Dark Water: A gripping serial killer thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘Please Marianne, can you calm down,’ said Nancy getting up and taking Marianne by the hands

  ‘No! No! NO!’ started Marianne.

  ‘The police called me, because I was here for you when…’

  ’Please, no!’

  ‘When Jessica…’

  ‘Don’t say her name. You don’t have the right!’

  Nancy went on, gently, ‘When Jessica disappeared.’

  ‘No. No…’

  ‘On Friday night the police were conducting a routine search of a local quarry, and they found some human remains.’

  Marianne was now silent. Her eyes wide and glassy. She shook her head and started walking backwards until her back was against the wall. Above her head were three oil paintings, Erika recognised one as Jessica, and she presumed her two siblings. Nancy got up, went to Marianne, and gently took her hands again.

  ‘I’m so sorry. The police found remains of a skeleton. The remains belong to Jessica,’ she said softly. Marianne shook her head, tears were flowing down her cheeks.

  ‘No, no, you’ve made a mistake! She’ll come back, someone will find her. She probably can’t remember who her real family is! She’s out there!’

  ‘It was Jessica,’ said Nancy who had tears in her eyes also. ‘They’ve identified her from dental records.’

  Marianne nodded, and kept nodding tears streaming silently down her face.

  ‘Mrs Collins,’ said Erika softly. ‘We need to speak to your husband, your daughter, Laura, and your son, Toby. They’re all in Spain is that correct? Do you have a number we can call. We’d like the family to be informed before we make a statement to the press…’

  ‘Of course,’ said Marianne softly. Her eyes were wide in disbelief.

  ‘What can I do?’ asked Nancy.

  Marianne pulled her hand back and punched her in the face. Nancy staggered backwards blood pouring from her nose. John and one of the uniform officers leapt up and went to her lying on the floor.

  ‘Get out of my house, all of you!’ screamed Marianne. ‘Get out! GET OUT!’

  From behind the living room curtain, came the sound of cars arriving, and lights began to flare. The media had heard the news and was descending on the house once again.

  14

  Ten miles away, in a small terraced house in Tooting Bec in south east London, the television buzzed and flickered from the corner of a messy living room. The afternoon was fading behind low grey cloud, and retired DCI Amanda Baker sat opposite, slumped in a saggy armchair; her head flopped forward, sleeping. The lights were off, and the light from the TV screen played her loose jowly face, the burst of studio audience laughter failing to wake her. On a low table beside her was an overflowing ashtray and a half full glass of white wine. This was all that was left of the second bottle she’d opened. She’d pulled the cork on the first at nine thirty am, when the breakfast dishes had been stacked in the sink, and the shakes and sweats got too bad.

  Her house had been smart. It was decorated in a cold elegant style, much like its owner had looked, but now, like its owner, it was shabby. A fake glow fire rippled in hues of red and orange in the hearth, and a dog’s basket beside it was covered in a thick layer of dust.

  The phone started ringing in the hall, screeching above the sound of the TV, until it went to answerphone. It was then that Amanda woke.

  ‘What was that?’ she said absently. There was a barking sound, and she rubbed a hand over her face, heaved herself up from the chair and wobbled through to the kitchen, brain foggy, and eyes bleary. She spent a few minutes rummaging through her cupboard full of tinned food, when she realised that her dog had died a few months ago. She stopped, leaning against the counter. Tears fell onto the crumb-covered work surface with a soft pat. She wiped her face with her sleeve, catching a whiff of her stale breath.

  The phone shrieked again from the hallway, and she shuffled through and answered, leaning on the bannister for support.

  ‘Is this former Detective Chief Inspector Amanda Baker?’ came a young female voice with an edge.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m calling for a statement about Jessica Collins, now that the police have recovered her body.’

  Amanda rocked back on her heels for a moment.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jessica Collins,’ repeated the voice impatiently. ‘Went missing in 1990. You were the lead officer investigating, until you were dismissed…’

  ‘I took early retirement…’

  ‘Her remains were discovered by police.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So you didn’t know?’

  ‘She’s been found?’

  ‘Her skeleton was found in Hayes Quarry. It’s a flooded…’

  ‘I know where it is.’

