Chapter 2
The next morning Comben was at the station first — Anderson was pleased that the man could take a hint. Then the sergeant spoilt it by coming into Anderson’s office and sitting on the edge of his desk. Anderson motioned him to sit lower, on a chair in front of the desk. He did so without acknowledging his mistake.
Outside the incident room was quiet. That’s the way Anderson liked it: the men – and women – were out and busy, only the odd operator clicked away on their computer keyboard. Comben recapped aloud for them both.
‘The bodies were found arranged in the centre of the park — a large open field fringed by trees. There was plenty of cover elsewhere but the murderer chose open ground. Two mornings now the park keeper has phoned at first light. The park is always locked at night: the bodies would need to be carried over metal railings each time.’
‘You have to be making a point to do all that and Clarissa Downing is right: it really does have to be a man,’ said Anderson. ‘The fence is of a traditional metal design and is seven foot high. It would have to be an unusually strong woman to get a body over that fence.’
‘And we’ve cleared everyone who had keys to the park gates,’ said Comben.
‘So what have we got?’
‘We haven’t located either of the two places where the women were killed.’
Anderson nodded.
‘It’s not unusual for killers to display their victims in special ways; it’s not unusual for them to copy famous murderers and it’s not unusual for them to move the bodies.’ Comben stopped.
‘And now we have the stories.’
‘But no author. He didn’t sign in for the class and, as far as Clarissa Downing is concerned, he remained entirely invisible.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Lots on the typescripts — Clarissa Downing’s and her husband’s and an unknown set,’ said Comben.
‘Why … why Mark what-ever-his-name-is? Why his prints?’
‘He read the stories before phoning the station.’
Anderson nodded. He really must stop himself — there was no reason at all to suspect the husband except that he didn’t like him. ‘And the unknown ones are presumably the writer’s.’
‘We have to find him first to confirm that,’ said Comben.
‘We will find him though,’ said Anderson.
‘If he is the killer, he wants to be found and he will be found,’ said Comben.
‘But not before he’s killed as many as the real Jack the Ripper.’
Comben continued. ‘Left to himself, he’ll keep on. But he’s left too many clues to stay free long.’
‘Where’s the list?’ Anderson asked.
Comben handed him two sheets of paper. The writing class had a large and changeable membership.
‘What night do they meet?’ asked Anderson.
Comben looked at his watch. Anderson wondered if the man had mistaken his question but the face of his watch showed the day of the week and the date as well as the time. He soon had his answer.
‘Tonight sir, eight this evening.’
‘We’ll join them,’ Anderson said.
The library was closed but a room was opened especially for the group each week. Like most public buildings, it was too hot. Anderson felt a tinge of annoyance: he was paying for all this extra heat and it was making him sweat. It made it difficult to pull up the knees of his trousers as he sat and his collar was sticking to his neck. He thought of taking off his jacket as he saw Comben do but decided not to. His shirt would soon show signs of wetness under his arms and maybe even on its front; he preferred to hide the signs of his discomfort.
They sat on the periphery of the group. Some latecomers did the same, while a few bunched themselves around the table, their eager faces leaning forward trying to capture their heroine’s attention. By narrowing his eyes and so blurring their faces, Anderson was able to visualise them as infants with hands raised in urgent supplication. He imagined that this was how it always was: six or so frantic to read, who formed the core of the group.
He glanced at the attendance sheet he had removed from the table, and then he passed the sheet to someone on his left who had deliberately shifted his chair outside the harsh light that glared from above the table. The man passed the sheet on without signing his name.
He could see now how Clarissa would not know who came and went. She was totally taken up by those few who clamoured around her. There were two young men in their twenties and four youngish women. Certainly, these few showed no need or inclination to communicate with those outside this inner grouping. As the evening went on, the circle of talk became narrower until only Clarissa and two or three others felt capable of opening their mouths. Some on the periphery, who, Anderson imagined, may have come for the first time to see how the Writers’ Circle worked had already left. Only the most brash could survive the competition.
They would not find their author that evening but they might collect some leads from questioning Clarissa’s regulars — obligingly she ended the session early and told those who had stayed to the end what the police wanted. Comben and Anderson interviewed each separately. At the end of an hour, they had a good idea of what the man looked like but no indication of where he lived. They did not expect to get more from those who had left early and whose names the constable outside had been told to collect.
‘The blonde girl seemed clearer about him than the rest,’ said Anderson.
