with someone. Maybe he ought to investigate. Nelson gets up and starts towards the door. And finds himself colliding with his expert witness, Doctor Ruth Galloway.
'Jesus,' says Nelson, putting out both hands to steady her.
'I'm OK.' Ruth leaps away as if he is infectious. For a second they stare awkwardly at each other. Ruth looks a mess, her hair wild, her coat on inside out. Christ, thinks Nelson, maybe she is a bunny boiler after all.
'I'm sorry,' she is saying, taking off her dripping coat, 'but I had to come.'
'What's the matter?' asks Nelson neutrally, retreating behind his desk.
In answer, Ruth slams a book and a piece of paper down on his desk. He recognises the paper instantly as a copy of one of the letters. The book means nothing to him though Ruth has opened it and is pointing at some writing on the first page.
'Look!' she is saying urgently.
To humour her, he looks. Then he looks again.
'Who wrote this?' he asks quietly.
'Erik. Erik Anderssen.'
'Are you sure?'
'Of course I'm sure. And his girlfriend confirms it. He wrote the letters.'
'His girlfriend?'
'Shona. My… my colleague at the university. She's his girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend, if you like. Anyway, she admits he wrote the letters and she helped him.'
'Jesus. Why?'
'Because he hates you. Because of James Agar.'
'James Agar?'
'You know, the student who was accused of murdering that policeman.'
Whatever he expected it wasn't this. James Agar. The poll tax riots, police bussed in from five forces, the streets full of tear gas and placards, trying to hold the line, students spitting in his face, the alley where Stephen Naylor's body had been found. Naylor, a new recruit, only twenty-two, stabbed to death with a kitchen knife. James Agar, coming towards him, eyes unfocused, carrying the bloody knife as if it didn't belong to him.
'James Agar was guilty,' says Nelson flatly.
'He committed suicide in prison,' says Ruth. 'Erik blames you. James Agar was his student. He says you framed him.'
'Bollocks. There were a dozen witnesses. Agar was guilty alright. Do you mean to tell me that Anderssen wrote all these letters, all this… crap… because of some student?'
'That's what Shona says. She says Erik hated you and wanted to stop you solving the Lucy Downey case. He thought the letters would distract you, like the Jack-the Ripper tapes distracted the police in Yorkshire.'
'He wanted the murderer to go free?'
'He sees you as a murderer.'
Ruth says this without emphasis, giving no clue what she actually thinks. Suddenly Nelson feels angry, thinking of Ruth and Erik and this Shona, all academics together, siding, as bleeding-heart lefties always do, with the villains rather than the police.
'I'm sure you agree with him,' he says bitterly.
'I don't know anything about it,' says Ruth wearily. She does look tired, Nelson realises, her face white, her hands shaking. He relents slightly.
'What about Malone?' he asks. 'He wrote a poem about James Agar. Do you remember? He even offered it as an example of his handwriting.'
'Cathbad was James Agar's friend,' says Ruth. 'They were students together at Manchester.'
'Was he involved in writing the letters?'
'He posted them,' says Ruth, 'Erik wrote the letters, with Shona's help, and Cathbad posted them from different places. Remember, he told us he was a postman?'
'What about the recent letters? I thought Anderssen had been out of the country.'
'Erik emailed them to Cathbad. He printed them out and posted them.'
'Have you spoken to Anderssen?'
'No.' Ruth looks down. 'I went to see Shona and then I came to you.'
'Why not go direct to Anderssen?'
Ruth looks up, meeting Nelson's gaze steadily. 'Because I'm scared of him,' she says.
Nelson leans forward and puts his hand on hers. 'Ruth, do you think Anderssen killed Lucy and Scarlet?'
And Ruth answers, so quietly he can hardly hear her.
'Yes.'
There are the sounds again but this time she is ready for them. She crouches, holding her stone, prepared to spring if the trapdoor opens. When he comes down with her food, she watches the back of his head as he puts the plates on the floor. Where would be the right place? On top, where the hair is going all straggly? At the back of his neck, horribly red and raw-looking? He turns to look at her and she wonders if this isn't the best way, right in the face, between the eyes, in his awful, gaping mouth, across his horrid, gulpy neck.
He examines her, which she hates. Looks into her mouth, feels her arm muscles, makes her turn round and lift up her feet, one after the other.
'You're growing,' he says. 'You need some new clothes.'
Clothes. The word reminds her of something. A smell, that's it. A soft, comforting smell. Something held against her face, silky, smooth, rubbing between her thumb and forefinger. But he is talking about what's on her body: a long, scratchy, top thing and trousers that seem suddenly to be too short. She can see quite a bit of her legs sticking out at the bottom. They look white, like the inside of a twig. They look like they can't possibly work, but they do.
She has been practising running, round and round this little room, on the spot, up and down. She knows that soon she will have to run for real.
He cuts her nails with a funny red knife he keeps in his pocket. She'd like a knife like that. If she had one she'd…
but her head gets all red and buzzy and she has to stop thinking.
'Don't worry about the noises outside,' he says. 'It's just… animals.'
Animals. Pony, dog, cat, rabbit, incy wincey spider climbing the water spout. She says nothing, feeling the stone in her pocket. She likes it when it cuts her, just a little bit.
He looks at her. 'Are you alright?' he says.
She doesn't answer. Instead she hangs her head down so she can't see him. Her hair is long, it smells of dust.
Sometimes he cuts her hair with the little knife. She remembers a story where someone escapes by climbing on hair.
Does she have enough hair to make a ladder? It doesn't sound possible; it's one of those things that only happens in stories. Escape. Does that only happen in stories too?
So she says nothing. And, when he goes, the quiet fills the room, beating against the sides. Making her head ache.
CHAPTER 24
Ruth sits in Nelson's office, a cup of undrinkable coffee in front of her. It is cold in the high-ceilinged room. She is still wearing her digging trousers, baggy army-surplus, but, stupidly had taken off her thick jumper back at her house.
It seems like days ago. Her coat is still dripping and is anyway far too thin. She wishes she had worn her sou'wester or an anorak. She wraps her hands around the plastic cup. At least it is hot.
Nelson has disappeared to round up some officers to arrest Erik. Arrest Erik. The words have an impossible sound; that Erik should be a suspect in a murder case, that Ruth should be the one to direct the police to his door.
