by Tania Carver
‘Just want to chill,’ she said. ‘What with everything that’s been going on and that. See if we can find something on Netflix?’
‘Great,’ he said, and picked up the remote, pointed it at the TV in readiness.
‘So when can I see them, then?’ She had got used to living in only one flat in the building. She sometimes forgot that the rest of the flats lay beyond the door Keith had just come through.
He looked up, startled. ‘Sorry? When can you…’
‘The flats.’ She smiled. ‘Surely they’re ready for inspection by now. I mean, you’ve been doing them up for ages.’
‘The flats? Soon,’ he said, ‘when they’re ready. Really good and ready.’
‘And then we can start renting them out, thank God,’ she said, taking another mouthful of wine. ‘Making a bit of money.’
He stood up. Smiled at his wife. ‘Why don’t I cook dinner?’
She had her head back, eyes closed once more. She opened them at his words. ‘You sure? We could get a takeaway. Save us both cooking.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, sounding like it really wasn’t. ‘You just sit there, find something for us to watch and leave it to me.’
She grabbed his hand as he walked past. ‘You’re like a little island of tranquillity in a sea of… I don’t know.’
‘Rage?’ he suggested.
She laughed. ‘Rage. Yeah.’
He dropped her hand, walked away.
55
Josephina was playing contentedly on the floor with her Polly Pockets, making up elaborate worlds for them to inhabit. Marina had picked her up from Joy’s, where she’d inflicted Frozen on them for what felt like the three hundredth time, complete with singing and dancing. Marina had laughed, wished life could be as simple and as happy as that all the time.
Now she stood at the window, gazing out at the darkened street, sodium light illuminating only patches, making hidden shadowed swirls out of everything else. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t scared by what those shadows might be harbouring.
She had actually wished Phil was there to talk to about her day. She was pumped, energised by what she was doing again, and wanted to share it with someone. But not just anyone. Him.
So now she stood looking over the city, or her part of it. Watching the lights both near and far, trying to imagine all those lives out there. All those people behind locked doors living their secret, private lives. The joy and hatred, the boredom and excitement, the life and death. All going on around her.
She felt she had absented herself from it, gone into her castle, pulled up the drawbridge behind her. Walls of stone and brick, imaginary and real, to cut her off from the rest of humanity.
And now here she was, thrust back into the middle of it again. Hunting a killer.
In the midst of life we are in death. The old Bible quote. She smiled to herself. Roy Adderley would be familiar with that one. But for her it was different.
In the midst of death was life.
She kept looking. Seeing the shadows, seeing beyond the shadows. Knowing what to look for, but tired of looking. Wondering whether she could live the rest of her life waiting for someone to jump out at her. Wondering what alternatives she had.
Wondering about Phil. Where he was now. What he was doing.
And for the first time in ages, she allowed herself to acknowledge something to herself, admit something and listen to it. She missed him. Really, really missed him.
And more than that.
She wanted him.
Now all she had to do was decide what she was going to do about that.
56
Darkness had fallen. Roy Adderley hadn’t noticed. The street lights had come on outside. He didn’t care. All he cared about was his world. And his world was right here in this tiny little living room.
Or dying room.
‘Trudi, Trudi, I’m s-sorry…’
He cradled her head, or what was left of it, in his arms, blood and other matter covering his sleeves, hands and chest. Her body lay lifeless, half on the floor, half on him. Tears and snot all over his face.
As soon as he realised what he had done, the anger had left him. He had held her body, tried to bring her back to life. But it was no good. There was nothing left of her. Not even a face.
He had prayed. Continuously. First for the breath to return to her body. Then, when he realised that wasn’t going to happen, for forgiveness. Both prayers had been met with a resounding silence. Not even the ticking of a clock to mark the passage of time.
And now it was dark. And Trudi was still gone. Her heart, that seductive, Jezebel’s heart, the one that had enticed him away from his wife, was no longer beating. He had heard it stop. Seen it stop. Made it stop.
God had a plan for Roy Adderley. But this wasn’t it.
And now Roy Adderley was crying. For him, for her.
Forever.
PART FIVE
LIVE BAIT
57
He stood before his shelved boxes once more. Waiting for the hours to pass, hoping that there would be one tonight. Needing. That desperate yearning inside him, that ache for ritual, for closure. But she had to be the right kind of victim.
There had to be one. Had to be. His plan had to move forward, get back on track after the recent setback. And with the police circling, the sooner the better.
He kept staring at the box he had chosen. A jewellery box. It was empty. But soon it would be filled. And then he could move on.
Because this was going to be a special one. A really special one. He had someone – and a memory – reserved for this one. And it would be a huge turning point in who he had been, who he was now, and what he would become. Critical, in fact. So he had to get it right, make it work. Ensure everything was perfect.
The box, to start with. He had had this one in mind for a while. Had brought it down for just this memory. It was covered in shells, like something a child would make. And in fact a child had made it. That seemed right, somehow. Apposite. Especially for the memory he was going to summon up.
