by Tiana Carver
He told her the bottle was just fine.
She sat down near him on the sofa. He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. Her hair was up and she was wearing a long silk robe, as if she had just come out of the shower. He guessed by the structure of her body beneath the silk that she was wearing something fitting under it. She gathered her legs up beneath her, curled herself comfortable. Picked up her glass of clear fizzy liquid. Ice cubes chinking.
She reached across, met his bottle with her glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
They drank.
Mickey put his bottle down on a glass-topped side table, conscious of the wet ring he would leave. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you wanted to see me. You’ve got something to tell me?’
She looked down at her drink, smiled. ‘I do.’
‘What is it?’
She placed her drink on a similar side table. Turned to him. Eyes locked on his. He felt an erection beginning an involuntary stir.
‘There’s lots to tell you. But there’s something I have to do first.’ She edged nearer to him on the sofa.
‘What?’
‘This.’
She leaned across, took his face in her hands, kissed him full on the mouth.
He tried not to respond. Told himself afterwards that he’d really tried. But he didn’t. As soon as her mouth was on his, his tongue was in her mouth. Locked with hers, exploring.
He felt her body pressed against his, felt his erection spring right up.
She pulled back from him, smiling all the while.
‘That’s better,’ she said.
She pulled at the silk tie of her robe. Slid it apart. He saw what she was wearing underneath. It took his breath away.
‘I hope you don’t think I was being presumptuous,’ she said, working the robe slowly over her shoulders, letting it fall down her back. Knowing his eyes were devouring her black-underwear-clad body, her stockinged legs. ‘But I think you feel the same way about me as I do about you, don’t you?’
‘But … don’t you have … have something to tell me …?’
‘Later,’ she said. ‘First, this. Is that OK with you?’
Mickey didn’t answer. Just pulled the silk robe all the way off her.
Made no pretence at not responding any more.
Didn’t think about anything but devouring Lynn Windsor’s body.
73
Phil ran down the corridor, fast as he could. But Samuel was quicker. Whoever he was, thought Phil as he ran, the man certainly knew the layout of the building.
He had picked up the child. The boy was so small and thin, he had fitted under his arm. Allowed Samuel to move more quickly.
Phil reached the end of the corridor, found himself at a crossroads. He stopped, looked round, bent double, hands on knees, while he caught his breath. The corridors all looked alike to him. He hadn’t been reading the ward signs as he ran, just following Samuel. He didn’t know whether he had been down here before. He looked to his right, his left, straight ahead. Couldn’t see any sign of the man or the boy. He listened. Hoping to hear screams, commotion. Follow the trail.
Nothing. Except his own ragged breathing.
Then: a scream. From the corridor on his left. He looked down there, could see nothing. The scream continued. Accompanied by the sound of running feet. Chest aching, Phil gave chase.
He ran, seeing the main entrance up ahead. People were milling about, staff, patients and visitors alike. Screams and sobbing. Phil ran to the doors. He was grabbed by a security guard.
‘Stay inside, please, sir, it’s not safe.’
Phil tried to shrug him off. The security man tightened his grip.
‘I said stay inside. The police have been called.’
Phil fumbled in his jacket pocket, flashed his warrant card.
‘Sorry, sir …’ The guard let him go.
Phil ran through the double doors. Samuel was standing outside the building, the boy in front of him. Whenever someone made a move towards him, he brandished the gun.
‘Get back,’ he was shouting, ‘get back, please …’ He sounded exhausted, tearful.
Phil stepped in front of him. Samuel immediately swung the gun towards him.
‘Please, just … just leave me alone …’
‘Let the boy go,’ said Phil, moving towards him. ‘Come on, Samuel, just let him go …’
The gun was still pointing at Phil. ‘No … stay there …’ Pleading with him.
He’s weakening, thought Phil. I can take him.
He walked towards the gunman.
‘Get back!’
‘It’s over, Samuel. It ends now.’
‘I’ll … I’ll shoot you …’
‘No you won’t.’ Phil kept walking, across the car park.
‘Yes, yes … I will …’
Phil stopped. A 4x4 was racing towards them, showing no signs of slowing down. He jumped back, out of the way. Samuel stayed where he was. The 4x4 screeched to a halt, the passenger-side door opening. Phil saw movement.
The boy had gone.
He ran forward. The driver’s face was hidden. The passenger looked back at him.
Phil saw who it was. And felt like the life had been punched out of him. ‘No, no …’
He fell to his knees, unmoving, as the 4x4 revved up, sped away.
Behind him, Glass ran out of the building, made straight for his own car. Drove away. Phil didn’t even notice he had gone.
In front of him, Samuel raised the gun, placed it beneath his chin.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry …’
Fired.
The car park came alive with screams.
But Phil didn’t notice. All he could see was the face of the passenger. The rough sacking hood. The dark, bottomless eyes.
The man who had haunted his dreams.
He was real.
74
There was a knock at the door. Donna and Rose exchanged looks. They knew who it would be.
‘I’ll go,’ said Donna.
She stood up from the sofa where the two women had been sitting, crossed to the front door. Opened it. DCI Brian Glass swept in.
