He also had a couple of Carolyn’s hairs, obtained earlier that morning as he discreetly ‘broken’ into her house using the key he had taken from Eve’s keychain. He’d known Matthew would be at school, and that Carolyn worked mornings in a local shop. The hairbrush had been right there on the hall table, almost begging him to take it. So he had.
The final piece of the puzzle was a letter he had hand written that morning, crumpling the paper and fraying the creases, making it look like it had been written months before. The content was simple, it told Carolyn that he couldn’t continue their affair, that it wasn’t fair on Eve as they were still married. It said that as long as Eve was alive, they would never be able to be together and that she would just have to accept it, as Eve was his main concern and responsibility. It had sickened him writing it. As if he would ever shag an overweight, hormonal sack like that. But it served its purpose as evidence of a convincing motive for the terrible crime that ‘Carolyn’ was about to commit.
John reached Eve’s room at a little after 7 p.m., peeking in the window on the door to see his wife propped up on the bed, some wildlife programme on the TV. He clicked open the door, and walked inside, smiling as his wife’s eyes widened in shock.
Without him noticing, she managed to press the buzzer in her hand just as he approached. She knew he was there to hurt her, Carolyn had told her about the custody case before even applying, wanting to be sure Eve had no objections to her sister looking after her son. Eve’s happy tears on hearing that Matthew would no longer be in the grips of her husband, had told Carolyn that she was doing the right thing.
She dropped the buzzer on the bed, her eyes wide in fear. Hurry, please hurry.
He thought she didn’t remember everything. He thought she was stupid. But she wasn’t – not now. She had been stupid staying for all those years; putting up with the beatings; accepting sex when he wanted it, even if she didn’t, allowing Matthew to be parented by the monster that was his father. Now though, she had a counsellor who had been teaching her to communicate again, helping her. She was almost there too, almost at the point where her words would form as she wanted them to. And she’d had every intention of reporting the bastard she was married to as soon as she got the opportunity.
He strode towards her, knocking the buzzer from her hand, confident she hadn’t pressed it. She was too stupid to believe he would kill her in the home, and too afraid.
But then the niggle of doubt he’d had in the back of his mind since the look she had given him after he’d killed Ann, took hold and grew bigger as he stared at his wife. Gone was the fear he was so used to seeing. Her eyes were suddenly full of defiance. He could hear loud and clear her silent scream of ‘FUCK YOU’.
Taking a deep breath he advanced, he didn’t care whether she was scared or whether she shouted at the top of her silent voice. He was there to kill her, to make sure Carolyn got the blame, and to get his son back. There was no way he would let his son be raised by a single woman, a boy needed his father. He should know, he’d missed his since the day he’d been taken into care.
John opened the bag and pulled out the towel, the one he’d removed from Carolyn’s airing cupboard that very morning, the one that smelled of that ridiculous perfumed washing powder she used for all her clothes and linen.
‘This is all your fault. If you’d just died in the first instance like you were supposed to then I wouldn’t have to do this now. You should know though, this is Carolyn’s towel. Covered in her hair. Your sister killed you, Eve, and your son will be with me for the rest of his life. He’ll grieve with me over the death of his beloved mother, my wonderful wife. And the bond between father and son will grow strong once more.’
His voice was calm, his eyes flat, devoid of emotion as the need to kill took over. He placed the towel over Eve’s face, pressing down hard, listening to her whimper as she tried her best to struggle.
Her body was weak, though. It didn’t allow for much movement without help.
She felt her lungs burn as they struggled to inhale oxygen, felt searing pain in her face as her husband pressed down with all his might, and she thought of her son. Matthew’s face filled her mind, his young, troubled eyes giving away the horrors he had seen as a child.
She had to hold on.
She had to be there for him. She couldn’t let this monster raise her son. Mustering every bit of her strength, she flung her body to the side, gasping in air as she landed on the carpeted floor, pain shooting through her shoulder as something gave with a loud crack.
