Cold Sacrifice

by Leigh Russell

  ‘Mrs Jamieson, if you have any evidence to suggest that Mr Martin was implicated, directly or indirectly, in his wife’s death, you must tell me. Otherwise this is all just speculation and gossip.’

  Startled by his peremptory tone, she dropped her coy expression and continued gravely.

  ‘It’s only what I heard about him insisting he wanted a divorce and getting angry with her for refusing. But he did threaten to kill her, I’m sure of that. I heard him. I was out in the garden, on the patio, reading my book, or trying to with them having one of their set-tos next door. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, just the faint drone of her voice in the background.’

  ‘So you couldn’t be sure it was Martha he was speaking to?’

  ‘No, except that he was begging her for a divorce, so it must’ve been her, mustn’t it? Anyway, he was going on and on about it, and threatening to make her sorry. She must have said something like, “over my dead body” or, “you’ll have to kill me first” because he shouted out, “I bloody well will kill you, if that’s what it takes to get rid of you”.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s what you heard?’

  ‘As clear as I can hear you now. He must have been standing right by the open window.’

  ‘And you couldn’t have been mistaken?’

  ‘No. I remember it, word for word. It’s not the sort of thing you forget. I was sitting quietly, minding my own business, in the garden, and I heard him shouting at her. It upset me, I can tell you.’

  As Ian scribbled down the wording, Mr Jamieson leaned forward and patted his wife on her knee.

  ‘What about it then?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The seed cake. Is it ready yet?’

  Mrs Jamieson smiled indulgently.

  ‘Poor thing, he didn’t hear a word I said, did you dear?’

  16

  HE CONSCIOUSLY ENJOYED DRINKING in the comfort of his own home without anyone watching him and criticising, but the pleasure soon faded. The house felt disconcertingly empty. Even the noise of the television didn’t fill the silence. He flipped restlessly between channels, scowling at false laughter and seemingly endless adverts. Mark had gone out. No one else ever came round. Until now, Henry hadn’t realised how much he had come to depend on Martha. For thirty years she had lingered in the house like a bad smell. It was no wonder he had lost interest in her as a woman when all she did was complain. She was so bloody self-righteous, as though their problems were all his fault. And it was maddening, the way she would stare at him in silence whenever he lost his temper. Yet any time he was in trouble, Martha had been there for him. When he had been laid up with the flu, Martha was the one who had brought him soup, and propped him up on his pillows so she could feed him, like a baby. He had broken his ankle slipping over on the ice one winter. Martha had taken him to the hospital, looking after him until he was fit again.

  ‘It’s my duty,’ she had said primly when he wanted to thank her for taking care of him. ‘I’m your wife.’

  She had never shown him affection, but she had always been there. Maybe that should have been enough.

  It was ironic that he was in trouble as a consequence of her death, when she was the only person who would have helped him. His son was refusing to vouch for him, even though Henry had sworn he had been asleep on the sofa on Friday evening. As his son, Mark should have taken his word for it. Henry had been banking on his co-operation. Instead, Mark had as good as accused him of following Martha to the park, sticking a knife in her heart, running home again, and lying about it to save his own skin. If he couldn’t rely on Mark to furnish him with an alibi, he would just have to find someone else. But only Martha would have been prepared to lie to protect him. There was no one else.

  About to pour another whisky into his glass, he thought better of it and set the bottle down on the table. Drinking alone was depressing and besides, he needed to remain sober if he was going to fight his way out of his present troubles. His head cleared as he walked along the street. It was a fine evening, but chilly. Under any other circumstances he would have been happy, free at last, with money to burn. He tried to imagine how he would be feeling if Martha had passed away naturally. Outwardly like any other grieving widower coming to terms with the death of his wife, inside he would be rejoicing at his good fortune. He wouldn’t be tormented by the crippling fear that now plagued him. Without an alibi for the time of Martha’s death, he was as good as convicted. Only unlike his dead wife, he was a fighter. Having wasted more than thirty years of his life tied to her, he refused to let her ruin what little time he had left. The police were on to him, but he would get the better of them yet. With a little planning he could outwit the lot of them.

