Guilty.
I follow the narrow road round the bend, the car that left ahead of me long gone. I zip over the bridge, along past the river, and hit the familiar line of trees. Taking the slip road down the steep incline, I turn a sharp left to travel the rest of the uphill journey through the town to the cottage.
I jam my foot down on the brake pedal and screech to a stop the second I hit the gravel drive. I jump out, slam the car door behind me and reach inside my handbag for the key as I storm down the path. I drop it from my stiff trembling fingers the first time, and merely graze the lock the second. By my third attempt at opening the door, tears of frustration are prickling the backs of my eyes. I jab it into the lock, give it a twist and fall onto the tiled entryway.
My pulse is pounding so hard there is a whooshing in my ears. I shut the front door behind me then enter the living room where I switch on the light and catch my reflection in the ornate mirror above the mantle. I can see my chest expanding and retracting in short quick bursts.
I turn, exit the room and head for the kitchen where I pull the half-open bottle of Pant Du rosé we bought on our journey here from Goldcliff from the fridge and glug it straight from the bottle until it’s empty before throwing it into the bin where it thuds against the stainless-steel side. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. It stings as I withdraw it; cut and bruised from shifting heavy lumps of slate to part-bury Humphrey’s body.
I stomp upstairs to the bathroom. Mud clings to the ridges of my knuckles and dried blood stains my fingernails. Under the shower the soil rubs off easily, leaving clumps of red clay peat and orange dirt soil to slide down my legs. The blood runs pink between my fingers and onto my feet. I shake it off and stare at the murky water filtering down into the plughole. I scrub my skin so raw I must turn down the dial and rinse off the last traces of his DNA with cool water.
Giddy from the heat and exhaustion I stumble out into the hall wearing a towel, another wound round my head like a turban. I dress robotically, gather all the cleaning products I can and scrub the bathroom until my torso aches. I bin the cloths and bottles and my dirty, bloodied clothes, planning to burn them in the morning on the fireplace. Then I traipse downstairs and sit on a stool at the rustic kitchen table where I retrieve Humphrey’s phone from my handbag.
I hadn’t foreseen the accident at the quarry. I hadn’t prepared for this eventuality. I’m totally screwed.
If I switch my phone back on and the police, for whatever reason, learn of Humphrey’s death, wonder why I didn’t report him missing, and decide to investigate they’ll not only discover that someone tampered with the brakes on his car, causing him to crash and break his arm the day before he fell and hit his head twice, they’ll know I returned to the cottage afterwards.
I’ve kept Humphrey’s phone on so I can pretend he’s alive to anyone who calls him. Besides, even if I deleted the photograph I took of us together at the quarry it won’t eliminate it from Google Drive and if I’d left his phone in the pocket of his trousers it would be discovered when his body is recovered, and the police would be able to retrieve the photograph, would know I was with him minutes before he died and removed the only piece of evidence proving it. I’d be the first, the only person, suspected of his murder when the search history suggested I tried to find out where the nearest phone mast was situated while he lay cold and stiff up a mountain rather than call for help.
Plus, I must learn the name of the housekeeper who minds the cottage, and I need to contact her to ensure she doesn’t come snooping round. I don’t know how close her relationship to Humphrey is, was, or how often she visits to clean the place, tidy the window boxes, meet the gardener or speak to her employer, but I need to find out.
Something blinks in my peripheral. A red dot. The alarm system. She’ll no doubt know the code, the one I plan to reset when I leave.
I scan his list of contacts but find only names I recognise and none of them live in north Wales. He doesn’t appear to send text messages and when he does, they’re all to me.
It’s all too much. My forehead hurts, the pain gnawing across my skull and down my neck. The reassuring lick of locally brewed wine loosening its hold on me as my hand begins to shake, my steady grip on the future fraying at the edges.
I need a top-up. I want liquid oblivion. I’ll deal with this mess tomorrow.
*
I sleep fitfully like a gripey infant and wake two hours post dawn, mouth dry, temples throbbing, stomach growling and churning in equal discontent.
