Deep Cover

by Leigh Russell

  ‘Well,’ he said slowly, as though musing over the situation, ‘you be careful, that’s all. These are unprecedented circumstances. I don’t want you to go wandering around on your own, and whatever you do, don’t leave the house after dark, and when you do go out, make sure you stick to busy streets where there are plenty of people around.’

  Emily smiled at him. ‘I do love you, you know,’ she said.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, reassured that he had judged it correctly, at least for now.

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ she said. ‘And you be careful too.’

  ‘I’m not at risk from a violent maniac who’s been killing women,’ he replied, forcing a laugh.

  ‘You can’t assume that. We don’t know what he might do. He might attack men too.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Thomas lied, although he knew she was wrong.

  ‘But the chances are this was a one-off. It’s highly unlikely to happen again.’

  There was a certain perverse satisfaction in being the only person alive who knew what had really happened, but he was aware that made him vulnerable. He had to stay on his guard. Whatever happened, no one else must ever suspect the truth.

  42

  The following day, the news was more alarming. Thomas was on his lunch break, sitting at his desk, scanning through local news reports, when he read that a second victim had been killed on the patch of waste ground near his house, early on Saturday morning. While he couldn’t be certain the victim was his blackmailer, the details were too close to what had happened to him for it to be anyone else. He had met his blackmailer on the waste ground early on Saturday morning and had left her, seemingly unconscious, lying at the foot of a tall tree. Now a dead woman had been discovered in that exact same place, apparently killed at the same time. A spasm of terror shook him. Not realising she was dead he had made no effort to cover his tracks. With a shock, he realised how near he had come to discovery. Luckily he had grabbed the bag of cash as he ran off. Now he trembled at the realisation that if he had left it behind, the police might already be knocking at his door.

  It was hard to believe his blackmailer was dead. In a way, of course, it was a relief to know he was free of her. The thought of her relentlessly pursuing him had been plaguing him ever since he had received her first note. But now it seemed that, somehow, he had managed to inadvertently be present when another woman suffered a fatal injury. The chances of that happening, all within the space of a couple of weeks, seemed almost impossible. He stared in disbelief at the article, struggling to take in what it said.

  A second woman has been found murdered in York. The body of Pansy Banks, a sex worker, was discovered abandoned in Acomb Wood two weeks ago. Last Saturday a second victim, who has not yet been named, was violently battered to death. She was discovered on a patch of waste ground off the Holgate Road by a passer-by, Jennifer Seymour, twenty-two.

  ‘She was lying there, sprawled out, at the foot of a tree,’ the witness said. ‘I thought she had slipped over on the ice and might need help, but when I was close enough to see her eyes, I could tell she was dead. The police came very quickly. It was a really horrible experience.’

  The police have not yet been able to confirm whether the two murders are linked.

  ‘We are asking members of the public to be particularly vigilant,’ Detective Chief Inspector Eileen Duncan said.

  Anyone who has any information about either of these tragic deaths has been urged to contact the police without delay.

  There was a further paragraph about police action, the number of officers brought in from other areas to help with the enquiry, and some vague claims about people who were ‘helping the police with their enquiries’. He suddenly felt like laughing, because he knew the only person who could assist the police was most definitely not helping them. They were casting around in the dark. Still, the more he thought about it, the more their failure to apprehend him seemed just. The truth was that he hadn’t intended to kill those women, but no one was going to believe him if he confessed to having accidentally watched them both die. While he might possibly have been able to get away with a plea of manslaughter for one victim, two was going to stretch any judge and jury’s credulity. More than ever it was vital that he avoid capture. Reviewing everything he had done, he was confident that no one would ever discover his part in the two deaths. On reflection, far from being horrified at what had happened, he realised that he should be relieved his blackmailer had met with a fatal accident. With the only witness to his one crime of moving a corpse now also dead, he was safe. Returning to work, he tried to put the whole nightmarish episode out of his mind.

