by Alison Bruce
Maybe Fiona could have kicked out or fought against her with her free hand, but instead made only token resistance. She could sense a strength in Marlowe that she just couldn’t match. ‘You don’t need to do this.’
‘I really do.’ Marlowe looked up from the knot. ‘You’ll be OK. Yes, you will.’
Marlowe tied her second wrist to the other arm of the chair. She made the knots tight but this time, when she’d finished, she neither looked at Fiona nor spoke another word.
Marlowe straightened up, folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket. She pulled the phone from the wall, and then Fiona heard her also disconnecting the main handset in the hall.
Marlowe moved quietly towards the front door and opened it.
Fiona willed Marlowe to leave, and caught her breath as she heard her pause, and then mutter ‘Shit.’ Marlowe slammed the door shut and ran back inside and up the stairs. Fiona heard her moving from room to room, then she came back down again.
When she came back into the room, Marlowe was carrying the belt from Fiona’s dressing gown. Fiona started to speak, but Marlowe was fast to apply the gag. Fiona tried making eye contact but Marlowe looked away. There was no further interaction until the last second before Marlowe left the room. She paused, with her back to Fiona, her voice only just audible. ‘I’ve dropped your mobile phone down the toilet, sorry.’
Then the front door clicked shut. Fiona kept still, listening for Marlowe’s return. When she was sure she was alone, she began to strain increasingly against her ties. She laboured, grunting with her efforts, but nothing gave. Finally, she stopped trying and began to cry.
CHAPTER 83
WEDNESDAY, 6 JULY 2011
Dr Strickland placed the phial of blood inside its plastic pouch and printed slow, deliberate letters on to the label. He clearly couldn’t write and talk at the same time, so Goodhew wanted to take the pen and finish it off himself.
‘I don’t want to make a mistake. It’s the little things that count, you know, Gary,’ Strickland burbled. He clicked the lid back on to his pen. ‘You were asking me about vomit?’
‘Yes.’ Goodhew sighed.
Strickland pushed his glasses up on to the bridge of his nose before speaking. ‘Usually, in the process of being sick, saliva and cells from the inside of the mouth are dislodged en route and can then be found in the vomit. As long as we can isolate either some of those from the other debris, we should be able to determine the DNA.’
‘So that’s a yes, then. And how long will such a comparison take?’
‘Well, that depends. This evidence is only about a year old, and the forensics team at the time may have thoroughly tested for DNA. But whether they managed a result is something else. We can do much more now, so even if they didn’t …’
Goodhew noticed a shadow looming, through the frosted glass in the door. ‘I’m sorry, I need to go now but it is urgent. If it matches the blood, we can make an arrest.’
Gully was waiting in the corridor, unsure whether she should knock. ‘She’s gone,’ she told him, as soon as he appeared. ‘Said she was off to get The Cross and the Switchblade. I wasn’t worried at first, but she still hasn’t come back and she’s not at home. You were only going to be away ten minutes.’
‘I know, but Strychnine’s on duty tonight, so that screwed things up. Did she say anything else?’ They entered the incident room, where Goodhew grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.
‘She said something about the fleece. Said it’s near the start of the book.’
‘Grab your coat, and get the number for that all-night locksmith. We’ll go over right away.’ A minute later, Goodhew strode out towards the car, with Gully almost jogging to keep up.
‘You can’t just break in, Gary,’ she protested.
‘She’ll get over it.’
‘Marks will go spare.’
Goodhew dropped himself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door in one fluid movement. He’d started the engine by the time Gully was properly in her seat, and she only pulled her door shut as he accelerated out of the car park.
‘Sue, I’m not messing around with search warrants for Marlowe’s flat. I’ll just go in, make sure she’s not in there, grab the book and take off.’ He passed her his mobile phone. ‘Call that locksmith and ask him to meet us.’
‘What if he gets there first?’
‘Don’t be stupid. We’ll probably be waiting for him for hours yet.’
