by Helen Phifer
Chapter Forty-Nine
Last night had been risky, far too risky. He’d crossed the line; he knew that he had. Then again it was done now; he couldn’t have waited any longer. Luckily for him his wife had been that tired when she got home late that she’d fallen asleep and never even moved once. He’d stood there watching her for some time; a part of him loved her so much he couldn’t imagine a life without her in it. Yet despite that he still couldn’t stop the voices in his head and the desire to kill taking over his entire body; he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, it was so strong. After the news headlines, the vicar could have left the town and gone into hiding. He went into the garage where he’d stripped off the blood-soaked clothes and kicked them to one side last night. Anyone could have found them and then how would he have explained that? How he’d made it home without anyone calling the cops was beyond him, the man had bled a lot. It was everywhere, even the hallway had been covered in it. He’d had to step in it to drag him outside and it had been slippery, that meant there would be footprints in the blood. He’d seen the programmes on the television; they could match the footprint to your shoes. Sloppy, he’d been too sloppy and was going to pay for it. The fucking police would have a field day with all the evidence he’d left behind. Not only had he left bloodied footprints all over the house and outside, he’d cut himself and hadn’t even noticed until he was undressing last night and felt the sharp sting of the slice across his right thumb. Of course, it was easy to pass off if questioned about it, anyone using a knife could cut themselves. Muttering away to himself he grabbed the pile of crusted, vile-smelling clothes and carried them outside to the fire pit. Dropping them on the floor next to it he began to build a fire, throwing a full packet of firelighters onto the kindling and coals to get it hot enough. Leaving it burning while he went to find his shoes. He had no choice: he needed to burn them, all of them, because he couldn’t remember which ones he’d worn last night and he hadn’t left them in the garage. Inside the house he began to gather up all of his trainers; the only shoes he left were the expensive leather loafers he’d bought last year. He knew he hadn’t worn those: he’d have broken his neck because the soles were too slippy. He left them in the hall cupboard and carried the armfuls of expensive trainers out to the back garden. The flames were roaring; first of all he dropped the clothes into the fire. The smell was horrendous, and he had to cover his nose; he hoped the neighbours weren’t home, they’d wonder what the hell he was burning. Once they’d begun to sizzle, he began to throw one trainer in after the other. Nike, Adidas, Lacoste, Vans, Converse: they were all expensive. Not cheap ones, oh no, he had expensive taste. He sat there rocking back and forth, slowly feeding his shoe collection into the flames and praying that no one would come back and catch him. He could take the credit card and buy new shoes, it didn’t matter. Getting rid of the evidence was all that mattered.
When the last pair had been thrown into the flames, he stood up and began to walk up and down his garden barefoot. He needed to do something, though he wasn’t sure what. There were some loose ends, what were they? Was it over, had he finished or was there one left to go? He heard voices and ran into the garage; he didn’t want her to know what he’d been doing. He had to pretend everything was okay, life was good, he had to go to work. Yes, of course that was it. He had to go to work and pretend everything was just the same as it was. It was safer that way, carry on as usual. Wasn’t that what you did under these circumstances? He asked the white noise in his head if this was right. It didn’t answer him, just kept on crackling and buzzing; it was driving him mad. He pushed his hand into his pocket and felt the stiff collar he’d taken from the priest’s pocket. There had been a wad of £20 notes; he didn’t want those. He didn’t need money, he had money. He wanted a keepsake to add to the others. He would go in and put it in his little box of memories – lots of people kept memory boxes; he bet they weren’t like his though. Special memories of the people he’d killed, to look at whenever he wanted to relive the moment. He needed to concentrate. If she knew what he’d been doing she’d be horrified and he didn’t want to upset her; she was innocent in all of this. He was guilty of everything. He thought that he’d be able to stop once it was done. Now, he wasn’t so sure he could. The compulsion to kill was stronger than the voice of reason inside his head.
Chapter Fifty
Browning stared at the woman across the table. Jan Collins was glaring at him with a look of hatred so intense it was making him want to loosen his collar and wipe his brow. He’d thought a night in the cells to cool off and calm down would have made her less angry, but he was wrong. He wouldn’t squirm in front of her. He was equally as good at playing hardball, but she was good. The duty solicitor had moved his chair away from hers when they’d first sat down, which was a bad sign if even they didn’t want to get too close to the woman.
‘Jan, would you like to tell me for the record why you followed DI Harwin home last night, lured her outside then tried to kill her?’
The woman shrugged. ‘No fucking comment.’
The solicitor held up his hand. ‘Can I have a moment with my client please?’
Browning spoke. ‘For the purpose of the tape interview suspended at 9.21 hours.’ He stood up and left them to it.
Stepping outside of the interview room he went to talk to the custody sergeant behind the huge desk, but hadn’t even reached it before he was called back. He went in and the solicitor nodded.
‘Jan is aware that there is an eyewitness to the assault. She is sorry for the injuries caused to DI Harwin and hopes she makes a full recovery.’
