by Emmy Ellis
Emma took another pull on her fag. On the way out of her mouth, the smoke had her thinking about dragon’s breath. With her finger, she traced her arm tattoo of a fire-breathing dragon standing in front of a castle with five turrets. “Then she must have. I hate blaming her when she’s dead and can’t defend herself.”
“I know, but… Listen, I think we’re going to move away. Robbie’s on board with the idea. I can’t keep living round here.”
Emma almost choked. “You can’t! You know what he said.”
“I do, but what if you come with us? What if we all change our names and tell the police—”
“Fat lot of good that would do. And how are you going to explain a name change to your husband?” God, Suzie could be such a thicko at times.
“Well, we’d have to tell him everything. Without him around, we’d be safe to do that, wouldn’t we? He wouldn’t know where we were.”
“No, it won’t work, because he’d find us anyway, no matter if we have new names. You know what he’s like. He’ll come, then we’ll be dead. I don’t want to fucking die, Suz. Do you?”
“God, no. No! I can’t leave the boys.”
“Well then, we’re stuck here, aren’t we, in this shitty seaside town.” Some days it seemed like even the sea knew their memories, and with each waft of the tide coming up the beach, the watery whispers rushed over the shingles, telling everyone on the shore what had happened. Emma had a thought. “And isn’t that just convenient? We have tourists all year round. He can blame Callie’s murder on that. Someone passing through. Some weirdo on a winter holiday just had the urge to bump a woman off.”
“He would, too.”
Emma bit her lip. “She rang me, you know. Last night.”
“Callie?”
Emma tutted, irritation flaring. “Who else are we talking about here? Yes, Callie. She said someone was in the back garden. She got Nigel from next door to go round there and have a look, but there was nothing, no one. You know how many times she rang me claiming there was a man in the house—that he was in there. I brushed it off—couldn’t get out of work to go to hers anyway, the boss was on and in a mood—and I should have gone there, because—”
“No. You are not going to blame yourself. If you didn’t tell, if you didn’t say anything about… Well, then it isn’t your fault. Maybe it was him there all those times. Maybe he’s changed the rules and hasn’t told us. I wouldn’t put it past him to go to hers and put the shits up her. He can hardly do it to me, what with having Robbie in the house.”
Emma’s stomach rolled over. “What if he does the same to me next?”
“Bloody hell, Em…”
Emma walked to the corner of the pub and glanced up and down the street, fearful he was hanging about and had heard her side of the conversation. Then she blurted, “Maybe it was Callie and he’d been going to her and frightening her as a warning. Then, when she kept saying she was going to open her mouth, he…” Emma hated that idea. Hated it. Why did she let her mind roam like that? Why did she let it all in, time and time again?
“It’s all I can think of,” Suzie said. “I know it wasn’t me, and I believe it wasn’t you.”
“Same. Listen, I have to go.” She couldn’t stand talking about this shit any more tonight. “Are you at work tomorrow?”
“No, I’m having another day off. My chest is still tight. Plus, I rang my manager about Callie. Seems the staff already knew. The police have been there questioning everyone.”
Emma felt sick. All those people, gossiping about their sister.
“Will you come round so we can discuss the funeral?” Suzie asked. “I don’t even know how long they have to keep the body because she was…killed. And we still have to formally identify her, unless they’ll take dental records as proof. Bloody hell, this is so horrible, Em. I don’t want to see her. I don’t think I can stand it.”
“I know.” Emma’s eyes leaked, and she angrily swiped the tears away. She didn’t want to see Callie either, especially knowing her mouth had been sewn up—another clue from him to them. With her mouth closed, she couldn’t talk, and with her…her downstairs bits closed, she couldn’t have sex. Was that what he was saying? That Callie could have no one but him? What about Emma in that regard? And why, then, was it okay for Suzie to be married to Robbie if he still wanted them all for himself?
“Are you still there, Em?”
“Yes. I just drifted off in my head for a minute, that’s all. Okay, we’ll get hold of the police and ask them what happens next. They might even contact us first.”
“Right. Come round whenever. I don’t have to take the kids to school, they’re at Betty’s tonight, so I’ll be here anytime.”
“Good. I’m in no mood to wrestle those buggers into class with you.”
“Me neither.”
“I love you, Suz.”
“Love you, too, Em.”
They said their goodbyes, and Emma sparked another ciggie. Fuck the consequences when she went back in to work. She thought about Ben and Toby, her devil nephews, and contented herself with the fact that they might be little sods, but at least they didn’t have to endure what their mother and aunts had.
If he touched them, she’d fucking kill him.
Now there’s a thought.
Chapter Eight
In the darkness, he sat on the kerb outside Emma’s house and waited. The sea sounded rough, the swish and whoosh of it angry and violent. A bit like him. He needed to speak to her, to ensure she wouldn’t say anything—make it clear that Suzie really would be next if they didn’t keep their traps shut.
Emma had grown into a surly bitch, all that black and white she always had on, her house the same. She’d told him once that what he’d done meant she hated colours, that the only time she properly acknowledged them was in her dreams or when she thought about those fantasy lands she used to blether on about as a kid.
Weird cow.
