You'll Be Sorry

by Emmy Ellis

  He stopped and faced her, lifted his arms, then slapped his palms on his legs. “I…I don’t know.” He toed a large pebble.

  Sara stepped closer and cocked her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Are you sure she hasn’t said anything to you?” He resumed walking, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, his chin to his chest.

  Sara tottered alongside him. “Of course she hasn’t. She only tells me what a lovely house she has, how you give her money for clothes and things…how she’d dreamed of having a home like yours all her life. You have a swimming pool, for God’s sake.” She clasped her hands in front of her, and a swift breeze lifted her wiry, copper-coloured hair and tossed it over her shoulders. “She’s always seemed so happy. I mean, look at how we met. There was me, a middle-aged, friendless woman, visiting the library for something to do, you know, to stave off the boredom on my day off, and there was Kerry, so elegant, so pretty, so willing to strike up a conversation. I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven when she asked to meet up again. After all, who the fuck would want to be friends with me?”

  Who the fuck indeed.

  Dan peered at her, at the way the moonlight slanted across her face, her cheeks cheese-like. Sweaty cheddar. The annoying bitch didn’t have much going for her, did she.

  “Kerry wouldn’t have looked at you as anything but a person, Sara. That’s one of the qualities I love about her.” Dan halted beneath the hook.

  Sara stopped, too, and he laid his hands on her upper arms. And hoisted her upwards.

  Damn, she’s heavy.

  The hook slid snugly beneath her knotted scarf before she’d even registered his actions. Her eyes bulged in fright, and he held her aloft as she kicked and flailed. His muscles bunched, taut, adrenaline pumping.

  “W-what…what are you doing?” she shrieked, her ruddy face ruddier, her hair lit by the moon in a ghastly parody of a clown. “Dan! Stop messing around. Let me go!”

  “Gladly,” he said and released his grip on her arms.

  Her body thunked downwards and swung to and fro, a heavy pendulum. Frantic fingers scrabbled at her scarf in an attempt to gain breathing space, but the flesh of her neck scoffed it into invisibility. Hyoid bone cracked, her hips bucked, her legs struck out, and her tongue poked from the side of her mouth, tumid and rapidly changing colour.

  He retrieved her handbag and food from the car. Back at the body, he dumped them on the ground beneath her feet.

  Stared at the hook, thought of fishing, and smirked. “Yeah, a great catch.”

  Chapter Three

  On patrol duty, Mark Lendall drove through the streets. His partner, Ted Dowling, an older copper, stared out of the window. The night so far had been slow, their conversation slower, and Mark’s thoughts drifted.

  His transfer to the city of Harmondsey had been the only way he could remove himself from the horrors of a past he’d rather forget. His mother’s image filled his mind, and he experienced the same emotions as always—sorrow mixed with rage. Every day he dealt with kids just like he’d been, those beaten and abused, living with a monster of a father who regularly beat the crap out of his wife—and child. Red tape prevented Mark doing much to help those children, but he vowed to keep trying. If he could just save one. If he could just get one kid out of an abusive household and somewhere safe…

  He turned a corner. No gangs out tonight. Ted leant his elbow on the door, rested his temple on his fist. What was the old boy thinking about?

  At an T-junction, Mark waited for the lights to change, vigilant for any misdemeanours. A red, sporty Mazda with dirt-caked tyres drove slowly west in a snake of traffic, and he sat forward and peered into the car. DI Stone sat at the wheel, his profile turning Mark’s guts. He couldn’t stand that bloke.

  Arrogant wanker.

  “Dan’s worked late tonight then,” Ted said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Dedicated man.” Ted rubbed his chin. “Rose up the ranks so fast he left me behind. Used to be my partner at one time, you know.”

  “Yep.” Mark had heard the tale too many times to count.

  “Some people are destined to remain uniforms, and others…well, they become the stars.”

  “You ever have the urge to try for being a DI?” Mark asked.

  The lights changed, and he veered right.

  “Nah. Well, yeah, but…I don’t reckon I’ve got it in me. I’m too old to change my patrol job now.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifty. Been a uniform since I was nineteen. Long time, eh?”

