The blood on the knife hadn’t looked old; there’d been a brightness to it as if it had only recently dried and the gloves appeared to have been worn recently.
Abby’s mind kept skittering away from the direction her thoughts kept taking. She wouldn’t, couldn’t go there, it was too terrible to contemplate. She felt like she was getting through the day in a daze, smiling at customer’s jokes, thanking them for tips, washing up the cups and all the while her mind returning to the knife.
When Beth left it was her lunch hour. Geoffrey kept his computer in the small office next to the stockroom and Abby sneaked in closing the door behind her. She switched the computer on and went to Google, typing in, ‘The Selfie Killer.’
Her heart missed a beat when she saw how much information and speculation there was.
It had begun six months ago when the first body of an elderly woman had been found. She’d been tied up, beaten and stabbed to death. Over fifty knife wounds. Her name was Mary Foster, a widow, eighty one, and she’d been found lying in her bed, her nightdress saturated with blood. Her lips had been sewn together with a strong thread before the killer had used the elderly victim’s own mobile phone to take a Selfie of her poor beaten up face.
A lovely woman, everyone said, she didn’t deserve such a horrific death.
Two weeks later another body of an elderly woman had been discovered at the back of an abandoned picture house. She too had been bound, gagged, and stabbed to death. Once again her lips had been sewn together and a Selfie taken using the woman’s own mobile phone. Elizabeth Cromwell, sixty nine years old, murdered while taking a short cut to her home across the parking area behind the cinema.
A wonderful person, everyone said, who would do such a terrible thing to a defenceless old lady?
A month went by and then came the third. She’d been murdered in exactly the same way; a seventy four year old pensioner, Carol Jenson, on her way home from Bingo, found a hundred yards from her house. The blood slashed face appearing on a Selfie, her thin lips pulled tightly together with the same thread used on the other two victims.
A serial killer, screamed the headlines, a murderer who takes Selfie’s of his victims. What were the police going to do about it?
Abby rubbed her eyes. Carol Jenson, Her initials CJ embossed on the suitcase. Had Joe stole it from her? He must have done. She tried to think back to that time. She remembered reading about the murders but they hadn’t affected her even though they had happened only a few miles away in the next town. It seemed the killer was only interested in slaughtering old women and there was no suggestion of sexual violence. There was also no indication that the victims had been robbed of their money or jewellery which was strange. Two more victims followed over the next couple of weeks, again both elderly women left tied up with their lips sewn together. A massive police hunt was underway for the perpetrator now dubbed the Selfie killer.
And then three months ago the murders had stopped.
Just around the time that Vera had died. Hot tears of disbelief and anguish filled Abby’s eyes. The police had said that the Selfie killer had worn white rubber gloves and in every case had carried out the ritual of sewing three large stitches into the lips of the poor victims as if he needed to close their mouths forever before taking their Selfie.
Making sure they could never tell anyone who he was. Shutting them up so he’d never have to listen to their voice again.
But they were already dead, and the dead can’t talk, can they? Abby’s mind screamed.
But that wasn’t true, was it? Abby put her head in her hands. The dead could talk; she knew that only too well.
Oh, God, why would you do that, Joe, why? What could turn a loving caring husband into a monster?
She hadn’t really believed her mother-in-law’s explanation of what Joe had been up to, he hadn’t been having wild sex with a sixteen year old, Vera had told her that to throw her off the scent because Joe had been doing something far more terrible.
For the first few minutes Abby had sat in front of the computer watching the terrible images flashing across the screen, her mind rejecting the impossible scenario that Joe, her Joe could be responsible for committing such violence. But it all fit so well together she couldn’t see any other explanation.
Men did awful things sometimes, they had dark desires they tried to hide, especially from their wives. How many times had she’d seen a serial killer brought to justice and his wife deny all knowledge of what he’d been doing? She’d always disbelieved them. It was unimaginable you could live so closely with someone and not know they went out on regular murderous sprees, it was impossible.
Or was it? Was that exactly how it happened? Joe coming home late from work, eating his tea, chatting about his job and smiling at her within minutes of brutally murdering an old lady?
No! Her mind screamed, not her Joe, surely. Her Joe was too good, too kind, the best husband a woman could want. He couldn’t possibly be a serial killer, not when he had a loving wife to come home to.
But there was something terrible in the way Vera kept staring at her, almost as if she was willing her to accept the truth. Vera wasn’t stupid, maybe she’d found out about the killings and confronted Joe and all this time she’d kept it to herself, protecting her murderous son.
Abby felt terrified. Vera’s face kept wavering in front of her. So her mother-in-law had known, all the time it was happening she’d known. Abby had a sudden overwhelming thought; that was why Vera had changed her will. She’d thought that Joe would get caught, sent to prison for life and her precious house would revert to her undeserving daughter-in-law. It was starting to make sense now and Abby trembled, feeling as if she was on the verge of a revelation.
Joe, Abby thought. How could you have done this terrible thing and then come home to me as if nothing had happened, as if all that mattered was what I was cooking for your tea? Where were the bloodstained clothes, did you throw them away and get changed in the back of your van? Use wet wipes to clean the blood off your hands?
