by Mel Sherratt
But Sandra Seymour, or Suzi Porter, whatever the press would call her, was a pawn in his game, useless to him now. Already he’d started to think about his next target, move on to the next stage of his plan.
Patrick closed his eyes for a moment and remembered the first thrust of the knife. He couldn’t believe how good it had felt, how much pain had been released with every stab – his pain, her pain, their pain. There was blood all over his clothes, but he couldn’t do much about that. He’d worn black again in readiness. But he needed to wash his hands: it would take him minutes at the most.
Checking his watch, he jumped from Suzi’s lap and went over to the sink. Two down: five to go. He wouldn’t be here long now. All he needed to do afterwards was slip out the back. Of course his fingerprints would be everywhere, but no one would catch him because he wasn’t in the system.
They just wouldn’t know that yet.
Chapter Nine
Rhian checked her watch for the umpteenth time before turning her attention back to the television. She listened carefully to the evening’s news as it kept everyone up to date with the ongoing investigation of the man who had been murdered over on the canal towpath two days ago. Rhian hadn’t known of Mickey Taylor until Joe had told her about him, but she certainly knew lots about him now. Reports of his murder had been on national news bulletins since Monday and were sprawled across the front page of The Sentinel again that night.
The TV reporter panned around with his hand, saying that it was a popular spot for people to be found dead, but that most of the time it was usually the canal itself that caused the death as people drowned. No one had been murdered there until yesterday. A new low for Stoke-on-Trent, Rhian surmised, although she wanted to pull the reporter up on his stupid choice of words. A spot where people went to die should never be referred to as being popular, surely?
The time on the screen said it was ten past eight. She sighed. Where the hell was Joe? He’d told her this morning that he hadn’t planned on being home late so she’d made an effort and prepared him a shepherd’s pie from scratch. She’d followed a Jamie Oliver recipe, quite proud of her effort she was too, but the last time she had looked at it, it had started to burn at the edges as the juices inside bubbled over. She was starving: she’d give him ten more minutes and then she was diving into it regardless of whether he was home or not.
Moving in with Joe had not been in Rhian’s life plan but it had been an added bonus. They’d met during a night out in Hanley. Some young bloke had been taking great pleasure feeling her up on the dance floor. Joe had marched over and stopped him with a swift punch to the ribs that had gone unnoticed by the bouncers. He’d bought her a drink and, although he was sixteen years older than her, they’d become an item more or less immediately. Within a month, Rhian had persuaded Joe to let her stay there. The relationship wasn’t everything she had hoped but it was better than living at home with her parents. Plus, after conveniently losing her crappy bar job through poor attendance, because she didn’t have to fork out board or rent every month, she had started to put her qualification as a nail technician to good use and set up a mobile service for her friends. Pretty soon, she had a few regular clients and more than enough of an emergency fund put by, if she wasn’t too stupid with it.
She flicked over the channels to catch up on Coronation Street. But a few minutes into the program, her mind began to wander again. Just lately, Joe had been staying at work quite a lot more than he normally did. She looked back – she reckoned for the past two months there had been a lot of late nights, weekend meetings and phone calls he didn’t want her to listen in to. Not for the first time, she wondered if he had another woman. Fuck, she’d rip her eyes out if he had and she caught them together.
Relieved when she heard his car pull into the drive, she went out to greet him. ‘Where have you been?’ she whined as she stood shivering on the doorstep. ‘I’ve something delicious in the oven and the smell of it is driving me mad.’
‘There was a problem at work.’ Joe kissed her briefly on the cheek.
She closed the door behind them, only to turn to see he’d removed his coat and was heading up the stairs.
Rhian grabbed his arm to stop him. ‘Where are you going now?’
‘I need to shower.’
‘But I’m starving. Can’t we eat first?’
‘I won’t be more than a few minutes.’
‘But . . . oh, what’s that? Is it blood?’ She pointed to a red stain on his T-shirt. ‘Are you okay?’
Joe looked down. ‘Oh, it’s fine, it’s not mine,’ he explained. ‘One of the blokes at work cut himself, the dozy bastard, and I had to administer first aid and take him to A&E. There was blood everywhere.’
He thundered up the stairs.
Rhian pouted. ‘Shall I dish the food out? I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.’
‘Yeah, you do that.’
The bathroom door slamming made her jump. She glared at her reflection in the hall mirror. Damn that man! He hadn’t even said she looked nice. She’d made an effort with her appearance too, wearing a simple yet flattering woollen dress that stopped slightly above her knee and showed just enough cleavage not to seem slutty. She’d put up her hair, a few loose strands sexily dropping onto her shoulders. Underneath the dress, she wore nothing but a black lacy thong she was hoping he would remove later with his teeth.
He’s home, you stupid mare; stop whinging, she chastised herself. Determined not to antagonise him by moaning, she raced through to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine.
Joe’s hair was still wet when he came into the kitchen ten minutes later. From the bags under his eyes and the way his shoulders drooped, Rhian realised she’d be pushing it for the marathon sex session she’d envisaged. But, she laughed inwardly, it was more than perfect for an early night. They could curl up together afterwards and have some quality time together for a change.
