What had he done to win her heart?
Had he taken her for day’s out? No.
Had he treated her like a princess? No.
Had he listened to her when she was upset over the smallest thing? No.
Had he cleaned her knee and put a plaster on it after she tripped and fell? No.
Had he taken advantage of a vulnerable fifteen year old and fucked her? Yes.
So by my math her heart belonged to me and not that piece of shit Adam. I’d always vowed that I wouldn’t hurt her and that still stood. I knew that to have her heart she couldn’t very well live but that didn’t mean I had to be a sadist. No I would make her death painless, but first I wanted to have what was mine.
It was nearly five thirty and still there was no sign of her. I went to the fridge where I had placed a bottle of champagne. I popped the cork and poured out two glasses (I still had hope) and in one of them I placed a tablet. On its own it wouldn’t do her too much harm, she would be aware of what was happening but unable to move or speak. On the street it was known as the date rape drug, or rohypnol.
I barely had chance to return to my chair when there was a knock at the door, “Come in.” I said, my heart nearly leapt from my chest as the words reverberated in my head. This was it, this was what all the build up had been for. I hoped I didn’t falter when I saw her, that was my biggest fear.
The door began to open and a lone foot with a white Nike trainer was the first part of her over the threshold. She strode in confidently, her body in a pair of blue Levi 501’s and a white blouse with silver pattern on the back.
“Hello!” She called out.
I rose from my chair and discreetly closed the door behind her as she walked toward the kitchen area. We were now shut in until the handle I’d hidden could be put back on. “Hello Amy.” She spun round startled, then her face lit up and I remembered why I loved her. Those eyes under other circumstances would have been working their magic, But I was too committed to be swayed by them though I couldn’t let her see that just yet.
“Pinky?” I could see puzzlement in those eyes.
“How are you? When I saw your name on the list I knew I had to be the one to welcome you when you arrived.” I went to her and hugged her, I pulled her close so I could feel her heart beat and she responded to my touch. It was like it used to be between us.
“You work for the university?” We were still hugging as she asked. Then she held me at arms length and looked me up and down. “You look good Pinky, life is obviously agreeing with you.”
“Me! Look at you all grown up, you must be eighteen now, right?” I had to admit she looked good and a huge part of me was sad when I considered the outcome of tonight. And her smell, the scent of Giorgio bought back many memories from happier times. I inhaled until my senses could take no more. Sensory overload wouldn’t help me with what had to be done. I would have loved to have chatted with her long into the night but knew it could never happen. In a few hours she was under the illusion that she would be attending an event for students enrolled on the midwifery course at the University of East Anglia. As there was no such event planned it would be difficult to keep her here much longer without her suspicions being raised. The time had come. “Would you like a glass of Champagne? I took the liberty of pouring two glasses, I hope that was okay?” I tried to sound both upbeat and vulnerable in the hope she wouldn’t refuse, ‘plan b’ was an injection of the drug I’d secreted in one of the kitchen cabinets – I was hoping there would be no need for it.
“Sure, why not. It’s a couple of hours until I have to be over in the clubhouse for the ‘get to know you thing’ it will be nice to catch up.”
I walked over to the breakfast bar where I’d left the two glasses not five minutes ago. The bubbles were still fizzing as I handed one to Amy which she gratefully accepted. I held up my glass “Cheers to old friends” I proposed as she raised her glass to clink with mine. “Let’s sit for a while, we have a bit of time don’t we?” I asked as I made my way to the couch. I took a sip of the cold liquid and she followed suit. It would take about five minutes for the drug to work once she’d ingested enough of it, luckily she appeared to be thirsty and was asking for a refill, I was barely through half of mine. I grabbed the bottle and placed it on the coffee table in front of us after dutifully refilling her glass.
“So what have you been up to since I last saw you?” I asked her, the glaze in her eyes was already starting and I could tell she was already trying to fight the effects of the drug.
“Studying mainly, I’ve been in sixth form for the last two years for my ‘A’ levels. I needed three to get on my course.” She put her glass on the table, I could tell it was from a sense of not trusting her own body to continue holding it without dropping it. She leant back into the sofa “I think the Champagne has gone straight to my head.” Those were the last words she ever uttered.
After that it was all in her eyes, the same eyes I had drowned in for all those years now had a scared look. I could see them trying to take in her surroundings, she didn’t know what was happening to her. I’d read up on the drug and knew that just about now her mind could take in everything that was going on but her body would not respond to anything her brain told it to do. I couldn’t imagine the fear and frustration that must have been going through her head. It must be torture not being able to communicate what you wanted to do or say. This was the feeling my body had gone through more than three years ago, that night I opened the door and watched my precious Amy getting fucked like a cheap whore. Now at least she would be able to comprehend some small part of what I went through that night.
A commotion in the cell opposite dragged him out of his intense memory of that night. He could have killed for being disturbed, he was just beginning to get into his story of Amy’s last night, he placed his hand in his lap and discovered he was rock solid and he hadn’t even got to the best part of the story, he was certain that he wouldn’t be able to contain himself once he got to some of the more intense moments of that night. He listened and there appeared to be an argument in process between the new inmate and Chef, it was unusual for Chef to get worked up. He listened to what was being said, but that wasn’t what struck him first – it was the smell.
