by Emmy Ellis
Or was there?
* * * *
Helena pressed the bell and waited. The door swung open. A woman of about thirty stood there, a boy standing beside her, clamped to her leg. He was two, give or take a few months. His fingers, covered in flour, left white marks on her black jeans.
“Yes?” she asked.
Helena showed her ID. “Sorry to bother you, but do you know your neighbour?” She pointed to Marshall’s house.
“Oh, I remember you,” she said. “You used to go there sometimes at night.”
Helena hoped she didn’t blush. To be reminded that she’d had a relationship with a man who might have killed set her teeth on edge. “Do you know him well?”
“No. He doesn’t speak. I tried waving once, but he didn’t return it.”
“Have you seen anything suspicious around here regarding him? I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Laura Brown. And if you mean him coming in and out at all hours lately, then yes.”
“What sorts of times?”
“Let me see. The other night it was late, after twelve. The night after was long past two. This morning, he went out early and came back around two hours later. He wears this weird mac and hat. Really creepy.”
Helena had found it funny when she’d seen it the first time, but it wasn’t amusing now. “Okay. How did you know he’d come back so late?”
Laura pointed at her child’s head. “He’s a light sleeper. I’d go round to next door and ask him to be quiet but I find him a bit weird. Don’t want to risk him shouting at me or whatever.” She pressed a finger to her chin. “He either talks to himself or shouts at someone on the phone. I’m leaning more towards the first one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if he hasn’t got anyone in his house—that I know of anyway—why would I hear a two-sided convo?”
Marshall hadn’t struck Helena as the type to do something like that, but if she were honest, she didn’t know him, not really. “What sort of thing does he say?”
“Well, if it’s him doing both people’s voices, he talks really deep and calls himself Mr Jeffs, saying stuff like, ‘You’ll never be the man in the house, you horrible little scrote!’ Then as himself, he says stuff I’d rather not repeat.” She pointed to her son again.
Andy held out his notebook and pen. “Write it down for us.”
Laura did, her boy toddling off farther inside the house, clearly bored. She handed the book to Helena.
You need to watch your fucking mouth, or I’ll have you.
Helena glanced at Andy, then back at Laura. “Okay, thanks for that. Anything else you can help us with?”
“Can I ask why you want to know?” Laura rubbed the flour off her jeans. “Do I need to be worried?”
“Let’s just say don’t speak to him, and if he comes here, don’t open the door. Here’s my card,” Helena said. “If you get any bother or see him come home, ring me immediately.”
“Okay…”
“Thanks for your time. You’ve been very helpful.”
Laura smiled and closed the door, and Helena led the way to the car.
“Mr Jeffs,” she said once they were inside and buckling up. She handed him back his notebook. “A split personality or a real person?” She rang Olivia. “Can you look up all men called Jeffs, please, connected to Franklin. We’re heading back now, so I’ll pick the info up when we’re at the station.”
Pissed off at being unable to get into Marshall’s house without a warrant, she backed out of his drive and sped off. “What on earth is going on here?”
“Beats me,” Andy said. “Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” She knew why he was asking but was desperate to make out she was fine.
“Well, with Franklin being Marshall.”
“I’ll have to be,” she said. “As you know, I’ve been through much worse. Maybe I’m lucky to be alive. If it’s him doing this, he could very well want to kill me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
As soon as they drove off, he knocked on his neighbour’s door. She opened it right away, as though she thought Helena and Andy had come back. Her face showed her shock with its open mouth and eyebrows shooting up.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Can I come in for a minute?” He lifted the knife that had been down by his side and held it in front of him, the end pointing at her. It still had Suzie’s blood on it.
“Oh God…” She moved to slam the door, his boot in the way preventing her from managing it.
“Not a good idea. I just want to talk, all right?” He tilted his head and smiled.
She nodded, stepping back, and ran down the hallway into her kitchen. He stepped inside and closed the door, following her. She was by the washing machine, picking her son up, then rushed to the back door and flung it open. She dashed outside and screamed.
