by Linda Huber
They were crossing the entrance hall when someone called Sarah’s name.
She turned to see Jack pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair in the direction of the speech therapy department, and he made emphatic gestures to Sarah to wait for him. The day was suddenly one hundred per cent brighter.
‘Hello – now who’s that?’ said Mim, staring after him.
Sarah gave Mim’s elbow a little shake. ‘We were friends when I lived at Gran’s. Why don’t you two go for coffee? I’ll catch you up.’
Jack reappeared with an empty wheelchair and a huge grin on his face, and skidded to a stop beside her. Sarah felt flattered. When was the last time an attractive man had been so pleased to see her? She felt herself blush with pleasure, and oh, this was a feeling to hold on to, in the middle of all the negative stuff going on around her.
‘How’s the little girl? I heard on the grapevine her mother’s vanished.’
‘There’s still no sign of her. I’m beginning to be afraid there isn’t going to be a happy ending for Frankie.’
‘So she’s staying with you for the moment?’
‘Yes – with my foster mum, officially. I’m an added bonus.’
He laughed, then apologised. ‘Sorry. You can’t be feeling very humorous right now.’
‘It’s okay. It’s not your problem. And it was kind of you to ask.’
‘Oh, I had an ulterior motive. You’ve saved me a phone call. A bloke in orthopaedics was telling me about a farmhouse a mile or so outside Brockburn where they do fantastic Sunday brunches. You can sit outside – well, in the barn. The forecast’s good, so how about it?’
Sarah had to suppress the beam that was trying to escape. It wouldn’t do to seem too keen, would it? But Sunday brunch in a farmhouse sounded amazing, and golly, he was attractive. And she liked the way he’d thought to ask after Frankie. ‘Sounds good. I can’t be a hundred per cent definite, in case anything happens, you know, but –’
He was scribbling on a piece of paper. ‘Look. Here’s my number. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you can come and I’ll pick you up at half ten on Sunday morning. How’s that?’
‘Perfect,’ said Sarah, putting the scrap of paper into her handbag. ‘Let’s hope they find Petra soon and everything can get back to normal.’
He waved as he raced off again with his wheelchair. He was obviously one of those people who were never still. Sarah hugged herself. This might just be the start of something significant. Wow. Although – no matter what happened, things wouldn’t be ‘normal’ for a long time. Even if Petra was okay, she had abandoned her daughter and wouldn’t get Frankie back straightaway. And if she wasn’t okay... Either way, Frankie could be staying at Mim’s for a while.
Sarah walked over to the cafeteria, a smile pulling at her lips. She had a date with a tall, dark, handsome man, and she was going to enjoy herself thoroughly.
Chapter Five
Saturday, 8th July
He sank down on an elegant black kitchen chair and propped his elbows on the new glass and chrome table. At least he didn’t have to go to work today; he didn’t have to pretend to be a caring, hardworking, normal member of the human race. Which was just as well, for the thoughts going through his mind today were black ones. A woman was tied up in his garage and he didn’t know if she was alive or dead. He would have to go there and see what was happening with her – please let her be dead, oh please. He couldn’t stand having to kill her.
He dragged himself to the back door, out through the garden and down the lane. The area was deserted; most people would still be in bed at this time on a Saturday. The row of garages was in full sunlight, paint flaking from each of the doors. For a moment he stood with his ear pressed against the warm metal. Was she breathing in there? There was nothing to be heard, no breath rasping, no groans.
A strange mixture of hope and anger moving him forwards, he pulled the door up and ducked inside, closing it behind him again and – shit, he’d forgotten the torch. But even in the dim electric light he could see Petra’s chest rise and fall. Slowly, quietly, rhythmically. She was alive, but she must be unconscious, breathing like that…
Abruptly, he yanked the door up and retreated back into the sunshine. What the heck was he supposed to do with her?
