by Jay Gill
Head down, he crossed the road. The rain lashed down and thunder crashed overhead. In the distance a car alarm started. A dog barked. It was a dark, hellish night. Everything was perfect; he was really doing this.
He was at Stephanie’s front door. He wiped his face with a tissue; he wanted to see her. How long had he waited for this moment? He knocked and rang the doorbell. Wait. Wait. Be cool. You’ve got this, buddy boy. He could hear her opening the door. The sound of the chain. Here we go. Game face. He made one last mental check: Camera; handcuffs; scalpel. Tick, tick, tick.
With the chain still on, the door opened. That’s okay. Good girl, you never know who might be on the other side. He liked that one; it always made him chuckle.
She peered through the gap. “Hello?”
There she was at long last, his sweet Stephanie. Looking so beautiful. The face of his sweet, sweet angel.
Look friendly and like you belong in the uniform.
“Good evening. Sorry to bother you. I’m Police Sergeant Lamb.” He held up his fake warrant card while once again wiping the rain away from his face. That always worked well. She couldn’t help but be sympathetic. He pulled up his collar to indicate he was cold and wet.
“Good evening, Sergeant.” Bingo – off came the chain, and there she was in all her glory. Door wide open. She looked majestic, so inviting. All wrapped up in her towelling dressing gown. “What’s happened?”
“Sorry to bother you, miss. As I said, I’m Sergeant Lamb. Sadly, there has been an aggravated burglary of an elderly and vulnerable resident in the next street. Number twenty-seven. Mrs Jenkins – you may know her? She’s in her nineties. I’m speaking to neighbours and local residents to see if they can help with our enquiries. We really need to catch the person responsible before he strikes again. I just need to ask a few questions.” He wiped his face again. “Gosh, this rain tonight. I can barely hear myself think. Would you mind if I stepped inside? I won’t keep you long, I promise.”
Keep holding up the warrant card. Big smile. Look like you’re cold. Here we go, we’re in. As easy as that.
He could see it in her eyes before she’d even stepped aside to let him in.
While she shut the door behind them, he felt in his pocket for the scalpel. Be patient: we don’t want to start this in the hallway. Soon enough she’ll invite you to her kitchen or dining room or lounge. Which will it be?
“I was just about to make coffee, Sergeant. Would you like a tea or coffee?”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble, although that would be lovely. It’s so cold tonight. A white coffee, one sugar, would be most welcome.” She really was perfect. She would be the best yet. What a rush. There wouldn’t be time for coffee, but how considerate of her.
“My pleasure, Sergeant Lamb.”
“I didn’t catch your name. Mrs—?”
“I’m not married. My name’s Stephanie Walker.” She smiled sweetly and tucked a strand of her dark, shoulder-length hair behind her ear. “Why don’t you take a seat in the lounge and I’ll make us both a hot drink?”
Sergeant Lamb. I think she likes a man in uniform. Did you see that? She looked to see whether you had a wedding ring on. Well, that’s inappropriate under the circumstances.
“Stephanie, just one thing before you go.”
He stepped up close, too close. He held her arm. In her face he could see that same look of surprise and confusion they all gave him. She was suddenly feeling vulnerable, a little scared. Yet she knew she shouldn’t feel scared, not with a police officer. He showed her the scalpel blade, then put it to her soft and slender throat.
“If you do exactly what I say, you’ll be fine,” he lied. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Chapter Two
After more than thirty years at Scotland Yard, doing a job he loved, my father had left it all behind. I was still surprised at how easily he’d walked away. It was as if on the day he retired he decided to make up for the years he’d been absent. His new job, it seemed, was to dedicate himself completely to his family and their wellbeing.
With so many marriages unable to withstand the pressures of the job, it was wonderful to see how close my parents remained. I’d once hoped for the same with my wife, Helena, and we had done our level best to make it work. Then one afternoon a few years ago, she was murdered by a random mugger on the pavement in front of our house. I had rushed to her side, but she had been fatally wounded and there was nothing any of us could do but watch and comfort her as her life slipped away. I still saw see her crumpled, blood-soaked body, her hands, covered in her own blood, desperately reaching out for help.
She could not have known when leaving the house that day that it would be her last. And that she would never again embrace me, or her parents, or our young daughters.
The hardest part of losing Helena was telling Alice and Faith their mummy was gone. “She’s in heaven,” I’d said as I held them both in my lap. “She can’t come home.”
“I want her here, not in heaven,” Faith, my younger one, had said between sobs.
Alice, the more stoic of the two, had muffled her tears in my shoulder and said very little at all.
It had been a painful process for all of us, the girls especially. How did young children even begin to come to terms with losing the single most important person in their life?
We managed to take each day at a time and slowly, over time, we began to heal. Now, life was easier and we were living again.
We were all relaxing out back at Mum and Dad’s place while Dad fussed over the barbecue. Mum was inside with Monica, putting the finishing touches on a salad, and the girls were chasing each other around the garden with squirt guns.
I heard the back door open, and a moment later Monica handed me a lime and soda. “Your mum asked me to give you this. You okay?” She sat down in the chair opposite me.
