Good Girl Gone Bad

by Emmy Ellis

  “All right?” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Found Debbie, have you?”

  “Err, no. Sorry to knock so late, but I saw your light on. Just checking in about earlier. About the lady. Everything still okay?”

  “As far as I know, yeah.”

  “Is the lady in bed?”

  “No idea, mate.”

  He frowns. “Oh. Right. Uh…” He blinks, like he isn’t sure what to say next.

  “What I mean is, she isn’t here. Isn’t in this house. Come in and have a look if you like.” I step back, hold my arm out to let him know he’s welcome to check.

  He nods, as if to himself, like he’s working out whether he ought to enter without having a pig buddy with him.

  “I don’t bite,” I say, then laugh. “I’ll wait outside if you want. I get that you might be wary, what with Mrs Smithson being…well, you know, and Debbie staying out late.” I move into the front garden and stand there, arms out to my sides, a gesture that says: It’s all right, I’m not bothered. “Go on in. Shut the door behind you. I can’t get back in then—keys are indoors, see.”

  He stares at me, and I wonder if I’ve gone a bit too far. You know, hammed it up above and beyond the norm. But he smiles. Steps in the house. Closes the door. And I stay here, hoping he doesn’t feel the need to go out into the back garden. Then again, the trees in front of the den are thick fuckers, and you can’t see through them; they’re planted too close together for that.

  He’s back quick sharp, his figure behind the glass in the door, then he’s out on the path with me, smiling again. “Thanks. No one’s home.”

  “No. Like I said, she’s not in the house. So if that’s all?”

  “Yes. Right, goodnight then.”

  “Night.”

  I go inside, close the door, and I don’t hesitate in the hallway—he might be watching for that. In the living room, I sit and count to one thousand, then pull my phone out and access the app.

  Ah, she’s awake.

  Good.

  I slip into protective clothing—might be a bit of spraying blood in my future—pick up an old sock off the pile of washing on the kitchen side, lift a balaclava from the hook beside the back door, and leave the house.

  ****

  Charlotte sucked in a breath at the weird whirring noise. A metal panel pushed out of the wall opposite and slid to the right, revealing a UPVC door with no windows. Her heart thudded so hard, and she scrabbled to her feet, intent on rushing at whoever came in, racing towards the opening as it got wider and wider.

  A man entered, an orange boiler suit fitted over his bulky frame, face covered with a black woolly balaclava, only his eyes and mouth visible—and the lower half of a moustache. Fear clutched at her heart, but she surged closer, survival her only goal.

  He spotted her and lunged forward, grabbing her around the waist then kicking the door closed. She struggled, fought his hold, but he spun her around, and as she widened her mouth to scream, he shoved material inside it. She retched, tasting the scent of fabric softener—Lenor, it’s yellow Lenor—instinctively sucking in a breath, resulting in the material going farther in, touching the back of her throat. She panicked, moving her tongue repeatedly to shift whatever it was forward. Sniffing in oxygen, relieved she could breathe, she jabbed her foot back, hoping to connect with his shin but instead her sole met with air.

  He dragged her to the wardrobe and flung her down in front of one of the doors. The momentum had her head flying back, hitting the wood, and fresh pain flowered in her wound. The other wardrobe door creaked open, and an arm flopped out—an arm covered in Henry’s long-sleeved black top.

  Oh God, no. Please, not Henry. Don’t tell me that’s Henry in there.

  She shuffled away on her arse, desperate for distance. The man prodded a button on a fob, and the metal panel hummed and moved. She pulled the material out of her mouth and gulped in enough air to launch a scream, but he sank to his knees and covered her mouth with his hand.

  “Shh!”

  She shivered, absolute terror flooding her system, the need to pee so strong she didn’t know if she could resist. To take her mind off it, she tried to bite his hand, but he tented it, her efforts pointless. The metal panel clicked into place, and he whipped his hand away and stood. She jumped to her feet, adrenaline giving her energy, and lashed out, grabbing the balaclava and wrenching it off, ready to give Jez what for but—

  It. Wasn’t. Him.

