by Alison Bruce
Marlowe’s eyes never left his, and she forced a defiant sneer to her lips. ‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘You must have known that.’
He lifted his torso enough to let her breathe easier. His voice quietened to an insistent hiss. ‘What did you tell Fiona?’
Marlowe had forgotten the precise feel of his menace slipping into her, the dangerous tone of his voice. And now his mouth was less than a tongue’s length from her own; invasive like poison. ‘I told her all of it.’
‘Why do you do it, Marlowe? Why do you play these games?’ He slid the fingers of one hand through the hair above her ear and wove them in and out. He twisted them roughly till her hair tightened at the roots, pulling against her scalp. He held her head still, and brought his face closer. ‘Tell me exactly what you told her.’
‘Well, for a start I told her how you are a rapist and a murderer.’ She felt a drip of sweat run down the inside of her shirt. ‘She seemed a bit upset at that.’
The muscles in his jaw began flexing, as he clenched his teeth. Marlowe lay motionless beneath him. ‘There have been times when I’ve almost regretted leaving you,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘Now here you are up close. You smell the same and feel the same but, my God, you’ve become very spiteful.’
‘Because of you,’ she whispered.
‘Because of me? You should have pulled yourself together. You should’ve tried to get over it, Marlowe.’
‘I am over you,’ she snarled.
‘Tell me about your sex life, then. Tell me who’s ever fucked you.’ Pete released her hair and ran his middle finger across her cheek. He stroked her bottom lip. She felt him harden against her groin, and his other hand began pulling at her shirt.
‘Only you,’ she answered quietly.
He pushed himself away, to arms’ length. ‘Only me what?’
She impaled him with her eyes. ‘There has only ever been you, Peter. No one before and no one since. I follow you and watch you. I know who you’ve screwed. I also know you made a mistake when you left me, because none of the others were any better.’
Disbelief clouded his face. ‘You’re a liar.’
‘Oh no, you told me so many times that women shouldn’t sleep around, and therefore I never did. Never.’ She wriggled out from under and stood in front of him. He sat up straight, glowering, as she continued. ‘Whatever happened to your ideals that a man should always honour a faithful woman? That he should never walk out on a commitment?’
‘I never did.’
‘You know you did. Sex in itself is a commitment to you, isn’t it?’
He stared at her. ‘You’re obsessed.’
She bent over, pausing with her face only inches from his. ‘Isn’t it?’ she demanded.
‘Yes, you know it is. So what?’
‘You forget, Peter, that I know your family. You’ve been brought up in just the same airless, suffocating way as me. Full of inhibitions, and no sex outside marriage for a start. So you can’t ever leave a girlfriend; not unless it’s not actually your decision.’ They glared at each other. Marlowe’s heart thumped loudly in her ears, and she turned away first. She moved back a couple of paces and leant against the kitchen door frame. ‘I know about the fleece,’ she told him, and let her words hang in the air just long enough to relish his panic.
The mention of the word jolted him and he sprang to his feet, and across the gap between them. She didn’t see the blow coming, but she heard it crack across her cheekbone. She saw it reverberate through her eyes like a firework display. Then she crashed on to the kitchen floor.
Pete followed her through the doorway. Unlike her, still on his feet, he kicked out at her. The hard edge of his shoe cracked into her ribs. ‘Oh shit,’ she gasped, clutching her stomach.
‘Tell me about it,’ he screamed.
‘You get tired of a girlfriend …’ she panted. ‘Or maybe you decide she’s not good enough … But you can’t just end it.’
She watched him cross the kitchen, away from her. ‘Keep talking,’ he demanded.
She dragged herself up on to one elbow, choking. ‘Otherwise you’d be the slag, then. Of course, you would.’
Pete pulled a bottle of Budweiser from the fridge.
