“So what did he tell ’ee, that driver?” Colwell asked Matt.
“Told me his boss used to drink in Glastonbury until a few weeks ago.”
“Glastonbury?” Colwell was impressed.
“Then he switched to here. He likes this pub.”
“The beer?”
“The decor, he reckons.” Matt’s eyes swivelled towards Alison and a huge laugh went up from the table.
“Doesn’t mean he strangles barmaids,” said the old man, “else why is young Alison still with us?”
“I warned her in time, didn’t I?” said Matt. “Probably saved her life by telling her what she were getting into.”
“He hasn’t been back since the police were here,” said Colwell, as if that confirmed Tony’s guilt.
“Made his getaway, I reckon,” said Matt. “One of them South American countries that don’t do the extra...”
“Extradition,” Colwell came to his rescue. “With his money he can afford to live down in Brazil for the rest of his life.”
“In that case, we can all relax,” the old man said. “There won’t be no more stranglings on Sedgemoor.”
Alison knew how mistaken they were. Tony had not left Sedgemoor. In the past week he had tried to phone her at least a dozen times. Anticipating this, she was not answering calls, but she was certain it was Tony because she checked each time with the computer voice that gives the last caller’s number. She didn’t tell the police. For one thing, she wasn’t truly scared of Tony, and for another she now felt ashamed of handing the lipstick stain to DI Briggs. If it turned out to have no connection with the case, she was going to despise herself. She just wished Tony would give up phoning. Her only genuine fear was that he would turn up at the pub. If he ever did, Matt and the others were liable to lynch him — or whatever passed for a lynching on Sedgemoor.
Whenever Matt came in, the conversation turned to the stranglings. Lately the slurs and reproaches had become more dangerous. No longer were they speculating when an arrest would be made. The talk was now of a police force incapable of acting because the legal system was weighted in favour of the criminal. “They’re bloody impotent,” Matt told his cohorts. “They dare not make an arrest in case it doesn’t stick. They know full well who did it, and they can’t touch him. He’s laughing at them.”
“Wouldn’t do much good if they nicked him,” said Colwell. “Once upon a time a man like that would have been topped. The worst he’ll get is life, and that’s no time at all these days. He’ll be out in five or six years to start all over again, strangling women. A devil like that wants topping.”
“He won’t get no life sentence,” said Matt. “They’ll say he isn’t right in the head. He’ll see a bloody head-doctor and be out inside a year. Rehabilitation, they call it.”
“Rehabilitation, my arse,” said Colwell. “He wants putting down like a mad dog.”
“Who’s going to do it, though?” one of them asked. “Not I.”
Silence descended like the last edge of the sun.
Colwell started up again, letting the words come slowly, as if he had already calculated their effect. “I could tell you a way. They dealt with a sex pest when I were a lad living up Burnham way, on the estuary. He was a right menace to all the women. Can’t recall his name now, but I know the police couldn’t do nothing about him. He were soft in the head or something. Anywise, the men took care of him. One night he disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“What happened to him?” Matt asked.
“He were never seen again.”
“Come off it, John. You just said you could tell us about it.”
“And so I did.” Colwell seemed to savour the attention he was getting. “He were given a ride on a mud horse.”
“What’s that?”
“Come closer. I’ll tell thee.”
The rest was delivered in a voice pitched deliberately low. All Alison heard were some laughs at the end that made her flesh creep.
“When you think on it,” Colwell finished up in his normal voice, “it’s foolproof.”
“If it worked once,” said Matt, “it could work again. Save the police a heap of work, wouldn’t it?”
Alison seriously thought of speaking to Tony if he phoned again, warning him not to set foot in Bridgwater or anywhere near it. She had no idea what a ride on a mud horse meant, except that it was a death sentence.
The next day, Saturday, Tony didn’t phone at all. Alison hoped he had seen sense at last and given up.
This was her day off. She spent it quietly, watching a movie on TV for most of the afternoon, the sort she liked, with pirates and gorgeous women in crinolines and nothing more violent than the baddies being poked with swords and falling into the sea. Later, she went out for some shopping. Among other things, she picked up a copy of the Bridgwater Mercury. Seeing the headline, she felt pole-axed. MERCEDES CLUE IN BARMAID STRANGLINGS.
The police had now established that a black Mercedes had been seen parked by the entrance to a field at Meare Green one evening in the week Emma Charles was thought to have been murdered. A similar vehicle had been seen in the car park at the Peat Moor Visitor Centre on the Saturday night Angie Singleton was killed there. The Police National Computer had been used to check on the owners of all Mercedes registered in Somerset.
Until this moment she had not been willing to believe Tony was the strangler. How could she have been so stupid, going out three times with a man like that, and actually inviting him to spend the night with her?
She needed a brandy, or something, just to stop this shaking. The Jellied Eel was only a short walk up the street. She stuffed the newspaper in with the other shopping and made her way there, moaning to herself like a demented person.
The bar was empty except for three old men playing dominos. Karen was on duty, looking bored. She said, “You look terrible, darling. What’s up?”
Alison produced the newspaper. “Haven’t you seen this?”
“Of course I have. First thing this morning.”
“I only just saw it. God, I need a brandy.”
Karen reached for a glass and pressed it to the brandy dispenser. “Surely you knew he was odd?”
“He wasn’t odd with me.”
“You’re bloody lucky, then.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Alison shuddered, took a sip, and felt better as her throat warmed.
“Why do you reckon you were spared, then?” Karen asked.
The answer came candidly, with no artifice. “I don’t know. He never threatened me, never tried anything heavy. There wasn’t a hint of it. He was a slow starter, if you know what I mean.” She added in the same honest vein, “The police told me something I suppose I can tell you now. They said he wasn’t violent to those women. It wasn’t rape. They let him do it to them.”
“Go on,” said Karen in disbelief.
“So I wonder if they were killed because they hustled too much. You know?”
“Forced the pace?”
“Yes. And if he wasn’t much good at it, lacking confidence, or something, maybe he lost control and strangled them.”
Karen grimaced as she visualised the scene. She drew in a sharp breath. “Nasty.”
“As you say, I had a lucky escape.”
“You don’t know how lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that he was in here asking for you this afternoon.”
Alison wondered if she had heard right. “What? Haven’t they picked him up? I thought he was under arrest.”
Karen shook her head. “But it’s all right. He’s no danger to you now, love.” She glanced across at the domino-players and lowered her voice. “Matt and some of the lads were here. They grabbed the bastard.”