Browning glanced at the woman who was scowling so hard he wondered if she’d put permanent crease marks in her forehead.
‘My client accepts full responsibility for her actions, which were completely out of character for her, and wants to help with the enquiry.’
Browning came out of the interview room and shook his head at Rachel.
‘She’s nuts, but she’s having it. So we’ll get her bailed and get her sorry arse out of here. I don’t want to look at her another minute longer.’
‘You’re letting her go? After what she’s done to the boss she should get remanded.’
‘In an ideal world she would. However, we have to take into account the circumstances which led a local pillar of the community to lose her shit and batter a police officer, and the fact that the CPS gave the orders.’
‘And they were?’
‘The fact that yesterday we blew her whole world apart. Before we found her husband tied to the bed in slutty Sue’s she was having a nice day at the mother’s union. In the space of an hour she’d found out that her husband is a creep who was arrested for murder and she lost it. It’s not good publicity for the force if we go to town on her after yesterday. She didn’t know he hadn’t been charged with murder when she was following Lucy.’
‘But she could have killed her.’
‘She didn’t though, thankfully. Lucy won’t want a massive fuss. She’ll be happy that her bail conditions state she’s not allowed anywhere near her.’
‘That’s bollocks.’
‘That, Rachel, is life, you know how the CPS works. They’ll say it’s not in the public interest to make it an even bigger deal than it is. I’m going to check on the boss; you can get her bail cons sorted and release her. Whatever you do make it clear if she so much as enters the same street as the boss that she’ll be locked up and the key will be thrown away.’
‘Can I make her cry?’
‘If you can make that cry, I’ll buy you a breakfast in the morning. Just scare her enough so she won’t repeat the assault. Is that okay?’
She nodded. ‘Fine, by me.’
* * *
Browning parked the car and got out just in time to see Lucy and George walking out of the same doors that she’d been rushed through last night. He jogged after her.
‘Boss.’
She turned around and smiled. ‘Were you coming to see me?’
Out of breath, he nodded.
Lucy turned to George. ‘Thank you for waiting for me, I’ll get a lift back with Browning.’
George frowned at her, and Browning got the impression he wasn’t impressed.
‘Lucy, you need to go home and rest.’
‘I’m quite aware of that, Browning will drop me off. I’ve made you late enough for work as it is. Thanks again.’
With that she grabbed the overnight bag from his hands and began to walk towards Browning. He reached out, taking it off her and she didn’t complain, which was a first for her. She got into the car, put her seatbelt on and let out a huge sigh.
‘You have no idea what good timing that was. He’s done nothing but go mad since he got here.’
‘I can sort of understand that, boss. Are you supposed to be going home, by the way, they said twenty-four hours minimum? It hasn’t been that long.’
‘Don’t you start, I’ve had enough of that off him. Yes, I’ve signed myself out. I need to go home get dressed properly, then get back to work. Where are we up to? What did you do with the feisty ferret?’
He laughed. ‘She’s been charged and bailed not to go anywhere near you. Is that okay?’
‘I suppose so, we did kind of push her over the edge.’
‘Rachel is going to make her cry then let her go.’
‘That makes me feel a little bit better. Can we stop off for some food? I’m hungry and I need a coffee.’
‘You must be okay if you still want to drink coffee.’
‘Nothing comes between me and my coffee, you should know that. I wouldn’t want to be David Collins when she gets home. We’ll probably end up getting called out and arresting her for battery when she gets hold of him. All those years they’ve been married and she never suspected him of visiting prostitutes to get his kicks. Makes me feel better that I never suspected George would ever cheat on me, I suppose.’
‘People have secrets, sometimes they’re very good at keeping them. Sometimes they’re not. I’m never going to complain about my missus again after seeing Jan Collins in fine form. It makes you appreciate what you have coming across women like that. You don’t think she could be our killer, do you? She’s certainly got the temper for it.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I contemplated that last night. The search team didn’t find anything of evidential value in the house. Regardless of which of them could have done it, we’re still missing a cat, and the trophies from the scene. No I think she’s just a frustrated, angry woman.’
‘What if the vicar had been sleeping with Sandy and Margaret though? I mean he’s not fussy, is he?’
‘Oh God, did you have to put that image in my head? I think he was lying about Sandy. I don’t see how he wouldn’t have noticed her when she came into Street Saviours, and maybe he was sleeping with her. We need a full sweep of the street, house to house, again; a mugshot to see if anyone can place him going into Sandy’s. I think we’re going to have to be very careful with our observations of him unless we can come up with something concrete. As much as I’d like it to be him, hell I want it to be him, I don’t think it is because there’s just no forensic evidence that links him to both murders. What we have is circumstantial and that won’t hold up in court.’