  ‘Do you have a comment?’

  From her spot in the hall by the bannister, Amanda could see the television screen in the living room; BREAKING NEWS was rolling across the screen. A ticker tape headline ran underneath saying REMAINS BELONGING TO MISSING GIRL JESSICA COLLINS DISCOVERED. The sound was off, and the picture changed to show images of Marianne and Martin Collins, at a police press conference in 1990, speaking into a microphone, supported by a much younger version of herself, behind them was the old MET police logo on white.

  ‘So, do you have a comment?’ asked the voice. She sounded interested, could smell blood.

  ’We checked, I checked that quarry. She wasn’t there…’ said Amanda, more to herself.

  ‘Is that your comment? Cos, I’m looking through and that’s on record…’

  Amanda leaned on the bannister, watching as a tall blond-haired officer was reading from a statement. Her name flashed up at the bottom of the screen “DCI Erika Foster”.

  ’They found photos of Jessica in a local sex offender’s house, a man called Trevor Marksman. You let him go though, didn’t you?’

  ‘I had no choice! There wasn’t enough evidence.’

  ‘Trevor Marksman is still a free man. Do you still feel you’ve got blood on your hands?’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ shrieked Amanda, and she slammed down the phone. As soon as it hit the cradle it began to ring again. She kneeled down on the floor pushing through piles of old newspapers, magazines, and junk mail. She grabbed the wire and yanked it out of the wall. The phone fell silent. She rushed through to the living room and turned up the sound,

  ‘We’d like to extend our condolences to the Collins family. The historical murder case has bee re-opened and we are actively pursuing several new leads. Thank you.’

  The camera zoomed out as the tall blond officer went into the Scotland Yard building flanked by two other officers. The image on the screen flicked back to the BBC news studio and the next news item.

  Amanda sat back on her haunches and took deep breaths, her whole body shaking. She noticed a small white squeaky toy rabbit peeping out from the piles of old junk. It had belonged to her dog, Sandy. She reached out, picked it up, and hugged it to her chest. She began to cry, for Jessica, for her beloved Sandy, and for the life she should have had.

  When she finally stopped, she wiped her face with her sleeve and went to the kitchen and opened her third bottle of wine.

  15

  It was late and raining as Erika drove to the main entrance of Accident and Emergency at Lewisham Hospital. Through the swishing wipers she saw DC Nancy Greene waiting under the flying canopy. An ambulance pulled away, as an elderly lady was stretchered through the automatic doors, a withered arm poking out from under a red blanket and raised in pain.

  Erika pulled up, and opened the passenger window. Nancy had a thick square bandage taped to her nose, spotted with blood. ’Get in quick, there’s another ambulance coming up behind.’

  Nancy opened the door and climbed in, clutching a small white paper bag.

  ‘Broken. In two places,’ she said touching the thick white bandage gingerly as she eased herself into the passenger seat. The bandage gave her nose a beaky quality, and with her large bro
wn eyes looking over she reminded Erika of an Owl. She helped Nancy fasten the seatbelt, then put the car in gear and pulled away.

  ‘Thanks for coming. In all the chaos you were the last person I expected. I was waiting for a cab which never arrived. I saw your statement on TV. You did good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Erika, putting the windscreen wipers on a faster speed to deal with the rain pouring down.

  ‘Is Marianne okay?’ asked Nancy.

  ‘Laura is staying with her at the house. We called a doctor, he’s given her something so she can sleep…’

  They reached the exit, and came to a stop behind a car waiting to pull out. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’m the other side of Dulwich. Head through Forest Hill.’

  The car in front pulled out, and they could see the road was busy with rush hour traffic. A car slowed and let Erika pull out of the junction and she waved thanks. The rain came down harder, pounding on the top of the line of cars stretching ahead of them.

  ‘I thought you could help me out, in return for a lift,’ said Erika.

  ‘Ah, so your lift has an ulterior motive?’ she said. She tried to turn her head but winced.

  ‘Sorry. I’m trying to get up to speed on this case. You were the Family Liaison Officer the whole time, from when Jessica disappeared?’’

