by Rob Ashman
‘There were three blocks of post-it notes on the desk. The last thing written on them correspond to a note found in the bin. Council tax and Condoms are here.’ Malice pointed to three squares of paper on the desk. ‘But Mexborough is missing.’
Pietersen scanned the table and looked at the image.
‘You’re right.’
‘What the hell is Mexborough?’ Malice whispered under his breath.
‘It’s a place outside Sheffield.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I did my degree there.’
‘A degree, eh? What did you do?’
‘Now who asks a lot of questions?’
Malice raised his eyebrows.
‘It could be someone’s name?’ he said.
‘More likely to be a surname.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Does Belinda Garrett own a car?’
‘No. Her housemate said she didn’t drive.’
‘Mexborough isn’t the only thing that stands out.’
‘What else?’
Pietersen picked an item from the table and walked over to Lewis.
‘Do you mind?’ She sat in his seat and moved the mouse around.
‘What is it?’ Malice asked, still studying the table top.
‘Give me a minute.’ Pietersen tapped away at the keyboard and various windows popped up on the screen. After a while she sat back and studied the item in her hand. ‘Take a look at this.’ Malice ambled over. ‘This rail ticket receipt also sticks out like a sore thumb. You found it stuck to the fridge, right?
‘Yeah, I did.’
‘It’s for an open return to Maidenhead. It sticks out like a sore thumb because this isn’t a reminder, it’s dated three weeks ago.’
‘Let me see.’ Malice took the ticket from her hand. ‘It was issued from Paddington station on the day of travel.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why would she keep that?’
‘You’re going to love this,’ Pietersen said, spinning the monitor around so it was facing Malice. The screen showed a country manor hotel with ornate grounds and a grand entrance. ‘Mexborough is also the name of a hotel in Maidenhead. This receipt isn’t a reminder. It’s a memento.’
Chapter 15
It was the day I confessed my darkest desire …
U trecht was fast becoming my favourite European city. Not because of its history or culture, nor because of its vibrant nightlife; it was fast becoming my favourite because Elsa lived there.
The next five weeks flew by in a blaze of sexual exploration. Having sex with Elsa was like being in a gourmet restaurant where you could choose anything you wanted from an extensive menu. Up to that point the sum total of my sexual conquests had consisted of a couple of failed attempts with members of the opposite sex and a mountain of happy endings with a stack of magazines. To Elsa, my naivety was a massive turn-on and a personal challenge.
We quickly settled into a routine. Monday to Friday, Elsa ensured that by the end of the day not a single sperm was left in my body. I would drift off to sleep drained of energy and semen. On Saturday we would take the train into Amsterdam and have lunch by the canal before Elsa started her shift. She would kiss me on the cheek and whisper, ‘I’ll look out for you.’
I would stand on the opposite side of the street and watch her work. A steady procession of men, each one eager to sample the silver-haired beauty, each one leaving with a glazed expression and a broad smile. She would clock me watching her and pose and pout in my direction, her teasing was relentless and it drove me to distraction.
I booked us into the same hotel I’d used before to save us travelling back and forth. On our first night we were lying in bed when Elsa announced that there was a new rule.
‘We need to have an Amsterdam rule.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘I never mix business with pleasure. So there will be no sex for you tonight.’ She had been tantalising me all day and it was obvious from my upright cock that this was somewhat of a disappointment.
‘I don’t understand?’
‘I don’t mix business with pleasure. You will have to wait until Monday.’
‘Nice to know I’m the pleasure side of that equation.’
‘Don’t be silly, you’re the business side. You’re mine now.’ It was three o’clock in the morning and she rolled over and went to sleep. I must be the only single bloke to have visited Amsterdam’s red-light district on ten occasions and never once had sex.
On the last week of the lecture tour we were walking back to Elsa’s place when she said, ‘I’ve been looking into the pupillage you have lined up with Christie and Parsons when you get back to the UK.’
‘What of it?’
‘It’s the wrong chambers.’
‘What?’
‘You’re aiming too low. They’re a second-tier firm at best, with a shabby client list and low fees.’
‘But—’
‘I’ve been doing some digging and you need to do your pupillage with Warren and Partners.’
‘Ha, yeah, right! Do you know who they are?’
‘They’re one of the leading firms of criminal barristers in London.’
‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a position with them?’
‘I’ve checked their recruitment and selection criteria and you’re perfect.’
‘I might be but—’
‘But nothing. I called and they have unfilled places on this year’s intake. You need to apply.’
‘But I already have a place with Christie and Parsons.’
‘You’ll have to tell them you’ve changed your mind.’
‘What if I don’t get a place with Warren? Then I’ll be left with nothing.’
‘Okay, then don’t tell them. Keep the pupillage with Christie and Parsons until you have the other one in the bag.’
‘In the bag? You make it sound—’
‘Stop whining. We’ve got work to do. They have another selection board in three weeks. That gives us enough time to get you prepared.’
‘Prepared for what?’
‘For the assessment centre. I’ll coach you.’
