figure had made her feel. ‘He looked sort of, well, dangerous,’ she finished, lamely. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘No, go on, it’s interesting.’ She had his attention now, and he plied her with questions she couldn’t answer. Had she really heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the station? Not from anywhere else? What did he look like? Was she sure he didn’t catch the train?

‘Perhaps you saw him – the strangler,’ he said, half seriously.

‘Rubbish! If it was over at Mexborough it can’t have been anything to do with what I saw.’ Debbie was annoyed because she felt uneasy.

‘It’s the next stop up the line.’

She thought about it, and then saw what time it was. ‘Oh, God, I’ve got to go. I’m teaching in five minutes.’

Tim smiled at her encouragingly, and as she left was getting out a notebook and pen. ‘I’ll just stay here and get some work done. It’s quieter than in our staff room. See you later.’

As she left the canteen, she saw Rob Neave leaning against the wall watching the students with a conspicuously bleak expression. He caught Debbie’s eye and winked. As she went past him, he said, ‘It’ll be nearer five than four-thirty. Is that OK?’

‘Yes, it won’t take long. It’s nothing much.’

He looked sceptical. ‘Your last nothing much took half my budget,’ he said, referring to the time when Louise and Debbie had decided to take advantage of the fact that the college had actually appointed someone with responsibility for security. They’d campaigned for better lighting in some of the isolated parts of the campus, assuming that the boyish face and easy charm of the new appointee meant he would be a pushover. He’d proved to be a tough negotiator, who was, fortunately, on their side. They’d got their lighting.

Debbie noticed as she looked more closely at him that he was tired and drawn. She wondered if he was another person who’d had a sleepless night. She almost told him about her experience at the station. She felt in need of expert advice.

Debbie’s Friday afternoon A-level class distracted her and she forgot, for the moment, about the incident at the station. The students were studying ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, and making heavy weather of it. Debbie had asked them to think about the lines: God save thee, ancient Mariner!/From fiends that plague thee thus!/Why look’st thou so?’ With my crossbow/ I shot the Albatross. Why, she had asked them, did the mariner shoot the albatross that had brought good luck to the ship? Somehow, the discussion had got hijacked into an animal rights argument that was interesting, but not what Debbie wanted them to do.

‘Anyway, it’s cruel,’ said Sarah Peterson, who had been following the discussion closely. Debbie sighed. Sarah rarely contributed, but it was typical that when she did it was with the wrong end of the stick securely in her hands. She could see Leanne Ferris, one of the brighter members of the group, about to deliver a sharp rebuttal, and she pulled them back to the poem, and began to work them around to thinking about a less literal interpretation. She saw Sarah diligently writing down the points she was making.

Sarah was Debbie’s particular concern that year, a different kind of student from Leanne. Leanne, quick-minded and confident about her own ideas, would sail through anything the exam system threw at her, as long as Debbie could persuade her to do a bit of work. Sarah worked very hard, but didn’t understand. She had no confidence in her own ideas and opinions, so she wanted someone – Debbie in this case – to tell her what she should think. She didn’t want to know why the answers were correct, what they meant or what the implications were. She just wanted the answers, as her palpable puzzlement when answers weren’t offered made clear.

After the class, Sarah waited until the others had gone, and then asked rather diffidently if there was time to discuss her last essay. ‘The one I did on Othello. I didn’t get a very good mark.’ She rummaged in her bag and produced the essay which looked rather crumpled, and a can of Coke. ‘I’ve got to go straight to work,’ she said apologetically, gesturing at the can. Sarah, like a lot of students at City, could only afford to stay at college by working. She had a job at a pub on the outskirts of Moreham.

They discussed the essay, or at least, Debbie did, while Sarah wrote things down. ‘Have another go at it,’ Debbie suggested. ‘Once you’ve got one good essay, it gives you a model for others. Let me have it on Monday, OK?’

‘Thanks, Debbie.’ Sarah smiled and briefly met Debbie’s eyes before hurrying out. Debbie collected her things and headed back to her room.

When she got there, Rob Neave was leaning on the windowsill beside her desk, flicking through the pages of one of her books – a collection of Auden’s poems. He usually showed some interest in her books, though she sometimes found it hard to tell if he really meant it. His face could be difficult to read. He looked up as she came in. ‘Deborah.’ He was one of the few people who used her full name. ‘So what’s this nothing much problem?’

‘Do you want a coffee? There was something else as well, actually.’ He declined the coffee, as she knew he would. He’d made some pointed comments in the past about the standard of the coffee that she and Louise drank. He waited as Debbie got herself a drink, idly turning the pages of the Auden.

She remembered the last time she’d talked to him about poetry. He’d picked up a copy of The Waste Land from where it was lying on Debbie’s desk. What had this got to do, he’d wanted to know, with the lives most of the students led? ‘A lot,’ Debbie had retorted. And was it going to help them with what they really needed in their lives – a way to make a decent living? ‘It teaches them how to think.’ Debbie wasn’t giving anything away to anyone about the value of studying literature. He’d argued the point good-naturedly for a bit longer and she’d wondered at the end of it if he’d been winding her up.

