She was so terrified that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She watched as he went out of the bedroom, to return a short time later with a furry blue object dangling from one hand.
“Aaanng!” she exclaimed, trying to scream. Rajah was thrown at her, landing on her bare chest. She could feel his blood, sticky and warm, on her skin.
“I hate cats,” said the man she’d taught. “Now, Miss Merton, it’s time I told you what I’m going to do to you.”
As Leslie Dunn’s words cut into her brain, Evelyn felt a wave of heat flush through her veins. She didn’t deserve this. It was years ago. She’d turned out plenty of good pupils, plenty of children who would have gone on to benefit society. No, she didn’t deserve this. She’d been a good Catholic.
But, as the knife penetrated her, she acknowledged her sins. Cruelty, pride, hatred-not to mention what she had done with Gilbert for decades. Deep down, she knew she deserved everything she got.
And for her there would be no absolution.
11
I spent the next day writing up the notes the White Devil had sent me that morning. They were chilling. I hoped for a moment that he was breaking out into fiction writing, but I had the firm feeling he wasn’t. At least this wasn’t a contemporary killing, though that didn’t make it any better for the wretched vagrant he claimed to have killed a couple of years after he’d left senior school. I’d written plenty of violent scenes in my novels, but this was worse than any of them. The man was clubbed to the ground and kicked to death with steel-capped boots. At least that hadn’t happened in any of my books.
I picked up Lucy and took her home, helping her to make a papier-mache model of Edinburgh Castle for a project on medieval fortifications. Then I came back to my place. Sara arrived unannounced. I was rereading the text I’d sent the Devil and only just managed to clear the screen before she let herself in. I wasn’t proud of how I’d enhanced the revolting material. Writing “I felt the rib cage shatter under my boot” brought it home even more.
“Hi, my love,” I said, getting up to kiss her. “I’ve missed you.”
After a few moments, she pushed me away gently. “Steady on, tiger. I’ve been tramping the streets all day.”
That meant she’d been dashing around in taxis paid for by the newspaper, but I resisted the temptation to say that. She looked worn out and pretty dejected.
“Have you seen the news?” she asked, turning on the TV. “Bloody Jeremy’s over in Belfast covering that huge bank robbery.”
“No, I haven’t.” I sat down beside her on the sofa. “Did you get a juicy story to cover in his place?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t say ‘juicy’ was the right word, Matt. Poor old woman.”
My stomach constricted. “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.
“Retired teacher out in Chelmsford,” Sara said, kicking off her shoes. “Fortunately the police wouldn’t let us in.” Her hand was on my arm, suddenly squeezing it hard. “Can you believe it? One of her arms was severed.”
“What?” This time I was unable to hide my surprise.
“Severed,” Sara repeated. “It seems the killer took it away.” She swallowed. “After he cut her throat.”
“Jesus,” I whispered. My heart was thundering. “What was she, the victim?”
“What do you mean?” Sara’s eyes flared. “She was a defenseless old lady.”
“No, I mean what did she used to do?”
Sara relaxed slightly. “Oh, I get you. She was a primary schoolteacher.”
“In Chelmsford?” I asked hopefully.
“No, somewhere in the East End.” Her eyes were on me. “Are you all right?”
“Um…yes.” I picked up my mug of tea and emptied it. What game was the Devil playing with me? Or was there more than one of his kind out there?
Sara got up. “I think we must have missed it,” she said, turning off the television. “You can be sure it’ll be on the ten o’clock news.” She headed for the bathroom.
I booted up my computer and logged on to my e-mail program. There was a message from WDChelm. I opened it, my heart pounding.
Matt! I read. You must be pretty pissed off with me, giving you that out-of-date stuff this morning. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You’re not the only one who can mislead his readers. Means you’ll have to rewrite the chapter using the latest facts. No doubt your girlfriend Sara will be able to help you with them. Ha! I bought myself an extra day. Don’t have to pay you the next advance yet! See if you can catch me when I do. Greetings from hell, your very own (White) Devil.
This was getting worse and worse. Now I’d have to pick Sara’s brains about the murder. I’d try to disguise my interest by claiming it was that of a professional crime writer.
I quickly put together a bowl of pasta with bacon and onion, and managed to spend the first half of the meal talking about other things. Then, after she’d sunk a couple of glasses of Sicilian red, I made my move.
“So, your murder case,” I said, filling her glass. “Want to talk about it?”
Sara gave me a suspicious look. “You want to incorporate it in your next book, do you?” She lit a cigarette. “Bloody scavenger.” She smiled wearily.
I shrugged. “It’s a job like any other.”
She laughed, blowing out smoke. “Not many jobs give you the luxury of taking your kid to school, then sitting around at home all day.”
“A perfect description of my life,” I said, handing her an ashtray. “Are you going to tell me or not? I can tell you’re dying to.”
“Wait for the TV news,” she said, playing hardball.
I moved into flattery mode. “You know much more than the BBC’s going to come out with.”
She looked away. “I wish I didn’t, Matt. I really wish I didn’t.”
I hadn’t ever seen her so reluctant to talk. Like most journalists, she was a great one for regaling people with her latest scoops.
“All right,” she said, reaching for her laptop and turning it on. “Evelyn Louise Merton, age seventy-five. At least, that’s the police’s assumption.” She looked at me ruefully. “They’re having to wait for her dental records to be sure of the ID as there’s no next of kin and her face is too battered for the neighbors to recognize. Lived at 35 Summerhill Drive, Chelmsford. Worked in East London schools from 1958 until 1990. Last place of work, St. Pius’s School, Roman Road, Bethnal-”
“She was a Catholic?”
Sara stared at me. “Oh, I see what you mean. Yeah, I suppose she was if she taught at a place with that name.” She hit the keys for a few moments and nodded. “Good spot, Mr. Detective.”
I tried to smile, without much success.
“Lived on her own, with her cat, which-by the way-was also slaughtered by the murderer.” She shook her head.
I tried to pull her close, but she resisted, her eyes flaring.
“Leave me alone!” she shouted. “How can you write about this sort of thing for fun?”
I felt my cheeks redden. Sara occasionally lost her grip, but not like this. The murder of the old woman had obviously got to her. “Hey…” I said, reaching out my arms.
“Tell me,” she insisted, leaning away. “Tell me why you do it, Matt.”
“I suppose…I suppose crime novels are a way of coming to terms with the violence of the world, a way of mediating between the reader and the abyss.”
“Bullshit,” she said, gulping down wine. “They’re a way of making a quick buck by pandering to people’s worst instincts.”
“And what you do is any better?”
“At least it’s true,” she retorted.
I bit my tongue. Having a discussion with a journalist about the nature of truth wasn’t a particularly enticing prospect. Anyway, the last person I wanted to piss off right now was the woman I loved.