He looks at her with ice in his eyes. Sees that she detects the change in mood, the tension in the air.
She says, ‘I, er, I need to finish off here and get home.’
‘Yes,’ is his simple answer. But his hand is in his pocket now. His fingers are curling around the wooden handle of his lump hammer. This woman called Sue will not wash any more dishes. She will not go home. She has ensured this.
She starts to rise from her chair, but there is a hesitancy to her movement. She knows this isn’t a proper end to things.
‘If you don’t mind leaving now,’ she says. ‘I need to lock up.’
‘Yes,’ he says again.
He gets up from his chair, too. He fastens his eyes on hers, and sees that she wants him to break away first. Wants him to go away from here and never come back. She needs to lock the door when he is gone and breathe out her anxiety. He can sense all that.
But he doesn’t move. He just stands there in the warm, cosy room, staring her out.
She is first to blink.
‘So . . .’ She gestures towards the exit. ‘If you’d just like to—’
He moves swiftly. Comes around the table as he starts to pull the hammer from his pocket.
But the head of the hammer snags on the material. It won’t come out.
Sue yelps. She runs away from him. Flies into the kitchen and slams the door.
He hears the turn of a key in the lock. He manages to free the hammer. He tries the handle of the door, but it doesn’t open. He pulls his right arm back. Lets fly with the hammer. The wood cracks but doesn’t break. He hears screaming, and then her voice: ‘Get away from me. I’m calling the police.’
He looks back into the hall. Sees her bag there. He doesn’t believe she has her phone with her in the kitchen. It’s a bluff.
But he can’t be sure . . .
His actions become more frenzied now. He swings again and again at the door. More cracks appear, but still it won’t budge. He realises then that he needs a new tactic, and he hammers instead at the lock. The sounds of fracturing metal and splintering wood mingle with the screams from the other side of the door. And then the cries suddenly fade, and he wonders why, but then he realises that they have not diminished but have been redirected.
She is shouting out of the window!
‘Help!’ she calls. ‘Help me! Please!’
He takes several steps back. Runs at the door. Raises his foot. Slams it into the area just above the handle.
A huge cracking sound. Screws and other metal parts pinging away.
Step back again. Forwards once more. Slam!
The door flies open. He stands in the doorway, panting and taking stock.
Sue has climbed onto the counter. She has her head through the part-open window, and is struggling to squeeze the rest of her body through the narrow gap. One of her feet is in the sink, trying to get purchase, but it punches through the crockery, breaking it and turning the water pink with her shredding flesh.
He dives across the narrow room. Drops the hammer onto the counter while he grabs hold of Sue’s cardigan and drags her screaming back into the kitchen.
For thine is the kingdom . . .
Her body slides across the soapy wet counter. Crashes hard onto the tiled floor. She tries to get to her feet, but slips in the water and the blood from her lacerated foot. She resorts to scrabbling away from him on her hands and knees.
The power and the glory . . .
He grabs the hammer again. Walks purposefully up to Sue’s fleeing form. Brings the heavy mass of metal down onto the base of her spine.
The POWER and the glory . . .
She crumples. Moans. Tries to get up again.
But now he is on her. Now he is straddling her. Now he is putting all his reserves of energy into removing the stain of her from this earth.
THE POWER AND THE GLORY . . .
He hammers away.
For ever and ever and ever and ever and ever . . .
And when he is done, he looks down at his handiwork and sees that it is good.
Amen.
31
Slowly, they put all the pieces together.
Not of Sue Halligan, though. In that regard she is like Humpty Dumpty. All the Queen’s detectives cannot put her back together again, with or without horses.
What they can reconstruct pretty well is what took place here. With the aid of the pathologist and the CSIs, they are able to build a fairly accurate picture of the sequence of events.
The scene tells its own story. The unlocked front door, the smashed internal door, the food and drink, the partly open window, the shattered crockery, the overflowing water, the bloodstains – they all set out their witness statements without ambiguity or contradiction.
And then, of course, there is the body. The most important witness of all. It cannot speak, but it can tell a compelling tale to the experts trained to hear it. Not yet in detail, though. It’s a tease, is this one. Likes to keep its audience in suspense. It will hold some things back until it is on a cold table in the mortuary.
But some secrets she will never reveal. Those will be left to the living to divulge. And so that’s where the detectives must turn their attention next.
The problem is that the living are numerous, and at least one of them will offer up lies when it suits. It’s like the most complicated logic puzzle ever devised.
Still in their white protective outer clothing, Blunt, Cody, Webley and Ferguson stand closeted in the small reception area of the hall, staring out at the winter blankness beyond the open front door. They look like four snowmen who have decided to come in from the cold.
‘All right,’ says Blunt. ‘Let’s play similarities and differences again. Start with what this has in common with the other homicides.’
Webley is the first to reply: ‘Method of killing is the same. Multiple blows to the head with a heavy instrument, probably a hammer. Then there’s the victim. Female again. At forty-one, she’s close in age to Mary Cowper, and we’ve already decided that Cassie Harris looked about that age too. All three had fair, shoulder-length hair.’
‘Do we know what this woman looked like before her face was caved in?’
