by Diane Saxon
Tiny little hitches of breath stuck in her throat. She wasn’t sure she was ready for him. On a good day, he was too much, but while she was weak, and he was kind, it would be a disaster. He wouldn’t see the real her. She wasn’t gentle and tearful and quiet. She was strong and precocious and loud.
A regretful smile kicked up the edges of his lips. ‘So, what about you, Jenna? Where are you at?’
Instead of answering, she hit him with her own question. ‘How did you know I’d be alone? I could have had someone waiting for me.’ She waved her hand around the room. ‘Someone at home.’ Other than Fliss. She could have had a date with Denton, brought him home with her.
His smile widened. ‘You could have, in which case the place wouldn’t have been in darkness and you wouldn’t have hauled me through the front door to devour my food.’
She stared down at the plate she’d managed to clear without realising, then stretched her fingers out for a leg of chicken.
‘They could be here later.’
‘They could, but I checked with Mason.’
‘Shit.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Mason knows you were coming here tonight?’
‘No. Mason knows I asked him if you were involved with anyone.’
‘Great.’ She ripped off a piece of chicken with her teeth, chewed it with gusto. ‘I’ll never hear the end of it.’ She slapped the bone down on her plate and wiped her fingers on a piece of paper towel, irritation skimming through her.
‘He also mentioned there’s some counsellor who’s been showing an interest. That you exchanged numbers.’
The bloody big mouth. She’d kill him when she got hold of him.
‘Mason said he was pretty good-looking. For a dweeb.’
Jenna kneaded her forehead. ‘He thinks you’re a prick, but it seems he was quite happy to spill his guts to you.’
Adrian smiled as he laid his knife and fork side by side on his empty plate. He pushed back his chair and came to his feet. ‘I’ll tell you what. You’ve got my number too. Have a think about it, see if you want to pursue something with the other guy, in which case just let me know and I won’t bother you again.’
He scrubbed his fingers over Domino’s head and then turned for the door.
The temptation to call out his name rose, so she pushed back her own chair, but couldn’t quite persuade her legs to obey the command to stand. ‘Adrian.’
He paused, his back to her. ‘I’ll see you another time, Jenna. Sleep well.’
She knew for certain she wouldn’t.
34
Tuesday 11 February, 09:00 hours
Eyes still gritty from long hours of work and poor sleep, Jenna gave a weary blink at the assembled crew as DI Taylor nudged up to rest his backside next to hers on the edge of the desk. With a sideways glance, she could tell he hadn’t fared much better and the effects of the jet lag had very definitely caught him up.
Pain tightened his features as he shuffled further onto the desk.
In the hubbub of the incident room, Jenna kept her voice low. ‘Are you all right?’
DI Taylor squinted at her. ‘Too long sitting on the plane. Sciatic nerve. Bloody painful. Right in my arse.’
‘Have you taken anything for it?’
‘No.’
‘You should.’
‘Vicky told me to. I haven’t had a chance yet.’
Not one to baby him with two daughters, a son and an executive job on the council, Taylor’s wife Vicky would have made the suggestion and let him get on with it. If he didn’t take painkillers, he’d gain no sympathy.
Jenna’s lips twitched as she slipped to her feet and rounded the desk to swipe the two new packets of analgesics from her desk and then grabbed a small white plastic cup and filled it from the water cooler in the corner of the room.
DI Taylor sent her a grateful look as he popped the tablets onto his hand. Two high strength ibuprofen with paracetamol and caffeine, designed to get into the system quickly. ‘Thanks, mum.’ He gave her a quick wink, raised the cup to his mouth and washed the tablets down with the water before placing the cup on the desk.
As he came to his feet, DI Taylor clapped his hands and instant silence greeted the urgency of his command.
