Nine Lives (18 page)

Yet it nagged at me. But even if I were to approach a member of the jury or the judge, or Wilkins himself, they would have no answer. And why should they be in the least bit curious? Dorricks had killed, and on his own admission, stressing his innocence at the same time. But that rider they did not care to understand. They had put him away for life. He was off the streets and shrinks could go about their business without fear. That was their purpose, and justice had been seen to be done.

Yet the ‘why' did not leave me. I decided to ask him direct. But not in person. Not to his face. I was too cowardly for that. In any case, I wanted to give him time to reflect, to arrange his answers. He would not want to be caught on the hop. So I decided to write him a letter. Letter writing is not my forte. Since he'd been in prison, I had written rarely. Just short notes to keep in touch. To let him know that he was in my thoughts and that he would never be forgotten. I started the letter with these assurances. Then I invented some street gossip. I told him that I had bought a new dress, which was true, and that I would wear it on my next visit. I described it in detail. All easy topics to write about. I was keeping the thorny subject till last. I thought I'd toss it off like an afterthought. Indeed I signed the letter with my love and kisses, then added a PS.

‘I know you are innocent, my darling,' I wrote. ‘That is what you say and I believe you. But sometimes I wonder why you did what you did. Why? That's the only part of this whole business that I don't understand. The reason for it all. And since I believe in your innocence, I think I'm entitled to know. Or maybe not. Perhaps it's none of my business, so you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. All my love, Verry.'

I noted that in the last sentence I had returned to the non-assertive Verry, that role in which I was at home. Three or four sentences of my self-assertion was more than I could hold, for that mood recalled the wooden leg and my humiliation. I underlined ‘All my love', and put the letter in an envelope. It sat in my bag for the best part of a fortnight. I simply lacked the courage to post it. But my next visit was drawing near, and I knew I had to give him enough time to mull over his answers. I went shopping, because I didn't want to make a specific journey to the letter box. At the entrance to the supermarket, I turned my face away as I approached the letter box, then behind my back and when I wasn't looking, the letter was on its perilous way. I decided I didn't want to shop after all. I went home trembling, terrified of the consequences of what I had done. I tried to imagine how he would react. He might do a Cox on me and spend my visit in silence. Or he might ignore my letter and carry on as if he'd never received it. The latter was more likely, I thought. And that was what I hoped for, with all my heart.

I had a sudden urge to speak to my boys. I waited until the evening when they would be home from work. I needed their comforting voices. Their answering machine was crisp and clear.

‘If you want to leave a message for Matthew or Martin Davies, please speak after the beep.'

At first I thought that I'd dialled the wrong number. I knew no one by the name of Davies. I had forgotten about the Davies alias. It was too painful to recall. Then I realised that I was utterly alone.

Or so I thought. But in truth, it's still seven down, and two to go. Because I cannot count the one I've just done. Because he doesn't fit in. My mistake. Human error. God forgive me.

I was so near to the end of my mission, that I suppose I became cocky. And over-ambitious. And so for my next attack – the one I'm not going to count – I really went over the top. I read in one of their trade journals about a symposium on psychotherapy methodology – whatever that means.

It was to take place in Hampstead Town Hall. Where else, since that is an area vibrating with psychobabble. It was to be an all-day session. And for an all-in fee, lunch would be provided. It didn't state whether or not it was open to the public, but I thought I might as well drop in, for there was no reason why I could not pass as one of them.

There was a goodly crowd, and I had no problem passing through the turnstile. I was faintly offended by my ease of passage, because I was not flattered by the assumption that I
was
one of them.

I took my seat at the back of the hall. It was a reasonably full row which pleased me because I didn't want to be conspicuous in any way. I checked on my gloves and the string in my pocket, and I settled down to listen to a paper discussing the treatment of geriatrics. I took out my little notebook, which I had brought to show willing, and I made a few illegible notes. I was very bored. I couldn't understand why people who had managed to survive into their old age should sully the rest of their lives with therapy which, even
if it could lead them anywhere, would certainly require more time. I sat through the paper and joined in the clapping that followed. Then I had to sit through a number of questions from the floor. I had made no plans for anyone's dispatch. I simply thought it would be a happy hunting ground for my crusade. But naturally I had come armed.

