The Circle

32

So what had caused Hen to run? In the last minutes the clouds had parted over a large section of the sky and areas of the garden were now moonlit. She had good night vision and near the limit of her range she'd spotted a movement. Something or someone was running at speed across the lawn towards the main gate.

On impulse she set off in pursuit. She was no sprinter, and not athletic in any way. Determination powered her. She ought to have sent someone else, but the time it would take to tell them was too long. The quarry was already swallowed by the darkness. She let her short legs carry her at the best speed she could manage across the turf. And somehow she got the figure in sight again, saw that it was human for sure, dressed mostly in dark clothes.

She felt certain this was the arsonist. She'd read somewhere, some time, that the sickos who do this stuff like to remain at the scene to watch the result of their crime, deriving satisfaction that was as good as sex. This one, though, was a killer first, an arsonist second. The psychology didn't necessarily apply.

Her legs started to ache and her throat had gone dry, but she ran on. She wasn't closing the seventy metre gap and she couldn't think how she would, but at least she had the killer in sight. She guessed there was a parked car or a bike nearby, even though the team hadn't located it. This was where the chase was heading. The first target was the main gate.

The running movement interfered with her vision in this faint light. She couldn't make out much more than the flash of white socks or trainers. At this distance there was no chance of identifying the person or what else they were wearing.

Then she had her first piece of luck all day: the fire engine moving fast along the road. She saw the pulsing blue light before she heard the siren.

The person ahead saw it, too, and veered sharp left, so as not to be sighted by the fire team. Helpful to Hen. She cut the angle and reduced the distance between them. Better still, as the fire engine reached the gate, the arsonist stopped and crouched at the foot of a tree.

Hen ran on, realising with an upsurge of adrenalin that she hadn't been spotted yet. I'm going to get there, she thought, without any conception of how she'd cope. She got to within twenty metres before she was seen.

And now it was down to whose legs moved faster. The arsonist was up, but not away yet. Hen, so near now, raised her strength for a last surge of speed. She could hear the breathing coming in gasps and thought, this bastard is feeling worse than I am.

The gap closed to a couple of metres and Hen flung herself forward. As a rugby tackle, it wouldn't have pleased a purist, but it was effective. Her right hand grabbed a shin and held on. The other person tipped forward and toppled over.

Hen scrambled to get a better hold. She needn't have troubled, because the fall had taken any fight from the fugitive.

The stink of petrol was unmistakable.

She took the handcuffs from her back pocket and slammed them on. After catching her breath she managed to say, 'You're nicked.'

Andy Humphreys was the first to get to her, followed by Duncan Shilling and two others.

'Who is it, guv?' Andy said.

Hen was still on the ground beside her capture. 'We haven't met before, and she hasn't spoken yet, but this is Miss Snow. Amelia Snow, supposedly burnt to ashes over a week ago.'

Now that she had her first proper look at the Chichester arsonist, a terrified middle-aged woman, lips quivering as she gasped for air, Hen had to admit to herself that the chase hadn't been quite the physical challenge it had seemed.

'Duncan.'

'Guv?'

'Arrest her for the murder of Edgar Blacker. And give her the caution. We're doing this by the book.'

Overnight, Miss Snow's clothes were taken for forensic examination and there was little doubt what they would confirm. When Hen Mallin and Stella Gregson faced her across the table in Interview Room One next morning, it was apparent that she was ready to tell all. There was that stunned look of capitulation Hen had learned to recognise in first offenders. Miss Snow's first night in a cell had not resulted in much sleep. The red-lidded eyes had been to the abyss and looked over. The hands would not stay still.

She hadn't even tried to tidy her hair.

After Stella had spoken the necessary words for the tape, Hen said, 'I have to give you credit, Miss Snow. You gave us the runaround for longer than I care to admit. It was only in the last twenty-four hours I seriously began to think you might be alive, only when we found the nude shots of you in that sex magazine. But let's deal with this in sequence, shall we? It's a complex case and I'm not sure my colleague believes in it even now.'

