The Man in the House

by Emmy Ellis

  Two officers in black gear filled the doorframe behind him, but Helena didn’t make direct eye contact. She didn’t want Marshall knowing they were there. She hoped they’d stay where they were so she could get some form of confession out of him.

  “What are you going to do, kill me with that?” she taunted, gesturing to the glass stem. “Are you going to put nail varnish in my mouth and a flower inside me, then sew me up, too?”

  He’d registered that she knew it was him—his cheeks and forehead slackened, his mouth flopping open, jaw elastic.

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” he said, face contorting, anger giving it the impetus to form mean lines and hard planes, turning him into a monster.

  A demon.

  “What, you don’t want to talk about what you did to those women? Blimey, you’re such a narcissist, I’d have thought you’d have jumped at the chance to brag.”

  “You don’t talk about them,” he said, standing still, his arms bowed, biceps flexing.

  Those women hadn’t stood a chance against him. He was so big, so strong.

  “I can talk about whoever I like, especially those who can no longer speak for themselves. I mean, you sorted that, didn’t you, making sure they couldn’t tell your secrets.”

  That was a guess, but she’d hit the mark. He frowned, the cogs turning.

  “Yes, Suzie told me all about you,” she lied. “The flowers outside their room, the nail varnish, the picnic, the camping in the garden. Did you think leaving the bowl and strawberries was a nice touch? And let’s not forget you getting Jacob to steal money so you could buy booze and fags. Why couldn’t you just steal it yourself? Too scared?”

  Fuck, she’d gone too far.

  His features tightened. “They deserve to be dead. I should have killed them years ago, the little cows.”

  That’ll do, thanks.

  She nodded at the coppers.

  Marshall bolted forward, the remains of the glass heading straight for her neck. The officers flashed into the room, grabbed him between them, and cuffed him inside seconds, the glass stem falling to the floor. Helena blew out a breath, her heart going crazy, adrenaline flushing her system, satisfaction at pushing Marshall’s buttons giving her a heady rush.

  She stepped forward and stared into the eyes of a killer. “Franklin Marston, Marshall Rogers, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder…” She recited what had to be said, and it seemed he was piercing her psyche with his mad eyes. Unnerved for a couple of seconds, she shook it off, straightening her shoulders. “May you rot in Hell, you filthy piece of shit.”

  She left the room, going to open the front door, and Andy stood on the other side. The officers carted Marshall past her, and he spat in her face. She left it there until he’d been put inside the meat wagon, then cuffed it off. Turning, she went inside, straight to the bottle of wine, and took a long swig.

  Andy stood in the doorway. “I won’t say anything if you don’t.” He gestured to the bottle.

  “I’m off duty, mate, so you can stuff that up your arse.”

  He laughed, and Helena joined in, his low and throaty, hers a tad sharp and high.

  Hysteria. It got to the best of people.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Uthway opened the storage container door, and a shaft of light blinded her. It was stronger than before, when his friend had come in, and time had passed, so she could only assume it was a new day. He left it open and strode towards her, anger stripping his face of any speck of kindness he might have lurking inside him. It would be somewhere deep and hidden, she knew that much.

  “On your feet,” he said. “You’re a right shit state and need a wash.”

  It was a struggle getting up with her wrists tied, but she managed it. Funny how standing in front of him naked didn’t matter anymore. He knew her body, the dips and curves, so trying to hide them was pointless.

  She glanced down at herself. Grit and dirt from the corner covered her skin, and that didn’t matter either. He’d kill her at some point, so a bit of filth wouldn’t hurt. Not half as much as what he probably had planned. She’d tracked him for months after bodies had washed up on the shore, ancient symbols carved into their skin. Always the same ones. They’d drafted in an expert, and eventually they’d discovered what the circle with the strange etchings inside it meant: I am God; you will obey.

  It was something he’d said to a potential victim, but she’d managed to get away. Emilija, from Lithuania, had helped Helena with information that had led to her finding out where Uthway was holed up.