She saw his hands now, his plump fingers gripping his knife and fork as he’d plunged them into a peppered steak, fingers that had just sewn up an old woman’s lips, fingers that had clutched the handle of a knife as he’d drove it hard into the bodies of his poor defenceless victims.
And yet he’d sat there, chewing noisily with satisfaction as if he hadn’t got a care in the world.
Now she understood why he’d pretended to her his mother was still in the house. He was afraid she’d find out what he’d done, and he was trying to play games on her frightened mind, get rid of her, put her in a home where no-one would believe anything she said. Her husband, her precious Joe was trying to drive her mad.
She could hardly bear to go on reading but it was clear that the police were still searching for the murderer, afraid he would kill again. He won’t, Abby wanted to tell them, now Vera’s gone, he doesn’t need to. Because that was what it was all about, wasn’t it? Joe hated his mother, wanted her dead but he couldn’t kill her so he murdered those other old women instead to ease the terrible pressure he was under. He needed love and sympathy, not to be locked away for the rest of his life. And now she knew the terrible truth she could help him.
She should tell the police, they’d understand. I’ll make sure he never does it again, she would promise them.
But of course it wasn’t her promise to make.
Chapter 15
There was nothing Lydia wanted. She had money, a nice home, a good job, what on earth was there to wish for? You know, the little nagging voice in the back of her head sniggered. You know what you want, just do it. What have you got to lose?
“Everything.” Lydia spoke out loud. She was alone in her study at home. There was a saying, if you don’t want the answer, don’t ask the question, but that was exactly what she was planning on doing.
For the past three months she’d suspected that her husband, Charles had been having an affair. She’d known instinctively, as
thousands of women before her, that her man was hiding something from her. The guilty glances when his mobile rang. The sudden shutting down of his laptop when she entered the room, their joint bank account depleting at a faster rate than usual. And the biggest tell tale sign of all, the amount of nights he spent away at conferences had trebled in the past twelve weeks.
She couldn’t let their marriage break up, Lydia thought, she would lose too much. Having become accustomed to living in style, having everything she wanted she wasn’t prepared to give it up without a fight.
Naturally she’d considered hiring a private detective to spy for her but there was something so sleazy about the idea that she’d shunned it. Did she really want to be confronted with photographs of her husband and some tart from his office going arm in arm into a hotel bedroom? So, she could follow him herself except everyone in the area knew her and she’d soon be the talk of the town if she was seen lurking behind lamp posts and trees clutching a pair of binoculars and a camera. The idea was so demeaning she shuddered.
She had an image to keep up, the perfect couple, rich, attractive, invited to all the best parties. But behind her back were her friends and acquaintances sniggering? The thought bought on a hot flush.
What she had done was rifle through his clothes, going into every pocket looking for evidence. So far she’d come up empty, but Charles wasn’t a canny business man for nothing, he was clever and cunning, the last thing he’d do was leave evidence lying around. So she’d attempted to get into his computer. Of course it was password protected and Lydia had tried every word she could think of but to no avail. The bastard was probably using the name of his latest floozy as a password.
It was starting to really get to her. She wasn’t sleeping well, and to cap it all she was going through the change. Not that she’d told Charles. No doubt the slag he was running around with behind her back was twenty years old and had probably never even heard of palpitations.
Men don’t know how lucky they are, she thought bitterly. They think shaving’s a chore; they should try being a woman. Charles wasn’t fond of listening to women’s complaints, she’d caught him more than once sneering when she got together with her friends and the discussion turned to prolapsed wombs and monthly stomach cramps. She had no doubt that if the discussions had turned to football and naked women his sneer would have vanished.
Lydia looked at the phone number. What had she got to lose? Beth had apparently brought her a wish for her birthday so she might as well make use of it. She didn’t believe for one moment Beth had paid someone twenty pounds for it, her dippy sister hadn’t got money to waste, silly girl bothering with excuses. Twenty pounds was nothing to Lydia, she gave the nail technician at her salon more than that for a tip. She dialled the number.
When the phone was picked up, Lydia said without preamble, “I believe I can ask for a wish.”
“Not so fast, my dear. My name is Shandra.”
Here we go, thought Lydia, the fortune telling spiel, for another twenty pounds I can spend twice as long telling you what you already know. She said, “Okay, and my name is Lydia, now, about my wish....”
“My goodness, you are in a hurry, aren’t you? A few more minutes won’t make any difference to the outcome, I’m sure.”
Lydia didn’t like the old woman’s voice. It was crackly, ancient. Suddenly she felt annoyed with herself. “I’m wasting my time,” she said abruptly.
“No my dear, believe me, you’re not. I know you have something important you want but first tell me your full maiden name and your birth date.”
“Lydia Ann Simpson. December 14th.”
Sagittarius, full of fire and passion, is that you, my dear?”
Lydia didn’t answer.
“Simpson, you’re related to Bethany?”
“Sister. Look, can we get on with it please, I’m a busy woman.”
“Also a troubled one, I suspect. Did you dream about Jonathon last night?”
