by Jay Gill
He threw the flowers in the pedal bin and started eating the jelly sweets a handful at a time. He read the note again and then stuffed it in the bin alongside the flowers. He dialled her mobile phone, but it went straight to voice mail. Without leaving a message he hung up.
There was a knock at the front door and the doorbell rang. He ran to the door and opened it with a big smile. The smile vanished when, instead of Melanie and the boys, he was greeted by two police officers. For a moment he was speechless and slightly bewildered.
“Evening, sir. I’m Sergeant Murtagh and this is WPC Lorimer. Are you Mr Michael Cutler?” Cutler nodded and Murtagh continued. “Lovely. Would you mind if we came in for a few moments? We need to ask you some questions and it would be best done inside. You know how tongues wag.” Sergeant Murtagh turned his head from side to side as though looking for nosey neighbours.
“Is it Melanie? Is she okay? Are the boys okay?”
“Is Melanie your wife, sir? As far as we know, your wife is fine. We’re not here about your wife. May we come in?” repeated Murtagh.
“Yes, yes of course. Please come in. What’s this all about?”
“Is everything all right, sir? You look distressed,” said Lorimer.
“Well, no, not really. About five minutes ago I discovered my wife has walked out on me, and she took my boys. So, no, everything isn’t all right. And also, I’m not used to the police knocking on my door.”
“I quite understand, Mr Cutler. I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll be as brief as we can,” said Lorimer.
“We’re here in connection with the death of Miss Stacy DiMarco?” said Murtagh.
Cutler’s head began to spin for a moment. Do they know something? Are they on to me? If they knew something I’d be speaking to a detective, wouldn’t I? “My mind has gone blank. I can’t stop thinking about my wife.” Cutler stroked the stubble under his chin as though he were pondering the name.
“She worked at Cassley Shoes. She was found dead.” Murtagh watched his reaction. “Murdered.”
Cutler said nothing and sat down as though to gather his thoughts. Which was in fact what he was doing. Why are they here? What are they up to? “I’m sorry. My mind is all over the place right now. Yes, of course. Lovely girl, very polite. Excellent with the customers. All her colleagues liked her, she was very popular. She worked at the Uxbridge branch. I still find the whole matter of her murder inconceivable. Who would have wanted to harm her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to establish,” said Lorimer.
They were all sitting in the front room now as Murtagh took over. “Had she worked there long? At the Uxbridge branch, I mean?”
“I’m not sure exactly. A few months, maybe. You’d be better to check with head office.”
“How did you know Stacy?”
“I didn’t really know her. I’m the regional manager, I visit lots of stores, so I only really get to know the long-term staff. She was part-time, temporary. We get quite a few temps and part-time staff who can be gone within a few weeks, or even days sometimes, and so I don’t really get the opportunity to know them.”
“But you remember Stacy?” said Murtagh.
What’s he getting at? “I remember Stacy because she had a way with the customers. The store’s manager had sung her praises on more than one occasion. A happy disposition goes a long way in retail. I was disappointed when the store manager told me Stacy wouldn’t be staying. She and her boyfriend were going off around the world. No, actually they were going off around Europe. Have you spoken to her boyfriend?”
Cutler was getting into his stride now and watched as Murtagh avoided the question. Peter Rabbit’s dead, isn’t he, Murtagh? I should have skinned that pesky wabbit.
“Did you meet her boyfriend, Mr Cutler?”
“I didn’t meet him. I saw him waiting for her once or twice.” Like a love-sick puppy. “He was probably waiting for her to finish her shift.”
“Really? What day was that?”
“I don’t know. Let me think. I only visit each store occasionally, you understand, usually about every three weeks or so. I’d have to check my diary, but I was there last about two weeks ago. In fact, I spoke to two detectives the last time I was there. A detective called Pardy or something like that; very intense man. He looked like he needed a holiday. The other one was called Rayner. I remember his name for some reason. He was quite grumpy.”
As he’d spoken to the detectives only briefly, Cutler was surprised the officers hadn’t visited him sooner. Then again, the police would have spent a lot of time speaking to friends and family. Nearest and dearest were well known to be the most likely suspects in a murder. What if they’d been following him? What if they knew it was him and this was all a setup? You’re being stupid. Think about it. If they suspected you of anything, there is no way their questioning would be this informal. They don’t have a clue. “I probably shouldn’t say anything, but under the circumstances…” He let his voice trail off.
“Go on,” said Murtagh. “Any little detail can be extremely valuable during an enquiry of this nature.”
“Her boyfriend seemed quite aggressive to me. I happened to notice them arguing in the car park outside the store before I left. He was getting extremely irate about something. He had quite a temper, and I was tempted to intervene, but I needed to get on my way. So I left them there arguing. Maybe I should have stepped in. Perhaps she’d still be alive.”
Murtagh made a note and then the two officers looked at each other. Cutler knew his red herring wouldn’t work, as they would have known Peter was dead before Stacy was murdered. All the same, it was fun, and it might send them off along a new line of enquiry.
“That’s very helpful. Thank you,” said Murtagh. Then he asked Cutler about his whereabouts at the time of Peter and Stacy’s deaths. Cutler suggested he would double-check, but he had most likely been travelling. He did a lot of driving for his job, well over fifty thousand miles a year.
