Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins)

by Alison Belsham

  James cleared his throat and picked up the will again.

  ‘Moving on to the fourth paragraph,’ he said. ‘“Subject to the payment of my funeral and testamentary expenses, I give all my residuary estate to my daughter, Robin Alice Sullivan, if she is still living at the time of my death.”’

  ‘What?’ Had he heard that right?

  Robin gasped and dropped the pocket watch onto her lap. It slid off and hit the wooden floor with a clatter. She put a hand up to her mouth.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Her words were muffled by her fingers, her face suddenly drained of colour.

  She bent forward to pick up the watch, but Francis beat her to it. He pretended to examine it for damage, looking down intently so he didn’t have to look either James or Robin in the eye. There was a slight dent in the case, where the metal was worn thin. He slipped it into his jacket pocket without showing Robin.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, settling back into his chair. His heart was pounding. This was not what he’d expected.

  ‘It’s not fine,’ said Robin. ‘It’s not fine at all. I had no idea Mum was going to do this, Fran. Really I didn’t.’ Her voice quavered. ‘Of course, I’ll give you half, that goes without saying.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Francis. ‘You’ll have far more need of the money than I will and she obviously wanted to make sure that you’ll always be provided for.’

  In fact, Robin would now be a wealthy woman – Lydia had inherited a considerable sum from her own parents and had invested well.

  The tears that had been hovering on Robin’s lower lids overflowed onto her cheeks.

  ‘Fran,’ she said. The word was fraught with both gratitude and remonstrance.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ said Francis, a little too curtly. He didn’t want James to think he cared about the money – because he didn’t. It was something else . . . The feeling he’d always had, and tried to suppress, that Robin had been Lydia’s favourite child.

  The solicitor put down the will and pulled a folded handkerchief out of a pocket. He pushed it across the table towards Robin, who took it gratefully.

  ‘That’s it, really,’ he said. ‘She’s left some instructions for her funeral, which aren’t binding, and that’s all.’

  ‘Of course, we’ll honour them,’ said Robin, still sniffing.

  Francis wondered how his mother’s stipulations would fit with Robin and Jered’s plans for the service, and whether they really would be honoured. Of course they would. Robin wouldn’t go against her own mother’s wishes, despite her new-found attachment to Jered Stapleton.

  And it was right that the whole inheritance should go to her. Robin had always hated pity and had never wanted to be seen as a charity case. But as she was getting older, she seemed to understand that her illness meant she sometimes needed to swallow her pride and let people help her. Lydia had made the right decision – it would give Robin the independence she craved and would mean a more equitable relationship between the siblings, as Francis would be spared the burden of supporting her financially. Just as well, considering his stellar career was no longer quite so shiny.

  She hadn’t done it to hurt him.

  They chatted for a few more minutes about the funeral arrangements and then Francis helped Robin out to her car. She thanked him and remonstrated with him again as she got into the specially adapted Mini she drove.

  ‘She shouldn’t have done that, Fran.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t need the money. I earn quite enough and I’m living rent-free in Dad’s house. Talking of which, we need to get in touch with him.’

  Robin bristled at the mention of their father.

  ‘I don’t want him at the funeral.’

  ‘Come on, Robin – they were married for nearly twenty years.’

  ‘And then he deserted her. And us.’

  ‘He has a right to be there, if he wants to come.’

  ‘No.’ She glared up at him through the open car window. ‘If he comes, I won’t.’

  ‘For God’s sake! You’re being overdramatic.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Fran. Please.’

  She wound up the car window, cutting off what he was going to say. He doubted their father would come all the way from Thailand, but he still had a right to know that his ex-wife had died.

  As Robin drove away, he went back up to James’s office to collect the watch case.

  ‘Thank you, James,’ said Francis.

  ‘I’m not sure that was entirely fair,’ said James. ‘It’s more money than Robin needs and by rights some of it should have come to you.’ Then seeing Francis’s look of discomfort at the suggestion, he quickly changed the subject. ‘Have you heard from your father? Will he come to the funeral?’

