Part 27 (1/2)

He didn't really know much about Diane, apart from the fact she had studied archaeology at Reading University. But it was early days. They had all the time in the world. If they felt so inclined.

As he lay there restless, perhaps even a little bored, he began to think of all the things he should be catching up with on a Sat.u.r.day: shopping for the bare essentials; tidying up his flat so that it was fit for human habitation. He remembered the remains of last night's takeaway were still lying strewn on his coffee table but he supposed they could stay there another day.

Careful not to disturb Diane, he slid out of bed and crept across the bedroom on tiptoe, towards the chair where his clothes lay in an untidy heap. As he dressed, it struck him for the first time that perhaps his afternoon liaison had been a little unwise. He and Diane were colleagues they were contracted to work together on the training dig all summer and if it didn't work out between them, things might be embarra.s.sing at best and distinctly unpleasant at worst. He had always thought it a mistake to mix business with pleasure but there had been a few occasions when he'd broken his own rules usually with disastrous consequences.

He let himself out of the room. He needed coffee something to clear his head and once he'd put the kettle on, he flopped down on the sofa and picked up that day's newspaper. He didn't often have a chance to catch up with the news so he settled down to indulge himself until Diane woke up and joined him.

He glanced at the door, a sudden feeling of panic rising in his stomach. What if Diane expected more from the relations.h.i.+p than he was willing to give? But he tried to put the thought from his mind and flicked through the paper, his mind only half on what he read.

After a while, bored with the news, he stood up and wandered over to the tall bookcase in the corner of the room. You can tell a lot about people from the books they keep, he thought. He'd said that to Pam Peterson or Stannard as she'd been back then when they'd first met. But, being a student of English, Pam's selection of reading matter had been spot on. It was just a pity he'd been too lazy at the time to pursue the relations.h.i.+p and allowed his housemate, Wesley, to get there first. There had been times when Neil lay awake in the small hours, wondering how things would have worked out if he'd been more a.s.sertive. But then living with an archaeologist was probably as bad as living with a policeman as far as dedication to work was concerned, so Pam wouldn't necessarily have been any better off.

Diane's reading taste ran from historical mysteries, through archaeological textbooks to general history, especially the Tudor period, interspersed with a smattering of cookery and self-help books. But one book looked out of place: a dirty, decaying volume of great antiquity, encased in a clear plastic bag, which lay flat on the top shelf next to a book about the dissolution of the monasteries. Neil reached out and touched it. He couldn't help himself. Besides, Diane was asleep so she'd never know that her privacy was being invaded.

As he lifted the book, he realised there was something underneath. Bits of flimsy paper. Newsprint. Cuttings. Curious, Neil carried them over to the coffee table and began to read.

Diane must have cut the articles from the local paper. He read the headlines. 'Boys' grim discovery.' 'Bones found in wood.' 'Police appeal for information about skeleton.' 'Can you give a name to mystery skeleton?' 'Who is B I?' 'Bones belong to s.e.x offender.'

When the bedroom door opened he looked up guiltily. Diane was standing there dressed in a black silk kimono, staring at the newspaper cuttings in Neil's hands. He could see that her face had turned ash pale.

'What are you doing with those?'

'I found them on the shelf. Why? What's the matter?'

She marched over and s.n.a.t.c.hed them from his hand, ripping them, leaving Neil clutching the remnants.

Neil stood up. 'What's the problem? Do you know something about this skeleton business? If you do, you should ...'

There were tears in her eyes as she rushed over to the bookshelves. She picked up the book in the plastic bag and carried it over to the chest of drawers where her computer stood, still switched on, a screensaver of a firework display going through its silent routine. She hugged it to her for a few seconds then she thrust it into the top drawer.

'What's the book? It looks old. Is it ... ?'

'Just mind your own business. Leave me alone,' she snapped.

He walked over to her and put his arm round her shoulder. She was sobbing now. Shaking. In her agitation she had brushed against the computer mouse and the screensaver was replaced by a page of familiar-looking text. Neil stared at the words for a few moments, the truth dawning slowly.

He took hold of her shoulders and swung her round to face him. 'It was you. You wrote the letters.' He'd thought that when he came face to face with the author of his letters, he'd feel angry. But instead he felt stunned ... and confused.

She let out a shuddering sob and slumped in his arms, tears and mucus streaming down her face. Neil put his arms around her and held her close, stroking her hair, comforting her like a frightened animal.

'I didn't mean to kill him. It was an accident. I didn't mean ...' Her voice was m.u.f.fled by sobs.

Suddenly he felt a thrill of fear. He was alone with a killer. A couple of hours before they had become lovers but now she was a different person. And the change terrified him. Wesley had suspected the letters might be linked to the Spider murders and, if he was right, he could be in real trouble.

'Why don't you tell me what happened?' he whispered in her ear, playing for time, feeling in the pocket of his jeans to make sure his mobile phone was still there. .

'I tried to tell you in the letters. But I just ended up writing rubbish ... playing games so I didn't have to face the truth. I wanted to tell you ... I did my best.'

'And what is the truth?'

She shook her head and said nothing.

'What's all this stuff about Brother William?'

She turned away and shuffled over to the chest of drawers slowly, like an old arthritic woman. She opened the drawer, took out the book she had just hidden and placed it into Neil's hand. 'I went to the archives,' she said almost in a whisper. 'I was looking for stuff about Veland Abbey and I found this. It's my own story ... what happened to me. I know it was wrong but I took it. I had to have it.' She looked at him and he saw that her eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. 'I killed a man, Neil. I'm a murderer. I wanted to confess but I couldn't ...' She shook her head and began to sob again, her whole body shaking.