Marlowe grabbed the edge of the work surface. But she kept talking. ‘You would then have broken your commitment, wouldn’t you?’ She hauled herself to her knees. ‘So you abduct a girl who resembles your girlfriend and you say to yourself, “If she dies it is a sign that I am right to leave, but if she lives I am wrong and deserve to be caught.”’ She managed to rise to her feet, but had to lean heavily on the worktop. ‘That’s about right, isn’t it, Peter?’
He shrugged. ‘Near enough.’ He placed the bottle in front of her, but just out of reach.
She knew she couldn’t outrun him. She closed her eyes instead. ‘And, whatever the outcome, your relationship is legitimately over, so you do what the hell you like with your girlfriend until the body is found.’
‘No.’ He tutted. ‘They all wanted it, even you.’ She felt his breath as he brought his cheek up close to hers. His fingers started to rub at her belt buckle.
‘Do you think I’m rising to that bait?’ Marlowe snorted. ‘I don’t give a fuck. I’d just go to the police and tell them you raped me. At least I’d have the evidence this time.’
Pete spun her round to face him, to open her eyes. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
Marlowe shook her head. ‘I’m the only one who can stop you, Peter. No one believes me. They think I’m mad. So this is what I want.’ Marlowe brought her lips close to his. ‘It’s my fleece.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Leave me tied up just like the others. If I die, you get away with it. If I’m found, I’ll be vindicated. Simple isn’t it? One wins, one loses.’
CHAPTER 87
THURSDAY, 7 JULY 2011
Kincaide screeched from the police station car park, into East Road and towards Pete Walsh’s house.
Thank Christ he’d taken that phone call; at any other time he’d have left it to ring. Good thing he’d been having a nose through Gully’s desk at the time. That was fate, of course.
He’d recognized Marlowe’s voice straight away. He’d heard it on the tapes often enough.
He slowed for the traffic lights. They stayed green and he sped past the end of Mill Road, all terraced houses and corner shops.
A whole lot different from Wollaston Avenue with its front lawns and company cars. ‘Go to number 206,’ she’d said.
He hadn’t realized what was up when that weeping hysterical estate agent starting blubbering on to his jacket.
Then it had dawned on him. Marlowe had tied her up, just like she’d tied up the others, but then she’d clearly bottled it.
Fiona Robinson should have been laughing, instead, at the lucky escape she’d just had.
Kincaide swung left into Trumpington Road and turned right at the roundabout into the Fen Causeway. The roads were clear, it being still too early for rush-hour traffic. Just as well, since the sooner he reached Goodhew the better.
Jan had been right, it was results that turned Marks’ head. Kincaide had overheard Marks tearing into Goodhew on the phone, so the opportunity to deliver a result was now with him.
Excellent.
He sped towards the next roundabout.
And now he was about to relieve Goodhew of his duty, send him back to the station with his tail between his legs, and make the arrest himself.
He turned right into Queen’s Road. Nearly there.
Better than excellent!
He was still smiling as a tatty Volvo tanked out of the side road and slammed into his passenger door. His car skidded to a halt against a ‘keep left’ bollard.
Kincaide unbuckled his seatbelt and flew from the car in a single movement.
The Volvo door started to open. ‘Are you OK, mate? I’m so sorry,’ the driver began.
Kincaide grabbed the opening door and yanked it wide, bundling the driver on to the tarmac. ‘Why weren’t y
ou watching the road?’ he yelled.
‘I’m sorry, I just didn’t see you.’
Kincaide grabbed the man by the lapels and dragged him back to his feet. ‘You stupid git, I’m a police officer and you have no idea what you’ve done.’
CHAPTER 88
THURSDAY, 7 JULY 2011
Goodhew still watched Pete Walsh’s front door. The minutes dragged by. He wanted to know Marlowe was all right, but he’d promised to stay back.
So he prayed for her safety instead.
His mobile beeped with a new text message from Bryn. He opened it and read ‘Done’. Then ‘Volvo a write-off’.
He felt he knew who he could trust. He remembered the first time he’d seen Marlowe. He’d wanted her to trust him. With a leap of faith, she had. And, in return, he trusted her.
He knew that now. Whatever the evidence to the contrary.
