“Yes. This time she went willingly.” She could hear herself contradicting him. She never did this. But Sarah’s disappearance had banished Dawn’s desire for self-preservation.
He froze, eyes boring into her. “You’re right.”
She chewed her lip, waiting for him to kick her again. Should she stand up, put the table between them? Or would movement provoke him?
“Don’t do that, woman. Disgusting.”
She stopped chewing. Slowly, she pulled herself up, using the table for support. He didn’t stop her but instead stared out of the back window towards the sea.
When the table was safely between them she cleared her throat. “How do you mean, I’m right?”
He turned. His eyes bulged and his cheeks were inflamed. “She went willingly. That’s what you said.”
“Yes.”
“She’s going to let him do what he wants to her. Just like she did with those two lads back in Lincoln.”
“She didn’t and you know it! They would have—” she lowered her voice. “They would have raped her.”
His eyebrows were knotted together and his mouth twisted. He sniffed at her.
“Yeah. Well, they won’t be doing anything like that again. And nor will she, the little slag.”
“Ted! That’s our daughter you’re—”
He leaned over the table. “She’s my daughter and I’ll say as I see it. I’ll kill her for this.”
“Don’t say that…”
He spat at the floor. She stared at the globule of spit, anticipating cleaning it. That, and the remains of his breakfast. That left only one egg for the next two days.
“I’ll say what I want. Just shut the fuck up and clean up that mess. You disgust me.”
He yanked the kitchen door open and flew into the hallway, slamming the front door behind him. Dawn ran up the stairs to watch him through the upstairs window. He sped towards the beach, shoulders hunched.
She slid down the wall, trembling. Sarah, where are you?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sarah stared at her bedroom door, waiting for it to open. For the police to come for her too.
She pulled the shirt tighter around her, tugging at the sleeve. She was hot, in all these layers.
At last there was a knock. She swallowed down the lump in her throat. She still didn’t know what she was going to say to them.
“Come in.”
“It’s locked.”
She crossed to the door and unlocked it. She pulled back to the bed again.
The door opened. It was Bill, alone.
She ran out and peered along the corridor. “Where are they?”
“So you heard.”
“Yes. What did they want?”
“Martin.” He gave her a look. He knew.
“I don’t want you in here,” she said. “Wait downstairs for me.”
He shrugged. “You won’t run off?”
She felt her cheeks redden. “No.”
He nodded then left her. She watched him amble towards the stairs as if this was any other day. What would he do, now they were alone?
She felt a shiver run down her body.
She went back into the bedroom. On her first night, she’d cleared away the shards of pottery that lay on the floor, along with those blue flowers. Cornflowers. The flowers were a deep purple now, but the pottery remained. She picked up a sharp piece and wrapped it in between the layers of shirt. Then she took it out and wedged it in the back of her jeans.
She cast a last look around the room, trying not to stare at the bed, then headed downstairs.
Bill was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for her. It was the stillest she’d seen him. He looked up. There were two mugs in front of him. He gestured to one of them.
She lifted her chin, determined not to let him humiliate her. “Did they take him?”
“No.”
“Where is he then?”
“He went out the back. They were at the front.”
“They didn’t have people at the back, waiting for him?”
“Seems not. There were only two of them.”
She grasped the mug and laced her fingers around it. She wanted to ask if Martin had said he was coming back.
“I think I should go home,” she said.
“He had flowers.”
She looked up. “Who?”
“Martin. He’d been out picking them. Soft lad. He was grabbing some breakfast for you both. An apple each. Crappy breakfast, but there you go.”
On the table were two green apples. She glanced at them then sipped at her drink, glad of the mug hiding her face. It tasted bitter.
“What’s this?”
“Herbal tea. Not sure what herbs.”
“It’s vile.”
“You get used to it.”
She pushed the mug away. “What sort of flowers?”
“Yellow ones. I don’t know much about flowers.”
“Where are they now?”
“He took them. He had them in his hand, when the police arrived.”
She looked towards the back door. Maybe he’d dropped them out there. Maybe he was still holding them, running with them.
It didn’t matter now.
She stood up. “I’m going to the boat.”
She turned towards the hallway and the front door. She turned back and grabbed a coat. Robert’s. Martin’s was still there, on its peg.
There was knock at the door. She stared at Bill, her heart racing.
Another knock, louder this time. Two more.
“Hide,” Bill said.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sarah was sure they would hear her breath echoing in the cramped confines of the cupboard. She shifted her weight, cramp already developing in one foot, then instantly regretted it as a tin shifted next to her, scraping on the floor. Her eyes darted to the door, but no one came.
She’d wanted to run up the stairs when Bill had gone to the door, but knew that they would hear her. That they would search the bedrooms. They might not think of this walk-in cupboard.
She heard movement upstairs, footsteps moving from room to room. She tried to remember how she’d left the bedroom. Was there evidence that a woman was here?