Before she knew it though, he was back. Straddled over her like John Wayne on his horse, placing the awful towel over her face again. She tried to scream, but all that escaped was a pitiful grunt. I’m going to die. He’s actually going to kill me.
Neither of them heard the door click open.
John only realised someone was in the room with them when he felt huge muscular arms wrap around his torso, pinning his arms to his side, as a deep voice bellowed, ‘Betty, call the police, NOW!’
He felt himself go weightless as the man-mountain pulled him away from Eve and a guttural scream rose in his throat. ‘Noooo, she must die. Let me go.’
John struggled but it was useless; the man who held him was the only male carer in the home. He knew the man’s sheer size had almost meant he didn’t get employed at the home when he’d applied a few years ago. The manager initially imagined the residents would be afraid of him. But he’d won her over with his gentle charm, his manner with the patients and his willingness to help.
George Ashton was one of those rare gentle giants. The residents loved him, and he loved them right back. He read them newspapers and stories and regaled them with his hobbies of magic and singing. He was in short, the best fit the home could have asked for. And right now, they were lucky he was there.
He held John immobile, as though he weighed nothing more than a big bag of feathers, ignoring the primal screams coming from the man as he struggled against the vice that held him tightly.
Betty ran into the room suddenly, having called the police from the phone at the end of the corridor. Ignoring George and John, she made her way straight round the bed to Eve who was lying on the floor, tears streaming down her face.
‘Shhh, it’s alright, pet. You’re safe now.’ Betty pulled Eve into a sitting position and held her close, stroking her back as Eve wept. Betty didn’t realise that Eve’s tears were mostly joyous. I’m alive. He can’t hurt me anymore. Matthew will be safe.
By the time the police arrived a few minutes later, John had stopped struggling and fallen silent. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. This isn’t fair. John felt the handcuffs tighten around his wrists, and held his head high more out of defiance than anything else, as he was led out to the waiting police van. Shit. What the hell am I going to do now?
14th June, 2100 hours – Tulley residence, Sunderland
Jacob stretched his leg on the sofa, small beads of sweat on his forehead as he raised the leg and lowered it repeatedly. The physio exercises that kept the muscles in his leg from deteriorating were almost second nature.
He’d got back from the hospital over an hour ago, where TJ had happily informed him that she would be released tomorrow. He had frowned at that. Though the lacerations to her face were scabbing properly, the bruising stood out on his sister’s still pale face. If he had his way he’d lock her in the hospital and leave her there where the world couldn’t hurt her.
All the things he’d seen in his career, all the sights he’d viewed in his role with the police, and nothing had scared him as much as the thought his sister could have died. He’d spoken to Ali and Ben earlier in the day, and though the investigation was still progressing, he just felt helpless. The CCTV was being trawled through, and he knew they were following up the registration plate, but it didn’t ease the knot sitting in his stomach.
Picking up on his tension, Ben had asked if he wanted some company this evening. He had declined, saying he needed to
work through some stuff at home. Now he wished he had taken her up on it. His 2-bedroomed terrace in the city centre seemed too quiet tonight, even with his tunes blaring from the iPhone docking station on the mantle.
Making his way into the spare room, he glanced around the books on the shelves. His gaze was finally drawn to one on his ‘to-read’ shelf. He poured himself a coffee, grabbed a large bunch of the grapes from the fruit bowl, and lay down on the sofa. He hadn’t even read the first chapter when his mind relaxed and he suddenly fell into a deep sleep.
The book fell from his chest, waking him enough for him to realise that he was sliding into sleep. The joys of military training; his body was capable of falling asleep when he needed the rest, wherever he was. He dozily recalled the time he had woken on a tree branch in the middle of the jungle, with a python slithering over his stomach. Luckily for him, the python had eaten recently: it had a bulge in its middle. It moved over his stomach as he lay still, then made its way down the trunk of the tree to the ground. And Jacob had just turned his head and gone back to sleep.