‘You can borrow that, if you want.’ She was surprised when he said he would. ‘I thought you didn’t see any point in poetry,’ she said.

‘I didn’t say that.’ He was still turning the pages, but not really reading.

Aware that it sounded a bit blunt, Debbie asked, ‘Is it right that you used to be in the police?’

He looked at her. ‘Who’s been talking to you? Yes, for ten years.’ He didn’t seem to mind her question, but something told her not to ask any more.

‘Let me show you this.’ She took the book out of his hands, and started leafing through it. ‘This one. That end bit there.’ She was looking at the lines towards the end of ‘The Shield of Achilles’, the bit about the ragged urchin in the weed-choked field. That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third/ were axioms to him, who’d never heard/ Of any world where promises were kept/ Or one could weep because another wept. He read it through and looked at her, waiting. ‘Didn’t you meet that boy a hundred times when you were in the police force?’

He was still reading the lines. ‘Yes, you see them all the time.’

‘That’s what I meant. Poetry has a lot to do with their lives.’

He grinned, acknowledging both the point, and the fact that she wasn’t prepared to let the argument go. ‘OK, but you can romanticize as well.’

‘I don’t think that romanticizes. It calls raping and killing axioms.’ She was standing close to him as they read the lines, and she was aware of the warmth coming from him, the smell of a laundered shirt, the faint smell of sweat.

He nodded, but cut the topic off. ‘Right. What’s the problem.’ He listened while Debbie outlined the concerns that she had working in Room B110 at night, where the curtainless windows, brightly lit, looked out on to the street and gave any passer-by a clear view of who was – and who wasn’t – in there. She told him about some trouble she’d had with youths in the street the night before. He looked at her – ‘Why didn’t you report it at the time?’ – making a sudden switch from friendly to official. She had seen him use this device to wrong-foot people, and now it derailed her.

‘There wasn’t anyone around to report it to,’ she protested, sounding defensive in her own ears.

He thought for a moment and seemed to make a conscious effort to move back into a more relaxed stance. ‘I know there’s still a problem with security in the evenings. You could do with mobile phones really, the teaching staff.’ He gave her a quick smile. ‘But that’d be the rest of my budget.’ After he’d made some notes, he said, ‘What was the other thing?’

‘Oh, well …’ Debbie was a bit uncertain now, unsure of his reception, but he leant back against the wall and waited, so she told him about her encounter at the station. He listened in silence. ‘Should I tell the police?’ she said.

‘Yes. Next question.’

‘Do you think it had anything to do with the murder?’ Debbie tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice, but something must have come through, because he narrowed his eyes and his face went serious.

‘I’ve no idea, Deborah. You’ll have to tell them and let them work it out. Why don’t you bring your car when you’re working late?’

‘Because I haven’t got one. I don’t drive.’

He looked exasperated, but Louise turned up before he could say anything, and the conversation turned to more general college matters. After a few minutes he left, promising to get back to Debbie about Room B110.

Louise was packing a pile of marking into her briefcase. ‘A bit of leisure activity,’ she added, seeing Debbie look at it. ‘Doing anything interesting this weekend?’

Debbie felt low. ‘I hate weekends. I’m not going anywhere, I haven’t got anyone to go with and even if I did I’ve got so much work I couldn’t anyway.’

‘Fancy a drink this evening?’ As Debbie accepted Louise’s invitation, she thought that the older woman must have seen how down she looked. Debbie, the youngest lecturer in the English and humanities team, was usually known as the most cheerful, having, as Louise pointed out, a lot more energy than the others, ‘and the chance of a future that will get you out of this dump.’ They agreed to meet later at Louise’s house. Louise didn’t like pubs much, and Debbie felt like a quiet evening.

Rob Neave was home in his flat, listening to music and letting his mind drift. Maybe things were getting better. They didn’t seem to be getting any worse. The flat was tiny, a bedsitter, really, but called a flat because it was self-contained. He had a small kitchen and a bathroom to call his own, and that was all he’d wanted at the time. He’d taken the first offer on the house he used to share with Angie, the first offer that would cover the mortgage. All he’d taken from the house were his stereo and some pictures. He’d bought everything else he needed – a bed, a chair, carpets, curtains, a cooker. It was all he could manage to do, to find a new place to live, a new job.

The evening stretched in front of him, bleak and empty. He could go out – but where and why? He could stay in, read, listen to music, like he’d done for the past countless number of evenings. He wondered about giving Lynne a ring, going over to her place, talking a bit of police shop, picking up the gossip, spending a couple of hours in her bed. It would be a distraction, something to do. Though she’d probably be busy at this short notice.