Walsh’s door opened nearly twenty minutes later and he and Marlowe stepped out into the street. She waited for him to lock up and they walked together to his car. He carried a black holdall and opened the boot. He put it under the parcel shelf, unzipped it and reached inside.
She sat quietly in the passenger seat.
Walsh removed a ball of rope and slammed the tailgate.
Goodhew strained to see more clearly.
Pete got in alongside Marlowe, and passed something towards her. Goodhew saw her bend over towards the footwell. After a few seconds, he saw Pete lean across to her side of the car, and Goodhew realized she was being tied up.
He followed them out of Cambridge, and on to the A14 towards Newmarket. All the while, he kept several cars between himself and Pete’s VW Golf. The A14 split, and Walsh took the A11 fork towards Mildenhall. He settled at a steady sixty-five miles per hour along the dual carriageway.
Goodhew called Marks back on his mobile.
‘What’s going on?’ yelled Marks above the static.
‘I’m following Pete Walsh and Marlowe Gates. They are travelling north-east along the A11 between Newmarket and Mildenhall.’
‘We can intercept them at Mildenhall, if we’re quick.’
‘No, they’ll be going to the spot where Lisa Fairbanks has been left. I need aerial surveillance, in case I lose them.’
‘What’s he driving?’
‘It’s a royal-blue VW Golf.’ Goodhew added the registration.
‘I’ll call back as soon as the helicopter’s ready.’
Pete had passed Marlowe the rope, she’d tied her own ankles, then he’d tied her hands together against the small of her back. He’d helped her sit upright again, and pulled the seatbelt across her body, deliberately skimming her breasts.
He’d then leant over to check the binding on her ankles, and his face had nestled against her thighs. A flutter of excitement had stirred him. Maybe it was the circumstances, just the two of them with their secret, but she was turning him on.
Now, Pete cut through Mildenhall and headed on towards Thetford.
He hadn’t carefully planned this through, like the others, and he suddenly wondered if it was a mistake to leave her together with Lisa.
‘There’s another girl already tied up,’ he explained. ‘She’s probably dead by now, but maybe not, and I was planning to leave you there, too. Thought I’d leave you both side by side.’ He rested a hand on her thigh. ‘But I’ve changed my mind.’
‘I knew you’d take me to somewhere you’d used before,’ she sniffed and turned her head away, ‘but that’s obscene.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’ she snapped.
He pinched her arm to make her look at him. ‘Why do you assume I would take you somewhere I’ve used before?’
She glared at him. ‘You work it out. I’m not going to help you kill me.’
He drove towards Thetford in silence. If Marlowe’s and Lisa’s bodies were found together, he’d be implicated for sure. Unless Marlowe had killed herself?
There was the answer.
She had a history of mental illness, including an attempt at suicide. She’d already made failed attempts to frame him.
It wasn’t such a stretch of the imagination to think that she’d killed those girls and, overcome with remorse, killed herself.
Marlowe’s arms and back ached from being bound, and her ribs still ached from the kicking he’d given her. She concentrated on the cars in front. She couldn’t afford a single glance in the wing mirror, in case he saw her looking.
His hand still rested gently on her thigh, stroking it from time to time. She’d loved that sensation once. But now those long fingers and bitten nails reminded her of his every victim. Five girlfriends, and four, possibly five, others.
She knew he planned to kill her. He wanted to rape her again; she knew that, too. If it happened, she didn’t want to live.
It won’t happen. I’m not alone, I’m not alone.
They took a B-road through the woods: a long and winding road that dipped through dried fords and passed around dense clumps of trees.
Marlowe realized there was no car following behind them now.
Pete checked his rear-view mirror yet again. ‘I’m going to have sex with you, Marlowe.’ He smiled easily, like he’d just suggested tea and toast.
‘No you’re not,’ she replied.
The woodland grew more dense till the road narrowed through a tunnel of trees.
‘Every one I abduct turns me on, but sex has its place, and that’s why I’ve always been faithful. But with you it’s different. You’re the abductee and the girlfriend, both rolled into one.’
