by Nick Louth
‘That part was quite simple. Martin got in the boot himself!’ She laughed. ‘You see I was waiting for Martin in Great Wickings on the Tuesday night, knowing he would come there. He knew that the only reason I would go off in a huff was because I had discovered him and Natalie Krugman rekindling their affair. That’s why he didn’t want to report me missing. He knew where I’d be. It’s where I’d gone the first time, so it stood to reason.’
Gillard said nothing, just watched her face. She didn’t look at him, but gazed around her.
‘In chess, you have to anticipate the moves of the other player. Martin was a decent chess player, but he didn’t know he was in a game. It was easy to predict what he would do, because I was following a path that I had taken before. I had seen what he did then, and knew he would think that it was me who was being predictable. So on the Tuesday night in Dungeness, I knew he’d come in, get himself a Scotch, top up the glass from the tap – leaving fingerprints – then sit down to wait for me. I was hiding in the pantry. I had already added Rohypnol liquid to his Glenmorangie.’
‘They don’t make it any more. There’s a blue taint to stop date rape.’
‘Ah, I got some generic Indian-made flunitrazepam at the same pharmacy in Brasov.’
Craig held up his orange juice in mock scrutiny, and she laughed. He found himself laughing too. It gave him a warm feeling.
‘You see, Craig, all I had to do was wait. Once you’d exchanged calls with Martin – yes, that was a tricky, unplanned moment for me – he went back to his Glenmorangie, as I knew he would. He expected I would come back and he was ready for a row. By the time I slipped out of the larder he was already under the influence of the drug. I told him that I was going to make his fantasies come true. Being so suggestible, thanks to the drug, he was more than happy to slip into some Arabic clothing for a game of “Guantanamo Bay mistress punishment”, or whatever I called it. Once dressed, I tied his hands and gagged him, then went to fetch my Peugeot, the one you found at La Porcherie.’
‘I suppose you picked up the clothing from some poor refugee?’
‘And the documents, worry beads, a cheap Arabic watch. At Chios we were handing out clean dry clothes to new arrivals, and the old stuff was intended to be burned. Lots of refugees threw their ID away, as advised by people smugglers. I had a lot of stuff to choose from.’
‘All that blood, Liz. All yours. It must have taken you a while.’
‘Two weeks, that’s all. I stored it in the freezer. Did you find the stab marks in the carpet?’
‘Yes, very clever. What about dumping Martin’s car? Who helped you with that?’
Liz smiled. ‘No one. I worked entirely alone, and everything I did was carefully planned, some of it more than two years in advance. None of my friends knew I was still alive until two months ago. On the night Martin arrived, my Peugeot was parked on the shingle near an unoccupied holiday home down the road from Great Wickings. Once I had tied Martin up, I left him for two minutes at around eleven while I went to get the Peugeot, and reversed it up to the car port, past his BMW. I’d already put a builder’s bag in the boot, and I got him to shuffle out to the car. Once he’d sat on the boot edge, it was quite easy to get him to lean back, then I helped him in, and helped him curl up in the boot. He was quite happy, I can assure you, and almost unconscious. I gave him an injection of Ketamine to be on the safe side, another drug easily available from our helpful Romanian pharmacy. That gave me many hours. I then changed into male clothing, loaded the bloodied rug into the boot of his BMW, and drove it to the new housing development, stopping off en route to deposit a package of bones in the marsh.’
‘It suppose it had to be from his car in case we got tyre prints,’ Gillard conceded.
‘Exactly. In the boot was a teenager’s BMX bike I bought on eBay. I put on a hoody, big gloves and baseball cap and cycled back to Great Wickings. It was only about eight miles. I make a convincing teenage boy, when I want to.’
‘Helen told me you were the understudy for the Artful Dodger in Oliver on one occasion.’ Gillard shook his head. ‘When did you actually kill Martin?’
‘Pretty much as soon as I got back from dumping his car. The actual coup de grâce was a four-inch needle, which I pressed up under the lobe of his ear into the brain. He was already unconscious and wouldn’t have felt a thing. It’s also undetectable post mortem. The wonders of the Internet, you know – finding out how professional assassins work.’