He glanced at Lucy who had her head against the headrest and had closed her eyes. Driving to her favourite Costa on the retail park, he left her dozing while he went inside for her coffee. Then he went into the Subway next to it and got her a bacon roll smothered in tomato sauce. She needed some fuel inside her because he had a feeling she wouldn’t stay at home and put her feet up like he imagined the doctors had ordered. She’d be showered, changed and ready for work in less than thirty minutes, and there was no point in arguing with her because she didn’t listen to anyone, and he respected her for that. He was glad he’d been there to save her last night.
Chapter Fifty-One
Jan Collins was let out of the same side door of the police station that her husband had been twelve hours earlier. That stuck-up little snotty bitch of a copper had been horrible to her, and she’d had to take it and bite her tongue or they wouldn’t have let her out. Having to nod and agree with it all, solemnly promising not to go within a one-mile radius of that fucking cow, Lucy Harwin. She remembered last night in its full technicolour glory, how heavy the bat had been to swing. The loud crunch when it had hit her head, the blood and the satisfaction of watching her hit the ground like a sack of shit. She hadn’t meant to hurt her that much, but the anger and frustration that her average life was now turned upside down for the whole world to scrutinise had taken over. The anger over her wasted decades of being married to David had exploded from her through that bat. Yes, she knew he was a creep and a pompous prick, and she’d known all about the whores. What did he take her for? And yes, at first she’d been devastated. She’d thought that he loved her and that she was enough of a woman to satisfy his every need, and she’d really tried their first year of marriage. He’d swept her off her feet; she’d been over the moon that he’d even taken an interest in her when she knew she wasn’t much to look at. It hadn’t made a difference to him no matter how hard she tried and then she’d realised that it meant she didn’t have to sleep with him. Which could only be a bonus because now he turned her stomach. The thought of him wanting to have sex with her when God knows what diseases he could have picked up from the women he picked up on street corners made her shudder. All she wanted was an easy life and she’d thought being married to a vicar would be just that. No huge mortgage to pay because of the free house, spending all day organising fundraisers or helping the pensioners out suited her just fine. It meant she didn’t have to find a job and go out to work. Well that was all gone, the church wouldn’t want him after this. They were going to lose their home; their livelihood and any respect they might have had within the community was long gone. All because he couldn’t keep his dick in his trousers and, to top it all off, they had accused him of killing some woman. Christ he might be a pervert, but he wasn’t a killer. For one thing he didn’t have the balls to kill anyone, and how did she know this? Because during all the arguments over the years and the times she’d hit him, he’d never, not once, hit her back. When she got home she was going to pack her suitcase, take the wad of cash he had stashed in the safe, and go stop with her sister in Blackpool. She’d had enough of this stupid sham of a marriage. The pretence had gone on for far too long – it was over.
The taxi pulled up and she got inside, glaring at the driver and daring him to make a comment about her current predicament.
He didn’t. ‘Where to love?’
She gave him her address, watching his face to see if a hint of scorn crossed it. He didn’t even blink; obviously he’d seen all sorts if this was the regular firm the police used to pick up criminals and take them home. She shuddered. The shame was awful, and how was she going to face David? She should have waited for him and got him with the fucking cricket bat first, teach him a few lessons before going for the copper.
When the taxi stopped outside her address she pulled the crumpled £5 note from her pocket. He took it, giving her some loose change.
‘You keep that, thank you.’
Not at all in the mood for a huge argument, which no doubt he was expecting, drained of everything, she decided she was having some toast and tea then going to the train station. She would let him stew. She wondered if the church hadn’t already sent someone around to tell them to get out.
As she approached the vicarage, she noticed that the front door was ajar, swinging back and forth in the biting wind. As she walked up the path she could see a dark smear of something on the freshly painted pale green door. As she’d spent ages sanding the door down and repainting it, her anger began to bubble, until she pushed open the door and inhaled the metallic, earthy smell. The house was so still, not what she was expecting, and a cold shudder shook her whole body. Jan stared not quite understanding what her eyes were seeing, and she blinked
a couple of times. The beige walls were covered in spots of dark red: it was sprayed everywhere. As she stared at it, then the big puddle of black, congealing liquid on the floor, she realised what it was and let out a high-pitched howl, shaking her head from side to side.
‘David.’
Afraid to go inside because it resembled a slaughterhouse, she stepped away; pulling her almost dead phone from her pocket she dialled 999 and began screaming down the phone to the call handler.
‘Blood, there’s so much blood. You need to come now.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
Lucy and Browning were sitting at the breakfast bar in her kitchen, bacon rolls consumed and sipping coffee. ‘That’s better, I feel almost human now. Just need a couple of painkillers then I’m good to go.’
She’d come in, showered got dressed and wrapped her hair in a bun before eating. She’d thought about putting some make-up over the worst of the black eye, but the cut above her eyebrow was smarting and she didn’t want it to get infected. So she’d left it. Browning had grimaced when she’d sat down.
‘I really think you should take the day off, boss. One day won’t hurt. Your head must be hurting, it’s a mess, it’s hurting me just looking at it.’