  TWENTY-SIX

  There wasn’t much more Kane could do now other than go home. He had hung around at the station while specially trained officers had accessed Debbie’s, Ursula’s, and Xavier’s devices. Nothing of interest on the parents’, and the only thing on Debbie’s was the notes she’d written in Word, saved in a folder labelled FANTASY MAN.

  They’d gleaned this new boyfriend was older than her—significantly so—and that if it wouldn’t be such a problem for her mum and dad, she’d have told them about him. There was nothing more she’d like better than to share her love for him with them. One of the pieces had Kane aching like a tooth abscess when he’d read it, and he’d had to walk away from the laptop in order to compose himself.

  She was a kid in love. A kid who thought all she had to do was make the boyfriend see how mature she was, and everything would work out fine. She’d listed the date of their future wedding, the children they’d have—one boy, one girl—and their names.

  The notes had been printed out several times each so the team all had a copy for at the start of the next shift—several eyes were better than his pair, and maybe someone would pick up something Kane had missed.

  On the cusp of leaving and going home, at the last minute, Kane decided to stay and read the notes again. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, and he needed to check one last time, otherwise he wouldn’t get any damn sleep from thinking about it.

  But Nada strolled in, face showing her lack of sleep—shadows beneath her eyes, mouth pinched—and he remembered he’d sent her and Erica out to question the sex workers. Christ, that seemed ages ago now, as though a week had passed.

  “Oh, hello, sir,” Nada said, her smile weary. “Didn’t expect you to be here.” She walked slowly over to her desk and slumped into her chair. “Bloody knackered, I am.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. “And it’s parky out there. Thought my nipples were going to drop off at one point.” She blushed. “Sorry, sir. Forgot it was you I was talking to for a minute.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He smiled. “Why are you here and not at home?”

  Nada shrugged. “Didn’t see the point, considering the hour. You know it’s ten to three, don’t you? Only a few hours and it’s time to start work again. Thought I’d make myself useful and type up our notes. Erica went home, the lightweight.”

  She grinned, and he knew he’d done the right thing in suggesting her to Winter as his new partner.

  “Find anything out?” he asked. “Anything we can use?”

  She bit her bottom lip.

  “Come on, out with it,” he said. His nerves jangled. Could he handle anything more right now? Should he tell her to can it, wait until tomorrow?

  It is tomorrow.

  She winced. “Um, it seems one of our own has been frequenting that patch, sir.” She pulled a face as if to say “Eek!”

  “What?” He frowned, his mind sluggish from lack of sleep. “Patrolling? So what?”

  She shook her head.

  “Explain.”

  “Err, Richard has been using prostitutes,” she said.

  “What?” He frowned. Surely not. Richard didn’t like sex workers. He’d said so only recently. “Pack it in now. You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

  She shook her head. “Wish I was, but one of them mentioned him by name. Said he’d been there the night one of them got killed—the one found in the warehouse.”

  “Jesus fucking wept.” He blew out a long stream of breath, trying to process the information. Was that why Richard had been acti
ng oddly? Because he’d bloody killed that woman? “Dear God…”

  “I know. Sorry.” Nada offered a sympathetic smile, but it didn’t fix fuck all. “He’s your partner, and I wasn’t sure what to do.”

  “No, you did the right thing in telling me. Bloody hell, this was the last thing I expected.” He stared at the floor. “Richard, though…”

  “That’s what I thought. He might be a pisshead, but I never had him down as someone who’d pay for sex, knowing it’s, you know, illegal.” She sniffed. “What will you do? Will you tell Winter, I mean?”

  Kane nodded. “Of course, but I’ll speak to Richard first, though, give him the chance to come clean to the chief.”

  His mobile rang in his pocket, startling him. He drew it out, checked the screen: RICHARD.

  “Oh, you’re having a laugh,” he said. “What are the odds?” He glanced at Nada. “It’s him.”

  “Blimey.” She got up. “I’ll err…give you some privacy.”

