by SP Edwards
So, what should Sam do? It was nice to have the control. She liked to think of Marr crawling back to her, a broken man. In tears because of what his own weakness had cost him. And then she could turn him down in turn, and let him deal with that, too.
With frustration, though, she slowly realised that the finger on the trigger was enough. Sam wasn’t going to ruin a marriage. She had gotten involved with Marr because it felt good and exciting; it felt new. It wasn’t because she wanted to hurt people, even him.
‘Yes,’ Sam said, finally, ‘he was telling the truth. We ended a few hours before he went home. I…well, I tried to keep him, but he turned me down.’
Lizzie exhaled, and then downed the rest of her glass. Sam held up the bottle, offering a refill and, she supposed, a bit of a peace offering. Lizzie nodded.
After one more sip, she finally looked up.
‘I never would have had him for that type, you know? I know he liked to look; they all do, don’t they? I’m sure he had fantasies: good luck finding a man who doesn’t. But I really thought…well, I really thought that, when it came down to it, he’d be able to pull himself away and do the right thing.’
Sam nodded, getting it.
‘Well, he did in the end, I suppose’ she said.
‘But did he? I mean, he’s had his fun, hasn’t he? He’s had his affair; he’s had his bit of excitement. He’ll never have to die just not knowing. In the end, what sacrifice has he made? A little bit of dignity, maybe, but what does that really mean?’
Sam took a sip of her own drink, unable to think of anything to say, but completely agreeing with every word. The excitement had been, in the end, what it was all down to. The fantasy. It was inevitable that, when it went on, and when the real world came into it, it would fade away.
‘Who started it?’ Lizzie asked.
Sam thought back six months. A hotel, a PR conference. Too much drink, too much flirty conversation too early in the evening. Nowhere for the tension to go but to build up as the drinks were poured. By nine, when she and Marr were still sat in the bar, it already seemed inevitable. Less than an hour later, they’d been in her room, ripping and tearing at the other’s clothes. It had been quick the first time – as the more intense ones tended to be – but the second one, the fuck they’d so nearly not had – had been longer and so much better.
Sam shrugged.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said.
Lizzie nodded.
‘Alcohol’ she said. Sam didn’t reply.
‘Who suggested carrying it on?’
‘I don’t know. It’s the truth. It sounds strange, but it really was true. It’s not like after the first time one of us just sent a text out saying ‘Fancy doing that again?’ There was some little reason, every time. Someone would say something, and it would just remind us what we’d done before. I’d egg him on sometimes, winding him up.’
‘So it was good?’
Sam said nothing, again. She didn’t feel like answering, because that would achieve nothing. If she said no, Lizzie would know she was just saying it to try and be nice. Because if it hadn’t been good, why would it have carried on for six months?
‘Did you ever think that you’d be with him properly? That he’d leave me?’
Sam shook her head.
No, she thought, she didn’t. Not really. Because men didn’t, did they? They wanted the excitement, not the drudgery. And why would Marr enjoy married a life with her anymore than he would with Lizzie? He wouldn’t.
‘To be honest, I don’t think I wanted him to. I just didn’t want it to stop either.’
Lizzie nodded, and knocked back a drink.
‘Did he ever tell you he loved you?’
Sam paused. Lizzie was a good person. Sam knew that. She knew it because she’d met her before. And she knew it because if she wasn’t, she’d know not to ask that question.
Because that was the question that really mattered.
Men divorced themselves from sex. Women did too, of course, but not in the same way. Women could fake orgasms, men could fake emotional connections to go along with it. It didn’t matter to Lizzie that her husband could fuck someone else, not deep down. But her husband falling in love with another women was something different. That’s what would tear at her chest at night, when she was lying next to him with his baby in the next room. Sex could be forgotten; papered over, the cracks filled back in. Love was the rip that couldn’t be stitched up.
‘No’ Sam replied, ‘he never told me he loved me. He didn’t love me. He was stupid, and selfish. But he loves you. He always will, whatever you choose to do now. He’s yours. Whether you still want him or not.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Thomas liked to drive; he found it relaxing. For the first twenty hours of lessons or so he’d been scared – terrified – that something was going to happen to him. He didn’t like the sensitivity of the accelerator, a world away from the video games he’d played. He didn’t like how much faster it seemed behind the wheel than it did in the passenger seat. His reactions didn’t feel quick enough.
It took a long time; fifty-five two hour lessons. Almost twice the national average. It was funny: after six months of forcing himself to get in the car, he couldn’t imagine not driving anywhere now. He prodded his belly. He needed to join a gym; and he would. If nothing else, learning to drive had taught him that anything could be accomplished if you were prepared to be uncomfortable for long enough.
Thomas decided to drive up to Hendon House. It was a nice day; a clear day. The sort Thomas loved: crisp, cold morning air combined with a spotless blue sky. It was the sort of sky you’d get in heaven, if it existed.
Hendon House looked empty; Thomas imagined that the staff were all out. That barman, especially; he was probably in counselling. Finding a dead body of a morning; yeah, that’d screw you up pretty badly, especially if you’d not seen one before.
