by SP Edwards
‘Caroline’s dead,’ Marr said. ‘She was found at her home last night.’
Then Marr had an idea.
‘Found murdered.’
Thomas’ eyes widened slightly.
‘You’re sure she was murdered?’ he asked.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, that sounds like there could be a serial killer on the loose. Two deaths in two days, both pretty ambitious young women. That’s how serial killers operate, isn’t it?’
‘Sounds like you’re pretty familiar with them.’
Thomas laughed again. Marr found himself silently fighting the urge to punch him in the jaw.
‘As much as anyone I suppose. I’d be basing my knowledge on the Silence of the Lambs, Se7en and the odd paperback. I suppose they’re probably not like that in real life, are they? Probably all losers who just can’t get laid.’
Thomas wasn’t, it annoyed Marr to admit, wrong. Serial killers…well, he’d heard of one or two cases in America in the last couple of years. But they were rarely Ed Gein. No, multiple killings were Columbine or Norway: frustration. Narcissism. People who wanted to try and re-shape a world that had rejected them.
‘We’re not sure if it’s a serial killer yet,’ he said, ‘we avoid using that tag anyway; people tend to panic. As you say, everyone winds up thinking about Ted Bundy.’
Thomas laughed.
‘Have you seen the Bill Hicks sketch on Ted Bundy?’
Marr nodded, not surprised that Thomas was a Bill Hicks fan, but annoyed all the same. It grated when people like Thomas liked the same things he did. Maybe Thomas was more right about them being similar than Marr would care to admit.
‘Do you know of anyone who would have wanted Caroline dead?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’m assuming that Anna’s caveman probably had something to do with it, didn’t he? I mean, Anna winds up dead. Two days later the girl he was fucking on the side does too.’
Marr decided not to tell Thomas that the murder weapon had turned up in Stanic’s trash earlier that morning.
‘Do you really think Greg was capable of murdering Anna?’ Marr asked.
Thomas shrugged.
‘Of course. All you’d have to do is goad his manliness and he’d lose it. Maybe Caroline told him her ex was bigger downstairs, or better in the sack. Kiss of death to someone like that. You see them all the time: men whose identity comes solely from what women think of him.’
Not untrue, thought Marr, though it didn’t stop him wanting to break Thomas’ nose.
‘Did you want Caroline dead, Thomas?’
Again, that smug smile.
‘Why would I? I won’t pretend we were best friends. I won’t pretend I even really liked her that much. But she was Anna’s friend, so we put up with each other. I’m not going to miss Caroline Marcus, but she wasn’t important enough for me to warrant caring about her. What would be the point of going to jail for someone like that? I’d imagine you’d have to really care about someone to kill them.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Well, you’d know better than I would, wouldn’t you? You’re the detective. Aren’t you meant to instinctively know when there’s a murderer around?’
It was bait again, and Marr knew it. He was bored, though, and past caring.
‘It’s like anything else really; it’s a skill, and you can get better at it.’
‘Well, then I wouldn’t want to be the man that tried to fool you.’
Thomas smiled. Marr rolled his eyes, and got up to leave.
‘No, Thomas. I’m sure you wouldn’t.’
Before he left, Marr grabbed the name of the cleaner from HR, although he knew it was a next to useless lead.
By the time he got out to his car, he felt frustrated. He felt like he’d failed. But then, what had he really been hoping for? For Thomas to burst into tears and confess? No; he wasn’t that type. Not because he was mentally tough – Marr had been right about that – but because he was scared. Thomas Coulthard wasn’t a man who’d do well in jail. It bugged Marr, but Thomas had been very right about one thing: pretensions melted away when compared to real, physical violence.
Thomas Coulthard would do everything to ensure that he went nowhere near a prison.
Unfortunately, that only made him more dangerous.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The defence had gone to shit, again.
150 million pounds worth of pure attacking talent, and a defence that you could buy for ten quid and a bag of crisps.
John Markham sighed. It just wasn’t the same without that dour, gum-chewing Scot in charge.
He flicked over and decided to give the test match a go instead; England seemed to be doing OK for once, the partnership between the two batsmen over one hundred.
John leaned back into his favourite armchair, allowing his whole body to relax. It really did pay to invest in a good armchair; whatever else life threw at you, you could always retreat to.
Lifting his mug of tea from, he took a sip. Redbush, so no caffeine, but pretty damn tasty all the same. It had been Michelle’s idea; caffeine caused stress, heart attacks and, in the end, more pain.
Anna’s death had hit Michelle harder than it had hit John. It hurt him to admit it, but it was the truth. Though, as ever, Michelle was doing a brilliant job of hiding it. And, of course, John knew that his feelings – or lack of them – were temporary. He was still in that sweet stage of denial: the stage where nothing seemed real, or felt like it was happening to someone else.
John had lost his father eighteen months after Anna was born. Cancer, he’d been told at the time. Testicular. It sounded stupid to rank cancer, but he knew that it was what you ended up doing once it became a part of your life. Stage one lump in your leg? Try stage four in the brain, pal. It was a pretty strange thing to get elitist about, and yet people did.