  ‘I’ve got a number for him in Thailand, but I haven’t been able to reach him.’

  James’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘But he’s over here at the moment. Haven’t you seen him?’

  ‘He’s here?’

  ‘Yes, he’s over with his wife for a few weeks.’

  His new wife. His other wife.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ said Francis, desperately hoping his voice wouldn’t convey the surprise he felt.

  Why hadn’t he been in touch?

  James shook his head. ‘No, but I spoke to him on the phone.’

  ‘Have you got a number for him?’ It practically killed Francis to have to ask this, but thankfully James restrained from commenting on how strange it was that he should have to furnish Francis with his own father’s mobile number.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Francis. ‘You didn’t mention this to Robin, did you?’

  ‘No. We talked about your mother while we were waiting for you.’

  Francis went home and sat at his kitchen table, staring at the new number in his contacts list. But he didn’t dial it. He felt overwhelmed. His mother was dead. His father had a new wife. Two women had been murdered. A serial killer might escape justice because of some misjudged behaviour on his part. And if Tom Fitz lodged a complaint . . . Things that had seemed certain no longer were. He had too many balls in the air at once. And now, as they were all tumbling down around him, he realised with a jolt that the only person he wanted to talk to wasn’t talking to him because she believed he was about to charge her son with murder.

  41

  Saturday, 26 August 2017

  Marni

  ‘Whore!’

  ‘It was before we were back together. You were with that slut with the mermaid tattoo.’

  Thierry’s double standards never ceased to amaze Marni. She was expected to remain chaste, despite the fact they were divorced? While it was okay for him to shag anything with a pulse?

  ‘But you slept with a flic.’

  ‘Nothing happened – that whole thing in the paper is bullshit.’

  She went out into the garden and lit a cigarette to get away from him. The lawn was brown, bone dry, and despite her occasional attempts at watering, the flowerbeds were parched and cracked. She squinted into the sun as she exhaled a plume of acrid smoke. What she’d really taken exception to in Tom Fitz’s piece was the fact that he’d named Alex as a ‘person of interest’ in the current case.

  But that hadn’t bothered Thierry as much as the insinuation that she’d taken Francis Sullivan to her bed. She wasn’t lying when she’d said nothing had happened, but he was never going to believe her.

  ‘Putain,’ said Thierry, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Remind me, would you, why I thought it was a good idea to get back together with you?’ she said.

  ‘You know we’re good together,’ said Thierry.

  ‘This is good?’

  Marni ground out her cigarette angrily and left the butt lying on the patio. She shoved past him into the kitchen.

  ‘We’re a family,’ he said, following
her in.

  ‘For sure,’ she said. ‘You stand by and leave it all to me. And now your bastard brother’s trying to claim him.’

  ‘Merde, forget Paul. He’s nothing. You’re living in the past.’

  Marni bit down hard on her bottom lip. How had it come to this? Alex was in custody. Paul was threatening to come to Brighton. And Thierry was kicking off over a non-event that had happened more than a year ago.

  ‘I want you to leave.’ It came out of her mouth with no thought at all, but she knew straight away she was making the right decision. She needed all her energy for her son – Thierry was just a distraction, and not in a good way. ‘It’s over, Thierry.’

  ‘Come on?’

  ‘I need space. I need to help Alex. And I don’t need any more of your shit.’

  Thierry scowled at her, but half an hour later he came down the stairs with a bulging grip bag.

  ‘I’ll be at Noa’s, when you change your mind.’

  The front door slammed behind him and Marni gave a sigh of relief that instantly turned to tears. Damn the man.

