by John Moralee
“I bet he stole them,” Ben said. “I heard from one of the police that the killer took Anne’s underwear as a memento. You were lucky he didn’t kill you, too.”
“God!” Sapphire said. “What if he comes back? He might want to kill us all.”
“We’d better keep an eye out for each other,” I said, sounding much braver than I really felt. “And we should get in a locksmith to change our locks. We don’t want him letting himself in to our flats.”
“I’ll get the Yellow Pages,” Norman said.
*
After the locksmith had done his job, I decided to go out for a walk around the town. It was too cold to be outside long, so I picked up every newspaper with the murder in it and read them in a warm café.
Mr Tariq might not have been named as a suspect by the police, but it was clear every tabloid was gunning for him. They had a wedding picture of him looking creepy accompanied by lurid descriptions of his tough life growing up in Iran, where he had been a student arrested at a radical political protest. He spent a year in jail before leaving the country for the UK, where he took a job with British Gas. After a series of short-term jobs he had married another Iranian immigrant, the daughter of a property developer. His father-in-law encouraged Tariq to join his family business - buying houses to be converted into rental flats. Eventually Tariq took over the buy-for-rent business. The tabloids estimated he had made a personal fortune of at least a million pounds. He had no criminal record – but the journalists had found a number of complaints made against him for shoddy repairs. One tabloid headline called him a “Slumlord Millionaire”, which I thought was a big harsh. I thought he had always been a pretty good landlord – for a murderer.
As I was leaving the café, I noticed a black Ford Focus parked across the street. There was a bearded man behind the wheel looking straight at me. The man made me feel uneasy for some reason.
Why was he looking at me?
Was it Mr Tariq in a disguise?
I hurried down the street - heading home. I was almost at the street corner when I saw the Ford Focus drive past me at some speed. I stopped and watched it continue to the next street, then turn left, which wasn’t my way.
Feeling relief, I continued.
I was nearly home when I saw the same Ford Focus parked ahead. Now there were two men in the vehicle. One of them got out and turned to look my way. He was huge, like a bouncer. He started striding towards me, his eyes locked on mine. He was dressed in a black leather jacket that he suddenly reached into, making me think he was going for a gun. The man had been hired by Mr Tariq to kill me for being a witness. He was going to shoot me!
I looked in all directions hoping to see some way of getting away – but I had no escape route. Helplessly I watched as if in slow motion as his hand emerged from his jacket with something in it – something he pointed at me.
It was a warrant card.
“Sir, I’m DI Granger. The Chief Inspector wanted me and my partner to keep you safe. Would you like a lift back to your home?”
I laughed nervously. “You’re protecting me?”
“The Chief thought it wise, considering the circumstances. You are a valuable witness. I didn’t scare you, did I?”
My heart was doing somersaults, but I shook my head. “No. You didn’t.”
To prove it, I accepted his offer. On the way home I asked the policemen how things were going with their investigation. I didn’t expect them to tell me anything, so I was surprised when the huge detective began talking like we were good friends.
“It’s going well. Right now the Chief Inspector’s attending the autopsy. It’s been performed by the best pathologist in the country. Plus, I just heard our guys found the murder weapon.”
“Where was it?”
“It was buried on Brighton Beach. A member of the public with a metal detector found it this morning.”
“Wow – that’s lucky. What was it?”
“An iron poker. It’s got the victim’s blood and hair on it – but that’s not the best news. It’s also got Mr Tariq’s fingerprints on it. Now there’s no way he can get away with killing her when we catch him. We also have some clues about where he was going now thanks to his van, which was found parked near the train station. Our guys are looking at the CCTV. Hopefully that’ll lead us to finding him.”
They dropped me off at the house.
*
I was unlocking my door when Ben opened the door of his flat. “There you are! I thought I heard you on the stairs, mate. Listen, I invited Sapphire and Norman over for a drink. You want to join us?”