‘Right. We’ll make this quick. We have a lot to get through.’ He cast his gaze around at the assembled officers and gave them a grim nod. ‘A quick update on current cases.’ He held out his hand to indicate Jenna. ‘DS Morgan arrested Robert Mills in connection with the Mervyn Lucas Charity fraud. She is currently compiling statements and evidence to put forward to CPS in order for him to be charged. As he has made a full confession, this will need to be corroborated, but hopefully it will go smoothly. I believe DC Downey and DC Ellis are assisting with this,’ he raised his head to check the acknowledging nods from Ryan and Mason, ‘together with the charges against Mr Mills’ wife, Julie Mills, for assaulting a police officer and obstruction of a police officer. Again, DS Morgan will submit the files on this…’
As DI Taylor ran through the list of updates, Jenna zoned out, her gaze skipping over the officers who weren’t there to listen to updates on administration but wanted to get to the point. Just as she did.
‘And finally…’ Jenna’s attention zapped back in, ‘… a quick update in connection with our two murders, as I know you’re all keen to get back out there and find something. At this stage, any lead will help. This person has murdered, twice, and it is our belief they will murder again.’ Taylor’s stony gaze cruised across the room. ‘DS Morgan and her team visited Long Lartin yesterday to interview Paul McCambridge, his counsellor and the five prison guards who were present when she last visited. Unfortunately, this proved relatively fruitless.’ At the united groan, Taylor continued. ‘It’s back to the legwork. Follow up on those door-to-doors, anyone who is free, grab the database and let’s get all these neighbours visited.’ DI Taylor stopped; his head raised to locate the continued moaning. ‘PC Gardner, you have something to say?’
PC Gardner leaned against the back wall of the incident room, arms crossed over his chest. Young, arrogant and dangerous. ‘It all seems pretty pointless cruising around neighbours who weren’t even in. Can’t we chivvy up forensics, so we have something to go on?’
His sentiments were probably reflected by a few other officers, but Gardner’s whole demeanour exhibited an absence of respect. Jenna had nothing but admiration for DI Taylor’s controlled response.
‘Chivvying up forensics won’t get us the right result, PC Gardner, but it may well put an entire investigation at risk if we don’t get it right. In this aspect, we have to exercise patience.’ Something the young PC seemed to lack.
Gardner held DI Taylor’s direct stare for a moment before his gaze skittered away to allow Taylor to continue.
‘PC Wallis has ascertained from Julia Clements that the key in the front door of her house was the one from the shed. We have no idea who gained entry first, Karen Prestwich or the murderer.’ Taylor drew in a long breath and blew it out again. ‘Forensics are working on the information on DC Downey’s phone.’ Ryan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall as he nodded, stress lines deepening around his mouth as DI Taylor continued. ‘Although this isn’t fool proof, we want to know who the women are who fall into the same profile as the copycat.’ DI Taylor stopped, his jaw flexing. ‘DC Gardner?’
‘Can’t Ryan just message all the women? Warn them.’
Jenna’s jaw dropped and Ryan closed weary looking eyes and thudded his head against the back wall. Even younger than PC Gardner, Ryan got it, he didn’t need the constant reminders of how to uphold the law. Perhaps not a seasoned police officer, he wasn’t a hot headed vigilante.
DI Taylor ran his tongue over his teeth, Jenna suspected to give himself a moment to control his annoyance. ‘No, PC Gardner. PC Downey cannot do that. First, they’d all think he was stalking them. Second, those that didn’t would run to the press and we’d
have a riot on our hands. Third, every bit of evidence that needs to be painstakingly recorded for, hopefully, a prosecution would be wiped out.’
PC Gardner pushed himself away from the wall. ‘But—’
DI Taylor raised his hand to stop Gardner going any further. ‘PC Gardner. We will stick to the tried-and-tested methods of policing and not run off in a wild abandonment of the law. When forensics come back to us with the information we require, which they are in the process of obtaining from Y’ello, with the appropriate legal documentation in place, we will compile an Osman list. We are expecting this any time soon, but it is a process. We will then send officers out to the addresses we will have obtained through the right channels to give these women information pertaining to a high risk of death or threat of murder. That is what the Osman list exists for. We can then offer these women protection, should they wish it.’