She’d be here soon, shuffling up the street, her shoulders hunched with grief for Callie and hate for him. Well, he’d warned them all, time and time again, and they hadn’t listened. Someone had told their dad. He’d heard the conversation and hadn’t been able to make out which bitch it had been. And someone had blurted to their mum, what with her calling him to her place and asking questions. He’d bet it was Callie… Well, she’d basically killed herself in the end, the dozy bint. Her recent texts to him were meant to serve as proof for her to have evidence against him, it was well obvious, so he hadn’t answered her in the way she’d clearly wanted. He’d replied that he had no idea what she was on about and she needed help; it was all in her head.
The only time he’d admitted anything was after he’d done a sweep of her house to make sure she didn’t have any listening devices stashed away somewhere. She was batty enough to buy some. Paranoid, that was Callie. She should have known he’d have found them if there were any, so it was a good job she hadn’t bothered using them, wasn’t it.
He’d demanded to check her phone, too. If she’d been recording him, he’d have slapped her to kingdom come for that.
Last night, he’d stood in Callie’s back garden for ages, staring up at her bedroom window, at the light on in there, a lamp placed beside the curtains on her posh girl’s vanity table. She’d had ideas above her station, that one, always wanting to be better than everyone else. Promiscuous, she’d slept her way around town, and he’d heard all about it down the pub. Dirty slapper.
She’d said once that makeup was a mantle—that was exactly what she’d called it, a fucking mantle—and she draped it over herself, like some sort of superwoman cape, using it to help her get through because he’d ruined everything when they’d been little. He’d put bright-blue eyeshadow on her, and it had reminded him of the other woman he’d killed. She was the one who’d started all this, the old bitch.
Whatever. The girls he’d visited after he’d moved out of the family home hadn’t gone off the rails like Callie, although he’d had to dispo
se of them once they’d shown signs of spilling the secret. Elsa, the new girl, now she thought it was great having a man as a boyfriend. He reckoned she’d be good for a few sessions yet. She’d keep her lips sealed and seemed to like him being nice to her. She didn’t need a mantle.
He’d ripped Callie’s nails off, had taken them home, and once all the flesh beneath them was dry, he’d paint them red.
He gripped the sewing kit to his chest. It was too soon to kill again, so it was a good job his kit kept him on an even keel, calming him. Just having it close, knowing what it represented, was enough.
The sound of scraping footsteps echoed, the time between them hitting the pavement long, as though the walker was too tired to put one foot in front of the other. He glanced down the street. There she was, Emma, moving along as if she had the weight of the world on her bony-arsed shoulders, head down, lost in her own world. She was probably thinking about those stupid dragons.
He stood and waited beneath a lamppost, sliding his sewing kit away in his inside denim jacket pocket. He couldn’t wear the mac and the fedora so soon after last night. People might remember a man just like him wearing it around where Callie lived.
He cleared his throat, and Emma tipped her head back sharply.
She gasped and slapped a hand to her chest. “You!”
“Glad to see you remember me. I’m surprised you do. You haven’t answered my last text, taken any of my calls, or opened the door when I’ve been round lately.”
“I didn’t want to,” she snapped. “And is it any wonder?”
She was getting bold, this one. He’d have to take her down a peg or twenty.
Emma brushed past him, more vigour in her steps now, as if annoyance lent her speed. She stormed up her path. He followed her, and she went inside, turning to slam the door in his face. He stuck a foot out so she couldn’t.
“Uh, no,” he said. “We need to talk.”
She stared at him defiantly, and he’d just bet she was thinking of telling him to go and fuck himself. He would, but it wasn’t half as much fun on his own. She sighed and strutted off down the hallway, into the kitchen.
He went inside and closed the front door, slipping the safety chain across. Although he hadn’t reckoned on doing anything tonight, things might go tits up, and plans might have to be changed.
You never could tell.
She was boiling the kettle, the old thing growling; the element was probably thick with limescale where she’d had it for so long. She jammed a round teabag in a black cup and spun to face him where he stood in the doorway.
“Say what you’ve come to say then get out,” she said. “I’ve heard it all before, but I daresay I’ll be hearing it a few more times in my future.”
If she had a future, he’d agree, but either she or Suzie would balls it up and say something eventually—either to him or someone else—and then Emma would be gone, too.
He casually leant on the doorframe. “I don’t think I need to say anything, do I? Three deaths says it all, really.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, eyes that used to show fear but now just glittered with anger, pity, disgust, and a number of other things he didn’t fancy contemplating. He shrugged it off as though it didn’t matter how she saw him now. He didn’t give much of a toss.
“Why did you sew her up?” Emma asked, her bottom lip quivering.
She always had got straight to the point, and oh, he hadn’t expected the police to tell her that. He’d thought maybe they’d keep the gruesome details to themselves until they absolutely had to say something.
“You know why,” he said.
“And Suzie having a blackout. Do you get off on all this or what?” Emma held a hand up. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know what goes through that sick head of yours.” She turned side-on and poured steaming water into her cup, undoubtedly standing that way so she didn’t have her back to him.
There was no telling what he might do, was there.
He hid a smile at that.
