by Tania Carver
Adderley turned, saw what he was looking at, turned back to Phil. ‘Carly needs a mother. A woman round the house.’
‘Doesn’t your good book say something about living in sin?’
‘We’ve got… separate rooms. If it’s any of your business.’
Phil gave a snort of laughter. ‘Separate rooms? What, till your daughter goes to bed?’ He shook his head. ‘Fucking hypocrite.’
‘You’ve got no right to —’
‘Aw, shut up,’ said Phil, waving his hand dismissively, staggering slightly from the effort. ‘You’re a fucking hypocrite. Admit it. Beating your wife, then going to church and asking for forgiveness. Then coming home and doing it all again. Hypocrite. Weak… spineless… little… hypocrite…’
Adderley looked like he didn’t know whether to hit Phil or run from him. Instead, he spoke. ‘I’ll have your job for this. Just you wait.’
Phil pointed a finger, having to squint in order to do so. ‘Yeah? Not if I have you first.’ He leaned in to him, Adderley recoiling from his lethal breath. ‘You’re scum, you. You know that? Scum. The kind of man the police hate. The kind that’s too fucking scared to attack other men so he takes it out on women and children. Scum. That’s what you are.’
Adderley said nothing.
‘And I’m going to have you. One way or the other. Fucking have you…’
‘I’m going to call the police,’ said Adderley, turning to go.
‘Yeah, you do that, mate,’ said Phil, attempting another laugh. ‘Tell them what I said and why I’m here. Tell them how handy with your fists you are when it comes to your wife. Sure they’d love to know that.’ He looked over to the house once more. ‘She know what she’s got coming, does she? The lovely Trudi? Is it going to be her we’re looking for in a couple of months’ time?’
Adderley walked away.
Phil watched him go. Then, convincing himself that his actions had been victorious, he made his way back to his car.
And passed out.
20
‘Call the police, Roy, you’ve got to…’
Trudi stood in the hall beside Adderley, waiting for him to respond in some way. Instead she saw him do something she had never seen before. He twisted his face, contorting it into several shapes, all of them unpleasant. She watched, fascinated and a little scared, as his lips started moving. He was talking to someone, but not her. Someone who wasn’t in the room with them.
He turned away, his conversation going on without her. Eventually he nodded. Mind made up.
Trudi watched him. ‘Roy?’
He turned to her, eyes unfocused, mouth curled into a snarl. ‘Shut up, just… shut up…’ He turned away, paced up and down the hallway, a trapped animal in a too-small cage. ‘I’m… thinking… Got to think…’ He resumed his one-sided conversation.
Trudi stepped back, watched him. She had never seen Roy like this before. Happy, sweet and, she had to admit, sexy Roy. This was a different side to him. Scared. Angry. And slightly unhinged. Watching him, seeing that animalistic snarl, she could suddenly believe some of the things she had heard about him. She felt a frisson run through her. Not an altogether unpleasant feeling.
He stopped walking, went into the living room. She followed. He crossed to the window, looked out.
‘He’s still there. Just, just sitting there…’
He sighed, turned away, shaking his head.
‘Got to get out… got to get out…’
‘What, now?’ asked Trudi. ‘Where you going?’
He turned back to her. And there was that animalistic look in his eyes again. But this time there wasn’t anything of the snarling, aggressive beast about it. Just something feral and trapped, ready to spring loose, take out anyone or anything who tried to stop it.
‘You questioning me?’
‘What?’ Something in his voice, his eyes, made Trudi instinctively step back. This wasn’t like the aggression of a few moments earlier. This was something else.
His eyes flicked to a Bible on a shelf. It was just about the only book in the house, apart from the Argos catalogue. Though given the scarring and tears on its heavy leather cover, the missing and torn pages sticking out, it looked like it had been used as more than just a book. A shiver went down Trudi’s spine at the thought.
At that moment, for the first time, she felt scared to be alone with him.