  “No. Stay with me. I’ll put it on speaker.”

  He answered and held the phone up. “Hello?”

  “Kane…” Heavy breathing. “I…I need to…tell you something.”

  Too right you do.

  Kane made eye contact with Nada. She did the eek face again.

  “All right, mate,” he said, going for friendly. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve done a bad thing…and…and…I’m going to do another bad thing.” More heavy breathing.

  Fuck. “What bad thing?”

  “The…the prostitutes.”

  “What about them?”

  “I shouldn’t have… It was wrong. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Didn’t mean to what?”

  “I can’t take this anymore. I’m…I’m so sorry.”

  A shuffle, something falling, then silence.

  “Fucking hell.” Kane shot out of his seat and jammed his phone in his pocket. “Come on.”

  He strode to the door, Nada following, and they raced down the stairs, the soles of their shoes squeaking with every turn on the landings. Out the back entrance, across the car park, and into his car, Nada buckling up while he revved the engine. He sped off, heart going like the clappers, his mind reeling with what he thought had happened. Richard had gone too far with a sex worker and had killed her. Was that why he’d been smoking in the corner at the scene? Had he lit a cigarette after he’d murdered her and wasn’t sure if he’d dropped some ash so deliberately let some fall from his fag the next morning?

  The duplicity seared Kane’s gut. All along, Kane had thought his partner just had a drink problem, when really he’d been shagging people he shouldn’t have been shagging, had snuffed out her life, the nameless victim they’d yet to find an identity for. No matter what she’d done for a living, she hadn’t deserved that. Hadn’t deserved a copper, of all people, someone who was supposed to represent security, safety, to end it the way he had.

  “Did you find out her name?” he asked Nada. “The woman he killed?”

  “He killed? You mean you think Richard did her in? Fucking Nora… Whoa, watch it, sir. Nearly hit that bloody bollard then.”

  “Sorry.” He slowed a bit. “I don’t know what I think. I just…” He shook his head. “Did you? Did you get a name for her?”

  “Yes, a Tammy Weston.” She paused. “Uh, where are we going?”

  “The warehouse.” He swerved down a side street, put his foot down.

  “What? You think he’s doing it again?” she screeched.

  “You heard him, didn’t you? He said he’d done a bad thing and is going to do another. Got any better ideas as to what that means?”

  He pelted down Jude Street, skidding to a stop outside Clarks. He bolted out of the car, running down the alley, the sound of his footsteps merging with Nada’s behind him. He headed for the warehouse, cursing to Hell and back that a wooden board had been fixed in front of the door, crime scene tape criss-crossed over it.

  He came to a stop, assessing his options, and all he could do was haul himself up onto one of the empty spaces where windows used to be and drop inside. His landing sent pain shooting up his legs, and he scoured the interior of the ground floor.

  Nothing and no one.

  Up the stairs he went, getting out of breath, his lungs burning from the effort, sweat breaking out on his back. He bypassed the rooms that had been full of rubbish, now cleaned by SOCO, and entered the empty one.

  Again, nothing and no one.

  “Fuck!” He pulled at his hair. “Fuck!”

  The adrenaline rush still gallivanting through him, he returned to Nada outside, jerking his head towards the warehouse. “There’s jack shit going on in there. Come on.”

  Back in the car, he headed to Richard’s house, lurching to a stop outside the terraced nineteen-twenties property and hauling arse up the flagstone path, almost tripping on a wonky slab. Nada joined him at the door, and he hammered on the glass at the same time as jabbing the bell button.

  “Answer, damn it!” He gritted his teeth, smacked at the door again, then leant down to peer through the letterbox. “Aww, shit! Shit!”

  “What’s the matter, sir?” Nada crouched beside him, breath shunting out of her.

  Kane moved aside, and Nada looked in.

  “Oh God,” she said.

  So Kane hadn’t imagined it.

  Richard was hanging from a noose attached to the banisters, then.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “You!” Charlotte says. “I…I don’t understand.”

