by Emmy Ellis
“Time?” he whispered, chin tucked low so his voice carried into the hidden microphone beneath his jacket lapel.
“Nearing nine o’clock,” a voice said in his earpiece.
Fuck. They’d have to pull Villier out soon. Another few rotations and she’d have been walking too long. They could manage up to seven laps at a stretch, but that was pushing their luck. Besides, would the killer even be out this late? Yes, it would be easier if the man had the cover of darkness, but he’d taken women last summer at an earlier time, when the sun hadn’t yet set and other people had been about.
He had balls, this one.
Langham shrugged off a shiver and let out a long breath as Villier came into view. She seemed so different in those clothes, not the ice-queen bitch she was in uniform. She almost appeared…nice. Approachable. And that was what they wanted, what they needed, wasn’t it? Just some woman taking her dog for a walk, with her boring, straight, long brown hair and blue eyes that had itched so much back at the station she’d said she’d wanted to rip the contacts out.
He continued staring, adrenaline kicking up. Continued waiting, heartbeat growing erratic.
Something had to give.
* * * *
David stood in the far corner of the Morrisons car park. He’d left his Fiat a few streets away from his usual parking spot behind the forest—he’d got the funny feeling he’d had before—and while he’d walked to this spot, he’d had to think about how he’d handle tonight. Parking so far away, and in plain view of the estate’s residents, too, meant he’d have to make friends with the woman, encourage her to go with him. The dog, as well, like he had with the Yorkshire Terrier slag. It was a bind, something he could do without, but that feeling in him had been strong. He’d told himself he was imagining being watched, that he’d got the jitters because he hadn’t had a chance to plan this one. That was all it was. That was all.
He stared across the expanse of tarmac, over car roofs, past late-night shoppers pushing trolleys laden with goodies towards their cars. He fixed his sights on the field over the road, ignoring the people who intermittently bobbed about in his peripheral. They weren’t important, weren’t anything to worry about. Were they?
Of course they weren’t.
Some woman had been walking her dog over there for a while now. Seemed like she was lost in thought, had troubles on her mind, staring at the ground like that. She’d be easy—and only her and her dog had occupied the field for the past hour. So why was he hesitating? Why didn’t he just go over there and talk to her?
What if she’s like all the others? What if she ends up hating me once we’re back at my place? Doubt was a whore, spreading its legs and inviting him to take a closer look at its messy redness.
“What should I do, Mr Clever?” he asked.
“I already told you, David. If you choose to ignore me, think about what you might have passed up. What if she’s the one? What if she’s here visiting family for the night and won’t ever come back here to walk her dog again? What if you miss your chance?”
To get away from Mr Clever, David strode across the car park and stepped onto the field, the grass springy underfoot, a vast difference to the concrete. A surge of belonging stole into him, like he was at home here, in the right place at the right time. His worries had all been for nothing. He could do this. He could switch on the charm and wrap this woman around his little finger.
He approached her as she headed towards the forest opening end, keeping his steps languid, hands in his fleece pockets, closing his fingers around the full syringe, just in case. If he had to, he’d drug her with enough shit that meant she’d stay asleep for hours.
She didn’t glance up but continued walking. Her dog stopped running, halted, and stared across at him, ears pricked, tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. It might be a big animal, but it appeared friendly enough. Didn’t display bared teeth. Didn’t have raised hackles. Didn’t growl. Its eyes were keen yet soft. No, he wouldn’t have a problem with this one.
“Hey, nice dog,” he called, jogging until he came abreast of her.
She looked up slowly, as though coming out of a daze. “Oh, sorry. I was miles away.” She smiled, then whistled. The dog trotted to her side. Stroking its back, she said, “Yes, lovely dog. Don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“Oh, I know what you mean.” He gazed directly into her eyes.
They were bright blue. The brightest he’d ever seen.
Christ, this is it. She’s the one. I know it.