More noises upstairs, thuds and thumps. Drawers being opened, the smash of a lamp falling to the floor. The one in her room?
She held her breath, staring at the door. It smelt musty in here, and stale. There was the tang of pickled onions and the strong odour of feet. The air was dry. She wanted to cough.
Feet came down the stairs and she heard voices getting closer.
“You can’t do this,” said Bill. “Not without a warrant.”
“You want us to arrest you too? Aiding and abetting? Obstruction? Not to mention squatting.”
“No.”
“Then let us do our job.”
“Squatting doesn’t really count, not any more.”
“I’m sure the owner of this farm would see it differently.”
“They haven’t been back here in nearly five years. I doubt that they care.”
“Are you always like this, Mr Peterson?”
“Like what?”
“Difficult.”
Shut up, thought Sarah. Don’t wind them up.
They were in the kitchen now. A shadow passed under the door. She clenched her fists, counting.
“We need to look in your outbuildings.”
“Fine.”
She heard keys being gathered, the back door opening. Was Martin hiding out there? Could he be in the very cell she’d been kept in, in the outhouse behind the farm?
She felt as if her insides might dissolve at any moment.
The voices receded but there was still someone in the room, moving around. A more junior officer maybe, prowling the kitchen. She shuffled further back in the vain hope she might be disguised by the empty boxes and tins.
Then the back door slammed. She held her breath and listened but there was no one in the kitchen,
she was sure of it.
Unless they were sitting in silence, tempting her out.
No. If they were that clever, they’d have found her hiding place.
She took a hesitant step towards the door and gave it a tiny push. Light streamed in, illuminating the dust that danced in the confined space.
She waited. Nothing.
She pushed it a little more, to see the table. There was no one there. The only place for a person to hide would be right behind this door. And if they were there, it was too late anyway.
She eased the door open and lowered herself to a crouch, almost crawling along the floor. She looked at the door to the hall. It was open, but there were no shadows, no movement.
She crept to the back door, which was closed. She crouched behind it. Its lower half was solid but the top half had a pane of glass.
She glanced back at the other door then slid upwards, her hands on the wood. She had to see.
There were five people out in the yard, including Bill. A tall, broad-shouldered man in an ill-fitting suit and a younger woman wearing a bright blue jacket. The man talked to Bill while the woman watched the outhouse.
With them were two uniformed officers, both women. They prodded the piles of junk around the yard as if Martin might spring out from under them.
She could see shadows in the corridor at the front of the outhouse, that led to the four cells where she and the other women had been kept. She put her ear to the glass and heard the cell doors being opened and closed. She wondered again how much the police knew about what had happened to her, Ruth and the others. Why hadn’t Ruth told them? Why wasn’t Bill being arrested for taking her?
The shadows shifted and a shape appeared in the doorway to the outhouse. Sarah ducked down, almost toppling in her haste.
“No sign of him.”
She felt her breathing still. He’d be far away by now, running across fields. Maybe crawling through the muddy ditch they’d taken together, when he’d helped her run.
How many police would be looking for him? She knew police resources were stretched, had been since the floods and the economic collapse, so Filey would only have a handful of officers. They were probably all here.
“What’s this?”
She peered over the doorframe to see one of the uniformed women standing at the side of the outhouse. There was a door there, behind which was the most unbelievable stink. Sarah had never had cause to open it, thankfully.
The detective turned to Bill. “Give us the key.”
Bill took the keys from his pocket then stared at them. The detective snatched them from his hand.
“I suggest you help us. Better for you.”
The detective tossed the keys to his colleague and she approached the uniformed officer, arm outstretched. They both disappeared round the corner of the outhouse.
Sarah held her breath. Her eyes prickled.
“Got him!”
She clutched her stomach, fighting nausea.
The two women emerged around the side of the outhouse. Between them, his head low and his jeans stained dark brown, was Martin.
Sarah bit her lip, ignoring the blood. She reached out for the door handle.
The male detective squared his shoulders. He turned to Bill. “Did you know he was there?”
“No idea.” Bill had his head up, defiant.
“Hmm.”
Martin was shoved in front of him. His face was streaked with dirt and he looked younger, like a boy being reprimanded by his parents. Sarah wanted to run out and grab him.
“Martin Walker?” the detective said. Sarah bit down on her lip, realising she’d never asked the surname of the man she’d slept with last night.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m arresting you for the murder of Jacob Cripps and Zahir Ali.”
Chapter Forty
Martin stared up at the windows of the farmhouse as they bundled him into the back of the unmarked police car. This wasn’t his first time; he’d been arrested for shoplifting as a teenager, had spent a night in the cells. His mum had arrived the next morning to collect him and he’d been released with a caution. His dad had been apoplectic when he arrived home; not at the crime, but at the fact he’d been caught. Martin had stood in front of his dad’s faded armchair, head hung low, and taken the bollocking. He’d only moved when his dad had told him to stop blocking his view of the TV.
