by Tania Carver
Anni kept smiling, hoping to be asked in, dreading a little what state she would find the inside of the house in.
Malcolm seemed to be having similar thoughts. ‘Was there… can I do something for you?’ Looking round as he said it. Hoping the neighbours saw this pretty young black girl on his doorstep while simultaneously hoping they didn’t think she was there to arrest him.
‘Need your help, Malcolm. Can we talk inside?’
‘Yes. Obviously. Certainly. Of course.’ He stepped out of the way, showed her inside. ‘Come in, please.’
She did so. He closed the door behind her.
The house was small, the front door opening on to the living room. The first thing she noticed was the gloom. The curtains were drawn, keeping what daylight was left firmly out. From the dust grooves on them it looked like it had been a while since they had been opened. And the furniture didn’t suggest a normal living room either. Bookcases in the alcoves were overflowing with texts. Two old metal filing cabinets stood against one wall where a shabby old sofa was pushed up against them. A TV, the front greasy with fingerprints, was pushed up against the curtains and a desk and wooden dining chair with a frayed, dirty cushion on it was in front of the blocked up fireplace. On the desk was a computer. Black and complicated-looking. If this is the living room, thought Anni, she would hate to see what the bedroom was like.
She shuddered. Hoped Malcolm didn’t catch it.
‘Tea?’ he asked. ‘Or coffee?’
‘Whatever’s easiest.’
He stood there looking puzzled.
‘Tea,’ she said, making his mind up for him. She smiled as she said it.
He went off to the kitchen to make it. Once the kettle was filled and on he re-entered the room.
‘Sorry. It’s probably not what you’d think of as homely,’ he told her.
‘That’s fine.’ She perched on the edge of the sofa. She looked at the filing cabinets. ‘Your work?’
‘Ah,’ he said, face lighting up. ‘Yes. Real work, I mean. Well, what I think of as work. You know. Not the library work. Not like I used to do. Real work.’
‘Which is? The crimes?’
‘Absolutely.’ He sat on the wooden chair, swung his body towards her.
He really didn’t look healthy, she thought. Unkempt grey hair, a red face that could have been from alcohol, bad diet or a combination of both, a spreading paunch and wearing a sweater and khakis, both of which had dodged the washing machine for a few weeks longer than they should have done.
‘My work,’ he said again. ‘A complete catalogue of all the major crimes in the area. All of this century and the majority of the last one too. Everything from discovery and investigation through to prosecution – or not in a few unfortunate cases – and imprisonment. I’ve even tried to find out what happened to the perpetrators on release. Fascinating. It really is. I always say,’ he continued, getting really into his story now, ‘I always say you can take the cultural and moral temperature of a society not just by the crimes it commits, collectively, but just as importantly in how we deal with and punish those crimes.’
‘Absolutely right. The one I —’
‘That’s the kettle.’
She waited while he pottered in the kitchen, returning with two mugs that despite a vigorous washing couldn’t disguise the immovable tannic scale on the insides, an open plastic bottle of milk and a teapot decorated with a picture of Prince Charles and Lady Diana.
‘Here you go,’ he said, pouring.
Anni did her best to look enthusiastic about it, took a sip, declared it too hot, left it on the floor beside her foot.
‘So what can I do for you?’
He seemed almost too eager, she thought. But continued.
‘Fiona Welch. The fake one.’
‘I thought so,’ he said nodding. ‘I thought so.’
‘Her victims. I’m sure you’ve got all the details.’
He jumped up, almost upsetting his tea in the process, and crossed to the computer, moved his mouse to turn it on. ‘Got them right here. Modern stuff is all on computer now,’ he said, a note of sadness in his voice. ‘Much prefer the filing cabinet.’
‘Can’t beat the old ways,’ said Anni, suspecting she was expected to say something.
‘Quite. What did you want to know?’
‘Everything, really. Who they were, how they met her, all of that.’
