The First Cut

32 Kirsten

August gave way to September and the nights turned cooler. As the weeks passed, Kirsten began to look forward to her sessions with Laura Henderson. They smoked and sipped terrible coffee together in that cozy room overlooking the River Avon. The immediate sights beyond the window became as familiar to Kirsten as if she had looked out on them all her life: Robert Adam’s Pulteney Bridge, with its row of shops along each side, all built of Cotswold stone; the huge square late-Gothic tower of the Abbey; the Guildhall and municipal buildings. Often she stared over Laura’s shoulders during the long silences or stood at the window as Laura sought out an article in a journal. Some evenings, when their sessions ran late, Laura would take a bottle of Scotch from her filing cabinet and pour them each a drink.

They talked more about Kirsten’s childhood, her parents, her feelings about sex. Laura said that Kirsten was making progress. And so she was. She still didn’t like going out or meeting people, but she began to enjoy the simple things again: mostly solo pursuits like a walk in the woods, music, the occasional novel. She even found that she could concentrate and sleep well again. Though she no longer flirted with suicide, she hung on to her cold hatred, and the dark cloud still throbbed inside her mind. Sometimes it made her head ache. She and Laura didn’t talk about the attack. It would come, Kirsten knew, but only when Laura thought she was ready.

At home, her mother continued to fuss and fret, and she often seemed to regard her daughter with a combination of embarrassment and pity. But Kirsten grew used to it. The two of them kept out of each other’s way as much as possible. It wasn’t difficult. With her garden, her croquet, her bridge parties and her myriad social engagements, Kirsten’s mother managed to keep busy.

Hugo and Damon sent get-well cards, and Galen phoned several times during August. At first, Kirsten instructed her mother to tell him she was out. Soon, however, she realized that wasn’t fair. She spoke to him and tried to respond to his concern without encouraging him too much. One Friday, he paid a visit and tried again to persuade Kirsten to go with him to Toronto. They walked in the woods and she let him take her hand, though her flesh felt dead to his touch. It wasn’t too late, he said, they had both been accepted and term didn’t begin for a few weeks yet. Gently, she put him off, told him she would join him later, and sent him away partially appeased. Finally, at the beginning of September, he went to Canada and sent her a postcard as soon as he got to Toronto. She had never told him what was really wrong with her; nor had she mentioned the suicide attempt.

If anyone sustained Kirsten outside Laura Henderson’s office, it was Sarah, who phoned almost every week and wrote long, entertaining letters in between. Always outrageous, funny and compassionate, she made Kirsten laugh again. When she asked if she might visit over Christmas, when her own parents would be touring Australia, Kirsten jumped at the chance. Her father saw that it was a good idea, too, but her mother, perhaps recalling her only meeting with Sarah in the dingy northern bedsit, was reluctant at first. Christmas was a family time, she said. She didn’t want strangers around. Her husband argued that it wasn’t a very big family anyway. Kirsten’s grandparents, two uncles and aunts usually came for Christmas dinner, then her parents visited friends in the village for drinks on Boxing Day. Surely, he argued, it would be good for Kirsten to have a friend of her own age around. Finally, her mother gave in and it was settled. Sarah was due to arrive on December 22, and Kirsten would pick her up at the station after her late-afternoon session with Dr. Henderson. She would have her mother’s Audi, as usual.

One day in early October, when the elegant old city looked gray and a cold wind drove the rain through its Georgian crescents, circles and squares, Kirsten forsook her usual walk by the Avon and drove straight home from Laura’s office. When she arrived, she noticed a strange car parked in the drive and hermother peeking out from behind the lace curtains-something she didn’t usually do-and her heart began to beat faster. Something was wrong. Was it her father? she wondered as she hurried to the door. Her ordeal had taken a terrible toll on him, and though he did seem stronger and happier of late, the bags still hung dark under his eyes and he had lost his boyish enthusiasm for things. Was his heart weak? Had he had an attack?

Her mother opened the door before Kirsten even had time to fit her key into the lock. “Someone to see you,” she said in a whisper.

“What is it?” Kirsten asked. “Is Father all right?”

Her mother frowned. “Of course he is, dear. Whatever gave you that idea?”

Kirsten hung up her coat and dashed into the split-level living room. Two men sat close to the French windows, near the spot on the carpet, now dry-cleaned back to perfection, where Kirsten had had her Scotch and pills picnic. One of the men she recognized, or thought she should, but the memory was vague: spiky gray hair, red complexion, dark mole between left nostril and upper lip. She’d seen him before. And then it came to her: the policeman, Superintendent…

“Elswick, miss,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Detective Superintendent Elswick. We have met before.”

Kirsten nodded. “Yes, yes of course.”

“And this is Detective Inspector Gregory.”

Inspector Gregory stretched out his hand, which was attached to an astonishingly long arm, and Kirsten moved forward to shake it. Then he disappeared back into the chair-her father’s favorite armchair, she noticed. Gregory was probably in his midthirties, and his dark hair was a bit too long for a policeman. He was dressed scruffily, too, with brown corduroy trousers, threadbare from being washed too many times, a tan suede jacket and no tie. Kirsten thought he seemed a bit shifty. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. Superintendent Elswick wore a navy-blue suit, a white shirt and a black-and-amber-striped tie. It was the same one he wore last time, she remembered. Probably from an old school or regiment; he looked like an ex-military type.

“How are you, Kirsten?” Elswick asked.

Kirsten sat down on the sofa before answering. Her mother hovered over them and asked if anyone would like more tea.

“I haven’t had any yet,” Kirsten said. “Yes. I’d like some, please.”

