by Ricki Thomas
“Yes, she’ll be eight. She had to get things to put in the party bags, you know, and some party food. She was going to have a look at some maternity departments too, her clothes are getting too tight, what with the baby.”
“What sort of mood was she in when she left?” PC Taylor glanced at Greg, he’d opened the curtains slightly and was staring into the darkness.
Gail considered for a moment, her forehead creased with recollection. “She was fine, quite excited, really. Her kids are her life, you know, and she loved things like parties for them.”
Greg swung round, his face fierce. “For God’s sake, don’t talk about her in the past tense, she’s not gone, you know.” Gail could feel his eyes boring into her, his nostrils flaring with each breath. Silently, he let his anger subside through his fists, he traipsed to his armchair, and slumped, the fight over.
“I’m sorry, it was just a turn of words. Constable, Annabel adores those children. She said if she was late could I pick Katie and Samson up from school. Of course I agreed, but I asked her not to be too late, I’m meant to be at yoga tonight, well, I was supposed to be.” Gail snatched a peek at Greg, but he was now concentrating on the streamlined fireplace, seeing nothing. “She said she’d be as quick as possible. Well, it got to three and she still wasn’t back, so I put Petra in the buggy and took her to the school, got the kids. Eventually I had to feed them, give them dinner, because I still hadn’t heard from her. Well, at seven I phoned Greg, see if she’d got home.”
“Thank you, Mrs Rackham. Mr Keeley, do you have a recent photo of Annabel?”
Mindless, Greg leaned towards the fireplace he was still studying sightlessly, and removed a framed picture from the mantel. He handed it to Taylor. The frame showed a pretty blonde woman with smiling hazel eyes. Her bone structure was heavy, yet appealing, and she was laughing to the camera. Her shoulder length locks intermingled with Greg’s darker blonde hair, his wide beard caressing her tanned skin. The Greg in the picture was a cheerful man, a man in love. The Greg who studied the fireplace whilst rubbing his hands together nervously was distraught.
Gail, eager to contend for the limelight, forced a lonesome tear from her eye, and daubed it away expressively as she gestured to the photo. “It was our present to them, my husband and I arranged it to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary this year.”
“When was it taken?”
“Three weeks ago. Their anniversary was on the twentieth of April. Ten years.” Her voice subsided as she urged another drop from her eye.
Tuesday 13th May
Annabel heard the rustling noise outside the car, her eyes opened, squinting against the brightness, as the deep, fitful slumber she had slipped into the night before drifted away. She searched through the windscreen in the direction of the sound. Sinking into the still sodden seat a little to avoid being noticed, she observed a grey lady with her bounding dog through the branches of the trees that shrouded the car. Needlessly holding her breath until the stranger was out of sight, she pushed herself up, stretching away the sleepiness. Her abdomen was pulsing with intense pain, her expression reflected the discomfort, and it reminded her that, although she was no longer asleep, the nightmare continued.
Annabel steeled herself to consider the bloodbath on her clothing. The bleeding seemed to have stemmed, there was no fresh redness to note, but still the exhaustion ebbed through her.
The voice wasn’t as urgent, it had a kinder tone this morning, gentle, even loosely compassionate. “Got to keep your head low. You must wait until mid morning to move on. Go back to sleep. Try and sleep.”
Annabel was now accustomed to the demands of the unseen tormentor in her ears, she dared not object, she was terrified of the outcome, but her bladder was bursting. Too frightened to move, she slackened her pelvic floor and felt the hot liquid mingle with the dried blood on her skirt and seat. Relieved, she closed her eyes against the morning brightness, breathing deeply, desperate to encourage the sleepiness to return.
“Kidlington Police Station, can I help you?”
“I, um, I hope so.” The woman’s voice was timid, apologetic. “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything or not, my husband said not to get involved, but I couldn’t sleep last night for worrying.”
“Yes madam.” Paula Curtis sighed inwardly, here we go, another late night party.
“It’s just, it’s just I was shopping yesterday, I’d been shopping, then I saw a woman covered in blood, real scared, she was. There was a man with her, right close he was.”
