by Roberta Kray
In a cupboard above the sink was tea and coffee, an unopened pack of pasta and a few assorted tins. Marty opened the fridge. Apart from a tub of margarine, it was empty. In a drawer he found the usual supply of cutlery along with a couple of decent-sized chopping knives. He lifted the larger one out and examined the blade. It was the kind of weapon a man might pick up if he was taken by surprise – a few frantic stabs to defend himself from a violent intruder? He thought about it before slowly putting it down again. It was never a good idea to change your plans at the last minute.
He went back into the living room, checked that Ritchie was still awake and walked through to the bedroom. The double bed was neatly covered with a grey striped duvet. There was no sign that anyone had slept in it recently. In the wardrobe there were two smart suits and half a dozen shirts. In the drawer beneath he found underwear and socks, a pair of jeans and a few T-shirts.
Above the wardrobe was a single suitcase. Miller was plainly a man who travelled light. He pulled it down and opened it. There was nothing inside. He threw it across the floor. Next, he searched the bedside cabinet. There was nothing there either: no papers, no cheque book, no passport. He must have the important stuff stashed somewhere else. Never mind. Although those things could have been useful, it wasn’t what he was here for.
Marty sat down on the bed and looked at his watch. It was a pity he was so short on time. What he had to do next should be savoured, not rushed. He thought back to Friday. It had gone like clockwork. Susan had sent in the tart to keep Miller occupied and he’d dropped off Ritchie. In less than fifteen minutes, after a heavily spiked drink, Ritchie had dragged Silver out of the hotel and passed her into the loving care of yours truly. By then she had barely been able to stand.
For all that, perhaps, Ritchie should be congratulated – he’d done what he’d been paid for – but the bastard hadn’t even asked about her since. And that wasn’t right, was it? Marty frowned. Silver, for all her sluttish aspirations, still deserved some respect.
He went to the door and hissed. ‘Ritchie!’
‘Yeah?’
‘Shift the TV into the hall.’
Ritchie’s mouth broke into a grin. He was always up for a spot of thieving. ‘Nice bit of kit, this,’ he said, bending to pull the plug out. ‘Should be worth a few quid.’
Marty stood by the sofa, watching as he disconnected the aerial. This had to look right – as if Miller had come back unexpectedly and caught him in the act. And any man, at least any man with an inch of pride, would have had a go. As Ritchie stood up with the flat screen in his arms, Marty swiftly moved forward, jabbed with his fist and caught him hard on the jaw. The boy was still grinning as his chin snapped back; he gave a grunt, dropped the TV and crumpled to the ground.
Marty pounced, pinning him down with his knees. Surprised by what had happened, and still too groggy to realise what it meant, Ritchie’s blue eyes widened. He didn’t struggle. He barely moved. He seemed more confused than anything else. Marty punched him again, this time breaking his nose. A stream of blood flowed out and slid between his lips. Marty stared at him. There was something touching about his bruised and battered face, something curiously beautiful. He took a picture in his head, a snapshot he would be able to conjure up later. There was still time to change his mind but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
In a series of fast, practised movements, Marty grabbed his shoulders, flipped him over, and with his left hand on the back of his neck, pressed his face into the carpet. He took one last glance at his pretty blond head before leaning back to pick up the crowbar. He brought it down with speed and accuracy. There was a satisfying crunch as the iron hit the skull, splitting it open as easily as an egg. A dramatic explosion of blood, tissue, skin and brains flew up into the air and spilled across the carpet.
It was all over in a couple of seconds. Finished. Done with. A dark red stain began to spread and then …
And then there was only silence.
It always got to him. Marty placed his left palm on the boy’s back. He felt the warmth still emanating from the flesh. He gave a soft groan and ran his hand along his spine. He stroked the sharp shoulder blades and coiled the wet scarlet hair between his fingers. Should he turn him over? He decided not.
