She looked confused, the picture of innocence.
‘Your message.’
She nodded fast, as though she finally understood. Her last message. The one which had somehow managed, finally, to get his attention.
‘So …?’
She wanted to see him, she said. That was all. She missed him.
Conrad moved to sit down close to her. He was not totally convinced, but the words spoken softly were enough; the expression on her face which, once upon a time, had been enough to get anything she’d wanted from him. A wetness when she blinked and small teeth chewing at her bottom lip.
The words bubbled up and tumbled out.
‘I did something.’ As soon as he had said the words, Conrad realised how very much he had needed to, and the long breath he let out felt like poisonous air being released. ‘We did something. Sarah and me.’
She waited.
‘The worst thing …’
He told her everything, quickly, his eyes fixed on the floor and a tremor moving through him that he could not control. The boy on the beach, the teacher … the things he had not been able to stop himself doing. That in the … heat of everything he had wanted to do, because of her; because they had needed to share those moments.
‘It sounds stupid, but it was like someone taking you somewhere and there’s no going back, like … almost making you come,’ he said. ‘You know? There’s a point where you can’t stop it, when you’d do anything rather than stop it.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Christ …’
When he finally looked up, he saw that she had paled a little.
Her eyes were wide and dry.
She inched towards him and laid a hand gently on his arm. Conrad made no move away, welcomed it. ‘It’s been all over the papers and on TV,’ he said. ‘I don’t—’
‘Shush,’ she said.
‘They’ll have my fingerprints and my DNA.’ That tremor was building again. ‘There was so much blood.’
For a few seconds they said nothing, and then she began to talk quietly, her hand moving against his arm. She told him that she wanted to help. That she had always been there to help him. DNA would only ever be a problem, she said, if he was caught. If he did something stupid, or if his partner did. She said she knew him well enough to know that he was usually quite careful, so the only thing he really needed to worry about was someone else supplying the police with the information they needed. Someone coming forward with an anonymous tip-off, something like that.
Now, Conrad moved away and got to his feet. ‘What are you saying?’
She looked alarmed and told him that she wasn’t saying anything, that she was just laying it all out for him.
Conrad felt dizzy, delirious. That day in the coffee shop … now he knew for certain that he should have run.
She was just talking about possibilities, she said, worst case scenarios. After all, what did she know?
He could hardly believe that he’d once thought this woman’s smile was one of the sweetest, the sexiest, he’d ever seen. That she’d been irresistible.
What she did know, she told him calmly, was that he probably wouldn’t be ignoring her messages from now on.
She patted the cushion next to her and told him how tired he looked.
Conrad sat down again.
FORTY-TWO
Searching for something to listen to, Thorne flicked through the box of CDs he’d carted back from Helen’s. After a few minutes studying track listings, struggling to decide what mood he was in and to choose between his two favourite artists, he compromised. He put on George Jones Sings Hank Williams, then walked slowly from living room to bedroom before retracing his steps, unable to settle.
Three months since coming back here and the truth was, it still felt … strange.
What had he told Helen, a week and a half before? Sitting there like a visitor in her front room, drinking her beer while he tried to make sense of it all and making out the readjustment was really no big deal?
It’s just … my flat.
Which it was, of course, but though he had lived here for a long time before moving down to Helen’s place in Tulse Hill, the flat he had come back to had seemed very different from the one he’d left. Not simply the four walls, but the air moving within them. He had not been lying when he’d told Phil Hendricks how much he was enjoying being north of the river again, but for whatever reason, stepping back over his own threshold had not felt like coming home.
Largely, of course, it was because the place wasn’t the same as when he’d left it. It was disconcertingly … nice, for a kick-off. Renting out the flat – most recently to a pair of gormless-but-likeable uniforms from Kentish Town station – had meant tarting it up a good deal. A fresh coat of paint and some hardcore carpet cleaning; new crockery, cookware and linen; an assortment of stripy rugs and scatter cushions (all picked out by Helen) and several sacks of rubbish cleared from the weed-strewn arrangement of paving slabs and scrub that passed for a back garden.
Coming back here, there had been plenty that was familiar, of course, but far too much that wasn’t. Too many things around him that were unmarked, that meant nothing. Thorne knew the layout with his eyes closed: the number of steps from one room to another, the shape of every shadow thrown across the walls, yet he remained happier leaving the place every morning than he was coming back to it.
His key felt like the only thing that still fit.
Thorne was hungry but wasn’t sure he could be bothered to make himself anything to eat. He walked out into the hall and snatched up the paper he’d left on the table when he’d come in. He glanced through the TV listings, but there was nothing he fancied, so he drifted back into the living room, wondering if he should just get an early night.
The place felt different because he felt different, simple as that, but he still could not be sure what – aside from the obvious – had changed and how he felt about that. What he should do about it. Limbo was a fun thing to try if you were pissed at a party and didn’t mind making an idiot of yourself, but it wasn’t much fun as a place to be.
Thorne sat down on the sofa and picked up his phone.