Sue emitted a loud ‘tut’ but phoned anyway. They made the rest of their short journey in silence. The roads were empty apart from a milk float starting deliveries and a cyclist heading home from the night shift.
Marlowe’s road was asleep. Parked cars and darkened windows greeted them as they drove towards her block of flats at the far end.
Despite everything, Sue smiled as she caught sight of Vic Brown’s locksmith’s van parked outside. ‘Well, that’s just typical, isn’t it?’
She jumped out to greet him, as Gary headed on inside the block.
‘I thought you’d given me the wrong address,’ Vic Brown complained.
‘No. I didn’t expect you to get here so fast.’
‘I was just round the corner. It’s number 58, then?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded.
A loud crack echoed down the stairs, and Vic frowned. ‘Has he just broken in?’
‘No, of course not. I’d better see if he’s OK, though.’ Sue led him upstairs to find number 58. The front door hung open, torn from its frame and with a single shoe print clearly evident just beneath the lock.
Gary emerged from the living room, book in hand. ‘Can I leave you with this, please?’ he asked Gully.
‘No problem.’ She winked at him from behind the locksmith.
‘Help yourselves to tea and coffee,’ Goodhew said.
The lighter moment vanished as soon as Goodhew hit the cold night air. He was worried about Marlowe. She hadn’t been home, or why else would the book still be there? He sat for a while in the car, and studied the book by the orange light of a street lamp, as it slanted through the passenger window.
He scanned each page for the word ‘fleece’, and at the bottom of the third one he found it.
There in the dark outside that little church I made an experiment in a special kind of prayer which seeks to find God’s will through a sign. ‘Putting a fleece before the Lord’ it is called, because Gideon, when he was trying to find God’s will for his life, asked that a sign be made with a fleece. He placed a lamb’s fleece on the ground and asked Him to send down dew everywhere but there. In the morning, the ground was soaked with dew, but Gideon’s fleece was dry: God had granted him a sign.
‘So that was it,’ Goodhew murmured, and gasped just as his mobile rang. ‘Goodhew,’ he announced.
‘Gary, it’s me.’ Marlowe sounded tense.
‘Where are you?’
‘In town. I think I can get Peter to lead us to Lisa. But I need you to release him and keep watch on his house,’ she said.
‘How is that going to help?’
‘Please, Gary, trust me. And you mustn’t come near me until Lisa’s safe. Promise me. It’s the only way.’
‘Explain to me, Marlowe.’
‘Will you do it?’
Gary closed his eyes and tried to listen to his instincts. The response was silence. He looked down at The Cross and the Switchblade. No clues there.
Release the main suspect when they had a rape witness, and possible scene-of-crime forensic evidence? The same evidence which Marks demanded for the arrest Goodhew had sought. He knew about the fleece, and the car hire and all the other cases. He should go back and shock Walsh with the facts – make him tell us where Lisa Fairbanks is.
‘Gary, will you do it?’ she repeated.
‘Yes,’ he replied, finally.
CHAPTER 84
THURSDAY, 7 JULY 2011
Early-morning traffic was already trickling on to the roads as Peter Walsh travelled home in the bac
k of the unmarked police car.
He didn’t know whether to go to work or stay at home for the day. His life had been thrown out of kilter, but at the same time he was experiencing an all-new sense of excitement. He looked grey with exhaustion and felt sweaty after that stuffy interview room, but altogether it was nothing that a shower and a couple of coffees wouldn’t fix.
Walsh felt confident. He had admitted nothing, although he didn’t like submitting to the blood test.
But of all the women to make a complaint. Donna? She was the biggest slag of the lot. He’d always known she wasn’t his type, but when she couldn’t even properly remember how many men she’d had sex with …
He took a breath. Forget it. She’d get torn apart in court, anyway. Nine out of ten women in her situation lost their cases.
And it wasn’t quite the same with her: all over and done with much quicker than for the others. It had been a shame that the biggest slut should have received the least punishment.
The driver turned his head. ‘Number 26?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
As the car stopped, Pete automatically pulled on the internal handle to let himself out.