Laying the bloodied crowbar down, he leaned back and listened. It was not the neighbours he was listening for, not any indication that someone might have overheard, but that other sound – that thin whisper as the soul departed. It could take a minute, maybe two. He had heard it first when his father had died … and so many times since.
Marty had respect for death. No life should be taken easily. He held his breath. Slowly his lips widened into a smile. There it was!
He got up, turned off the light, pulled aside the curtains and opened the window. The soul needed an exit, an escape route. There was, of course, the broken front door but if Ritchie’s poor soul was as stupid as the rest of him, it might take a wrong turning in the hall and be trapped in the flat for ever.
Marty stood for a while, breathing in the evening air. Eventually he felt a cool breeze brush his cheek. When he turned again, he saw only a corpse. There was no emotion, no lingering sentiment attached to it. Ritchie was gone. All that remained was a useless lump of skin and bone.
As soon as he was in the car, he would get one of the tarts he knew to call the filth and report a disturbance. There’d be a nice surprise waiting for them when they arrived. Marty smiled. He was well pleased with himself. Not only had he got rid of Naylor but he’d also landed Miller in the shit – with a murdered boy in his flat, he’d have more important things to worry about than the whereabouts of Delaney’s wayward daughter.
But he couldn’t afford to dwell on his brilliance. He had a job to finish. Leaning over the body, he removed a wallet from the back pocket. There was ninety quid inside. He took the whole lot. It wasn’t as if Ritchie would need it and the break-in had to look authentic – there weren’t many junkies roaming the streets with this kind of cash on them. He slid the wallet back and gave Ritchie a friendly pat on the butt.
‘Thanks, mate.’
Next, he wiped his prints off the handles of the holdall. He shoved a few items into the bag: the DVD player, a small pile of DVDs and CDs, and a half-full bottle of whisky. In the bedroom he overturned the mattress, pulled out the drawers and scattered Miller’s clothes. He emptied out the drawers in the kitchen too, kicking the cutlery across the floor.
In the bathroom cupboard he found a bottle of aspirin, a razor and some shaving gel. He opened the bottle and dropped the contents in the basin. On his way out, he paused to look in the mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair and examined his face. Did he look any different? He thought there was a faint glow to his cheeks, a heightening of colour. His eyes seemed a little brighter too.
Did he feel bad about what he’d done? Not bad exactly but slightly regretful. Ritchie, for all his faults, hadn’t been entirely devoid of charm. He would miss him … for a while. Still, if it hadn’t been this it would have been jail; losers like Ritchie always ended up behind bars eventually. And a boy with his looks wouldn’t last five minutes. There would always be a Delaney ready to take advantage. At least he had spared him that.
Marty stared into the mirror and nodded. Yeah, all things considered, he had done Ritchie Naylor one almighty favour.
Chapter Twenty-one
It was early, only a few minutes past seven, but after another restless night Jo had decided there were more useful things she could be doing than lying in bed and gazing at the ceiling. She opened the door of Ruby’s and carefully locked it again behind her – Kellston, for all its gentrification, still had its fair share of crime – and went through to the kitchen.
She heard the noise, the sound of running water, only a fraction of a second before she stepped into the room. By then it was too late to retreat. Her eyes widened as she became aware of someone standing by the sink. As the figure turned, her hand leapt to her chest and she stifled a sc
ream. ‘God, Jacob, what are you doing here?’
He looked almost as surprised as she was.
Jo took a moment to regain her breath. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean … I just didn’t think you’d be in yet.’
‘I usually have my breakfast here.’ He paused, frowning. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I like to make an early start.’
Jo shook her head. ‘Of course not.’
‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘You didn’t.’ And then, realising that she still had her hand raised to her chest, she laughed. ‘Well, only a bit.’
‘Would you care for a coffee? I’ve just made a pot.’
‘Thanks.’
