Only Darkness (5 page)

He turns on the light that hangs from the roof joist – just a bare
bulb, no need for anything fancy – and looks with some pleasure at his railway. He’s tried to make it as realistic as possible, to include the other landscape features, the hills, the river, the canal way. When he planned it, he decided to use n-gauge track so that the layout didn’t become too big – even so, it’s a close thing. He gets his map out. Even though it isn’t a working day, there’s no harm, surely, in just looking. After all, he needs to start planning another hunt.

The story appeared in the local paper that Monday: ‘
I SAW THE FACE OF THE STRANGLER
’ the headline declaimed, above a photograph of Debbie. The article, which was on the third page, was part of a big spread about the murders the paper ran that day. Details of the victims were given again, some quotes from the bereaved relatives and comment from the police. An editorial chided the investigation team – more in sorrow than in anger, it was true.
Everyone knows the difficulties of the task these men and women face, and the
Standard
does not underestimate these. But the women of South Yorkshire are entitled to travel freely without fear …
The article about Debbie began:
Teacher Debra Sykes, 26, had a chilling encounter the night the Strangler struck. The attractive brunette told our reporter, ‘I just knew there was something wrong. There was something terribly wrong at the station that night.’
The article went on to give the basic details of Debbie’s story, including the broken lights, and the way the man had apparently tried to approach her. The police were quoted as saying that they were aware of the story but had no reason at present to think that Ms Sykes’s experience had anything to do with the killing. The quote rather implied that Debbie was a bit of an attention seeker. There was also an appeal for the man at the station to come forward
‘so that we can eliminate him from our enquiries.’
The article had a by-line: Tim Godber.

The first that Debbie heard about the article was Monday morning, when she was teaching her second-year A-level group again. Leanne Ferris, unusually prompt, dumped her bag on her desk, opened a can of Coke and said, ‘We want to hear about the murderer. Go on, tell us.’ Debbie looked
blank. Leanne dived into her bag, and after a few seconds rummaging, pulled out a copy of the paper. ‘They’re doing a big thing about the Strangler, so I got it. Look.’ She showed Debbie the article, and the others crowded round.

‘It’s a good picture, Debbie.’ That was Sarah, with her usual capacity for focusing first on the least important issue. Or maybe to Sarah that was the most important – to look nice if she appeared in the local paper. Debbie recognized the photograph. It had been taken at the staff party in July. In the original, she and Tim had been together. This one was cropped, so she was alone, smiling up at someone who wasn’t there. She didn’t know if she was more angry or upset. She played down both the article and her reaction to it for the students, much to their disappointment.

‘Did he look really scary, you know, mad?’ Leanne’s eyes were bright with eager curiosity.

‘Look,’ Debbie began, firmly. ‘No one even knows …’

‘Did you see the body?’ That was Adam, aficionado of video nasties.

‘No one knows …’ Debbie tried again.

‘Were you scared?’ That was Sarah.

‘Listen.’ Debbie’s voice was louder than she’d intended. She got a moment’s silence. ‘Listen. There’s no reason to think that the person I saw was the killer. No one knows. I just talked to the police and I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

‘Didn’t he chase you then? With a knife?’ That was Leanne again.

‘Oh, come on, Leanne, it doesn’t even
say
that there. Now I’d just like to …’

‘He cuts their eyes out,’ Leanne said with relish to the rest of the group.

Adam chipped in. ‘He doesn’t use a knife. Not at first. He strangles them.’

‘Oh, trust you to know that!’ That was Rachel, more level-headed than Leanne, quieter. ‘Look, Debbie says she doesn’t want to talk about it. Let’s drop it. Have you marked our essays, Debbie? Did I get an A?’

The session dragged on from there.

Debbie was angry, and she was worried. She left the classroom quickly when the morning was over, ignoring requests from the cohort of poor attenders, including Leanne and Adam, that she go over the new assignment again. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got time,’ she said, and then felt guilty. In the staff room, in response to Louise’s interrogative look, she said, ‘I didn’t talk to them.’

‘I thought you didn’t,’ was all Louise said.

