by Leona Turner
“Yeah, you, too.”
A kindly lie; that was all she needed.
“Do you want a drink?”
Before she had chance to answer, he spoke again.
“I miss you, Clare. Just have a drink with me would you?”
Before logic could make a move, she’d accepted.
Finding a table they sat down and three hours and numerous drinks later she had to admit she was enjoying his company. It had been just like before the split, before her life had imploded.
“Would it be ok to walk you home? I don’t like the idea of you walking home alone; there are loads of drunken tossers about, and they’ve still not caught that killer yet.”
Clare looked him straight in the eyes; she knew it was a bad idea. All that crap about worrying about her safety was a ruse to get her into bed, but at that moment in time she didn’t care.
“Yeah, sure, that’d be great. Cheers.”
Getting up, he moved closer to her, wrapping an arm around her waist, and they moved together toward the door.
“You did what?” Even through the phone Hannah’s voice was so loud it almost shook the plaster from the walls.
“I slept with Dean. You know this is your fault; if you hadn’t left me in the bar last night—”
“Oh no, I am not taking the blame for this one. And what about what he did to your car?”
“He apologised.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then.” The statement was loaded, but Clare chose to ignore it.
Both women were feeling relieved to have something other than the assault to focus on.
“So is it all back on, then?”
“No, it was a one off, no more no less.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve got enough going on without starting all that crap again.”
“Fair enough. Now, on a completely separate note, have you seen the latest? They’ve found another two bodies.”
“What?”
“Yeah, really nasty, actually. They were found together.”
“Together?”
“Taped together; one guy starved to death, the other had been taped to him and left to die.”
“Oh, nice one, Hannah, I was just about to get my dinner.”
“Sorry, but it’s gross, isn’t it? I mean, who thinks up these things?”
“A sick individual, I guess. Anyway, you got anything planned three weeks from Saturday?”
“No, why?”
“Well, I thought we could try going to that new spa—oh, what’s it called? The Retreat. They’ve got a special offer on that weekend and I thought we could take advantage of it. They do facials, massage, and I hear they’ve got a great gym.”
“Well, you can sign me up for the massage and facial, but you’re on your own in the gym. All I want to do is relax.”
“Well, it was just an option. So shall I book us in for the Friday and Saturday night, then?”
“Yeah, that sounds great.”
“Ok, well I’ll get onto that now. I don’t know about you, but I could do with getting out of town for a while.”
“Me, too. See you later, hon.”
“Yeah, see you later.”
Clare hung up the phone and returned to the living room. She was relieved Hannah hadn’t judged her too harshly. Smiling to herself, she picked up the brochure for The Retreat and started flicking through its pages, deciding what treatments she was going to have. For the first time in weeks, Clare was starting to feel in control of her life again, and that pleased her.
Chapter 29
Holt sat in his flat and stared around at the bare walls surrounding him; he’d never bothered to redecorate when he’d moved in. Now, looking around him, he wondered at himself, a fifty-five-year-old man who still didn’t want to settle down. It was a characteristic that had eventually driven his wife away. She’d never known him, not really. Truth was, he didn’t want her to; for her to know him she’d have to know his secrets about his upbringing. Things he didn’t like to think about, let alone discuss openly. He couldn’t let her know for two reasons: firstly, by divulging secrets that still haunted him, he was readily handing her a stick with which to beat him with whenever they had an argument; secondly, if that happened, he was petrified his reaction would turn him into the person he despised most in the world—his father.
All children are scared of the bogeyman, a fictitious character that lurks under their bed and only appears when the bedroom lights are out. Only the bogeyman isn’t fictitious, and it didn’t live under the bed; it hid in every drinking cabinet in the country, and, for the most part, stayed there. Sometimes, though, it made an appearance. It did so in his house most evenings. His father was a prison officer, a role he’d take home with him. The routine was always the same: he’d come home and his first port of call was the drinks cabinet. By the time Holt was going to bed, his father would be steaming drunk and spoiling for a fight, and he’d always find one. Unfortunately, Holt was usually the one on receiving end. He’d be black and blue from the neck down, and his father, who was always so repentant the next day, would lavish affection on him for a couple of days before the cycle started again. After the beating Holt would lie on his bed, tears staining his reddened cheeks, and wonder what the inmates at the prison would think if they knew the way Officer Holt spent his evenings. For the first few years his mother had tried to intervene, but all that did was earn her a black eye and infuriate his father more. Eventually she had given up, and even though Holt had previously wished she wouldn’t get involved, the realisation that no one was going to try and save him had hurt more than the beatings. The last bit of resilience left with his mother’s back as she walked out of the room.