  He walked along the front until he came to a rundown pub. At nine o’clock it was almost empty. A middle-aged man lounged in one corner, while a couple of young lads sat laughing together at a table. An old tart was sitting up at the bar, eyeing everyone who came in. She glanced over at Henry, and turned away again. She wasn’t much to look at, but she gave him an idea. He didn’t have any friends to speak of, just a few workmates. But he had money. Lots of it. Instead of a short, he ordered a black coffee, strong and bitter, with two sugars. He needed to stay alert if he was going to carry out the plan that was forming in his mind. Gulping down the hot sweet drink, he turned the possibility over in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. Nothing was a problem for a wealthy man.

  Sitting at the bar, he grinned to himself. No one took any notice. They probably thought he’d had one too many. It didn’t matter. It no longer mattered what anyone thought of him, because he had enough money to do whatever he wanted. Enough money to buy their good opinion if he cared to have it, which he didn’t. The money was going to make it worth the thirty years of hell he’d endured with his wretched wife. Poor Martha. He couldn’t help smiling as he imagined her sitting in judgement on him, up in her self-righteous heaven. She couldn’t take her money away from him now. It was all his. He could do what the hell he wanted with it, and the first thing he was going to do was dish some of it out to another woman. See how Martha liked that. He swayed slightly as he stood up, drunker than he had realised. It was probably just as well. He would need some Dutch courage if he was going to carry out his plan.

  As he stood up, the old tart at the bar caught his eye. He returned her gaze thoughtfully, unsure if she was suitable for his purposes. On balance, he decided she looked too shrewd. He didn’t want anyone asking too many questions. Nor did he want to deal with someone living right on his doorstep. He turned and left without looking back. Before he put his plan into action, he needed to do some research. There could be no mistakes.

  17

  HENRY DROVE FAST ALONG the Thanet Way, enjoying the freedom of the long straight flat dual carriageway. Taking the A28, he slowed down for the speed cameras in Birchington, then put his foot down again until he reached Margate. There were signs of regeneration along the front, but not far behind the façade the High Street was virtually derelict. Almost half the shops were boarded up. Some displayed ‘To Let’ signs. The only place that looked as though it was thriving was a large cheap clothes store. He found a place to park and continued to explore the area on foot. Behind the amusement arcades that faced the sea he found what he was looking for: a dingy black door with a sign ‘Over 21s Only’. A bored-looking bouncer stood outside, rolling a cigarette. He looked at Henry without blinking. Broad-shouldered, wearing a padded jacket over his stab vest, he had a flat square face with a big crooked nose and blubbery lips.

  ‘I’m looking for a woman –’ Henry began.

  The bouncer jerked his head in the direction of the interior.

  ‘Full price unless you’re a member.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I need to find a woman who wasn’t working here on Friday night.’

  The doorman frowned. It was clearly too complicated a request for him to deal with.

  ‘Tonight is Monday,�
� he said.

  ‘Never mind.’

  Henry handed over his money.

  Inside, a heavily made-up woman opened a curtain and gestured for him to go in. A girl was spinning around a pole wearing nothing but a sequined G-string while music thumped out a regular beat. Normally Henry would have been mesmerised by her bouncing curves, but he was preoccupied. As soon as he entered the room, a skinny bird with unnaturally large breasts sashayed up to him. It was difficult not to be distracted by her almost naked body swaying in front of him, tantalisingly close. With an effort, he kept his gaze fixed on her painted face.

  ‘Were you working here on Friday night?’

  Immediately she stopped moving her hips and took an involuntary step back. Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinised his face.

  ‘Are you a cop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t look like a cop.’

  ‘I’m not a cop. I’m in trouble with – with my brother –’ He could hardly say his wife. ‘I need to find a girl who was free on Friday evening.’