  ‘Yes, far too long to be honest. It’s all on record, but I can fill you in… Jesus this hurts,’ she said grimacing. She undid the paper bag, popped another pill out from the foil sheet and swallowed it dry.

  ‘I have to ask if you want to press charges?’ said Erika inching the car forward in the traffic.

  ‘Against Marianne? God no,’ said Nancy leaning back against the headrest. ‘Although I would like to complain about those bloody doctors. They’ve given me a pitiful amount of painkillers… Marianne was never violent, in all the years, through all the heartbreak. Sometimes with Family Liaison work you feel like a spare part. You want to be out there on the beat, amongst the action but you’re making tea, and answering the phone.’

  ‘Family Liaison work is important.’

  ‘I know, but in a weird way I’m pleased I was there, to take the punch… They never write in police reports about all the cups of tea you make, or the advice you give. This will be documented. And in a weird way its closure.’

  ‘How long were you there in the house after Jessica first disappeared?’

  ‘I spent the first few months, from the summer of 1990 virtually living with the family. Marianne and Martin were still together.’

  ‘When did they divorce?’

  ‘No separated in ninety-seven. They lasted longer than I expected. When a couple loses a child, the strain nearly always rips them apart. But they had little Toby, who was only four when Jessica vanished, and he was the glue that kept them from coming unstuck. Laura, was a lot older. She’d already done her first year at university. She delayed going back for her second year, but she should have gone, really. She and Marianne have always clashed.’

  ‘How did they clash?’

  ‘Marianne just tuned out everything, poured her energy into trying to find Jessica. Toby was tiny, and Laura ended up having to look after him.’

  ‘How old is Toby now?’

  ‘Twenty-nine. He’s gay, and married to a chap. Marianne has never really accepted it ,or him as being gay. You must have seen the inside of the house. All those crosses and pictures of the Virgin Mary.’

  ‘Are they Catholic?’

  ‘They were always Catholic, but after Jessica vanished Marianne turned to her faith, started attending mass every day. Became quite militant.

  ‘Does Toby live locally?’

  ‘No. Edinburgh.’

  ‘So Marianne and Martin aren’t divorced?’

  Nancy shook her head and winced again, ‘No, she’s always refused to grant him one. So, he’s gone off let her keep the house and he lives in Spain. He’s a millionaire now, that’s why Marianne has stayed in that big house after the divorce, I think he makes sure she’s taken care of. She just rattles around it all day. It’s like she’s Miss Havisham. Although unlike Miss Havisham, Marianne always pushes the hoover round. The place is spotless.’

  ‘What does Martin do in Spain?’

  ‘He builds holiday homes for rich ex-pats. Makes a fortune. Lives in Malaga with a younger woman and two small kids.’

  Erika was pleased the line of traffic was inching forward. Nancy was a goldmine of information.

  ‘Do you know how Martin and Marianne met?’

  ‘In Ireland. He’s Irish, Marianne is British but she grew up in Galway. She met Martin when they were in their late teens, at a youth club I think. She fell pregnant at seventeen, and they had to marry. It was in Ireland in the late seventies. They had a tough start, but he worked his way up on the building sites and then they made the move to London in 1987 just after Jessica was born. They did it at the right time, made a packet during the property boom. Laura was fourteen when they moved, and I think it was tough for her. She had to leave her friends and her home in Ireland.’

  ‘Is that when the problems began with her?’

  Nancy pulled a face, then winced, again remembering she was bandaged. The traffic was now moving faster, and they inched their way through a set of traffic lights, and they moved past the vast gothic red brick Victorian building of

  ’Yes. She’d go out all night and not come home, there was a new boyfriend every week. I think she found it tough to find her feet when they moved here, and their life changed. When she was growing up they were dirt poor, it wasn’t until Laura, Laura was in her late teens that Martin started making money. They were rich enough to buy Jessica and Toby all the toys, they joined so many after school clubs. Jessica did ballet… She was such a pretty little thing, Jessica. The press only really used that one photo of her in the dress. It sort of defined the investigation. Marianne has hundreds of photo albums with pictures of Jessica. There’s a little room upstairs in the house, like a cupboard, and she has shelves full of those albums, and there’s just enough room for a chair by a window…’

  The traffic inched forward, past the closed shops on Catford High Street. Only a West Indian supermarket was open, and beside it a betting shop. Through the condensation of the brightly lit window, they could see a group of old men stood around peering up at a screen.