“I used to have a dog once.” He strode along with her. “D’you mind me walking with you for a bit, by the way?”
She shook her head and stared at the ground again. “Nope. Nice to have a bit of company. I don’t get out much these days. Not since…”
What was up with her? She seemed upset. “Since…?”
“Since my husband died. That’s why Jerry, my dog…why I don’t know what I’d do without him. Companionship…”
David nodded, feigning understanding. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. It was something she’d have expected him to say.
“Me, too, but being sorry won’t bring him back. I need to move on, sort myself out. Who knows, there might be someone else waiting out there for me. I just want…I just want to love someone. Be loved back.”
She lifted her head, stared right at him, and sincerity shone from her eyes.
This is it, isn’t it? She’s so nice. But the dog will still have to go. I can keep the woman, though.
“Listen,” he said, coming to a stop at the forest entrance. “I know we’ve just met and all that, but do you fancy going for a drink? I mean, I realise it seems a bit weird, me asking you like this, but…well, you look like you could do with some company, and I certainly could. Been one hell of a day…”
She nodded, fast bobs of her head that jostled her hair, and smiled so wide the corners of her eyes creased. “I’d love to. That would be nice. Can Jerry come?”
“God, yes. I love dogs.” Liar.
“Great! Do you want to go to the pub through there?” She nodded at the forest. “There’s one on the edge of the estate. Nice place, and they don’t have music in there. Be lovely and quiet so we can chat. I can chain Jerry outside to the railing fence.”
David smiled. “Yeah, that’d be fine.”
He wanted to laugh at how this was going. Everything was falling into place. He could get her to his car with no problem after he’d bought her a few glasses of wine and she was unsteady on her feet.
No problem at all.
* * * *
Langham carefully stepped back, hoping to God his feet didn’t dislodge something on the ground so it cracked. Time seemed to still, and the only sounds were the thump of his thundering heart and his majorly loud breathing. Villier and the suspect headed towards them, and Langham held the air in his lungs, almost closed his eyes because he couldn’t bear to see if the man sensed them and everything went to shit.
Once Villier and her companion went past them, far enough ahead that movement wouldn’t be heard, Langham guided Oliver to the other side of the tree. They watched. Villier chatted to the bloke, Jerry lolloping beside her, having been obedient in not sniffing at them or Fairbrother and Hastings when they’d walked through. They couldn’t arrest the bloke yet—he hadn’t done anything—but the pub scenario hadn’t featured in their plans. Still, Langham knew where they were going and would follow, keeping out of sight as much as possible.
He spoke quietly into his mic, relaying the information to the officers just to be sure they’d heard the conversation between Villier and the man via their earbuds. After five minutes, Langham, Oliver, Fairbrother, and Hastings pursued, reaching the other side of the forest in short time. Before emerging out onto the street, Langham checked in to make sure he had the all clear. He got it as the four of them stepped out onto the estate path, then frowned, the idle chitchat in his ear turning to something more serious.
“Listen,” the suspec
t said. “D’you mind if I go and get my car? It’s parked just down here. I’d rather have it in the car park if we’re going into the pub.”
A knot of apprehension settled in Langham’s gut, a painful ball. He glanced ahead at some red-brick houses—lights on, people at home—then down the street to the right where the unmarked police car sat—blue Ford Fiesta, the silhouettes of two officers inside.
“Okay,” Villier said. “Want me to come with you?”
“Where are they?” Langham whispered into his mic.
“Go left,” a voice said in his ear. “They’re about two hundred metres along, right by the second unmarked car.”
“Yeah, why not,” the suspect said.
He sounded so normal, so genuine that Langham had the brief thought that he might not even be the one they were after. What if he wasn’t? It didn’t matter—officers were still positioned at Morrisons.
“Saves me sitting in the pub on my own,” Villier said, her voice light. No traces of fear there. “Never was much good at that. Walking into a pub by myself, I mean. I’d rather have you with me. Saves any men getting the wrong idea, if you catch my drift.”