Craig felt relaxed enough for the big question now. ‘Why kill him? You could have just divorced him.’
Liz gave a great sigh and looked out through the window. ‘When I first met Martin I thought everything was going to be wonderful. I willingly gave up everything for him.’
Craig’s face tightened. He was one of those discarded things.
‘It’s what you do when you are in love, isn’t it? Giving up the bursary… well, I never forgave him for tricking me into that. He was nice at first, but so competitive. He didn’t seem to want me to do as well as he did. He hated playing chess with me, even bridge. He was always a very sore loser. Then the accident. I’d told him I would drive, but he thought he was sober enough. He couldn’t bear the idea of losing his licence, so it was me who got the criminal conviction, as well as damaging my teeth and breaking my ankle.’ She thought for a while. ‘The affairs were such a cruelty. The Brazilian girl first, then Krugman. They even had sex in my bed in Great Wickings, did you know?’
‘Yes, Krugman told me.’
‘I wasn’t having it. I warned him, and I warned her. Do you know, she even laughed into my face? I knew this inheritance was coming up, and I predicted Martin would be off as soon as he could get his hands on it. Then when I found out they were seeing each other again—’
‘How did you know?’
‘I installed a key logger on his PC, so I knew his passwords. I read all his emails.’ She said it so matter-of-factly. The jealous wife – a part of Liz he could never have imagined.
‘So if you knew his passwords, why didn’t you just take the money from his account? Why go to the trouble of this complex fraud?’
‘If I had simply taken the cash, even if I had got away with it, then Martin was the victim and I was a thief. My children would hate me. But by faking my own death to hide the theft, I would bask in their unending love, a legacy burnished by my victimhood. And I would get a new and wealthy life.’
‘But even if it worked you would never see them again.’
‘I could watch them from afar, just as I already have with Chloe on Facebook. That’s a lot better than being an embittered ex-spouse stuck in a flat somewhere while a younger woman takes my family over.’
‘So you’d rather destroy your family than lose it?’
She shrugged. ‘The kids would recover eventually, but with the murder against his name, Martin is destroyed in life and legacy.’
‘But he wasn’t a murderer. And you are. And very soon the world will know that.’
She sighed in acknowledgment. ‘I actually enjoyed killing him. Do you know that? I felt he deserved it. All that credit he got, the huge write-ups, the accolades, the warrior for justice whose wife was less than a footnote. I had ambitions, I had dreams.’
Craig didn’t say anything. He watched her play with her drink, and then look at him again.
‘I know I broke your heart, Craig, all those years ago.’ The eyes seemed to hold him, radiating intelligence. He suddenly felt a bit woozy, as if he’d had a fast pint or two on an empty stomach.
‘You did,’ Craig said. ‘I loved you so much, Liz. You were everything to me.’ Even as he said it, he knew that he shouldn’t be so frank with her. It was way past ten minutes now. Time for the arrest.
She nodded, and leaned closer, laying her hand on his. ‘You could have me again, Craig, I want you to know. For ever. Help me escape this trap, let me get back to Bogota. I’ll wait for you there. I promise you. Kathy has told me all about your loneliness, your obsession,
your unhappiness. It doesn’t have to be a life of empty yearning. Just think, I can be yours for ever, with all the money we’d ever need.’ Her eyes widened as she brought her face close to his and kissed him slowly, deliciously. ‘Craig. I promise that if you do this for me, we can start a new life together.’
Craig felt like he was hearing her words from above, as if he was lying at the bottom of a swimming pool. He looked at the empty glass of orange juice and realized. Drugged, despite her protestations. He thought about standing up, but it all seemed a tremendous effort. He could vaguely hear his name being repeatedly called in an airport announcement.
Liz seized both his hands in hers. ‘Craig. Trust me, I’ll look after you. Don’t pay any attention to the PA. You’ll be much safer if you sit here and wait for me, won’t you?’
Craig felt his head nod. The warmth of the trust he felt in her was very reassuring, and he was so relaxed and happy with the world. He felt 18 again. With his lovely Liz.