Miss Snow gave a despairing shrug that didn't augur well.

Hen hoped she wasn't going to go silent on them. 'It's a matter of record that you posed for those photos. Were you primed with drink? It looks as if you were.'

Now she nodded, but added nothing.

'So you weren't a professional model?'

A faint sigh said enough.

'You were tricked, and you regretted it for the rest of your life?'

She managed an audible, 'Yes.'

Hen had the good sense not to dwell on the humiliation. 'You did everything possible to put the episode behind you, and it seemed you'd succeeded. You got your professional qualifications in accountancy. You had a good career and earned plenty of respect in Chichester, doing charitable work as well as keeping the books for some of the pillars of local society. You joined the writers' circle and became their treasurer and secretary. You had hopes of being published soon. Am I being fair?'

She responded with a firmer, Yes.'

'Well, you're going to have to help me now. We want to hear in your own words about Edgar Blacker.'

Miss Snow shook her head, but in regret rather than denial. She began to speak in a clear, soft tone, articulating every word. 'I didn't know until he turned up at our meeting that he was the man who took those vile pictures.' She hesitated as if to draw on her reserves of strength. 'If you know the sort of person I am, it's incredible that I posed like that. It beggars belief. And I still don't know how it happened.' She dipped her face to avoid eye contact. 'He introduced himself at a party we had for one of the dancers in the show I was appearing in, said he was a photographer and how photogenic I was and how I ought to have a portfolio of pictures. He said he'd seen me dance and I was so much better than the others that I could easily become a solo performer — the kind of flattery you want to believe, and do if you're a stagestruck girl, as I was. Well, the next day I turned up at the house he called his studio. I'd brought a suitcase of costumes as he suggested. I knew it was risky in a way, but I was a showgirl and I'd met men before and kept them at arm's length if I needed to. He took a few pictures of me in costume and then we had lunch. He'd brought in some cold chicken and salad.'

'And drinks?'

'Yes, and he must have added some drug, because I came over very strange soon after, giggly and talkative. When we went back to the photography. . Do I have to describe this?'

'Please.'

'I have only the haziest memory of what went on. I was changing costumes and he came behind the screen and caught me half naked. He said I was beautiful and I shouldn't be afraid to display myself. He drew me towards the lights. I was dizzy. I couldn't stand up straight, so he sat me on the sofa. Then it's just a blur. I don't know what else he did to me. I feel nauseous talking about it. I'm not denying that the pictures were taken.'

'We can move on, then,' Hen said. 'When did you find out they were in the magazine?'

'When it went on sale, six months later. He sent me a copy from their office in Tilbury suggesting I could earn big amounts of money if I posed again. I can't begin to describe how appalled I was. He hadn't used my real name, but if any of my friends or family saw the pictures, they'd know me. The pictures were in sharp focus, obviously taken in brilliant light. They destroyed my confidence totally … totally. I dreaded that any man I met would have seen that disgusting magazine and recognise me. I stopped the dancing. Stopped all social contact. Moved house. Applied myself to the bookkeeping course. It took me years and years to recover. Well, I say "recover". I didn't ever recover. I mean it took me all that time to get to the point where I was when he entered my life again.'

'When he came to speak to the circle?'

Yes, after nearly twenty-five years. Normally I'd have made the arrangements for a speaker, but this time Maurice did it all, because he knew Blacker personally. So when he walked in I had the most dreadful shock. He was older and had spectacles and his hair was coloured, but the face was the one I'd seen in a thousand nightmares grinning at me from behind a camera.' She paused and bit her lip, reliving the memory. 'I can't describe my feelings. I wanted to dash out of the room, but everyone would have asked why. So I kept my head down, taking the minutes. Even when he talked about my script I didn't speak.'

Hen nodded. 'We've seen the video.'

'Then you'll know what he said towards the end, that his house was filled with photos from years back and he was starting to write his memoirs. I died when he said that. My life ended.'