Adderley reluctantly tore his eyes from the Bible, walked over to Trudi. Faced her, unblinking. ‘I’ve made my judgement,’ he said, voice small and hard, like a rock that could crack open to reveal white-hot lava. ‘And when I’ve made my judgement, you don’t question me.’
He walked into the hallway, grabbed his car keys from the table, opened the front door.
‘But what am I —’
‘You’re staying here. You’re doing what you’re told. Know your place.’
‘But I —’
‘Don’t question me, woman…’
Another step towards her, his hand raised this time. That was enough. Trudi cowered away from him, really scared now. He stood like that before her, arm raised, heavy but suspended. She closed her eyes, waiting for the blow, anticipating the pain, already flinching away from it.
But the blow never came. Roy let his arm drop, reluctantly, to his side. She studied his eyes. It was like there was something else living inside him, another identity fighting for dominance. He tore his gaze away from her. She wasn’t sure, but she might have glimpsed a shudder of fear or revulsion in them as he did so.
‘Roy…’
He didn’t look at her, didn’t reply, just strode out, slamming the door behind him.
Trudi stood there staring at the door. From upstairs came the sound of Carly crying; suddenly, like a wound-up air raid siren.
‘Mummy… Mummy…’
Trudi, looking one way then the other and feeling unexpectedly tired, just stood there.
21
Janine stepped outside. The night was cold, dark, the threat of rain hanging heavy in the air. But she didn’t feel any of that. All she could feel was the freedom.
She closed the door behind her. It hit the frame with a satisfying final thump. The sound of something ending. She grabbed hold of her suitcase, pulled it along behind her.
As she walked, she felt a pang of regret over the boys. What kind of mother was she to walk out like this? But when she remembered the look her sons had given her as they passed her on the way out with their father, the hatred and contempt, she didn’t feel so bad. She would have to hang on to that image, that memory, every time she felt she had done the wrong thing. Put it in the forefront of her mind. Never forget.
Clive Street was deserted. Janine, walking quickly, idly wondered why. Was everyone behind their front doors? Locked away from the rest of the world? The pubs in the area were losing money, haemorrhaging customers, so they weren’t there. But she’d read somewhere that TV viewing figures were down as well. So what else was there to do? They couldn’t all be at the football like Terry. She felt a pang of envy. They would probably be having better times, better lives, than she had had with Terry. All of them.
Unless…
Unless they were putting up with the same thing.
She gripped the handle of the bag, walked faster. Sang a couple of bars of a song her dad used to sing when she was little. Some country song about not knowing what went on behind closed doors. It didn’t matter now. Not to Janine. Because that was the old her, the old life. She was about to embark on a new one, a better one.
She walked the few streets to her allotted pick-up spot. The corner of Milton Street and Garrett Street, just by Oakwood Park. How anyone had the nerve to call it a park was beyond her. A tree-lined plateau rising from the road hid a wide, flat expanse of grass and a basketball court held within a chain-link fence. In the centre of the grass stood a small clump of trees. And that counted as a park.
Janine checked her watch. She was early. As she put her arm down, she looked along the stree
t. A car was moving slowly towards her, headlights off, side lights only, hard to make out in the shadow of the trees. Like it had been parked there, waiting for her. She felt giddy, suddenly, stomach flipping, light-headed. This was it, she thought. No going back now.The car crawled closer. Janine readied herself.
It drew alongside her. The driver’s window slid down. She waited, remembering what the voice on the phone had said. Let the driver say the word. Don’t prompt her. She bent down.
‘Strawberry,’ said the driver, sitting back, features hidden in shadow.
Janine gave a tired, taut smile. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes. Strawberry.’
‘Get in.’
She opened the back door, put her bag on the seat, climbed in after it. The car began to pull away.
Janine looked in the mirror, saw the driver’s eyes. Puzzlement crept over her face.
‘Wait,’ she said, ‘you’re not a woman. You’re —’
‘Just be quiet,’ he said. ‘Everything will be fine.’