There’s no booze left, and we didn’t get to the supermarket so there’s nothing to eat. I haven’t yet decided what to do about the woman who will be arriving in just a few days to keep house but finding out exactly how much Humphrey is worth might provide the clarity I need to choose my next course of action.
So I’ve decided: I’m going home.
DI LOCKE
Then
There’s a long-held theory that killers return to the scene of their crime. And it didn’t surprise me that once we had Rick in custody, we could place him in close proximity of the area where the suitcase was found as recently as thirteen days before, by the GPS tracker built into his mobile phone. And on the same day Katrina Leonard was walking home from her shift in the residential home where she worked as a care assistant.
She fit the same profile as the other five women. Except for the fact she didn’t work in the sex industry and she’d survived.
‘I usually left work at 3 p.m. but one of my colleagues was on maternity leave, another was off with a virus and I needed the overtime so I stayed on for the evening shift after dinner which I ate with the residents.
‘It was midnight when I clocked off. Dark. Quiet. I drove. Even though I only lived half a mile down the road. There weren’t any spaces on my street. I did a U-turn and parked on the main road. It was cold so I walked quickly round the corner. I heard footsteps and when I turned, I saw a man dressed all in black. Or at least his clothes were so dark they looked black. There was one streetlight between us. No cars on the road. But I was sure that if I screamed for help someone would hear me. He slowed as he crossed the road. He seemed to have come out of the lane leading down to one of the entrances of St Cadoc’s.
‘I stuffed my car key between my fingers and clenched my hand into a fist, fully intending to jab him in self-defence if I had to. But I didn’t realise he was carrying a rock.’
She began to cry. And I felt my eyes water too.
‘He slowed as I entered my road. I was in front of the street sign when he struck. He’d already slammed the rock into the side of my head by the time I swung round to stop him.’
She shook. But continued. She was a warrior.
‘He grabbed me from behind, wrapped his arm round my mouth to muffle my screams and dragged me backwards. I couldn’t get a grip on the pavement and no matter how much I tried I couldn’t prise him off me, so I went limp, thinking that if I didn’t do anything to make him angry, he wouldn’t have any reason to hurt me.’
Tears met snot, but she soldiered on, recalling the horrific event.
‘He… had a knife. Long blade. Like a miniature sword. Up his sleeve. He pressed the pointed end against the top of my neck and told me to walk through the hedge, down the verge, onto the tracks, and along the rail-line. Then he stopped, turned me round to face him, and told me to strip. He said that if I did what he told me to he’d let me go, let me live.’
Her ragged breaths came fast and shallow and I could feel the fear and humiliation that was pouring off her. But she showed no sign of relenting. It was all or nothing. She wanted to purge herself of the memory as quickly as possible to begin the long arduous healing process.
‘I thought… I was going… to die.’
He held the blade against her throat and raped her. Afterwards, he told her he was going to slice her head off, chop her into pieces and bury her in several different locations so no one would ever find her.
That’s when the s
ky above them lit up and the unmistakable sound of a helicopter broke through the trees. The civilian seated beside the pilot was assisting with the search of a group of youths who’d robbed a convenience shop. Rick hesitated.
‘I took the opportunity to raise my foot in the air. I had one chance to kick the blade from his hand with as much force as I could gather and run.’
Which she did.
‘I got home, dressed and called the police.’
That’s when she says her ordeal really began. The two PCs that arrived drove her to the Sexual Assault Referral Centre for a forensic medical examination. She gave the police officer her statement in the presence of a crisis worker. She was assigned an Independent Sexual Violence Advocate who planned to visit her at home within the next three days to provide emotional and practical support. After that, she was offered trauma-focused counselling. Her first appointment was booked in for the following week.
Her attacker might have been an opportunist, but he wasn’t sloppy. He’d worn a condom. And as he’d ordered Katrina to remove her clothes there was minimal DNA transfer and what there was wasn’t significant enough to create a forensic profile. It seemed Katrina was never going to get the justice she deserved for what had happened to her, unless by some chance her attacker repeated the offence, and the thought made her sick.