'He must have photographed scores of girls,' Hen said. 'Why should he pick you out from the rest?'

'He was going to keep coming to the circle, wasn't he? Through his friendship with Maurice he was forging a link with us and he offered to come back and they accepted. They wanted to encourage him, some of them, at least. To have a publisher in their pocket was too good to be true.'

'You could have left the club.'

'Impossible. I was treasurer and secretary, remember. I had all the files at home. Maurice wouldn't have let me drop out. He'd have made it his mission to keep me aboard.'

'You couldn't see any closure?'

'Exactly. I had to do something about that beast and his house full of pictures. It wasn't enough just to get rid of him. The cottage and all its contents had to go as well. So a fire at night seemed the only remedy.'

'You didn't waste much time.'

'I was desperate. I had a spare can of petrol for my old car. I knew his address because it was my job to send him his fee for the meeting. I drove out there the next night and pushed oily rags through the door and poured in some petrol and put a match to it. The place soon caught alight.'

Hen was listening intently. She needed to know why. 'You're a quiet, respectable woman leading a useful life. Couldn't you think of any other way of dealing with it?'

'I thought I'd explained. He'd visited me in my thoughts almost daily for years. I had nightmares. He was my personal demon, leering at me when I was at my most vulnerable. Nothing short of destroying him would do.' Her intensity left no doubt.

'Let's move on,' Hen said. 'The next development is what foxed us all. How on earth did you think of faking your own murder?'

'It was a build-up of events I hadn't planned. I thought I'd got away with the burning of the cottage. Well, I think I had.'

'Just about,' Hen said.

'Then, to my horror, you arrested Maurice and charged him with it'

Stella said, 'That wasn't DCI Mallin. That was DI Cherry.'

The finer points of the chain of command didn't interest Miss Snow. 'And it came out that Maurice had once been sent to prison for some incident involving burning his neighbour's garden fence.'

'And boat,' Stella said.

'It was looking certain that Maurice would be put on trial for my crime. He's a good man, truly good. I couldn't allow that to happen. First of all, I thought of letting it be known that you were wrong about Maurice, that the arsonist was still at liberty. I couldn't just make a phone call to the police station or I'd give myself away. And I couldn't tell anyone. So I decided to demonstrate that the fire-raiser was still at liberty by starting another fire. I made use of our new member, Bob Naylor.'

'With his agreement?'

'No, no. He didn't know what I was doing. How could I confide in anyone? He's a strong man, willing to help. I made up a story telling him someone had offered to hand me the proof that Maurice was innocent. I'd been invited to the boat house early Saturday morning to collect it. I asked Bob to go in my place.'

'And then you nearly killed him.'

'No, that was never going to happen, and it wasn't my intention.' The firmness of the answer gave an insight into Miss Snow's resolve.

Hen started to say, 'He had to break out-'

'Through the roof, yes. I'd been to the boat house before. I often walk along there. I'd looked inside. The boat racks reach right up. Any fit man could climb up and make a hole in the roof. I knew he'd find a way out. He's strong because of the work he does.'

'According to his account, he was lucky to escape.'

'But the fire had to be convincing. Basically I used the same method, except that the petrol and rags were stuffed underneath the boat house. I kept out of sight when he arrived, but as soon as I'd closed the door on him I lit the rags. Then I left, before the fire was obvious.'

'Lovely burn-up, but all to no purpose because it didn't succeed in getting Maurice McDade out of the remand centre.'

Miss Snow's eyes moistened.

Hen could imagine the desperation. 'All right,' she said, 'let me try and see it your way. Everything was going pear-shaped. You had a great affection for Maurice and he was still being blamed for your crime. Bob Naylor and Thomasine had set themselves up as amateur sleuths, going round asking questions. Naomi was doing much the same on her own account. Soon enough someone was going to find out you were the arsonist. It was then that the solution came to you: faking your own death by fire.'

After a moment's consideration she gave a nod.