“Uh – sure.”
I could see Sapphire sitting on a black leather couch inside his flat, which I had never seen inside before. It was weird being called “mate” by Ben when he had hardly spoken a word before today – but I accepted his invite because I wanted to see more of Sapphire. But first I went into my flat and brought a gift of a twelve-pack of Hammersmith beers. I’d been given a year’s supply by the manufacturer – my fridge was filled with the stuff for the ad campaign I’d done – so the beers had cost me nothing.
“This is a good beer, mate,” Ben said. “I sell it at my club. The punters love it. Come in! Sit down!”
His flat could have been taken from a style magazine: gleaming hardwood floors, glass and steel coffee table, leather sofas, modern art. He also had his own bar set up with rows of every drink imaginable. Norman was drinking some kind of luminous green cocktail with a little umbrella in it. Sapphire had a glass of wine.
“By the way I’ve just found out from the police Mr Tariq definitely did it,” I announced. Then I told them about the poker and the discovery of his van. “Now it’s just a matter of time catching him.”
“He’s probably out of the country,” Ben said. “They’ll never catch him if he’s in South America or somewhere like that.”
“The cops also told me they’re doing the autopsy today.”
“Yuk!” Norman said. “I’d hate some stranger probing my insides.”
Ben smirked to himself at that comment – but he stopped when Sapphire glared at him.
She had nearly finished her glass of wine. Ben poured more wine into her glass - despite her protests that she didn’t want any more because she had already had three refills. When Ben sat down next to her invading her personal space, she excused herself to use his bathroom. I saw a flash of annoyance on his face. He looked at his watch and sighed. I noticed with envy he owned a Rolex.
“It’s eight already? Guys I’ve got to leave soon for my club. We’d better call an end to the evening.”
That was his cue for us to leave, but I wasn’t leaving until Sapphire came back. I didn’t want to leave her alone with Mr Twilight. Especially when he had been plying her with drink. I lingered after Norman left until Sapphire returned.
“Ben has to work,” I told her. “You want to come to my place?”
“Uh – okay,” she said. She left her drink behind. Ben gave me a cold look masked by a smile as we exited.
Luckily I had cleaned up my flat before letting Sapphire see it. I turned on some music. She looked around at the awards on top of the mantelpiece, picking one up.
“Did you always want to be in advertising?”
“You’re kidding, I hope. I never wanted to. The only reason I got into it was in the hope of becoming a director.”
“A film director?”
“A lot of people start by directing adverts, then they break into films and music videos. The trouble is so many people are trying to do the same thing. I won’t give up.” Just needed a promotion or three. “Sapphire, I couldn’t but help notice you like art. Is that what you do?”
“Yes, it’s my passion,” she said. She walked up to me and studied me intently. I could smell the wine on her breath. “You have an interesting face. Your eyes are … You know what?”
“What?”
“I’d love to do your portrait. Would you mind sitting for me some time?”
“What about on Saturday?”
“Sure. I’ll look forward to it.”
She giggled. “Wow! I’m feeling quite drunk. That wine’s gone straight to my head. I think Ben was trying to get me wasted so he could have his evil way with me. Thanks for saving me. You, sir, are a gentleman.”
She kissed me lightly on the cheek.
I wanted to kiss her back.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the nerve.
“You want to watch some TV?” I asked.
“Why not?” she said.
I turned on the television and sat beside her while surfing through the channels. I couldn’t find anything good.
“See what’s on the news,” she suggested.
I clicked on BBC 24. The hunt for Anne’s murderer was the top story. A BBC reporter was interviewing the man who had found the murder weapon. The man looked to be in his late seventies with a full white beard and wild hair, like a crazy Santa Claus. He was standing on the beach near where he had dug up the poker.
“How long have you metal-detected?” the reporter asked.
