by Emmy Ellis
That probably wouldn’t make any difference, they’d kill him to shut him up, but he’d give it a try. What else was there?
His hands made themselves right at home around her skinny neck, and he was momentarily taken aback about how good it felt. He thought of Rosie killing Shaun, how she must have felt the same—the insane need to obliterate, to make the problem go away, fuck the consequences, just die, you fucker. Janice’s eyes bulged, her tongue appeared to swell, and she brought her hands up to try to get his off her. A reflex action.
He didn’t need his DNA beneath her nails no matter if the twins were getting rid of her, but if they didn’t, Clarke would have to dump her himself, and he couldn’t risk a connection between them. The thought of that sent him panicky, so he kneed her in the crotch and hoped it hurt as much as a kick in the balls. Her arms dropped immediately to the affected area, and she gurgled out a stream of unintelligible words, useless sounds, tongue getting ever bigger.
He fancied she asked for her mother, that wretch of a bitch he’d spoken to, one who hadn’t cared if her son ever darkened her door, one he didn’t want to speak to again, but now… Things were different.
Clarke squeezed on. Why was it taking so long?
They said your life could change in an instant, didn’t they. One minute it was fine, and the next, everything came crashing down. If he’d just remained by the doorway, he wouldn’t have the onus of murder, the racing thoughts on what to do if the twins didn’t help. If she hadn’t…fucking…wanted…an…appeal…
At last, a limpness to her, a heaviness where he had to use all his arm strength to keep her upright, his shoulders aching. Her lips stretched back, exposing her gums, and they were dry, pale, her teeth root shapes standing out, her lips so taut he stared at them, fascinated, waiting for them to split.
Seconds passed, moving on to minutes, and…
Her eyes gave away her death. Vacant. So empty.
No turning back the hands of time. Move forward. Deal with the consequences.
He held on for thirty seconds longer, straining under the pressure, then let her go. His hands spasmed from the force he’d applied, each finger and thumb trapped in position, curved, as if he held a phantom throat.
She’d landed in a corner where two cupboards met, her arse hiding food debris she hadn’t bothered cleaning up, her head slumped onto a shoulder, her fists on the floor. One leg stuck straight out, the other bent, foot beneath her calf, the knee wedged against her cooker with its filthy glass door. A slipper had come off and rested beside a stray Wotsit.
Clarke had always preferred Cheetos, the crunchy version. Better flavour.
Now he came to study her, frothy white spit sat on her lower lip, of a mind to ooze down her chin. A layer of blood coated her tongue. He’d probably burst some vessels. Red lines, the veins of leaves, patterned the whites of her eyes, and spots of scarlet covered her cheeks. Petechiae, the pathologist would say if he got his hands on her. Except he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Everything about Janine would tell a story, her silent body proof of what had happened to her. And they said the dead couldn’t speak.
What the fuck have I done?
He shook, an uncontrollable palsy of the limbs, his knees bending, the tendons turning into useless wet sponges. He imagined his arrest—“Rod Clarke, you have the right to remain silent…”—cuffed—“They’re not too tight for you, are they? Oh, they are? Tough…”—the shame of being marched into the booking-in area at the station, his colleagues staring, shaking their heads that they’d had a killer in their midst all this time and hadn’t known until today—“You absolute hypocritical fucking prick…”
Think.
He paced, went over his options. He’d touched nothing except for her, but The Brothers would send a cleaning crew anyway. No one but Noreen Farthingale, the mother, would report Janice missing, she’d said she only cared about her daughter, so that meant…
Fuck, he was going to be right in the shit, especially with George—the ‘no woman’ rule. He’d have to phone Greg, break it to him first, then he could calm his demented twin and talk him round to the disposal.
Clarke checked Janice was actually dead, then, using the gloves he kept in his pocket for visiting crime scenes, he rooted for the house keys, conscious of moving around too much in her property. They sat on top of a pile of stale crisps in a white ceramic bowl on the coffee table—the rest of the Wotsits.