  The girl half turned, her eyes scanning the doorway.

  ‘I’ll pay.’

  She turned back, a flicker of interest on her face.

  ‘Twenty quid to you if you introduce me to a girl who wasn’t working on Friday, and a hundred to her.’

  ‘Fifty.’

  ‘OK, I’ll give you fifty, and –’

  ‘Wait here.’

  Although he was standing in shadow, he felt as though everyone in the room was watching him: girls gyrating on the podium, a few blokes ogling them, half-dressed waitresses prancing around with trays of drinks. He went and sat down at an empty table and watched the show, too intent on his project to be excited by the dancers on stage. Even after her death, Martha was still spoiling his fun. Once all this was over, he promised himself he would return to the club and have a good time. He seemed to be sitting there for hours, until his head was throbbing painfully at the loud music that accompanied the show. At last a blonde woman came and sat beside him. She looked very young and was wearing a short black dress that was too tight for her.

  ‘Candy said you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Were you here on Friday evening?’

  ‘No. Were you?’

  He scowled at her brazen smile.

  ‘This isn’t about me. Just answer the question, will you? Now, where were you on Friday evening?’

  ‘I was at home. Washing my hair.’

  Raising one hand to her head she fluffed up her blonde curls and placed her other hand firmly on his knee, speaking in staccato bursts as though she could only manage to produce a couple of words at a time.

  ‘Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?’

  He waved at a half-naked waitress who brought them a couple of glasses of overpriced sparkling white wine.

  ‘How would you like to do me a favour?’ he asked.

  With a practised smile she moved her hand up his thigh to his crotch. With an effort of will he moved it away. There was no denying she was achingly attractive, but he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

  ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he said and paused, uncertain how to explain what he wanted.

  She waited, sipping her wine. No one appeared to be paying them any attention but he felt self-conscious.

  ‘Can we go somewhere private?’

  Without a word she stood up, took him by the elbow and steered him across the room. They went through a curtain and she led him upstairs to a small room with a bed and a cracked sink in one corner. The curtains were threadbare velvet, and the whole room had an atmosphere of shabby luxury.

  * * * * *

  Della sat down and patted the bed beside her, automatically smoothing out a few wrinkles on the cover, but the punter remained standing. He refused to look directly at her, showing no interest in her beyond a fuck. She preferred it that way. It made no difference to her, as long as he paid up without any fuss. The ones who didn’t want to talk got it over with more quickly, and time was money. The men who wanted to babble on interminably about their pathetic lives were the worst. She unzipped her dress and wriggled out of it.

  ‘Stop that. Get dressed again.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘That’s not what I want from you.’

  Eyeing him warily, she put her dress back on.

  He stared at her, red-faced, struggling to control himself. She had seen more men than she could remember in his state of resentful arousal. It didn’t bother her. As long as he paid, she couldn’t care less that he hated himself for wanting to pay for sex. It gave them something in common: she hated him for it as well.

  ‘I just want to talk to you,’ he said eventually.

  She hoped he wasn’t going to sit jabbering all night.

  ‘It’ll still cost you.’

  All at once he seemed anxious. He began speaking very quickly, as though he was in a hurry.

  ‘Money’s no problem. But I don’t want to talk here. Follow me. Come on, we can talk in my car.’

  ‘What’s wrong with staying here?’

  ‘I’ll make it worth your while. Five hundred quid for one quick favour.’ Seeing her expression, he added quickly, ‘I’ll make it a thousand. Don’t worry, I won’t touch you. That’s not what I want. I only want to talk. Now, let’s get out of here.’

  She led him out of the back door, round the side of the building to the street, to avoid questions. If there was a thousand quid in it, she wanted to keep that to herself.

  ‘It’s worse than school in there,’ she told him.

  He nodded but didn’t say anything. Without another word she followed him along the street to a large dark blue car. He opened the door and told her to get in. The bloke gave her the creeps but she only hesitated for a second.