He stood at the back door, frowning. “Really no need for that,” he called over the racket she was making. He shook his head. “Come back in. I just want to know what they wanted.”
She shut up and backed to the fence at the bottom. It reminded him of dragging Suzie through the one at the flats.
“I have a child. Please don’t hurt us.” Her eyes were massive through fear.
“What did they want? Answer, and I’ll leave.”
She opened the back gate and reversed through.
Fuck.
He chased her down the alley at the back of the houses, speeding up when it was obvious she’d come out at the end of the street onto a busy thoroughfare where people might see them. But she was whippet-fast and made it there before him. She darted forward, into the road. She was there, in the middle, staring to her left, then she was gone, ploughed down by a black SUV.
And he hadn’t even needed to get his hands dirty.
He walked back up the alley and into his own back garden, through the house, and out to his car. He had someone he needed to see. Stopping in town to buy a bunch of red roses, he drove to Smaltern Secondary and parked where he usually did whenever he collected Elsa, his latest girl. She reminded him of Callie when she’d been the same age. Although school wasn’t even close to finishing, he hoped she’d see him out there through a window.
Five minutes passed.
Out she came and got in, hiding in the back as usual. He drove to their favourite place, the cliff top, and they sat together while he did the things he did to these sorts of girls, then pushed her off the ledge. He couldn’t have her blabbing. Others had been dealt with in different ways, but all of them were gone now. He tossed the roses over, the wind crackling the cellophane for a moment before the bunch vanished.
He made his way to Helena’s so she’d have a nice surprise when she got home from work. Her back door had always had a dodgy handle, wobbly, and it didn’t take him long to break in. He had a relaxing bath using her Avon bubbles, then dried himself with her soft towels. Naked, he rubbed himself all over her furniture, marking it, making sure he was the man in the house.
Then he sat on the sofa and waited.
* * * *
With the news that Mr Jeffs was deceased—suicide by jumping off a cliff—Helena saw no point in them carrying on with overtime. Two PCs out of uniform had been sent to sit outside Marshall’s until he turned up, and with beat officers aware of who they needed to be looking for—Helena had provided them with a picture she’d taken of him while they’d been together—there wasn’t much else they could do.
She dropped Andy home and told him to forget the gym in the mornings for now. They were both knackered, so it was best they resumed when this case was over. Hopefully it’d be soon. She stopped off to get herself a cheeky Burger King—bad for her, but shit, she was too tired to care. A bottle of white wine waited in her fridge, so she’d pop that cork after a bath and try to relax.
That might prove difficult. Her mind spun in all directions. She should have told Chief Yarworth that she couldn’t continue now she’d discovered
Marshall was involved in the case, but she’d never been one to follow the rules that closely and was fucked if she’d let someone else take all the glory for nicking Marshall. And no, she wouldn’t even let it be Andy. This was her collar, and she intended to see it through until the end.
Home, she parked up and collected her dinner off the passenger seat, then gratefully went inside, slipping her shoes off beside the door. Her feet and legs ached—probably not as much as Andy’s, though. She shut the door then walked into the kitchen, placing her Burger King bag and mobile on the worktop. Wine uncorked, she poured half a glass, knocking it back. It burned on the way down, warming her inside, and that reminded her of the nip in the air. She moved into the hallway to turn the thermostat dial, then opened the living room door, intending to switch on the electric fire to heat the house quicker while she was in the bath.
A naked Marshall sat on her sofa directly opposite the door.
What the fuck?
Stomach flipping, she backed into the hallway, sliding her hand into her pocket for her phone. Shit, it was in the kitchen. Darting in there, she grabbed it and cursed having a bloody PIN to unlock the screen. Marshall came in, thudding towards her, and she reversed to the back door. Yanking the handle, she expected the door to be locked, but it opened. She shot outside and legged it down the garden, but he was there, right behind her, gripping her hair and dragging her backwards.