The living room was foul, but after the cleaners had come and gone, head to toe in protective gear, it wouldn’t look the same, and he calmed down at his previous thought of leaving something of himself behind by prowling. He’d be the one called out if they were flagged as missing anyway, what with him running Shaun’s case, and he’d keep the new tidy state out of things if he had to chat to the neighbours. That sort of bollocks, should anyone mention Janice being scutty, could be his downfall.
His DCI: “Looks like someone cleaned the house—suspicious. Poke into it. Maybe the brother isn’t missing after all, he could be dead like his sister. And go and check on the mother…”
Time enough to worry about that later.
Keys in pocket, gloves still on, he left the house and, for appearance’s sake, hands firmly in pockets once he’d knocked on a few doors, he asked if they’d seen Shaun here recently. None had, a few saying, “Who?”, and they all left him under no illusion that they disliked Janice, claiming she was a menace, always on the cadge, didn’t give back any fags or money she borrowed and, the beauty of them all—they wished it was her who’d gone missing.
No one would pine for her then. No one would even notice she’d gone for ages until they realised she’d hadn’t asked for a Lambert and Butler or a couple of pound coins, and even then they probably wouldn’t do anything.
He drove to Noreen’s, circumventing CCTV, half his mind on him now being a killer, a person he was supposed to hate, the other half on the task at hand and what he needed to do next. Last time he’d been at the mother’s, he’d noted—and thanked himself for it now—a narrow, one-person-width alley beside her house. He’d enter via the back. Less chance of being spotted.
Clarke pulled up amongst a sardine-packed huddle of other vehicles in a parking area, his just one of many, nothing to take any notice of. He scoped out the street from the safety of the driver’s seat—no one about. Good.
Down the alley, he darted around the rear of the house and accessed the garden through the unlocked gate that matched the fence panels, six-foot-tall vertical wooden slats that may once have been dark with creosote but now bore the result of endless summers of bleaching. Uncared for. Years of neglect. He closed it behind him, checked the back windows of other houses, and walked casually up the path, the grass so long it curved over the edges, the ends stroking the concrete with their silky fingers.
He tapped on her back door, which led into a kitchen. She was at the kettle and spun round, a smile in place—who smiled like that when their son was nowhere to be seen? What sort of mother was she?
Had Janice usually entered this way? Shaun? Noreen didn’t frown upon spotting him, her smile grew wider, and he’d bet she thought Janice had done her bit in requesting an appeal and he was there to ask Noreen to participate.
Fuck was he.
She beckoned for him to come in and, hands still snug in the gloves, he twisted the knob and stepped inside.
“Our Janice said she was seeing you today.” Chirpy. Annoying.
She didn’t see me for long. An overwhelming need to crack up laughing was difficult to suppress. He must be going off his rocker or something, experiencing shock at what he’d done to Janice. “Yes, that’s why I’m here.”
Sometimes, life gave you lemons, and at this point in time, he had a bowl full. Noreen would be harder to strangle, going by her size—tall, about sixteen stone, and her arms had a ton of beef on them, solid, as if she worked out, beating seven bells of shit out of a punchbag. He hadn’t noticed that last time, her having a baggy sweatshirt and tra
ckies on then, and now, her leg muscles were defined in shiny black leggings, her torso in a tight Lycra sports top. He’d assumed she was porky, the kind of woman who churned his guts, one he wouldn’t touch with a barge pole.
How wrong he’d been.
“I can get changed into a nice dress for the appeal, if you like?” she asked.
He reckoned she’d look sexy in a dress, especially if it clung to her curves. Shame her face was so ugly. “That would be best, yes. Off you go then.”
“What, now?” A gleam entered her grey eyes, her fifteen minutes of fame most likely scooting around in her head, her thinking of being a minor celebrity, people in the street stopping her afterwards to ask what it was like to have cameras pointed at her. “Have I got time to put some makeup on?”
“You don’t want to appear too…’with it’,” he said. “The sadder you look the better. We have to give the right impression. You know, you’re grieving the fact your son is missing.” Like you’re supposed to.