‘Come and sit.’ She beckoned him over to the table. ‘It’s only shepherd’s pie. It’s a bit well done now though.’
Joe headed over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. ‘I’m knackered, duck. I’ll take mine on a tray. I want to catch up with the news. Anything new on Mickey Taylor?’
Rhian counted to ten as she placed the plates on trays, remembering not to slam the cutlery down. In silence, they went through to the conservatory. They spent most of their time in there since it had recently been redecorated, since Rhian had insisted on putting her mark on something. Only when Joe’s son, Jayden, came to visit was it occupied by anyone else. Ten-year-old Jayden loved the large plasma TV to play games on, and the squishy leather settees to throw himself around on when he was doing anything more energetic. Dressed in pale creams and caramels with the odd shock of bright orange, the room was warm and tranquil. But Rhian didn’t feel relaxed as she sat down next to Joe. The television was on again, she sighed – bloody conversation stopper.
‘So what was so important that you were late again this evening?’ Rhian asked.
‘Nothing more than usual. I was at the office until I came home. I had some paperwork to finish off.’
When no more words were forthcoming, Rhian decided to change tack. ‘Please be careful, babe. You know that man, that Mickey Taylor, was murdered. I’m worried the police haven’t caught his killer yet and –’
‘Don’t worry about that. It’ll be some chancer, out to rob him of his money.’
‘The Sentinel said that it didn’t look like robbery was the motive. I reckon –’
‘Well, I reckon you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.’
They finished their meal in another silence. Afterwards, Joe stayed riveted to the news as Rhian took out the trays and left them on the worktop in the kitchen. She’d clean them tomorrow. Impatient to get back to him, she took him another beer.
‘Were you really at work this evening?’ she aske
d him again.
‘I told you, I was finishing something off.’
‘Something?’
‘Something that pays well, that’s all you need to know.’ Joe reached a wad of notes from his pocket and handed them to her. ‘Here, treat yourself.’
Rhian grinned and sat down next to him again. How she loved being fobbed off. She could get those jeans she’d seen in Top Shop. And maybe there would be enough left over for another night out with the girls.
‘Thanks, gorgeous.’ She leaned over to plant a kiss on his lips. ‘I might go out with Laila and Shelley next week for a drink. Do you fancy coming with us?’
‘Not my style, you know that.’
‘Maybe not, but I’m fed up with staying in on my own most evenings.’ Rhian stopped counting at one hundred pounds. ‘It’s not because you’re seeing another woman, is it? Because if you are, then I’m –’
Before she could finish her sentence, Joe turned towards her, his hand on her knee. She watched it rise slowly up her thigh, inside her dress, to the side of her thong. She moaned as he slipped his fingers inside; her breathing took on a life of its own.
‘Rhian, Rhian,’ he spoke slowly. ‘What do I have to do to make you shut up?’
She threw the money to the floor and pulled him closer, running her hand through his hair as he kissed her. She knew his game, the scheming bastard. But she could play it too. Knowing just what he wanted, she reached for the buckle on his belt.
Afterwards, as Rhian lay beside him, Joe tried to control his temper. Fuck, she might be sexy and give great head but sometimes he could just lean over and punch her. He hated keeping her sweet at times. In the past, she’d been an alibi for him on several occasions but that had all been work related – nothing serious. In his line of work, you just never knew when things might need a little tweaking of the truth. Rhian would say anything for him, for the right price. She knew the score, enjoyed it too. It was what she did for him. But her constant snipes and moans about him being up to something dodgy really pissed him off at times. He wasn’t stupid, knew she was only interested in him for his money. Plus a man of his age still needed sex, so her younger, willing body was a bonus. Of course, some of the blokes that he worked with paid for it, but he would never do that. He could take his pick of women if he wanted. He had when he’d been married – until his ex-wife had found out and put a stop to it with a boot up his ass.
Rhian was like his ex-wife in some ways but in others she was completely different. Yet, even though she was sixteen years younger than him, for someone so young she knew her own head when it came to kids. She’d told him categorically that she didn’t want any – something he was certain of after she’d taken a long time to warm to his son, Jayden, even though it had annoyed him at the time. She was far too selfish to have kids. Perfect, as he didn’t want to start a family again at his time of life. Some of his friends were granddads now. Christ, that made him feel old.
And, despite what he put up with – her moods and childish tantrums, her inability to see mess around the house, her failure to cook a half-decent meal – he felt confident that she would cover for him, say anything for him. Giving her money was a way of keeping her sweet. He wouldn’t jeopardise his plans – what he had actually been doing that evening.
He ran his fingers through his hair, left his hand behind his head as he pushed away thoughts of what would happen to him if he was caught. The job was dodgy but it was going to pay off soon, as long as he could keep it quiet for a little bit longer. Because if his boss got wind of it, he’d be in serious bother. And no one wanted the wrath of Terry Ryder.
Allie jumped from sleep as her mobile phone burst into tune. She glanced around, disorientated for a moment until she realised she was at home. She must have dozed off on the settee. The clock on the wall said ten forty-five. Mark, who’d clearly been asleep on the armchair, groaned.
