The First Cut

She lit a cigarette and turned to the Sunday Times. This was hardly the place to look for salacious, sensational and scandalous news, but surely they would at least report the latest developments in the Student Slasher case. And so they did. Police simply confirmed that the Friday evening murder was the work of the same man who had killed five other girls in the same way over the past year. They refused to discuss details of the crime, but this time they gave a name. Susan added it to the other five she knew by heart, another spirit to guide her: Margaret Snell, Kathleen Sha

Sue idled over the rest of the paper, hardly paying attention, and by midmorning she had come up with a plan for the day. It was time to start checking out the nearby fishing villages. First, she headed back across the bridge and picked up a timetable at the bus station. It took her a while to figure out the schedule, but in the end she discovered that there were no buses going up the coast on Sundays. The service ran between Loftus and Middlesbrough, further north, and that was it.

She thought of renting a car, though she knew that might also be difficult on a Sunday. Even if she could get one, she realized, it might cause all kinds of problems with identification-license, insurance, means of payment-and that was exactly the kind of trail she didn’t want to leave behind her.

There was no train line, so it had to be a bus, then, or nothing. Turning to the Scarborough-Whitby service, she found that there were buses to Robin Hood’s Bay. They ran regularly at twenty-five past the hour and took less than half an hour. Coming back would be simple, too. She could catch a bus at Robin Hood’s Bay Shelter, which would be up on the main road, at 5:19 or 6:19 in the evening, or even later, right up to 11:19 p.m. Robin Hood’s Bay it would have to be.

Sue wasn’t sure what she would find there, but the place had to be checked out. She was certain that her quarry came from Whitby and that he had something to do with fishing, but it was quite possible that he lived in town and worked in one of the smaller places nearby, or vice versa, for that matter.

Besides, she also felt the need to get away from Whitby for a while. She knew the town too well now and was becoming tired of tramping its streets day in, day out. The place was begi

Breakfast at the Cummingses’ had been a depressing and suffocating affair, too-the obvious poverty; the noise of children; the lack of cleanliness (the teacups were stained, and there had been one or two spots of dried egg that hadn’t been washed off her plate properly); and the sense of hurry and bustle that even now was causing her heartburn. Yes, another day trip out of Whitby would be a very good idea.

Checking her timetable again, she found that she had missed the 10:25. Never mind, she thought, finishing her Kenco coffee, she was in no hurry. There were the papers to read, crosswords to do, plenty to keep her occupied. She could even go up to St. Mary’s and spend a while in her favorite box if she wanted.

30 Kirsten

Come in, Kirsten. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

Dr. Henderson’s office was on the second floor of an old house, and the window, which was open about six inches, looked out over the River Avon toward the massive abbey. The last of the great medieval churches to be built in England, it was still very much in use.

Instead of a couch, Kirsten found a padded swivel chair opposite the doctor, who sat at the other side of her untidy desk with her back to the window. Filing cabinets stood to Kirsten’s right, and glass-enclosed bookcases to her left, many of them filled with journals. From one shelf, a yellowed skull stared out. It seemed to be gri

Dr. Henderson leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands on her lap. Of course it had to be a woman, Kirsten realized; they wouldn’t have sent her to a male psychiatrist after what happened. But she hadn’t expected such a young woman. Dr. Henderson looked hardly older than Kirsten herself, though she must surely have been at least thirty. She had short, black hair, neatly trimmed so as not to be a nuisance, which complemented the angles of her face and emphasized her high cheekbones. She had dark blue eyes, kind but glinting with an edge of mischievous humor. Her voice was soft, husky and deep, with just a trace of a Geordie accent, and her lips were turned up slightly at the corners, as if always on the verge of a smile. A smattering of freckles covered her small nose and the tight skin over her cheekbones.

Kirsten made herself comfortable in the swivel chair, and after glancing around nervously at the office she turned to face the doctor, who smiled.

“Well, Kirsten, how do you feel?”

“All right, I suppose.”

Dr. Henderson opened a file on her desk and pretended to read. Kirsten could tell she knew the contents already and was just doing it for effect. “Dr. Craven has passed on the full medical details, but they’re not what interest me. Why don’t you tell me what happened in your own words?” Then she leaned back and clasped her hands again. The springs in her chair creaked as she moved.

Kirsten felt her mouth turn dry. “What do you mean? What details?”

Dr. Henderson shrugged. “Perhaps you could start with the attack itself.”

“I was just walking home and somebody grabbed me, then everything went black. That’s all.”

“Hmm.” The doctor started playing with a rubber band, stretching it between her fingers like the silence she was stretching in the room. Kirsten shifted in her seat. Outside on the River Avon a young couple rowed by. Kirsten could hear them laugh as their oars splashed water.

“Well?” Kirsten said, when she could bear the tension no longer.

Dr. Henderson widened her eyes. “Well what?”

“I’ve told you what happened. What do you think? What advice have you got for me?”

“Now hold on a minute, Kirsten.” Dr. Henderson put the rubber band down and spoke softly. “That’s not what I’m here for. If anybody has given you to believe that you’re coming to me for some kind of magic formula and-hey presto!-everything’s back to normal again, then they’ve seriously misled you.”

“What are you here for then?”

“The best way to look at the situation is that you are here, and that’s what’s important. You’re here because you’ve got problems you can’t deal with alone. I’m here to help you, of course I am, but you’re the one who’ll have to do all the work. Your description of what happened, for example-a bit thin, wasn’t it?”

“I can’t help it, can I? I mean, I can only tell you what I remember.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“How do you think I feel?”

“You tell me. Your description sounded curiously flat and unemotional.”

Kirsten shrugged. “Well, I suppose that’s how I feel.”

“How are you getting along with your parents?”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

“Have you told them about your feelings?”

“I told you, I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. Of course I haven’t told them. Do you think I…?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Kirsten, have you ever been able to talk to your parents about your feelings?”

“Of course I have.”

“When?”

“What do you mean?”

“Give me an example of something you’ve discussed with them.”

“I…I…well, I can’t think of anything offhand. You’re making me flustered.”

“All right.” Dr. Henderson sat up straight. “Let’s take it easy then, shall we?” And she smiled again. Kirsten found herself relaxing almost against her wishes. The doctor took out a packet of ten Embassy Regals from her desk drawer. “Mind if I smoke?”