“Yeah, just thinking about … you know.”
Monica has been there for us through it all. She and Helena had been best friends since childhood, and when Monica needed refuge from her violent husband, Scott, Helena had insisted she stay with us. It was the right thing to do. Helena always knew the right thing to do.
Alice and Faith adored Monica, and I didn’t know how I would have coped without her. She had been an incredible support to all of us, and I knew being around us – Helena’s family – had helped her too.
Monica gave an exaggerated cough as a plume of smoke drifted our way. “Helena used to tell me about your dad’s infamous barbecue cooking. It looks to me like he’s getting the hang of it.”
We both laughed and watched as Dad turned over some seriously charred chicken thighs.
“Hope they like them well done,” I heard him mumble to himself.
Monica looked up at the partially overcast sky. “If it’s okay, I’ll make sure the girls have got enough sunscreen on. This sun is really intense when it breaks through the clouds.”
“You don’t need to do that. I can do it. Where do we keep it?”
Monica laughed and got to her feet, waving off my protestations. “I don’t mind. It’s in my bag. I’ll do it.” She disappeared inside the house then re-emerged with a bottle of sun cream and called the girls over. Without fuss, Alice and Faith lifted their arms and legs and turned in all directions so Monica could apply the lotion. As I watched, it was as if Helena herself were back and the girls were with their mother. I shook the thought away.
The back door opened and closed again, and Mum began putting knives and forks on the outside table. “How much longer with the food?” she called out to Dad.
“It’s done. Ready when you are, honey.” Dad began arranging chunks of grilled meat and long vegetable kebabs on a tray.
“Will you give me hand with laying the table please, James?”
It wasn’t really a question. I put down my drink and went to help her. I knew Mum had something on her mind; she was a strong woman, the heart and soul of the family. She had no trouble giving either her husband
or her son a piece of her mind when it was needed.
Mum passed me the knives and forks and said, “Good to see you laughing again, sweetheart.”
“I feel good,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
“What do you mean, what’s on my mind? Don’t be so touchy.”
“I just assumed you had some pearls of wisdom you wanted to share.” I gave her a hug to show I was pulling her leg.
“Other than your girls, I was thinking that Monica is the only one who makes you smile. I don’t know; I suppose you’re just too stubborn to see it.”
“We’re friends,” I said, following her drift. “I’ve told you before it wouldn’t be right.” I busied myself with the cutlery; I was tired of having this conversation over and over. Nonetheless, I stole another glance at Monica and then looked away quickly before she could see me watching her. My feelings about her were changing, and I knew it.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do about it, so I did nothing.
Like any adult, I didn’t welcome unsolicited advice on my personal life. I pretended to listen while Mum tried a different approach.
“Monica is good for those girls, and they need her as much as she needs them. She lost her best friend when you lost your wife. Her staying with you is nobody else’s business. Don’t push her away because of what others think. It’s none of their damn business. Nobody else understands. Helena and Monica were best friends since childhood, and Monica is staying with you because it’s what Helena wanted. Monica needed a refuge from that so-called husband of hers, and Helena gave her one. So, you look after her. We look out for our friends and family. It’s what we do in this family.”
“I’m not going to ask her to leave. I wouldn’t do that,” I insisted. I was scared of my feelings towards Monica, feelings I was trying to fight but which were becoming harder to deny. “I only want what’s best for her. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s time for her to move on with her life. I don’t want her feeling obliged to stay. I’m certainly not ready for any type of relationship, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“I can see the doubt on your face, so don’t give me that. I know you better than you know yourself – remember that. And don’t you make her feel like she should leave. I know you, and I know how men think. You’ll worry about the girls getting the wrong idea or being teased at school, or you’ll overhear some remark at work, and that’ll be it. You’ll go cold towards her and she’ll sense it. Be smart about this, James.” She gave my hand a gentle pat. “You all need each other. And if you ask me, Monica being here is fate. I still believe he, up there” – Mum looked to heaven – “made plans for Monica to help you look after those precious babies.”
Mum was really throwing everything at it this time. If her lack of subtlety hadn’t been so hilarious, I might have got cross.
Dad interrupted by plunking down a plateful of well-cooked chicken and kebabs in the middle of the table. “Anywhere in particular, or shall I just put them here?”
“Your timing, Thomas Hardy! Impeccable as ever. You know, one of these days I’m going to …” Shooting me a look that said “We’re not done here,” she turned on her heel and marched into the house to fetch the salad and her homemade coleslaw.
“Sorry – did I interrupt something?” Dad winked at me and chuckled. He trotted up the path and followed Mum to the kitchen in an attempt to get himself out of the doghouse.
Chapter Three
Tonight, it was time to play his favourite game again: Supermarket Singles. The store was busy, and he felt sure this would be his lucky night. Cutler was shopping for something that couldn’t be found on any supermarket shelf. What he was looking for would be walking the isles. He was a discerning shopper and more often than not came away disappointed. Tonight, though, he felt sure he’d found her. He had to be careful: while supermarkets were the perfect place to find what he was looking for, they were also full of security cameras.