A pool of urine was outside her cell, the smell was reminiscent of the subway under Exchange Road in Watford that he remembered from his youth. The floor between the cells was littered with what he could only imagine were her faeces. This was all he needed, it meant yet more delay to his book. He was still set on his Christmas deadline even if it killed him – or maybe that should be if he had to kill someone to be able to finish.
It was nearly an hour until the cleanup crew arrived, the guards were not allowed to do it due to the strict health and safety rules and the union also forbade them from doing such work. By the time they’d finished xxx was naked in her cell and refusing to dress herself until Chef admitted the possibility that she was telling the truth and was in fact innocent. They all knew that she wasn’t, you didn’t end up at a place like xxx if there was even the remotest possibility you were anything but guilty.
“Put some fucking clothes on, no one wants to see what you’ve got.” Pinky shouted at her.
“Why the fuck should I ‘Pinky-Dinky with his little winky?’” She sang the last bit, she did it because she knew it annoyed the fuck out of him. One of the other inmates had told her the story of how he got his nickname. When or if he found out who told her he would make them regret it.
He looked across as she brazenly stood at the front of her cell without a stitch on. “Where do you want me to start? Those gnarly feet with the fungal infected nails, or the Sasquatch legs leading to that old dried shrivelled cunt hiding behind that matted clump of foul smelling undergrowth. Or what about those saggy bags hanging from where you’re breasts should be. And don’t get me started on the rotten stench from your mouth with those yellow stumps you call teeth.” His blood was boiling, he could feel his heart rate risin
g and knew that if he didn’t stop he was likely to give himself a coronary. Whatever part she took offence to it appeared to work, she retreated back into her cell and climbed under her covers. Then the sobs began and in some remote part of his soul he felt bad for what he’d said to her, but for the most part he was happy the bitch was crying.
He looked down at his desk knowing that there was little to no chance of any more meaningful words getting written. Instead he doodled on the sheet of paper with the large love heart with the arrow through it and the words Amy Cooper Forever written above and below in black ink. He added some more hearts to the page and some random symbols. He kept the sheet beside him whenever he wrote, it was his inspiration. It may be covered in coffee stains and even a splatter of blood from a paper cut but he was still adamant it was what would eventually be the front cover of his book.
It was mid December now so he knew he had very little time to finish his book. He thought he maybe had two chapters to write. He knew nothing about proofreading, or editing or even the little things like spell checking and grammar. He believed that when he wrote the last word his next step was to send it to a publisher. He’d decided that Harper Collins were going to be the lucky publishing house that would get the privilege of creating his words into a book. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of rejection, why would any sane person pass up the chance to cash in on his masterpiece. He knew people would want to read what he had written. He also knew that once his masterpiece was released his world would change beyond recognition. There would be interviews and signings, he would be famous. For what he had accomplished in his life he should already have been famous. It had always annoyed him that certain crimes were splattered over the papers and nowadays the web. Crimes involving children or vulnerable groups always attracted the most media attention, but a single murder barely made it in the first half dozen pages. No, today the youth were more interested in who was wearing what or who was doing who. It didn’t even seem to matter that most of the people they cared about weren’t even proper celebrities, they were realty stars who’d had five minutes of fame. Pinky knew that once his book was out there he would be viewed in a completely different light. He would be revered up there with the greats, the Jeffrey Dahmers and the Ted Bundys of the world. He would have the credit and notoriety for one of the sickest crimes of the nineties.
THIRTY EIGHT
Friday 1st December 2017
Sian sat there surrounded by boxes, she really didn’t have the will or the energy to unpack any more. The bungalow was her dream, as much as she’d loved living in Yarmouth where everything was within easy reach this place was home. As soon as she walked over the threshold that first time she viewed it she knew she had to have it. The building was constructed of timber, it had a wraparound veranda just like the houses in America she’d seen pictures of. Two decent sized bedrooms meant she could still have a workspace. The main area of the bungalow was open plan and a large airy space. But what had really made her want it was the view – her front veranda was wide enough for garden furniture from where she could look out on the North Sea.
On the way to her new home this morning she’d picked up a couple more bottles of Merlot, one of which sat beside her on the floor, the other was already empty on the kitchen worktop. She was still thinking of the two fit blokes that moved her, it turned out the really fit one was gay and the other was married. It was getting close to eleven o’clock when she picked up her glass and the second bottle and took it to her bedroom. She wasn’t tired but at least she could be comfortable, her mattress was in there on the floor and she had unpacked her quilt and a couple of pillows.
One box sat next to the bed, the very same archive box she had been obsessed with last night. The same file still haunted her tonight, she’d intended on dropping by the station after moving in and running her theory past her DCI, but had begun to have doubts. Most of her theory was based on conjecture and her own opinions. What she didn’t have was any hard evidence, his semen and fibres had been found in the chalet, could they be explained away? What she needed was to prove some kind of motive, even if she could link him to Amy Cooper in some way. Before she took this to her superiors she would try to figure out if she could connect Philip Thorne to Amy Cooper.