He gave a soft sigh and turned his face towards the sofa back and gave in to sleep.
14th June, 2305 hours – Major Incident Room, Sunderland City Centre Depot
Ali reread the log for the second time. It was almost time to interview the suspect. He wasn’t conducting the interview, one of the DC’s was; but he had every intention of sitting in. An attempted murder in a care home? This was going to be a media nightmare. By the time Deena Davis, the CSI, had arrived at the home, the place was already swarming with reporters. At least one person had obviously seen fit to leak the story.
And those reporters would want to know what had happened, whether there was any negligence, how he had got inside after the visiting hours. He had some answers from the staff. The rest would depend on how much John Whitworth wanted to disclose.
Ali knew he hadn’t yet asked for a solicitor, and that that could either be good or bad. Whitworth would either ‘no comment’ through the interview; open up and tell all; or ask for a brief when they sat down to interview.
Ali had already been to the hospital to see the victim, not that she could say much. He ran his hand through his hair, and sighed.
The staff had told him how she ended up in the home, it wasn’t too much of a leap to wonder whether, given what had happened today, Whitworth might have tried to harm his wife before. Just a gut feeling of course, but still.
John Whitworth’s bag had been booked into evidence, and as DC Charlie Quinn stood suddenly from her seat, Ali knew it was time to find out what had happened.
Chapter Sixteen
15th June, 1045 hours – Tunstall, Sunderland City Centre
It was almost time.
His excitement levels had been rising for days, and he’d dulled it a few times by wasting money on the dirty whore a few streets over. She’d asked him the last time not to be so rough, and he’d left her knowing what rough actually was. It’d take weeks for the bruising to heal. She was only lucky he didn’t kill whores – they had a certain acceptance when things went wrong, anticipation that at any given moment with a john, their luck could change. That, and the fact they’d all been round the block more times than daft mick. There was no pleasure to be gained from killing someone who expected it to happen. It did nothing for him.
He’d checked his tablet this morning, making sure the software he needed was saved and ready to go. There would be no trail leading back to him, absolutely nothing to say he’d ever been chatting to Clarice. The University had been a bit of a bugger though. They’d upgraded their security systems in the last few days and it had taken him a good hour to write the code that provided him with a way through the new firewalls they’d installed. But he’d managed it, and now any record of Gareth Chamberlain was well and truly erased.
He would get away with it again, and this time he wouldn’t have to move to another county. He had things to stay here for now and a life he quite enjoyed.
He’d just have to be exceptionally careful not to leave anything behind to incriminate him. Extra careful.
15th June, 1205 hours – Custody, Sunderland City Centre Depot
John had just been handed another sandwich and cup of lukewarm coffee through the sliding window of the large metal cell door. Looking at the bread, he was sure he could see mould. He’d heard custody cells weren’t the nicest places. The stench from the toilet in the corner of the cell was powerful, and just when he thought his nose had acclimatised, a fresh waft would fill the air. Through the night there had been clanking doors, drunks yelling and people talking in a dull drone that could still be heard even through the heavy metal door.
It was a good job he’d slept in the boiler room, because there was no hope of sleeping in this shithole. He stood and walked the few feet over to the toilet, undid his trousers and had a piss. He’d needed to for a while but had been resisting, knowing from the last time that the piss sprayed out of the toilet bowl and onto the wall at the back, making the smell even worse.
Zipping his trousers back up, he put his hands under his shirt, and felt the thin nylon rope that was looped round his waist. He’d had to take his belt off, even hand over his shoe laces and the contents of his pockets, but they hadn’t known about this rope. He’d wanted to be prepared. The rope was his last-ditch attempt at controlling the death of his wife. His brow furrowed in disappointment. The bitch is still alive. I’m here rotting in this cell and she’s living it up at the hospital with what, a broken arm maybe? This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Knowing that it would be almost thirty minutes until the window was opened on his cell again, he decided to make a new plan. He didn’t want to go to jail, didn’t know if he could face it. It was full of, well, criminals. And most of them a lot tougher than he was. He’d be pond scum to them. He’d purposely asked for the solicitor who handled his estate – an estate for an uncle he didn’t remember, but that who, knowing of John’s existence, had left everything he owned in trust. Not that it was much mind, but any hand-outs had been welcome when he had first gone into business for himself. He knew it would take them hours to travel up from London, and it had given him time to consider his options.