In a lull between questions, I noticed a man rise from his seat and make for the exit. Presumably to find the toilet. It was too good to resist. I didn't know his name, or anything about him, but he was clearly one of them. So he would do. I slipped out of my seat and followed him. Those beside me were in eager discussion as they waited for the next question and they did not seem to notice my departure. I went through the exit door, and followed the directions to the toilets. They were on the lower floor, and as I descended I put on my gloves and fingered my string. There was an arrow which pointed to the Gents and I dutifully followed it. The door was ajar. I pressed it open. The stalls were on my left, and facing me was a row of sinks. He stood at one of them, washing his hands, and through the mirror he saw me enter. And he smiled at me. In all my crusade experience I found that death was often prologued by a smile. Unknowingly, of course, except to myself, and I always found it unnerving. And there it was again. Bright and open as if he were greeting a long-lost friend. I would not allow myself to return his smile. That would have been cruel. So I kept my stern regard and placed myself behind him. I knew I had to act quickly in case other so-called healers heard the call of nature, so I slipped the string around his neck. Then something extraordinary happened. I don't know how the man's terror manifested itself. Whether it melted his knees or astonished his bowels. I only know that I myself was close to collapse, having unavoidably
confronted myself as a murderer. The mirror caught me in the act. Red-handed, and I could only thank God it was my one witness. I pulled tightly on the string, heard his gurgle, and I shoved his head into the sink. I avoided the mirror as I checked his pulse and I fled through the door, meeting no one on the stairs, and then slowly out of the place, gasping for air. I had to find somewhere to sit down. I was beside myself with horror. In all my killings hitherto, I had felt myself acting on another's behalf. Which was indeed true. I had never considered myself as a murderer. I was simply the servant of another. But now I had seen myself in the role, and I was appalled. I staggered to my car and drove to another area, far from the site of my haunting and gruesome reflection. I found a café about a mile away, and I ordered a large glass of iced water, hoping to dilute my shameful fever. I sat there for a while and tried to calm myself. I could not go straight home. Somewhere about my person, I bore the mark of Cain and I wanted to hide it from Verry. So I went to my office, my mirrorless office, where I could be alone. I sat at my desk and I noticed that I was still wearing my gloves. In my former killings, once clear of their sites, I had stripped them off my hands. Now the sight of them seemed like props in my murderer's role, that I had not been able to discard, as if they were a fitting accompaniment to my chosen career. But I hadn't chosen it. Not off my own bat. It was thrust upon me by circumstances, and to ignore it would have spelt betrayal. I had to think in this manner in an attempt to absolve myself of responsibility. But I knew it was futile. It was I who wielded the string. And of my own volition. My reflection in the mirror was irrefutable proof. I had murdered a man with my own hands.

But worse was to come. Much worse. As I was soon to
discover. I read about it in the newspapers. They revealed to me that his name was Theo Quick and that he was not a psychotherapist at all. He was a simple dentist, a profession with which I have no argument. It was his wife, with the misleading name of Joy, who was the guilty party. She was due to give a paper as part of the symposium, and her husband's good nature had sent him there to support her. He was an innocent. So I can't count him in. His murder would sully my crusade. So it's still seven down, and two to go.

But I can't leave it at that. Killing's not easy, even when the target is deserving. And poor Mr Quick had severely shaken my nerve. And it has called into question the whole moral purpose of my crusade. But I dare not have it questioned. There will be time for that and hopefully there will be no such time. Because there is no question that my crusade is just, and when doubts invade me, I have only to picture the rope and the shattered guitar. Those images acquit me of guilt, and they warrant each and every one of my sorties. I just wish that I hadn't caught myself at it. My murdering hands in the mirror was an image as indelible as the rope that had driven me to it.

