Chapter 7
Comben was at the station before him the next morning and, when the sergeant came into the office, he sat down in a chair without being asked. Anderson was pleased that the new boy’s education was progressing. He wasn’t so pleased when Comben fluttered a piece of paper in front of his boss. There was an air of triumph in the younger man’s words when he announced that Turney had no criminal record. Anderson was very sorry indeed that he had been indiscreet. ‘Did you locate the Simanoviczs?’ he asked.
‘We have an address in North London. Shall we get the locals to visit?’
‘No, let’s go ourselves. It will give us an idea of who we’re after.’
They took Anderson’s car but he let Comben drive. It was a hard decision, he had stood for a full minute next to the driver’s door before tossing the keys to the younger man and walking round to the passenger’s side - he was continuing to grow up.
The journey was tedious, as cross-town journeys in London always were but Comben looked pleased with himself when they arrived. Anderson’s was a little tense and his right foot ached from pressing where the brake should have been.
The couple was older than he expected. Julian was thirty but Mrs Simanovicz must have been in her seventies; had that been the problem with their son? They thought him innocent, of course, didn’t every parent? But they had to admit to his peculiarity. Schizophrenia? Well yes, they had heard the term used about Julian but it didn’t mean he was mad or violent.
Mr. was retired and Mrs. had never worked since they had been married. She was Mr.’s second wife and had worked for him in his factory. Mr. had been a widower with no children. Julian had come along late in life; he had been the son he had always wanted who would take over the family business.
Comben fidgeted as they sat in plush brocade covered armchairs and listened to the old couple show their bemusement at what had happened. They knew little that could help the investigation. They had seen Julian at Yom Kippur the week before but he had left suddenly and they hadn’t heard from him since. ‘Yes’ they did keep him. They didn’t like to think of him sponging on the state while they had money.
Anderson looked around him. Twenty years ago there had been ample money and the curtains, upholstery, mirrors and carpet showed it. They were too ornate for Anderson’s taste and would have been two decades before but they did cost money. They seem to have spent nothing since then but the place was clean and tidy and the couple had not expected visitors.
Anderson could almost feel Comben discomfort when he accepted the offer of tea. Comben obviously didn’t think there was much to gain from the couple and wanted to get away. Anderson was sorry he had brought him; it might have been better to have left him in Kilburn. Julian might have been found there by now.
Once prodded Mr Simanovicz was happy to tell them how it had been when Julian had first been born and then how, later, he had taken him to his work as a small boy and showed him the business. The father had trained as a Master Cutter and at that time, was responsible for cutting patterns for samples and then laying out the cloth when the orders came in. He would cut hundreds of identical pieces of garments for the machinists upstairs to make up and pass on to the pressers.
‘Yes‘, Julian had enjoyed the factory. He had listened while his father explained the intricacies of laying patters out to make the best use of the cloth and the extra profit made by skilful cutting. ‘No, he didn’t understand everything, of course not’ but Simanovicz thought he respected his father’s trade. ‘And the factory?’ ‘Closed, empty, a ruin waiting for demolition.’ ‘Far away?’ ‘No‘, he had walked to work. He had never been one of those who had wanted to escape from Stoke Newington by moving to Edgware or Stanmore.
Outside Anderson wondered whether Comben had been listening at all or whether he had fallen asleep with his eyes open.
‘Back to Kilburn,’ he said, ’we might just beat the traffic if we start now.’
‘No,’ said Anderson. ‘Let’s have a look at the factory.’
It was in a cul-de-sac off one of those main north-south highways that were lined with shops in various states of prosperity or bankruptcy. North London had never yet reached the same standard of affluence as the more central Islington or the suburbs to the West. There were always as many shops in the process of closing down, as there were opening up. This allowed charity shops on short leases to flourish along the High Street by recycling clothes from the rich to the poor. But it meant that the factory site had not yet reached a value sufficient to encourage a speculator to tear it down and build something new - certainly not housing now that the government had pulled the plug on public provision.
Mr Simanovicz was right: the building was derelict. Windows were missing and had been boarded up at the front and notices plastered all over warning of the danger of imminent collapse. Anderson wondered whether old man Simanovicz dared to look at what the place had become and, if he did, how he felt to see the building he had spent most of his working life in look as it did now. But then he might have detested the place. Maybe he would like to tear it down brick by brick himself.