The strangest thing of it all was that, in a way, there had been some upsides to his dad’s death. It was hard to explain to someone who’d not gone through it; but he’d spoken to people who’d dealt with it and they agreed. It was nice to know that his dad would never grow really old. That he’d never become a helpless, lonely man, struggling to walk but unable to drive, baffled and scared by the world.
And then, of course, there was Anna. John’s dad had doted on Anna. The first time he’d held his granddaughter, he’d wept openly in the hospital ward, the tears running down his nose and over that four million pound grin of his.
Because he was no longer here, he’d never be told that his first grand-daughter – his beautiful little girl – was dead. John could imagine the tears, the attempted bravery, the shock. He could see his dad’s face twisted with grief.
It wasn’t a nice thing to think about.
On the screen, the batsman – a young left hander brought in to improve the stability of the side – played away from his body, the ball catching the edge of his bat and flying into the hands of the wicket keeper. He walked off, looking dejected.
‘Idiot’ John said.
He heard the front door click open. Michelle, back from her sister’s house in Mersea. John braced himself. It wasn’t that Julie was a bad sister – not too bad, anyway – but she’d always tried to drum it into Michelle that John wasn’t good enough. Julie had lucked out, falling in love with a millionaire. Rather than counting her lucky stars, she’d decided anyone who wasn’t a millionaire just wasn’t quite getting the job done.
And John wasn’t a millionaire.
But he did love his wife, and had done a good job raising his daughter and trying to be a good husband. Fortunately, Michelle seemed to agree.
John didn’t like to imagine Julie’s reaction to hearing about Anna. Sympathy, of course. So much sympathy.
But then, maybe, the delicate hints that maybe now Michelle wasn’t a mum, she didn’t have to be quite so tied down. She could finally do what she wanted with her life.
And maybe what she wanted wasn’t to be married.
�
��Are you alright, love?’ he called out.
‘Fine,’ Michelle replied, ‘Just got back from Julie’s.’
‘That’s nice. Is she OK?’
‘Yes, she was fine. She was perfectly nice about everything.’
Michelle walked in. Her make-up had been freshly done. John guessed it had a treat from that in-house beauty therapist Julie used. The one that her husband paid for.
‘You look lovely. Did Julie get Lianne over?’
Michelle nodded.
‘How’s Martin?’ John asked.
Martin was the millionaire. Good guy actually; if it was possible to know a millionaire and not hate them, Martin was the sort of millionaire you wouldn’t hate. He’d made his money running a construction company, selling up about a year before the downturn. Lucky bastard, for sure, but not an asshole.
‘Oh, he was well enough,’ Michelle replied. ‘Out buying a boat, apparently.’
‘Nice work if you can get it.’
‘Julie tried to ask me if I’d thought about divorce options.’
John wasn’t the type to swear; he thought it was just an indication of a poor vocabulary.
‘Fucking hell’ he replied.
‘I know. Anna was her niece, and still all she cared about was who I’m married to. Christ.’
‘Sorry, love.’
‘Me too, sometimes. You know I love you, don’t you?’
‘I know.’
‘And you know that I’m not sorry I married you.’
‘Shucks.’
‘You know what I mean. I know I get dragged into her bitchiness sometimes, but I do love you. I’d rather be married to you than Martin the fucking millionaire any day.’
‘I love you too.’
‘And I’m going to have a bath and wash this crap off my face. I feel like a circus clown.’
John watched his wife leave the room, instantly feeling a bit better. He knew that he didn’t always give Michelle enough credit. Yes, Julie was an idiot, but she wasn’t. She knew that Julie always had it in for him a bit. Michelle was tough; clever and tough, and she’d been a truly brilliant mum to Anna.
It made lying to her even harder.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Gregor Stanic sat at the back of the coffee shop, staring out of the window. He’d been given fifteen minutes by the lawyer to grab a drink. He didn’t like him, but then you weren’t supposed to like lawyers, were you? Fucking scum. Being an accountant might be dumb, but at least it didn’t involve keeping rapists out of prison.
‘Fifteen minutes, Mr Stanic, and we’ll resume.’
Thanks for the permission, you cunt. I’m paying you five hundred pounds an hour for the privilege of being treated like I’m still in school.
Stanic practically growled to himself. He’d have punched the table, but the girl behind the counter was pretty fit, and he didn’t want her thinking he was some hooligan.
Which was, in the end, where all of his problems seemed to stem from.
Women, and his need to impress them. To fuck them.
To conquer.
Because, if you didn’t hunt down and take what was yours, how could you even consider yourself a man?
Stanic had seen enough of the average guy on the street to know he felt sorry for them. They were everywhere: at restaurants, at bars and at clubs. They all looked the same. Not in terms of features, or what they wore, though: it was that desperation. Lined up at the bar, eyeing up girls. Maybe even cracking jokes about them to their equally average friends.
Hey, look at the arse on that girl.
Yeah, look at the arse on that girl. The girl they wouldn’t have to nerve to speak to. Night after night, stood by the bar making judgements.
‘Look at the state of that.’
‘Maybe if I was drunk.’
