I hear the front door open and close, a woman’s voice calling from the hall. ‘I’m back. Did you think I’d got lost?’ I stand stupidly in front of my bound subject, still holding the knife, not knowing what to do. I did my homework. Painstakingly. He lives alone, so how . . . ? She’s still talking as the door opens. ‘I had to go to the cash machine. And I thought you said that shop was just round the corner. It’s miles . . .’
She breaks off and stands in the open doorway, taking in the scene, a plastic shopping bag in her hand, a look of astonishment on her face. ‘Derek! What the hell?’
I take a couple of steps towards her and stop. What’s she doing here? What should I do? I’m still holding my knife. But I’ve got nothing against her. She’s not on my list. I’m not a random killer.
I hesitate too long, allowing her to recover first. Suddenly she makes a move towards me, swinging the shopping bag, and something hard hits me forcefully on the chin. I stagger back, dazed, letting go of the knife as I try to break my fall. I take only a moment to recover, but it’s long enough for her to drop the shopping and pick up my knife.
She makes no attempt to stop me as I scramble past her and run out of the door, out of the house, down the stairs and into the street, with no idea where I’m running to.
Annette made sure that the front door was locked and bolted, then returned to the living room and peeled the tape gently from Jack’s mouth; luckily he’d had time to shave his upper lip before the interruption. After that, all she could do was put her arms around him and sob uncontrollably. ‘Oh, Jack! My God, Jack!’ After a while she settled down. ‘That was Derek, Miranda’s husband.’
‘I know. Don’t worry, he won’t get far.’
Annette giggled. ‘If that’s your best line, I’m putting the tape back on.’ She giggled again. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit hysterical.’
‘I don’t blame you. Anyway, this bondage stuff is a real turn-on, but . . .’
‘What am I thinking about?’ She found Derek’s knife and cut Jack free. ‘Oh God, you’re bleeding!’ Now spurred back into action, she bathed the wound and found a plaster for it. ‘I’d better take you to A&E. You might need stitches.’
‘I’m supposed to be at work in half an hour.’
‘You’ll call in sick. And I’ll phone Linda to tell her I’ll be late.’
‘I think we’d better phone the police as well.’
They did all that, then sat down on the sofa to wait.
‘How are you feeling now?’
‘My head hurts like hell. Maybe it’s just as well. It stops me from thinking about how near I came to being murdered.’
‘Oh God, don’t remind me. If you hadn’t given me your keys . . .’
‘If you hadn’t decided to stay the night . . .’
She kissed him and they were distracted for a while.
Then she said, ‘I still don’t understand. It wasn’t Derek the police picked up. It was one of Miranda’s customers.’
‘They must have lifted Derek as well. It was him Morag and I picked out in the identity parade. I didn’t know who he was then. I didn’t realise you and I were talking about different people.’
‘But if they had him, why the fuck is he running about loose?’
‘They couldn’t have had enough evidence. Well, they have now.’
‘Useless bastards.’
‘He must have been crazy to try again so soon. Anyway, you certainly sorted him out. What the hell did you hit him with?’
‘Oh God, I forgot.’ She retrieved the bag of groceries from the floor and emptied it, one item at a time. ‘The hearty breakfast so nearly missed by the condemned man. Half a dozen rolls. A quarter pound of bacon. A pint of milk. Morning paper. So far, nothing you could call a lethal weapon.’ She felt another fit of giggles coming on. ‘Just as well I fancied a bit of luxury,’ she said, bringing out the jar of marmalade.
39
The Moral of the Story?
‘The thing is,’ said Jack, ‘I understand how Derek felt. He may have taken things to extremes . . .’
‘Just a little.’
‘. . . but I can see why it pushed him over the edge.’
‘I know,’ said Annette. ‘Even the police managed to work out that much.’