Lydia almost dropped the phone. How the hell could some old woman, a stranger, know she’d dreamt about Jonathon? Lydia tried to think, had she told Beth about him? She frowned, of course not; Beth didn’t even know about Jonathon, no-one did, except Jonathon of course.
Lydia bit down on her bottom lip. Had he set this up, got in touch with her sister to frighten her into making a decision? Surely he wouldn’t have done that. It made no sense, and Beth wouldn’t have agreed to play a joke on her sister with a stranger. Lydia frowned, trying to think. She’d met him at the golf club where she’d been dining with two of her friends; a weekly affair that passed a few pleasant hours away. She’d bumped into him coming out of the rest room and he’d done something amazing.
He’d swung her up in his arms and passionately kissed her. Flustered and amazed she’d agreed to meet him the following week. He was ten years younger than she was, handsome and worked in the club bar. When she’d had time to think about it she’d decided it had just been a moment of weakness and hadn’t turned up. Flirting was one thing but it felt like a date and that was one step too far.
Somehow he’d managed to get her mobile number, probably off one of her silly friends, and for the past two weeks he’d phoned her daily begging her to meet up with him. A few days ago he’d begun to tell her what he’d like to do to her once they were alone. She’d laughed, feeling uncomfortable but had been flattered nevertheless.
And yes, she had dreamt about him last night, though it hadn’t been particularly pleasant. He’d been chasing her through a dark wood. Branches, with a mind of their own, had snagged on her clothes ripping them off one by one until she only had her panties on. For some strange reason she remembered shouting, “Catch me if you can,” and laughing as if it was a joke. Just as he reached her and grabbed her around the waist she’d woken up. It was obviously time to tell him to stop pestering her.
“You know he’s only interested in your money, don’t you?” The hateful voice broke into her thoughts.
“I think you’ll find that it’s my business,” Lydia replied crisply.
“He’s a predator, he lives in the woods.” The voice cackled with strange laughter. “Would you like a kiss?”
“What?” Lydia thought she hadn’t heard right.
“I said, would you like a wish?”
Lydia hesitated, almost tempted to slam the phone down. She really didn’t like the condescending old lady on the end of the phone. “I wish to know who my husband’s having an affair with,” she mumbled.
The line went dead.
So much for that, Lydia thought. Thanks Beth, what a bloody wind up.
The front door slammed and Charles came in looking flushed. Lydia looked at him in surprise; it was rare for him to come home during the day. His face was red and he appeared agitated.
“Something wrong?” Lydia asked.
“You could say that. I’ve just got picked up by the police.”
“Well, it’s not the first time, is it?” Twice already her husband had been fined for drunk driving.
“You don’t understand, Lyd,” he stopped and wiped the sweat off his brow. “They’re saying there’s been a hit and run and they’re checking all the cars coming off the A55.” He was breathing heavily and a slow suspicion was beginning to form in Lydia’s mind.
“Was it you?” She asked quietly.
For a few moments he looked outraged and then he slumped onto the sofa putting his head in his hand. To Lydia’s disbelief tears squeezed from between his fingers. “I didn’t see her, Lyd, the bloody woman came out of nowhere. I swear I wasn’t driving too fast, I was going through an estate. She stepped out from behind a tree and walked in front of my car.”
Like you do, Lydia thought. She wondered what was expected of her. Should she go over, sit next to her husband and comfort him, or should she shout and tell him to own up immediately? She wasn’t used to confronting situations so she sat there at a loss. Finally she said, “Did you tell the police?”
Charles’s head shot up, his
eyes desperate. “God, no, of course I didn’t. There wasn’t a mark on the car, I checked. They let me drive off but I’m scared, Lyd, what if there were CCTV cameras and they got my car number?”
“Unlikely on an estate. Did the police ask where you’d come from?”
Charles’s face closed up and he looked away and that’s when Lydia knew. He’d been spending his time with his bit on the side in some sleazy hotel, taking a break from work. Bastard, she thought. Maybe I will phone Jonathon, take him up on his offer.
“I told them from the opposite direction, I think they believed me, the only thing is,” He took a deep breath, “I may need you to back up my story.”
“I see.” And Lydia did see. It seemed she had her uses after all. She felt a frisson of hatred run through her.
Charles had stood up and was pacing the room. “I mean, if they do come sniffing around could you tell them we were shopping together in Chester?”
“But when they pulled you up I wasn’t in the car with you, was I?”
Charles stared at her blankly. “No, of course not, you’d decided to stay and carry on with your shopping, you were going to take a taxi home.”
“But they’ll check the taxi ranks.”
“Jesus, Lydia, help me out.”
“I stayed later than I meant to and phoned you and you came and picked me up.”
“Yes, yes, that will work.”
“Except...”
“Except what?” Charles ran his hand through his hair.
“Moira from over the road came round and stayed about an hour. I mean, I couldn’t be in two places at once, Charles, could I?” Lydia was pleased to see the panic on her husband’s face. It serves you right, you cheating bastard, she thought.
It was a lie but worth it. Charles stood jittering from one foot to the other then all at once he screwed his eyes up and made a moaning sound deep in his throat. “What am I going to do?” He asked in a desperate voice.
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