‘Beat Surrender?’ He scoffed. ‘Seriously, you changed your ringtone to that?’
‘You were the one moaning about it.’ Quickly, she reached for her phone. ‘DS Shenton.’
‘This is the control room, Sarge. There’s been report of a murder. Female – stabbed at home. I’ve been told to radio you in.’
Allie sighed: not another domestic gone too far.
‘One more thing,’ the caller continued. ‘Forensics have found another letter.’
Chapter Ten
Before he left for his late shift, Patrick switched on some music, hoping to drown out the sound of next door’s television. He made coffee and a toasted sandwich – cheese, thinly sliced tomato. Even so, he found it hard to eat anything, a permanent smile on his face. He had never felt so empowered: happy, content, excited even. Everything was slipping into place.
After so long being pushed around, Patrick was leading the game. Come along now. Everyone take my hand; pick a number; pick a name. I want him on my team. No, he’s coming on mine.
Dressed in his work clothes, he went into the living room. As he passed the sideboard, he paused at the pile of letters again, this time picking up the framed photograph in front of them. If he was in a good mood, he could look at the black and white image of three people, happy and smiling, and remember them fondly. The three of them racing downstairs on a Christmas morning. Playing football with Robert. Helping Louisa to learn her eight times table, teaching her a rhyme to make sure she recalled them all in the right order. Going to the corner shop together and having a twenty-pence mixture, sitting on the grass comparing the colour of tongues after eating Black Jacks. Waiting outside the pub for his dad with a packet of crisps and a bottle of orange pop.
More often than not, when he looked at the photo he’d recall nothing but the hurt and the anger that he felt when they’d left. The photo was of his mum, younger brother, Robert, and sister, Louisa. His memory of the two of them was hazy but he thought that Robert would have been two years younger than him: his sister, Louisa, maybe five. Time had fogged over the years he’d been on his own with his father, Ray. He didn’t have a clue why his mother had taken them and left him behind to be bullied by the man. He’d certainly lost count of the times that their names had been thrown into his face.
Patrick had been nine when they had left. That was the last time he’d seen them. He didn’t even know if they still lived in Stoke-on-Trent or if they had moved to another city altogether. All he could remember was being sent into Hanley to get Ray some belly pork from the meat market and when he’d got home, they had all disappeared. All their clothes had gone too. Worse than that, Patrick had got it in the neck from Ray when he found the note that his mother had left for him.
In the note, his mother had said there was only room to take two children with her so as Patrick was the eldest, she’d left him behind because she knew he could cope. Cope with what? The beatings that she was running away from? All Ray’s anger had transferred to Patrick. As a teenager, he would cower in his bed, having been alone all evening until Ray came home from the pub. Ray always wanted to fight. He’d drag Patrick out of bed, pull him down the stairs and beat him. Often Patrick would be covered in blood and bruises but still Ray wouldn’t stop. He missed a lot of school but if anyone questioned him, Ray told them Patrick was clumsy.
Ray had broken Patrick’s arm one afternoon after he’d had a skinful. He’d come home from the pub and had hurled Patrick across the room so quick and so hard that he hadn’t been able to stay on his feet. His wrist had taken the brunt of the fall. The school nurse had insisted on taking him to the clinic, which had transferred him to the hospital for x-rays. Even Patrick’s crying out in pain hadn’t stopped Ray from having another go at him when he’d been brought home with a plaster cast up to his elbow. Ray had explained that away, too, as Patrick’s clumsy fault for slipping. And then he’d taken another beating because Ray was furious that he’d brought unwanted attention to their home life.
It took a while but, in th
e end, Patrick hadn’t blamed his mum for leaving. But what he couldn’t understand was why she had taken his brother and sister along but left him behind. He never believed the story that there was only room for two young children where she was going. He knew he would have been an asset to his mother. She would have had to go out to work; he could have looked after Robert and Louisa for her. He was their brother!
What had been so wrong with him that she hadn’t wanted to take him too? Instead, she’d left him in the hands of the bully she had run from. He thought back to the times when he had been woken by her screams as Ray had laid into her. He could still remember the sounds of the slaps, the punches, the screams, the bangs. It was all inside his head. He could never escape from it. And, at nine years old, he’d become the punch bag for his drunk of a father. How could she have done that to him?
In the early years after Ray went to prison, he’d tried to trace them but he hadn’t been able to find any leads. He wondered if they’d changed their names – he couldn’t remember his mother’s maiden name and there was nothing in the house to tell him. Eventually, he’d given up.
But it was as he was doing this that he’d thought about his plan. Social media was taking off, with more and more people using Facebook and Twitter. Patrick joined both and found that it was absurdly easy to befriend people online, easy from timelines to work out what people were up to. It was ridiculous, really, he’d often thought, how much information people shared without thinking.
In a year or so, he’d built up a file on most of his victims, followed them and watched them, making sure he knew their routines off by heart. When he had all of those sorted, he went on to the other people he wanted to take down – came across a few surprises, too, and ended up adding a name to the list, someone that he didn’t know at all.
When everything had been written down, worked out, planned out, he’d only had to continue to keep an eye out for any changes and then wait for the date. And here it was: January 16.