Langham glanced at Fairbrother and jerked his head to the left. They split up—Fairbrother crossing the road with Hastings, Langham and Oliver staying on the right-hand side—and walked casually down the street. Just men on their way home from the boozer.
“Oh, yes, I know exactly what you’re saying,” the man said. “There it is. You see it? Just down there, look.”
“Oh, yes. Nice little brown Fiat,” Villier said.
Jesus Christ, I wonder if it’s him. “Stand by,” Langham muttered.
“Oh, how weird is that?” she said. “You have a number plate almost identical to mine, except where you have a three and an L, I have a six and an H.”
She’d thought on her feet—they could run that plate and find out who he was.
“Really? Might be fate.” The man laughed.
Langham didn’t like the sound of his voice or that laugh. It was high-pitched—like a woman—and tinkled oddly. Sounded a tad manic if he were honest.
“Watch it,” he murmured into his mic. “His voice has changed. He’s on the turn.”
* * * *
“And fate is weird,” David singsonged, wondering if she was being genuine, “but in a good way. Here we are. Let me just open the back door so Jerry can get in, then we’ll be on our way.” He shut the dog inside, then reached into his pocket for the syringe.
It felt good against his skin, something he could depend on. His voice had changed early—he didn’t usually speak like that until The Time. It made him a little uneasy, and confusion bumbled around in his mind for a few seconds. He stared at her, silently questioning why she hadn’t seemed to notice. She appeared the same—relaxed in his company, no signs of distress—and he told himself it was further confirmation that she was the right one for him.
That was good, wasn’t it? Maybe this would be the last time he’d have to do this. Maybe he’d found the mother he should have had all along. Would she even want to act as a mother? She might want one of those relationships and expect him to fuck her.
Her expression suddenly changed, throwing him off-kilter again. She looked nervous now the dog was on the back seat, and glanced in at Jerry, one hand to her mouth, squeezing her bottom lip with her finger and thumb. He risked turning away to peer at the dog. It stared out at her, panting, his breath fogging the glass, nose pressed against it, creating a wet patch.
Just like he’d always thought. Smelly, dirty, disgusting animals. That wet patch would dry and leave a smeared grey mark. He’d have to clean it, lug his portable vacuum cleaner down all those stairs and get it to suck up the hairs that were undoubtedly scattered on the seat. And how the hell he’d get rid of that dog was anyone’s guess.
He glanced at the woman again. “I just realised I didn’t tell you my name.” He stuck out his free hand, tightening the other around the syringe. “I’m Sally.”
Oh fuck. Oh, Jesus fuck, what have I said?
The woman smiled, didn’t seem fazed at all. What was up with that? Was she one of those types who accepted people for who they said they were? He knew somewhere in his increasingly foggy mind that she should have been surprised at the name he’d given. At least frowned before masking her surprise. Yet she hadn’t. Something was wrong, wasn’t it? Where was Mr Clever? Why wasn’t he here?
“Nice to meet you, Sally,” she said, smiling away. “I’m Cheryl.”
Another Cheryl?
Panic whirred inside him. What was going on? Was this some kind of joke?
A babble of laughter erupted from him, and he let her hand go to open the passenger door. She stepped forward and placed one palm on top of it, resting her hip on the edge. He made a show of pretending he’d forgotten the seat had books all over it.
“God, let me just clear these off for you.” He leant in front of her while frowning and wishing his voice would stop doing that. “Sorry about this. I read quite a bit. Just been to the library today. Good girl. Clever girl. Don’t hurt me.”
Oh God. Why did I say that?
As he swiped some books into the footwell with one shaking hand, he eased the syringe lid off with his other, fumbling because his fingers seemed to have thickened. Turning a bit, he spied her thigh to his left and pulled the syringe out, getting ready to lunge at her, to stab the needle into the muscles there beneath her baggy tracksuit bottoms.
“Get!” She clicked her finger and thumb then stepped back and took her hand off the door.
