Back behind the bar, she turned up the music to drown the crude remarks they were sure to be making about her, thinking how unjust it is that nobody remarks on the company a man keeps. Why shouldn’t she go out with a stranger? What a dreary prospect only ever spending time with clodhopping yobs like that lot.
With no other customers to serve, she picked up the local paper and read once again about the murdered girl they had found at Meare Green a week ago. Only seventeen, poor soul, naked as a cuckoo, and strangled. They reckoned she must have been lying among the withies three weeks before she was found, her clothes beside her. She came from Glastonbury, fifteen miles away, so the police had worked out that she was taken there in a car. It was about the only thing they had worked out. They were still appealing for witnesses. Some hopes, Alison thought. Meare Green always looked empty of inhabitants.
The girl’s name was Emma Charles and she had worked as a barmaid. From the picture, one of those brightly lit studio shots with a pale blue background obviously taken when she was still at school, she was dark-haired and pretty, with thick eyebrows, a wide, sensuous mouth and dimples. There was a lot of speculation that she may have met her killer in the pub. Glastonbury, with its legends and ley-lines, has more than its share of freaks and weirdos passing through or camping there in the summer. The girl’s parents owned an “alternative” shop that went in for incense-burning and astrology, mandalas and mysticism. They were pictured in their tie-dye shirts, the father with a blond ponytail, the mother with cropped hair and a large Celtic cross hanging from her neck. But it seemed that Emma had left home and had not spoken to either of them for weeks.
It was easy to identify with her.
The report went on to state euphemistically that Emma was known to have had several close friends. Detectives were questioning a number of men believed to have associated with her.
“So when are you going out with him again?”
Startled, she looked up from the paper. Matt was by the counter. She had not noticed him, assuming that he and the others would be busy with their drinks for some time. His question was best ignored.
He said, “I want three packets of crisps, vinegar-flavoured.”
Alison reached behind her and put them in front of him without a word. He dropped a couple of coins on the counter and said, “Keep the change. You never know when you might need to catch a bus home.”
The next Saturday she went with Tony to see a film called Seven, about a serial killer. She’d have preferred a Woody Allen film which was showing in Glastonbury, but Tony wasn’t keen. He seemed to dislike Glastonbury as much as she found Bridgwater a bore. Seven shocked her with its violent scenes, well-made as it undoubtedly was, but she didn’t admit this. “I couldn’t believe in the story,” she said when they had their drinks later. “Murder isn’t so complicated.”
“What do you mean?”
“Real serial killers aren’t like that. They simply repeat the same method several times over. They’re not inventing wild new ways of killing people.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Tony.
“They’re not that intelligent,” she went on. “They can’t be. Take the case of that girl who was found at Meare Green.”
“That’s not a serial murder.”
“You can’t say,” she pointed out. “It could turn out to be.”
His eyes slid downwards, staring into his drink. “All right,” he conceded. “What were you going to say about the woman at Meare Green?”
“Just this. She was strangled. Manually strangled, the paper said. That means with his bare hands instead of using her tights or something, doesn’t it? Now, if that bloke did a second murder, you can bet he’d do exactly the same thing, with his hands around the woman’s throat. That’s how the police catch these people. They call it their m.o. It’s Latin, isn’t it?”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
“If you’re a woman, you need to know.” She had a sense that he wanted to end the conversation, but something was spurring him on.
“You’re saying this man, whoever he may be, isn’t capable of thinking of some other way of killing the next one?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know anything about him.”
“I know he’s thick.”
“You can’t say that. He might have a degree in astrophysics.”
“Intelligent men don’t murder people just at random. Serial killers are thick, so they do the same thing and get caught.”
“The guy in the film wasn’t thick. He changed his m.o.”
Alison smiled. “And still got caught. Serve him right.”
It was still warm when they left the pub, so she suggested they walked back to her flat. He told Hugh to drive the Mercedes round to her street and wait there. Having a chauffeur constantly on call was not always such a useful arrangement. It was not unlike having a chaperon.
“Do you ever go anywhere without Hugh?” she asked as they strolled through the silent streets, his arm around her waist.
He laughed. “Does he cramp my style, do you mean? I give him days off sometimes.”
“Then do you drive the car yourself?”
“I use taxis.”
The Mercedes was waiting in her street when they reached it, on the opposite side from her flat, the lights off.
She looked up at him. “Coffee?”
“Another time.”
“I have a phone, you know. You could call a taxi.” As she spoke, she thought this is wrong. I shouldn’t be rushing him.
He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I appreciate the offer. I’m due back in Gloucester tonight. An early appointment tomorrow. Shall I see you next week? When’s your night off? Saturday again?”
“Saturday.”
They kissed. Then he walked across to the waiting car.
A man with an old-fashioned haircut with sideburns and a parting at the side came into the pub a couple of evenings later and didn’t buy a drink. He went straight to Matt’s table and started talking to the group. After a while he took a notebook from his pocket and wrote things down. Then he moved to another table. Matt and his friends stared after him and talked in lowered voices among themselves.
Alison was uneasy about this stranger disturbing the customers. She went across to Matt’s table and asked who he was.
“Fuzz,” said Matt. “Wants to know if anyone here knew that girl who was strangled. We told ’un there’s no sense in coming to Bridgwater asking about a girl from Glastonbury.”
“Why is he here, then?” said Alison.
“He says they’ve been to all the pubs in Glastonbury, including the one she worked in, and now they’re extending their enquiries.”
“She’s never set foot in here.”
“That’s what we told ’un.”
“He’s wasting his time, then,” said Alison. She returned to the bar counter and continued to watch with disfavour the detective go from table to table.
Finally, he walked across to her. His blue eyes assessed her keenly. The voice had a note of Bristol in it, that soft, unhurried way with words that can be so disarming. “Detective Sergeant Mayhew, Somerset and Avon CID. You don’t mind if I ask you a couple of questions, do you, my dear?”
“What about?”
“I’m sure you know by now,” he said, bringing colour to her cheeks. “I watched you go to the table under the window and ask the lads what I was up to. Fair enough. You have a job to do. I could be dealing in drugs for all you know. But I’m not, am I? What’s your name, love?”
She told him, adding, “That dead girl has never been in here to my knowledge.”