Chapter 35
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Rachel said.
I was home for five hours, tops, and no, I didn’t want to talk about it.
What I wanted to do more than anything else was catch up on some sleep – or at least lie in bed vaguely hoping to do so.
My head was so full of horror that it would be difficult, but still.
I needed to try. I couldn’t run on vapours.
‘Not really.’
‘Maybe you should.’
I didn’t reply.
She said, ‘I saw the news. The pregnant woman.’
I nodded. I wished she hadn’t seen it.
‘Andy?’
For a moment, a part of me wanted to lash out.
I wanted to tell her that if I needed to talk about it there were the usual police psychologists – the ones that flitted in and out of the department from time to time, the ones detectives were encouraged to share their traumas with.
And as aggressive as that might have come across out loud, I wouldn’t have meant anything bad by saying it.
I wanted to keep Rachel safe from the grim details.
There was no reason for both of us to carry them.
But …
He doesn’t talk to me anymore.
I said, ‘Marie Wilkinson.’
‘Yes. That must have been horrible.’
‘Horrible.’ I nodded again. ‘Yes. And I spoke to her husband too. He wasn’t good – obviously he wasn’t.
Maybe that was even worse, in its own way, because Marie Wilkinson is gone now; she’s not suffering anymore.
But his whole world is gone, just like that.
Jesus. There was nothing left of the guy. ’
‘Except the baby.’
‘He has the baby, yes. Perhaps, anyway; that’s still touch and go. But not her. He doesn’t have her, and she never had the baby she wanted.’
Rachel nodded. Her hands were over her belly, subconsciously protecting our unborn child.
Perhaps she was trying to imagine what Marie Wilkinson had gone through, or what it would be like for me and our child if anything happened to her.
Because she sensed it, probably: how little I wanted this child.
Or at least I was sure that was what she thought.
‘What happened,’ I said. ‘Neither of them could ever have seen it coming.’
‘Does anyone?’
‘Yes. Everyone. Not so they can avoid it maybe. But it always makes sense, at least. There’s always a reason for it.’
‘Are you really so sure about that?’
‘Yes. Murder’s not like being hit by a truck or having a heart attack or anything.
It’s not some random natural disaster. People are killed for reasons, even if they’re stupid reasons.
Looking at the wrong person for too long.
Sleeping with people they shouldn’t. Pissing someone off.
None of it’s right, but it always makes some kind of sense. ’
Rachel didn’t reply.
‘But there’s no sense to what happened to Marie Wilkinson. We’re sitting there, and her husband asks me why, and I can’t tell him. I can’t fucking say anything. And it’s the same with all of them. They were killed for no reason at all. Not that I can tell.’
‘No reason?’
‘They weren’t robbed. They weren’t sexually assaulted. There’s no connection between them. The bastard doesn’t even seem to get any enjoyment from it.’
‘He must be doing it for some reason.’
‘Yes, he must. He is. We just can’t see it yet. If we take him at his word, he’s testing out a pattern to see if we can crack it. These people mean nothing to him. Literally. They don’t matter at all.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Yes. Tell me. Please.’
So I did. The whole time, she listened carefully, not taking her hands from her stomach once. By the end, she was rubbing it gently.
‘You think he deliberately targeted a pregnant woman?’
‘Yes.’ And I thought, but didn’t say: yes, that does mean it could maybe just as easily have been you.
‘The victims mean nothing to him, but they represent something. He has a reason. It’s just a different kind than I’m used to.
It’s a …’ I fumbled for a way to describe it. ‘It’s a dark room crime.’
‘A what?’
‘A dark room crime.’
She looked at me blankly.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘It’s just … it’s evil.’
‘I don’t believe in evil.’
‘Me neither. Or I didn’t use to. Maybe I’m starting.’
‘Well, I’m not. I’m a scientist.’
‘You were, yes.’
‘And will be again.’ Her hands stopped moving. ‘You don’t want this, do you? The baby? You don’t need to answer that. I know you don’t.’
I looked at Rachel. She looked back, waiting.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
And here, at last, we stood on the brink of the thing I couldn’t tell her. My words teetered on the edge, but wouldn’t go over, not all the way. Not far enough to fall all the way down to the truth.
‘I’m scared,’ I said. ‘I’m scared about our child.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘About keeping him safe.’
‘Oh.’ She shook her head. What – is that all? ‘You know, I think about that every day. I worry about it more than anything. I think everyone does, don’t they?’
‘Probably.’
‘But the thing is, we can. Keep him safe. Most children are safe, aren’t they? Even without parents as good as we’ll be.’
I started to say something, but she interrupted.
‘As good as you’ll be.’
‘But I can’t protect him,’ I said. ‘Nobody can. It’s not possible, is it? There are no guarantees.’
‘No. There never have been. But the odds are good. You know that better than anyone, right?’
She had me there. Yes, the probability was that our son would be just as happy and protected as any child could be, and that nothing bad would ever happen to him.
The world can be a good place as well as a horrible one.
Many people experience the former with only brief, bitter tastes of the latter, and there was no reason to think our son would be any different.
Rachel said, ‘Your job –’
‘Makes me see the worst.’
‘So you have a skewed sample to work from.’
‘And it blinds me. I know that.’
I nodded, because she was right in what she said.
Yes, I could keep my son safe. I could teach him how to defend himself and the kind of people and places to stay away from.
Rachel looked relieved. She thought I was finally talking to her about what had been on my mind all these months.
It was only a small part of what had been bothering me – the safe part, perhaps – but because this sudden bridging of the distance between us felt so good, I found myself staying there.
‘I do know it,’ I said again. ‘But it’s still hard for me. I’m scared. Even knowing all that, I’m still scared.’
‘Yes. And that’s why you’ll be a good father.’
‘Will I?’
‘Yes. Because you’re a good man.’ She stared at me, long and hard, then sighed. ‘Do you know, that’s the most you’ve said to me in months?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t need to be. I’m glad – well, I mean I’m glad you finally did. But look, we’ll be okay. You have to believe that, Andy. I have faith in you.’
‘Do you?’
‘Always have. Don’t see any reason to stop now. Well, I see a few, but maybe now they’re not quite as big as they were. Thank you.’
I smiled at her, and she smiled back. As nice as it was, at the same time it made me feel guilty.
You’re a good man.
No, Rachel. No, I’m not.
And I almost said something – about Buxton, perhaps, or about Emmeline Levchenko – but at that moment she stepped forward and embraced me.
After a second, I hugged her back, as fiercely-gently as I could manage, and whatever I’d been about to say dissolved in the feel of her, the presence of her.
I couldn’t remember the last time we’d hugged so easily.
She felt at once like a stranger in my arms and someone achingly familiar.
‘This case can’t be making it any easier for you.’
‘No.’
‘Because this guy strikes at random?’
‘We can’t work out the pattern, so we can’t stop him. While he’s out there, we can’t protect people.’
‘Well then.’ I felt her chin against my collarbone and her breath warm on my neck. Our son, inside her, pressed against my stomach. ‘You know what you need to do, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘You need to catch the fucker.’
I nodded. All else aside, that much was true.
‘You need to catch him.’