  Part of me wants to take the piss out of her whiny voice, to mimic her—I don’t understand, I don’t understand; oh, use your brain, you thick bitch. The amount of times I’ve had to hear it over the years. Fucking torture.

  “What don’t you understand, you silly cow? I mean, it isn’t difficult, is it? There you are, sitting by a wardrobe with that fuckface of a boyfriend of yours in it, and here I am, standing in front of you, about to do you in. What’s not to understand?”

  She gasps, her hand whipping up to cover her mouth, and at one time I longed to kiss that mouth, to give her everything, from love to devotion to money to security, but she stuck around with that loser, didn’t she, threw my offers of a better life out of the goddamn window, bringing us to this point.

  “This is your fault, you know. Us being here like this,” I say. “If you’d only listened to what I was really saying all this time, this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She wails, and it gets to me. Like, she’s dense, got to be, and her not getting it, not understanding, just shows me it would never have worked, me and her.

  “Oh, come off it,” I say. “When a bloke says stuff to you like: I’m always here for you. Don’t forget where I am if you need me. You don’t have to put up with him, you know, there are men out there who will treat you better… You’re telling me that went over your head, that you didn’t twig what I was saying?”

  She blinks. Thick as pig shit, she is.

  What did I ever see in her?

  “I…I didn’t realise you felt that way,” she whispers.

  “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.” I give her one hard motherfucker of a stare. “Like Smithson and that stupid bint over there.”

  Her gaze flicks to Debbie, and she winces, tears filling eyes I used to love staring into. “You stole my bra. When I went to the toilet, you took it out of my bag, didn’t you.”

  She’s not so dumb after all. I clap slowly. “Well done. Gold star. Fuck’s sake…is that all you’re bothered about? Your bra? Always were a selfish bitch, Char. Everything was always about you. ‘He’s done this to me. I can’t take it anymore. He hit me. I can’t stand him.’ Oh, behave your bloody self. Didn’t you ever wonder why he did those things? Look at you. Look at the state of you.”

  She does as she’s told—finally, after all this time—and I want to slap her for taking sixteen sodding years to obey an order. Jez smacked her around because even when
he’d threatened her, she’d still defied him in small ways.

  “Yeah, you see it, don’t you?” I say. “How do you think Jez felt, starting out his adult life with a young bird who always looked mint, then she turned into Drab Dora, eh? And there was you saying to me, ‘He doesn’t make love like we used to anymore, and I don’t know why.’ That’s why.” I point at her clothes. “What you’ve got on is enough to turn any bloke off. Your hair—what the hell happened to it? Where’s the makeup?” I shake my head. “Oh, silly me, I forgot, when you went out to get milk, you dolled yourself up then, didn’t you. The kind of milk you got wasn’t from no cow.”

  She gasps, and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. She was out shagging, wasn’t she, the dirty little tramp.

  “Thanks a lot,” I say.

  “What?”

  “For passing me over. For getting your jollies with someone else, when I’ve been waiting here all this time. Yeah, thanks a fucking bunch.”

  “Henry, I—”

  “Don’t call me that. It’s H1 to you.”

  “H what?”

  Oh, she’s really getting on my wick. “H1. The bloke who’s been storing your boyfriend’s drug stash all these years, going out of an evening and threatening the punters for him when they don’t pay up. That’s what he does at night and all. Yeah, you might well look at me like that, but your fancy house and everything in it don’t come cheap, and neither does mine. How the hell did you think I could live in a poncy house like this when I haven’t got a bloody job? Get a fucking clue, will you?”

  She whimpers, and I’ve just about had enough, so I haul her upright, shove her back towards Debbie. I slap her so hard she staggers sideways and falls, goes down like a sack of shit.

  Jesus Christ, she’s out again, eyes shut, mouth sagging open.

  With a bit of luck, she’s dead.

  If she is, it’ll have saved me a job, won’t it.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Uniforms waited in the kitchen of Richard’s house, and Kane stood beside Nada in the hallway, unable to look at Richard hanging there, at the worn soles of his slippers. He turned away, walking to the door so he could wait outside on the path.