The other policemen stepped out to open the rear door. ‘It doesn’t work from the inside.’
Pete walked confidently to his front door, key in hand. As he unlocked it, he saw the folded sheet of cream writing paper lying on the mat. He looked outside and waited for the tail lights of the police car to disappear out of Hanley Road before he bent to pick it up.
He nudged the door shut with his foot even as he unfolded it.
He began to read, then he took a few steps into the sitting room. He must have misunderstood. He read it back from the start. ‘What in God’s name …?’
Any thought of going to work evaporated.
He snatched up the handset and angrily stabbed out Fiona’s number.
No reply.
‘No, no … no.’ He fumed, his wrath taking hold of him and burning at his insides. He slammed the handset against the wall and left it to tumble on to the floor.
He ran upstairs to his bedroom and pulled open the wardrobe door. The video camera waited on its tripod, and he picked it up and dumped it on to the bed.
He reached towards the back, beyond the shoes on the shoe shelf, and retrieved a black sports bag. He unzipped it rapidly and held the jaws of its mouth wide. It was all still in there: the videos, a new ball of rope, a new set of clothes still wrapped in cellophane.
He removed his driver’s licence from his inside pocket. No time to hire a car this time, so no number plates either.
He’d find Fiona and show her how he made his decisions. She could experience it first hand, and he could leave her there and say Fuck you.
He started to remove the camera from the tripod. ‘Damn!’ He couldn’t screw her either, or they’d catch him then. He’d just make her masturbate on camera; he needed that keepsake, at least.
His finger caught in a leg of the tripod as he folded it, so he threw it against the wardrobe door. Fucking whore. She wouldn’t last long outside in this weather, but she really deserved to suffer.
Or he could leave her inside like that gullible German girl, or better still in some derelict building. Appropriate for a stuck-up bitch estate agent.
The inferno of Pete’s rage swept through him, devouring even the carnal cravings that helped him plan each abduction like an illicit tryst.
‘Where do I leave her?’ he shouted. ‘Where, where?’ His voice was loud but at the same time seemed distant, disembodied and unrecognizable. No, he didn’t have a new location ready, but he needed somewhere quiet. He needed a place where he could arrive and dump her without being seen. ‘Where?’
The answer suddenly came like an echo replying to his outpouring. One of the old places, somewhere he already knew? That was it. Not the caravan, though, because that had been removed. Not with Lisa either. Except why not?
Walsh paused, stock-still, gazing at the tripod, his thoughts on Fiona.
That would make her pay. Lisa would be already dead or nearly dead. And Fiona could watch her rot.
CHAPTER 85
THURSDAY, 7 JULY 2011
Goodhew had witnessed Pete return home. He’d seen Pete watch the police car leaving his road. And then he’d seen Pete’s front door close.
He saw no sign of Marlowe.
The sky had lightened to grey. It would not be a warm day.
His mobile rang once, before he answered it. ‘Goodhew.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ Marks barked at him.
‘I’m watching Peter Walsh’s house at the moment, sir.’
‘Why, for God’s sake? He isn’t the one!’ Marks yelled.
Goodhew scowled. ‘He isn’t which one, sir?’
‘The killer – it’s her. You know, your little victim friend Marlowe Gates.’
Goodhew’s stomach lurched.
‘Kincaide was right,’ Marks continued. ‘If Walsh is involved at all, it’s only with her. She’s more than just in on it.’
‘No …’ Goodhew protested.
‘The incident room received an anonymous call twenty minutes ago. Does that maybe ring a bell? The caller, female of course, told us to investigate the property of a Fiona Robinson.’
‘Pete’s girlfriend?’
‘Very good,’ chirped Marks. ‘And they found her bound and gagged, tied to a chair with all the phones ripped out. Guess what she then said?’
‘Marlowe did it,’ answered Goodhew weakly.
‘We have her here. And we’re not letting her contact him.’