‘Not yet. We’re working on it.’
‘What else?’
Ferguson now: ‘Religion. Susan Halligan was a Born Again Christian. She ran regular meetings here at the hall. That’s why she was here tonight.’
‘How do you know that?’
Ferguson points outside with his pen. In the rear of a marked police car just pulling away from the kerb, a pale figure stares back at them.
‘That’s the husband. He found the body. He expected her home ages ago. When she didn’t arrive, he tried her phone and got no answer. When he got really worried, he jumped in his car and came over to look for her.’
‘Do we like him for this?’
Ferguson shakes his head. ‘Not at the moment. He seems genuinely upset. Obviously we need to question him, though.’
Blunt nods. ‘All right. Differences.’
Cody decides it’s his turn to speak. ‘She wasn’t single, for one thing. And then there’s the obvious difference.’
‘Which is?’
Cody holds his hands out to indicate the space they are in. ‘This,’ he says. ‘Not exactly a cathedral, is it?’
‘Yes,’ says Blunt. ‘That’s what was worrying me, too.’
Ferguson says, ‘Worried, ma’am?’
Blunt looks at him. ‘If we must have a serial killer – and personally I can do without them – I’d much prefer it if he followed a pattern. Our job is difficult enough without the occasional curve ball being thrown at us. We start off at a cathedral, we go to another cathedral, and now this. This isn’t even a proper place of worship. The next time our killer strikes, it could just be in somebody’s living room. The question is, why the change?’
The other three detectives get time to think about it when they have to shrink
against the walls to allow a CSI to squeeze past carrying a bag of tricks.
‘I’m guessing he thought it was too big a risk to go to a cathedral again,’ says Cody. ‘But I don’t know why he didn’t even go for a church. There must be plenty of blonde-haired fortyish women he could have chosen from.’
‘Maybe that’s just it,’ says Webley. ‘Maybe he wasn’t spoilt for choice. What if there’s something else connecting these women? Something more than their vaguely similar appearance. What if there are only a limited number of women who satisfy those criteria?’
Another technician comes through, and they all suck their figures in again.
‘We’re just in the way here,’ says Blunt. She looks at Webley. ‘You’ve made a good point, but we still don’t know what this common factor is. Go back to the station with Cody and talk to the husband. The only good thing about an extra victim is that it gives us more of a chance to work out what it is about them that appeals to the killer.’
She turns to Ferguson next. ‘Work up a list of whoever was at this meeting. We need to start rounding them up, even if it’s only to rule them out. And don’t take any bullshit from them about being too godly to do anything like this. In my experience, being a God botherer doesn’t always stop you from being a vicious bastard.’
32
Adam Halligan looks like a man who hasn’t slept for at least two days. His eyes are red and puffy. His dark hair sticks up from his head in random directions, like Stan Laurel. There is no element of comedy to him, however. The corners of his mouth, turned down almost as far as the line of his jaw, are a measure of his misery.
Cody starts up the recorder. Announces the names of those present. Checks for the umpteenth time that Halligan rejects the offer of a solicitor.
‘Why would I need a lawyer?’ Halligan asks. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. Somebody killed my wife, and you should be trying to find whoever did it, not wasting time talking to me.’ He plucks at the sleeve of his police-issued overalls. ‘And why am I dressed like a bleeding convict? What have you done with my clothes?’
Cody nods sympathetically. ‘As I think we’ve already explained to you, we have to do it this way. Look at it from our point of view. When the police arrived at the community hall, you were the only one there with your wife. You had blood all over you.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything. I was—’
‘Let me finish. I agree with you. It doesn’t make you a murderer. All we’re trying to do right now is to confirm it. The sooner we do that, the sooner you can go home, and then we can go out and catch those responsible. What I’m also hoping, and I’m sure you are too, is that you might be able to give us some vital information that will help us.’
Halligan wipes a hand across his eyes. He seems mollified for now. ‘Let’s get it over with,’ he says.
Cody looks to Webley on his right, handing the questioning baton to her.
‘Tell us about tonight,’ she says. ‘Did it start off as just a normal Saturday evening?’
He nods, but struggles to hold back the tears, as though acknowledging the prior normality makes the ensuing horror even more difficult to bear. He so wants this to have been just another ordinary, boring day.
He says, ‘I went to the match with some mates. I knew that Sue was having one of her meetings at the hall, so instead of rushing back, I went for a couple of pints.’
‘With your mates?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they’ll vouch for that?’
He raises his eyes, and Cody sees a flash of anger in them as Halligan recognises the stab of suspicion.
‘I was with them all the way through the match, and then for an hour or so at the pub. We even travelled back home together. One of them only lives around the corner from me. I’ll give you their names and phone numbers. You can ask them.’
Webley smiles at him. ‘It’s our job to check all the facts, that’s all. What time did you get home?’
‘Must have been about six thirty, six forty. Something like that.’
‘And what time was your wife due home?’
‘It’s normally about seven. The meetings finish at about half-six, but then she has to tidy up and drive home.’
‘How far is the hall from your home?’
‘Only about a five-minute drive.’