The rest of the day she seemed to be saying over and over – I didn’t see the Strangler, I
didn’t
talk to the paper, I don’t want to talk about it now. She got a memo from one of the vice-principals asking her why she had given an interview to a local paper without clearing it with the college management, and wasted her coffee break trying to make contact with someone to explain – not that they’d believe her. She looked out for Rob Neave, so that she could explain to him what had happened – she wasn’t sure why she felt that was important, only that it seemed to be – but he was nowhere around. ‘He’s working off site today,’ Andrea, the clerical officer for that section, told her when she asked. She didn’t see Tim Godber until she was leaving at five. He was unapologetic.

It was a legitimate interview; Debbie should make it clear if she was talking off the record and what was she making all the fuss about? He’d only written what she had told him.

Debbie left college that day in the mood she’d often left school when she was a child, particularly that bad year when two of her classmates – once her friends – had decided to gang up on her. ‘We don’t want
you,
’ Tracy would say, putting her arm through Donna’s; and, ‘Nobody play with Deborah Sykes, her mum’s a witch!’ they’d tell the others. She couldn’t remember now what had started the campaign, or what had ended it, but she could still remember how miserable it had made her feel. She often thought that the saying,
Sticks and stones may break your bones but words can never hurt you
was one of the most stupid ones she’d ever heard.

As she walked through the town centre, she couldn’t shake off a feeling of foreboding. It was as if she was being watched by malicious eyes. She had felt exposed in the college, as
though people were looking at her, talking about her, but now the feeling chilled her as it followed her through the streets to the station, until she managed to shake it off in the anonymous brightness of the train.

When she finally got home, the phone was ringing. She waited for a minute to see if it would stop, and when it didn’t, she answered it. ‘Deborah Sykes speaking.’ Silence. ‘Hello?’ she said. There was no reply, and then the phone was put down. She tried 1471, but no number was recorded.

Sarah was combing her hair in front of the mirror in the students’ cloakroom, prior to going home. She could smell the smoke from Leanne’s cigarette as Leanne and Rachel chatted over a cubicle door. Sarah stared into the mirror, and wondered if her face was too fat. She was thinking about Nick. Was she attractive enough? When she looked in the mirror she thought she was, but sometimes she caught sight of herself unexpectedly and saw someone frighteningly plain. She was seeing him on Friday. She put away her comb, anxiously looking at her reflection.

‘… essay title?’

‘Sorry?’ Her hand jerked a bit. Leanne was beside her, energetically back-combing her hair.

‘Have you written down that essay title?’ Leanne bundled her hair up on top of her head. ‘Look out, world,’ she said. She usually relied on other people to keep her up to date with assignments. ‘Are you coming to Adam’s party on Friday?’

Sarah felt the usual pang of exclusion. ‘He didn’t ask me,’ she said.

Leanne was applying colour to her eyes. ‘You don’t listen, do you? He asked everybody in the group. You can come with me and Raich if you want.’

Sarah was cautious. Leanne made her nervous. ‘I can’t, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m seeing Nick.’

‘Bring him.’ Leanne fastened a clip into her hair. Sarah bit her fingernail. Nick could be difficult with other people. He didn’t like students.

‘OK, I’ll ask him,’ she said, not meaning to. ‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t ask him, tell him,’ said Leanne, running the tap over
her cigarette end and discarding it in the basin. ‘See you.’ She and Rachel left.

Sarah went back to her contemplation of the mirror. Now Leanne would want to know why she wasn’t there on Friday. She couldn’t say that Nick didn’t want to go. They wouldn’t ask her again. Maybe she should suggest it to him. It was the kind of thing he liked, though Sarah preferred quieter places where her soft voice wouldn’t be drowned out by loud music and shouting. Maybe if they did that they wouldn’t have an argument. She ran a tentative hand over the bruise hidden by the scarf on her neck.

Mick Berryman’s mind shut down on him. He needed a break. The clock on the wall said six, but it hadn’t been altered since the clocks went back weeks ago. He’d been at it for over ten hours. He could go home, put his feet up, but he decided to go over to the Grindstone for an hour or so. He needed a drink and he needed some quiet.

The pub, like most of the pubs in Moreham centre in the early evening, was almost empty. There were a couple of old men at a table in the corner, and a solitary drinker at the bar, reading a paper. As he crossed the room, he realized that the man at the bar was Rob Neave, and slowed his pace for a moment.