  “It is.”

  A crowd of youths stood on the corner, and Mark slowed. Ted sat more upright and stared at them through his window. One lifted a hand, and Ted waved back. Just kids. Good kids with nothing to do but chat on the street. Probably came from decent homes. Most times as a young lad, Mark had cooked his own food, and he’d taken himself to bed to the strains of his mother’s screams and his father’s slaps.

  Would he ever get over it? Would he ever understand how her mind had worked? No, he wouldn’t. Her death had come as a relief a few months back. When he’d become an adult, he’d remained at home, still willing to try to protect the woman who’d given birth to him.

  “I got an invitation to Dan’s this weekend,” Ted said, elbow back on the door. “Watch a bit of football, eat some of Kerry’s good nosh.” He chuckled. “That bloke’s lucky in so many ways. Great job, beautiful house, lovely wife.”

  Kerry Stone… Mark had seen her once at a charity gala. Something about her had made him uneasy. Her rigid stance, the fact she’d jumped as Stone had placed his hand on her shoulder. Oh, she’d smiled all right, appeared the doting, secure wife, but too many years of reading his mother’s features had told him all wasn’t well in the Stone household. Kerry had been attentive to her husband throughout the night. Maybe her vulnerability spoke to him. Maybe his dislike for her husband had him pondering on what went on behind closed doors, but he’d bet his last quid they had a stormy relationship. Stood to reason, didn’t it, man with an ego like Stone’s.

  “She waits on us hand and foot,” Ted said. “Brings in the beer, the snacks, always on hand. Never seems to mind either. Reminds me a bit of my Hannah.”

  Mark braced himself for one of Ted’s trips down memory lane. The poor man had lost his wife to cancer the previous year. Must be hard losing a woman you’d shared your life with for nearly thirty years.

  Their radios crackled, and a voice came through. “All units in the vicinity of the wharf…report of a person down. Cars ten and twelve, make your way to the location.”

  Ted replied, “On our way.”

  Mark swung a right and made a U-turn. His heart rate picked up, and he mentally prepared himself for what lay ahead. He hated this part of the job and prayed it wasn’t a kid. Those were the worst.

  “I’ll never get used to this crap,” Ted said, flexing his fingers. “Poor Dan. Finishes up his shift, and you can bet he has to come right back out again.”

  “The pitfalls of being a DI, Ted.” Mark took another right. “Probably one of the reasons you never wanted to climb the ladder.”

  “Yeah. That and the bodies. Bad enough we usually get to see them first, but at least we can leave it where it is and someone else deals with it afterwards.”

  “Yep.”

  Trees lined the road, and Mark narrowed his eyes to better see through the foliage. Nothing suspicious. Probably a death as a result of drugs. Most likely some bloke who’d come to pick up a shipment had tried to dodge paying. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d been down here and found that to be the case.

  Last thing I want to be dealing with tonight. Some gang-related shit.

  He drove onto the wharf track. It opened out to scrubland, and he parked beside some trees and unbuckled his seat belt.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  Ted inhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. “No.”

  They got out of the car.

/>   Mark approached a crowd of wharf workers congregated near the stone wall that ran the length of the water’s edge. A burly fella stepped forward, his grey vest showing bulging muscles and a neck wider than a thigh.

  “Evening,” Mark said.

  Big Man nodded. “Down there.” He pointed behind Mark. “Woman hanging on a hook.”

  Mark’s stomach rolled. “Who found her?”

  “Me,” he said.

  “And you are?” Mark produced his notebook and pencil.

  “Gavin Brookes. I work this shift five nights a week. Been busy tonight, so I didn’t see jack shit going on outside my personal space, know what I mean? In the zone. Then I came out here for a smoke after offloading a boat and glanced down that way.” He jerked his thumb in the body’s direction again. “Walked down there. Got about halfway to her and realised some poor bitch had offed herself, though how she got up there on her own…” He shrugged. “Beats me.”

  Mark took notes. “What time would you say she wasn’t there? Got an estimate?”