‘Where is she?’ He ignored Donna, looked round the room.
‘I’m here,’ said Rose, standing up. Trying to ignore the pain. ‘And I know what you’ve done.’ Her voice hard, cold. Like Donna imagined an executioner’s would sound. ‘I know everything.’
Glass stayed where he was. Sighed. He looked at his watch. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘Yes you do,’ said Rose. ‘Because it’s all here.’ She held up the notebook.
Glass said nothing. Just stared at her. Undisguised hatred in his eyes.
Feeding on his hatred, Rose smiled. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t work it out? Is that it? You didn’t think I’d investigate?’
Glass said nothing. Stood there. Donna watched him. She had seen plenty of men like him before. Violence came off him in waves like aftershave.
Rose continued. ‘Give the dead whore to the basket case, is that what you thought? The fuck-up. The mental patient. Give her a promotion too, but don’t tell the rest of the station. Keep it between the two of us. That way you could always deny it later. Claim it was just … just a sign, a sign of how fucking … delusional I was …’
Glass sighed. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘Oh you do,’ said Rose, and the knife was suddenly in her hand. ‘You fucking do. You’ll stand there and you’ll listen. Because I’ve worked it all out. Who was Faith running from? Who was she meeting out in the woods at Wakes Colne? You. Now how do I know that? Checked the CCTV. No cameras on the street where you picked her up, but I gave them your registration number and they’ve got a perfect chain of you leaving the town centre and driving down Colchester Road out to the Wakes Colne woods. With a female passenger.’ She smiled. ‘Yeah. You’re logged. You’re in the system. You and Faith.’
Glass stared at her, his breathing low, shallow
.
‘She was trying to get money out of you, wasn’t she? Taking the book to you before taking it somewhere else. And you didn’t want that, did you?’ Rose moved in closer to him, the blade dancing before him. ‘Did you?’
Glass swallowed. ‘No.’
‘No. That’s right. So you tried to kill her. What the hell, eh? Another dead whore, no one would lose sleep over her. Put much effort into looking for her killer. Just another punter that got a bit too handy, right?’
He said nothing.
‘Except she ran, didn’t she? Got away from you and ran. And if those two cars hadn’t been coming round the corner when they were, she would have got away, wouldn’t she? Exposed you to the world.’
Glass’s eyes didn’t leave the blade. He licked his lips.
‘How am I doing so far?’
A flicker of a smile. ‘Pretty good. Not everything, but not bad.’
‘Enough, though, eh?’ She nodded. ‘Enough to implicate you.’ She laughed. It hurt her ribs, but she didn’t notice. ‘Give it to the headcase to investigate. Couple of days of getting nowhere, then it could be all dropped. And that would have been that.’ She brought the blade up close to him. ‘But it didn’t work out like you planned, did it?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it didn’t. But there’s still time to remedy the situation.’
While she was still wondering what those words meant, Glass reached out, twisted her wrist with one hand, grabbed the knife with the other. Rose screamed, tried to get the knife back. Glass was too quick for her. And too strong. Before she could make a grab for him, he had pushed forward with the knife, stabbing her.
She looked up, surprised. He pulled the blade out, did it again. And again. And again. Face a mask of hatred.
Donna screamed.
On the stairs behind her, Ben screamed too.
Glass turned to the pair of them, the blade swinging before him.
Donna stood up, calculating the distance between herself and the front door. She knew she wouldn’t get there in time. She still had her coffee mug in her hand. Not stopping to think, and trying to ignore the knife, she stepped up to Glass, swung the mug into the side of his head. Caught him behind the ear. He sighed, went down.
She turned to Ben.
‘Come on, run …’
He raced down the stairs and the pair of them were straight out of the door.
Behind them, Rose had her arms stretched over her stomach.
‘No … no … no …’
She watched, fascinated, as the blood pumped out of her. Cradled her own glistening innards.
She didn’t have time to cry.
Didn’t have time to feel anger or injustice at what was happening.
All she had time to do was die.
75
Grabbing Ben’s wrist, Donna ran. She didn’t know where; just as far away as possible from what was happening behind her.
She reached the end of the road. Two men stood blocking her way.
She stopped running. Recognised them.
‘Oh no … no …’
The two men from the car. The ones she had injured.
‘No …’
They were on her.
The one with the bandaged face smiled. Grabbed her tight.
‘Now we’ve got you,’ he said.
Donna wanted to scream, cry, fight.
But she didn’t.
She just stood there.
No fight left in her.
76
The circus had arrived at the hospital.
Police cars, incident support units, the fall works. The only things missing, for obvious reasons, were ambulances.
The car park had been taped off, the front of the building likewise. Samuel’s body was still lying there waiting to be examined.
Don and Marina got out of their car, ran to the front doors. Phil was sitting on the steps. Marina sat down beside him.
‘Phil?’
He just stared straight ahead. Didn’t even acknowledge she was there.
‘Phil, it’s me. Marina …’
She held his hand, stroked it. Nothing. She glanced back at Don, a look of mutual concern flashing between them. She tried again.