They found where Julian had got in round the back. A padlock was only loosely hooked over eyelets. It had rusted and Julian had used a lever to break it but he could only loop it back to simulate security when he went out. Anderson knew it had to be Julian before they went inside and saw the nest. He had created it from scraps of cloth left behind by his own father. Bits and pieces - rags - that jumbled together made a decent enough mattress. Comben went back outside and replaced the padlock. Then they waited. When Julian came, Comben followed him in. Anderson thought his sergeant looked annoyed that his boss had been right again.
When he saw Anderson, Julian froze like a frightened deer and turned to run but, seeing Comben, he relaxed and waited patiently as Comben handcuffed him. Anderson drove both of them to the local police station.
‘We’re not going back to Kilburn, sir?’ asked Comben.
‘No,’ said Anderson.
They were allowed an interview room. There was no fuss. It was unusual but the superintendent accepted that Anderson had his reasons. In Kilburn by some mysterious means, the press would have gathered at the station even before the three arrived - but not here.
The three seated themselves around a table. Anderson sat almost at one end to form a triangle, as though this was a social occasion - a chat between equals. Comben made the necessary noises into the tape recorder and then they waited. Anderson was sure that Julian would want to tell them everything.
‘Mrs Curry, I saw it all,’ Julian said.
Anderson raised his eyebrows. Comben fiddled with a pencil.
‘A tunnel, they were in a tunnel with a door at the end. He was this side of the door and then when she opened the door he went through.’
‘Was this a dream. Do you often dream about tunnels?’ Anderson was acting the therapist. At one time, it had been his career choice. Later in life, he imagined he would have done very well at it. He would give Julian the benefit of his expertise - well not expertise exactly, more intuitive empathy.
‘I don’t think it was a dream but the figures were odd - distorted. I couldn’t recognise her face.’
‘So how did you know it was Mrs Curry?’ asked Comben.
It was too direct a question for Anderson’s liking but he had no quarrel with Comben. He hadn’t told him to stay silent and two differing styles might work well.
‘I knew the door’
‘But the door was at the end of a tunnel. How could you recognise it?’
‘I just knew.’
There was a pause that Anderson thought might lengthen into a complete hiatus. He prompted the young man. ‘Go on, there must be more.’
‘There were noises and then the door opened. The man came out. He looked at me.’
‘So you saw his face?’ asked Comben.
‘Yes, he had an enormous nose and it got larger as he came closer to me.’
‘How far apart were you?’ asked Comben.
‘His nose almost touched mine. His face was huge.’
‘So you must be able to recognise him. Do you know who he was?’
‘No, I don’t know. He was not like anyone I have ever seen.’
‘And then?’ asked Anderson.
‘He went back and carried her out. She was limp. I heard a car.’
‘Was she dead?’
‘I think so. He was big and carried her downstairs into the boot of his car. Then he drove off.’
‘Do you have car, Julian?’
‘No.’
‘Do you drive?’
‘No.’
Anderson wondered whether Comben was as worried about these answers as he was. The two murders took place at least quarter of a mile from the park. The murderer needed a vehicle.
‘Then I saw him in the park.’
‘How did you get there?’ Comben asked.
‘I ran.’
‘How did you know where to go?’ Anderson asked.
‘I just did.’
‘Go on,’ said Anderson.
‘He was already in the centre of the field. He did something, I don’t know what. Then he climbed over the fence.’
‘Where did he go then?’
‘I don’t remember. I was scared. I didn’t follow.’
Anderson charged him but left him at Stoke Newington. There was to be no news release. The capture and arrest were Anderson and Comben’s secrets.
Back at the Simanoviczs, Anderson asked about the car in the driveway. Comben had noticed that it had no tax disc. ‘We don’t use it,’ they said. Mrs. had never driven while Mr. felt he was too old to be safe.
‘So why not sell it?’ asked Comben.
‘We thought Julian might want it,’ said Mr Simanovicz.
‘Does he drive?’ asked Comben.
‘He had lessons and even passed his test but he never drove afterwards.’
At the station, Julian denied he could drive. It had been years ago since he took his test and he hadn’t driven since.
Anderson allowed Comben to lead this time.
‘Why did you kill those women?’ he asked.
Julian surprised them. ‘Did I?’ he asked.
It seemed as if he genuinely wanted them to tell him.
‘Don’t you know?’ continued Comben.
‘I wrote the stories. Did I kill them as well? I don’t remember’
‘Do you know how they were killed?’ asked Anderson.
‘She was cut open. I saw the knife. He left it in the flat and then came back for it.’