'A huge step to take,' Hen said. 'It could only be justified if it achieved that closure you needed so much because not only did it mean wiping away your life as Amelia Snow, the well-respected Chichester lady, but it meant killing someone else. A second murder, the murder of someone who had done you no harm at all.'

Her lips tightened, but she didn't deny it.

'This is how things got out of proportion, isn't it?' Hen said. 'Your freedom was paramount. You needed an out. You'd found a way of killing that was well within your capacity, hard to detect and simple to carry out. You didn't see the victim choke and burn to ashes so it was all at one remove.'

Miss Snow was listening intently. She hadn't challenged any of Hen's version yet.

'I think you must have read about fire victims being identified by their teeth. Am I right? In a serious fire, that's often all we have.'

This was rewarded with a nod so slight it might have been a nervous twitch.

'Thanks to your charity work at the refuge you had access to women who would not be missed if they disappeared. Foreign immigrants, asylum seekers, some of them illegal, in that trap where they can't ask for asylum unless they're already here, and they can't get here except illegally. Non-persons.'

On Hen's right, Stella gave a little intake of breath as she anticipated what Hen was going on to say.

'You decided one of these women should die at a fire in your house in Tower Street. You sometimes had them there for meals and to stay overnight. I don't know what method you used to subdue her. Sleeping tablets crushed up and mixed with the food? Something that ensured she would be out to the world when the fire started. She died and was reduced almost to ashes, but the teeth were preserved well enough for identification purposes. When they were checked by the forensic odontologist against your dental chart, the match was perfect. How was it done?' She turned and addressed the question more to Stella than Miss Snow.

Stella shook her head.

'Crucially,' Hen said 'these people's dental records were kept at the refuge because the dentist only came there as an act of charity. The women weren't registered with the National Health Service. I've been to the refuge and seen where the records are kept. I've seen the security, or lack of it, the key kept under the carpet.' She paused. 'On the back of the brown folder is a chart recording the patient's fillings and extractions. It was simply a matter of making out a new folder with your victim's dental chart and putting your name at the top. Right?'

Miss Snow nodded.

'And how was it possible to switch your victim's dental chart for yours?' Hen put the question in a tone suggesting she knew the answer, and she supplied it. 'You still did the bookkeeping for your dentist.' With a half smile at Stella she said, 'Say "Ah".'

Stella said, 'Oh.'

The attention shifted back to Miss Snow. 'Who was she — the woman found in your house?'

Nothing could be gained from evasion any more. 'Her name was Nadia. She helped me in the shop sometimes. She was about my age.'

'How could you do this to someone you knew?'

'You may not believe this, but it's true. Nadia wanted to die. She'd suffered badly in Bosnia, although she never went into the details. The memories were torture to her. She told me more than once that if she had the courage she'd kill herself.'

'That eases your conscience, does it?'

'No. Nothing can ease my conscience.'

'Did I get it right, about the dental records?'

'Yes.'

'And did you drug Nadia on the night of the fire?'

A nod. 'She was well out. I didn't want her to suffer.'

'After the fire, you had to disappear. Where did you go?'

'Into lodgings in Petersfield. I was planning to get right away, to start a new life abroad, but I still had some things to attend to in Chichester. I needed to remove all the evidence that Nadia had existed. Her passport and other documents were still at the refuge. She'd never have left without them. Questions were sure to be asked. It worried me so much that I decided to take the risk of a night visit to the refuge.'

Hen said, 'That's how you were spotted by Jessie Warmington-Smith, on one of her late-night walks.'

She tensed. 'You know about that?'

'As she told it, she saw something supernatural, the proof of life after death, or some such phrase.'

Stella quoted from the interview with Andy Humphreys that had given so much amusement to the team, '"The afterlife, the journey of the soul." She thought you were a ghost'

'We frightened each other,' Miss Snow said. 'I saw the look of recognition and I thought she was sure to give me away.'

'Is that why you killed her?'

'Yes.'

Stella said, 'But I don't think she would have given you away. When she was interviewed she didn't mention your name.'