  “Why the symbols?” Helena had asked.

  “They did not listen to him, so he killed them. It was his message to the rest of us,” Emilija had said. He is God; we must obey. We have to do what he wants with those men. They are getting us ready for sale. We must then obey our new masters.”

  Helena shivered at the recollection of Emilija speaking as though she still had to feel that way and do those things.

  Uthway laughed. “Cold, are you? You’ll be a damn sight fucking colder in a minute.”

  He grabbed her elbow, digging his fingers in, and dragged her to the entrance. Helena blinked in the harsh light, blinded again for a moment, then her vision adjusted. They were near the edge of the cliff, the storage container one of many perched on top of a concrete expanse, some red, some green, some blue. He moved down the two steps and tugged her with him, and she winced at the sharpness of rogue stones digging into her feet. Her container was the last in a row, closest to the ledge. He took her down the side of it, where several black buckets filled with water sat in the shape of a flower, one in the middle, the rest grouped around it.

  He untied the ropes, and blessed relief filled her at the same time as a burning set up on her skin, pulsing, itching.

  “No point running,” he said. “I’ve got blokes posted everywhere. I’ll let you wash yourself.” He pointed to a sponge, a cup, some bodywash, and shampoo. “Hurry up. There’s people who want to meet you.”

  Helena thought about Emilija and who those people undoubtedly were. Wasn’t Helena too old to be sold in the sex slave trade? “I’m not young enough for them.”

  “Nah, some of the old duffers like women your age. They’ve got a bit more experience. I’ve tried the goods, and I reckon you’re good to go.” He jabbed a finger at the buckets. “Get a fucking move on.”

  She dipped her hands and arms into one bucket, the sting of her wrists almost too much from the ice-cold water. It perked her up, bringing life to her weary bones. Sluicing her face had never felt so good, though, and she picked up the cup to pour water over her head. It took her a while to get clean all over, her body aching from the abuse, from her scrunched-up position in the corner, and even though the sun was out, she shivered from the chill.

  He threw her a navy-blue towel with that weird insignia stitched into it in gold thread, and she wrapped herself in it, using one corner to soak up some of the water in her hair while working out exactly where they were. It was the lowest part of the Smaltern coast. There was no beach, and the sea, near the base, was as deep as it was farther out. To her left, then left again, the cliff sloped downwards, leading to a road which, in turn, led to town.

  If she ran that way, someone would catch up with her, or worse, shoot her in the back. But if she moved forward…

  She pelted across the grass, letting go of the towel, and leapt off the ledge, staring down at a flat, calm sea waiting to greet her in its fluid arms. She didn’t scream, didn’t even think, just let herself be in the moment. The slap of her feet on the surface had her gasping, then she was submerged, shooting down at speed into depths unknown, her lungs bursting, a voice whispering in her head that this was it, this was how she was going to die.

  She struggled against the momentum then, pushing upwards, using her feet as flippers, her arms seemingly useless, without strength, to shove the water aside and get her to the top. The closer she got to life, the sun appeared as a filtered circle, its rays casting l
ight, illuminating specks of sea filth bobbing along. She breached the surface and gasped for air, treading water, blinking, getting her bearings.

  Then she swam towards the direction of town, glancing over her shoulder once to see Uthway at the top of the cliff, staring her way, and she wondered why he didn’t get one of his rifles and shoot her.

  “I’m coming for you, bitch!” he shouted, the words just about reaching her.

  “No,” she said to herself, “I’m coming for you.”

  * * * *

  Helena woke, gasping for breath, her limbs heavy, as if she’d swum in that bloody cold sea all over again. She blinked away the image of her dragging herself onto the shingle and waving down a woman walking her dog. Helena had still been naked, and it hadn’t mattered again. Nothing had mattered except ringing Andy to let him know where Uthway was.

  She forced herself out of bed and had a shower, pissed off with her nightmares, which would plague her until Uthway had been caught, and probably after that, too.