She looked around the room, one of the things she would change about her knew home was the décor, the floral wallpaper really didn’t fit with her vision of log cabin living. She removed her sweatpants and realised that she’d forgotten she’d gone commando, not that it mattered she was alone and she just needed to get out of these clothes. She lifted the t-shirt over her head and stood naked, she grabbed her Norwich City shirt from the mattress and pulled it on, the smell of fabric conditioner pleasant to her nose after the two day old clothes she’d been wearing.
With the soft mattress beneath her she took a long swig of her wine before taking the lid off the archive box once more. She wanted to go over what she thought she’d worked out just to get it straight in her head. Maybe she was wrong, she was tired and exhausted last night, maybe she’d seen things that weren’t really there. Did she see things that suited what she wanted to believe or was she justified in her summation? She had a week before she was back at work, she would use the time to make her case. She picked up her glass of wine having decided she wasn’t ready to confront the box, she was restless. Sleep was not going to come anytime soon either so she thought she would make the most of her new homes location. She looked at the bottle of red and thought ‘fuck it I’m on holiday’ and grabbed it with her free hand.
Out on her veranda she looked out at the sea, the cool air whipped around her legs but she didn’t mind, it was exhilarating. She realised that she hadn’t felt this good in a long time. As she made her way down the steps the wood beneath her feet was still warm from the unseasonable afternoon sun. Her feet hit the sand and the grains engulfed them without thought, it was maybe twenty metres to the water’s edge, the sound of the gently breaking waves made its way to her.
The glass and bottle were still gripped in their respective hands but she decided to leave the glass on the steps (after downing the last of the liquid) and just carry on with the bottle. The cold water was calling to her, ever since she was a little girl the beach had held a special place in her heart. The sand in her knickers, the touch of her father’s hand holding hers and the salt air all conjured up happy memories from her childhood. As the water’s edge got closer the air chilled, she became aware of how little she was wearing. Her nipples had hardened to the point of bursting, the spray from the ocean stabbed at her legs causing goosebumps the size of peas. But she loved it, the cold, the pain and eroticism of the moment. With the bottle pressed to her lips she drank heavily from its contents. A wave broke over her ankle, cold bit at her flesh, she was alive for the first time in a long time. She stared out at the ocean and cried, for as long as she could remember her life had been a system of going through the motions. Work, sleep, sex with random strangers picked up in bars, she was fifty-three and she had to start living life on her terms. With her arms wrapped around her bent knees, her bum firmly planted in the sand and the empty wine bottle planted neck deep next to her she started going over in her mind why she thought the young rookie PC Philip Thorne was the man that got away with murder.
It must have been half an hour before she realised the water had covered twelve inches of her lower half, her feet and ankles were numb. She stood up and as she did her legs barely kept her upright. She wobbled for a few seconds and she didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the numbing effects of the salt water that was doing it. She walked back up the beach as the wine bottle was dragged out to sea, her soaked shirt was tugged over her head as she entered the house. She walked across the open space naked with her body shaking from the cold. The convulsions were making it hard for her to breath as she turned on the shower and waited for it to heat up, she let it get as hot as she could bare before stepping in. The water hit every inch as her head tilted upwards and welco
med the pain from the heat. Eventually she turned the water off and wrapped herself in a towel, she was done for the day. Discarding the towel she climbed beneath the quilt, as her head hit the pillow she was out like a light. Tomorrow would be another day.
THIRTY NINE
Sunday 3rd December 2017
It was the third night she’d sat and gone over the same files, each time thinking she had the answer then realising she didn’t. That wasn’t strictly true, she believed she knew the answer, what she couldn’t do at the moment was prove it. Every way she looked at it there seemed to be one course of action. She needed to talk to the one person that may be able to enlighten her. The same man she had helped incarcerate twenty five years ago, a man whose life she realised she may have ruined. Out on her porch, glass of wine in hand she picked up Adam’s original interview transcript from the day he was picked up and arrested, it had been just before Christmas nineteen-ninety-three.
The transcript started with all of the formalities then the questioning started in earnest.
Interviewer: Are you Adam Spencer?
Suspect: Yes
Interviewer: Were you staying at the Belle Vista Chalet Park between the second of July and the fourth of July nineteen-ninety-three?
Suspect: Yes
Interviewer: Can you tell me what you did from when you arrived up until the time you left? Don’t leave anything out.
Suspect: I got to the park about two thirty on the Friday, I picked the key up from reception and went to my chalet. It was about quarter to three. I went for a walk about four down to the beach, then I went to a pub for a couple of pints. It was six when I got back to my chalet. I had a shower and got ready for my night out. The car was supposed to pick me up from the reception at seven-thirty, I got there at seven-twenty. I waited there until eight, then I checked my invitation to see if there was a number to call. There was no number so I asked in reception for a yellow pages. I looked up ‘Angel Promotions’ but there was no listing.
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