Then Katrina recognised Rick’s face on the screen of her phone while scrolling through Facebook and realised what a close call she’d had when she read the words:
NEWPORT BUTCHER CHARGED WITH THE DEATHS OF FIVE SEX WORKERS.
She picked up the phone and called the detective who’d been assigned her case. DS Choudhary called the senior officer leading the investigation into the Newport Butcher’s crimes. I answered that call fired up on all cylinders.
We had a credible witness. The CPS were satisfied we could hold Rick on the rape charge while we continued making inquiries. Katrina was our saviour. We just had to hope the jury thought so too.
MELANIE
Then
Gran was in the garden when I returned home. She wore a tracksuit, her dark roots topping a head of dyed hair that looked more yellow than blonde and reminded me of the straw wig of the scarecrow, Worzel Gummidge. Tony was pouring her a glass of iced tea from a pitcher. Mint leaves retrieved from the potted herbs that lined the kitchen windowsill were tossed on top of the shit coloured liquid he handed her to add a touch of class to what otherwise looked like pond water. Caitlyn was upstairs on my bed doing her homework, a lone tear trickling down her sullen face, upset because she had to redo the essay I’d thrown in the bin after my mother, who was ironing Tony’s shirts and singing along to Robbie Williams’ latest hit, had threatened to ground me if I didn’t tidy my bedroom.
No one was expecting what happened next. The event resembled an episode of EastEnders.
The car screeched to a stop opposite. The man who exited the vehicle was indistinct. If it weren’t for his hasty movements, furious eyes and red face I wouldn’t have given him a second glance. I watched him through the side gate as he looked up and down the road, checking the door numbers of our neighbour’s residences before his eyes fell on our house and zoned in on Tony.
Tony caught the man’s gaze, a moment of acknowledgement flashed between them, then the pitcher flew to the ground, the glass shattering on the hard, dry, grassless lawn. Gran coughed iced tea down her front and jumped off the deck chair. The front door bounced back open as it hit the backpack I’d dumped there as I’d entered, returning from my second day as a year ten senior. Tony brushed past Caitlyn as he legged it upstairs. She thundered down and met the stranger at the bottom.
‘You can’t hide up there forever, Tony. When I get my hands on you, you’ll be leaving this house breathing through an oxygen mask.’
My mother reeled him towards her, holding the iron at her waist with a protective grip. ‘How dare you threaten my partner in front of our daughters? Who the fuck do you think you are?’
As he moved closer to her, she raised the weapon. He held out his hand in invitation to shake hers and through gritted teeth introduced himself. ‘Barry Isles. Debbie’s husband. The one your boyfriend’s been shagging behind our backs.’
My mother’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut as she lowered her hand, closed her eyes and whispered something unintelligible under her breath. Her eyes were wet when she opened them, and her cheeks were warm. She spoke with an air of superiority and frightening emotional control. ‘I don’t know who you are or what your game is, but you will not harm my family with your accusations. Now get your arse off my property or I’m calling the police.’
‘You want proof?’ said Barry. ‘Here!’ He flung a brick-sized mobile phone at her.
She caught it in her palms, which were trembling with forced calm, and narrowed her eyes to read the message on the screen.
I can’t stop thinking about you. x
I stood at my mother’s side, read the text over her trembling arm, felt the heat of anger emanating off her in waves. She inhaled, passed the phone back to Barry and turned towards the front door, hesitant to cross the threshold as she shouted up the stairs. ‘Tony! Get your lying, cheating arse down here now or you’ll be leaving here in a body-bag instead of wearing an oxygen mask.’
Barry gave me a half-hearted smile. I stared back at him until his eyes fell to his scruffy trainers and the oily stains at his shins. I suspected Barry’s wife was a grade above him in looks and social status. That’s why my mother had snuck around behind my father’s back with Jason. My father didn’t care much what he wore and she knew she was far better looking than either of them.