Yes, the bogeyman was alive and well; to this day Holt had lost count of the reports of domestic violence where alcohol was involved. The reason for his distrust of psychologists and psychiatrists probably stemmed from the fact that he’d been made to keep secrets since he was born. Lying about his mother’s bruises, keeping his arms and legs covered all year round to avoid awkward questions about his own abrasions. One night, when his father had been in an even more fearsome mood than usual, he’d broken Holts arm in three different places. Watching his father from his hospital bed as he played the concerned dad had looked so alien to Holt that it was all he could do to stop himself laughing out loud. Psychologists and psychiatrists tried to break those boundaries down and get into your head, forcing you to confront upsetting issues from your past. Holt sometimes wondered why they should want to do that; at the end of the day there was a reason these things got hidden so deeply.
Alcohol lived in every home in the country, acted as your best friend at first, made you more confident, helped you unwind, helped you forget. Then once you’d pledged your allegiance to it, it took everything—your livelihood, your family, and finally your life. Holt thought the reason he hadn’t wanted children was because he was afraid what they might turn into: chav, goth, or gobshite. But now, on closer reflection, he realised that it wasn’t what he feared they might turn into that had stopped him; it was what he might turn into. When his wife had finally turned forty and was being deafened by the ticking of her biological clock, she’d given him an ultimatum, one he couldn’t accept, and he’d reluctantly had to let her go. He couldn’t blame her; it was his hang-up, not hers.
The recent killings were making headline news and putting his police station under very close scrutiny. It was starting to feel as if every day was lasting a year; each week he became more and more tired. He forced his mind back onto the case again.
He would go back to Andre’s and speak to the landlord again. He must have wondered about a package being delivered to one of his regulars there. He knew the package had been hand delivered and left outside the back door. But it was still the best lead they had. Besides, it gave him the opportunity to ask about a fight Tom Webber had said Adam had been involved in two weeks prior. Holt retrieved his mobile from his pocket and r
ang ahead to let the landlord know he was on his way. Then getting up, he slung his jacket on for the second time that day and headed for the door. Getting into his car Holt drove to Andre’s lost in his thoughts. Ten minutes later, he arrived in the Andre’s Bar car park.
Within Andre’s, the landlord; Al Marsh, stood nervously by the door waiting for Inspector Holts arrival When Alan had taken the call and found that the chief inspector had wanted to speak with him again, his stomach had dropped. He knew he hadn’t done anything to warrant the fear he had felt, but funnily enough that hadn’t helped. These murders were national news, and he didn’t like the idea that his bar would come under scrutiny. Once upon a time someone had said, ‘All publicity is good publicity.’ Al wondered if that particular person had ever had an active serial killer use their business as a postal depot. He couldn’t help thinking that if they had they wouldn’t have had that literary gem tripping off their tongue quite so readily. Since the news of his bar being associated with a murder victim—along with the fact that the killer was well aware of the bar’s location—trade had dropped off quite substantially. He had only had the bar for six months and it’d been the busiest place in town for five of those. Now he wasn’t sure if it would make it to Christmas. He only hoped that this Inspector Holt was going to have something good to tell him and that he wasn’t going to be looking for more information that he didn’t have. One look at the man, though, had told him that good news couldn’t have been further away.
As Holt walked into the bar and saw Al waiting for him it saddened him. He knew the man had been waiting for his bar’s reprieve, to be told the killer had been caught and the eyeball thing had been an elaborate prank so he could return to a normal existence again. ‘Normal.’ Holt couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that. He got out of his car and walked through into the bar area with Al.
“Would you like a coffee or anything?”
Holt sat down.
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Ok. So what was it you wanted to ask me about? I’ve told you everything I could about that night.”
“I know, but I was just wondering if you knew anything about the fight Adam had?”
“Adam in a fight? Are you insane? He liked to play the big man, but that’s as far as it went: play. Bloody hell, he could have a row, gobby bastard that he was, but for all his bravado, he couldn’t make it physical; it’d smack too much of hard work. Besides, he loved his looks too much to risk a broken nose.”
“Well, a broken nose he got. In your toilets two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
“That’s strange…”
“What’s strange? What do you know?”
“Well, two weeks ago I was working the late shift. One of my barmaids had fallen through, incidentally because of that lot.”
Holt’s eyebrows rose. Al noticed but continued,
“I was taking some empty barrels out the back for the brewery to collect and I heard raised voices coming from the gents’ The gents’ room backs up to the car park and the window was open. I remember it because I couldn’t believe Adam had finally been caught out. Some old boy was chewing him out about some bird. Oh, what was her name? Clare—yeah, that was it, Clare. It only stuck ‘cause that was the name of my first missus and she messed me about similar like. I didn’t know he got hit, though.”
“Did you see the other man?”
“Yes, I did, actually. He came flying out the back way a few minutes later, got into a beaten up Peugeot, and drove off.”
“Can you remember what he looked like?”
“I can go you one better than that: I know him. Only in passing, that’s why I didn’t recognise his voice at first, but he works at Hamilton’s Auto Care. Dean, I think his name is.”
“Well, thank you for your time, Mr Marsh, you’ve been a great help.”
“No problem.” Al watched as the somewhat dazed Inspector Holt left his building for what Al hoped would be the last time.