Unhooking the thin rope from his waist, he started looping the end into a large circle.
15th June, 1240 hours – Major Incident Room, Sunderland City Centre Depot
Ali ran a hand over his eyes. He’d been in the nick pretty much solidly since last night, a quick hours kip and shower at some point in the wee hours his only break. The interview last night had consisted of total silence, Whitworth not disclosing anything. It had been decided to let him sleep on it, to contemplate his actions. They had locked him down in his cell, giving him a plastic cup of coffee and a sandwich.
Ali had actually watched through the sliding window of the cell door as the man meticulously removed the limp tomato and ate with methodical bites, chewing slowly before swallowing with a gulp. His eyes had been blank as they stared at the dirty looking grey floor of the 8ft by 6ft cell. He’d looked up as he had finished, and then said the fateful words. ‘I want a solicitor. Mackie and Steepling from London. I’m already a client.’
It had taken the custody sergeant more than a couple of hours to contact the solicitors, and he’d been promptly informed that Mr Mackie himself would be making the trip up from London, and was expecting to land at the police station at around 4 p.m. It was a good delay tactic, Ali had to admit. Until then interviews couldn’t be conducted. Not with Whitworth at any rate. Talking to the staff at the care home had been fruitful however. A couple of suspicious incidents now seemed linked to the prisoner in the cells, including the hit and run fatality on the 5th June. Staff had disclosed that the victim, Ann Caffrey, had been working closely with Eve, that she had expressed concerns about John in the past to her colleagues. It didn’t mean John was responsible for Ann’s death, Ali knew that, but it was still awfully convenient timing.
The phone’s shri
ll ring interrupted his thoughts. He picked it up. ‘McKay … what? How the fuck did that happen? … Shit ... I’ll be right down.’
Ali pretty much ran down the two floors to the cells. He used his station key to unlock the entry doors then buzzed for entry. As the door clicked he pushed hard, the metal hinges screeching as the door slammed into the wall. He didn’t even notice the plaster fall.
Striding past the custody desk and straight to cell M19, he pushed two uniformed cops out of the way.
‘Shit.’ He said again, as he saw John Whitworth lying on the floor, his eyes glassed and open, the noose still round his neck. This was not going to be a good day.
15th June, 1930 hours – CSI Department, Sunderland City Centre Depot
It was going to be a quiet night. The dayshift had gone home after a slow day. Even Craig who’d been on mid-shift had requested a little time off, not wanting to be sat twiddling his thumbs in the office for hours before home time. Which left Ben covering the late shift on her own.
Popping her tunes on quietly, she made a coffee and opened up Socard, intending to make a start on the bag of property at her feet. It was always the same on a slow shift. She had been informed by Kevin that the vans were all cleaned and stocked, and most of the store-room had been cleared. She had one measly bin bag of property to book through the system for destruction and that was it.
Reaching down, she grabbed the first piece of property. It was one of Cass’s – a return from the Chem Lab. The label stuck to the front by the lab showed ‘no fingerprints found’ so the item was essentially useless. Inside the evidence bag was a plastic Asda carrier. It showed some yellow smears where it had been handled but Ben could see there was no visible ridge detail. She scanned the barcode onto Socard and marked it as disposed, then cut into the evidence bag and pulled it out, putting both into the other bin bag at her feet. When she’d finished she’d take it all down to the skip in the back yard.
I've Been Watching You: a stunning crime thriller from The North East Police Series Page 17
