He turned suddenly to face her, let go of her arms and pushed her back hard against the kitchen table.
His face was flushed, his eyes blazing.
He pointed at her and said, ‘Go careful now, all right? I think you know exactly what I can do, because you’re the one who made me do it.’
They stared at each other for half a minute until their breathing had almost returned to normal. He tensed, ready to fight when she moved quickly towards him, but this time her arms snaked around his neck and her face was wet against his chest as she gasped out the words between sobs.
‘I’m sorry … oh, Christ, I’m so sorry, my love. Please …’
Sarah sank to her knees, her face sliding down his body until it was pressed into his stomach, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. ‘It’s only because I love you … you know that, don’t you? That I get like this. I wouldn’t get so jealous, so worked up and so stupid, if you weren’t … everything. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked out right now, if you ghosted me like I was just one of your dull bitches, but I swear I won’t ever get jealous again and I promise I’ll always believe you.’
Her high-pitched keen softened to a moan as she felt Conrad’s hand settle on the top of her head, as he began to stroke her hair.
‘I swear to you, my love. I swear on my son’s life …’
FORTY-FOUR
It was not often that Thorne looked forward to a morning spent giving evidence in court, but then there weren’t too many cases as frustrating as this one was proving to be: the hunt for a murderous couple who might decide at any time to spice up their relationship with another marriage ‘ceremony’ and about whom Thorne still knew next to nothing.
So … best suit and tie on. Blah blah blah in the witness box for an hour or so. Job done.
It had felt like a holiday.
They trotted down the steps of the Central Criminal Court, ignored the reporter from London Tonight delivering the obligatory piece to camera, and turned east towards St Paul’s. It was cold but bright and, ten minutes into lunch hour, Newgate was almost as thick with pedestrians as it was with cars and buses. Normally, Tanner walked quickly enough to make keeping up with her something of an effort, but today she seemed content to take her time.
Not quite dawdling, but about as close as she ever got.
‘Now, that’s how things should be.’ Like Thorne, Tanner had been giving evidence in the trial of three men charged with a series of stabbings in Tottenham towards the end of the previous year. She dropped her phone into her bag and glanced back, almost longingly, towards the bronze figure of Lady Justice perched atop the dome of the Old Bailey.
Thorne knew exactly what she meant. With the exception of the paperwork – which Thorne had eventually managed to complete – the entire case had been about as straightforward as anyone bar the accused could have wished for. Murder weapons found, plastered with enough forensic material to keep the cast of Silent Witness busy for an entire series. Damning expert testimony, corroborating mobile phone evidence and fake alibis that a traffic warden could have broken. They could not guarantee that the outcome would be the one they and the relatives of the murder victims wanted, but they were fairly confident.
‘Going our way, you reckon?’ Tanner asked.
‘Be amazed if it didn’t,’ Thorne said.
Back at the office, DS Samir Karim who, as always, was running a book on the trial, was offering 25/1 against a ‘not guilty’ verdict but had yet to find any takers.
Tanner and Thorne had both been around long enough to know that not all cases went as smoothly as this one had, but the majority of investigations made progress of sorts, however tortoise-like. Most could truthfully be described as ongoing. With the Kevin Deane and Gemma Maxwell murders, the team could do little but sit around and hope the Evidence Fairy was in a good mood.
They walked past Christ Church Greyfriars and, a minute or so further on, the entrance to the Stock Exchange, its windows reflecting sunshine that was half-arsed, but doing its best.
‘I called Helen last night,’ Thorne said.
‘And?’
‘She wasn’t in.’
Tanner looked at him. ‘I’ve heard better stories.’
‘Just trying to make conversation,’ Thorne said. ‘I mean, we don’t always have to talk about work.’
‘I don’t.’
Now it was Thorne’s turn to look.
A few yards further on, Tanner said, ‘See anything good on the box last night?’
Thorne tried to remember what he had watched after the call to Melita Perera, after that omelette he’d cobbled together. ‘Premiership highlights,’ he said. ‘Watford against Burnley.’
‘Anything good, I said.’
‘What about you?’
‘Fell asleep on the sofa in front of Newsnight.’
‘Bloody hell, we lead exciting lives,’ Thorne said.
‘Suits me,’ Tanner said.
She glanced at him and Thorne caught enough of her expression to know exactly what she was thinking about, though she had not alluded to it directly, because she never did. It was not how he would have described the events of seven months before, though anyone witnessing it – and thank God only he and Tanner had – might have thought very differently.
It had certainly been enough excitement to last both of them several lifetimes.
Ten minutes later, waiting on a busy platform at St Paul’s, Tanner talked in more detail about the expansion of the house-to-house that had begun while they were busy in court. She said that she was still hopeful. Dipak Chall had already talked to the landlord of the Blacksmith and Toffeemaker, and though the man had not recognised the e-fit of their male suspect, Chall was set to return to the pub that evening and talk to some of the regulars.