‘Then if I die, they’ll have something for forensics.’
Pete braked abruptly, and they pulled to a halt. The forest encroached, looming still and dark on either side.
‘You’ll have rotted to nothing by then.’ Pete slipped his hand between her thighs. ‘You know the game, Marlowe. You have to ask me.’
‘Just drive on. I’m not doing it,’ she retorted. The road was silent and she was alone.
‘You’re not going anywhere. This is it.’
The gloom of the forest stretched away from her, almost black in places from the lack of any light.
Pete walked round to her side of the car and scooped her into his arms. He trod a careful path through the muddy forest floor, using clumps of grass like stepping stones. ‘When I do this for real, I buy shoes that are too small for men then throw them away.’
‘This is for real,’ she pointed out.
‘No, you don’t fit the pattern.’ He stopped and glanced around before cutting off to his right. A few yards further, and the trees opened out into a strip of muddy clearing. About twenty feet away, Lisa Fairbanks’ body lay at the foot of a tree. It was huddled, in a rancid question mark, at the brink of the muddy ditch.
Leaves rustled in the breeze, and Marlowe caught the faint sound of rotor blades slicing the air.
The helicopter’s thermal-imaging camera had picked out Pete and Marlowe as he carried her through the trees.
Goodhew hung back, waiting for the order. His radio suddenly burst into life. ‘They’re on foot, in the forest and now stationary. Go, go, go.’
Goodhew gunned the engine and pulled off, headlights blazing on full. He changed into third and skidded round bend after bend. The engine screamed as he hammered down the final stretch leading to Walsh’s car, where he slammed on the brakes, then leapt out.
He grabbed his walkie-talkie and darted off into the trees. He trampled down the undergrowth, chasing after Walsh and Marlowe under the direction of the chopper crew.
‘Straight on, straight on,’ came the directions from his walkie-talkie.
He jumped a culvert, sliding through the mulch on the far side.
‘Two o’clock,’ rattled the command.
He spotted a flash of colour. Denim?
Walsh looked up at the sky. Then he threw Marlowe into the mud. ‘You set me up,’ he growled, and lashed out, with a heavy kick to her stomach. And again.
�
�No!’ Goodhew yelled.
Walsh bolted away through the trees. Goodhew raced after him, closing quickly. Within eighty yards, he was running within an arm’s length of his quarry. He grabbed Walsh’s elbow and spun him round straight into a tree. Goodhew’s radio tumbled to the ground.
Walsh lunged at Goodhew, aiming a punch at his head.
Marlowe tried to reach the knots with her fingers. Her head was spinning, but she could still hear the helicopter and the sound of Walsh and Goodhew fighting.
Then she heard a moan. Lisa Fairbanks’ fingers were moving, too. The latest victim was still alive. She was alive.
Marlowe rolled over, slipping and squirming through the rain-soaked mud, until she lay just behind the other girl. Lisa’s head moved, and her tired frame attempted to roll over so she could look directly at Marlowe.
‘Don’t try to move,’ Marlowe whispered. ‘You’re right by the ditch. Keep still and you’ll be OK.’
Lisa twisted her head and shoulders again, desperate to see another face.
‘Keep still,’ Marlowe urged.
Too late. Lisa slid away from Marlowe and into the stagnant ditchwater.
Marlowe slithered across to the edge of the ditch. Lisa now lay face-down in a few inches of water, clearly too weak to lift her head.
‘Help,’ Marlowe yelled, and tipped herself into the water.
Walsh’s punch went wide.
Sirens wailed from the road.
The walkie-talkie crackled another message from its resting place in the grass. ‘Three people, plus you, on the ground. Lisa’s alive. She’s alive.’
Walsh and Goodhew locked eyes and again charged towards one another. Goodhew caught Walsh full in the face with his right fist, sending him crashing to the ground. Goodhew whipped his cuffs from his pocket and snapped one of them on to Walsh’s left wrist.