The civilian employed by the police straightened her back and edged towards the control panel. She waved her hand at her supervisor to attract some attention to the importance of the call she was taking. “Madam,” Paula glanced at the note in front of her, noting the name the emergency room operator had given her, “Mrs Murray, where was this?”
“Westgate Car Park. Top floor, right at the top.”
“You say the woman seemed distressed?”
“Real scared, blood all over her, all over her clothes. Loads of it, there was”
“Right. You say there was a man, what was he doing?” Paula beckoned the desk sergeant who was striding towards her.
“I couldn’t see really, he was right in front of her, he just seemed to be looking at her, I think. Oh, I don’t know, really.”
“Can you remember what they looked like?”
“I think she was blonde, yes, I think so, but I was more looking at the blood than her face, think she was quite tall, though, seemed tall.”
“Can you remember him?”
“Him, yes, he turned towards me briefly. He had a big beard, a really big beard, a light brown, big beard.” She spoke in earnest, delighted that her story was of interest to the police.
Having managed to drift back to sleep for a couple more hours, Annabel was still awash with tiredness. The crimson spillage had been vast, and this, alongside hunger and thirst, was taking a toll on her body. But any hopes of sleeping some more were dashed. “You must start the car, now, you’ve got to go, now.”
Sighing silently as she straightened herself, she turned the key obediently in the ignition, and on the second turn the cold engine chugged into life. She reversed the car from its hiding place amongst the branches, and backed out of the narrow pathway, righting the car on the verge of the empty road.
“What way should I go?” Her voice was shallow, resigned.
A brief hesitation, then. “Go back the way you came yesterday. Got to go back that way, that’s the best thing.”
A couple of vans passed, and Annabel pulled across to the right, then immediately a left, retracing her steps towards Bovington.
Within a minute the car had reached the Tank Museum, this time on the right, and now the sense of urgency had gone, they were travelling slowly enough for Annabel to glance at the imposing metal creatures on display at the entrance. She felt unusually calm, until she noticed the policeman patrolling the roadside. The panic in the voice returned. “He was talking into his radio. That policeman. He’s seen you. They’re gonna chase you again. Get out of here, you’ve got to get out. They mustn’t catch you. Speed up. Listen to me, move.”
Annabel pushed fiercely on the accelerator, the car racing, speeding, as they sailed along the undulating road towards Clouds Hill. She automatically relaxed her foot when the speedometer reached sixty miles an hour, but the hysteria held out. “Faster, go faster. They can’t catch you, they mustn’t. Listen to me.”
Once more the car increased its speed, hurrying, flying, it hurtled to the base of a shallow dip in the road, and climbed rapidly to the next gentle crest. Suddenly a motorbike and two bicycles came into view, Annabel tried to avoid them but the road wasn’t wide enough, she hit something, the sound of crunching metal rang through the air as she fought the steering wheel to maintain control of the car. Her foot pumped the brake as her widened eyes watched the skidding motorbike in the rear view mirror. Her struggling tamed the car, but it was over for the biker
, he’d ploughed along the road, his leathers shredding against the gravel, until the crest of the newest rise shielded her view of the accident.
Her heart already palpitating wildly, the voice only managed to terrify her more. Screaming. “Get out of here, drive fast, speed up. Listen to me. You’ve got to get out of here.” The Escort thundered into the distance, and Annabel was devastated. She’d never broken the law, it wasn’t in her. What had she become?
Detective Inspector Krein was routinely ploughing through his post when the desk sergeant rang through from the control desk to inform him of Mrs Murray’s call. He listened to the details, intrigued. He could hear his colleague of three years, Detective Sergeant Raynor, chatting outside the office, and he shouted for him through the door.
“Boss?” Raynor leant through, his handsome face questioning.
“Raynor. We’ve just had a call in from a, er, Mrs Murray, said she saw a woman covered in blood in the Westgate car park yesterday. There was a bearded man with the woman. I’m sure I overheard somewhere that some guy reported his wife missing yesterday, made quite a fuss about it. Can you get me some more details on the missing wife?”