‘You’d have to pay me.’
No, Stanic thought, it was the girls that would need paying. Stanic had always found it strange how guys could be so delusional about it all. About fucking girls. About work. About life in general.
Thousands of men repeating the mantra over and over to themselves.
Oh, I could do that if I tried. I could be that guy. I could fuck that girl.
I just don’t want to.
But it was all a lie, and they knew it. They’d never do anything that they said they were going to do. Never. They’d settle down with some trashy, gossipy, stupid girl who they didn’t even respect, let alone love. And then they’d make do with fifty years of TV, work, dinner, repeat. And then, eventually, those gossipy stupid girls would leave them, taking all their money.
And then, just as revenge, the girls would fuck someone like Greg, if he was prepared to lower his standards for an evening. And Mr Average would wonder why the hell, when he’d played by all the rules, he was having his ass handed to him.
So yeah, Stanic had occasionally kept someone in line, or had to smack someone around a bit. It was funny, those wallflowers – they’d never talk to a woman, even if one gave them the eye – but as soon as Stanic started chatting to the girl, and as soon as the girl started laughing, Mr Average would start feeling brave.
‘Is this guy bothering you?’
Why didn’t they understand? Stanic inhabited a different world to the one they struggled through. Their world of fear, and weakness, and of asking for permission, like a child. Greg didn’t ask for permission; he took what was his. And sometimes that put people’s noses out of joint.
But that couldn’t be helped.
Stanic knew that he’d put Thomas Coulthard’s nose out of joint. Well, you talk about average men: Thomas was the ultimate. Wasting away his life in a call centre, no girl, no future. And pining after Anna for ten fucking years.
How the hell could you pine after anyone for that long? Greg loved Anna; he really did. But fuck, if you weren’t getting anywhere after a couple of hours, it was time to give it up. Girls decided if they liked you in the first five minutes, so what was the idiot expecting? For Anna to turn around and suddenly change her mind once the first decade had passed?
But no, year after year he sniffed around, like a lapdog wanting attention from its master.
And yet, that fucking lapdog had Stanic on the ropes.
Stanic knew that Coulthard had planted that blade. Which meant that he’d killed Anna.
And probably Caroline too. Because there was no way Caroline would have gone through with it. She got depressed sometimes, sure; but that was where it stopped – feeling down. Weaker days, she used to call them.
Stanic was going to wind up in jail, because Thomas – the ultimate fucking loser - couldn’t stand to be beaten by a better, stronger man.
And he was the weaker man; Stanic was sure of it.
He checked his watch; he was due to return to the lawyer in five minutes.
There was really only one thing to do.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
‘Ray, it’s Steve’.
‘I know you silly bastard, I have your number saved on my phone, like everyone does. Because it’s 2015.’
Marr rolled his eyes.
‘Good to talk to you, too. Now, stop being a prick and tell me that you’ve found something useful on the knife.’
Ray sighed.
‘Well, let’s just say it depends what your definition of useful is.’
‘Stop stalling.’
‘Your wish is my command. There’s one print on the handle, and it’s Gregor Stanic’s. No other DNA, though; I’d say it’s been very carefully washed clean.’
‘It’s a plant?’
‘Well, no. Gregor Stanic definitely held the knife at some point, but as you said quite rightly: it’s his bloody knife, what the hell is anyone expecting?’
‘No traces of anybody else on there?’ Marr asked.
‘I hope you’re not asking me if I found semen on a kitchen knife.’
‘You’re a sick man, Ray. No, I’m asking if there’s any chance that this won’t be used as exhibit A in Gregor Stani
c’s trial.’
‘No, Steve, very little fucking chance of that at all. Might as well get him to start stitching those little arrows on his designer suits.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Thomas ordered a double whiskey, toasting the barman who served it.
‘Cheers, Joe.’
Joe grunted and made his way to the other end of the bar. Thomas smiled to himself; he loved this place. Nice atmosphere, and a good whisky selection. He liked the way drinking whiskey made him feel; it was a real man’s drink, wasn’t it? Not like the pink and blue crap you saw in the fridges, or even the taps of cheap lager that most guys went for.
No, whiskey was for men with class. Thomas had class.
And he had to admit, that detective did, too. There was something Thomas liked about him. He had guts, and Thomas didn’t doubt that Marr would come after him again. He wasn’t going to be deterred by anything. Even if it was the truth.
It was a real shame about Caroline, if Marr was telling the truth about her. Thomas didn’t consider it beyond any cop to try and pull a fast one.
But no, Caroline probably was really dead. What exactly was Marr trying to get from Thomas, though? A confession? Good luck with that. No, men like Thomas didn’t confess to men like Marr. Because men like Marr, for all their bluster and their guts and their perseverance, didn’t get what they wanted.
They were too weak, too worried about being seen to do the right thing.
Gregor Stanic was, of course, much the same. He saw himself as a real ‘man’, always doing the right thing, even when it was far easier to take the other path.
It was a lie, of course. It might have been what they told themselves, but it wasn’t really why they did it. They did what they did to try and control their little world.
If I always do the right thing, justice will come.