“Ah, I getcha. Won’t be long.”
She giggled—mad bitch—and scooted out, up the stairs, and it gave Clarke time to ferret around for something to wallop her with, knock her out so he could strangle her after. He opened squeaky cupboard doors—bloody hell, that’s too loud—coming face to face with the usual pots and pans—no cast-iron skillets, fuck it—then a drawer full of odds and sods yielded excellent results. It meant he’d get blood on him, but as he’d come in through the back and his car was well obscured, it shouldn’t be a problem.
He took the heavy hammer out and hid it behind his back, going to stand where she’d left him so she wouldn’t think he’d been poking about. While he listened to Noreen’s tread in one of the bedrooms, his wife came to mind, the shame she’d experience if he got found out for this, her husband, a copper, going down for a life stretch because he’d gone rogue in a mad, quick-as-a-flash moment. While he dicked about with The Brothers and was a copper more bent than a yoga pose, and the missus got on his nerves so he slept with whoever else would have him, Debbie being his favourite, he didn’t want Mrs Clarke to bear the burden of the revolting legacy he’d leave behind.
He had some goodness in him.
Anger at Janice surfaced. If she hadn’t behaved as she had, which had resulted in him murdering her, he wouldn’t bloody be here thinking about this crap.
Noreen came downstairs in a tight black dress—she’d taken the word ‘grieving’ to heart, the divvy tart, and he thought it ironic she’d die in a colour befitting death. And yes, she looked good in it. He smiled, his mind racing on how to get her to put her back to him without arousing suspicion. He wasn’t a monster, couldn’t hit her from the front. George would call him a coward, saying he was weak for not looking a victim in the eye.
“Shall we have a cup of tea to go through what we need you to say in front of the cameras?” he asked. “It’s important you know your lines.”
“Bloody hell, I feel like a film star.” She beamed and moved to the kettle.
He thought she was going to flick it on so took a step, readying the hammer, but the annoying bitch picked it up instead to weigh how much water was in it. He hid the weapon, teeth gritted, while she refilled it. When she returned it to the base, he zoomed forward at the same time as raising the hammer, then brought it down on the back of her head.
The thud had him feeling sick, as did the clawed end sticking inside, the spatter of warm blood landing on his face. He let the handle go, and she crumpled to the floor on her knees, torso wavering, going backwards, her skull smacking on the lino, the hammer forced free and skittering away, coming to rest at the base of a larder cupboard. No Wotsit here.
Clarke picked the hammer up—fuck strangling her—and used the flatter side, connecting it with her brow as if smacking a nail into a wall, becoming the monster he’d thought he wasn’t. Another sickening thud, another hole. Blood, lots of it.
He turned from her, unable to stand looking at the fruits of his labours, her forehead split, the stuff peeking out the innards of an overripe tomato. Hot tap on, he cleaned the hammer with just water, then placed it by her feet so the cleaners would know it needed disposing of. He washed the gloves using her antibacterial pump soap on the edge of the sink—she wasn’t filthy like her scabby daughter.
He faced her, shaking. The skirt of her dress had ridden up, revealing her lovely legs, which barely gave her age away. She must be sixty-odd, yet all that exercise had kept them tight and toned. Something stirred in his trousers, and in that second, but only for that second, he understood necrophilia. The image of him playing it out doused the flames, and his dick withered, disgrace and bewilderment consuming him.
Why had he thought that way? He wasn’t a fucking criminal!
Except he was.
“Pissing heck…”
He found her keys. The kettle clicked off, and he jumped. Rattled, he walked out, scared yet determined. Locked her in. Marched through the gateway, along to the alley, rounding the corner and—
“Fuck me, watch where you’re going, you knob-end,” a young blond-haired bloke shouted, college age, skinny, probably dealt weed. His blue eyes widened. “Shit, are you all right?”
“Yep.” I’d be more than all right if you hadn’t seen me.
“It’s just…you’ve got blood on you.”
For fuck’s sake…
The day was going from bad to worse.