  She made coffee to clear her head and tried to work out what she should do next. Francis Sullivan had never shown up at the morgue the previous evening, so she still had no idea what the UV tattoos on Tash and Sally Ann’s backs signified. Rose said she’d let her know as soon as she found out, but she’d believe that when it happened. There was no reason for the pathologist to keep her in the loop and, with Alex in custody, there was every reason not to.

  She drained her coffee and picked up her phone.

  ‘Liv, do you know Sarah Collins?’

  Liv sniffed at the other end of the line. Marni’s call had obviously woken her. ‘I do.’

  ‘Can you fix up to meet her for coffee? I need to talk to her.’

  ‘What . . . why?’

  ‘I think she lied to the police about Alex. I want to know why.’

  ‘No way, Marni. This doesn’t sound like a good idea . . .’

  ‘Liv?’ She paused, listening to the static on the connection. ‘Liv, I’m scared they’re going to charge him with murder.’

  ‘They can’t do that.’

  ‘They can.’

  ‘Okay.’ She sounded resigned. ‘I’ll fix up for you to talk with Sarah.’

  ‘Today, yeah?’

  Liv was as good as her word, and at three o’clock Marni arrived, as arranged, at Pret on East Street. The coffee shop was heaving – Saturday afternoon on a bank holiday weekend and the whole town was at bursting point. Marni joined the queue behind two girls in full mod regalia and scanned the ground floor for her niece. A hand waved at her through the throng of bodies – Liv was sitting at a corner table and opposite her sat a girl who must have been Sarah Collins.

  Marni looked at her with interest, though she could only see her from the side. Glossy black hair swept back from an immaculately made-up face, tight jeans and a skinny lycra top showed a strip of taut, brown flesh between them. She picked at the edge of a plastic cup on the table in front of her – some kind of green juice – and then twisted a strand of her dark hair round her finger. She was nervous, making Marni wonder what Liv had said to her.

  So she should be nervous, the little cow.

  Marni got to the front of the queue and asked for a black coffee, though a hot drink was the last thing she needed. Then she went over to the girls’ table.

  Deep breaths. Stay calm. Don’t make any accusations.

  Liv stood up as she arrived and moved to the next seat so Marni could sit opposite Sarah.

  ‘Sarah, this is my aunt, Marni Mullins.’

  On hearing the name Mullins, Sarah Collins flinched in her seat. Her hand shot back to the plastic cup and snapped the rim of the lid.

  ‘Hi Sarah,’ said Marni. She couldn’t quite smile at the girl – she wasn’t here to be friendly – but she sat down and made a conscious effort not to sound as aggressive as she was feeling. ‘You probably know what I want to talk to you about, don’t you?’

  Sarah Collins stared at her cup and didn’t speak. Liv raised her own cup to her lips. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked almost as uncomfortable as her friend.

  Marni was walking on a knife-edge. She wanted to shove Sarah Collins against a wall and ask her why she’d lied to the police about her son. But if she did anything that showed her true feelings, the girl could just get up and walk.

  ‘Sarah,’ she said gently. ‘You spoke to the police about Alex, didn’t you?’

  Finally the girl made eye contact with her and nodded. Marni could read fear in her eyes. Why was she afraid?

  ‘You told them Alex had hit Tash, didn’t you?’

  She nodded again, working her mouth nervously as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t.

  Marni waited.

  Liv put down her cup.

  ‘Why did you say that, Sarah?’ Liv burst out. ‘You know Alex well enough to know that he’d never do that. Now the police are trying to blame him for Tash’s death.’

  Marni stayed quiet. Sarah might respond better to Liv than to her.

  Sarah started to cry and Liv grabbed hold of one of her hands.

  ‘I didn’t want to say that,’ said Sarah, gulping down air as she sobbed. ‘I knew it was wrong.’

  ‘Then why did you do it?’ said Liv.

  Sarah sniffed and dabbed her nose with a paper serviette that was lying on the table. She pressed her index finger under each eye to stem the flow of tears and mascara.

  ‘Kath came to our house . . .’

  ‘Kath Brady?’ said Marni.