In fact, when it first seemed possible that the murderer might be targeting Miranda’s customers, Derek had become a suspect. He had been put in the line-up along with Miranda’s possessive customer and had been picked out by both Jack and Morag. ‘If jealousy was the motive,’ Madigan had said, ‘it occurred to us that the husband might just be a possibility. We didn’t need to hire a psychologist to work that one out.’
After what had happened, Annette thought Madigan’s attitude might have improved a little. Thanks to her, he wasn’t having to explain how they’d picked up the killer, then let him go again to commit another murder.
However, Madigan did take the time to tell them about the files found in Derek’s house. About how thoroughly they documented the depth of his obsession. How for almost a year he had kept watch outside the sauna during Miranda’s shifts. How he had regularly phoned in, posing as a customer, recording the names of the girls who shared each shift with his wife. How he had cross-referenced these with his record of visitors, thereby identifying those who were Miranda’s customers. How he had tailed the men on his list, photographed them, made enquiries about them, compiled detailed dossiers on each. How he had even managed to follow Miranda into the Trongate Hotel, in order to identify the bedrooms she was visiting, without his wife ever noticing that he was shadowing her. ‘He could have a future as a private eye,’ said Madigan, ‘if they ever let him out.’
Why had Madigan told them all this? Through embarrassment at how closely disaster had been averted? Or did he think the story contained a moral for Jack and Annette?
‘We’ve got things to work out,’ said Jack. ‘But I don’t want to stop seeing you.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I’ve got a university course to finish.’
‘And I’ve got kids to feed.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Give it time, see what happens. You owe that much to the woman who saved your life.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ said Jack.
40
Visiting Time
Miranda’s coming to see me today.
Dr Murray says I shouldn’t see her, not for a while anyway, not until I’m feeling better. But he says it has to be my decision. I always agree with him that I shouldn’t see her, and then I always decide that I will after all.
I think of her all the time. Where is she, what is she doing? Dr Murray says that allowing her to visit only encourages me to perpetuate my obsession, but I know it won’t make any difference. I am as besotted with her as on the day when I first cast my eyes on her beautiful face.
She says she’s given up the work that drove me out of my mind and brought me to this place. She says she loves me and that she only did it for me. She said the same thing all along, only then she didn’t know what it was doing to me. I should have told her, only I couldn’t. Instead I pretended that I didn’t mind and wreaked my vengeance in secret.
She says that she’ll stand by me and that she’ll be waiting for me when I get out, whenever that might be.
Can I believe her? I don’t know. I don’t really know her, even though I lived with her for more than two years. I have no idea what goes on inside her lovely head.
I wonder how Johnny Howard is getting on? He’ll never know it, but my file on him was the thickest of them all, his name always number one on my list. Why did I bypass him? I think that because, unlike the other ver . . . Careful! Unlike the others, I think he genuinely cared for Miranda. While they were taking their unspeakable pleasure, he was suffering almost as much pain as me. Anyway, I’m glad now that I didn’t kill him. Feeling that is an important step in my rehabilitation.
I’m also glad that I didn’t kill Jack Morrison. He was a mi
nor offender, and he has found his own Jezebel to torment him. I hope he fares better than I did.
I’m told I’ll make real progress when I regret killing those other men, but I’m not at that stage yet.
And now here she is, looking as impossible as ever, just as beautiful, dressed just as elegantly and expensively. How can she still afford to . . . ? Caution!
She makes it seem as if seeing me, even in this place, is the most wonderful thing that could happen to her. She gives me her special smile, the one reserved for me alone. ‘Hi there, darling! How are you?’
Dr Murray is right. Her visits have to stop or I won’t get better. I should tell her right now to go away and never come back. But I won’t.
And I never will.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people for their invaluable contributions to the revival of my literary career over the last few years: Emma Walton and the rest of the staff in the Glasgow area branches of Waterstones, whose championship of my work got me noticed; Dave Hill, whose brilliant covers for my books greatly enhanced this process; and Alison Rae of Polygon, who enthusiastically took notice, the present book being the result.
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