Janine frowned. ‘But —’
‘I said be quiet.’ The voice sharp, commanding.
This wasn’t what she had been expecting. Not at all.
She looked round, suddenly worried. This wasn’t how she had imagined it. She began to feel uneasy.
‘I… I think I’ve made a mistake.’
The driver didn’t reply.
‘I think I want to get out now.’
Nothing.
‘I want to get out now,’ she said, her voice stronger, louder, tinged with panic.
‘Just stay where you are.’
Janine looked round in a panic. The car hadn’t got up much speed yet. The driver was still creeping along the side of the park, head going side to side, like he was trying to see if anyone had spotted him.
‘I want to get out…’
They pulled to an abrupt stop. The driver turned to her. Anger flared in his eyes. He jabbed his finger at her. ‘Just stay where you are. Do as you’re told.’
Janine sat back, eyes wide. Stunned not only by the words and the tone, but by something else.
‘I —’
She didn’t finish her sentence. Just grabbed the handle and pushed the door. It opened. A hand appeared over the back of the front seat, trying to grab her. It missed. She managed to get out of the car. And ran.
She didn’t know where she was going. Streets that she had lived on or around all her life suddenly seemed alien, unfamiliar. She just ran as hard and as fast as she could. Behind her she could hear the sound of the car turning round in the street, coming after her.
Oh God…
Not looking back, she ran even faster.
The car sped up. Not full speed – the driver still didn’t want to be observed – but fast enough to catch up with her. Janine looked round. Houses on one side. Park on the other. Her mind whirled furiously. She could knock on a door, ask for help, get them to call 999. If they were in. If they answered the door at night. And what if they weren’t, or they wouldn’t? Would she be able to try another house? She doubted it. Park on the other side. Without stopping to think, she ran up the tree-lined slope on to the grass.
Once there, on the unlit stretch of dark green, she allowed herself time to get her breath back. But he could run up here, she thought. Run after me, catch me…
She looked round. No one. Deserted. Not even the few teenagers who occasionally congregated. For once she would have been glad to see them.
Then from behind she heard a familiar sound. The car. She turned. Headlights made their way upwards and through the trees as the driver managed to negotiate a route for himself. The engine revved, the car appeared over the brow, then on the flat of the green.
Oh shit…
Heart pounding so much she feared it would jump from her chest, legs aching and stomach ready to heave from the exertions, Janine ran once more.
The car didn’t bother to keep its speed down or its lights low now. It was on a course for Janine. There was no way she could outrun it. She tried to put her hand in her pocket as she ran, bring out her mobile, call 999, but she didn’t dare slow down enough to do so. So she ran. Blindly on.
The noise of the car increased and the grass ahead of her was suddenly starkly illuminated. He was on her.
Janine turned. The car hit her, almost breaking her in two, sending her spinning over the bonnet and windscreen.
She landed with a thud on the green.
She opened her eyes, looked down. Pain coursed all round her body like infected electricity. Her legs were the wrong way round.
She looked up once more. The car was bearing down on her.
She tried to crawl out of the way but her body wouldn’t work.
The last thing she saw were the headlights hammering towards her.
Then pain.
Then nothing.
He reversed and went over her twice more.
But Janine was long gone by then.
22
Phil only woke up when the near-empty bourbon bottle rolled off his lap and on to the floor, spilling its remaining contents on him as it went.
He looked round, not knowing where he was, or, for a few seconds, who he was. He managed to refocus. He was still sitting in his car outside Roy Adderley’s house. He checked the house: darkness. He checked himself: his jeans and shirt front were now soaking wet and stinking of booze. It just added to his disorientation. His mouth felt thick, sickly and sour, his head swirling and spinning like a waltzer, his stomach a combination of the two.
‘Oh God…’
Groaned more than spoken. A plea more than a prayer.
He sighed. Checked his watch. Nearly three.