He elbowed aside one of the cushions Helen had chosen, turned the music down and called her.
There was no reply, but this time he did not bother leaving a message. It was still too early for her to have gone to bed, so he guessed that Helen had pulled a late shift. Alfie being spoiled at Auntie Jenny’s …
He lay back and scrolled through his contacts list, well aware that it was modest compared to some and that there were far more pizza delivery places than was healthy. He stared at several contacts he no longer recognised and tried to remember who the hell they were, thought about deleting them, then kept on scrolling.
He stopped at the Ps and, without giving himself time to think about it too much, dialled a number.
Melita Perera was already laughing when she answered her phone. ‘Is this about your mother again?’
Thorne had kept her number on his phone since the cat-killing case and was pleasantly surprised to hear that she’d obviously kept his. He laughed, too. ‘No. Look, I’m sorry to disturb you at home … that’s if you are at home. Outside office hours, I mean.’
‘Well, I was watching Gogglebox, but I’ll live with it.’
‘My bad,’ Thorne said. Where on earth had that come from? He hated that expression.
‘No worries, it was a repeat, anyway. As long as I’ve still got one hand free to hold my wine glass.’
Thorne had no idea what Melita Perera’s domestic set-up was. He’d clocked the absence of a wedding ring seven months earlier but knew that didn’t mean a great deal either way. She certainly didn’t sound as if she was settled in with anyone for the night. He said, ‘What you told me the other day, when you were talking about the madness of two, all that.’
‘Folie à deux.’
‘Right.’ Thorne had been too embarrassed to say it in French. ‘The idea that one half of these couples is usually
dominant.’
‘Usually.’
‘You were talking about Brady and Hindley, saying how, with the couple we’re looking for, I shouldn’t make assumptions about which one was which.’
‘Has something happened?’
Thorne told Perera what Tanner had said to him. What Phil Hendricks had said to her. He heard her take a drink.
‘Well, remember that letter I told you about? The one Brady wrote to the Home Office? Aside from all the other stuff, he claimed that he covered up for Hindley in court and told her what to say, so that she might only get convicted of minor crimes.’
‘He didn’t do a very good job, then.’
‘No, he didn’t, and later on, when they were completely estranged, he hinted that Myra was directly involved in the killings themselves, some of them, anyway. That she’d done rather more than simply lure the victims to him.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure we’ll ever know,’ she said. ‘But I think the assumption that, in cases like this, it’s always the male half of the couple that actually carries out the murders themselves, is … naïve.’
‘So, perfectly possible that Sarah killed Gemma Maxwell?’
‘In the right circumstances, women are every bit as capable as men of something like that.’
Thorne knew from first-hand experience what Perera was talking about.
‘Is there any possibility that she might have carried out both the murders?’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Thorne said. ‘We got the man’s DNA from the first murder weapon.’
‘It’s interesting …’
‘What is?’
‘That they’re sharing them out.’ There were a few seconds of silence, then Thorne heard her swallow. ‘His turn next, then.’
‘You think there’ll be a next?’
‘I wouldn’t bet against it,’ she said. ‘It’s what defines their relationship by the sound of things. Keeps it strong, keeps them together.’
They talked for a few minutes more, after that: shrinks who treated other shrinks; the benefits of bad TV when it came to shaking off the stresses of a busy day at work; better bars in which they could meet up again, should they need to. She sounded genuinely keen to be kept up to date with developments in the case and Thorne promised that he would do so.
‘I’ll try to do it when Gogglebox isn’t on,’ he said.
‘That would be appreciated.’
When Thorne had put his phone down, he turned the music back up, walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He dug out the ingredients to knock up an omelette and a can of beer to drink with it. He felt in a much better mood, suddenly, lighter on his feet.
He cracked eggs into a bowl and sang tunelessly along as the Possum belted out ‘Take These Chains From My Heart’.
It was almost certainly down to that.
FORTY-THREE
She made sure that dinner was waiting for Conrad when he got home.
Sarah had never thought of herself as much of a cook – how often had the arsehole she’d been married to confirmed it? – but she was trying to make the effort, because she knew how much Conrad loved his food. It was nothing fancy, just a pasta thing with chicken in a spicy sauce, but she thought he would appreciate it.
‘This looks great,’ he said.
She’d gone the extra yard in laying the table, too; napkins and candles, the lot. Wasn’t that the kind of thing they always said in those magazines, about keeping a relationship alive? Treating every night as if it was a first date, something like that. Mind you, they hadn’t had sex on their first date and she was certainly hoping that was on the cards.
If the food didn’t work, she knew what would, the other things he liked to eat.
Conrad sat down and she brought the plates across.
‘I’m starving,’ he said.
She went back and fetched beer for them both.
He was already busy with the salt and pepper by the time Sarah sat down, which she thought was rude considering he hadn’t even tasted it yet. She bit her tongue and said, ‘Long day?’
They began to eat.
He grunted and swallowed. ‘Yeah.’ He immediately took another mouthful. ‘This is fantastic, by the way.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Yeah … it’s shaping up, I reckon.’