The door closed with a thud and the car dipped as two people got in the front. A uniformed woman in the driver’s seat, and the man who’d arrested him next to her. He had a flat face with a scar that ran from his nose to his upper lip. Martin wondered how he’d got it, and hoped it was nasty.
The car started. They waited for the marked car to go ahead of them then sped off down the lane as if released from a catapult. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d travelled at such speed; it had been six years since he’d been in a car.
He clung to the seat, muttering under his breath, hardly daring to look out of the window.
The detective turned in his seat. “Stop that.”
Martin stared at him. He stopped muttering, but tightened his grip on the seat and dug his nails in.
His horror at being found had been almost matched by his relief at getting out of the toilet where he’d hidden. It was little more than a cesspit, a receptacle that the men who weren’t privileged to live in the farmhouse had slung their slops into every morning. The smell had been solid, like an object hovering in the air. He could still taste it.
As they dragged him out he’d stared up at the back windows of the farmhouse, wondering if Sarah was awake. If she’d woken to find him gone. She would hate him for that. She would think he’d taken what he wanted, and then run.
Would Bill tell her he’d been arrested?
He screwed up his eyes, battling tears. But the thought of Sarah’s pale face on the pillow was too much for him. She’d responded to his touch, her body quick and lithe. He’d gone slowly, waiting for her to say no at any moment. But she hadn’t.
Now she would wish she had.
The detective was staring ahead, talking to his colleague in a low voice. Martin wondered if Ruth would still be at the police station, if he could help her. He would tell them that he killed Robert, that she bore no part of the blame.
But Robert’s hadn’t been the name they’d given him. Jacob Cripps and Zahir Ali.
Who were they?
No one he knew, that was for sure. Was this a red herring, a pretext for getting him to the station, where they could poke and prod him, extract information about Robert’s death?
If it was, he would tell them everything. Everything up to the point where Ruth stood over Robert and ground her foot into his chest. Martin had lunged for Robert, plunging a knife into his throat. That was what killed him.
Yes. That was what he would do. He would tell them he’d killed Robert, that he had no idea who the other two people were, and that Ruth was innocent. He would co-operate.
Maybe they’d be lenient. They didn’t have the resources to hold him for long. Maybe they’d let him out after a couple of years. Sarah’s family might accept him as the man that had saved Ruth.
But the thought kept nagging him, pushing its way above the surface. Who were Cripps and Ali? And how was he supposed to have killed them?
Chapter Forty-One
Sarah threw herself out of the kitchen door. Bill was gone.
She ran around the side of the house, not caring who saw her now. Bill was standing at the front corner of the building, looking along the lane to the north. He turned towards her, his hands in his pockets. Casual.
When he saw her, his eyes widened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she screamed. “Why?”
“Tell you what?”
“That he’s a murderer!”
“Martin isn’t a murderer. He was provoked. He was defending you.”
“I’m not talking about Robert! Who the hell are Jacob Cripps and Zahir Ali?”
Bill’s face darkened. “You heard.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“He didn’t kill them. Look, Sarah—”
“That’s not what the police say. You should have told me!”
She lurched at him, her hand whipping out to hit him. He caught it, the two of them locked together. She glared at him.
“Let me go.”
“You need to calm down. Martin didn’t—”
“No. I just learned that the man I let into my bed last night is a double murderer.”
Bill let go of her wrist, flinging it away. She brought it back up, but his look stopped her.
He turned to the back of the house. “Come inside.”
She clattered into the kitchen and stood with her back to the door. He sat at the table. Their two mugs sat on it, cold. She wondered what the police would have made of them. Bill’s and Martin’s, they would have assumed.
“You’re all as bad as each other,” she said. Her voice was hoarse and her throat ached. She wanted to slide to the floor and let it swallow her up.
“No,” said Bill. “They’ve got it wrong.”
“I’m sick of your lies. I’m going home. Help me with the boat or don’t. I can walk anyway.”
She pushed the door open and stormed into the yard. Bill followed.
“Sarah, stop!”
“I’m not staying here with you.”
“You’ll never get that boat working. I don’t know how to do it.”
“Then I’ll walk.”
“It’s forty miles.”
“I don’t care!”
There was a clap of thunder. She looked up, expecting to see lightning coming straight for her. Instead a faint flash echoed off the walls.
She was going to get wet. She might die of exposure.
She didn’t care.
“At least wait till the storm’s gone,” said Bill. Rain was lashing down now, hammering into the corners of the yard and bouncing back at her. Her hair was already wet.
“No.”
“You really want to go home?”
“I need to face my dad.” She shuddered.
“He’s not the monster you think he is, you know.”
Sea of Lies Page 14
