“Until he strikes again?”
“I still don’t think you’re in any danger. We’ll keep an eye on you, don’t worry, but it’s more for form’s sake than anything else.”
Kirsten felt a little relieved. There was some truth in what Elswick had said. If anything was going to happen, it would have happened long before now. And she wasn’t about to start walking around in fear of her life; it wasn’t worth that much. Though she no longer felt suicidal, she did feel reckless sometimes and often drove the car too fast or walked alone after dark in streets she shouldn’t visit. Even genteel Bath had its seedy characters and sleazy areas. So she wasn’t going to give in to fear. She had determined not to spend the rest of her life jumping at every sound and running from every shadow. If he found her, so be it; may the best person win. More than anything, she was angry at the police for being so useless and for joining the growing list of people who didn’t want to “alarm” her by telling her the truth.
“Why does he do it?” she asked. “Mutilate women like that. Why does he hate us so much?”
Elswick shook his head. “If we knew the answer to that we might have an easier job stopping him. Usually it’s a him, and that’s about all we can be sure of. Who can say what sets them off? We have people in to do profiles and doctors write books, but who knows really? Often it’s prostitutes they go after, but this time it seems to be female students, if we’re reading the pattern correctly. No doubt there’s a million unresolved conflicts from his childhood on, that have turned him into what he is. Perhaps he was sexually abused. But plenty of other people suffer from cruel parents and don’t turn into killers. We don’t know what the trigger is that makes the odd one different.” He shrugged. “I suppose it comes down to fear, really. People like him are terrified by women, whatever the reason, and the only thing they can do about it, because of the kind of people they are, is strike out and despoil and kill.”
“How do you know it’s the same person?” Kirsten asked. “You said something earlier about the similarity of injuries.”
Elswick looked at her grimly. “Do you really want to know?” he asked.
Kirsten wasn’t sure, but she certainly didn’t intend to give in. “Considering that so much else has been kept from me, I think I have a right, don’t you?”
Elswick sat back and studied her face for a moment. “All right,” he said. “The wounds were the same, the areas he used his knife on were the same; there was also bruising about the face consistent with punching and slapping. And that strange cross he cut, with the long vertical and short horizontal just below the breasts, that was found on her body, too. Do you want me to go on?”
Kirsten nodded.
“When he was with you, he was disturbed. The dog, we assume. Up to that point your injuries are identical with those of the other victim.”
“What killed her, then?”
“She was strangled.” Elswick pinched his nose, then scratched the mole lightly. “Oh, she’d no doubt have died of loss of blood or internal bleeding, but just to make sure, the bastard strangled her. And according to our forensic experts, he did this after he had inflicted the other injuries.”
“Are you saying that she was conscious while he did all…what he did to me?”
Elswick shook his head. “We don’t know. It would have been difficult for him if she’d been able to struggle. The blows to the face and head were probably enough to cause loss of consciousness, and it seems that they were the first injuries. He grabbed her from behind, threw her down onto the ground, straddled her, pinning her arms down with his knees, and then began beating her about the face. Perhaps it wasn’t until she was unconscious that he went on to the more serious business. And this time he wasn’t disturbed.”
Kirsten felt sick. She could feel the blood drain from her cheeks. She struggled to control herself. She wasn’t going to be sick. She wasn’t going to let Elswick say, “I told you so.” She wouldn’t appear as the weak woman in front of these men who were intimate with every aspect of her brutalization. To cover up her discomfort, she poured another cup of tea. Inspector Gregory shook his head quickly when offered some. He was so still and silent he seemed really to have become part of the chair.
“What we were wondering,” Elswick went on slowly, “was whether you’d remembered anything else, no matter how insignificant or unimportant it might seem to you.”
Kirsten shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I’ve tried, of course, but after what I told you, it’s all still a blank.”
“You see,” Elswick persisted, “what we think is that the victim must have still been conscious, at least at the time he threw her onto her back. And if that’s so, then it might have been the same with you. You might have got a glimpse of his face. Maybe he was wearing a mask or a stocking, but even that could help us. Or maybe he said something. Anything.”
“I’m sorry,” Kirsten said, “really I am. But I just can’t remember. You might be right. Maybe I did see his face, maybe he did talk to me. But I can’t remember. Do you think I don’t want to? Of course I’d like to help you, but I can’t. After that rough hand closed over my mouth, I can’t remember a thing.” She felt tears in her eyes and fought to hold them back.
“There was a moon that night,” Elswick said.
“Yes. I was looking for it when…before. But I couldn’t see it.”
“It was there, behind you, just over the tops of the trees. We’ve checked.”
“Why?”
“Light. Because if you were conscious when he pushed you down to the ground, there would have been just enough light to make out at least something about his appearance. It was a clear night-a bit hazy maybe-and there was a full moon.”
“But I can’t have been conscious,” Kirsten said. “I don’t remember.”
“Never mind, then.” Elswick glanced over at Inspector Gregory, who slipped his notebook back in the inside pocket of his tan jacket, and both men swung forward in their chairs, preparing to leave. “I’m sorry to have brought such bad news and stirred up painful memories,” Elswick went on, getting to his feet. His knees cracked and he put his hand to the small of his back as if it hurt. “Getting old. I hear you’ve been seeing a doctor, Kirsten.”
“There’s not much you don’t know, is there?” Kirsten said. “As a matter of fact, yes, I have. Her name’s Laura Henderson and she’s a psychiatrist.”
Elswick smiled indulgently. “Yes, we know.”
“Don’t tell me-you checked her out?”
“It’s standard procedure in cases like this.” Elswick followed her out of the room down to the hall. “Doing you any good?”
“Yes, I think she is. She says my loss of memory might be anterograde amnesia, caused by the trauma.”
“Hmm, yes, we’d heard. And it’s consistent with the facts. All you remember is the hand, and you’ve blotted out all the violence, all the pain. According to our medical experts, the memory may or may not come back.”
“You’ve certainly done your homework, haven’t you, Superintendent?”
Elswick seemed embarrassed again. He changed moods remarkably quickly for a policeman, Kirsten thought. One minute he was all confident and superior, the next he was avuncular and then he got all tongue-tied. This time she decided to help him.
“What is it you want?” she asked. “Do you want to talk to her? Do you want access to her records of our sessions? They won’t tell you anything, you know.”
“Er, no, no, that won’t be necessary,” Elswick said as Kirsten handed them their coats from the hall cupboard. She sensed from his hesitation that he might already have had such access or could easily get it if he wanted, and she felt a surge of anger toward Laura.