“It’s been my hobby since I retired five years ago. My wife bought me the detector to get my out of the house. I thought it’d be boring, but I love it. It beats walking a dog. You never know what you’ll find. Every day I like to come early to beat the others to the best things.”
The programme showed some previously recorded footage of several men walking up and down the beach, waving metal detectors. The reporter commented over it:
“Many treasure hunters like Mr Smith chose Brighton Beach because people lose money and jewellery here. For some enthusiasts it can even be a profitable business. Today Mr Smith found more than he bargained – the missing murder weapon in ...”
We watched the news report until it started repeating things.
Sapphire stayed for most of the evening. We watched some comedies I had recorded. I also showed her the best of the adverts I’d been involved in making. She laughed when I showed her how many crates of Hammersmith were in my kitchen. We drank a couple in my living room.
At the end of the night she kissed me again.
This time I kissed her back.
“Come in,” Sapphire said when I knocked on her door on Saturday.
She lived in what used to be the attic space. Mr Tariq had converted it into the biggest flat – twice the floor size of the others - but its sloping ceiling made it feel smaller. There wasn’t much furniture because she had turned it into an art studio.
There were moody black and white photographs on her sloping walls of Brighton’s old buildings, but the most striking picture was above her fireplace. It showed the entire promenade and the pier.
Sapphire was wearing a white smock flecked with dried paint. Her hair was tucked under a sexy black beret. “You know what I’d really like to do for you?”
A million X-rated thoughts entered my mind, but I was careful to keep them there. “No. What?”
“I’d like to take some photos and do a portrait from them. It will save you having to pose for a long time.”
“I don’t mind posing,” I said.
“Are you sure? You might have to stay in one position for quite some time.”
“The real person is better than photos, right?”
She nodded.
“Then what do you want me to do?”
She asked me to sit on the chair by the window with sunlight lighting my face. Then I had to stay still from the neck up. It wasn’t easy. I suddenly wanted to scratch my nose. Sapphire started mixing paints and making charcoal sketches. I couldn’t see the pictures from this position.
“You have a distinctive look that I find fascinating.” She was really excited by the prospect of painting me. It would be interesting to see what she did with a picture of little old me. Being around someone interested in the arts would do an embittered cynic like me some good, I reckoned. Besides which, she was young and attractive.
“Okay. Hold that pose. Don’t move until I say you can.”
I became a statue for an hour. Then we had a break for coffee and cigarettes.
“Sapphire’s not my real name, by the way. It’s Rachel.”
“Rachel’s not a bad name.”
“It’s not interesting. So I changed it by deed poll.”
“I wish I’d done that. I hate my name.”
“You shouldn’t. I think Tristram is a great name.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It has that Knights of the Round Table thing going for it. Sir Tristram. It’s noble.”
I had never heard my name called noble before.
*
The next day Ben was coming up the stairs when I was going down them.
“Hey! You heard the latest news?”
“No – what?”
“They found Mr Tiraq dead. His body was washed up on the beach. Looks like he did a Reggie Perrin.”
Suicide. I told Sapphire what had happened, then I went back to my flat to put on the TV. The BBC were reporting the discovery, but they were just calling it a “possible suicide” until it was confirmed by the police.
Chief Inspector Cassidy appeared at a press conference, standing before a large crowd.
“I can confirm that the body of Mr Tariq has been discovered.”
“Did he commit suicide?”
The detective looked uncomfortable.
“Did he commit suicide?” the journalist persisted.
“No,” Cassidy said. “It appears his skull was fractured by the same weapon used to kill Miss Hargreaves. He was not the killer, but a second victim -”
*
Just then I heard an unholy scream. It was Sapphire. “Help! Tristram! He’s trying to kill me!”
Without thinking about the danger I was risking, I yanked open my door and rushed up the stairs, adrenaline pumping. I had never moved so fast. I didn’t have a weapon but I had my phone, which I flipped open and hit nine-nine-nine . I heard a woman’s voice answer.