“Just make sure you keep your gob closed,” he said, reaching into his pocket to stroke his sewing kit. “Then everything will be fine.”
“I didn’t breathe a sodding word, and Callie’s still dead! Unless Suzie’s lying to me and she—”
“No. She didn’t.”
“What then? Why did you do it? What’s the point in forcing this secret on us if you’re going to go against what you said and kill us anyway?” She spooned sugar out of an open bag of Tate & Lyle. Half of it slid off onto the worktop from her hand shaking.
Anger or fear?
“Callie did it to herself, the silly twat,” he said. “She had a big mouth, your sister.”
“What?” The spoon clanked into the sink beside her, and Emma stared at him, her mouth hanging open.
“She was going to tell. She told me as much.”
“But she wouldn’t have, you know that.” Emma rubbed her forehead. “She was always saying things like that. Same as saying you were in her house in the middle of the night. It was all lies.”
“Ah, but she didn’t lie there. I was in her house. I liked watching her sleeping. It took me back to when she was a kid.”
“Oh God, you’re something else, you are.”
“I know.”
She did turn her back on him then but watched him in the kitchen window, their reflections fuzzy round the edges from the double glazing.
“I don’t know what to say to you to make you see I won’t talk.” She pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her back pocket.
“Don’t do that,” he warned.
“My house, my rules.” She put a fag in her mouth and lit it, sucking so hard her cheeks hollowed. Then blew the smoke over her shoulder in his direction.
Defiant bitch.
He closed his eyes momentarily to stop himself from lashing out at her. “But I’m the man in the house, so when I say don’t smoke, you don’t smoke.”
“But you’re not the man,” she sniped, whipping round to stare at him, cigarette held high. “You never have been. I suppose you think you’re the man of Suzie’s house as well, don’t you?”
“More so than her drip of a husband, yes.” He took a step forward, the plastic case of the sewing kit sliding beneath his sweaty fingers. “I’ve always been the main man. The first man.”
“You never gave us much choice with that, did you.” She glared at him, spots of colour filling her cheeks. “And those gardening gloves. The nails on them. What the fuck did you do that for?”
Well, the police really had been free with the info, hadn’t they.
“Just a little reminder,” he said. “I have things like that in mind for both you and Suzie, and we all know I’ll be leaving them behind once you’re dead.”
“What the hell happened to you to make you like this?” She shook her head, hatred skewing her features into a mask so she looked like her mother when she was annoyed.
That black eyeliner of hers had to go. It wasn’t attractive at all. He didn’t know what all those blokes she shagged were thinking, going with her. She’d ruined herself since she’d become an adult. She was nothing like the sweet-faced Emma of childhood.
“Stop wearing that shit on your face,” he advised. “Callie learnt the hard way to ignore me about makeup. None of you need it.”
“I’ll wear what I damn well please.” She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray then bent down to take milk out of the fridge. She added some to her cup, the carton wavering.
The cheeky cow hadn’t made him one.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” he said.
“D’you know what?” She paused and slammed the milk down. “Piss right off. I’ve had enough of this. Suzie was right. We should m—” She clamped her lips shut.
“You should what?” he asked, moving forward another two steps.
“None of your business.” She went to pick the cup up.
He lunged forward and swiped it off the worktop. She squealed and bac
ked away, staring from the broken cup and spilt tea on the black lino to his face.
“You don’t want to get me angry,” he said. “Or I’ll—”
“Or you’ll what?” she spat. “Kill me?” She chuffed out a bitter laugh. “Well, you’re going to do it at some point, aren’t you, so why not now?”
He tilted his head and regarded her.
Why not, indeed.
Chapter Nine
Helena sat in her office at lunchtime, munching on a cheese and pickle sandwich. She’d spent the morning on a wild bloody goose chase, trying to find Jacob Walker. He was a delivery driver for Waitrose—why did all the family work there except for Emma?—and each time she drove to his next drop-off, he’d been and gone. Andy had grumbled big-time at that, but she’d reminded him to switch his mindset to happy not grouchy. In the end, they’d phoned Jacob, and he’d said he’d be happy to have a chat with them after work. He finished at two and would come to the station.
Why is he at work at a time like this?
With no other leads, and nothing from Zach yet about Callie’s PM, Helena had left Olivia and Phil to poke about some more as well as sift through the doorstep interviews from the people in Callie’s street. Phil had checked CCTV, but of course, there were no cameras on that part of the estate, only outside the row of local shops, and no one had appeared there or from the roads leading out of the estate, so they were shit out of luck. Helena had concluded the killer lived on the same estate or had tromped over the cliff top to get home.
A thousand or so houses. All those people to speak to. She thanked her lucky stars it was a job for the uniforms.
Andy was out at Sports Direct to pick up some gear. She’d been surprised and had thought he’d have called the whole gym thing off. Maybe their chat last night had sunk in after all.
Her desk phone rang, the red light for the front desk flashing. She picked up the receiver. “Hi, Louise.”
“Hi, guv. I’ve had a call from a Suzie Walker, worried about her sister, Emma. Aren’t they the sisters of the murder victim yesterday?”
“Yes. What did she say? Why is she worried?”