‘I suppose you still couldn’t see him clearly,’ said Comben.
‘The tunnel.’
‘Yes, the tunnel.’
Anderson could hear the exasperation in Comben’s voice. If Julian were guilty they would never do anything more than put him in hospital. But was he? They needed a psychiatrist. They could get no further without knowing whether he was sane or mad.
The car had to be close, so he parked it immediately outside. There was a risk but at three in the morning, it was worth taking. He had her keys and let himself in through the front door and then into her flat. She was no longer rigid. The house was quiet and he rolled her gently into the carpet he had brought. Then he opened the flat door, walked across to the door opposite, no light showed.
It took one minute to carry the body downstairs and place it in the boot. He had left that open and propped the street door wide to make it possible. Upstairs again he closed the door to her flat.
In the centre of the park, he unrolled the carpet. A few minutes later he climbed the metal fence easily but left the carpet behind. Then he crossed the road and went into one of the houses. Anderson read the transcript. Julian knew so much but then, if he had done it, so very little. He had filled in some of the details of how the murderer dealt with the second body but seemed to know little about how she was killed or what had been inflicted on the body in the park. And yet he had spoken as if he were the murderer. All that about taking a chance with the car and how did he know that the body had passed through the rigor mortis phase, before it was wrapped up in the carpet?
‘So, doctor,’ he asked, ’did he do it? And, if so, is he mad?’
Stephens smiled. It was the smile of someone used to having responsibility thrust on to his shoulders. But Anderson could see he was as used to shedding that burden as receiving it.
‘He is not legally mad in my opinion but I dare say the defence could find someone who would say he was.’ He stopped.
Anderson waited for him to go on. He didn’t. ‘Did he do it?’
‘Hypnotism can only tell you so much. Maybe he is narrating a dream, maybe he saw something, or maybe he is assuaging his guilt by imagining a third person. Of course, that person could be himself or rather another part of him he does not want to accept. He has blackouts - you know that don’t you.’
Anderson nodded.
‘How does it all fit in with what he told us?’ asked Comben.
‘Strangely, his evidence to you seems more like a dream than the story he revealed to me. I simply don’t know. You’ll have to solve this one on your own.’
‘Did he say who “the murderer” was? Did he recognise him?’ Anderson was asking a great deal but he had to ask.
Stephens shook his head. Then they all smiled and shook hands. That was the end of that. They had enough to arrest Julian but, in Anderson’s opinion, not enough to convict. He had said nothing about the injuries to the bodies and seemed unclear how the two women were killed. In fact all he had said - in the interview or under hypnosis - could have been gleaned from the newspapers, or at least constructed from their stories with a bit of imagination.
‘Are we taking him back, sir?’ asked Comben.
‘No,’ he said, ’and I don’t want a word of this to get out. Is that clear.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Anderson could see the man was offended, so he attempted to smooth his feathers. ‘We’ve had far too many leaks lately from the station. I don’t want one this time.’
‘Before my time, sir,’
Comben was right. He could hardly be blamed for what had gone on before he got there. ‘All right, I understand. Just don’t say anything to anyone.’
Comben nodded with less enthusiasm than Anderson could have wished. He was, of course, breaking with convention. He couldn’t get his forensic team working on Julian unless they had him to examine. But then what could they link him to? There were no traces of the killer at the murder sites or at the park. Anderson imagined he had been covered from head to foot with something impermeable. And that was another thing: Julian was hardly the right sort of person to go to that trouble. The killer didn’t want to be caught and was clever enough to take precautions. Julian Simanovicz didn’t even know whether he was responsible. He hadn’t even known what day it was, when they questioned him.
It was about seven in the evening when they got back from Stoke Newington. Comben had left his car at the station and, after Anderson drove off, he sat in the driving seat for a while. Then, instead of going home, he drove the short distance to Felicity’s flat and parked his car outside. There was no light inside, so he waited. Before long he saw car headlights; the car slowed and parked behind him - it was her. Comben opened his own door first and walked round to the pavement so that she could see him clearly under a lamppost. She got out and came to him.
‘Is this a professional call?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, ’are you going to send me away?’
She placed a hand on his shoulder. He was close enough for her to bend her elbow. ‘I didn’t think I had the right to do that. I wouldn’t want you to accuse me of impeding police enquiries.’ Then she smiled and opened the street door. They climbed the stairs in silence and, inside the flat, he followed her down the hall into the sitting room. She stopped, turned and stood in front of him. He came close but she didn’t back away. Then she turned away from him and sat down.