So it's still

SEVEN DOWN. TWO TO GO.

God forgive me.

The symposium plodded along …

The symposium plodded along its weary way until lunchtime. Participants began to leave the hall and to adjourn to a committee room that had been arranged for a buffet. Outside the toilets below stairs, the queues formed quickly and moved in orderly fashion. That is, into the Ladies. But there seemed to be a hold-up at the Gents. And more than that. A total standstill. A cry was heard, a polite and very English male cry, which tried not to draw attention to itself, but at the same time needed to be heard. There was an equally polite response from those who were waiting, and someone at the head of the queue opened the door to view the cause of the alarm.

‘Who is it?' he said.

‘I don't know.' This from the finder. ‘I can't see his face.'

‘Is he dead?'

‘I don't know. I don't want to touch anything.'

‘Let's get a doctor,' another suggested.

A cry went out for a doctor. A real one, not the psychotherapist kind, and though the committee room was searched, while rumour blossomed, there was none to be found.

‘Call the police,' someone suggested. ‘It may be murder.'

Mrs Quick was looking for her husband, who was not among the buffet-crawlers. She presumed that he had gone to the Gents, and she prayed fervently that he was still in the queue. She made her way through the tables to see for herself. But he was not in the queue and there was hardly any point in asking whether he had been seen. Because he
was not one of them, and wouldn't have been known by anybody.

‘I've got to see who it is,' she said, and she forced her way through the line. She was held back at the door.

‘You mustn't go in there, Joy,' a colleague said. ‘It's terrible.'

‘It might be my husband,' she whispered. ‘I have to see him.'

The man put his arm around her and led her towards the sink.

Mr Quick had slumped. His head was hooked on the rim of the sink, and his long torso had slipped its length on the tiled floor. There was blood everywhere, along with the poor man's waste. Joy screamed when she saw him. She didn't need to see his face. She knew his stance. It was the one he assumed as he stretched over to kiss their son goodnight.

‘It's Theo,' she said. ‘What have they done to him?'

She was led screaming from the room. Her colleague took her up the stairs and sat her in the foyer. Somebody brought a glass of brandy, as rumour of his name and the manner of his passing rumbled around the hall.

‘The police are on their way,' someone said.

It was Wilkins' deputy who answered the phone.

‘Good news,' he said to his boss. ‘Another shrink. He's done it again.' He expected a whoop of joy from his boss, a cry always heard when the killer had struck yet again. Another chance to trap him. But Wilkins responded only with a sigh, a sigh of regret, not only for the victim but for his poor self. Yes, it certainly was another chance, he thought, but a chance simply to prove his incompetence
yet again. He was certain there would be no prints and no witnesses. He simply wanted no part of it. Ever.

‘Why don't you go?' he said to his deputy. ‘See what you can find.'

‘Alone?' the deputy asked.

‘Take the usual squad with you, of course,' Wilkins said.

‘I mean, without you?' The deputy could not believe the request.

‘Why not?' Wilkins said. He sighed. ‘I'm not up to it any more.'

‘Rubbish,' the deputy said. ‘You're the only one who can handle it. You've been unlucky, that's all. And that's no reflection on your efficiency. I'm not going without you.'

Wilkins smiled. He was grateful for such loyalty. He rose wearily from his desk. ‘Let's go,' he said.

The chairman of the conference had suggested that no one should leave the hall. ‘I'm sure the police will want to talk to you,' he said.

And so they milled around, their appetites seemingly uncurbed, as the buffet spread was consumed and the drink ran dry.

On arrival at the hall, Wilkins sent his deputy to talk to the audience and to ask witnesses to come forward. Apart from Mr Quick, was anybody seen leaving the hall before the interval? Was anyone seen to be acting strangely? And, even as the deputy put the questions, he fully expected a negative response.