  Gavin shook his head. “Well, she wasn’t there when my shift started at five. Lemme think…nope, she wasn’t there when I came out for a smoke at six. Been busy since then, and I came back out a couple of hours later.”

  Mark nodded and replaced his pad and pencil. “You lot need to stay around. When does your shift end?”

  “Not for another few hours.” Gavin shoved his hands in his jeans pockets.

  “Good. You’ll all be questioned further.” Mark turned to Ted. “Do you want to take all their names, or shall I?”

  Ted shifted nervously. “Um, if you don’t mind, I’ll do it.”

  Mark sighed and left Ted to the easy part. He paced the area and took notes. Nothing out of the ordinary stood out, and he finally looked in the body’s direction. She hung from a long chain attached to a crane. From his position, he couldn’t determine her age, though her body shape and size indicated her as an adult. Darkness shrouded her, but he made out red hair, and fabric—a scarf?—flapped lazily in the breeze. He shook his head and focused his thoughts on the job at hand—making sure no one came near the body before he and Ted walked down there.

  Ted approached. The walk to the body went all too fast, and Mark stared up at the woman.

  Jesus Christ.

  He glanced away.

  Ted did the same. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t…”

  The sound of a car drew Mark’s attention, and he faced the opposite direction. DI Joe Hicks’ vehicle swerved into the clearing. He usually did the night shift, but Stone joined him on the big jobs. He got out, put protectives on, talked to the workers for a second, then came their way.

  Joe stopped in front of Mark. “Bad business, eh?”

  Mark swallowed. “We haven’t checked her bag yet.” He stared at it and another of what looked like a takeaway. “Haven’t touched her.”

  “Okay.” Joe stepped past them and lowered to his haunches. Snapped gloves on. He unzipped the handbag and pulled out a purse. Opening it, he searched the contents and examined an ID card, one of those bought online. “Sara Westholm.” He glanced at Mark. “You, go and run her name by the bird on the front desk at the station. And you,” he said to Ted, “go and interview the men.”

  Mark sighed with relief—he didn’t have to remain with the body. He and Ted strode away in silence. The air of sorrow that always lingered in these situations encompassed Mark, and he drew in a sharp breath to steady his nerves. No way had that woman committed suicide. She wouldn’t have been able to get on that hook by herself. Some bastard had killed her. Someone who liked taking risks, he’d bet, what with the location and the possibility of being seen. He shuddered at the mentality of some people and wondered about the woman’s family.

  The other patrol car arrived, and Mark nodded to the officers. In his, he sat sideways in the driver’s seat, feet on the ground. Sickened by the killing, he called in the information and awaited a response. Sodding hell, being a copper screwed with his mind. It was one thing to want to do good, but another when the downside was so distressing. Still, he’d made his career choice and he’d stick with it.

  He stared at Joe Hicks. The DI circled the body and made notes. Glad he wasn’t doing that job, Mark wondered how long it would take before Stone turned up. Mark’s hackles rose, and he hoped he’d be busy asking questions when the arrogant bastard arrived.

  A female voice sailed out of his phone. “Sara Westholm comes up clean. Do you want her address?”

  “Yeah. We already have an address, but it won’t hurt to double-check.”

  She reeled it off. “Bad callout?”

  “Bad enough,” he said.

  He strolled to Joe, head down, unable to face looking at the woman again. “She’s clean, no record,” he said. “Do you want me to help Ted with interviews?”

  “No. Cordon off the area.” Joe squinted at the police cars. “Tell the other two uniforms to give Ted a hand. Shouldn’t take long with three of them on the job. Anyone arrives who isn’t a copper, send them on their way.”

  Mark nodded and returned to his car. The tape roll cold in his hands, he set his mind to his task and prayed the next few hours wouldn’t drag.

  Chapter Four

  Despite the evening’s heat, Kerry rested beneath a light sheet, wanting her body covered. She’d waited up for Dan and, two hours later, he still hadn’t arrived home. This wasn’t unusual after a ‘discussion’. He’d return, the takeaway cold, and expect her to jump out of bed and microwave it. Hunger had deserted her the minute he’d gripped her arm.