‘I’m just popping to the loo,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll be back in a minute or two. I’ll get two more tickets and then we can go back to Colombia together, can’t we?’
Craig felt a sense of panic that she would leave him. But also some deeper imperative that he could not let her go. He seized her hand, held it as tightly as he could.
‘Let go now, Craig. I’ll only be a minute or two.’
At that point she jerked her hand back, tipping a glass over, but failing to break his grip on her wrist which was now a tug of war over the table. She then called out loudly something in Spanish, some urgent call for help and, judging by the emphasis, some insult. She slapped his face hard with the other hand. There were gasps around the room, faces horrified by the unfolding scene. Craig yelled for Liz to sit down, but his words just stalled in his mouth, a sibilant sludge he was unable to mould into words. He was too woozy to stand and his free hand, fishing for his detective ID, couldn’t even locate his jacket pocket. Some part of him, deep below the dulled consciousness, remained resolute, determined to hold on. From the glares and shouts of others, it seemed Liz had quickly depicted him as a drunken English holidaymaker, trying his luck and unable to take ‘no’ for an answer. Everyone was instantly on her side for this all-too-plausible scenario.
A bulky middle-aged Spaniard from the next table dragged Craig to the floor, tipping over the table, cuffing him about the head, but also dragging Liz to her knees. In this tiny arena, between the overturned table and chairs, she remained manacled by the strength of Craig’s grip, despite the Spaniard’s attempt to uncurl his fingers. A crowd was above him, shouting. The shame, the embarrassment he knew would come later. He absolutely could not let Liz escape. It had become the one certainty of his life. Trying to fend off the Spaniard with his free arm, Craig saw past him where Liz was delving into her shoulder bag with her free hand. Saw her pass a disposable cigarette lighter to her captive hand. Watched her extract an Estée Lauder perfume atomizer from the duty free plastic bag.
Liz, you wouldn’t.
Saw her pull off the cap with her teeth.
Liz, you can’t.
Aim the can at his face. And smile.
Liz, no!
Press the button. The searing cold spirit stung his eyes, his nose, his mouth.
No!
He heard the click of the lighter. Expected the agony of the impromptu flamethrower, but it didn’t come. A second click.
‘Come on,’ he heard her say. Then he heard a commanding voice, saw the blurred crowd part behind her. Someone grabbed the lighter from Liz’s hand. The familiar face of Primo Irujo leaned above him. Thank God, Craig thought. And he finally let go, falling into oblivion.
* * *
Gillard came round in an ambulance, a medic at either side, and beyond the open doors it was beginning to get dark. He was asked to count fingers in front of his face. His eyes still stung and his vision was blurred. It was a good hour before he even knew it was the same day, and that he was still at Madrid airport. Only once the medics were satisfied he was not in danger did they allow Sargento Primo Irujo to come in to see him. The Spanish officer stared at Craig as if he was an idiot, and waved a hand in front of his nose. ‘You stink like a Moroccan rent boy.’
‘It’s not the first time I’ve been told that.’
‘We’ve got her safely locked up. How are you feeling? Do you remember anything?’
‘A bit,’ Craig said. ‘Was it Rohypnol?’
‘Who knows?’ Irujo shrugged. ‘She’d done a good job on the crowd. There was almost a riot when we arrested her instead of you.’ He and the medics shared sly smiles and a sentence of two in Spanish. ‘But never accept drinks from strange women, eh?’
Craig knew he would never be able to explain to Irujo Liz’s hold over him. The hold that she exploited to very nearly escape him altogether. She had known exactly what cards to play.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The newspapers went wild over the discovery that Liz Knight wasn’t a murder victim, but a murderer. The story of her life was now played out in extended coverage on TV and radio, and Surrey Police was constantly receiving requests for interviews, most of which were deftly handled by Alison Rigby. Craig returned to a hero’s welcome at Mount Browne, even though he was destined to endure a lifetime’s ribbing about falling for a spiked drink. Rigby gave him a commendation for the Queen’s Police Medal, though after the awards panel examined the full circumstances, it was never awarded.