‘That’s brilliant.’ She raised her glass and held it towards him.
‘Could be a nice little payday.’ He leaned across and touched his glass to hers. ‘So, I thought maybe we could treat ourselves, go away somewhere if it all comes good.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said.
He laid his fork down. ‘Listen, I wanted to say sorry for being funny with you before, when you were asking questions about the new woman I’ve got lined up. Getting a bit tetchy, like it was none of your business.’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m—’
‘Because it is your business, right? Everything I do … how the hell could it not be? The first few days can be tricky, that’s all it is. I’m always a bit jumpy early on, when I’m trying to get everything in place, making sure I’m not doing anything stupid. So … sorry.’
He smiled and she caught her breath, because whatever else he had to say, however this panned out, that crooked smile still killed her.
‘It’s my fault, too,’ she said.
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I tell you you’ve got every right to keep that side of things to yourself, have your own life, then I try and stick my oar in.’
He waved her concerns away. ‘Doesn’t matter whose fault it is, because now I’ve got things almost ready to go, I can tell you all about it.’ He grinned. ‘All about her.’
‘You sure?’
‘You deserve to know.’
She said, ‘OK, if you want.’ Like it was entirely up to him, like there was no pressure.
He picked up his beer and leaned back. ‘So … her name’s Vanessa Anderson and she lives in Clapham. I met her in a bookshop, believe it or not … just sat down and started chatting about nothing.’
Sarah laughed. ‘Your signature move.’
‘Right,’ Conrad said. ‘Anyway, she does … something in the City. I still haven’t worked out what, exactly, but there’s plenty of money sloshing around. Her husband died a few years ago, left her loads of it.’
Sarah nodded, hanging on every word, all thoughts of the food forgotten. She had not been particularly hungry, anyway. The candles threw weird shadows across his face as he talked and she could not recall ever seeing him quite so animated, so excited.
It made something turn in her stomach.
‘How old is she?’
‘She’s fifty-three … no, fifty-four. That’s right, she said she’d just had a birthday.’
‘Oh, so you’re a toyboy now, then?’
Conrad laughed. ‘Yeah, I suppose I am. She looks pretty good on it, though, I’ll give her that much. It’s always a bit easier if they don’t look like the back of a bus.’
‘So, what have you got in mind?’
‘Not sure yet,’ he said.
‘What about the film thing?’
He looked at her.
‘You know, the screenplay and the fake letters? I think that one’s my favourite.’
‘Yeah … that might not be a bad idea. She definitely likes films.’ He knocked back his beer and began to eat again. ‘So come on then, where do you fancy going? When she pays out.’
‘I don’t know.’ Sarah pushed her food around the plate. ‘It all depends when, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah, course.’
‘I’ll have to organise it around school,’ she said. ‘Because I really don’t want to disrupt Jamie when he’s just started at a new place.’ She looked across and saw something in his face she did not care for at all, but it was there and gone. ‘Maybe we could just go away for the weekend or something.’
While they finished eating, she told him how everything had gone
over in Woodford: the journey; the chit-chat at the school gates; the stubby woman with the perm who was shaping up to be her new BFF, for the foreseeable future at least. When they were done, they carried the dirty plates out to the kitchen and Sarah watched Conrad stack the dishwasher.
He seemed happy, rather too pleased with himself.
She said, ‘So, what exactly does she look like? This Vanessa. Is she tall? Short …?’
Conrad stood up and shut the dishwasher door. ‘She’s … about the same height as you, I think. Brown hair …’
‘And where does she live again?’
‘I told you, Clapham.’ He shook his head. ‘Bit of a schlep all the way down there, but—’
‘Her address, I mean, the name of the road. Does she live in a house or a flat? What’s it like inside? I’m presuming you’ve been inside? Does she drive, and if she does, what kind of car has she got? What kind of restaurants does she like? Has she got any kids? What are their names? Are her parents still alive? What did they do?’ She gave him a few seconds, then began to snap her fingers. ‘Come on, these aren’t difficult questions, are they? I mean, you’ve got her all lined up, you said. Ready to go, you said. Come on, Conrad …’
She stared at him, watched his brain working, desperately trying to dredge up answers that she knew were not there to be found.
Finally, he opened his mouth, but she was already flying at him.
She hit him hard across the side of the head and he staggered back against the worktop. He shouted and moved to grab hold of her arm as she went for him again, so she used the other hand, balled it into a fist and began to pummel his neck, his face.
‘You piece of shit … lying cunt …’
He took hold of her wrist and turned his head away, angling his body to avoid the kicks aimed at his lower legs, the knees aimed at his groin. He told her to calm down, asked her what the hell this was about, but she shouted over him, the spit flying as she ranted and struggled.
‘Who do you think you fucking are? Who do you think I am? Have you got any idea what I can do? You think you can lie to me like I won’t know … you fucking low-life … like you might get away with it? Nobody does that to me, nobody.’
Their Little Secret Page 19