‘If we could just—’
‘Fucking wassock.’ Mason muttered in Jenna’s ear to draw a reluctant smile from her.
‘No, we cannot just.’ DI Taylor’s voice hardened. ‘There is no rushing the law. There is no point making a successful arrest only to have the case thrown out of court, with a flea in our ears from the judge because we have not adhered to the correct procedures.’
PC Gardner flopped back against the wall, his mouth turned down at the edges in a sullen droop.
DI Taylor scanned the room, eyebrows heavy over steely eyes. ‘Any questions?’ Taylor gave the room a moment in the heavy silence before he spoke. ‘Let’s get to work. You know where I am if you need me.’
As the team filed out, Taylor’s gaze slid to over to meet Jenna’s, his mouth a hard line of dissatisfaction. ‘There’s another pain in my arse. This one you can’t get rid of with painkillers.’
35
Tuesday 11 February, 21:50 hrs
Who’d have thought a slight woman could put up such a ferocious fight? He raised a shaky hand to the burn in his neck and brought away fingers smeared in blood. She’d clawed him, raking his skin with her long fingernails.
There was no getting away from it this time, he truly had fucked up. Right royally, without a shadow of a doubt, fucked the fuck up.
The sting in his scalp had him raising his hand to check for damage. She’d wrenched the roots from his head, leaving tender spots all over.
Legs still wobbly, he didn’t have the strength to rise from where he’d slid down the wall to collapse in the corner of the kitchen.
A trickle of blood ran down his sleeve to pool in the palm of his upturned hand where he rested it on the cool tiled floor. The bitch had got him. She hadn’t quite killed him, but his life might just as well be over.
He stared at the broken body, six paces in front of him, the knife he’d shoved up to the hilt into her protruded from her ribs. The knife with his DNA, his blood all over it. He’d never given it a thought as he rammed it into her with such desperation.
He closed his eyes and let his head thunk back on the wall. It wouldn’t make any difference if he left more DNA smeared over the paintwork. He had no idea how to clean up this shit this time, there was no amount of bleach could wash away his DNA. He might as well hand himself over to the police now.
Exhaustion set in and his body started to relax, a soft floating feeling took him away, up, up into the dark skies with the stars beyond as his blood leached in rhythmic pumps from his body.
He jerked awake, glanced at the mess that surrounded him. He needed to clean up. If only he had help. But there was no one he could call on. He was on his own.
He drew his knees up to get his feet under him, his heels gaining no traction on the floor until he gave up and rested.
The woman had taken him by surprise.
He took in a deep lungful of air and breathed it out again, past the pain in the soft tissue of his armpit where she’d got him. Stuck him like a pig. But he’d stuck her back. Not without some considerable skill and strength. He could take pride in that. His lips curled in self-derision. Pride in the fact that he’d bested a woman – no, a girl, only half his size in a fight which should have been totally one sided. He snorted out his disgust.
Instead of shock swimming through her eyes the moment they’d met his across the kitchen, they’d flared with indignation and anger. She’d come at him, fists raised like a fucking prize boxer, pelted him once, twice, three times, before he’d managed to duck under the next flying fist. He’d closed his eyes and grabbed her around the waist. Wrapping both arms about her, he’d ignored the tear of his scalp as she’d wrenched his hair out by the roots. Her shrieks and howls had pierced his eardrums as he ploughed her across the room while she dug her heels down, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking on the granite tiles. He’d jerked her upright, picking her off the floor and flung her at the ceramic sink, pleasure skimming through him as he’d palmed one of the knives from the knife block on her counter. Short handled, twelve inch blade, perfect balance.
But he’d misjudged his opponent a second time.