“Sure, Boss. Have you got the full details of the last phone call?”
Krein showed Raynor his scribbled notes, the young man nodded and left the office. Krein rose from his untidy desk and traipsed along the corridor towards the drinks machine, deep in thought. From all indications so far, it seemed he may finally have an attempted homicide to investigate, and he was unsure if he was excited or terrified. Maybe a bit of both. He drew a strong black coffee from the gurgling machine, and returned to his office. Unaware of how long the simple task had taken, he was surprised to find promotion hungry Raynor waiting beside his desk.
“Raynor! Back already?” Krein sank into his chair and leant towards his colleague.
“Boss. I’ve got the statements from the husband and mother of the missing woman, Annabel Keeley. Here’s a photo, she’s blonde, and the notes say she’s tall like the woman Mrs Murray noticed. Said she was going shopping in Oxford, mother said that when they shop in Oxford they usually park at the Westgate.”
Krein took the statements, his mind skimming quickly, yet thoroughly, through the words, and cocked his head. “Nothing solid to go on, but quite a coincidence. Let’s go and see this Murray woman. Try her with Annabel’s photo.” He pulled his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged it over his toned arms, grabbed his car keys, and they headed for the car park.
The crest of the hill on the road between Clouds Hill and Bovington Camp was cordoned off, and a diversion in place. Two ambulances and a police car were waiting by the crumpled motorbike. The two boys who had been cycling towards the tank museum were wrapped in blankets at the side of the road, waiting for their parents to arrive in a second police car to accompany them to the local hospital. Neither was physically injured, but both were suffering from shock at the horrific scene they had witnessed.
Two paramedics were working methodically on the young man who had been knocked from his recently purchased Harley Davidson Sportster, his pride and joy. They already suspected his injuries would prove fatal, his internal bleeding was severe, but their duty was to do their utmost to preserve life at the scene of the accident. When his spine, neck and head were fully supported, they carefully slid him onto the waiting stretcher and wheeled him to the ambulance. He had a saline drip fed into the back of his hand to keep him hydrated, and one of the paramedics continued to artificially respire him.
A police constable was appraising the wreckage of the Sportster, the front had been smashed by the impact with the mysterious car, and there was intensive damage to the right hand side of the motorbike from skidding along the road for nearly twenty meters before hitting the verge. The constable had already radioed for assistance, this was a clear case of hit and run, but by the condition of the motorcyclist the charge may be death by dangerous driving. The designated Scene of Crime Officer was on his way.
Annabel, following haphazard directions from the nervous, yet intimidating voice, had raced through the back lanes and managed to stumble across the A352 again. Passing the dirt track the car had sheltered in the previous night, she drove through the small town of Wool. Reaching a roundabout, she turned left into a narrow, countryside lane and the voice issued a new demand. She needed to find somewhere to hide the car. Almost too tired to care any more, Annabel found a break in the hedging and had drove through, across the bumpy, sprouting field, to a copse of trees at the far end. She concealed the car from the road in the sheltering lower branches.
Realising she had once more shunned help, Annabel felt more alone than ever. She had left the scene of a road accident, that was illegal, she’d never broken the law in her life, but she’d had no choice. The voice terrified her, she didn’t dare disobey. “Well done. This is a good place to hide, they won’t look here.”
Annabel was pleased, her aggressor was so angry all the time, this calm and complimentary voice refreshing. But her security was false, the taunting anger had returned. Sneering, grating. “Now I want you to try to get away from here, I might go with you, I might not. They’ll be after you even more now. They’ll know the car. They’ll know you just killed a man, you naughty girl.” The deep voice was jeering as she trembled. “They’ll put you away for the rest of your life, and you don’t want that, do you? Oh, and you need different clothes, you can’t walk round in those, nobody must notice you.”
“I do want to get these clothes off.” Her voice was quiet, speaking more to herself than anyone else. The dried blood was uncomfortable to sit on, and the wet patches chilled her legs.