Maybe it was time to move on. Staying here, everything was a reminder. Places he went to, people he saw. He’d found a letter waiting when he got in, from an ex-colleague, Pete Morton. Morton had gone into the security business up in Newcastle, Neave’s childhood city. He’d written to ask if Neave was interested in joining him. There’s a load of work here, Morton had written. I’m starting to turn stuff down. Neave thought seriously about the offer, about going back to Newcastle. He needed to get away.

Applying for the job at City College had been part of getting away. He didn’t know anyone there, and no one knew him. The job had looked interesting as well. The place was wide open, equipment was walking out through the front door, the buildings were being vandalized and staff and bona fide students were starting to feel intimidated. It had been a challenge he’d enjoyed, imposing a system on to the anarchic world of post-sixteen education. It had given him something to think about, but he’d done as much as he could there.

He knew he wasn’t particularly liked. It didn’t worry him. He had the capacity to get on well with people, inspire trust – it had been an asset in his last job, but he didn’t need it now. His face in repose looked boyish and good-humoured, and his eyes, despite – or perhaps because of – the lines under them that seemed to be a permanent feature now, tended to look as though he smiled a lot. When people found out he wasn’t the easy-going person he seemed, they resented it. But he got results.

He thought about his conversation with Deborah Sykes that afternoon. He remembered his first meeting with her. She’d been banging her head against the brick wall of management, trying to get a perfectly reasonable request for decent lighting implemented. The response had been to agree in principle and postpone action until the budget allowed – i.e. indefinitely. He’d played traitor on that one, and helped her get it through. She, and then Louise, her sharp-tongued boss, had become his first supporters in the place. He enjoyed their company, and had taken to dropping into their room to talk to them.

He’d fired Debbie’s evangelical instincts when they’d had some kind of argument about books, about the value of poetry, and she’d started lending him things she wanted him to read. Typical bloody teacher. He smiled. He liked Debbie, and he’d been relieved when he’d seen her come through the college entrance that morning. His mind wandered. He could picture her now, not very tall – her head had just reached his shoulder when she stood beside him this afternoon. She kept her black hair firmly pulled back and held in a knot with pins and combs, and it had smelled clean and sweet. He tried to picture it curling down round her pale, pretty face and over those small, high tits … He shook himself awake, pushed that line of thought out of his mind – you don’t need that – and picked up the book she’d lent him, turning the pages back to the poem she’d pointed out … were axioms to him, who’d never heard/ Of any world where promises were kept/ Or one could weep because another wept.

She was right, he’d known them, the empty-eyed children who didn’t seem to know – or to care – what or why their lives meant to themselves or anyone. And maybe it was him, too.

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.

‘Or was it just coincidence?’ That was Steve McCarthy again. Berryman scowled. Steve and Lynne tended to contradict each other’s ideas. He thought he’d been lucky at the beginning to have both of them on his team, because they were both good, skilled detectives. When the killer struck again, and again, he’d kept them working close to the centre as he coordinated the massive team that was now working on this investigation. He was beginning to wonder if this had been wise. They couldn’t seem to work together. He moved on to the next point.

‘How did he get her to Rawmarsh?’ Berryman tapped his pointer on the map. ‘If he grabbed her in a car, why leave her there? There’s no road runs close to where he dumped her. If he grabbed her at the station, how did he move her up the line?’

‘Took her on a train?’ Dave West, facetious. There was a stir of laughter around the room, lightening the atmosphere. West, a young DC on Lynne Jordan’s team, was dealing with this case early in his career. Some detectives never had to deal with a random killer, or the horrors of a sadistic sex killer.

Berryman treated it as a serious suggestion. If there was a way … ‘Tell me how he gets a dead woman on the train without anyone noticing, and how he gets the train to drop them off between stations, and I’ll give that one some serious thought.’ He waited to see if anyone else had anything to say on that point.

‘Emergency stop – communication cord?’ McCarthy’s face indicated that he saw the flaws in this, but was putting it forward anyway. Berryman shook his head. They’d thought of that. No train on that line had had an unscheduled stop that evening.

‘It’s the same …’

‘Kate Claremont …’

McCarthy and Jordan started together. Berryman looked at Lynne. She said, ‘It’s the same problem we’ve got with Kate. She was dumped on the line away from the road. There’s a footpath, but I wouldn’t want to carry someone – dead or alive – all that way. How did he get her there?’ She was only voicing a problem they’d discussed before. No one had anything to add.

Berryman felt weary at the thought of the work ahead. They’d done it all before, the house-to-house, tracking down the people who’d last seen the victim, talking to the relatives. It had got them nowhere, so far. OK, they needed her identity confirming, they needed to find her next of kin – who was missing her now? They needed to find out where she was going the night she died, who she’d seen in the days, weeks or even months before she died. They needed to know if she was just a random victim in the wrong place at the wrong time, or if she was carefully selected, chosen by the killer because something had drawn him to her. They needed to know this about all the victims, and they had so little to go on. Four women: Lisa, Kate, Mandy – and now Julie? It seemed it couldn’t be any other way, and he felt as though he’d let them down, each one more than the last. And the next one and the next one?