With a wild scream, she’d flung herself at him, taking him off balance, so he staggered backwards. She’d reared back her head and then slammed her forehead into his. Before he could counteract her next movement, she’d landed a hard punch to his throat. As he’d gasped for breath, she’d grabbed his knife hand and twisted, ramming it into his shoulder so he’d staggered back against the wall.
Pain more excruciating than he’d ever known had howled through him in white-hot agony. Hauling in soft pants of breath through his damaged throat, he’d blinked through the sweat dripping into his eyes and watched her make her first mistake as she turned to run.
Without a thought in his head, he’d acted on pure instinct. With a feral yell, he’d yanked the knife from the soft flesh of his underarm and launched himself away from the wall full pelt into the back of her.
As she’d hit the floor, he’d slammed on top of her. Breath rushed from her in a loud grunt and he’d grabbed her hair, wrenched her head back and took the opportunity to ram the knife home just as she twisted beneath him. The brief flicker of acknowledgement that she was about to die had guttered out as quickly as it had lit her pretty caramel eyes. Pink bubbles had dribbled from her open lips.
He’d scrambled back from her, his boots skimming through the blood oozing across the floor. Hers and his in a wallowing mix, the warmth of it had soaked through his jeans to his skin.
Panic now heated his cooling skin and he turned his head to assess the damage. She’d virtually killed him. She might have yet if he didn’t staunch the flow of blood. If she’d hit an artery, he suspected he’d already be dead.
He braced himself against the wall and pushed up until he gained his feet. In a drunken stagger, he managed to get to the other side of the room and grabbed a fistful of clean tea towels she’d stacked on the bench. He bunched two of them up and shoved them inside his T-shirt against the hole in his armpit. Numb all the way down his arm, he barely felt the press of the towels against his injury.
He grabbed another towel and scrubbed at his face and over his burning scalp. Drawing it away, he stared at the blood stains soaking it. He tried to catch his breath, but it came in short, shallow snatches as his eyesight faded to black. If he fainted, he’d never stand a chance of getting out of there. He’d probably die if he didn’t get help. He desperately needed help, but he could hardly go to a hospital. They’d recognise the knife wound for what it was and call the filth.
He drew in a deeper breath. He needed to move. It didn’t matter about the rules, they no longer held any importance. The main focus was to clean up and get out.
One handed, he retrieved the bleach from under the sink where everyone kept it. He held the bottle against his chest while he squeezed the lid together to unlock it with his uninjured hand, the other one too numb to feel.
He squirted the fluid around and then stared as the floor came up to meet him and then receded again. His thoughts wallowed and staggered through thickening sludge. With a
stumbling gait, he managed to open a tall cupboard and take out her mop and bucket, barely able to lift the bucket from the sink once he’d filled it with scalding water.
All the research, all the information gathering still paid off as he reached for the bottle of disinfectant and glugged it into the bucket.
Without wringing out the mop, he plunged it into the water and then sloshed it across the floor, spreading the blood in an ever widening circle until it covered the entire kitchen floor. He thrust the mop back into the bucket, this time giving it a quick squeeze before he threw it over the floor again. He bumped it against her body, working his way up to her head.
One handed, he wrenched the mop away, fury getting the better of him as it caught in the long carrot coloured tresses of her hair and her head gave wet, hollow thumps against the tiles. He hammered the mop up and down, up and down, and still the stupid fucking woman’s hair wouldn’t break free of the mop and her head slammed harder against the floor.
For a moment, the black fury glazed his eyes over. He couldn’t think where he was, couldn’t see. His head spun in sickening circles as he stared at the twisted body and then sunk to his knees beside her. Every ounce of energy drained from him, he curled his body downwards until his forehead touched the smooth tiles and he tucked his numb arm into his stomach, wrapping the other one around it.
He puffed out short spurts of air as his blood pooled around him and his muscles weakened. She had killed him. He was about to die in the same puddle of blood and bleach and piss as her.
He didn’t deserve it. It should have been so much simpler than this.
He was supposed to be a god. Strong, powerful, brilliant.