The lake looked stunning, reflecting back the blue of the sky. It was clear enough that you could see a perfect mirror of the house in the water. Thomas smiled. It really was the sort of place you’d want to get married. He smiled; hell, he might get married here himself one day. When all of this had died down. Maybe he’d invite Greg to the wedding; let bygones be bygones. They could share a bottle of good scotch and discuss women. Or bitches, as Greg probably saw them.
Thomas grinned to himself. He’d enjoyed the look of shock on Greg’s face. The gun had, of course, been a replica. The soldier, the great and noble soldier, had been scared to death of a toy. Hilarious. How the hell that man ever earned a penny running his own business Thomas had no idea, but it probably said something about the intelligence of the clients.
Thomas pulled the car up as close to the lake as he could get, and left, wrapping his feet in plastic bags before starting to walk towards the bank. He didn’t think the inspector would come back here, but it didn’t really pay to be careless. Whatever else that detective was, Thomas didn’t doubt he was the determined sort, and the last thing Thomas wanted was to leave any footprints lying around.
There was little evidence that Anna had ever been there, or indeed that anyone had ever been there. Thomas could see four small patches where the forensics tent had been secured. Any footprints, though, had been long washed away.
Thomas laid out his budget groundsheet, and sat down on the bank, facing away from the house itself and back towards the city. He could see the six towers of the university, jutting out against the landscape.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to really feel the fresh air in his lungs. There was nothing like the great outdoors. Anna might have died young, but if you were going to die, there were worse places. It was better, wasn’t it, to die here rather than in an alley like some scumbag? Hell, Thomas thought he’d rather die here than in his bed at home. This was the real world, a world beautiful enough to be worth dying in.
Thomas closed his eyes, and relaxed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
A
hundred feet above him at the very crest of the hill, a figure stood, wrapped up in warm clothing, protecting themselves from the exposure of the wind.
Even from here, Gregor Stanic could recognise Thomas.
This was confirmation enough.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Marr sat alone in his hotel room, working his way through the rest of his far-too-expensive scotch. The rest of the day had been as irritating as he’d expected it might be. No-one had been able to help: neither Stanic nor Thomas were anywhere.
But it didn’t matter, did it? Because, as of now, Caroline Marcus was definitely a suicide case, and had killed Anna Markham. As far as the records were concerned, Gregor Stanic was simply a man on an astonishing run of bad luck. At best, anyway. At worst, he was an accomplice who’d get a few years in jail. If his bad luck continued, he might even get a life sentence: he was just the sort of guy who’d be made an example of, especially if the case got any public attention. Marr had seen worse doled out because the judge was afraid of bad PR.
Marr felt sick, and the drink was only partially to blame.
He decided to flick on the TV, wanting nothing more than to switch off. He wanted to call Lizzie, but knew there wasn’t any point. Not yet. Lizzie was someone who needed a cooling off period, even if an argument wasn’t even about anything. This? Well, Marr didn’t like to think about it.
He turned onto Sky Sports, where a championship game between Ipswich and Norwich had just finished. That was just his luck: a bloodthirsty local derby was just what he needed. Taking a brief moment to sympathise with any colleagues working the match, Marr checked to see if the hotel was equipped with the rewind feature, and was glad to see that it did. The score had been 2-2 with ten minutes to go when he first turned it on, so it was likely to be a half decent match. If nothing else he could enjoy eleven men kicking lumps out of each other for ninety minutes.
He was ten minutes and another drink into the match when he found himself thinking back to the conversation with John and Michelle Markham the day before. They were a sweet couple, those two. Marr wished in a way that he’d been able to meet Anna. She must have been something to get Greg Stanic to lug his ego up the aisle.
Marr thought of the way that Michelle had held John when he’d admitted to keeping the affair secret. She’d thought about it, yes, but in the end she’d decided that John had done what he thought was best.
Marr wished he could say the same for himself. Would Lizzie do the same thing; welcome him back? He thought, deep down, probably not. John Markham had apologised, maybe Marr should do the same. But now, Lizzie would be too annoyed to even take it seriously, whether it was real or not.
At the wrong time, an apology wasn’t anything more than an insult.
Marr looked back at the screen, watching the home side’s left back get carved down. The crowd roared their disapproval, and Marr found himself getting sucked back into the atmosphere of the match.
By the time the next free kick came, Marr was sleeping soundly.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Becky looked up at the station clock. It read half past eight. Her shift wasn’t due to end until ten, but there didn’t seem to be much more she could do tonight.
She’d never liked the paperwork much, but knew that the higher up she went, the more there would be to do of it. Even Brooke, who was old school enough to be considered a dinosaur, seemed to do nothing but flit between meetings and have stats and graphs shoved in his face.
Becky jumped when she felt arms reach around and bring her in for a cuddle. Then she smiled.
‘That’s the same bloody horrible aftershave you got for Christmas.’
When Alex replied, it was in a half-baked Hannibal Lecter impression.