“You’re not listening to me.” The voice boomed, and then repeated slowly, menacingly. “You - need - different - clothes.”
Annabel slammed her fists against the steering wheel. “I heard you, I’m just thinking.” Surprised her outburst hadn’t brought punishment, Annabel thought for a few seconds, then with relief she remembered the holdall her husband kept in the boot of the car. He had a spare outfit for his frequent fishing trips, in case he got caught in a downpour and needed a clean set of clothes. She mentioned them quietly.
“Good, yes. That’s lucky. No, not luck. All things happen for a reason, this was all meant to be like this. This is fate. Listen to me. It’s fate. That man back there was meant to die. You were born to kill him.” A light laugh. “I am born to murder.” Raucous laughter.
Unable to handle the sinister racket in her ears, Annabel tightly clasped her hands to her head until the curdling hysterics abated. “I’m going to get changed now.” She spoke timidly, desperate not to encourage any more demonic laughter. Annabel tentatively opened the car door open and stepped thankfully into the warm, scented air, avoiding the low branches surrounding the car, as she stepped cautiously towards the back. Her legs were stiff, her skin crackly with dried blood, her abdomen ached and grumbled. Supporting herself by leaning against the car, she staggered to the boot, and opened it wide. Greg’s dark green holdall was bulging at the seams, and she unzipped it, pulling out a tatty pair of jeans, the ancient Levi’s that he’d once charmed her in, an oversized T-shirt, and a hefty Arran sweater. At the bottom of the bag lay a pair of woollen socks, and some well-worn trainers.
With relief, Annabel slipped her blood-encrusted skirt down her long, athletic legs, scraping the excess gore and excrement with it, then let her cardigan fall to the ground. She dragged the T-shirt over her fitted vest top, and shrugged into the warming sweater. The clean, homely smelling warmth enveloped her immediately, and she thought of her children, of the baby inside her bloodstained belly.
A sudden wash of exhaustion flooded through Annabel’s weak body. Her feet staggered on the soft undergrowth, she leant heavily on the car to support herself. Then she felt the piercing pain. No warning. The sharp, stabbing in her belly, the harsh, ripping sensation. Her hands clasped at her abdomen, trying to drag the pain away, and she sank to her knees. Watching the copiou
s, thick blood ooze from her body, her eyes were wide, horrified as her insides fell out, churning, spilling out onto the damp undergrowth. Annabel screamed in desperation, the effort using the last of her energy, but no one could help her, she was alone, this was it, this was the end. She stumbled down against the expelled contents of her body, her frightened eyes wide, but now unseeing. The blackness enveloped her, the birds ceased to chatter, and then she felt nothing.
Christine Murray was a timid woman. Her home was a small, two-bedroom housing association terrace, which she shared reluctantly with her husband of thirty years. He was a heavy drinker, spending any spare money in the local, as well as money they couldn’t spare. She managed to cope somehow, taking in work at home whenever she could find some, but she’d become downtrodden over the years, accepting unenthusiastically that was the way her life was meant to be. Detective Inspector Krein waved his identity badge at her, and she stepped aside to let him, followed by Raynor, through the unclean doorway. She proudly glanced at the neighbour’s houses to see who was watching, before quietly closing the door.
They exchanged pleasantries while Mrs Murray prepared a large pot of tea, and, sitting in the cluttered lounge, Krein got to the part he’d been waiting for. “So, Mrs Murray, what time did you see this woman at the Westgate car park?”
She fidgeted constantly, her fingers feeling her arms, her blouse, her fingers, her nails. “Well, it was probably about eleven thirty, eleven forty five, maybe. I’d just been into town, you know, Sainsburys, and I was going back to my car.” Her words tumbled out easily, she was proud to be helping.
DS Raynor scribbled the details on his notebook. Krein continued. “What floor were you parked on?” He already knew, but he needed her to relax.
“Top floor, I always park there because it’s easier to get parked, I’m not very good at parking. Bill, um, my husband, says I need a wide berth.” Her smile was wide, but the nervousness was overwhelming.