  Clothes on, she headed for Andy’s, waiting by the kerb for him to come out. At the station, Louise called Helena over. Helena waved Andy on, and he nodded, going up the stairs.

  “What’s up?” Helena leant on the front desk.

  “Got another body, guv,” Louise said. “Well, three, but two are from a road traffic accident yesterday—a Laura Brown and her two-year-old son from Lincoln Road. The other one is—”

  “Wait, what?” Had Helena heard that right? “Lincoln Road, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck. Okay, how did the accident happen?”

  Louise tapped on her keyboard and stared at her monitor. “She was holding her son, running out of an alley behind the Lincoln Road houses. She rushed out into the road, and they got mowed down by a vehicle. SUV. A man was seen at the end of the alley when the car hit them, then he ran the other way. House-to-house enquiries were carried out, but not everyone was home to answer questions. Officers are there again now, trying to catch people before they go to work.”

  Could Laura have been running from Marshall? Helena had told Laura not to let him in, but what if he broke in and she’d had to run? Guilt swished in her belly. There wasn’t anything else she could have done, though. At the time, it hadn’t been likely Marshall would even go to Louise’s. She hadn’t been in imminent danger.

  Or so I thought.

  “Christ. And the other one?” She swallowed hard.

  “Young girl, Elsa Pastle, thirteen. Possible cliff-jumper, but a bunch of red roses washed up on the shore a few metres down from where she did, so it seems a bit suss. Thought it would be something you’d need to know about. She was found yesterday afternoon, and Zach dealt with her, so you might want to give him a ring.”

  Red roses… Helena’s skin prickled with dread. “Okay. Yes. On that now.”

  She bounded up the stairs then into the incident room.

  “Guv?” Olivia called.

  “Yes?”

  “The reason Franklin/Marshall’s NI number went cold is because he was paid cash in hand. His boss admitted to it on the phone just now.”

  “Righty ho.” Helena went into her office. Using the desk phone, she dialled Zach’s number at the morgue, and he answered straight away. “Hi,” she said. “It’s Helena. I hear you have three new bodies—a woman and her son, and a cliff-jumper.”

  “Good morning to you, too, and yes, it’s lovely to hear from you.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “The pleasantries will have to wait. This is urgent.”

  “I’m only messing. Yes, Laura and William Brown, RTA, and Elsa Pastle, although she didn’t jump, she was pushed. Fingertip marks on her back.”

  “Bloody hell. Forensics have the roses, I take it?”

  “Yes. Cellophane wrapper, so you might get lucky if whoever held them had greasy fingers and left a print the water didn’t manage to wash away.”

  “We wouldn’t be that lucky,” she said. “Her parents have been dealt with, yes?”

  “As far as I’m aware. Why, didn’t you do it?”

  “Um, no. I was at home, in no state to work. I had to give statements. We pulled Marshall in last night. He’s the Walker killer.”

  “What? Bloody hell! I can’t believe it was him!”

  “I know. Could have been me—that’s what was going through my head, so I didn’t think it was wise to go back to work and question him, and I wouldn’t be allowed to anyway, what with our connection. That’s a job for Andy. A night in a cell might make Marshall more likely to talk.”

  “I’m really sorry it was him,” Zach said, sounding shocked. “Are you okay?”

  “Apart from knowing I was in a relationship with a killer? Yes, I’m okay. Let’s not talk about this now. I have to go and watch Andy speak to him, and now there are three more people to ask Marshall about.”

  “You think they’re to do with him?”

  “Laura Brown was his next-door neighbour, and the roses relating to Elsa…”

  “I see. Which reminds me. Suzie Walker. Purple nail varnish in her mouth, plastic forget-me-nots down below.” He sighed. “He really is a sicko.”

  “I know, and I didn’t pick up on it at all. Okay, I spotted the temper, the switch from charming to attempting to control, but I’d never have put him down as a killer. Just goes to show, doesn’t it, that they walk among us, hiding in plain sight, there, right there, and we walk past them, get served by them in shops, whatever, or in Marshall’s case, he’s in your fucking kitchen or bathroom, putting up tiles. Bloody frightening.” Icy fingertips dotted up her spine. “Did you get any feedback on the blood found beside Callie?”