He sat back against the car seat. What was it that someone had said about three o’clock in the morning? In the dark night of the soul it’s always three a.m. Something like that. And who had said it? Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald? One of them. Someone like that. Whoever it was, they were bang on.
That was just how Phil felt. The dark night of the soul. Body and mind addled and curdled from so much more than just the booze. And, like a hook in his flesh, drawing his mind away from his problems, drawing the attention of the pain he was feeling, the case he was working on. Gemma Adderley. And her husband Roy.
He checked the house once more. Still no movement. Decided it was time to do the thing he had been dreading most, putting off. Time to go home.
He turned the engine over. Band of Horses immediately began singing about a funeral. He switched it off, head pounding even more. Took a few seconds to steady himself, focus on the road ahead, to see only a single one, and begin to pull out.
As he did so, he became aware of headlights coming along the road behind him.
He checked his own car: he hadn’t yet turned on the lights. He still looked stationary. He turned the engine off immediately, checked the rear-view mirror. Roy Adderley was driving back to his house.
Phil stayed where he was. Slumped down in his seat, pretended to be asleep. With one eye open. Watching.
Behind him, Adderley drove slowly to the front of his house. In his wing mirror Phil watched him turn the car’s engine and lights off, get out, quietly close the car door and turn in his direction. This was it. He couldn’t give himself away now.
Adderley watched Phil for what seemed like hours but was only really seconds, or at the most, minutes. Satisfied, he turned, went into his house. Closed the front door behind him.
Phil waited. When nothing more happened, no lights, no sound, no movement, he knew it was safe to drive away. He did so quietly, not putting on his lights until he was in the next street and on the way home.
He drove slowly, not wanting to attract attention to himself, not wanting to get pulled over. That would be highly embarrassing. He could probably get away with it, that wasn’t a problem. Rank saw to that. But the whispers would start, word would spread. Phil’s reputation would be compromised. And that was something he couldn’t allow to happen.
So he drove
as carefully as he could, thinking all the time, wondering just where Roy Adderley had been. Wondering what answers he would give when he was questioned properly.
Anything to avoid thinking about what was most on his mind.
PART THREE
THE SOFTEST BULLET EVER SHOT
23
The room was still spinning. Phil looked down at his feet, immediately wished he hadn’t. It spun some more. He looked up. Slowly. Carefully. Tried to breathe, focus. The morning briefing was just about to get under way.
He hadn’t slept, just endured a brief state of uncomfortable unconsciousness. He hadn’t even made it to bed. Woken by his phone’s alarm in the living room armchair, he had showered and changed clothes, but the previous night’s beer and bourbon, combined with the stress he was already under, ensured he felt even more tired than previously. Not to mention hungover. Severely, nauseously hungover.
DCI Alison Cotter was standing before the room. Phil’s boss and nominally the head of the inquiry, she delegated most of the work to the members of her team. Phil, as the chief investigating officer on the case, would normally be expected to address them. But Cotter had seen the state he was in and decided to take over. He knew she would be having words with him later.
‘Okay,’ she said to the assembled throng. ‘Another day, another chance to get it right.’
Not Phil’s words, hers. Her briefing, not his. He sat by her side, tried to fix an expression of intent listening to his features. Hoped he was successful.
‘So I suppose I should start by asking, where are we?’ She turned to him. ‘Phil?’
He stood up, found his legs were made of water. Summoned imaginary ballast to them, strength to stand still and upright.
‘Right,’ he said, clearing his throat and closing his eyes as the room spun. He swallowed. His mouth was full of putrescent gravel. ‘Gemma Adderley went missing over a month ago. We can be a hundred per cent sure that the body found is hers. Esme Russell’ – he coloured slightly mentioning her name; stumbled on it – ‘has done a preliminary PM. She gave me the results last night.’ He paused, realised that what he had said could be misconstrued. He glanced furtively round the room. No one seemed to have picked up on it. Grateful for that, he continued. ‘She says Gemma Adderley was kept alive after her abduction. She was tortured before she was killed.’