“Help!” she screamed over and over, her training kicking in. Make noise—lots of it. “Fifteen Vickers Terrace. Call the police!”
He hefted her over the doorstep, and her heels caught on it. She grimaced in pain and gave one last scream, long and loud. Punching at him behind her with her free hand, she glanced down while he hauled her into the living room. She pressed her phone icon for contacts, hit Andy’s, and the faint ring meshed with her heavy breathing.
Marshall shoved her onto the sofa, and she dropped her phone between her outer thigh and a scatter cushion. Andy, his voice tinny and far away, asked if she was all right. If she didn’t answer, it would be enough to have him come running.
“What are you doing in my house, Marshall?” she said loudly.
“What were you doing at mine?” he said. “At my neighbour’s?”
He should have looked ridiculous standing there with no clothes on, but he didn’t. It was creepy. She suppressed a shudder.
“I had to deliver a restraining order,” she said.
“So why did you call me Franklin Marston? Who is he, I wonder?”
“You tell me.” She should have said that nicely, not in such an acerbic way, but it was out there now, floating between them.
“I don’t know him anymore,” he said.
“Who is Mr Jeffs?” That had come out better. Calm. Non-abrasive. Like they were just having an ordinary natter. She had to switch from her manic behaviour in the garden to a calmer state. Let him think she wasn’t mad at him now. That she’d had a sudden change of heart.
He stared at her, eyes widening then narrowing in an instant. She’d let him know she knew more than he thought. Had it been a mistake?
“How do you know about him?” he ground out.
“He came up in a line of enquiry. I have a serial killer on my hands. Look, sit down, will you? And if you can’t do that, go and get the wine. I need a drink.”
“Don’t move,” he said and left the room.
I can’t believe he fell for it. She picked her phone up. “Andy?” she whispered.
“Backup on the way,” he said. “As am I.”
“Okay. Back door is open. Got to go.”
She put the phone beside her, making sure the lit screen faced the seat cushion. She could have got up, dashed out of the front door, but she wasn’t letting this man go. Some would say putting herself in danger was foolhardy, and she’d agree with that, but if it meant getting him arrested, she’d do whatever it took.
Marshall came back in and set the wine bottle and glasses on the coffee table, pouring a measure in each. He took his and sat in one of the armchairs beside the door, probably so he could get up quick if she made a run for it. She reached for her drink and sipped.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“Long story.” He gulped some wine.
“I have time.”
“What, are you going to do your police thing on me, is that it? You’re going to try to unbreak my mind by a bit of a chat? Doesn’t work like that.” Sweat broke out on his face, and he tapped his foot, knee bouncing. “Shit, I need my kit.”
Kit?
“Go and get it then, if it’s here, that is.” She crossed her legs. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve had a tough day and need a breather after you shitting the life out of me by being here, so you jog on and do what you need to do. Putting on some clothes might be a good idea and all.” She flopped her head back and closed her eyes for effect.
A scrape—where he’d put his glass on the table? She sensed him leave, the sound of his footsteps on the stairs confirming it. Opening her eyes, she strained to catch the rumble of cars out the front. All was quiet. A creak came from above—him in her bedroom. She dreaded to think what he’d been doing up there before she’d arrived.
She picked up her phone and whispered, “How long?”
“Five minutes,” Andy said.
She placed her mobile beside her just as Marshall came down the stairs. He entered the room in a pair of jeans, swiped up his drink, and sat again. She stared at him pressing a slim, plastic box to his chest. His kit? It wasn’t big enough to hold anything much, about the length of his hand.
“All right now?” she asked.
“Bit better.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“Not about me. I have a few questions. Why did you end it?”
“We weren’t really going anywhere, were we. You’d started to get pissy, if you remember, and I can’t be doing with aggro. Your temper gets the better of you—you’ve got to admit that.”