  But staring at his screen, he couldn’t stop thinking about the news concerning his second victim. It was all the fault of that crazy sex worker. If he hadn’t been forced to dispose of her body in the first place, his blackmailer would still be alive. Both of his victims had been at least as responsible for their premature deaths as he was. More, in fact. He had never set out to kill anyone and he wished it hadn’t happened at all. But no one would have much sympathy for him if his connection to the dead women ever came out, because he was alive and they were dead. As though that exonerated them of guilt. If anything, he was the victim in all this. And now, he had to protect himself. The prospect of prison wasn’t as terrible as the thought of Emily finding out what he had done. He could hardly imagine her shock and disbelief. She would continue trusting that he was entirely innocent until it became impossible to deny his involvement with the two victims. But even if he could convince her he hadn’t killed anyone, his initial transgression would be impossible to hide.

  ‘A prostitute?’ She would burst into tears. ‘Why?’

  He couldn’t bear the thought of causing his wife so much pain. No, the whole truth would have to remain buried, whatever the cost. He would single-handedly kill off the entire police force in York rather than let his wife be told her husband was a depraved murderer. In the meantime, no one was on to him, and there was no reason why that should ever change. He was in the clear, and he was going to make sure it stayed that way. Arriving home that evening, he called out cheerily to Emily who came into the hall to greet him. He loved that time of day, when he saw her after a day’s work with a whole evening and night stretching out in front of them.

  ‘Something smells good,’ he said, brushing her cheek with his lips.

  ‘I picked up some fish and chips on the way home,’ she replied. ‘I’m keeping it hot in the oven so we can eat whenever you’re ready.’

  ‘How about now?’

  He followed her into the living room and switched the television on while she clattered about in the kitchen.

  ‘By the way,’ she said when they were both seated with their trays, ‘what’s that old van doing in the garage?’

  ‘Van? What van?’ he stammered stupidly, caught off guard by her question.

  ‘The one in the garage. You never told me you’d bought a van. What’s it doing there, Thomas?’

  43

  The following evening Tod summoned Ian as soon as he arrived at the club. Anxiously, Ian hurried to the office. He expected to find Frank there, ready to confront him with a furious denial of any allegation. To his surprise and guarded relief, Ian found Tod in the company of a brawny bodyguard Ian hadn’t seen before, a ginger-haired giant of a man whose pink-cheeked head looked tiny on top of his massive shoulders and thick neck.

  ‘Archie, Wills,’ Tod said by way of introduction, nodding from one to the other.

  The thought flashed across Ian’s mind that Tod must have dealt with his suspected police informer by now, and he wondered if this ginger-haired giant had killed Frank. If that were the case, Ian would be responsible for Frank’s murder.

  ‘Tod isn’t one to hang around and wait for a fair hearing,’ Jenny had said. ‘If he believed your story, chances are Frank’s already a dead man.’

 
Ian didn’t doubt that for a moment.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Boss?’

  Tod’s answer was both reassuring and concerning. ‘I want you to find Frank and bring him here.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Ian asked stupidly.

  ‘I told him what you said and he blew his stack. You should’ve seen him.’ Tod gave a short laugh. ‘He was smoking, trust me.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where he went?’

  Tod gave a careless shrug, but his sharp eyes never left Ian’s face. ‘How should I know? I repeated what you told me and he said it was all baloney, and he was going to drag you here to fess up. Said you’d sing like a bird before he slit your throat. Slowly.’ He spoke the last word with relish. ‘Trust me, he was mad. “Not in here, you won’t,” I told him. “I don’t want blood stains on my carpet, stinking out my room. Stuff that,” I said. “You take him out and do your business elsewhere,” is what I told him.’

  There was silence for a moment when Tod finished speaking.

  ‘I don’t know where Frank is,’ Ian said at last in a strangled voice. ‘You probably gathered we’re not exactly best mates.’