  “Fake.”

  She couldn’t understand what that had been in aid of. “Right, I must be getting on. I’ll catch up with you later about another date.”

  “I was going to ask. Yep. Speak soon.”

  She placed the receiver in the dock and hauled in a breath. Andy had a man to speak to, and she wanted a proper confession.

  * * * *

  Helena sat in front of a monitor in a small room and watched the screen.

  Marshall seemed to have shrunk overnight, as though his usual bravado that pumped up his muscles had now deserted them. Andy and Phil sat opposite, while one of the duty solicitors sat beside him, a morose-looking man in his fifties, Garth Trent, who always seemed as though he needed a dose of good news to entice his lips up instead of being perpetually downwards.

  The interview had gone well so far, with Marshall blaming Franklin for the murders, him stating he had two sides of himself, so it wasn’t his fault. Helena didn’t believe he needed a medical evaluation just yet, so through Andy’s earpiece, she told him to press on.

  “We found Callie Walker’s fingernails in your house last night,” Andy said. “Got anything to say about that?”

  Marshall shrugged.

  “What about the blood on Callie’s carpet?”

  “Franklin says it was to remind him of the foster mother. The blood at her house after…”

  What?

  “As well as Suzie Walker, three people were found dead yesterday.” Andy stared at him. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “I don’t, but Franklin might.”

  Phil coughed.

  “What do you think Franklin might know about your next-door neighbour, Louise Brown, and her little boy, William?” Andy asked.

  Marshall shrugged yet again. “The silly cow ran, didn’t she.”

  Helena wanted to slap him.

  Andy went on, “And what about Elsa Pastle? Do you know anything about her?”

  “She’s just some kid. Had to get rid of her. She might have talked.”

  “Am I speaking to you right now?”

  “Who the hell else are you speaking to? Fuck me…”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marshall, you know it is.”

  “Only, you said you didn’t know anything about it but Franklin might, yet you just spoke to me as M
arshall, telling me about Laura, William, and Elsa. What am I supposed to make of that?” Andy drummed his fingertips on the desk.

  Helena was glad she’d followed her gut and hadn’t sent Marshall off to be assessed. He was pulling a fast one, the bastard.

  “Piss off.” Marshall folded his arms across his chest and slumped in the chair, dipping his chin to his chest.

  Andy said, “Pending our investigations, and in light of what you just said, we will be adding the charge of suspected murder of Laura Brown, William Brown, and Elsa Pastle to the list along with Suzie Walker, Emma Walker, and Callie Walker.”

  “There’s more,” Marshall said.

  A jolt of surprise had Helena sitting straighter.

  “Will you be telling us who else you’ve killed?” Andy asked.

  “Some girls, an old bitch who fostered me, and Mr Jeffs, the wanker.”

  What about Mr and Mrs Walker?

  Anger burned through Helena, and she rose, staring down at the screen.

  “Interview suspended at nine forty-seven.” Andy sighed, nodded to the constable in the corner, then left the room, Phil trailing after him.

  Helena had work to do, as did her team, poking into who the foster mother might have been and checking the death of Mr Jeffs again. It seemed he hadn’t jumped off a cliff after all.

  She walked out of the room and into the reception area. Louise called her over.

  “Call me nosy,” Louise said, “but I’ve had a look at past reports of teenage girls committing suicide off the cliffs. There are a few of them over the years, and each parent swears the kids wouldn’t have done such a thing. Now, I know that’s a common thing to say, but what if they’re right?”

  Helena nodded. “Elsa was pushed, so I get where you’re coming from. Sort a list of these girls for me and email it to Olivia. I have to nip to see Jacob Walker and Robbie Naul in a sec to tell them they can go home, but I need to pop upstairs to let Olivia and Phil know they have a busy day of trawling ahead.”