Neil took a step back. 'I'll take the book back for you,' he said quickly. 'I'll say it was taken out by accident with a pile of other books. Or, better still, I'll just put it back on a shelf and they'll think it's just been put in the wrong place.' He knew he sounded too eager. He was appeasing a mad woman. And madness frightened him. Scared him stiff.

He wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere. The woman standing there was a stranger to him. He felt the mobile phone in his pocket again. He needed to speak to Wesley. But he didn't dare make the call for fear of upsetting her.

'The kettle's boiled. I'll make some coffee, shall I?' He moved slowly, like someone backing away from an unpredictable animal and as he poured the coffee, he knew she was watching him.

Early Sat.u.r.day evening on neutral ground. That was the arrangement Rachel Tracey had made. Just a drink. Casual. Nothing heavy. She had told her housemate, Trish Walton, where she was going she felt someone should know, just in case and Trish had said she was mad. He'd threatened her with a shotgun after all.

But Rachel's instincts told her she'd be safe. Barty Carter was a man who'd been driven to the edge by circ.u.mstances and his ex-wife. As Sat.u.r.day afternoon had worn on, she'd experienced a few small doubts, of course. She'd made a mistake once a bad mistake that had almost cost her her life. But she kept telling herself that this time things were different. This time she could trust her judgement. Anyway, it was only a drink and she'd said she could only spare an hour or so because of the demands of work.

She'd arranged to meet him at the Tradmouth Arms at seven she thought it best that he didn't pick her up at the rented cottage that she shared with Trish just outside Tradmouth, even though it would be on his route. And Gerry Heffernan lived next door to the Tradmouth Arms so she'd feel that there was somebody there in the unlikely event of an emergency. Her mother would have laughed at her if she'd known about the precautions she was taking. She would have said that if she was that uneasy about going for a drink with someone, she shouldn't be seeing them in the first place. Mothers were always right, of course. But sometimes daughters felt the risk might be worth it.

She wore jeans and a white T-s.h.i.+rt high necked because she didn't wish to give the wrong impression and parked her small car by the waterfront. She'd timed it so she would arrive five minutes late. The last thing she wanted was to be waiting in the pub on her own. She might pride herself on being a woman with modern att.i.tudes but there were still some things a girl just didn't do.

He was waiting for her at a table near the door. He'd reserved a chair for her and stood up as she approached.

'Rachel. Nice to see you.' Barty Carter sounded nervous, which she found rather gratifying. He'd abandoned his worn, stained clothes and his disreputable Barbour for clean jeans and a blue linen s.h.i.+rt. They were well cut probably expensive: leftovers from his days of city prosperity perhaps. He looked good. Scrubbed up well, as her mother would say. 'What are you having to drink?' he asked eagerly.

She pondered the question for a few moments then opted for an orange juice. She was driving. And, besides, she wanted to keep a clear head.

When he returned with the drinks Rachel asked him how his animals were. The pigs, he said, were well. And he was keeping the sty clean. He'd started doing jobs round the smallholding all the things he'd been putting off doing since his wife left. It had taken Rachel and Steve's visit and the incident with the shotgun to shock him out of his downward spiral. He'd reached the bottom and now the only way was upwards. He had Rachel to thank for bringing him to his senses for stopping him feeling sorry for himself, he said, looking at her like an adoring puppy. He was taking stock of his life. Seeing where he should go from here.

Rachel made encouraging noises. It wasn't often she was credited with saving someone's sanity. But the burden of his grat.i.tude lay heavy on her shoulders and she found that she wasn't altogether comfortable with the role of rescuer.

Their hour was soon up and Rachel began to regret her self-imposed time limit. To her surprise she found herself enjoying Barty Carter's company. He mentioned his ex-wife from time to time but he didn't harp on about his troubles, for which she was exceedingly grateful. Self-pity makes for a long evening.

When she told him she'd have to be off soon, he asked her how the case was going. Were they any nearer cracking the Belsinger connection? Rachel gave the usual noncommittal reply the enquiries were still ongoing.

'It's funny,' he said, frowning. 'I saw someone I knew from Belsinger in Tradmouth today. Well I didn't really know them more knew of them. Saw them around all the time. I'm sure it was the same person. I'm good on faces.'

Rachel was suddenly alert, like a hound that had caught the scent of its quarry on the breeze. 'Who are you talking about?'

Barty Carter proceeded to tell her, chatting away oblivious to the fact that he might just have become a key witness in a murder enquiry.

The killer flicked through the pages of Sat.u.r.day's paper. They were using that name again. The Spider. It was a name to frighten children. Tabloid shorthand for a monster. It was mocking the killer's purpose. Mocking all that suffering.

The killer put down the paper, picked up a small address book and began to turn the pages. There he was. Francis Duparc. The killer recalled his face. Serious, dark, eyes wide with fear. And something else fascination.

The clock in the corner told the killer it was nine o'clock. It was time to return to life. To put on the mask of normality.

Pam Peterson was having a dream, not a pleasant one. She was being chased up a hill by somebody or something she couldn't see and her legs would only move in slow motion. Her pursuer was catching up fast. And when she turned round she saw that it was Jonathan. She woke up sweating and breathless, her heart pounding, and looked at Wesley who appeared to be fast asleep beside her.

Della had turned up to babysit the previous evening, still unrepentant about letting them down the week before, talking as if she was doing them a huge favour. They'd had a pleasant meal at the Angel but Pam's mind had been on the Sunday lunch she was due to have with Maritia and Mark later that day. Jonathan would be there and the thought made her feel slightly sick. She'd feel safer if Wesley could have been with her. But, on the other hand, if Jonathan decided to make life awkward for her and drop hints about what had happened ... Wesley was a detective, after all. He would be bound to pick up the undercurrents.