He fled back up the lane and into his kitchen, where he collapsed onto a hard kitchen chair. This was the pits. Deliberately, he banged his forehead on the table, then rubbed the mark away.
He’d been – he was – so proud of his house, especially the kitchen. It was a dream come true. A huge weight was lifted from his shoulders when Dad’s rheumatoid arthritis forced his parents into sheltered accommodation, leaving him alone here. They’d never let him have a life of his own. It was as if they were living their lives through him, their only precious child, and it was stifling. Even now they were so needy, always phoning, wanting him to do things with them, to be there, to talk to them about every detail of every day. He’d wanted to move out years ago, but they wouldn’t hear of it and he’d never been able to gather the strength to go. But their move and the forced break-up of Mum’s perfect family had brought him problems as well as freedom. He had to find money for the mortgage… and the renovations. The old-lady scam was the ideal solution. Or it had been, until Petra poked her stupid nose in, and what the fuck was he going to do with her? Two tears dripped off his chin.
If he left her long enough she would die. How long did people survive without food and water? He had a feeling it was longer than you’d think. He still had the sleeping pills – maybe he should try again to give her an overdose. She was helpless on the floor, for God’s sake, all he had to do was stuff the remaining pills into her mouth and swill them down. The memory of her choking struggle seeped into his mind. Christ, no. He’d have to touch her… And suppose someone heard them struggling? People could be walking past on their way to the station.
No. He would have to kill her quickly, but without touching her. The contents of his stomach shifted and he raced for the bathroom.
The phone rang while he was drying his face. Dear Lord, it was his mother. It was always his mother first, that was the ritual. A chat with Mum, then a chat with Dad, both of them sucking the life out of him. But he would lift the phone; he always did. Lifting it meant a longer break till the next call.
‘Hello, darling, how are you today?’
‘Hi, Mum. Fine, thanks. I’m on my way out, though – I’m doing a course in Manchester.’ A necessary lie.
‘That’s a pity, dear. I wanted you to come for lunch and fix the shower and help Daddy with his bank paperwork, you know how he worries. Come for dinner then. I’ll expect you at six.’
He cast his eyes heavenwards. Fixing the shower was up to the sheltered housing people, and as for the accounts – his father was better with money than the Chancellor of the Exchequer. It was nothing more than an excuse to get him round there.
‘Sorry, Mum, the course lasts all weekend. I’ll give you a call and come by next week sometime.’
‘Oh no, darling, you must come sooner – after your course tomorrow. You didn’t come last weekend and Daddy was so hurt, so you really must come now. We can’t do without our boy all this time. Tomorrow at six, darling. I’ll do a nice roast.’
Rage and exasperation choking him, he held the phone away from his face and took a couple of steadying breaths. He couldn’t stand this. Why did he let her do it? He was a grown man, supporting himself and choosing what he did in his own free time. Or not choosing.
‘Right, Mum. I have to go or I’ll be late. See you tomorrow.’
‘Tell you what, would you like me to come round today and do a nice clean for you?’
‘No! No. I’m still redecorating. No use cleaning until it’s finished.’
‘All right, dear. I –’
He slammed the handset down on the base station and laughed through tears of outrage and frustration. She might come round, but she wouldn’t get in. He’d had the locks changed
the day they left.
Back in the kitchen, he put the kettle on. A cup of tea would settle his stomach.
He should never have taken Petra. But if she’d gone to the authorities, the police would have been involved, and if a smart young DI started nosing around it would be all up with his new life. He couldn’t risk that. And he couldn’t risk Petra attracting attention in the lock-up, either. There was a spade in the garden shed… Thanks, Mum. He could harness the aggression she’d inspired in him.
Thick regret filled his head as he went to put on old clothes in case there was a mess. All he’d ever wanted was a home of his own and freedom, but he was still trapped.