Don’t. He’s someone’s son, someone’s brother, and I—
Clarke grabbed him by the hair, brought the kid’s head down, and kneed him in the face. The crunch of bone spurred him on to haul him towards Noreen’s garden gate, almost losing the battle—the kid fought to free himself.
“Get the hell off me, you dickhead.”
Clarke threw him to the ground and stomped on his head, three times. Thankfully, the fella blacked out.
Dragging a dead weight up a garden path wasn’t easy, but he managed that, unlocked the door, and carted him inside, ignoring the insistent whisper that he’d gone too far with this one. But whispers were no good in this situation, they wouldn’t get him out of this mess. The hammer had an airing again and, with two bodies side by side on the floor, the blood pools converging, the hammer and his gloves cleaned again, he walked out once more.
If he saw someone else on the way to the car, God help him. He didn’t have the energy to kill for a fourth time today.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Naked, Julie held her breath in the darkness, her pulse so loud in her ears she couldn’t make out if Aaron was coming or not. His footsteps could be thudding in time with her heart so she wouldn’t know, and she had to know.
She let the air out through pursed lips, and it was noisy, a funnel of sound, a tyre going down or a sneaky breeze squeezing through a gap in a doorframe. Her two-handed grip on the top of the candlestick slipped, palms sweaty inside the rubber gloves, and she held on tighter, staring across the hallway at the bedroom.
A shuffle, perhaps of the quilt being moved, the duck down shifting inside. Had he remained in bed for a while, contemplating whether he’d really heard the crash of the vase? It was something she’d have done: Did I wake because of it or was it in a dream? If I stay still and don’t hear anything, I’ll go back to sleep.
Everybody did it.
Then a foot and lower leg silhouette appeared, cut off at the knee, him stepping towards the bedroom door, so she moved to stand beside the one in the living room before his whole body emerged. The game would be up if he saw her. She whimpered, cursed her nerves, and bit her bottom lip. So cold with fear, she willed her arms to stop trembling, her legs, then thought of lying across that table in the pub yard, and the strength to see this through emboldened her.
He didn’t deserve to live.
A shape coming into the room, his foot, then another, all of him in there with her now, this monstrous shape of nastiness that embodied everything he was—dark, full of secrets, things she couldn’t see until he revealed them to he
r with his rancid words. He was so close, she only had to reach out and she’d touch him; instead, she held the candlestick to her chest, the silver cold on her skin, and waited.
He moved forward. “Ow, fucking hell… Julie?”
He must have stepped on some glass and wanted to wake her, tell her to get it out.
“I bet that stupid bitch put something on the edge of the table and it fell off or something,” he muttered, hopping towards the sofa. “Julie?”
She couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, the accusation he’d levelled in her direction. Of course it would be her fault glass was on the floor. Even if she hadn’t thrown the vase, it would still be her fault.
This was it. Now or never. He’d see her shadow figure once he sat, and especially if he reached across to the little table beside it and switched the lamp on. He was halfway along the sofa, at the middle cushion, going to his favourite seat at the end, one she never sat on now when he wasn’t here and one she’d never sit on again afterwards because…because it was bound to get blood on it and the police might take it.
She padded forward, away from the broken glass, candlestick raised—so heavy, the base weighted—and it was like some other being took over her, erasing any doubt and guilt, that same being who’d visited her while Lime and Reynolds had road-tested her, the one who’d planted the seed in her head and watered it, and kept on watering it until all she ever thought about was…this, this moment right here, for months on end, the moment that could change her life forever, whichever way the outcome went.
He still had his back to her.
She swung forward with all her might, the candlestick arcing, the weight distribution from above her head to in front of her tugging her along faster than she’d anticipated. The curve of the base slammed into his head, a thud and a crack, an “Argh…” from him, a breathy “Oh fuck!” whispered from her. He toppled onto his side on the sofa, facing the window, and she lifted the stick again. Smacked it down, his crown surely splitting. Speckles of warmth landed on her skin, his blood, his gross blood, and she held the stick beside her, watching him.