He’d seen her earlier, looking at birthday cards. The books were on the opposite side of the aisle; he’d grabbed one – James Patterson’s latest – and flicked through it absentmindedly, covertly eyeing her over the top of the pages.
After a few minutes, she left the cards and headed downstairs on the escalator. Cutler followed, taking care to stand a few shoppers behind her. He took a spin along the fruit and veg aisle, turning carrots and cabbages over in his hands as she put bananas and a bunch of grapes into her basket, then walked past her to the next lane to pick up a shower gel and shampoo. She appeared at the top of the aisle a few moments later and began examining the hair conditioner. He walked back up the aisle, and as he walked behind her he glanced into her shopping basket. A quick examination and his heart skipped a beat. Meals for one. Small packs of vegetables. This surely made her the one. There in the middle of the supermarket, he almost burst into joyous laughter. He wanted to dance like an idiot.
He crossed the aisle to look at disposable razors and waited for her to pass him again. As soon as he felt sure she was finished and ready to go to the checkout, he went ahead of her and made his purchases. He didn’t really need more shampoo or body wash, but it would get used. Could a person ever have enough of the world’s number one anti-dandruff shampoo or body wash with jojoba extract? Whatever the hell jojoba is.
As he stood and waited in the car park, he held his phone to his ear and pretended to be deep in conversation. He’d probably look more natural if he was reading the screen or texting, but he had learned holding the phone up meant he was able to obscure his face. Nevertheless, he felt slightly exposed as he stood waiting for her. What was taking her so long? He pulled his receipt out of his bag and pretended to study it, and at last she came out with her single bag of shopping. He followed her at a safe distance as she headed to her car, this time holding up his phone as though he were reading a text message. He took some photos to study later.
She looked the right age, and her dark, straight hair was perfect. If he were being picky, she was a little tall and skinny. Her Roman nose was bigger than he would have liked, but that wouldn’t matter. All things considered, he knew he was never going to find an exact match.
She stopped next to a silver Volkswagen Polo. See that, Cutler? A single woman’s car. He got a little closer and read the number plate. He turned away and punched the car registration into his phone. If he lost her in the traffic, he’d have that as a backup. With a registration number he’d soon have her home address, and with her home address he could find out for sure whether she was living alone. He had a good feeling about this one. Sometimes you just knew.
He crossed the car park as quickly as he could and found his blue Ford Mondeo. He threw the shopping onto the passenger seat and pulled out into the stream of traffic exiting the supermarket. Shit. Some dipstick was pushing his shopping trolley up the centre of the road, blocking Cutler’s way. He couldn’t toot at the idiot; he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself.
He gripped the wheel and clenched his teeth to keep from howling in frustration. He was losing sight of the Volkswagen. Cutler edged up close behind Trolley Man and the idiot got the message. Cutler swung around him, muttering obscenities under his breath.
It was getting dark. He was pretty good at tailing people and knew from experience that the low light of evening helped him remain unnoticed.
He also knew that most drivers don’t pay much attention to who’s behind them. The average person wasn’t on the lookout for someone following them, of course; real life wasn’t like some Hollywood movie – “Swerve, change lanes and take a sharp left up ahead. I think we’re being followed.” That was all bullshit, Cutler knew. Instead, the woman in the Volkswagen Polo was probably just driving along listening to Sam Smith on Radio 1 and wondering whether to have the risotto tonight or save it for tomorrow and have the chicken carbonara instead.
He followed her until she reached a block of maisonettes just outside Ruislip Manor. He watched as she parked up, got out of the car and collect
ed her bags, crossed the road and opened the front door of a red brick house. The house looked dark, which was a good sign. No one at home waiting for her. He checked the time and decided to stay for at least another thirty minutes. Then he’d better head home. He had a busy couple of days ahead with lots of motorway miles.
There was time enough to find out all he needed to know about Little Miss Silver Polo.
Chapter Four
I’d been called in to take a look at a crime scene in Hillingdon. The hope was that I might be able to shed some light on what had taken place. I stood in the doorway of the victim’s bedroom watching forensic pathologist Heidi Hamilton examining the young woman’s body. Hamilton looked up and gave me a sad smile.
“Come take a look, James. This poor angel needs you now.”
The officer who was first on the scene had informed me the victim’s name was Stephanie Walker. I put on my gloves in what felt like slow motion as my mind adjusted, trying to process what I was seeing. I stepped closer and began to work through the scene. I’d seen a lot of crime scenes over the years, but it never got easier.
I tried to imagine what had taken place. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought she was sleeping. She looked peaceful, and the scene appeared neat and tidy. She was in a fluffy dressing gown, which was tied at the waist and pulled up over her chest and across her legs. Her dark, shoulder-length hair looked brushed. She looked as though she was resting, with no apparent sign of any struggle. Her hands were clasped gently across her chest in an almost prayer-like fashion.
What I saw when I stepped around the bed, however, made me sick to my stomach. Arterial spray covered the bedside table and surrounding area. Beside the bed, a pool of blood had gathered and soaked into the carpet. From this side, I could better see the horror of what had happened to Stephanie.