Thorne made supportive noises, but he could already hear the rattle and rumble of the tube train approaching and was thinking about the woman who had stood waiting on a different platform four weeks before.
The start of all this.
Suddenly he felt every bit as hot and headachy as he had been that morning at Highgate, wondering what had been going through Philippa Goodwin’s mind as she heard that same thunder growing louder every second.
The train rushed past him; squealing, slowing.
‘Looks like we’ll get a seat,’ Tanner said.
Thorne nodded, trying to blink the image away, but that body-bag still sagged as it was lifted.
Having changed trains at Tottenham Court Road, they emerged twenty minutes later into the open air at Hendon Central and, like everyone else in the carriage, Thorne and Tanner reached immediately for their mobiles. The alert on Thorne’s phone sounded within seconds. By the time he’d listened to the message and was returning the call, he had begun to think that, just maybe, the Evidence Fairy had got out of the right side of the bed that morning.
The officer from ActionFraud explained that they had been looking through reports on unsolved cases from the last few years, checking any physical descriptions of reported fraudsters that might tally with that given by the Fultons or, failing that, with the e-fit generated by the Brooklands Hill parents.
‘Got one that looks pretty close,’ the officer said. ‘Victim seems to think so, anyway. Thought you might want to talk to the woman concerned.’
Thorne listened, then asked the officer to text him the full contact details.
‘What?’ Tanner asked, when the call had ended.
He explained. ‘So, fancy a trip to Glasgow?’
‘That’s probably going to mean an overnight.’
‘Could do.’
‘I’ll have to get someone to feed the cat.’
Thorne stared out of the window at a scrubby verge sloping towards a spray-painted metal fence, at the brown and grey vista of crowded car parks and warehouses beyond.
‘What was I saying about our exciting lives …?’
FORTY-FIVE
It was a journey Conrad had little choice about makin
g whenever he was summoned, but after what had happened the night before, it had felt good to get away. Today, it felt like a relief; to go and spend some time with a woman who, however much she had him by the short and curlies, he didn’t think was capable of losing it in quite the way Sarah had done.
Jesus, talk about a rock and a hard place.
She had woken him with a blow job, like it would make up for the stinging ear and the bruise on his cheek, and he wasn’t much looking forward to explaining that to the woman he was on his way to see. Breakfast in bed afterwards, then more tearful apologies for the shameful way she’d behaved, while she got herself dolled up for the school run.
The school run? Christ on a bike …
He wondered if perhaps she’d caught the look on his face when they’d been having dinner, when she’d been talking about having to arrange their getaway around school dates. He always did his best to keep a blank expression whenever she mentioned the kid, to pretend he thought that everything was perfectly normal, but maybe, for once, he hadn’t quite managed it. That had certainly been his first thought when she’d gone for him the way she had, that he’d crossed some line to do with her being a mother, or whatever.
Like that was the one thing she could never forgive.
That was until she’d lost the plot and kicked off good and proper, laying into him like she’d have happily taken his eyes out and screaming about being lied to. How dare he, all that. Once he’d got over the shock and made sure she couldn’t do him any more damage, that had been what really pissed him off, because up until then he’d thought he was making a pretty decent fist of it. The story he’d put together the day before, knowing he had to, because he could sense she was getting suspicious. ‘Vanessa’ and the rest of it. Then, suddenly, it was like a switch being flicked inside her head and she was all over him again, wailing and saying it was all because she was jealous, on account of just how much she loved him, how much he meant to her.
Pulling him down to the kitchen floor, kissing him and everything else.
I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …
His head had been spinning by then, and not just because of how many times she’d smacked him.
‘Shit …’ The car in front had taken too long pulling away from lights and now Conrad had missed the chance to go through.
He slammed his hands against the steering wheel.
He kept on slamming them.
He screamed until he had no breath left, turned and smacked his fist into the window.
How the fuck could he have let himself get sucked into all this? He’d always called the shots, been the one controlling the situation, however much whatever woman he’d been involved with might have believed otherwise. Now, he was … pinned down.
How could you love someone this much and be at their mercy?
That first time, the business at the beach, it was as though he’d been drugged up or something, and he might just as well have been. He’d been high on her, all over the place, and picking up that rock had felt like nothing at all. By the time the comedown had hit and he was able to really think about what he’d done, it was too late. He was hers and they had become this … thing, and there was nothing he could do about it. When she’d said they needed to pay a visit to that teacher, he’d had to go along with it, hadn’t he?
Had to, wanted to … he wasn’t sure there was much difference any more.
He pulled slowly away from the lights and tried to calm himself, because he couldn’t turn up in this state, could he?
If Sarah was done with all the bad stuff … if they could settle, wasn’t there a chance they could move past what had happened? Years from now they could be different people in a different place, another country maybe, and what they’d done on that beach and in that teacher’s house would just be like scenes in some scary film they’d once watched together.
Things they would both pretend to have forgotten.