  ‘A thousand quid, you said?’

  She would tell the club manager the punter insisted on having a fuck in his car and had paid the going rate, and she would pocket the difference.

  ‘Yes, yes, now come on,’ he urged. ‘I told you, I’m not going to touch you. It’s just that we can talk in the car. I’ll give you the keys if it makes you feel better. Now stop wasting time and get in.’

  ‘What were you doing on Friday evening?’ he asked as he sat down beside her.

  ‘What?’

  She had met some funny blokes, but there was definitely something peculiar going on with this one. Still, it was a nice car, and he had promised her a thousand quid. She leaned back on her seat and waited.

  ‘Don’t look so scared. I’m not going to hurt you, not if you do as you’re told. I just need to ask you a few questions. You weren’t at the club on Friday evening, were you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Was anyone else with you?’

  ‘No. Candy – my flatmate – was here, working.’

  ‘So you were on your own? All evening?’

  ‘Yes. Why? What are you after?’

  She sat up, unnerved, and reached for the door handle.

  ‘Don’t you want to earn yourself an easy thousand quid?’

  A thousand quid was a lot of money, but she still didn’t know what he wanted from her. She gave a cautious nod.

  ‘You’re not going to mark my face –’

  ‘How many times do I need to say it? I wouldn’t want to touch you if you paid me.’

  His eyes were all over her, giving the lie to his insult.

  ‘What do you want then?’

  ‘All you have to do is say you spent Friday evening with me. That’s all there is to it.’

  She hesitated, reluctant to commit herself until she knew what was going on.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. It’s a thousand quid, and no questions.’

  ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘There’s no need to worry. Look, my brother thinks I was messing about with his wife and I need to convince him he’s got it
all wrong, that’s all. So, are you going to help me? There’s a thousand quid in it for you, cash. You can have it tonight.’

  Now she understood what was involved, she relaxed.

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Messing about with your brother’s wife?’

  ‘If you keep on with the questions, you can forget it. I’ll ask someone else. There’s fifteen hundred quid in it – a thousand now and the rest when this is over – so I won’t have any problem finding someone else, someone who can keep her trap shut and just say exactly what I tell her to say.’

  He turned away and opened his door. She leaned across and grabbed his sleeve, digging into his arm with her long red nails.

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t go. I’ll do it. Give me the cash and I won’t ask anything else, I promise. Just tell me what to say. I won’t let you down.’

  He slipped an envelope out of his pocket and held it open so she could see the contents: a wad of twenty quid notes. She seized it and, wetting her finger, flicked quickly through them, counting under her breath.

  ‘Now, this is what I want you to say. Listen carefully. You need to be clear about the times.’

  She nodded, still counting. When he finished, he made her repeat the story over and over again until he was satisfied she would remember it.

  ‘Play your part well, and there’ll be another five hundred quid in it for you,’ he said quietly. ‘But it you fuck up, believe me you’ll be sorry. I’ll make sure of that. Now get out of my car.’

  ‘Don’t you want to come back to the club and spend some time with me?’ she asked.

  She was thinking about the envelope he had given her. He must be loaded.

  ‘Just get out and close the door behind you.’

  Standing on the pavement she watched his car drive away before she went back indoors and slipped into the toilet. Locked in a cubicle she took the envelope out of her bag, wondering where to stash the money. Her dress was too tight to conceal anything in her underwear, and besides, someone might see it there. She ripped the inner soles out of her shoes, divided the notes and put them inside the shoes, cramming the soles back down. The hidden money made her shoes uncomfortably tight, but it was the best she could do. She didn’t dare leave it in her bag. It was too much money to risk losing. She was about to throw the envelope away when she noticed it had a name and address on it. A thousand quid with another five hundred promised, and there was plenty more where that came from, if she played her cards right. Smiling to herself, she put the envelope carefully in her bag.