Alison knew the Iron Age village from being taken there as a schoolgirl. She had squatted with her classmates inside one of the reconstructed dome-shaped huts of wattle and daub, smelling the peat-fire that smouldered in the centre, not really listening to their teacher twittering on about the people who lived on the moors oodles of years ago in huts like that. The history lesson had made less impression than the cosy atmosphere in the building itself. The snug interior had appealed. She had imagined herself sleeping there contentedly under thick furs, her feet warmed by the fire. In no way could she picture it as a murder scene.
The next bulletin would be on the half-hour. She drank her coffee, showered and dressed.
Part of the main statement at the press conference was broadcast live at ten-thirty. “The Peat Moor Visitor Centre, where the victim was found, has been closed to visitors while the scene is examined by forensic experts. The dead woman, who is believed to be in her early twenties, was white, with dark, shoulder-length hair, slimly built and about five foot six in height. She was unclothed. Her clothes were found beside the body inside the reconstruction of a prehistoric Iron Age hut. She appears to have been strangled. We appeal to anyone who saw a woman of this description, in a black sleeveless dress with shoulderstraps, black stole and black shoes with silver buckles, in the area yesterday evening, either alone or in company, to get in touch with Glastonbury Police. We also wish to hear from anyone who knows of a woman of this description who did not return home last night.”
No reference this time to a possible connection with Emma Charles’s death. Possibly the police were more cautious than the radio station. But if strangulation was the cause of death and the victim was unclothed, the chances were high that Emma’s killer had committed a second murder.
By lunchtime, when Alison came into work, still shaky with the news, the pub was buzzing and there was a rumour that a barmaid at the King’s Arms in Langport was missing from home.
Another barmaid in another town. Just as Sergeant Mayhew had warned.
On the one o’clock television news the story was confirmed. An unmarried woman of twenty-two called Angie Singleton had been identified. Saturday was her day off. She was last seen leaving her parents’ house at six-thirty that evening. They had assumed she was meeting two of her girlfriends at the pub where she worked and going on to a disco in Glastonbury.
“My God,” said Karen to the pub in general. “I’m chucking up this job. He’s done Glastonbury and Langport. He’s got to come to Bridgwater next.”
“Don’t panic, love,” one of the older men called across. “They’ll catch the bloke this time. That poor lass who was found over at Meare Green had been dead three weeks. This one is fresh. They pick up all kinds of clues at the scene of a murder. By now they know exactly who they’re looking for. They’ll have the colour of his hair, the shoes he wears, the make of his car and the size of his John Thomas, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You watch too much television,” Karen said with scorn. “Real cases aren’t solved that easily. How do you think serial killers manage to do in seven or eight women without getting pulled in?”
Alison kept out of the argument. She, too, was frightened. In truth, she was also relieved that she wasn’t the focus of attention she had expected to be.
But later in the day the spotlight turned on her again. A man she had never seen before came into the bar and asked for her by name. He spoke first to Karen, whose silly reaction was to give Alison a boggle-eyed look that meant this could easily be the strangler. The stranger was in his thirties, in a leather jacket, red tee-shirt and jeans. His dark eyes assessed Alison with alarming intensity. He approached, leaned over the bar, beckoned to her to come closer and said in a tone nobody else could possibly overhear. “I’m DI Briggs, Glastonbury Police. I have some questions. Would you step outside to my car for a few minutes?”
She was about to say, “How do I know?” when she realized she was looking at a police ID card masked from the rest of the room by his jacket. She asked Karen to take care of things for a few minutes.
In the car, he came quickly to the point. “This man you’ve been going out with. Tony Pawson. You know who I mean?”
Her skin prickled. She was in trouble now, and so was Tony.
“How did you meet him?”
“He’s a customer.”
“A regular?”
“I wouldn’t call him a regular, no.”
“Chatted you up and made a date, did he?”
“Something like that.”
“When did this start?”
“About three weeks ago. We’ve only been out three times altogether.”
“Where did he take you?”
“Twice for a meal. And once to a film.” Her voice trailed off revealingly. Until this moment it had not occurred to her that Tony’s choice of film was going to interest the police.
“Where?”
“The film? Here in Bridgwater.”
“The meals.”
She was mightily relieved to pass over the film and discuss the meals. “The first was just up the road, at the Admiral Blake. And he also took me to the Levels Restaurant at Stockland Bristol.”
He asked for dates and times. She told him each outing had been on a Saturday, her day off.
“Have you slept with him?” Responding to the look he got from Alison, he added, “I wouldn’t ask unless—”
“No,” she cut in. “I haven’t.”
“When I say ‘slept’—”
“You can put down ‘no’. We had a few evenings out together, that’s all. Ask his driver if you don’t believe me.”
“The driver came too?”
“He waited in the car. If anything happened, he would know. His name is Hugh, and he drives Tony everywhere.”
“You’re saying Pawson doesn’t drive? Is he banned?”
“I’ve no idea. I can only tell you what he said to me. Sometimes he uses a taxi.”
He was frowning. “Let’s have this totally clear. On three dates with Pawson, there was no sex.”
“I’ve said so.”
“It wasn’t suggested, even?”
“I don’t know why you’re pursuing this. I felt perfectly safe with him.”
“Maybe the others did.” He shook his head, chiding himself. “Disregard that. I’m thinking aloud.”
She felt her skin prickle. “Those girls were raped. It said in the paper they were raped.”
DI Briggs hesitated. “If I tell you something confidential, can I trust you?”
She shrugged, guessing that he wasn’t doing her a favour. Why tell her anything in confidence unless it was to undermine her? “I suppose so.”
“In a case like this, we don’t release all the details. Some things are known only to the killer and ourselves. Then, you see, we can tell if we’ve got the right bloke. The signs are that there was sex in both these cases, but it wasn’t forced. It was consensual. Do you follow me?”
She stared at him in disbelief. “You mean they let him make love to them?”
“And then he killed them. Were you with Tony Pawson yesterday?”
She shook her head.
“Why not? It was your day off.”
“I changed my day. I took Thursday instead.”
“Did you go out with him Thursday?”
“No. I expect he was at work.” She didn’t volunteer the fact that she had spent Thursday checking on Tony’s previous visits to the restaurant at Stockland Bristol.
“Any reason why you changed your day off? Was he due to go out with you last night?”
“Those are two different questions.”
“Answer the first one, then.”
“I changed over because Sergeant Mayhew said he was coming back to the pub at the weekend. Some stupid rumours were being put about and I didn’t want people discussing me behind my back.”