He looked around him, searching in his mind for a beginning. ‘The number’s unusual for a second floor flat, “one”,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ’but that’s the only unusual feature, otherwise it’s a very ordinary flat.’
‘Much like mine,’ he said, ’can you afford it now that Amanda has left?’
She turned and smiled. ‘Is that what you came for?’ she asked, ’to find out whether I’m solvent.’
Comben didn’t answer and cursed himself for being such a blockhead. It was impossible now to think up any thing clever and he had almost decided to go but he didn’t. ‘Nice dress,’ he said.
‘It’s my uniform,’ she said.
It was not the same dress as the last he had seen her in. This time the plunge was at the front while the back was high - right up to the neck. He wondered how the punters could concentrate on their cards when she lent forward but that, he supposed, was the point. He knew how they felt and it stopped his retreat dead in its tracks.
‘Would you like a drink or aren’t you allowed to.’
‘I’m not exactly on duty,’ he said.
‘So, should you be paying social calls on witnesses?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said.
She handed him a scotch and they sat down together on the settee. She fidgeted as though uncomfortable in her dress.
‘Do you mind if I get out of this. It’s not very relaxing,’ she said.
Comben smiled and watched as she walked towards her bedroom. When she got to the door, she turned and smiled. Comben got up and walked after her. ‘Do you need a hand with the zip?’ he asked.
She said nothing but stood still as he unzipped her dress at the back. Then she stepped out of it and Comben slipped his hands around her midriff. She shivered a little as she tossed the dress on to a chair. Comben kept a loose grip on her waist as she did so and then kissed her on her neck. She kicked her shoes off, stepped forward and stripped off her tights. For a moment, he stood transfixed by the beauty of her back and neck and legs.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Felicity look at him in the long freestanding mirror across the room. Then she turned to him and waited. He let his eyes run up and down her body. Her hair was caught up in a chignon to reveal her slim neck and her breasts seemed larger than when they were encased in the strapless bra she had thrown aside. He moved closer to hug her and kiss her firmly on the lips. His penis pressed against her mound and suddenly he needed to break away. He did not want to seem like an over-eager teenager and come before he was inside her.
‘Why don’t you slip under the covers while I undress,’ he said.
She obeyed but first he watched as she removed the clips that kept her hair up and tossed her head, letting the tresses fall to her shoulder. Then he undressed, while she watched him with her head propped up on a pillow. He glimpsed himself in the long mirror - all that exercise now seemed worthwhile. He was proud of his body and, although he worked out, he was careful to avoid looking as though he meant to enter a Mr. World competition. His erect penis escaped prematurely through the slit in his pants but he carefully placed it back inside, before walking over and lying next to her. Then he twisted to reach the light switches on the wall behind and switched off the central bulb.
‘You’re not cold are you?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
He drew aside the duvet and knelt in front of her. He kissed her breasts and then her mouth. She bent her knees as he did this and slipped off her briefs. Then, while he knelt in front of her she drew down his pants and grasped his penis. He slipped his pants over his feet as she did so.
She moved both hands over the stem of his penis moving the skin over the firmness beneath. Then she placed her hands underneath and squeezed him gently. He could feel the tremor of his own excitement as if he was outside himself and wondered whether she had gone too far. Then she brought his penis towards her and ran the tip between her labia, which were now moist and allowed him to slide up and over her clitoris. An exquisite thrill ran up his penis and caused him to breathe faster and deeper. He was pleased that she also sounded excited but he needed to keep control. He lent back and to the side towards the bedside cabinet to her left. Inside he was pleased to see a packet of condoms. He took one out and then allowed her to take it from him and slide over his penis. Then she slid down the bed while pushing his penis inside of her.
He lent forward on to his forearms and pushed up high inside her; again, sounds of excitement escaped from her lips. Then he rested his hips and belly on her and took up her rhythm - smoothing out the irregular tremors that ran through her body as he moved. He could feel the tension enveloping him as he fought against his rising excitement. But reluctantly and inevitably, he was caught up in his own tempo. When he heard high small shrieks of pleasure, he allowed his thrusts to become faster and more violent and then came with a deep roar of satisfaction. He collapsed on to her and tried to struggle free but she hugged him to her. Finally, when he imagined that his weight had squeezed all the air from her chest, she relaxed her grip and he rolled over with her, so that now her lighter body rested on him.