‘Who, Marlowe?’ asked Goodhew, as he continued to watch Hanley Road.
‘No, Fiona Robinson,’ Marks roared. ‘Don’t play me as stupid, Gary. If you’ve developed a soft spot for this girl, you’d better forget it. She’s a killer and he’s a rapist. Think about it, there are plenty of well-known examples. Couples that commit rape. Couples that commit murder.’
Gary leant forward to study a figure walking towards him from the far end of the road. Marlowe.
‘Gary? Do you know where she is?’
‘No, I have no idea.’ She crossed between the cars parked in front of number 18, and stepped up to number 26.
Marks paused for a moment. Goodhew knew Marks would be biting on the edge of his bottom lip; as he always did when he was trying to calm down.
‘Stay there until Kincaide arrives. He’s still with Miss Robinson for now, but then he can watch Walsh’s and I’ll see you back here. And if you see any sign of Marlowe Gates in the meantime, arrest her.’
Goodhew watched as Marlowe tapped on the front door. And he watched the door open.
His hand rose and pressed his mouth shut, as if to smother an involuntary gasp.
She smiled at Pete and stepped inside.
Goodhew stared at the centre of the steering wheel. What if Marks was right? Marks was no fool.
But what if Marks was wrong?
He looked up at number 26 again. Did he still believe Marlowe?
She’d smiled at Walsh and stepped inside.
Goodhew picked up his phone and dialled. When his call was answered, he said, ‘Bryn, it’s me.’
CHAPTER 86
THURSDAY, 7 JULY 2011
Marlowe had been here earlier to deliver Fiona’s note; pushing it through the letter box with a hesitant prod, like a Dobermann lurked on the other side.
Now she had waited on Pete’s doorstep long enough to notice all the little details she’d since forgotten. A smear of paint on the brickwork. The disconnected doorbell. And the Chubb lock that she’d opened so many times when she still had her own key.
Since the front door stood five inches above the path, she’d stood on tiptoe, like a little kid, as she tried to see through one of the small panes of obscured glass.
She’d spotted a ripple of movement and shivered.
He’d known she was there.
‘I’m not alone, I’m not alone,’ s
he’d whispered to herself.
The lock had rattled, and she’d looked up just as the door had opened. Pete had let the door swing wide. He’d seemed to fill the doorway, still and expressionless.
She’d drawn a breath and held it, forcing a grin, hoping to look smug, and trying to speak. No words had come. The corner of her mouth had twitched. The moment had dragged on, making her dizzy.
Speak to him.
She’d propped up her smile, and exhaled. ‘Can I come in?’ she’d finally blurted.
He’d stood back to let her through, and she had stepped back into her own nightmare.
* * *
The door snapped shut behind her and Pete nudged her through to the sitting room. She stopped in the centre of the room and turned around. Her arm brushed against him and she recoiled, stepping quickly back against the coffee table.
She took a deep breath and sucked in a lungful of his smell: that forgotten cocktail of soap, fresh sweat and Aramis. Now she had to face him.
‘What do you want?’ he growled. His pupils had dilated, big matt pools threatening to swallow his entire eyes. Dark and soulless.
She knew she was now out of her depth. Way, way out, at that.
She nodded towards the phone still lying on the floor. ‘Did you have some bad news, Peter?’ she prompted. Her voice trembled; sounding too timorous, too reedy.
She tried again. ‘It still looks just the same in here. And there was me thinking you had big plans for the future.’
‘What do you want, Marlowe?’ he repeated, glowering at her.
‘I just thought I’d let you know that I told Fiona all about you.’
‘What …?’ Pete began, then faltered. He grabbed her upper arm, digging his thumb into the bones. ‘You’re the bitch who phoned the police, aren’t you?’ He lunged at her. She staggered sideways. He held her tight and propelled her on to the settee. She squealed, landing flat on her back. She had no time to sit up before he pounced again. He now held her arms flat and pressed his body heavily against hers, crushing the breath from her lungs. ‘You are, aren’t you?’ he repeated.