‘You’ll coach… You’re coming to England with me?’
‘Of course, you’re mine now.’
And that was it. Elsa found us a rented flat outside London and we moved in together. My mum was delighted that I had finally found a nice girl to settle down with. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t quite like that.
Elsa was right. I breezed through the assessment centre and joined Warren and Partners. The other firm was not happy when I told them. When I mentioned their displeasure to Elsa she said, ‘Did you tell them to go fuck themselves?’
‘Good heavens no,’ I replied.
‘Shame, you should have.’
One morning, over breakfast, she turned to me and said, ‘call your mum and ask her if she’s free on this date.’ She slid a piece of paper in front of me.
‘Why? Are we inviting her over for dinner?’
‘No, we’re getting married.’ And in true Elsa form, we did. It was a small ceremony in a registry office where Mum cried and Mark shook my hand. It was all over by lunchtime.
Despite Elsa graduating with first class honours she was adamant she didn’t need a job.
‘My career is managing your career,’ she would say. And manage it she did. She ensured we were members of all the right clubs and societies and attended the most prestigious soirées. Soon, I was rocketing up the corporate ladder and became the youngest person to make equity partner in the firm. An achievement I bettered some years later when I became the youngest member of their Executive Board at the age of thirty-six. A stratospheric progression which was all down to Elsa.
It was a period in my life when I would often look back at killing my first Pretty in Madrid. In my quieter moments I would drift off and watch Antonio spinning through the air, hurtling to the ground; his blood-red dressin
g gown flapping around his body. I still can’t believe he made the entire journey down to the lobby in total silence. It was nothing like you see in the movies, that long drawn out scream until the impact. He was completely mute.
The combination of my high-octane job coupled with keeping up with my high-octane wife produced an adrenaline rush that had switched off my desire to kill Pretties. I still hated them, but my compulsion to terminate their lives had been dulled. Though as time went by I could feel that beginning to wear off. I could also sense Elsa was becoming restless. In the same way as my work had switched off my need to kill, so managing my career had negated Elsa’s need to indulge herself in promiscuous sex. But now that I was at the top of my game, I knew her mind was wandering. So was mine.
One night we were sitting in the kitchen, having dinner at home when Elsa said, ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Oh, what is it?’
‘I need to fuck other people, is that alright?’
I reached over and took her hand.
‘That’s fine. I need to kill Pretties, is that alright?’
‘Sounds like fun. What are Pretties?’
Chapter 16
M y assault on the credibility of Abigale Greening had proved too much for Tracey Bairstow, who dissolved into floods of tears and had some sort of panic attack. Medical staff had dashed to her assistance as she crumpled to the floor. It was a magnificent performance. Mine, not hers.
The judge called a halt to proceedings and sent us home. He must have had a lunch appointment at his club or a date with his latest hooker. Either way, I’m now on the train home. The carriage is relatively empty so I have a seat. I want to surprise Elsa with a bunch of flowers that I bought at the station. It’s a mix of lilies and chrysanthemums, her favourite.
My phone buzzes, it’s Elsa.
‘Hey, how are you? … that’s good … cancelled … what today? … Oh, okay … are you alright with that? … Ha, that’s a silly question … I’m on my way home, we had an incident in court … that’s fine, I’ll see you then … bye.’
I stare at the flowers wrapped in cellophane sitting on the table. Not sure they are going to have the same impact now. Despite this unexpected disappointment, I’m gripped with excitement.
I pass the rest of the journey answering emails and making calls. Soon the train pulls up at my station and I get off carrying my bags and the bouquet. I get into the car and travel the ten miles to my house.
‘Hi!’ I call out as I open the front door.
‘I’m upstairs.’
I put my bags in the corner and carry the flowers up to the bedroom. Elsa is getting undressed.
‘Hey honey, nice you’re home early,’ she struggles out of her jeans and hops across the bedroom planting a kiss on my lips.
‘I brought you these.’ I offer up the flowers.
‘Oh, they’re gorgeous. How lovely.’ She kisses me again. ‘Leave them on the dressing table and I’ll put them in water later.’ I knew they wouldn’t illicit the same degree of appreciation — not now. ‘I need to take a shower.’
Elsa strips naked and wanders into the en-suite. I hear the shower strike the cubicle wall. I sit on the bed and contemplate the contents of my pottery shed.
‘I’m popping out for a while, won’t be long,’ I call out.
‘Okay, see you when you get back.’
I change out of my suit and pull on jeans and a sweatshirt. I go downstairs, through the garden and into my workshop. The smell of smoke hangs in the air. I go into the drying room and examine the pieces of moulded clay, none have cracks or splits so the firing should go to plan. I pick up the Tupperware box and head out to the car.
It is a short drive to the disused quarry which is situated about a mile and a half from where we live. The wire fence that surrounds it is plastered with restricted access signs but we are so out in the wilds that no one polices it. I open up the chainmail gate and drive inside the compound.
