Death of a Murderer

3

When he first met her, in the late eighties, her name was Susie — Susie Newman — and there was so much in that extra syllable, that hidden “z.” There was a kind of fearlessness. There was laughter. There was sex. Back then, she was always Susie, never Sue. At that point in his life, Billy had been a police officer for almost a decade. Thanks to Neil, a schoolfriend who had joined the force at the same time, he was called “Scruff”—Neil had caught him in the equipment room, polishing the badge on his helmet — but as nicknames went it wasn’t too bad, not when you considered that two of his contemporaries were known as “Vomit” and “the Perv.” For the first few years he had lived in “the Brothel,” the single men’s hostel located behind Widnes police station, but then, at the beginning of 1985, he had moved into a small flat of his own on Frederick Street. He had already failed the sergeant’s exam, but he’d taken it because you were supposed to, not because he wanted to, and he had long since decided that he was happy being a constable. In the early days he would go about on foot, calling in at various businesses and shops. Later, he would drive around in the area car. A lot of what he did was listen. It was the side of his job he liked best, this chance to mix with all sorts of people, to establish some connection with their lives. He liked knowing everyone, and being known.

One bright June morning he stopped at a local garage for his usual cup of tea. They had a new girl working in the office, and he decided to go in and introduce himself. Putting his head round the door, he saw that she was typing. He waited until she sensed his presence and looked at him, and then he stepped into the room.

“I’m Billy Tyler,” he said.

He asked her a few questions, nothing too personal. It turned out that her stepfather had found her the job. He ran a second-hand-car dealership in Stockport. Not just any old cars. Jaguars. Ferraris.

“It’s only for the summer,” she said. “After that, I’m thinking of travelling. India, maybe — or Thailand…”

Her eyes had gone misty, opaque, and he wanted to kiss her there and then. He wanted to kiss her eyes back into focus.

“Susie Newman.”

Standing in that poky office, with its threadbare carpet and its dog-eared girlie calendar, he had repeated her name out loud. She watched him carefully, and puzzled lines appeared on her forehead, though there was also the promise of a smile at the edges of her mouth. But he’d been in a kind of dream. As soon as she told him her name, he’d had the feeling that it was familiar. Not that he had ever heard it before. No, it was more as if he had been propelled into his own future, a future that included her, or even revolved around her. Her name seemed familiar because it was about to become familiar. It was a familiarity that hadn’t happened yet.

He didn’t mention any of this to Susie, though — not that morning, anyway. When he was twenty-eight, he had gone out with a girl called Venetia. He had been unable to conceal the extent of his infatuation, and it had spoiled everything. “I can’t breathe with you around,” Venetia had told him once. “You use up all the air.” Over the years he’d learned that sometimes it’s better to go slowly. When he finally told Susie about the feeling he’d had on hearing her name, it was two months later, and they were having a cup of tea in a place just round the corner from the garage, the Kingsway Hotel on Victoria Road. She let him finish talking, then she tucked her hair behind her ear and looked straight at him, her eyes so shiny that he could have been the first thing they had ever seen.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said.

He didn’t laugh, nor did he attempt to deny it; he remained perfectly serious, and his gaze dropped to the tablecloth. Though he had spent weeks trying to work it out, what he had just told her still perplexed him.

“I’ve never said it before,” he said. “I’ve never even felt it.”

There was a moment when nothing happened, nothing at all, but they both knew what was coming, so those few seconds were slow-motion and yet urgent, the slowness and the sense of urgency simultaneous but contradictory, delicious too, like ice-cream wrapped in hot meringue. At last, she put a hand on the back of his head and drew him towards her until their lips were touching. After the kiss, they remained an inch or two apart, looking into each other’s faces. He could feel the warm steam from his tea on the underside of his chin.

“Don’t go travelling,” he said. “Not yet.”