A scowl rippled his forehead, and his face reddened. Was he about to go off on one? She tensed, ready to spring into action, but he relaxed, and his features smoothed out.
“I thought you were it,” he said. “You know, the one to fix me.”
Bloody hell. He’d thought more about their relationship than she had. To her, they’d just been seeing each other. Fuck-buddies, really, nothing more. Once he’d shown her his darker side, that had been it. Too much hassle. She had enough of her own baggage. Helping him to carry his wasn’t something she could manage.
“Sorry I’m not ‘it’, but we’d never work.” She drank some more wine. It helped calm her nerves, which had decided to pipe up about being jangled. “You need a more understanding woman.”
“Maybe.” He’d said it grudgingly, like he didn’t want to admit she was right.
“Why did you pop round anyway?” she asked, as if he hadn’t been in her house naked and dragged her by her hair. Best to keep it casual, forgetting, for now, it had even happened. Riling him wouldn’t help.
“I needed to see you.” He stroked his ‘kit’.
“What for?” She held her breath—a car was in the street.
“To kill you.”
“Oh.” Her legs numbed, and a buzzing set up home in her ears. “That’s a shame. Why would you want to do that?”
“I need to be the man in the house, and you wouldn’t let me. Said I couldn’t move in. I’d planned it, wanted it, but you fucked it all up. You made me do what I’ve done.”
She wasn’t falling for that old chestnut, taking the blame for his thoughts and actions. Whatever he’d done was on him, not her. He could fuck right off on that one.
“What do you mean, ‘the man in the house’?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as croaky to him as it did to her.
“You wouldn’t understand.” He continued stroking his kit.
“Try me.”
A slight noise of movement caught her attention—out the back, possibly someone walk
ing over the grass.
“No. You need to just shut the hell up.” He sprang out of his chair and lunged towards her.
Helena jumped up and moved to the side, and he went headfirst into the sofa. She straddled him from behind, down on her knees, and gripped his wrists, drawing his arms behind his back. With nothing to secure him with, she was stuck there, hoping the noise she’d just heard was help coming. She wouldn’t have the strength to keep him in place indefinitely. He bucked, trying to throw her off, and she clung on, clamping her inner thighs against his legs.
“You fucking whore,” he said, the words muffled by the seat cushion.
She squeezed his wrists, and his little box fell to the carpet, popping open and displaying the contents. A sewing kit. Her stomach revolted at the sight of the thick needles and threads, cotton so chunky it was the same sort used on the Walker sisters. He lifted his torso, and she reared with him, then he concentrated all his weight on her. Her muscles protested, and she hit the floor, his heaviness on top of her. She still clutched his wrists trapped between them, and he rolled over, her clinging on. He moved up on his knees, then stood, and she still hung on, wrapping her legs around his waist.
He jolted to shake her off. “You fucking bitch.”
They flopped backwards onto the sofa, and the shock of it was a thief, nabbing her breath and stealing it away. He was heavy, pressing his shoulder blades over her face. She attempted to move it to the side so she could breathe, but he added force, pinning her head to the sofa.
“Die,” he said, shoving his shoulders into her even more.
She wrenched her neck with the swiftness of the movement, but it meant her nose and mouth were free. Sucking in air, she dragged up her remaining strength and lifted her pelvis to dislodge him. He didn’t budge. The shape of someone out in her front garden moved past the window, and it would only be seconds now before someone came in to help. Her hands, damp from sweat, itched from her grip on his wrists. He tugged, but she clamped harder, focusing all her attention on keeping hold of him.
It didn’t work. His wrists slipped out of her hands, and he jumped up, grabbing her glass then smashing it on the table. The bowl piece shattered, leaving behind a jagged mountain range of sharp spikes protruding from the stem. He faced her, and she propelled herself to her feet, ready to chop at his hand so he dropped the weapon. He reversed to the doorway one small step at a time, staring at her, seemingly trying to break her with his gaze.