They stayed locked together until he felt himself shrink from her, then she raised herself and smiled at him and they kissed. He extricated himself, went to the bathroom, then, back in bed, lay on his back, and clasped her to him. She bent her knee so that it rested on his limp penis.
‘I hope you came. I thought you did,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I did.’
He smiled but said nothing. There seemed nothing else to say. Then, he felt her breathing become shallower and more regular as she dozed off. He gently moved her on to her back and then slid the duvet down and to the side to look at her lying naked and relaxed.
Her hair lay untidily over her face and lifted with her breath. He swept it away from her mouth. He allowed his eyes to gaze lazily along her body and then his hand followed, touching her gently: down her neck; over her shoulder; up and down her breasts; then over her belly; finally skirting round the raised triangle of public hair and on to her thigh. From his angle, the mound between her legs stood up above the crease between belly and leg. He placed his hand on it.
He did not want to wake her but he became aware that her breathing rhythm had changed and, when he looked up at her, he saw she was looking at him with a smile on her face. He too smiled - shamefacedly, as if he had been caught out doing something naughty.
She turned on to her side, held his hand and pressed his finger into her as she parted her legs. ‘Finger fuck me,’ she said, ’but keep your eyes on mine.’
He moved one finger and then two inside her and watched as her eyes blinked but only closed completely when she came to a climax with a deep intake of breath, which she let out slowly. Then she opened her eyes and looked down at his groin.
‘I see your ready again,’ she said looking at his penis.
He turned away from her towards the drawer but she stopped him, clambered over him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Then she bent and massaged his penis between her breasts. This time he was more in control and knew that he would not come too soon; he lay there, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the sensations streaming up his body.
He opened his eyes again when she lent back to reached over to the drawer and take out a condom, which she rolled on to his penis with both hands. Then she turned around and lent forward, so that she could place his penis at the entrance to her vagina. She moved the tip of it around and then slid it inside her while pushing back towards him.
The position was awkward for him and he had to prop himself up while she moved and brought herself to a climax. He was entirely passive as her buttocks thrust backwards and then slid forwards, pulling his penis uncomfortably. But he enjoyed her rising excitement and the sight of his penis inside her, between her cheeks with her anus above.
She climaxed once more but the position prevented him from coming. Then she turned and faced him kneeling in front of him and again she pushed him inside her. This time she moved on him quickly and violently bringing him to his own orgasm.
They rested in each other’s arms for a few minutes before walking together to the bathroom where they showered together. Comben was beginning to feel awkward. It hadn’t turned out as he had imagined it would. It had been too good and he didn’t want to spoil it. He wanted it to continue and yet he knew that what he had to do might ruin everything. But it had to be done. Anderson thought him a fool and he had been intimidated. He needed something to take back to his boss.
Back in the bedroom, he put his pants on as she slipped into bed. Then he sat on the edge of the bed before putting anything else on. ‘Do you know who Amanda’s boyfriend is?” he asked. He tried to be casual but it didn’t work.
Felicity sat up and frowned. ‘Is that why you’re here, to question me about Amanda?’ she asked.
‘You know that’s not true,’ he said. ‘If it was as good for you as it was for me, you know that’s not true.’
She paused before answering. ‘I don’t know. She won’t tell me. I suppose he’s married.’
Comben rested his hand on her thigh. She didn’t move it away. It was a good sign. ‘You’re not lying to me are you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Why should I? Anyway what does it matter who Amanda’s man is, I thought Julian’s the one you want?’
Comben shook his head, stood up and reached for his shirt.
‘You’re leaving,’ she said. ‘Is it because you think I’m lying?’
‘No, it will look suspicious if I’m not at home and someone calls.’
‘Anderson?’
Comben nodded.
‘Aren’t policemen allowed a private life?’
Comben smiled. Anderson was allowed one but a junior officer? He couldn’t take the chance. ‘It will be better after we’ve caught the murderer,’ he said. He waited for her reply and wondered whether she would respond to the implication that there would be an ’after‘.
‘Do you think Julian did it?’
He let it go. A fuck was a fuck, it didn’t mean there had to be something else. ‘I do but Anderson has his reasons for thinking otherwise. I don’t think they’re good reasons.’
‘Come to the club tomorrow night,’ she said, ’come and see what I do. You might find out something useful.’
‘Will I?’ he said.
‘Only if Julian is not the murderer.’
‘Do you know something that might help?’
‘Why don’t you wait and see.’