‘Okay. So you’re at home. Your wife doesn’t turn up at seven. When do you start to get worried about her?’
‘I think it must have been about quarter to eight.’ He checks the eyes of the detectives for more accusing glares, then hastily adds, ‘That lot can talk the hind leg off a donkey when they get going. I thought she’d just be having a natter.’
‘So what then? Did you phone her?’
‘I texted her first. I waited ten minutes for a reply, and then I rang her. She didn’t answer, so I went and found her address book. She keeps the names of all the group members in there. I picked one at random and phoned him. He told me he was one of the last to leave, and that was at half-six. So that’s when I started to think something must’ve gone wrong. I never thought . . .’
His face contorts again, his aching painted there for all to see.
‘I thought her car must’ve broken down or something. Do you know what I mean? A minor crisis. At the worst, maybe she’d slipped in the snow and had to be taken to A & E. Something that could be fixed, you know? Something that wasn’t so bloody final.’
More sobbing and sniffing. Webley grants him time to recover.
‘You’re doing really well, Mr Halligan. Can you tell us what you did next?’
‘I . . . I got in the car and drove to the hall. And before you say it, yes, I know I’d had a couple of bevvies. But to be honest, I don’t give a toss. If you want to charge me for it—’
‘We’re not going to charge you for that, Mr Halligan. Tell us what you did.’
‘There’s not a lot to tell. I found her. That’s it. I walked into the hall, and I called her name, and she didn’t answer. I just knew something was wrong. Sue wouldn’t leave the hall unlocked like that, with all the lights on. Besides, her car was still outside. She had to be close by. But she wasn’t answering, so I knew. Do you understand what I’m saying? I knew it had to be bad. I just never thought . . .’
His words trail away, prompting Webley to speak again. ‘What did you—?’
But Halligan hasn’t finished. He suddenly opens the tap on a reservoir of thoughts and feelings that he needs to release.
‘She wasn’t human!’ he yells. ‘I looked at her and I thought, This doesn’t even look like a human being. Her head was all . . . it was the wrong shape. All bashed in and spread out. I don’t . . . I don’t . . .’
He lets out a roar of primitive emotion that eventually dies and turns to tears. Cody feels the hairs on his arms standing on end, and he is sure that Webley must be similarly affected.
Webley’s fingers slide a few inches along the table towards Halligan. ‘Did you touch her, Mr Halligan? After you found the body, did you come into contact with your wife?’
‘Yes,’ says Halligan, but it comes out as a squeak, and he tries again: ‘Yes. I wanted to be sure. I mean, I knew it was her. It had to be her, didn’t it? But something in my head kept telling me to check. I suppose I still had a slight hope that it might be someone else. She was lying on her front, and I tried turning her to get a better look, but . . . it sounds ridiculous, but even then I wasn’t sure. I mean, we’ve been married for sixteen years and I was looking straight at her, and I still couldn’t tell it was her. That’s how bad she was beaten.’
Halligan’s gaze shifts to Cody, as if his next words are something only another man would understand. ‘You’ve got to catch this bastard, because God help me, if I ever get my hands on him . . .’
‘We’ll catch him,’ says Cody. ‘Don’t worry about that.’ He delivers the promise with conviction, because it’s what he believes. As devious as this killer is, Cody won’t relax
until the man is behind bars.
Webley clears her throat noisily, as though to remind the testosterone-intoxicated people here that she is just as capable of bringing the culprit to justice.
She says, ‘This might sound like a silly question, but we have to ask. Did Sue have any enemies that you know about? Anyone who might have hated her enough to do this?’
A humourless smile creeps onto his lips. ‘No. If you knew her, you wouldn’t ask that question. Do you know what she was doing there in the hall tonight?’
‘Tell me,’ says Webley, and Cody wants to nod his approval. They think they already have the answer, but it’s always better not to lead the interviewees.
‘She’s heavily involved with a group of Born Again Christians,’ says Halligan, not without a lacing of sarcasm. ‘They meet in that hall every week.’
‘You don’t approve?’ asks Cody.
‘Let’s just say they’re not my cup of tea.’
‘Why not? You not religious?’
‘I believe there’s a God, but I don’t go to church much. I’ve got nothing against anyone who does, but I don’t go for all that happy-clappy nonsense.’
‘So how did your wife get into it?’
Halligan shrugs. ‘How does anyone? These people target the weak and vulnerable, don’t they? They tell you how happy they are, and how they’ve solved all their problems. The thing is, it works for them. They really believe they’ve been given a second chance, and they’re passionate about spreading the joy. You can understand how anyone who’s a bit low might want a little bit of what they feel every moment of every day.’
‘You think she was brainwashed?’
A sigh from Halligan. ‘No. Not brainwashed. She just got caught up in it all. I can’t deny it helped her. She just became . . . different. Not the Sue I used to know.’
Webley pitches in again. ‘You said they target the weak and vulnerable. Are you saying Sue was like that?’
Halligan’s lips shape several words before the sounds arrive. ‘She had . . . problems. She lost a baby. It made her depressed. She . . . never mind.’
Cody realises there’s something there that needs to be mined. He jumps in before Webley can take it elsewhere.
Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 19