  Sarah nodded. ‘She came to see Mum a few days after Tash died. Mum called me down to talk to her. Kath said Tash had told her that Alex had hit her once.’ Sarah paused and blotted her eyes again. ‘But she said if she told that to the police, they wouldn’t believe her because she’d already said stuff to them about Alex.’

  ‘Stuff?’ prompted Marni.

  ‘That she thought Alex had done it, that he’d attacked her.’

  Marni cursed silently, digging her nails into her palms underneath the table.

  ‘She said that if I told the police about Alex hitting Tash, they would believe me.’

  ‘But you would be lying, Sarah.’

  ‘My mum said I should do it.’ She started to cry more loudly, without reservation.

  The couple at the next table stared across at Marni with accusing looks. Marni fished a clean tissue out of her bag and passed it across to Sarah.

  ‘It’s okay, Sarah,’ said Liv. ‘It was right of you to tell us.’

  Sarah snorted loudly and tried to gain control of herself.

  Now Marni had what she wanted from the encounter, but she had one last question.

  ‘Sarah, would you come with us to John Street and tell DI Sullivan what you’ve just told us?’

  Sarah shook her head violently. ‘They’ll lock me up, won’t they?’

  ‘Of course not. They’ll be the first to tell you you’ve done the right thing.’ Marni didn’t know or care if Sarah would be charged with perverting the course of justice. All she cared about was Alex.

  ‘Please, Sarah. Alex could go to prison for years. And meanwhile, the real killer’s still out there somewhere, getting ready to attack another girl.’

  Sarah’s wide, dark eyes flared even wider, then she nodded.

  ‘Okay, I’ll come with you.’

  42

  Saturday, 26 August 2017

  Rory

  Rory stared at the clock on the incident-room wall and decided the hands hadn’t moved since he’d last looked up at it. Still four fifteen. Bloody thing must need a new battery again. He checked the time on his phone. The clock was right and it felt like the afternoon had ground to a halt. He should have been in his back garden with a beer, not stuck in the office re
viewing crime-scene data.

  The investigation had pretty much ground to a halt. The SOCOs had been down into the sewers and come back empty-handed. Rose had nothing for them from the crime scenes, apart from a partial footprint in blood from the aquarium. Size ten, generic lugged sole. It could have come from the shoes of a thousand men. In other words, it wasn’t a lead. And now there were these weird UV tattoos apparently that no one understood.

  There was a single link between the two girls and the two suspects. The School of Art. Angie, Kyle and Tony were scheduled to go there first thing Tuesday morning, after the bank holiday, to get a list of Tash and Sally Ann’s classmates and teachers. But why had the killer targeted those two girls, out of hundreds? They had missed something, somewhere. A critical fact, a small piece of the jigsaw . . . and until they found it, they weren’t going to make any progress.

  The clacking of Kyle’s keyboard was setting his teeth on edge and the clattering of the fan only served as a reminder of how useless it was. It just shunted the hot air around with no cooling effect at all.

  ‘Can’t you give it a rest, Kyle?’

  ‘What, sarge?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Make us a coffee, would you?’

  Kyle nodded and scraped his chair back on the floor.

  Blessed silence for two minutes. Then his phone rang. It was the boss. Wasn’t he in his office?

  ‘Yeah? Where are you?’

  ‘Can you process Mullins for release, Rory?’

  What the fuck?

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No. Just do it.’ Francis cut the connection.

  It took Rory a couple of calls to track him down, but according to the desk sergeant the DI was in one of the interview rooms with Marni Mullins and two young women.

  Rory rapped on the door with his knuckles and went in without waiting to be invited.

  Francis glared at him. ‘Yes?’

  On the other side of the table from the boss sat two girls. He didn’t recognise either of them, but Marni bloody Mullins was standing behind them, leaning against the wall. She had Sullivan wrapped around her little finger and Rory could smell trouble.