She pulled out a chair and watched as he moved spryly around the kitchen. Despite working alongside him for the past two years, it occurred to her how little she actually knew of Jacob’s life. She was aware that he lived in a flat nearby and that he was widowed. Beyond that, her knowledge was decidedly sketchy. And that, she realised, was yet another item to add to her list of guilty worries.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said.
‘You wait until you’re my age; sleep becomes a distant memory. I count myself lucky if I manage a few hours.’ He looked over his shoulder and smiled. ‘But you do look tired. Has something happened?’
‘No,’ she lied. She still had Mrs Dark’s words revolving in her head, that weird disturbing stuff about Silver. And she’d heard nothing from Miller since he’d left on Saturday morning. All that ‘no news is good news’ guff was so utterly misleading – all silence did was stress you out even more.
‘I may be getting on, Jo, but I am a good listener. If you have troubles, if there’s something on your mind …’
She hadn’t intended to mention it to anyone but his kindness and her fatigue combined to lower her usual reserve. The words jumped out before she could prevent them. ‘Do you believe in psychics?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he said without a second’s hesitation.
‘Why not?’
His dark eyes glinted with humour. ‘You think people can see into the future?’
‘I don’t know. Are you sure they can’t?’
‘No,’ he said. He brought over two mugs, placed them on the table, and sat down beside her. His expression grew more serious. ‘The older I get, the less sure I am of anything. But, if you believe in all that, you also have to believe that life is predestined, laid out, a path we have no choice but to follow. And if that is the truth, then—’ He raised his shoulders in a small dismissive shrug. ‘What’s the point of it? We’d just be puppets going through the motions.’
Jo nodded. ‘I suppose.’
‘Is this about Peter?’
‘No,’ she said. And then, realising that she had to provide a rational explanation for the original query, quickly added: ‘Not exactly. I had lunch at Ruby’s yesterday.’
‘Ah,’ he sighed, as if that explained everything.
Jo sipped her coffee. It was good, freshly ground, and it smelled like heaven. She sank her face into the steam. Now that he had mentioned Peter, she was reminded of another niggling question that had never been adequately answered. ‘Do you know why they fell out, Peter and his father?’
‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘Some of it,’ she said. ‘I know that Mitchell wasn’t happy when Peter decided to leave the business but I got the impression that wasn’t the whole story. I mean, Peter was abroad for years and in all that time they didn’t talk, never mind see each other. He didn’t even come back for the funeral.’
Jacob shrugged his shoulders again. ‘Fathers and sons – it can be complicated. The two of them never got on, even when Peter was a child. Mitchell always pushed too hard; he was proud of his son but he didn’t understand him.’
Jo instantly recalled Gabe Miller claiming exactly the same thing about Delaney and his daughter. ‘But was that it?’ she said. ‘Was it just a disagreement that got out of hand?’
He peered at her over the rim of his mug. ‘What did that lunatic psychic say to you?’
She smiled, alert at the same time to the deliberate evasion. She suspected he knew more than he was letting on. ‘Oh, nothing really. It wasn’t specifically to do with Peter. She was talking about all kinds of things. I just got to thinking and—’
‘What’s in the past can’t be changed. Sometimes, no matter how hard it may seem, we just have to let go.’
Jo nodded. She might have pursued it if she hadn’t been so tired. A small dull throb was beating in her temples. It was Monday, the start of a new week and she needed to get herself together. Suddenly, remembering a call she’d taken late on Saturday from an art student eager to show off her designs, she said: ‘Remind me to talk to Deborah.’
‘Deborah?’ he repeated sharply. ‘What would she know about it?’
Jo stared at him. Until now she’d thought exactly nothing, but his response told her otherwise. Did she dare to ask? Her heart was sinking as she took a quick breath. ‘Well, they were close, weren’t they?’
His cheeks burned bright red before he smartly looked away.
‘Jacob?’
He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He’d already confirmed her worst fears.
