“Do you know who he is?”
“No. He always stuck to himself.”
“Any idea where he lives?”
“Could be bloody Timbuktu, for all I know.”
“Are you saying he was African-English?” Stott cut in.
Alf gave him a withering look. “It’s just a saying, like. Summat me mother used to say.”
“What did he look like?” Hatchley asked.
“Well, he were a tall bloke, I remember that. A bit over six foot, anyroad. Thick black hair, a bit too long over t’collar, if you ask me. Bit of a long nose, too.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No more than to serve him and make a few remarks about the weather. He didn’t seem to want to talk. Took his pint over by the fire and just sat there staring into his glass. Muttered to himself now and then, too, as I recall.”
“He talked to himself?”
“Well, not all the time. And not like he was having a conversation or anything. No, he’d just say something once in a while, as if he were thinking out loud, like you do sometimes.”
“Did you hear anything he said?”
“Nay. He were too far away.”
“Did he have any sort of an accent?” Stott cut in.
“Couldn’t say.”
“Did you know Ive Jelacic, the sexton over the road at St. Mary’s?”
“Nah. He drank at t’Pig and Whistle.”
“How do you know?”
“Landlord, Stan, told me, after it was in t’papers, like, about him and that dodgy vicar.”
“Did you ever see Mr. Jelacic?”
“Only from a distance.”
“Could this have been him?”
“Could’ve been, I suppose. Same height and hair color.”
“Do you know if this customer had a car?”
“How would I know that?” Alf rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it, he looked more like he’d been walking. You know, a bit damp, short of breath.”
“What time was this, Alf?” Hatchley asked.
“About five o’clock.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Just afore six. Like I said, he had nobbut two pints and a double whisky. One for the road, he said, and knocked it back in one, then he was out the door.” Alf mimicked the drinking action.
Stott pricked up his ears. The timing worked, assuming the girl had been killed on her way home from the school chess club. Was that the way a person might act before raping and murdering a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl in a foggy graveyard? Stott wondered. A dram of Dutch courage? He tried to remember what he’d learned in the criminal psychology course.
The trouble was, you could justify just about any sort of behavior if you were talking about a psycho. Some of them liked to sit and have a beer and a fag before a nice little dismemberment; others liked to buy a box of chocolates or bunch of flowers for their mothers. You could never predict. So maybe the killer would have dropped in at the Nag’s Head. Why not? Maybe he just needed to sit there for a while, have a little chat with himself about what he was going to do?
“Did you see which direction he went?” Stott asked.
“Nay. You don’t expect me to chase outside after my customers and see which way they’re going, do you?”
“What was he wearing?” Stott asked.
“Orange anorak. Expensive type, by the looks of it. That Gore-Tex stuff. Lots of pockets and zips.”
“Can you remember anything else about his appearance?”
“I’m not good at describing people. Never was.”
“Do you think you could work with a police artist?”
“Dunno. Never tried it.”
“Will you give it a try?”
Alf shrugged.
“Sergeant,” Stott said, “go and see if you can get a police artist out as soon as possible, will you? I’ll wait here.”
It was almost worth suffering the stale smoke and booze atmosphere of the Nag’s Head for another hour or so to see the expression on Sergeant Hatchley’s face as he trudged out into the rain.
II
They had made love in every position imaginable: sideways, backwards, forwards, upside down. They had also done it in just about every place they could think of: her bed, his bed, hotels, a field, his cramped Orion, up against a wall, under the kitchen table. Sometimes, it seemed to last forever; other times, it was over almost before it began. Sometimes, the foreplay went on so long Rebecca thought she would burst; other times, they were overtaken by a sense of urgency and didn’t even have time to get all their clothes off.
This time, it had been urgent. Afterwards, Rebecca lay on the bed of a hotel room in Richmond panting for breath, covered by a film of sweat. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist, her knickers down, still hanging around one bare ankle; her blouse was open at the front, a couple of the buttons torn off in the heat of the moment, and her bra was pushed up to expose her breasts.
Patrick’s head lay against her shoulder. She could feel his breath warm against her skin. Both their hearts were beating fast. Rebecca rested one hand over his broad, strong shoulders, and with the other she stroked the hair over his ear, felt the stubbly down at the back of his neck, where it had been recently cut. It wasn’t love-she knew enough to realize that-but it was one hell of a fine substitute.
But all too soon the sense of shame and melancholy that always came to her after sex with Patrick began to descend like a thick fog, numbing the nerve-ends that, only minutes before, had thrilled to such exquisite pleasure, and guilt began to overwhelm the vestiges of her joy.
Patrick moved away and reached for a cigarette. It was the one thing she disliked, his smoking after sex, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him not to. He also put his glasses on. She knew he couldn’t see a thing without them, but sometimes she laughed because he looked so funny naked except for his glasses.
“What is it?” Patrick asked, clearly sensing something was wrong. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”
“Of course I did. You know that. I always do…with you. No…it’s just that I feel so…so damn guilty.”
“Then leave him. Come and live with me.”
“Don’t be foolish, Patrick. Just imagine the scandal. Schoolteacher shacks up with minister’s wife. You’d lose your job, for a start. And where would we live?”
“Oh, don’t be so practical. We’d manage. We’ll get a flat in town. I can get another job. We’ll move away.”
Rebecca shook her head. “No. No. No.”
“Why not? Don’t you love me?”
Rebecca didn’t answer.
“You do love me, don’t you?” he persisted.
“Of course I do,” Rebecca lied. It was easier that way.
“Then leave him.”
“I can’t.”
“You don’t love him.”