  ‘I never said you were besties,’ Tod laughed. ‘Find him, Archie,’ he went on, growing serious. ‘I need to know what’s going down, capiche? I need to know which of you is lying to me, because one of you is, that’s for sure. I’m thinking maybe it’s you, because I’m easy with Frank. He’s been my boy for years.’

  Ian was looking at Tod. At the edge of his vision, he saw the ginger-haired bodyguard stir and take a step forwards.

  ‘But then again,’ Tod went on, waving his bodyguard back, ‘you’re a very useful asset, Archie. I don’t know as I want you to book it. Not yet, anyways. So you see what my beef is.’ He nodded briskly. ‘We need this sorted. Find Frank and bring him here to me.’

  Wondering how he was supposed to do that, Ian hesitated.

  Tod frowned at him. ‘You still here?’

  As Wills shuffled forwards once more, Ian ducked his head in a clumsy sort of obeisance and hurried from the room. Reluctant to return to Jenny’s flat, where Frank was probably waiting for him, he drove straight to his own lodgings in Archway, taking a roundabout route to avoid being followed. When he reached home, he drove around a few blocks but couldn’t see Frank’s car parked anywhere nearby. Finding the front door to his block of flats locked he relaxed slightly, but as he went to insert his key in his own front door, it moved a fraction. Someone had been there and left it unlocked. Instantly alert, Ian tensed, and pushed the door gently. As he did so, powerful arms grabbed him from behind, and he realised Frank had been waiting for him, not inside the flat as he had suspected, but outside in the communal entrance hall. Pinning Ian’s arms to his sides, Frank kneed him in the back and propelled him forwards with a rough jerk. Ian wriggled furiously, but couldn’t break Frank’s hold. Once they were across the threshold of the flat, Frank tripped him up and they crashed to the floor together, with Ian underneath. He heard his front door slam shut as his head hit the floor with a thud. Had the hall not been thickly carpeted, he might have cracked his skull open, or at the very least bust his nose. As it was, he was stunned by the impact, and lay still, conscious of nothing but an odour of stale sweat mingled with a horribly cloying aftershave, and a loud pounding somewhere inside his head.

  His assailant yanked him up on his feet and swung him round so they were facing one another. Dazed, Ian staggered and would have fallen if strong arms hadn’t held him upright.

  ‘You thought you done for me,’ Frank snarled, gripping Ian’s arms tightly and shaking him as though he was a child. ‘Now it’s your turn, you fucking retard. I always knew you were grief. Now you’re the one who’s screwed. You thought you could cop Tallulah, and be the boss’s fam, did you? Well you gotta know, Tallulah’s my babe, mine. You won’t be pounding her again.’

  Still gripping Ian’s arms, Frank head butted him, making his head jerk violently backwards with a loud crack. For a few seconds Ian was afraid his neck was broken.

  ‘No,’ he murmured, when he was able to speak.

  He was relieved to discover he could move his head without any spasm of pain, but his vision was blurry. His right eye throbbed agonisingly and he could feel it closing. Gradually, through the fog of pain, he understood that his relief was misplaced. His neck might not be broken but it made no difference. Frank was going to kill him anyway.

  ‘No,’ he murmured again. ‘No, wait. You have to listen to me. You’ve got it all wrong. It wasn’t you I was talking about. It wasn’t you. You’ve got it all wrong. You have to listen to me. You’ve got to listen. Tod’s making a big mistake. Tod needs you. I know that.’

  He was babbling frantically, desperate to get away, but it was no use. He was struggling not only to escape from Frank’s grasp, but to remain conscious. He could hardly see his antagonist’s face any longer. Frank’s eyes bulged from their sockets, staring at him through rippling water. It felt like they were wrestling under the sea. When a huge fist hurtled towards him, Ian had no time to dodge the blow. There was a thunderous crash, and everything went dark.

  44

  It was over two weeks since Ian had disappeared. Allegedly he had gone to work in London, although that was nothing more than a rumour. Geraldine wasn’t actually sure where he was. When she had tried to prise more information out of Eileen, she had only succeeded in irritating the detective chief inspector.

