Alison sang as she pedalled home through the lanes.
Detective Sergeant Mayhew’s second appearance in the Jellied Eel couldn’t have been more convenient for Alison. He came in about six on Saturday evening, well before Matt usually arrived. John Colwell was already there, but he didn’t matter, because he wasn’t the sort to start a conversation. He wouldn’t make trouble.
Just to be certain, Alison came from behind the bar to greet the policeman and escort him across the room to meet the other barmaids. He made his pious little speech about the wisdom of rejecting invitations from customers they didn’t know.
Karen, blonde and with more brass than a cathedral, was moved to say, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why should we be careful? Only one girl is dead, and she was in Glastonbury.”
Sergeant Mayhew shook his head slowly at Karen’s naivety. “This isn’t your run-of-the-mill murder. Men who kill girls they go out with can easily get a liking for it. And if they do, it’s a pound to a penny they move on to another town.”
“What is he — some kind of sex-maniac?”
“I can’t answer that, miss.”
“The Glastonbury girl was stripped and raped, wasn’t she?”
He pondered the matter. “Difficult to tell. She wasn’t wearing anything, it’s true. But the body had been lying there some time in hot weather when it was found. Even the best pathologist can’t tell much from a decomposing corpse.”
Karen screwed up her face at the thought, and Sally steered the conversation back to the living end of the investigation. “I expect you’ve got the names of all the local weirdos and rapists. I hope they all get questioned.”
“That’s been done, miss. The trouble with this case is that we don’t know which day the girl was murdered, so it’s no use asking people like that where they were at a particular time.”
“How will you find him, then?”
Karen said cuttingly, “The way they always find them. Through a tip-off.”
The sergeant didn’t seem put out by the comment. “Young ladies like yourselves can certainly help. Be alert. Get on the phone to us if anyone you don’t know tries to ask you out.”
“Will you be calling at all the pubs in Bridgwater?” Sally asked.
“That’s a question I’m not at liberty to answer, miss.”
Karen quickly followed up, “We’ve been picked out. Why?”
“I just made myself clear, miss. There’s nothing I can add. Just be on your guard — here, and specially on your way home.”
Alison decided this was the cue to usher him out. “Would you like a drink before you go?” She knew he was likely to refuse. To her profound relief, he looked at his watch and agreed he ought to be on his way.
“I can tell you why this pub is being targeted,” said Karen after the sergeant had left, her eyes as wide as beermats. “One of those perverts on their list has been seen drinking here. They can’t arrest him without proof.”
“Keep your voice down, Karen. You’ll upset the customers.”
“Sod the customers,” said Karen. “We’re the ones at risk.”
For all her bluster, Karen was only a relief barmaid. When Alison told her firmly to drop the subject, she obeyed. For more than an hour, the public bar returned to normal. Then Matt came in and joined John Colwell and the rest of their crowd. When Alison next looked across, Karen was at their table in earnest conversation, undoubtedly passing on her version of what Sergeant Mayhew suspected.
Later, in a quiet moment behind the bar, Alison told Karen, “If you say one more word about that murder, I’m going to report you for upsetting the customers.”
“Upsetting that lot? You must be joking.”
But the damage was done. Matt came over to order another round and leered at Alison. “Police were in again, I hear, still looking for the barmaid strangler. They’m watching some pervert, that’s for sure. Must be frustrating for ’em, knowing the bastard who did it and not being able to nail him. People have a public duty to report things, I say.”
She busied herself with the order, trying to ignore him. In topping up the first of the five beer glasses, she spilt some.
“Losing your touch?” said Matt.
She said nothing.
“Don’t suppose you told ’un about your evening out with the peat millionaire.”
She stood the fifth of the glasses on the counter and said the price.
He held out a ten-pound note. “You know the old saying? ‘Gold-dust blinds all eyes’.”
She said through her teeth, “Get lost, Matt.”
“Think about that.”
“One more word, Matt, and I’ll spit in your glass, I swear I will.”
He grinned. “Go ahead. But I’ll have my change first, if you don’t mind, not being a millionaire myself.”
She turned to the till and took out her anger on the keys. Then she slammed his money on the counter, avoiding his open hand, and went to the next customer.
Matt’s words stayed with her. She went to bed with her thoughts too turbulent for sleep. She hated admitting it to herself, but there was some truth in what he had said. Tony’s money was an attraction. Her romantic notions had focused on the life he could so easily provide for her. Persuaded that he was generous and inoffensive, tall and good-looking, she could grow to love him, she had told herself. He seemed attracted to her, else why would he have invited her out? She had these looks that turned men’s heads, not always men she wanted, so she was fortunate when it happened to be someone she could kiss without flinching. More than that, she had yet to discover. But it was the high life that beckoned.
I feel safe with him, she reasoned. He’s a pussy-cat to be with. If I had the slightest doubt of his conduct, I’d talk to the police. Is that a delusion? After all, when I go out with him, I’m backing my own judgement with my life.
About four in the morning, aroused from a short, disturbing dream, she needed a cigarette. She reached for her handbag and felt inside for the pack she knew was there. She didn’t often smoke these days. Delving deep into the bag, she withdrew the pack and with it came a paper tissue, neatly folded, unlike the others she stuffed into the bag. Remembering where she had got this one, she switched on the light, opened out the tissue and spread it in front of her. The lipstick print looked unusually vivid, and in her heightened state she felt that those slightly-parted lips were about to say something to her. She folded it quickly and returned it to the bag.
When she woke, it was almost ten. Sunday. She was not on duty until twelve. She shuffled into her small kitchen and switched on the kettle and the radio and started performing those automatic actions that would shortly provide her with the coffee she needed to clear her brain.
The radio was tuned to the local station and the newsreader was going on about some incident in the Iron Age Village reconstruction at Westhay, near Glastonbury. Alison continued to potter about without paying much attention. He was saying, “... was found in the largest of the roundhouses by one of the staff when he came on duty this morning. The woman has not yet been identified. A press statement is expected from the police later this morning. Last month, the body of Emma Charles, aged seventeen, from Glastonbury, was found at Meare Green, some twelve miles away. No one has been arrested for the crime.”
Roused from her stupor, she reached for the volume switch. Too late. They were talking about the weather. She stood by the radio clutching the front of her nightdress in frustration.
This had to be another victim. They wouldn’t have mentioned the first girl unless there were similarities. Sergeant Mayhew’s warnings about a possible serial killer were justified.