He was twenty-one. Her name was Hannah. And she was beautiful. Long blonde hair, which he didn’t usually go for, quite tall, curvy. Very well proportioned. The kind of figure that got stared at on the street. That got her into places – from buses to nightclubs to stadium gigs, to anywhere she wanted – for free. And she would dress to match this. Cut-off jeans, halter tops. Everything clung, was accentuated, exposed. But – and he wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t got to know her so well – she wasn’t aware of any of it. Her looks, her figure, anything. She wasn’t scheming, calculating, didn’t get men – or women – to do things for her. She didn’t need to. She was pleasant and honest. Happy being who she was, with her place in the world. She smiled a lot. And when she did, it felt like she’d made your day.
Like most people, he fell in love with her. But unlike the rest, he actually got to do something about it.
He met her at a nightclub. She was with her friends, politely fending off unwelcome enquiries, happy to accept drinks from boys she either knew or liked.
He thought he had no chance.
And then he bumped into her on his way to the lavatory. An actual bump. He apologised for not seeing her. She said it was her fault entirely, and they got talking. Soon they were seeing each other, then they were an item.
And he couldn’t have been prouder.
At first things went well. He was always happy to be seen out with her, to show her off like she was an item of jewellery or designer clothing that someone like him wouldn’t have been expected to be able to afford. But the thing was, he loved her. Really, really loved her. Probably more than she loved him, if he thought about it. But he never did. Never, ever did.
And then it happened. She found out she was pregnant. She had put off telling him, asking him out somewhere special, somewhere that meant something to them both, to break it to him. An Italian restaurant on Queensway. No one else they knew
went there, preferring the chain restaurants. But they liked it. Or he did. Made him feel more sophisticated, less of the herd.
Listen, I’ve got something to tell you. It’s… really difficult and there’s… Oh God. I’m pregnant. Leaning in close, ensuring no one would be able to overhear.
He just stared at her. Unable to speak. She stared back, waiting.
Eventually he found his voice. How… how long?
A couple of months. I wasn’t well. Did a test. Then another. Then when I was sure, I went to the doctor’s. And yes, I’m pregnant.
He looked at her over the weak flickering light cast by the candle in the Chianti bottle. Her eyes, normally so full of life, of joy, now seemed full of fear and uncertainty. As if childhood had come to a sudden horrific end and she was realising what it was like to be an adult.
He smiled at her. It’ll be fine, he said, taking her hand in his. We’ll manage. Don’t worry.
They talked some more – lots more – about what was happening. He would stand by her, she needn’t worry about him, he would be there for her. He told her all that.
And when he left her, he began to think. He was going to be a father. Have a child of his own. In the days that followed, he planned in his head what course his life would now take. What he would do to provide for Hannah and the baby. He kept calling her, but she never seemed to be around. Probably sleeping, he thought. Until she called him about a week later.
How’s my little mother to be? he said, laughing.
Silence.
Hello?
I’m… I got rid of it.
He stood there, unable to take in what she had said. You… you…
I got rid of it. Had an abortion. The words harder now, slightly more shrill.
Got rid of it? he said. But… but we talked about it. What we were going to do. How we were going to make ends meet. Manage. Our future. With our child.
A sigh on the line. That’s just it. We don’t have a future. I’ve done a lot of thinking. And I realised a few things. I don’t want a child. I don’t want to be a mother. Not yet, anyway. Not for years. And… She paused. Another sigh. Not with you. I don’t love you. I don’t think I ever did. But you were kind to me and you liked me. You treated me well, which is more than a lot of guys have done. So thank you. But I don’t… I’m sorry…
She put the phone down.
He tried to call her, to see her, but he wasn’t able to do either. It was like she had disappeared from the face of the earth. Gone. And taken his child with her.
He had heard from her years later. Facebook. Married with three children. Happy and smiling. Her figure no longer as it had been, but she didn’t seem to care. She seemed totally content with who she was now.
And he hated her for it.
He snapped back to the present. Looked at the shell-decorated box once more. Felt that gnawing yearning in his guts again. Soon, he thought, soon. It had to be. Tonight.
He stood back, checked his watch.
Waiting. He hated waiting.
But it wouldn’t be long.
Until he found a heart to atone for the crimes Hannah had committed against him. To be finally free of her memory.
58
You’ll be wondering why I called you all here…
That was what Marina wanted to say, but she knew she shouldn’t because she didn’t know these people well enough yet. And also it seemed too flippant a thing to do. Plus she hadn’t actually called the meeting.
But she couldn’t help it. She felt if not happy, then giddy. That was the best word she could find. Giddy. Back at work, doing what she loved, all of that. But there was something else, something overriding all of that. She didn’t feel scared any more.
She was in the Six Eight Kafé on Temple Row and it was stupidly early. Or at least it was for her. The other two people with her seemed more used to the hour. Imani Oliver sat opposite her, but this time she was joined by DCI Cotter.
Joy had once again rearranged her lectures and Josephina had gone to the early breakfast club at school. Marina had hated to do that, to let her go, but she had no choice. She had looked over the security arrangements at the school, satisfied herself that no harm would come to her daughter and said goodbye. Josephina seemed quite happy to be there early: more time to play with the friends she couldn’t often see after school.