‘It has a little ship on the bottle, does it not? Anyway, your mum got me it. I’m just being polite.’
Becky snorted.
‘You’re doing it as a wind-up, and you know it.’
Alex shrugged.
‘God, you try and do the right thing and this is what you get. How’re things going with the Bride to-be-buried?’
Becky looked at the stack of papers and the report she was working her way through.
‘Writing up the interview with Anna’s parents’ she said.
‘How were they?’
‘Not too bad. They’re quite sweet, actually. Nice. Just the sort of nice, genuine people that always seem to crop up in cases like this.’
‘Did they give you anything useful?’
‘No, it turned out to be a dead end. Caroline called the dad using her burner phone, but she was just trying to see if he’d do the dirty work of telling Anna about the affair’
Alex nodded.
‘She’d have gone to Thomas, then?’
‘Yeah, that’s what we think. He’s gone, though. We’ve got a nosey neighbour snooping in, but we don’t have the resources to put a proper watch on him. Rachel has a couple of uniforms out looking for Stanic, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s emptied his bank account and gone to live in Taiwan or something.’
Alex loosened his arms and sat down in the chair next to his wife.
‘Sounds like a toughie. And he’s not emptied his bank account. Last I checked, he’d withdrawn the daily maximum from the Halifax in the town centre. Probably checked into a hotel under a false name. We’ve checked with all his friends: no-one’s seen him.’
‘Including Warren Street?’
Alex laughed.
‘First name on the list. Stanic hasn’t talked to any of his clients either.’
‘Unless Brooke is going to call a manhunt…’
‘He won’t: Caroline Marcus has ‘confessed’ already.’
‘Then God knows if Stanic will re-appear. And off goes Thomas Coulthard, probably wanking over a collection of dismembered feet.’
‘You do paint a pretty picture, Bex. You agree with Marr, then?’
Becky wrinkled her nose. Alex laughed.
‘Oh, do continue. I love it when you disagree with him.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got no reason for it: just a hunch, I suppose.’
‘Well then it’s lucky you’re a cop.’
‘Shut up. I just don’t…well, I just don’t think Coulthard would have it in him to kill people, let alone two of them. I mean, sure, half the murderers out there ‘didn’t mean to’, but he’s so…spineless. He wouldn’t last three months in prison without killing himself or being killed, and I’m sure he must know that.’
Alex smiled.
‘Bex, you’re a brilliant cop. But my God you under-estimate how far men will go to protect their ego. Give us pointless delusional optimism any day. Speaking of which, did you set the box to grab Match of the Day for me? United are playing Chelsea, and I’ve got a fiver on United.’
‘Ah, yet more of your wages down the toilet. Yeah, I set it. Can’t you watch it on catch up anyway?’
Alex shrugged.
‘Could do, but where’s the fun in that?’
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Across town, Marr had woken with a start, and was unable to get back to sleep.
He thought about calling Sam, but decided to call Becky instead, and was happy that she picked up.
‘If you’re drunk, I’m not doing shots with you.’ she said, sounding amused.
Marr smiled.
‘Sorry. Couldn’t really sleep.’
‘You should try calling Stanic: you might get luck and get a clean confession out of him.’
‘He’s probably already picked up a burner, and if not I bet he’s ditched his old phone. Too much tracking information, and he’s not an idiot’
Marr sighed.
‘It’s just bugging me. I mean, Thomas must have killed both girls. Anna’s dead, Caroline too. Stanic on the run and Thomas away scot-free. I can’t believe he’s done it so easily.’
‘Me neither, sir,’ Becky replied, truthfully. ‘Just goes to show you can never take slimy bastards for granted. And what even some loser
at a call centre can be capable of when he puts his mind to it.’
‘You sound like you admire the guy.’
‘Boss, credit me with some morals. I’d cut his balls off if I thought I could get away with it. But if it was him, he’s far more than some bum-feeler who can’t get it up.’
‘Nice image. I’ve been thinking, though: the knife. I don’t think Thomas will have been dumb enough to wonder up to Stanic’s house and put it in the garbage. Stanic could have seen him, as could any of the neighbours. I’m wondering if he posted it.’
‘Posted it? That’s crazy.’
‘No, think about it: he posts it, registered, using a fake name and address. Stanic gets a package, opens it and pulls out a clean knife. You’ve instantly got hand-prints on it. Then, he realises what’s going on, and panics: chucks it away, thinking it’ll just get taken to a scrapyard or something. Then, when we find it, he’s scared of admitting that he touched it in case it makes the case against him look even more damning.’
‘Sketchy. But I suppose it’s possible. Royal Mail?’
‘Probably. Most couriers ask for more information that the Post Office. Get Alex to call them, or go to the distribution centre. I want proof that Thomas sent the knife to Stanic.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Thomas was on the way back home, when he heard his message tone blaring from his phone. He pulled up to the side of the road before picking up the phone that was on the spare seat.
I no it was u.
He didn’t recognise the number, but that didn’t mean much. He rarely saved phone numbers: most people weren’t worth talking to twice. This mystery texter could easily be Marr.