'I know. I looked at the website.'

'The police website?' Hen said.

'Naomi's. She was reporting everything that happened.'

'Yes, you're computer-literate, being a writer.'

'I designed the circle website,' she said with a glimmer of pride.

'So you came to the opinion that Jessie hadn't told us about seeing you?'

Yes, but there was no certainty she'd keep silent for long. I couldn't take the risk after all I'd done already.'

'Which was why she had to go? Your third murder.'

'Each one was out of necessity.' She was still playing the little woman driven by events.

'You drove in from Petersfield at night. Where did you leave the car?'

'Behind the Bishop's Palace. I wasn't seen. I set light to Jessie's house and got clean away and that should have been the end of it.'

'Until you looked at Naomi's website again and saw that we were talking to Lord Chalybeate. The whole scandal you'd tried to bury was resurfacing. Chalybeate was under suspicion of killing Blacker — and you — to wipe out his sordid past. He would insist he wasn't personally involved in taking pictures of you and all the other women. He'd make it clear that Blacker was your real enemy. The suggestion was bound to arise that you killed Blacker.'

Miss Snow took over the narrative in a flat voice. 'And then everything would unravel. As soon as it was suggested I murdered Blacker you'd be asking yourselves what I did to cover up the crime. You would have worked it out. So I decided Chalybeate had to be silenced as well. And I walked into your trap.'

'You didn't baulk at another murder?'

'I thought it would be the end of it. Each time I believed that.'

Hen let the statement stand unchallenged. No doubt Miss Snow was sincere, just as all serial killers promise themselves the next one will be the last. You had to have some sympathy for this pathetic little woman. If she had never met Blacker her life would have developed along quite different lines. Whether she would have lived happily ever after was an open question, but she wouldn't have ended up on trial for murder.

'Can I ask you something?' Miss Snow said.

'What's that?'

'When I'm in prison will they let me write my book?'

'I'm sure of it,' Hen said, thinking she'd have the time to write a shelf full.

On the second Tuesday in October the circle had its regular meeting at the New Park Centre. The attendance was well down. Maurice, as chair, announced that the membership had dropped by two. Jessie Warmington-Smith had died tragically and Amelia Snow's new situation meant she had, in effect, resigned.

'What are you talking about — "new situation"?' Tudor said.

Anton said, 'Euphemism.'

Tudor said, 'Euphemism, my arse. She's banged up, as she ought to be.'

Dagmar said, 'That wasn't necessary, Tudor.'

'Don't waste any sympathy on Miss Snow,' Tudor said. 'Some of us were put on the rack because of what she did. I was virtually accused of murder. Maurice went to prison. Jessie's dead. And look at what she's done to the circle. How many are we? I make it eight.'

Anton said, 'Seven.'

'What do you mean, seven? I can see eight of us.'

'One is not a member officially.'

'That's me,' Bob said.

'Only seven members, then,' Tudor said. 'Who else is missing?'

Naomi said with a strange smile, 'Basil says he has a prior engagement. He had a load of manure delivered this afternoon.'

'And Sharon has resigned,' Maurice said.

'That's no surprise,' Tudor said. 'She wouldn't have become a writer in a million years.'

'Owing to pressure of work,' Maurice said and took a letter from his folder. 'She sent this. I'd like to quote a little of it, in view of Tudor's opinion. "I heard this week that my strip has been picked up by some American guy to be syndicated (how do you spell that?) in four hundred newspapers right across the world. I won't have to do no more shampooing. I've made it, big time."'

Thomasine said, mocking Tudor's accent, 'Chew on that, boyo.'

Tudor was lost for words.

'She left a message on my answerphone about a success,' Bob said. 'I didn't think it could be this good.'

Thomasine said, 'It's nice when someone strikes it rich. Good for the circle.'

Maurice agreed. 'What do you think, Bob? Are you going to join us now?' His eyes flicked briefly towards Thomasine and then back to Bob. 'You could get lucky, too.'