A pre-briefing briefing, Cotter had called it on the phone. Marina was intrigued. And also pleased: clearly she had done something right the previous day.
‘Thanks for coming,’ said Cotter, once everyone had ordered what they wanted and sat down, small talk opened and stowed away once more.
Cotter had gone for coffee and a piece of cake. While Marina had nibbled at her almond croissant, Cotter’s cake lay untouched. Not just untouched, avoided.
Marina took in the DCI’s trim, gym-honed figure and surmised what she was doing. She remembered reading about Aleister Crowley, the infamous occultist. He believed that the human spirit could conquer any kind of temptation. One of Crowley’s particular vices was drugs. She had read that he used to sit in his chamber surrounded by bowls of heroin and cocaine, fighting the urge to partake of them, nurturing his strength of spirit. She imagined Cotter doing something similar with that slice of cake. The fact that Crowley died a hopeless drug addict was the one part of the story she didn’t want to dwell on.
‘I’ve been doing some thinking,’ said Cotter, ‘and I wanted to run something by you both. See what you thought.’
Marina exchanged a glance with Imani, said nothing. Having been hooked, they waited for Cotter to reel them in.
‘Imani, how d’you feel about being a Judas goat?’
Imani frowned. ‘Sorry?’
Marina understood immediately.
‘If he’s intercepting calls to the refuge and picking up his victims that way, we need someone on the inside. Someone who can play the part of an abused woman.’
‘And you think I can do that?’ Imani’s eyes were wide.
‘Yes,’ said Cotter. ‘You phone the refuge tonight – Marina can coach you, make you sound convincing. Then, once you’ve been accepted, you’ll be given a place to be picked up. When he arrives, we’ll be waiting for him. What d’you think?’
Imani looked between the two of them. Marina could understand her trepidation.
‘You’re sure you’ll be there?’
‘We’ll have prepared hours in advance. The whole team will be behind you. Armed response, the lot. All we have to do is wait for him to turn up, then bang. We’ve got him.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘You game for that?’
Imani looked thoughtful. Marina could tell that whatever reservations she had were being tempered by the excitement of the opportunity. ‘Sure,’ she said.
Cotter smiled. ‘Good.’
Imani frowned again. ‘One thing. How d’you know he’ll be listening tonight?’
Marina leaned forward. ‘May I?’ she said.
Cotter gestured: the floor was hers.
‘From everything I went through yesterday, he’ll be restless. He messed up with Janine. Botched it completely. That means he’s only conducted an incomplete ritual with the heart. No preparation time to do whatever he does. And he’ll hate that. He’ll want to get back on the horse as quickly as possible. Because that incomplete ritual will be burning him up. He won’t be able to think properly, concentrate on anything, until he’s done it.’
‘Sounds plausible,’ said Imani.
‘And also,’ continued Marina, ‘because of where he is in his cycle, he’s much more likely to make mistakes and be in a hurry.’
‘So that should, theoretically, make him easier to catch,’ said Cotter.
Marina nodded.
‘Or it might make him more dangerous,’ said Imani.
‘He’ll be more prone to making mistakes,’ said Marina. ‘That’s a certainty.’
‘Well,’ said Cotter, ‘it’s a calculated risk. A chance we’ll have to take. We’ll be there, we’ll
be ready for him. Worst-case scenario, he doesn’t show. Best case, we’ve got him.’
‘What about the refuge? Do they know?’ asked Imani.
‘Not yet,’ said Cotter. ‘Perhaps you could deal with that, Imani. You seem to be building a rapport with the woman in charge there.’
‘Will do.’
A faint smile flickered on Cotter’s lips. ‘Take DC Patel with you again, if you like.’
Imani looked at her coffee. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Cotter looked towards Marina as if seeking a co-conspirator. Marina gave a professional smile in return.
‘Right then,’ said Cotter, looking at her slice of cake, ‘let’s finish up and go to the morning briefing, let the rest of the team know what’s happening.’
They drank up, made ready to go. Marina looked at the piece of cake.
‘You not eating that?’ she asked Cotter.
Cotter looked slightly shamefaced. ‘I’ll… take it with me. Have it later.’
Marina smiled. ‘Course you will,’ she said.
59
At first, Roy Adderley was going to go as he was. Dressed in the clothes he had been questioned and held in, covered in Trudi’s dried blood and bodily fluids. He felt it was important to do that. A pilgrimage. Wearing his version of sackcloth and ashes.
But wiser counsel prevailed. A calmer, saner voice. And he knew who it was who had spoken to him. The thoughts, the words hadn’t come from inside himself, from his own inner man or conscience. No. It was God. Jesus. The guv’nor.
He had sat all night on the living room floor. Crying at first, then praying, then crying some more. Then another bout of frantic praying. Until at last he had nodded off, come round with his head slumped down on to Trudi’s. And with the wakening, acceptance of what he had done. He had sat unmoving, waiting for the coming of dawn, silently mouthing prayers and sections of scripture he knew by heart – even inappropriate sections, just as long as he said something – preparing her soul for the journey across. It was, he felt, the least he could do for her.