He turned to her, frowning. ‘Don’t you have all this stuff?’
‘Well, I did, but then I left the force. They didn’t let me keep it.’
‘No,’ he said, turning back to the screen, ‘suppose not.’ He scrolled through information. ‘Here we go,’ he said eventually. He turned to her once more. ‘You’re not drinking your tea.’
‘Too hot still. What you got?’
‘Right.’ He read from the screen. ‘First victim, Michael Duncan. University student, worked nights behind a bar.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Castle. Down the High Street. Beside the Castle, strangely enough.’ He read on. ‘Had a girlfriend but started to try and change her. Got her to grow her hair long, dye it dark brown. Black. Bought her dresses from Monsoon.’
‘On a barman’s wages?’
‘And a student as well, don’t forget. No, I think it was discovered later that the woman claiming to be Fiona Welch bought them for her.’
‘Weird.’
‘Yeah. That’s just the start. Apparently he wanted her to start calling herself Marina.’
‘Oh, I think I remember this now.’ She nodded. Getting more than just a memory of the case. Remembering Mickey too. The last case they had worked together before his death. Before she had killed him.
She tried to hold it in check, concentrate on the facts. Remember her training.
‘And then he killed her. Once she’d done all that for him.’
‘How?’
‘Strangled.’
‘Right. And the next one?’
‘Same. Everything the same. Glyn McDonald. Student, had a girlfriend that he tried to change, call Marina. Worked in a different bar, though. Still in the city. The Purple Dog. Know that one?’
‘Yeah. So how did she meet them? Through the bars?’
‘Difficult to say. They were all studying something different. The third one, Tom Houston, fitted the bill exactly. But he didn’t work in a bar. He worked in a coffee shop.’
‘But still in the service industry. So she could have met them all as a customer.’
‘The bars and the café were all quizzed at the time. None of them could remember seeing her. At least, not the woman who was then taken into custody calling herself Fiona Welch. But she may have changed her appearance by then.’
‘And all of these three confessed to the murders, if I remember.’
‘Absolutely. Not just confessed, they were proud of it. Happy to confess. Said they’d done it for her. All three of them.’
‘She was easy to track down, wasn’t she?’
‘Like she was waiting to be caught. Or at least catch the eye of someone.’ Malcolm became bashful. ‘Marina Esposito. That’s who. And you brought her in.’
‘We did. We had to. She was waiting for us. We didn’t know what to do with her so she was put in the special unit.’ Anni sighed. ‘And then everything turned to shit.’
Malcolm just nodded.
Anni looked up, determined not to give in. At least, not in front of Malcolm. But another part of her thought she should. Let it go. Let him witness the anger, the pain, the grief, at first-hand through her. Let him see that crime had consequences, that it wasn’t something that could be carefully filed away, just a story to extrapolate morality from. Let him see the real cost of it.
But she didn’t. She held it in. Professional once more.
‘So where are they now, these three men?’
‘In the system. Doing time. I don’t think any of them will be out any time soon. None of them have shown remorse. The only remorse they
seemed to have shown was in not seeing this woman again.’
‘That’s some hold she had on them.’
Malcolm agreed.
‘Have you any photos of them?’
‘Of course.’ A few more mouse clicks, then the sound of the printer. He gathered up the images, handed them to her. ‘In order. Michael Duncan. Glyn McDonald. Tom Houston. There you go.’
Anni studied the images. They weren’t what she had been expecting. She was expecting a likeness of Phil Brennan. But yes, she could see there was something about them that did resemble him in a kind of generic way, they did all share similar qualities. They all looked alike. They all look like someone, she thought, just not Phil.
She stood up. ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks, Malcolm. Really appreciated it.’
Malcolm blushed once more. ‘Oh. Thank you. Anything, anything I can do to help. Any time.’
Smile in place, she made her way to the door.
‘Oh,’ he said as she stepped foot outside, ‘you haven’t finished your tea.’