  ‘Do you really think you’re going to solve it, after all these years?’ asked Nancy.

  If Erika had any doubts, she wasn’t going to share them, ‘I always solve my cases,’ she said.

  ‘Well good luck to you… Just watch out. She went mad, that copper who was on the case before, Amanda Baker.’

  ‘How did she go mad?’

  ‘Well, she’d been signed off sick before she even took the case. Years in vice, dealing with rape victims got to her. And then with the Jessica case she was so full on, obsessed. She stopped sleeping, and I don’t want to cast aspersions, but I think she was drinking. It was a difficult enough case with all that. Do you know the ins and outs?’

  ‘I’m working to catch up as fast as I can.’

  ‘It didn’t help that there were no witnesses. Jessica left the house that afternoon to go to her friends birthday party, and it was as if she vanished off the face of the earth. She never arrived. No one saw anything… The prime suspect was Trevor Marksman, a local sex offender. He lived in a halfway house in Hayes. They found photos and some video he’d taken of Jessica, a few weeks previous, when she was in the park with Marianne and Laura.’

  ‘And they arrested him.?

  ‘They did, but he had an alibi. Cast iron. He had to sign and out of the halfway house. And on the 7th of August, he was there all day. Didn’t leave. But everything else led to it being him. He had a previous conviction for abducting a young girl from the park and taking her home. Luckily that time, the police swooped in and the girl was unharmed… Amanda had no choice but to release him. They kept surveillance on him and then she got frustrated and started to h
arass him. He was a nasty piece of work. Enjoyed riling her up. But she went too far and tipped off a group of local women, vigilantes, and one night they shoved a bottle full of petrol through his door. He survived, with hideous burns.’

  ‘And it came back on Amanda?’

  Nancy nodded. ‘A fancy lawyer took up Trevor Marksman’s case. He sued the MET and won substantial damages. Amanda was given early retirement, more than she deserved really, but her legacy is that she’s a bent copper. And the last I heard is that she’s virtually dead from cirrhosis of the liver… ooh, take the next left…’ Erika was disappointed that the journey had come to an end. She pulled off the main road and the traffic was moving normally. They passed a large pub and some Kebab shops before the street became residential. ’This is me, the flats.’

  There was a gap in the row of terraces, occupied by a drab squat concrete block of flats. Erika pulled up by the kerb.

  ‘Thanks for the lift. I’m going to take one more of these strong ones with a nip of something,’ she said undoing her seatbelt. Erika nodded. Nancy unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door. It was still raining hard. She winced as she pulled up her hood, catching the edge of the bandage. She stepped out of the car.

  ‘Who do you think did it? Who do you think killed Jessica?’ asked Erika leaning over to peer out of the passenger door.

  ‘God knows… maybe someone snatched her and drove away, never to be seen again.’ said Nancy ducking down adding, ‘If Jessica vanished, the person who did it would have to have vanished into thin air too. Thanks again.’ She slammed the door and darted off up the path to the main entrance. It was a grotty block of flats, the concrete cladding stained with rainwater. Erika watched for a moment as she fumbled with her keys and let herself in.

  Her answer troubled Erika… vanished into thin air.

  16

  It was late when Erika arrived back at Bromley Station, and she was impressed to find her team still working.

  She’d been assigned one of the large open plan offices on the top floor. Several officers were on the phone and raised an eyebrow or a hand in acknowledgement. Two officers, DC Knight and DC Temple were working to assemble the evidence from the historical case files on whiteboards running the length of the back wall. A huge map of South London and the Kent borders dominated one corner and beside it were photos which included Hayes Quarry and 7 Avondale Road. A picture of Jessica Collins dressed in her party outfit was juxtaposed with a photo of her skeleton laid out in the mortuary. Another photo showed the brown a tattered remnants of her clothes after years underwater.