It was eighteen months now since Neave had left the force. He’d been one of the most talented officers in the division, following Berryman up the promotions ladder. They’d worked together, and they’d spent a lot of time at this bar. They’d made a good team. He couldn’t understand why Neave had left what had been a promising career, getting his promotion to DI six months before he gave it all up. But after Angie, Neave had gone to pieces. His colleagues had rallied round in support, looked after him, got him drunk – not that he’d needed any help with that at the time. Finally, Berryman had advised him to go on sick leave and get some help, even though that would put a blight on his promotion prospects. But Neave wasn’t interested.

‘The fact is,’ he’d told Berryman, ‘I just don’t give a bugger about any of it any more. I just want out.’ Berryman was
beginning to understand that feeling now, though he hadn’t been able to understand it then, the same way he’d never been able to understand Neave’s obsession with Angie – oh, pretty, he’d give you that, but weird. He couldn’t have stood it for a week.

He hadn’t seen Neave for nearly six months. Claire had had a go at him – ‘Why don’t you ask Rob round for an evening? We’ll feed him up, have a few beers, it might cheer him up.’ Claire had developed a soft spot for his ex-colleague. He’d phoned, but the offer had been declined, as Berryman had known it would be. Without the job, they had lost their common ground. He went up to the bar. ‘Want another one in there?’

Then he couldn’t think of anything to say. Berryman had been with Neave when he and Angie first met, and it had been Berryman who had seen him at the end. She stood between them like an unspoken ghost.

Neave looked pleased to see him, but turned down the offer of a drink. He still had almost a pint in his glass and it looked as if he had been spinning it out for a while. They exchanged bits and pieces of news, the talk halting and awkward. Looking around for topics, Berryman glanced at the paper Neave had been reading when he came into the pub. It was the
Moreham Standard.
It was open at the two-page spread about the Strangler.

Berryman groaned. It had got in the way of his thoughts all afternoon. The police should be doing this, the police aren’t doing this, Christ, what did they expect? Magic? Neave glanced at him, saw what he was looking at and gave him a sympathetic grin. ‘Giving you a hard time,’ he said, rather than asked.

‘They want my balls on a plate,’ Berryman said gloomily.

‘Yeah. Then Mystic Meg could gaze into them and give you the answers.’ Neave looked at the paper again. ‘Is it right? You’ve got nothing?’

Berryman decided to talk. He knew he could trust Neave to keep his mouth shut. ‘This bastard really knows what he’s doing,’ he said, after a moment. ‘He’s not made many
mistakes. We’re getting nowhere. Four of them now, and we’ve got nothing.’

‘Nothing? You must have something. He’s got to leave something behind.’

‘Oh, we’ve got stuff that’ll help when we catch him.
If
we catch him. We’ve got lines of enquiry we haven’t used up yet, but we’ve got nothing to tell us who he is. It’ll be a Yorkshire Ripper thing again. He’ll do it once too often and we’ll have him. This kind of thing doesn’t help. It just gets people panicked, and it puts out information I don’t want putting out.’ He tapped the article headlined,
I saw the face of the Strangler.
‘That’s rubbish. It’s just speculation. Stupid bitch.’

Neave looked at the article. ‘He works at the college,’ he said, indicating the name of the writer. ‘She probably forgot he was a journalist when she talked to him. She was worried about it. She asked me what she should do.’ He intercepted Berryman’s look and grinned again. ‘I told her to talk to you lot. I didn’t tell her to sell her story.’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘You’re worried about it though. Was it him she saw?’

‘I don’t fucking know. Whole of South fucking Yorkshire knows, but I don’t.’

But the fact was, Berryman
was
worried by Debbie’s story. ‘One thing we’ve got is that we know where he picked up the first one, Lisa Griffin. He left her by the track just outside Mexborough station. That’s where she was headed for, and we had witnesses who put her there. He’s learned something since then. We don’t know where he killed the others. They were dumped on the line away from any stations. There were two things we found – fingerprints we can’t account for, on her bag. I’m not saying they’re the killer’s, but they’re there. Also, broken glass. We don’t know why. He’d taken the lights out on the platform near where we found Lisa. We found broken glass on the others as well. Kate, Kate Claremont, there was glass in her hair. And there were bits of glass caught in Mandy’s dress.’