Chapter Twenty-two
Susan stared at the phone and put it down. Calling Jo was risky, although no more risky perhaps than letting things lie. What if Marty Gull was right and Gabe was with her? It was unlikely but not impossible. They had got into the cab together. That was a worry. What had he told her? And, more to the point, what had she told him? If the two of them had got talking, it wouldn’t have taken him long to have realised who ‘Laura James’ was, and once he’d done that …
Susan shook her head. She’d hardly slept for the last three nights and it was all too easy to get paranoid, to start inventing problems where none existed. Chances were that he had simply dropped her off and was miles away by now; no sensible man would hang around when Delaney was after his blood.
‘No sensible man,’ she repeated aloud.
Whether that could ever be applied to Gabe Miller was debatable. He was impossible to predict. She felt that small but familiar stab in her chest. They could have made a good team, the perfect partnership, if only … but pondering on if onlys was a pointless exercise, a waste of time and energy. What was past was past. She had to focus on the future.
Susan crossed the room and gazed out through the window. It was a warm but slightly hazy morning as if the sun was shining through a filter. She checked her watch. It was just after nine. Delaney should have got the letter by now, the letter that had been sent by special delivery. She had typed it herself. It was a demand as harsh and brutal as he was: half a million quid in exchange for his daughter being returned in one piece, three days to get the cash together or the only way Silver would be coming home was in a series of small and bloody parcels.
Susan didn’t care about the nastiness of it. Why should she? He deserved nothing less. Marty, if he was doing his job, should already be there with him, ready to fuel his anxieties and to stamp on any inconvenient notions of getting the Law involved. Not that Delaney was ever likely to go down that path – with the kind of business he was in, he couldn’t afford to have the cops sniffing round – but there was no accounting for those instinctive knee-jerk reactions.
Feeling restless, she turned and began to pace up and down the room. She was starting to feel stir-crazy. She hated being trapped in the house, almost as much a prisoner as Silver was, but it was too risky to go out. It would be just her luck to bump straight into Jo. Still, it wasn’t for long, a week at the most. Just long enough to cause Vic Delaney the maximum of pain and worry before they finally relieved him of his cash.
With nothing else to do, she walked into the kitchen, opened the door to the cellar and went down to check on her unhappy little friend.
The girl was sitting on the mattress, reading a magazine. As well as the dim overhead bulb, which always stayed on, there was a lamp she c
ould turn on and off herself. On hearing the grille being opened, Silver quickly raised her face. ‘Is that you?’
‘Sure, it’s me.’
Immediately, Silver relaxed and began her plaintive whining. ‘Why are you doing this? Why can’t you let me go? Why can’t—’
‘How often do you need telling?’ Susan wasn’t in the mood. If she’d answered the question once, she’d answered it a hundred times. ‘It’s a simple business transaction. Once your daddy pays up you’ll be out of here.’
‘But what if he doesn’t?’
‘What do you think?’
‘You … you’re going to …’ Silver hesitated. Her eyes widened as she stared towards the grille. ‘You’re going to kill me?’
Susan groaned. ‘I’ll kill you right now if you don’t stop whining.’
Silver’s upper lip quivered and she shifted back against the wall.
Susan felt a pang of remorse. It hadn’t been her intention to terrify her. None of this was the kid’s fault; she was only a means to an end. ‘Look, I’ve already told you – just keep quiet, behave, and you’ll have nothing to worry about. No one’s going to hurt you. I give you my word.’
‘Is he coming back?’
‘Who?’
‘Him. The other one. You know who I mean.’
Susan stared at her, wondering what Marty had said or done when he’d been down here on Saturday night. She should never have left him alone with her.
‘He’s scary,’ Silver said. ‘I don’t like him.’
Well, that was something they had in common. ‘It’s just me,’ she said softly. ‘There’s no one else here. Do you need anything? Are you hungry?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’ Susan put her hand up to close the grille.
‘Don’t go!’
‘I have to. I’ve got things to do.’