The two policemen said they wouldn’t be averse to another cup, and Kirsten’s mother walked off promising to make a fresh pot.

Kirsten looked at Elswick. “How am I? I suppose I’m doing fine.”

“Good. I’m very glad. It was a nasty business.”

“Yes.”

They sat in tense silence until Kirsten’s mother returned with the tea tray. Having deposited it on the mahogany coffee table before the stone hearth, she disappeared again, saying, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

After her sessions with Dr. Henderson, Kirsten was used to silence. At first it had disconcerted her, made her fidgety and edgy, but now they sometimes sat for as much as two minutes-which is a very long time for two people to be silent together-while Kirsten meditated on something Laura had said, or tried to frame a reply to a particularly probing and painful question. Elswick and Gregory were easy meat. There was something they wanted, obviously, so all she had to do was wait until they got to the point.

Gregory played “mother,” clearly an unsuitable role for him, and spilled as much tea in the saucer as he got in the cups. Elswick frowned at him, and added milk and sugar. Then, when they were settled again, Gregory crossed his long legs and took out a black notebook. He did his best to pretend he was part of the chair he was sitting in.

“Kirsten,” said Superintendent Elswick, “I should imagine you’ve guessed that I wouldn’t come all this way unless it was important.”

Kirsten nodded. “Have you caught him?” For a moment she panicked and thought the attacker might actually be someone she knew, someone from the party. She didn’t know if she would be able to handle that.

“No,” said Elswick, “no, we haven’t. That’s just the point.”

It was obviously very difficult for him to talk to her, Kirsten realized, but she didn’t know how to make it any easier.

Finally, he managed to blurt it out. “I’m afraid there’s been another attack.”

“Like mine?”

“Yes.”

“In the park?”

“No, it took place on some waste ground near a polytechnic not far away. Huddersfield, in fact. I thought you might have read about it in the papers.”

“I haven’t been reading the papers lately.”

“I see. Anyway, this time the victim wasn’t quite as lucky as you. She died.”

“What’s her name?”

Elswick looked puzzled. “Margaret Snell,” he answered.

Kirsten repeated the name to herself. “How old was she?” she asked.

“Nineteen.”

“What did she look like?”

Elswick tipped the tea from his saucer into his cup before answering. “She was a pretty girl,” he said finally, “and a bright one too. She had long blond hair and a big crooked smile. She was studying hotel management.”

Kirsten sat in silence.

“The reason we’re here,” Elswick continued, “is to see if you’ve remembered anything else about what happened. Anything at all that might help us catch this man.”

“Before he does it again?”

Elswick nodded gravely.

“Does that mean there’s some kind of maniac, some kind of ripper, running loose up there?”

Elswick took a deep breath. “We try to avoid alarmist terms like that,” he said. “It was a vicious attack, much the same as the one on you. From our point of view, we’re pretty sure it was the same man, so it looks like we’ve got a serial killer, yes. But the newspapers don’t know that. They don’t know anything about the similarity between your injuries and those of the dead girl, and we’re certainly not going to tell them. We’re doing our best to prevent anyone linking you to the business.”

“Why?” Kirsten asked, suddenly apprehensive.

“All the bad publicity. It would upset your parents, make your life a misery. You’ve no idea how persistent those damn reporters can be when they get on the scent of a juicy story. They’d be up here from London like a shot.”

Kirsten could tell he was lying. He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “It’s because you think he might come after me, isn’t it?” she said. “You’re worried that if he knows you connect him to two victims and he knows one is still alive, then he’ll want to finish me off in case I know something, aren’t you?”

“It’s not as simple as that, Kirsten.” Elswick shifted in his chair. “When you were in the hospital-”

“He’s already tried?”

“Yes. You must have noticed that we had a man on the door all the time. As soon as news of your survival hit the papers, the attacker came back. Apparently he must have entered the hospital dressed as an orderly. He can’t have been all that bright, otherwise he’d have known we’d be guarding you. Anyway, when he turned the corner, he spotted the constable and ducked quickly back the way he came. Our man was good. He saw from the corner of his eye that someone was behaving suspiciously, but he had orders not to leave his post. A more headstrong bobby might have done just that. But if he’d gone chasing after the intruder, looking for the glory of an arrest, then he could easily have got lost in the maze of corridors and chummy could’ve nipped back in and…”

“Finished me off?”

“Yes. Instead, the constable stayed put and called in on his radio, but by the time we got there our man was long gone. We didn’t even get a description.”

“And he never tried again?”

“No. Not as far as we know.”

“Does he know where I live?”

“I don’t think so. How could he? The press details were sketchy. The local police have been warned to keep a lookout for any strangers in the area, but I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about.”

Kirsten thought of all her walks in the woods, all the times she had lingered in the streets of Bath after sessions with Dr. Henderson. She felt a sudden chill. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” she asked.

“We didn’t want to alarm you.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Elswick leaned forward and rested his palms on his knees. “Believe me, Kirsten, you’ve been perfectly safe. I can understand how you feel, but look at it this way. Whoever attacks you is worried when he hears you’ve survived, so he rushes over to the hospital with some half-baked scheme of trying to silence you. He fails. Time goes by, he no doubt loses track of you when you come down here, and lo and behold, it’s already three months ago and nothing’s happened to him. He’s still free as a bird. So obviously, from his point of view, you can’t know anything, you’re not a threat.”

“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.

“What I was wondering was,” he went on, scratching his mole again-Kirsten felt like telling him to get it seen to before it turned cancerous-“was, well, with the doctor’s permission, of course, I was wondering if you’d consider trying hypnosis?”