‘Phil …’
No good, she thought; he was catatonic with shock.
Don sat on the other side of him.
‘Phil, it’s me. Don. Phil, son, are you … are you there?’
Nothing.
Marina kept stroking his hand. She leaned into him.
‘Marina …’ His voice small, as if coming from the far end of a long, dark tunnel.
Marina squeezed his hand harder. ‘Yes, Phil, I’m here.’
He turned to her. And she saw something in his eyes she hoped she would never see again. Pain. Hurt. And a total lack of hope.
‘He’s real, Marina. The man from my dream. He’s real. He was here …’
She held his hand even harder.
‘Oh God … oh God …’
Not letting him go.
PART THREE
WINTER KILLS
77
It was the first time Brian Glass had ever killed anyone.
He had been responsible for deaths, but not directly. Not with his own hands. He sat on the sofa in Donna Warren’s house, stared at the body on the floor. He had seen postmortems before, watched while body parts were removed and weighed, cut and prodded, listened while decisions were made as to causes of death. But that was all afterwards. This was now.
Now he had the body of Rose Martin on the floor in front of him. He stared at it, transfixed. Her middle section was a confusion of red, lumpy gore. He couldn’t identify organs or body parts; it was all just a mess. Her blood was all over the room. He knew that a blood-splatter expert could recreate what had happened from the various sprays and gushes, but right now he was content to just sit there and stare at it. Like an artist in his studio.
But it was the face that fascinated him the most. Minutes ago, it had been so full of animation. Eyes alight and burning with hatred, mouth spewing forth truths he hadn’t wanted to hear. And now this. Nothing. Mouth slack, empty of words and sounds, eyes dull and staring, like a gutted fish on a marble slab.
He didn’t feel bad about what he had done. On the contrary. He felt elated.
He just had to make sure he got away with it, that was all.
He rubbed his head. It was still sore from where Donna Warren had hit him. Tender to the touch. He had a bruise, a lump coming. At first he had been livid with rage that she – and the boy – had got away. He knew that following them wasn’t an option. Causing a scene in public, brandishing a knife on a street – even in New Town – would attract attention. So he had had to let them go. But now, sitting here, he thought that was the best thing that could have happened. Because now he had a scapegoat. Now he had a murderer.
He knew what to do. Leave the body to be found. By him, later. And then shift all the blame on to Donna Warren. Make his later visit an explanation for how his DNA came to be in the house; let his verbal testimony be enough to catch and convict her. Take charge of the interviews. Make sure they went his way.
Oh yes. This would be easy.
And he had planned how to explain his sudden disappearance from the hospital too. He was giving chase to the person who had abducted the boy. And he had lost him. Simple. In fact, once he was certain the 4x4 was well away, he had put in a call asking for assistance in finding it. Covering himself. Muddying the waters further.
And Phil … He had looked in no fit state to say anything against him.
Glass nodded. Good. All good.
He stared at Rose Martin’s body once again.
It was the first time he had killed someone.
But it wouldn’t be the last.
78
The night was moving in. Bringing with it the chill of autumn, the threat of winter. But inside Phil and Marina’s house in Wivenhoe, the windows were closed, the curtains and blinds drawn. The night was being k
ept at bay.
Or it should have been.
Because Phil could feel the night inside him. Deep within.
He sat in an armchair, staring straight ahead. Marina and Don stood in front of him, concern etched on their faces.
‘Shall I give you a hand upstairs with him?’ Don said. ‘Get him into bed?’
Marina looked down at Phil. His eyes were open, but there was no movement. Whatever he was seeing wasn’t in the room with them. It wasn’t even in the present. Her heart broke to see him that way.
‘No,’ she said, ‘leave him there.’
‘But he needs rest, Marina. He needs—’
‘Yes, Don,’ she said, voice low, but calm and firm, ‘he needs rest. But there’s something he needs before that. Answers.’
She locked eyes with the older man. He couldn’t hold her look, turned away.
‘He needs to confront this, Don. It’s gone on long enough. It’s gone on his whole life.’
Don shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘I don’t want … I don’t want him hurt.’
Marina almost laughed. She gestured towards Phil. ‘Look at him, Don. D’you think he could be hurt any more than he is already?’
Don sighed, eventually shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I suppose not.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s do it. Let’s get him sorted out.’ Each word was dragged out of him, like a chained concrete block being picked up and moved.
Marina took a deep breath, then another. She sat down opposite Phil, took his hand in her own. It felt cool, dry. ‘Phil?’
His eyes flickered. Like a weak current of electricity had been passed between them.
‘Phil. It’s me. Marina. I want to talk to you. Can we do that? Can we talk?’
An imperceptible nod of the head.
‘Good.’ Still holding his hand. ‘I just want to ask … who did you see, Phil? In the car, who was it?’
‘The face … the face from my dream …’ His eyes closed, face contorted, as if seeing it all over again.
‘OK. Good. The face from your dream. Good. What was he in the dream? What was he doing?’
‘He was … I was in the cage, the cage of bones, in the cellar … and he was …’ He looked away, shook his head, as if trying to get the image out of his mind.