Now she was the one being cheated on.
Karma.
A sound drew my attention to the first floor, or more specifically the open bathroom window, at the side of the house where Tony’s legs dangled precariously from the full height of the building.
My mother’s eyes followed mine. She put her hands on her hips and called up to him. ‘Where did you meet Debbie?’
He caught the hurt in her expression and his foot slipped as he scrambled to get a foothold on the ledge. ‘Is she an IT consultant at your place of work?’
Barry scrunched his face up while she, oblivious to his disgust, continued airing their private problems as if seeking public scrutiny. ‘Did you sleep with her here, in our bed?’
The woman who lived next door peered through the net curtains blowing in the breeze of a downstairs window. An elderly man walking a Springer Spaniel caught my mother screech ‘traitorous cunt!’, tugged on the dog’s lead and dragged him out of earshot.
Neighbours gathered, each pretending to admire one another’s gardens, brickwork or cars. Passers-by, unable to avoid my mother’s ranting, stopped to listen. Some disguised their interest by whistling up at the clouds, checking the time on their watch or simulating the removal of a stray leaf from the sole of their shoe. Others made it obvious. And it wasn’t long before we had a large audience.
There were plenty of witnesses to Tony’s fall.
Gran rushed to his side first, kneeling to check his pulse, and Barry joined her to survey the extent of Tony’s head injury. My mother gasped as he sat up, neck twisted at an odd angle, spitting blood as he gurgled through a loose jaw. Caitlyn dialled the ambulance. And I stood on the periphery of the mayhem, numb.
*
Tony’s recovery took longer than anyone had predicted. He never apologised for or excused his dishonest behaviour. My mother refused to forgive him. Caitlyn didn’t visit for the entire duration Tony received occupational rehabilitation provided by his private health insurers. My mother only learned he’d been discharged from hospital when speaking to one of the nurses from the brain injury ward she recognised while waiting for the bus to work.
She sat at the dining table slugging back Blue Nun. Tears and snot had glued her hair to her damp sorrowful face.
Gran sat beside her, stroking her matted tendrils in consolation. ‘You’ve never had a proble
m finding a man.’
Mum reached for Gran’s hand. ‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘But I really thought he was the one. That I’d got it right this time. That Tony was my knight in shining armour.’
Gran laughed; her fingers stopped smoothing Mum’s hair. ‘You’ve got to be in distress to attract one of those. And you’re no damsel, Sam.’
*
I stopped writing, placed the pen between the pages, and considered what my narrative suggested regarding my childhood experiences. Was my mother the victim or the perpetrator?
I used the pen as a bookmark, closed the notebook and read the inscription embossed across its front:
LIVE YOUR STORY BEFORE YOU TRY TO INTERPRET IT.
My case worker bought it from a gift shop in the village near the hospital. She was the first to visit me, five days after my admission to St Cadoc’s. She said it would help me to understand myself better if I reflected on the years that led to the day I was sectioned. And it had.
I recalled what she said when she handed me the diary she’d bought.
‘There’s an experiment psychologists use to assess an individual’s sense of selfhood: identity, beliefs, aspirations, motivations etc. Unlike quantifying an individual’s characteristics to define their personality type, thematic analysis qualitatively dissects the underlying themes within the discourse used by an individual to narrate their lives.’
I squinted, leaned my head on my closed fist, elbow on the table, an act of defiance against my mother who wasn’t there.
‘If I have your permission I’d like to read and analyse your journal, so together we can explore what led you here.’ She glanced around the room at the crisp white walls.
My eyes followed hers to the sterile, peach-coloured linoleum, the high-backed chairs with blue leather covered seat cushions placed into a perfect oval inside the communal room that stank of pine scented cleaning fluid. Then back to the window I’d been gazing through for the past forty-eight minutes. ‘Sure.’ My eyes stayed fixed on the lime green lawn brushed lightly by the breeze on the opposite side of the glass.
Kiss Me, Kill Me Page 11