Her head hurt, but the buzzing was slackening off. Petra came to with the feeling she’d been out for some time. Her feet had gone numb, and the stench of stale urine mingled with the petrol smell burning in her nose. God help her. Nothing could be worse than this. She was ill or hurt, but she wasn’t in hospital, and everything was dark and she couldn’t move.
But no, that wasn’t right – she was getting better. The realisation made her pant with relief. She could move her head without pain stabbing through her eyes, and her arms, yes, she could move them too and – no! There was something binding her wrists together, and – no, no – her feet were tied as well. And some disgusting kind of cloth was covering her head, in her mouth and all... that was where the petrol smell was coming from. She raised her bound hands and tugged at the cloth; it was a sack, Christ, her head was in a sack, and it was somehow fastened round the back where she couldn’t reach. Someone had done this to her. God Almighty, no.
She had to get help. She had to shout or bang – but she didn’t have the strength. No-one would hear these pathetic little bumps her feet were making.
Panting into the gag, she lay still. Think, think – if she remembered how she got here it might help her escape. The hospital. She’d been going to see the administrator… in the rain. She was soaked through and fighting with her umbrella, going up the main roadway. And then… the car. He’d called out and she’d been so pleased to see him… but the memory stopped there. He must have knocked her out and brought her here. It was the only explanation.
Why had he done this? Was he going to keep her here and rape her? No, no – she had to get away, back to Frankie. What was her girl doing without her? What day was it?
Pain burned into her wrists as she pulled them against the bonds. Hopeless, hopeless. What more, what else could she do? If she rolled over she might find something to bang with. Hot, shocking pain crashed through her head as she forced herself onto her side, stretching her arms out, feeling for something to grab hold of. But – oh God, someone was coming. She could hear footsteps approaching from a distance. Petra froze, her breath coming in shaky pants. Was it him? A door screeched open – it sounded like a garage door, the metal kind you swing up towards the roof. A faint sensation of light came through the covering on Petra’s head and then vanished as the door banged shut. Motionless, she listened to the footsteps crossing a concrete floor, her heartbeat loud in her ears and her stomach cramping. He was breathing heavily, almost panting. What was he going to do to her? Little moaning noises were coming from her throat; she couldn’t suppress them. The sour taste of sick burned in her mouth and she could feel her bowels loosen in fear. Was she going to be raped?
The footsteps shuffled around some distance away, and something metallic scraped on the floor before silence fell again. Her own whimpering breath was the only sound now.
Brisk steps came towards her. A blinding flash split her head and the world stopped.
He would have to dump the body. Lift it up and put it into the car and drive it somewhere and touch it again... The mental picture made him retch anew. Petra was dead. There was no way back from that. All he could do was cover up his crime, and thank God there was nothing to tie him to Petra. Except old Wilma, and she was in a bad way.
He opened a can of coke to settle his stomach and sat in the kitchen sipping, feeling the cool liquid bubble down his throat. The canal. He could drop her into the part by the old factories. He’d have to drive through a busy area to get there, but the canal bank itself was ideal; the buildings were derelict and no-one ever went there now. Southside supermarket was nearby, so he’d go there first to give himself an alibi for being in the area at that time, in case anyone saw him drive by. They had a ‘2 for 1’ evening on wine every Saturday so it was a good excuse to go.
The day stretched drearily into evening dimness, but thankfully his mother didn’t appear at the door. That would have pushed him beyond breaking point. At last it was time to go. Upstairs, he pulled on the jeans and pullover he’d worn to kill her. Old clothes and dark colours to dispose of Petra, because he might get bloodstained this time. He could still feel the way her skull had smashed below the spade.
He shuddered, one hand on his stomach. The sack over her head had absorbed most of the mess, and he’d flung another over that to hide the spreading stain, but thinking about it was making him feel sick again.
The supermarket was packed. Impatience seethed inside him as the queue inched towards the checkout. All he wanted now was to dispose of Petra safely, and forget her.