Elizabeth Knight denied murder, but pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. The Old Bailey jury, told of the huge amount of premeditation that had gone into the killing, had little difficulty in finding her guilty of murder. She was sentenced to 18 years, and transferred to the high-security wing at HMP Bronzefield in Kent, where she was allocated the cell that serial killer Rosemary West had once inhabited. During the trial, the story of her Colombian life since the murder emerged. She lived in the high-altitude university city of Medellin, and had moved in with a history academic, Professor Juan Rodrigo Jimenez, who was completely unaware of her past. She had built a convincing story around the name Pam Jones, and the need to start a new life after her divorce from a violent partner. She spent most of her time studying for professional qualifications that would allow her to build a new academic life at the local university.
Oliver Knight soldiered on as a solicitor, never quite recovering from the ordeal of losing both parents, then getting one back. He never visited his mother. Liz’s parents were traumatized by the jailing of their daughter, never accepting that she could have committed the crime of which she was convicted. Her father died within a year of her conviction, and her mother two years after that. Chloe Knight never went back to university. She eventually became a probation officer. Once close to her mother, she never visited her.
But Craig Gillard did.
Just once.
At the prisoner’s request, a year into her sentence.
Shown into the interview room, he at first thought she wasn’t there. There were only a dozen or so greying middle-aged women, none of them petite or attractive. Finally he saw her, arms folded on a scuffed plastic table, in washed-out jeans and a grey sweatshirt. She was fidgety and her once full head of chestnut-brown hair was lank and streaked with grey. Her face was pasty and lined. She was well on the way to becoming the Pamela Jones she had once impersonated. Only the quick bright eyes were the same.
‘Craig, I’m so glad you’ve come. It’s nice to see your face.’
He smiled. He wasn’t falling for that one again. It was a face she’d been prepared to set fire to, after all. ‘You said you had something to tell me.’
‘I want to confess something. A secret I’ve been carrying with me.’
‘I’m not a priest. I can’t give absolution.’
‘No.’ She reached forward for his hand, and he pulled it away. ‘I want to confess to another murder.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Craig Gill
ard looked around the room to steady himself. There were three female custody officers, all big women untroubled by doubt. ‘We could do this in a proper interview suite, on the record?’
She shook her head. ‘I just want to tell you. Not anyone else.’
‘Okay, then.’
She looked away. ‘My parents loved me. That was the first thing I was ever sure of. They doted on me until I was four and my brother Andrew was born. Did you know I had a little brother?’
‘I did hear during the course of the investigation. But didn’t he die during a road accident?’
She nodded. ‘Andrew was what they call a bonny baby. Curly blond hair and blue eyes. Quite adorable. Never cried, like I had. Suddenly it was like I had never existed. I hated him.’
‘Childhood jealously isn’t unusual,’ Craig said.
‘I pinched him to make him cry. Isn’t that horrible?’
Craig shrugged.
‘I pulled the ears off his rabbit. Spat in his food—’
‘I’m not here to play shrink to your childhood reminiscences,’ Craig said.
Liz smiled. ‘Every Wednesday we walked to the library. My mother pushing Andrew, who was just a year old. This day we were early, just returning books, so she left me outside with him in his pushchair. Just for five minutes.’
Craig folded his arms, but said nothing.
‘A Land-Rover with a trailer from the Downs had pulled up, at the tail end of a traffic queue. The trailer was full of logs and branches that they had been cutting up on Farthing Downs. The pavement sloped a little towards the kerb, and I released the pushchair brake and gave Andrew just a gentle push. The pushchair ran down to the kerb, tipped and fell between the Land-Rover and the trailer. He cried, but no one could see. The Land-Rover pulled away and my brother was crushed to death by the trailer.’
‘You did it? Really?’
‘Yes. I immediately ran inside, crying, my usual refuge, and said that Andrew had released the brake. There was a terrible fuss, but I got hugged so hard and so often afterwards that it all seemed a good thing. I was back in the centre of their adoration, more precious than ever. And the idea of killing started to give me a warm feeling. I never had any moral resistance to it. Death was something useful.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘The papers claim I’m a psychopath. The shrink here said I scored quite highly on the Levenson Psychopathy Scale. But it isn’t true.’