David wondered what the fuck she’d meant and frowned, readying himself for changing tack and waiting until she sat beside him before he jabbed her instead.
But Jerry bounded between the front seats and clamped his mouth around David’s wrist, applying pressure and growling. David yelped, tugging his arm, panic ripping into him.
Don’t hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me.
The dog held firm. The syringe slipped from his grasp, and he stared at Jerry, at the spit dribbling from his lips, at how those big teeth indented his skin but hadn’t pierced it. Something cold snapped around his free wrist, and he whirled from the beast to stare into the eyes of another woman, the eyes of someone who no longer had brunette hair but blonde.
Someone who looked just like the bogeywoman.
“I am arresting you on suspicion of murder…”
Chapter Sixteen
Langham reached the Fiat and winked at Villier, letting her know that was a job well done. She acknowledged his praise with a nod of her own and smoothed down her real hair, flyaway tresses standing every which way. The wig was now a heap of synthetic fibres at her feet where she’d tossed it, one tress draped over the toe of her trainer, a furry tongue. He looked away from her, unable to stand seeing the relief mixed with fear in her eyes—she’d go into shock later, he’d bet, but for now she’d hold it together, if only so she didn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.
His dislike of her melted, changed into admiration. She might be a strange one, but she had guts, he’d give her that.
Langham gave the man his attention. One wrist was cuffed to the car door handle, the other clamped between the dog’s teeth. He was bent forward, his back arched, head bowed, and his body bobbed as though he had trouble breathing.
Langham reached inside the vehicle and gripped the man’s elbow while Villier took one end of the cuffs off the handle.
“Leave,” Villier said.
The dog let go, sat on the driver’s seat, and appeared to smile as though he knew he’d been good. Langham cuffed both wrists at the small of the man’s back. He wrenched the suspect away and onto the path, into the hands of Fairbrother and a shit-scared-looking Hastings. They each grasped one of the suspect’s upper arms, and Langham took a moment to study the killer who had taken so many lives.
Tears streamed down the man’s face. He hiccoughed several times, odd noises coming out from between h
is overly pink lips. Was he wearing lipstick? He had the green eyes and blond hair Oliver had seen, although that hair wasn’t a natural shade. It came from a bottle, no doubt about it, and a home job, the strands of blond uneven. Langham tried to feel pity, tried to fathom what excuse he had for doing what he’d done, but found not a shred of it going spare.
“Take him away,” he said, maintaining eye contact until Fairbrother and Hastings marched him down the path to a waiting, unmarked car.
“You all right?” He rested his hand on Villier’s forearm.
She stepped forward, and he took his hand off, feeling she hadn’t liked him touching her or showing compassion in front of any hidden officers watching. She clicked her finger and thumb, and Jerry gambolled out of the car then sat at her feet, gazing up and waiting. Villier huffed out an unsteady laugh, reaching into her pocket to produce a treat. She fed the dog, hunkering down, and wrapped her arms around its neck. Tears fell then, a couple of sobs erupting, and Langham had the grace to turn away, to give her time to process what she’d actually done—how things could have gone totally differently. She was shrouded by the car, no one else would see her meltdown, and he felt oddly glad about that. At one time he’d have wished she had witnesses.
Oliver stood staring at the pavement, hands in his jeans pockets.
Langham went up to him. “They’ll be all right now he’s been caught. Your mum and sister,” he said.
Oliver glanced up, his eyebrows pulled together at the bridge of his nose. “I think I ought to go and visit them anyway. It’s time to see if I can mend bridges.”
* * * *
With the Fiat towed away complete with evidence, and David Courtier’s flat being searched for more, Langham just about had things sorted for now. Yes, there was a lot of paperwork to be done, a lot of interviewing, and many visits to the dead women’s families to let them know their daughters’ killer had been caught. It wouldn’t bring the women back, wouldn’t take away the heartache, but at least it would give them some measure of relief, closure.