The crowd of teenagers in front moved forward and it was his turn to scan his purchases; a few minutes more and he’d be out of here. How glad he would be to get to bed tonight. It felt like a million years since he’d got up this morning.
Shopping packed into plastic bags, he scurried towards the furthest corner of the car park. It was gloomy here under the bridge that led to the upper level car park, the perfect place to leave a car if you didn’t want people to notice what – or who – you had in it. He placed his bags on the front passenger seat and turned to stare at the bundle in the back. The body was covered by a blanket, but he knew what was underneath. From the shoulders down she looked like any other woman. But covering her head was the hideous, stained sacking. And beneath the sack… no, no, he couldn’t think about that. He was getting rid of her. His new life was beginning and it was going to be a good life. He swallowed the bile in his throat and turned the key in the ignition, heart pounding as he drove towards the canal. He’d chosen a good time to do this; most people were either in the pub, or at home in peace and comfort. Soon he would be too.
The Brockburn-Witherton canal wound round the southern part of town before meandering on through woodland and green countryside towards the coast. It was a favourite spot with courting couples in summer, but the part he was heading for was in the industrial area, not such a scenic place for a snog, and at this time of night there was unlikely to be another soul in sight. Please, please, don’t let there be another soul in sight. Enough had gone wrong already.
Approaching the spot he had in mind, he saw he’d been right. The only other living creatures at the back of the old carpet factory were rats, scattering in the twin beams from his headlights. Heart thudding behind his ribs, he pulled up by an old crane at the waterside and switched off the engine. Now for it.
The ground squelched underfoot and he inhaled sharply. He’d be leaving footprints and tyre tracks behind here. But more rain was forecast for the night; that would get rid of any tell-tale signs. He opened the back door and was almost overcome by nausea. Putting her into the car had made him vomit the bacon sandwich he’d forced himself to eat that afternoon onto the garage floor. He couldn’t touch her again. But he had to. Deep breaths…
He grasped the edge of the blanket covering the body and yanked it away, averting his eyes while he struggled to control his gut. Okay. Now to weigh her down. He’d brought a couple of bricks with him; there’d been a few left over from last year when Dad repaired the garden wall.
Shuddering, he pulled at the zipper on Petra’s jacket and shoved the bricks inside, then zipped it up again as far as he could and spat sour saliva on the ground beside the car. Sobbing under his breath, he heaved her out of the car, her arms with the bound wrists sticking out awkwardly in front of her. He stood
for a moment getting the weight, her body clutched to his chest and her head rolling horribly against his shoulder. His legs shook. That terrible face was next to his neck, no, no, how disgusting. Tears ran down his cheeks. This should never have happened, stupid, stupid woman. It wasn’t his fault – he wasn’t a killer. But he had to finish the job or he’d never be safe again. It took all the strength he possessed to stagger the few steps to the edge, where he dropped Petra into the murky waters of the canal, watching as she sank, down, down, down and gone.
It was over.
The rain began again when he was reversing away from the canal, and he flipped on the windscreen wipers. Forget the bad stuff. Forget Petra and her flat, hidden face. Concentrate on better things.
Sarah.
Chapter Six
Sunday, 9th July
Sarah smoothed the iron over her grey trousers. It was difficult to know what to wear to Sunday brunch at a farmhouse; she had opted for ‘smart but casual’ so hopefully everyone else wasn’t going to be in shorts. Steam from the iron rose to her face and she leaned back. She’d already done her make-up; she didn’t want it sliding off before she left the house.
Okay… that should do. Sarah held her trousers up and glared at them. She still wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing, leaving Mim alone with Frankie for so long.
‘You look like the cat who’s lost the cream,’ said Mim’s voice behind her.
Sarah unplugged the iron. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any use me suggesting that Jack and I postpone this date until things are a bit more settled with Frankie?’
‘Sarah, we’ll be fine. Remember how many kids I’ve fostered over the years. And most of them were more of a handful than Frankie.’