‘Next time,’ she said and hurried back to the car.
As she went she remembered something she hadn’t asked Malcolm: What had he been keeping from them when they spoke to him in the tea room?
The First
Sean. That was how she would get at Fiona. Sean. And not like she had done it last time, all love-clumsy and driven by her emotions. No. This time it would be done cold. Planned properly. Like she used to do with the girls. Back before Fiona came along.
Fiona. Anger rose at the very mention of her ex-lover’s name. She pushed it down, ignored it. Channelled it. Use it, don’t let it use her.
So she concentrated on Sean instead. Sean. Sean. All about Sean. Where he lived, who he lived with. How old he was. Who his friends were. Where he worked. Studied him. Analysed him until she had a full dossier on him.
He was nineteen, lived with his divorced father in a small ex-council house just off the Moulsham area of town. He worked for the council as a gardener but was in danger of being laid off due to cuts. Most of his friends were boys he’d been to school with. None of them were academic, all of them had stayed in the area they had been born in. They drank together regularly, usually on a Friday night. Saturday night was for taking out Fiona.
So that was Sean. His whole life. All she had to do was find a way to get to him. Do something to him that would make Fiona know what she was up against. Take him away from her. One way or another. Make Fiona fear her. Make Fiona hurt.
More planning. More plotting. Google became her best friend.
Then, eventually, she hit upon it. A way to get to Sean, back at Fiona.
She started to lay tracks. Smiling at Fiona, being nice to her. Showing her she wasn’t upset by her previous behaviour, that she was over her now. So over her. And Fiona responded in kind. By ignoring her.
Or so she thought. But, she surmised in hindsight, what Fiona was actually doing was only pretending to ignore her. In reality – always a tricky word to use in relation to Fiona – she was hurt, angry even, that she seemed to have no more control over her. And nothing she could do would change it. Flaunting Sean no longer worked. Public displays of affection were ignored. Bragging was met with a shrug. Even taunting her about not joining her at university was met with indifference. She was sure Fiona was becoming angry at all of this. But she also knew she could never express that. So while Fiona seethed silently, she secretly gloated.
Then remembered she had to be calm, controlled. Cold. No gloating. Plenty of time for that later.
In the meantime she had to strike at Sean. And it was even easier than she had thought it would be.
She became more friendly with the other kids in the home, especially the ones that were due to leave that summer. They started going out together, bars and clubs in the town centre. Sean and Fiona were often there. And Sean was starting to get a taste for drugs. Weed, obviously. Everyone did that. It was nothing. So they decided they needed something a bit stronger, a bit more targeted. Ecstasy was the obvious next step. And the same dealers could supply it. Along with coke, MDMA, whatever they wanted. Perfect, she thought.
Sean had a job, Fiona had saved enough money from pimping out the other girls so money wasn’t a problem for either of them. But then she had money too. So she became friendly with the dealer. Asked him to supply her with something that the others didn’t want. Rohypnol. At first the dealer just laughed at her.
What d’you want that for?
Got something in mind. Something special. She tried smiling when she spoke, the kind of smile that she hoped would turn him on, or at least get him a bit excited, interested. Didn’t really work.
I could get done for that, you know. Really land me in trouble. Pills, skunk and weed is one thing. That’s another. If I knew how you were going to use it, supplying that could leave me open to a rape accessory charge.
Ah, she said, but you don’t, do you? You don’t know how I’m going to use it. Or who on. Or what for.
He studied her. She knew she unnerved him. Good. But she intrigued him as well. Even better. He gave in. Supplied her.
Now all she had to do was let him have it, wait for an opportunity to present itself.
Which was easier than she had thought it would be.
One night at a club, all of them there, Sean laughing and joking with his mates, all of them drinking pints. And she was no longer seen as a threat or even an irritant. Almost too easy.
She checked her handbag. Knife. Tape. Pills. All there.