A company used to quarry rock at the site, but that was more than twenty-five years ago and now the place has been taken over by wilderness and trees. The quarrying activity has left a gigantic hole in the ground, probably measuring four hundred yards across which over time has filled with water. I read in a geological report that it is two hundred and fifty metres at its deepest point. Not sure how they knew that, but I know it is deep enough to submerge a car.
I walk to the edge of the rim and look down the steep embankment to the water below. It is a long way down. The cars must be reaching thirty miles an hour when they crash into the water, making an almighty splash. Sometimes the windscreen shatters under the force of the impact – those ones sink the fastest.
I take the top off the Tupperware box and grab a handful of ash. I like standing in this position because no matter what the time of year, the wind is always at my back. I unfurl my fingers and Belinda Garrett takes off, sailing on the breeze across the open space. I grab another handful and release it. She floats like a cloud twisting and turning on the air currents.
I swing my arm in an arc. The entire contents of the container launches into the air. Belinda drifts and twirls on the breeze, soaring away from me to eventually land on the lake below to join the others. She was so lovely.
I take a deep breath, head back to the car and drive home where I find Elsa is still upstairs. The smell of her perfume greets me as I walk into the bedroom. She has one foot on the bed smoothing sheer stockings over her shapely legs, then stepping into black high heeled shoes. I can remember buying them for her when we were in Paris. She shimmies into a lace basque.
‘Can you do me up?’
Elsa turns and I fasten the clasps at the back. She flattens it into place and sits at the dressing table, touching up her make-up. A silk dressing gown completes the look, wrapping it loosely across her body and holding it in place with a tie.
‘How do I look?’ she asks. The black and red lace is clearly visible above the dressing gown, the matching thong still in the drawer.
I lean in and kiss her on the cheek.
‘Fucking gorgeous.’ Her bright red lipstick and smoky eyes look sensational against her pale skin.
Outside I hear the sound of gravel crunching under the wheels of a car. Elsa hurries past me and down the stairs. I follow behind, breathing in the scent of her perfume.
There is a knock at the door. Elsa is standing in the lounge, waiting.
I open the door to find Callum on the doorstep.
‘Hi Damien, my meetings were cancelled and I have to stick around for a couple more days, so I thought…’
‘Hi, come in. Elsa told me your plans had changed.’
This is a very different Callum to the one I had let into my house eighteen hours earlier. There’s no bottle of wine, only a luke-warm handshake and half a smile. He breezes past me into the living room with a hungry look in his eyes. I watch as Elsa tugs on the silk tie around her waist and her gown opens up.
Callum has none of the playful demeanour of last night. He grabs her, his hands caressing her breasts. He tries to kiss her but she shoves him back onto the sofa. Elsa straddles his lap and discards the robe. His hands are all over her.
She reaches for the buckle on his belt and looks over her shoulder. Our eyes meet and she shakes her head and mouths to me, ‘See you later.’
I gaze at my wife as she is about to ride another man’s cock and close the door.
One day she will say ‘Yes’.
One day.
Chapter 17
P ietersen was sitting in the car outside the front of the police station, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel when Malice burst through the double doors and jumped in.
‘Sorry about that. I wanted to check something before we left,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘Garrett’s credit card transactions—’ The force of the car pulling away threw him back into his seat.
‘You gotta bloody pump these service cars to get anything out of them,�
� she said. Malice was still trying to locate his seat belt as they flew out of the main gate onto the main drag.
‘You like your cars?’
‘I do,’ Pietersen said shifting through the gears.
‘What have you got?’
‘A Porsche Boxster.’
‘Nice.’
‘It’s second-hand but it goes well. I got it instead of a husband.’
‘Oh, sorry to hear that.’
‘I broke off the engagement and we split the money we’d saved. I’m happier with the car. What do you drive?’
‘A Mustang.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘I got mine instead of a wife too.’
Pietersen glanced across at him.
‘Don’t tell me… it’s complicated…’
‘Yeah, something like that. Take the next left.’
Pietersen did as she was told. Malice watched as the parade of battered houses and boarded up shops flew by the side-window.
Christ knows what she’d drive like if we had the blue lights on?
‘Fine arts,’ Pietersen said.
‘What?’
‘You asked what degree I did at Sheffield… fine arts.’
‘Not what I was expecting.’
‘I did a law conversion course afterwards but bailed out after the first term. It wasn’t for me.’
‘Why did you do it in the first place?’
‘My dad persuaded me it was what I wanted to do, in truth it was always what he wanted me to do.’
‘Is that when you joined the police?’
‘Yup, spent three years in uniform then moved over to CID.’
‘Which part of South Africa are you from?’
‘Is it still that noticeable?’
‘Yeah. Now and then. Plus the way you spell your surname?’
‘My dad is from Durban and my mum is a Yorkshire lass. He works for the Foreign Office which took us all over the world. That’s why I’m never sure where my accent is from. We spent many years in London then his last posting took him back to Pretoria where he still works.’
‘And you didn’t fancy it?’
‘I already had a place in university, so decided to stay put. Do you know there are more foreign embassies in Pretoria than anywhere else in the world?’