  ‘All I’m able to tell you is that Ian was unexpectedly recruited by another force, and he left us very suddenly. Almost overnight in fact. I am in no position to share any further details with anyone and it’s not your place to ask. I thought you’d know better than that.’

  ‘I just want to know he’s all right, and when he’ll be coming back,’ Geraldine muttered. ‘He’s a friend. That is, we’ve been colleagues for a long time.’

  For all Geraldine knew, Ian could be dead. Worrying about him kept her awake at night, although she did her best to reassure herself that if he had met with a catastrophe, she would have heard about it. But the station gossip had gone quiet about the absent inspector, and no one but Geraldine seemed particularly interested in finding out what had happened to him. It was as though he had never existed.

  ‘People come and go,’ Eileen said. ‘And Matthew is an experienced officer.’

  Geraldine didn’t admit that the reason for her enquiry had been personal, not professional, and that Ian had not been answering his phone. In the meantime, it didn’t help that Ariadne was obsessing about her own forthcoming marriage. That evening Geraldine went to the nearby pub for a drink after work, partly to avoid going back to her empty flat. Ariadne was there talking to Matthew and Geraldine joined them.

  ‘There comes a time in your life when you have to take stock,’ Ariadne was saying. ‘You look at your life and there you are, on your own. What I mean is, you might want to find someone, but after a few years of trying, eventually you resign yourself to accepting that you’re going to be on your own for the rest of your life and that’s when you realise it’s actually not so bad. Apart from other people and their expectations, it’s fine. It’s just how your life is. Take me. I own a flat, which I’ve decorated to my own taste. Everything’s arranged exactly as I want it, and there’s no one to tell me anything has to be different. It suits me perfectly – the decor, the furniture, everything. And now,’ she flung her hands in the air in mock horror, ‘I’m about to throw it all away. And for what?’

  ‘So you can wear a pretty ring?’ Matthew suggested with a smile.

  ‘You can keep your furniture, surely?’ Geraldine added seriously.

  ‘No, no, that is yes, of course I can keep my furniture. I didn’t mean I’d literally have to throw all my belongings out. That’s not the point. What I mean is, I’m giving up my freedom just because everyone is expected to get married and settle down and if I don’t get on
with it soon, the opportunity to have children will be lost, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Will you?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘Will I what?’

  ‘Will you regret not having children?’

  Ariadne shrugged. ‘I don’t know, do I? If I do have children, how do I know I won’t regret that? But then it’ll be too late.’

  Geraldine turned to Matthew. ‘You’ve got two children, haven’t you? What do you think?’

  ‘Well, all I can say is that until you have children, you have absolutely no idea what you’re letting yourself in for. Sleepless nights, constant worrying, and money disappearing faster than you can earn it. Not that I’d be without them,’ he added, smiling.

  ‘You must have some idea whether you want children or not,’ Geraldine said to Ariadne.

  Again, her friend shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose I want them more than I don’t want them. But that’s no reason to get married, is it?’

  Geraldine considered the question. It was probably why many women married, but she didn’t say so. Then again, there was no guarantee Ariadne and Nico would be able to have children. Ariadne was forty, and time must be running out for her. Shifting the subject away from such a difficult issue, she asked Ariadne if she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Nico.

  ‘The rest of my life? How am I supposed to know right now what I’m going to want to do for the rest of my life? Everyone keeps banging on about the rest of my life, but I’m struggling to decide what I want today. Nico knows what he wants. He wants us to get married. But how can anyone be that sure their relationship is going to last? He keeps promising he’ll always love me, but no one can know that. It’s not possible to be so sure.’

  ‘A lot of people must be sure, or no one would get married.’

  ‘Yes, and look how most marriages end up. No offence, Matthew,’ Ariadne added quickly.

  ‘None taken,’ he replied breezily.