Clutching at straws was something else he didn’t have a lot of choice about.
Fifteen minutes later, when Conrad rang the bell, he touched his finger to the bruise on his cheekbone and swore out loud. He was every bit as pinned down here, too. There wasn’t much point in telling her he’d walked into a door or anything, because this one knew when he was lying every bit as well as Sarah did.
It didn’t much matter what she thought in the end, the fun she’d have, whatever shit she’d make him eat. She’d love every minute of it and how could he honestly say she didn’t deserve that much, at least?
She’d laugh and she’d call him a pussy and he’d let her.
Because he was.
*
In the end, following Conrad had not proved particularly tricky. Sarah had watched enough cop shows to know that it was best to stay a couple of vehicles behind, and even though she’d lost sight of his car once or twice – missed lights or whatever – it wasn’t very hard to find him again. She’d set up the Find My iPhone thing, so with a couple of taps she could see what road he was on, even if she didn’t know exactly where he was going.
She had a rough idea, of course, because she’d tracked him using the phone before.
She knew damn well it wasn’t Clapham.
He was showered and dressed when she’d got back from the school run, getting ready to set off, so she’d taken the opportunity to lavish plenty more affection on him before he left. It was another chance to show him just how sorry she was. She was sorry, for losing control, for attacking him the way she had, but she wasn’t sorry about calling him a liar because that’s exactly what he was.
He was the one doing the betraying.
He was the one keeping secrets.
He was the one threatening everything they had.
By the end of the journey, she’d been close enough to watch Conrad park and walk back, had seen him ring the bell and go in. She had no idea how long he would be inside, of course, but he’d told her he’d be home by the time she got back from picking Jamie up, so she was hopeful it wouldn’t be too long.
Plenty of time for him to do what he was there for, presumably.
More than once, if she hadn’t worn him out the night before.
She parked her own car round a corner then walked back to a café from where she would be able to sit and watch the front door. She ordered tea and opened the magazine she’d brought with her.
Absolutely Mama: For Stylish Mums.
It wasn’t as if she enjoyed spying and sneaking around. The truth was that, much as she loved him, much as she would be utterly lost without him, she actually resented Conrad a little for making her behave this way. Forcing her hand like this. All she wanted was a nice quiet life, just the three of them ticking along like any other family, and now, just when they were in a position to do and be exactly that, he’d thrown a dirty big spanner in the works.
Special as he was, just another bloke who couldn’t keep it in his pants.
Sarah was simply not willing to sit back and watch everything fall apart, not again, not when it was so perfect. She’d do whatever it took to save Conrad from himself, to save all of them. In spite of what he was doing, she was in no doubt that he still loved her, so she was confident that he would understand. Theirs was no ordinary relationship, not even close, so how could he not?
He would do the same thing in her position, she was certain of that.
He would thank her, by the end.
Just over two hours later, when she’d read her magazine cover to cover and drunk more tea than she should have – considering she was unable to leave her seat in the window – Sarah saw the front door open. She watched Conrad step out on to the street, though annoyingly there was no glimpse of the woman he’d been visiting.
No tender farewell, no kiss on the doorstep …
She paid her bill, but stayed where she was for five minutes longer, until she was certain he’d have driven away. She checked the app on her phone to be on the safe side and saw that he was heading ho
me again.
Then she took the envelope she’d brought with her from her bag.
Walking across the road, she still could not decide what to write on the front. She was sure the woman wasn’t called Vanessa, but had no idea what her name actually was. She’d toyed with putting Conrad’s whore, but decided, in the end, to leave it blank. The woman wouldn’t be able to resist picking it up and opening it, whatever it said.
She hesitated, just for a few moments, outside the front door.
She could always just ring the bell and confront the woman, make her feelings known there and then. It was probably not a risk worth taking, though, she decided.
The bitch smiling at her, stinking of him …
Who knew what might happen?
She slipped the envelope under the door, turned away and walked back towards her car. The note was a much better idea, anyway. A message that was short and to the point, that would make the poor woman’s position abundantly clear to her.
HE WILL KILL YOU IF I ASK HIM TO.
FORTY-SIX
Carrying a mug of Earl Grey through from the kitchen to the sitting room, Tanner glanced at her bag, packed and ready by the front door. It had been sitting there for several hours already, because she’d done her packing as soon as she’d got home. She knew very well how predictable her behaviour was and how much Thorne would enjoy taking the piss, but she didn’t really care. It was worth doing these things properly and in good time, so as to avoid silly mistakes. An important document forgotten, a phone charger, whatever. She had made a stupid mistake during the major investigation seven months before, and though she couldn’t swear that it had led in any way to what had eventually happened – because she’d been over it in her head a thousand times and it almost certainly hadn’t – it wasn’t something she was keen to repeat.
She had never quite understood exactly what it was that you were supposed to learn from mistakes. That you were fallible? That maybe you were working too hard?
Tanner learned never to make them again, simple as that.
Their Little Secret Page 20