‘If we can trust her memory,’ said Comben.
Anderson nodded and followed Comben outside to allow the caretaker to lock the library for the night. They both noticed the husband across the street. He got out of his car, crossed over and kissed Clarissa on the cheek. He came to walk his wife to her car — just in case, he said. Anderson noticed that he could spare no glance at all for the young blonde. There were not many men who would refuse to look at her, even though their wife might be next to them. Amanda was her name and she did take an interest in Mark but then turned away, as though she had dismissed him from her mind but Anderson imagined that Mark was not so easily ignored by women as all that.
Amanda sat at the end of the long table furthest away from Clarissa. Dave and Pete struggled with themselves but eventually, after standing around and leaning on chairs, they sat at Clarissa’s end of the table. Their four satellites followed them — four older women in their thirties: maybe married, possibly divorced, at least one a single mother. She hadn’t taken much notice of them. During the time she had attended the group, she hadn’t noticed any developments. Dave and Pete accepted their bitch-like devotion but Amanda imagined they thought of the women as ’passed it‘. She hoped she would have better judgement when she was as old as the women were.
This was Amanda’s sixth visit and at first both Dave and Pete had tried to persuade her to cluster with them around their star, Clarissa Downing. Then Pete had given way to Dave — had they discussed it and come to an agreement? Apparently, he was allowed to have first shot at her but his need to suck up to Clarissa constantly got in his way. His invitations to stay behind and drink with them in the bar downstairs never seemed very urgent, not that Amanda would have accepted anyway.
Clarissa, of course, had no eyes for anyone but Pete but managed to keep a look of sophisticated amusement on her face rather than reveal the appetite that Amanda could see she felt for the young man. Amanda felt her lips curl in distaste.
It was not very long into the session before Amanda noticed a change in Clarissa. She was effusively pouring out praise as usual and Dave and Pete were lapping it up but her eyes strayed from time to time. Amanda followed her gaze. Two new members had crept in and were sitting just outside the bright circle of light cast by the hanging lamp above the table. One was older, as old as Clarissa, the other much younger and very well built.
It wasn’t until near the end of the session that Clarissa revealed who they were and why they were there. Amanda knew immediately whom they were seeking. Jewish, yes, he looked Jewish and when she described him she couldn’t help thinking that she was mapping a stereotype. Was she being accurate, or had she given the man such cursory glances, that she was making it all up?
The older man questioned her, as though he were filling in a passport application form for the man: age? height? build? distinguishing features? She answered just as succinctly: hair, dark brown, usually too long and uncombed; clothes, jeans with holes, sweatshirt, probably the same one each time. But ’no‘, she didn’t know his name or where he lived and ’no‘, it was not unusual for visitors not to sign in.
The street was usually deserted by the time Felicity got home. But this time, after she’d parked her car under a lamppost and got out, she saw a figure walking away from her. Was it Amanda’s man? She was secretive about him and he always left before Felicity came home but that night she was early; it had been a slack night at the club.
She stood for a while bathed by the light above her but he didn’t look round. There was something familiar about him but she couldn’t say what. Inside the flat, she could see a light under Amanda’s door. She went in. Amanda was in bed.
‘You didn’t quite catch us,’ she said smiling, ’but next time knock. He’s very shy.’
‘Married I suppose.’
‘Wouldn’t you know it. But they don’t sleep together.’
‘That’s what they all say.’
‘But this time it’s true.’
‘So, why can’t I see him?’
‘He doesn’t want any witnesses until he walks out.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘Soon.’
‘That’s what they all say.’
‘Felicity.’
Felicity caught the sudden serious tone in her voice and turned back from the door. ‘Yes.’
‘I might be moving very soon; will you be able to manage?’
‘I’ll manage and I wish you luck but you know what they say don’t you?’ Amanda smiled, Felicity knew she knew what was coming. ‘They never leave.’
‘Not this time,’ Amanda said.
Felicity smiled.
‘The police came to the group tonight.’
‘About the murders?’
‘They think it’s one of the men who came there sometimes,’ said Amanda.
‘And did dear Clarissa tell them all they wanted to know?’
‘I don’t think she remembered him at all. She’s always too busy with her favourites.’
Felicity remembered that. It was one of the reasons she stopped going. ‘And were you able to tell them anything?’
‘Not much,’ Amanda said but she was already turning on to her side and Felicity switched off the light and shut her door.