“Police!” I shouted. “My name’s Tristram Whyte. I need help! My girlfriend’s being attacked in her flat!” I breathlessly gave the address. “Hurry!”
I was almost at the top of the stairs when the door above flew open. Standing there – holding a large and bloody knife – was Ben. He looked down at me, his eyes wide, his teeth bared. No! I was too late. I yelled and threw my phone at him as a distraction, then tackled him before he could attack me.
We struggled on the stairs. I punched him a couple of times, making him grunt, but he would not leave go of the knife. He pushed me away, grimacing.
“No!” he cried out.
I saw the knife still gripped in his hand – so I grabbed his wrist and smashed it against the wall.
He dropped the knife, but we both lost out balance then. We tumbled twenty-feet down the stairs, slamming into the walls, crashing in a heap of entwined limbs on the landing. My head hit the edge of the stairs two or three times on the way – pain flaring within my skull – but I managed to elbow Ben in the face before I passed out. I thought I heard the crack of his nose breaking.
My last thought was of Sapphire.
Was she dead?
*
I woke up in the back of an ambulance. There was a paramedic leaning over me. My head hurt when I tried to move.
“What happened?”
“Relax,” he said. “You have a concussion - but you’re going to be all right.”
“What about Sapphire?”
“She’s … fine,” he said. “Now just rest, okay?”
I thought he was lying, but I felt too woozy to ask more questions.
*
Later I was in a hospital bed. My head was feeling much better. Chief Inspector Cassidy was there. “Tristram, do you feel up to answering some questions?”
“I suppose so,” I said. “But I want to know what happened to Sapphire first. Is she alive?”
“Yes,” he said. He didn
’t elaborate. “Now, please tell me what happened at the flat.”
I told him about hearing Sapphire’s scream for help and my fight with Ben. He recorded my interview. After I had finished, the detective thanked me for cooperating.
“Can I see Sapphire now?”
“Yes – she’s been wanting to see you.”
He invited her into the room.
A moment later Sapphire was by my side. She had a nasty bruise on her face, but she had no other injuries.
“Am I dreaming?”
“No,” she said. “You’re awake.”
“But I thought Ben killed you. I saw the blood on his knife. Didn’t he stab you?”
“No. That wasn’t my blood. It was Ben’s. When he sneaked into my studio intending to kill me, I heard him and screamed for help, then managed to defend myself with a kitchen knife. I stabbed him in the chest, but it didn’t stop him attacking me. He was like a wild beast. He hit me and knocked me out.” She touched the bruise, wincing. “He would have killed me if you hadn’t come to my rescue.”
“Is he under arrest?”
“No,” she said. “He died before the ambulance got there. He bled out because he pulled the knife out of his wound.”
“You should never do that,” Chief Inspector Cassidy informed me.
Personally, I was glad he had done it. It saved a trial. “I don’t understand why he attacked Sapphire. Why’d he do that?”
The detective answered my question. “I’ve got a theory about that. I already had suspicions that someone was lying about the night Anne died because her autopsy result revealed that she had only eaten half of an M&S dinner-for-two, but the rest wasn’t in her flat. That meant she had invited someone for dinner. My theory is Ben came for dinner with her but something went wrong. Perhaps he got angry when he found out she had another boyfriend from Facebook? Whatever his reason, he struck her with the first weapon he could find – the iron poker. He was probably figure out what to do with her body when Mr Tariq was unlucky enough to knock on her door to fix her shower. Ben killed him. Then he decided to make it look like Mr Tariq had killed Anne. He put Mr Tariq’s body in his own van and dumped it in the sea, figuring it would never be found. It was a good plan – until Mr Tariq’s body was washed up. He knew I would be looking for a new suspect for both murders – so I believe he intended to kill Sapphire and frame you for her death. We found Anne’s blood-stained underwear hidden in his flat, which proved he had kept them as a memento. You were both very lucky his plan went wrong.”