Not that she was going to kill him. No. Of course not. That would be stupid. And dangerous too. That could really backfire on her, get her in trouble. What would be the point of that? All people would think was that she actually was jealous of Fiona, jealous enough to kill her boyfriend. And that wasn’t how she wanted people to see her.
No. Hurt him. That was all. Scare him. Cut him, maybe. Or threaten to cut him. Get him helpless. Get him alone. Take away his hope. Frighten him away from Fiona. Yeah. That was all she was going to do. That would be enough. And then when Fiona asked her if she had seen Sean, heard from him, she could tell her. I told him to leave. I told him you were better off without him. I told him you wanted me. And then ignore her the way Fiona had done to her.
Yeah. That would do it.
But things didn’t quite go to plan.
Getting him separated from the herd was easy. She just talked to him, laughed with him. Said she was sorry for all that earlier shit with Fiona. Said they were really good together. Sean, simpleton that he was, took her words at face value. Even said yes when she offered to buy him a drink to show there were no hard feelings. That was his mistake. It was an easy matter to slip the Rohypnol into his drink. Hand it to him. Watch him drink it. Perfect. Too easy. Now all she had to do was lead him away from the rest of them, get him past Fiona, wherever she was.
And that was when things went badly wrong.
Sean started to feel woozy, couldn’t stand up straight. That was what she had been expecting. So far so good. So she tried to lead him away from the crowd, take him somewhere quiet. In the plan she had formulated, that was outside to the taxi rank and away in a cab to the housing estate once again, where she could use the other two implements on him. But she didn’t get that far. Because Sean collapsed before he had left the club.
This wasn’t right. She knew that. He wasn’t supposed to have such a violent reaction. And not so quickly, either. But there was nothing she could do. He just passed out right in front of her and everybody witnessed it.
The doormen came running over, thinking him drunk. They soon saw that wasn’t the case.
What’s he taken? the biggest doorman asked.
She played dumb, said she didn’t know. Didn’t think he had taken anything. He was just drinking lager. Bottled, that’s all. Eyes big and wide. Innocent.
From the corner of her eye she saw Fiona come running up. She looked concerned. She was stunned: that was the
first time she had ever seen her display such deep, unaffected emotion. As she approached she looked down, saw Sean, dropped to his side. Screamed for an ambulance. Then looked up.
The innocent mask dropped. A smile took its place. Devious. Challenging. But above all, victorious.
And Fiona didn’t like that. Didn’t like that at all.
Sean died a couple of days later. An allergic reaction, the official report said, to something he had taken in the club.
She was questioned by police, played the wide-eyed innocent again. It worked. They weren’t interested in her. Then they spoke to Fiona. And for once the shock of Sean’s death must have really affected her because she didn’t have time to put her mask back in place. They became interested in Fiona. Very interested. And, after Sean’s death, that was the best thing that could have happened.
Eventually Fiona was released without charge. She hadn’t supplied the drugs that killed him. They didn’t know who did. And since he seemed to have taken whatever it was voluntarily, they had nothing else to go on. Death by misadventure. Case closed.
It was time for them to leave the home. Fiona was avoiding her. When she did happen to bump into her, she couldn’t keep eye contact. Would look shamefully, fearfully, away.
She made a point of speaking to Fiona on the last day. Surprised her in a corridor where she couldn’t escape.
Just wanted to say good luck at uni.
Fiona mumbled some kind of thanks, tried to get past.
Must be hard without Sean in your life. Tragedy, really. Must really, really hurt.
No response, just an attempt to move past.
Of course, she said, moving in closer, someone must have really hated him to give him that when they knew it would kill him.
She didn’t know how the lie would be taken, but Fiona looked up sharply.
Buoyed by the response, she continued. If only they knew who had hated him that much. Or who hated his girlfriend enough to do that so she would be alone and hurting.
She smiled. And Fiona, staring straight at her, understood. And hurried away.