After a few minutes, the officers thanked him and got to their feet, saying they’d be in touch if they had any more questions. Cutler shut the door and watched Lorimer and Murtagh walk to their squad car. They chatted briefly, most likely discussing what they thought about him as a suspect. Lorimer looked at her watch and the two of them smiled. He was in the clear. No doubt about it. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he was in no doubt they had decided to go and get some food. If he were a prime suspect, what was the likelihood they’d pop off for fish and chips or a KFC Bargain Bucket before passing along their concerns to a detective?
Cutler smiled to himself. The investigation must be a mess. He had spoken to detectives and now police officers, and neither knew anything. They were like headless chickens going around asking questions. What a bunch of jokers.
That said, things were getting a little crazy. In that sense, Melanie’s leaving might be a blessing. In time he’d make all the right noises to get her back. He did want her back; he felt sure he loved her.
Right now, though, things were spiralling out of control, and whether or not they were clueless he didn’t like talking to the law. What he needed was a little space to take stock and decide his next move.
Chapter Forty-Four
“What would it take to get a decent cup of coffee round here?” Rayner tossed the rest of his coffee in the bin and immediately regretted it. He’d been up most of the night and the caffeine was the only thing keeping him awake. He was feeling guilty about not spending enough time at home and was fighting the urge to call it a day. What he wouldn’t give to just go home and climb into a warm bed beside Jenny.
When the phone rang it made him jump. He cursed under his breath. He was in no mood to speak to anyone. “Yep. What?”
A male voice came on the line. It had a slight accent to it; warm Welsh tones, maybe? He was too tired to think about it. “Is this Detective Inspector Rayner?”
“Speaking. What is it?”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Ewan
Jones, Thames Valley Police. It’s so late I didn’t think I’d catch you. I was going to leave you a message. You’ve caught me a little off guard now. Sorry, one moment. Let me get my notes.”
“That’s great.” Rayner waited for him to stop sounding flustered and get to the point. He could hear papers being moved about.
“You know what? Forget the notes.”
“Good idea. I was just about to leave.”
“Understood. The thing is, I’ve been following the case of the Angel Killer. The serial killer case you and Detective Chief Inspector Hardy are working. In fact, I’ve followed it very closely. You know, I met DCI Hardy once. It was at a conference. Didn’t know who he was at the time. Wasn’t until I got back to the station that someone pointed out to me who he was and the cases he’s worked. Missed opportunity, could have picked his brains. Seems a nice chap, very down to earth. Really knows his stuff—”
“I know the case,” interrupted Rayner. Would this guy ever get to the point?
“Sorry, yes. Anyway, we’ve had a murder. Well, two, in fact,” said Jones a little apologetically.
Rayner straightened in his chair and was immediately more awake. “Same MO?”
“That’s just it. Not really, no. A couple were killed. They were found by a Cub Scout group out doing a nature walk. Some of the children were very young and—”
“How is this connected?”
“Ah, yes. Sorry. Well, they were cut using a blade, which early indications suggest was a surgical blade similar to the one used by the Angel Killer. I thought there was a similarity. I was unsure whether to call or not. Of course, it might be just a coincidence.” Jones sounded unsure of himself.
“I know it’s an unusual weapon of choice, but I don’t see the similarity, and I’m really tired. So perhaps we could catch up again tomorrow.” Rayner had the feeling this jerk wanted nothing more than to be part of the celebrity of the case. It wasn’t unusual in high-profile cases for onlookers and those on the periphery to want to feel they were involved in some way.
“Her arms were crossed.” Jones rushed the words, as though worried Rayner might hang up before he had a chance to say them.
“What? What did you say?” Rayner sat up straight.
“That’s just it, sir. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Deliberately. It was weird. The whole scene was a bloody mess. Literally, a bloody mess. But she was on her back with her arms crossed over her chest. Just like with your Angel Killer.”
Rayner rubbed his forehead with the phone and scribbled some notes on a pad. The pad was a Valentine’s Day gift from Jenny. While he listened to Jones, he absently started shading the printed words “Hot Stuff.”
“Do you have any suspects?” Rayner reached out and pulled the bin towards him to see if any of the coffee was still in the cup. No such luck.
“Nothing so far. Early days. I can send you a report of what we have so far. Might be useful.”
“How soon can we have it?”
“I’ve already prepared it. You’ll have it tomorrow morning.”
“Do that. Send it over and I’ll take a look. And Jones?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work. Thank you.” Rayner hung up before Jones could reply. He stared at his desk and at the “Hot Stuff” note pad then pulled his jacket from the back of his chair. He decided tomorrow was going to be a good day. Tonight, though, he needed a little bit of Jenny time.
Chapter Forty-Five
Dad was standing at the front door as I pulled up outside the house. He called inside to let Mum know he was leaving, then headed down the garden path to my car. Mum appeared at the window. Dad and I gave her a wave as we pulled away from the kerb.
I’d called earlier in the day to arrange a chat and suggested a pub not far from their home. It was a little off the beaten track, and I hoped it would be quiet. I needed to talk and get some sound advice and perspective.