Holt arrived at Dean Matthews’s house just before four o’clock. He had picked up Henson en route and had explained the situation. The two men approached the front door. Holt knocked on the door and then turned to Henson.
“When he answers, I want you to leave the talking to me. We are not bringing in a suspect; we just need him in for questioning, ok?”
Henson nodded. The door swung open in front of them.
“Hello.”
Lauren Matthews looked the two men up and down and knew at once they were police. That was all she needed; the last two weeks had been absolute hell, with Dean acting more and more irrationally and Jon’s demise. Which she had only found out about courtesy of the local paper. She hadn’t known how she was supposed to feel about it; she had spent most of the last nineteen years wishing he was dead, but now all she was left with was guilt. The last time she had spoken with him they had left on bad terms, even though he had only come round to try and protect her son—their son. He was trying to give her a chance to get him in line without involving the police. She had known at the time that Dean had overheard their conversation and was now aware of his paternity, but they had never discussed it openly. Dean’s behaviour had become more aggressive ever since hearing about his estranged father’s demise. Lauren wasn’t sure if this was due to the fact that when he had last seen him they hadn’t exactly been the best of friends, or whether he begrudged the fact that someone else had gotten to him before he did. Now, though, Lauren was concerned. She knew the two men in front of her were policemen not because she was a criminal matriarch, but because she recognised them from the TV. They were the detectives working on the serial killer case.
“Hello, Mrs Matthews, is Dean in?”
“Yes. What do you want with him?”
“Mrs Matthews, if it’s all the same to you, we’d rather discuss that with Dean.”
Lauren, who was holding the door open with one arm, creating a defensive barrier between the detectives and her home, turned and shouted over her shoulder,
“Dean, there’s someone here to see you.”
A door down the hallway swung open and Dean, who had been expecting Mark, swaggered out, grabbing his coat off the banister and making his way to the door. As he saw who was standing there, he stopped dead. He recognised them instantly.
“What do you want?”
“A word, if that’s ok with you. Down at the station.”
“Well, it’s not ok with me. I’m waiting for someone.”
“That’s a shame, but I’m sure your mum wouldn’t mind making your excuses.”
Holt smiled warmly at Lauren Matthews as he said this. Lauren, sensing Dean was about to retort once more, stepped in.
“I think you’d better go with the detectives, Dean. I’ll let Mark know when he gets here.”
Knowing he was beaten, Dean continued putting his coat on and trailed after Holt and Henson as they went to the car. During the journey Holt took the opportunity to glance at him when he could in the rear view mirror. He didn’t look like an archetypal psychotic killer; he looked like a stroppy teenager. Holt knew deep down that he couldn’t be their guy, but he still needed questioning. Once at the station Holt got out of the car and opened the door for Dean before shepherding him inside and into an interview room. Gesturing for Dean to sit down, Holt took the seat opposite him.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Well, given you’re the coppers investigating the serial killer case, I guess it’s ‘cause you assume I know something.”
Holt didn’t like Dean’s surly attitude. When he was his age, he’d have been a lot more humble if he had been found in this situation.
“We understand you knew the late Adam Woodacre?”
“Know him? No, I didn’t know him. I knew of him.”
“How?”
“Well, let’s just say it was a personal matter.”
“About what?”
“Like I said, it’s person
al.”
“Well, that’s a shame, but guess what? This is a murder investigation, so consider all rights pertaining to personal matters revoked.”
“It was about my ex. He’d been having…relations with her.” Dean’s face had darkened. And Holt was reminded how close to a boy he still was.
“So what did you do?”
“I found out where his regular haunt was, waited until he went to the gents’, and followed him. I gave him a bit of a slap, but he was still very much alive when I left.”
“I know that, but is that how you left it, or did you feel the need to pay him another little visit later on?”
“Look, anything I felt toward him I unloaded on him that night. He seemed to have gotten the point. So what reason would I have to go and see him again? He didn’t come wailing to you lot; I had no reason for additional reprisal. Anyway, I’m not capable of doing that to another person.”
“Doing what? The details haven’t been released to the press.”
“Detective Inspector Holt, this is a small town. Everybody knows everybody here. That video was sent to three people’s phones. Those three people know other people; a story like that doesn’t take long to circulate.”
Holt sat back in his chair. He knew what Dean was saying was true, and he knew he wasn’t the killer.
“Could you tell me where you were at six o’clock on Friday night a week ago?”
“I was at work, all day through to half past seven.”
“Oh yes, you work at Hamilton’s Auto Care, don’t you? Funny time of the night to be open until, isn’t it?”
“We’ve been very busy recently.”
“And why might that be?”
“Well, I imagine its partly to do with our great service and reasonable prices, but I suspect it might also have something to do with the fact that the owner was found dead the other week. What do you think?”
Dean’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, and although he didn’t appreciate it, Holt knew what it felt like to have the world and his wife wanting to be part of the macabre chapter in the town’s history.