  A tepid gust of air breezed through the window, and the voile curtains billowed. The fan in the corner did little to stir the humidity, and the sheet stuck to her legs. She poked them out.

  Car tyres skidded on their gravel path out the front, and an engine revved then died, followed by the clunk of a door closing. Footsteps—his footsteps—marched up the drive, one, two, three. Keys tinkled, and one scraped into the lock.

  Kerry closed her eyes.

  The front door shut, and keys slapped on the coffee table, the sound muted from up here. His soles against the living room floor receded in volume as he made his way into the kitchen, undoubtedly to check whether she’d cleaned up. She held her breath for a long time, keen to any sounds…sounds that never came until—

  “You’ll die if you don’t breathe, darling.”

  Her eyes snapped open, and instinctually, she sat upright, the sheet falling to her waist, revealing his favourite black-and-red negligee. She hadn’t heard his approach. Paranoia that her hearing had deteriorated to the extent that she’d need to visit Dr Martin struck her. How would she explain it if he told her continual knocks to the head produced hearing loss? Dr Martin wouldn’t believe the truth, even if she had the courage to voice it. No, he was a good friend of Dan’s. Everyone loved Dan, good man that he was. Dan worked for the police force. Dan gave to charity. Dan supported the local youth football team and paid for their kit. Dan did this, Dan did that.

  Dan was an arsehole.

  He stood to the side of the bed, the lines on his face from earlier gone. Maybe he’d de-stressed somewhere, got his act together, and realised how he’d manipulated her these past few years.

  And the world was flat, was her oyster, and she could walk out whenever she wanted to without fear of him finding her.

  “I was practicing my yoga breathing,” she said.

  “Really.” He snapped his thumb and finger. “Food’s downstairs. Go and heat it up.”

  Kerry scrabbled out of bed and made to scoot past him. He gripped her wrist and yanked her to him. She steeled herself for another punch, a kick, a bite, those nails, and stared into his eyes.

  “I saw your friend this evening,” he said.

  “Sara?”

  “Who else? As far as I’m aware, you only have one.” His laugh didn’t match his stony facial expression. “She told me how happy you are.” He paused and squeezed her wrist harder. His hot brea
th fanned her face. “Are you?”

  Keeping her gaze fixed on him, she said, “Of course. Darling.” God, she’d nearly forgotten to say that.

  Dan slapped her arse and released her. “Good girl.”

  She stood before him, still.

  “Move it!” he shouted.

  Despite knowing he’d shout, she jumped all the same and scurried past him. His dry laughter changed to a throaty bellow that echoed behind her, sinister, frightening, and not quite…right. She shuddered, raced downstairs and into the kitchen, the floor tiles cold.

  A takeaway bag sat on the worktop ready for her to dish out the food and reheat it. She reached inside. Only slightly warm. So he had bought the food then gone elsewhere. Maybe he had another woman. Chance would be a fine thing. If he did, she wasn’t satisfying his sexual needs. His regular use of Kerry bore testament to that.

  She straightened her shoulders and got on with the task at hand, ears tuned to Dan Frequency—yes, she listened for him this time. Opening the cartons revealed Chicken Pasta Alfredo—his favourite.

  Bastard.

  Images of Dan as a child entered her mind—pictures of him she had to create herself; he didn’t have any photographs for her to go by—and she tried to garner sympathy for him. And failed. Millions of people had appalling upbringings, and many didn’t know their parents, but they didn’t go around beating their wives and playing mind games. Did they?

  The creak of the floorboards above pulled her from her musings. Dan would be down any minute, possibly touching her backside, trailing his fingers along her arm, creating a path of revulsion.

  She poured the food onto plates. He paced down the stairs.

  She bit her lip. He walked through the living room.

  She placed the plates on the island on mats and positioned a fork beside each. He plonked himself on a stool there and watched her.

  She moved from the island and selected a bottle of red wine and two glasses. He moved only to take up his usual position, elbows propped, hands folded beneath his chin.