“I have a confession to make,” I said as soon as we were settled in a quiet part of the pub.
“You do?” said Dad, sounding not at all surprised. He sipped his pint and looked at me over the top of his glass. The retired Scotland Yard inspector was reading me. Satisfied, he carefully set his glass down. He sat back and folded his arms in readiness for the great revelation.
“We’re not here to talk about any of my investigations.”
I knew he’d read through my ruse; there wasn’t a lot that got past him. I needed a second opinion, and I wasn’t sure who else to turn to; I’d always relied on him for his frankness. He wasn’t one for holding back when his opinion was asked for.
“My date with Monica didn’t go exactly as I’d told you and Mum it went.”
“Uh huh,” he said. His eyes fastened on me as though this was one of his criminal investigations and I was his prime suspect.
“It was a great evening – don’t get me wrong,” I continued. “I know now that I’d like to see where it all goes. I’m ready to start over.”
“That’s nice, son. Monica’s a lovely girl.” Dad picked up his pint and took another sip. “Good for you.” He caught the attention of the bar maid and waved her over. “Do you have any kettle chips? You do? That’s great. Any flavour is fine. Two packets, please.”
The bar maid dutifully retrieved two packets and set them in front of him. Dad thanked her and opened one of the packets. He offered me the other one, but I ignored him, so he shrugged and put it next to his pint. I had a feeling he wasn’t taking our conversation seriously.
“You hear what I’m saying?”
“I do. I just don’t see the problem yet.”
We were getting somewhere. “She’s leaving,” I said dramatically. “Moving to France. Permanently. How’s that for a problem?”
“I see. Good prospects for her?”
“Yes. It sounds like a great opportunity,” I said a little too begrudgingly.
“Which part of France?”
“South. I can’t remember where, exactly. I was a little in shock when she told me.”
“That’s a shame. When is she planning on leaving? The weather is very good there right now.”
“A week or two at most.” He’s enjoying this, I thought.
“Quite soon, then. She must have been thinking about this for a while, I suppose? You don’t decide to pack up and move to another part of the world overnight. Not in my experience, anyway.”
“I’m not sure. We didn’t go into specifics.”
“You sound annoyed,” said Dad with mock surprise. “I assume you’ve considered her current situation – from her perspective, I mean?” He opened the second packet of kettle chips.
“Of course I bloody have,” I said a little too loudly.
I turned and smiled apologetically at the landlady. This wasn’t the way I had anticipated the conversation going. I rubbed the back of my neck and stared at Dad. He had something to say and was building up to it. I could see on his face he was preparing to set me straight.
“If you want me to be honest, and I’m guessing you do, I’m just a little surprised she’s stuck around as long as she has. She’s a smart woman. Very attractive. Wonderful company. Has a great sense of humour. And for quite some time she has been clear about her feelings towards you. That is, had you been smart enough to notice them.
“You, on the other hand. . . Well, you get what I’m saying. I don’t need to spell it out. She doesn’t know where she stands with you, son. She doesn’t know whether she’ll be waiting the rest of her life for you. I think there’s a part of her that would wait, but this is real life, not one of those godawful rom-com movies that your mother makes me endure. Monica needs certainty. This will have been a tough decision; don’t for a second underestimate what she went through to make it. She fell in love with you. She has loved you, without any guarantees, for too long.”
I sank back in my seat, chastened, too defeated to even try to defend myself. He was absolutely right. I had been a complete and utter fool, unable to see
what was staring me in the face.
I was also tired. The investigations were getting on top of me, and now my personal life had taken a nose dive. Maybe this – all of it – was too much to take on right now.
I felt ready to start again, or so I told myself, but could everyone else see something I couldn’t? Was I still holding back from giving my all to Monica? I didn’t think so. I felt frustration boiling up in me and sat forward in my seat again.
“I’m not asking you to sugar-coat your opinions, but I thought our conversation might be a little more constructive.”
“Don’t be so bloody wet. What’s wrong with you? This is it, James. This is real life. There are no second chances. If you want to spend the rest of your life holding hands with serial killers, then I don’t want to know.
“I’m talking to you as my son, and right now you need a kick up the backside. If you don’t watch out, your only friend will be a bottle. I’ve seen it over and over again. I survived this job not because I’m special but because I had your mother. Women are stronger than us; they make us stronger. They keep us from failing ourselves. From self-pity and doubt. That is something you had better believe.
“Right now, you’re holding yourself back because you feel guilt. Guilt that you’re betraying Helena.”
I raised my hand in protest, but he continued unabated.
“Don’t shake your head. It’s the truth. Guilt because you couldn’t save her. Guilt because you feel loving someone else is a betrayal. Guilt because Monica was her best friend. Guilt because you still love her. Guilt because you feel you’re replacing Alice and Faith’s mother. The truth is, I could go on forever. There are a million reasons why you shouldn’t start over, and there are a million more why you should. Helena has gone, son. But you’re still here. The only thing you’re guilty of right now is not accepting the fact that it’s time to move on. You know it is. None of us can help you move on, but I can tell you for a fact it’s what Helena would want.”
