HE WILL KILL YOU an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist

by Charlie Gallagher

  ‘You’re right. I didn’t know about her little diary or her bit of photography. I didn’t know that at all, the cheeky little bitch! But I do now. You remember that. You remember it was you who told me!’ Craig stepped back. His arms pushed out for the sides of the cubicle again. Ian saw Craig lift his foot. He saw the foot lash towards him sole first. Then the blackness closed in.

  * * *

  The barmaid was replenishing bottles when she heard the first bang, followed by an angry shout, then another bang. She made her way to the end of the bar nearer to the toilets. She knew better than to get involved but she held her phone in her hand in case she needed to make a call. Those sorts of sounds weren’t exactly out of the ordinary in this place, but generally that was on a Saturday night, when she had other people around her to make sure she didn’t get caught up in it. She was on her own today. She had learned to handle herself since taking this job but right now she still felt vulnerable.

  Suddenly the door from the toilets was flung open and it bounced off the wall. She saw Craig appear. He popped in a couple of times a week at least, always at lunchtime. She only knew his first name. She turned away, hiding the phone behind her back, trying her best to act disinterested. She could see from his expression that he didn’t want to be questioned. It wasn’t just his expression either, the bloody stain that started at his nose told her the same. He strode the length of the bar. When she dared look over, he was staring forward, his hands were bunched into fists and his arms swung as if his chest was tensed. He was veering left, towards the door and away from the bar.

  ‘You not stopping for that pint, love?’ she chanced.

  His eyes flicked over to her. They were unblinking, they seemed opaque and fixed, as if he was looking through her rather than at her.

  ‘I have to get home.’ His voice was a low growl. He barely slowed his pace. His head snapped back to the main door and then he opened it roughly. It was raining now, mixed with sleet and hard enough for her to hear it as well as see it. He didn’t close the door behind him. She watched him step into the freezing wetness, unflinching in his T-shirt and jeans as he strode out of sight.

  ‘That is one angry man!’ She gave a nervous chuckle and walked around to close the door and stop the draught. She should go and check on the older man, but first she stopped at the window. Craig’s car was moving off quickly — a silver estate. She clocked the number plate as best she could. She would check the old fella first. She knew better than to call the police before she was asked to.

  Chapter 19

  ‘How you doing, kid?’

  Maddie was sitting on the top of the stairs, her bum on the small parcel of carpet that served as Toby Routledge’s landing with her legs on the next step, hugging her knees. She let them go immediately in response to Harry’s voice. He came out of Toby’s flat, which she and Rhiannon had entered a couple of hours earlier. There was no reason for her to still be there, not after she had called in the reinforcements, but she hadn’t left yet. It didn’t feel right — leaving before he did. Toby Routledge was a piece of shit, a thief who had often targeted the elderly, robbing them of their possessions so he could get his next bag of cannabis. But Toby was essentially lazy. He saw breaking into houses as quick and easy; it got him what he wanted — it wasn’t personal. He didn’t dislike the occupants and Maddie reckoned that if he could have seen an old man’s pain when he awoke to find his military service medals missing, he would be uncomfortable — sorry, in fact. And he was just seventeen years old. Good person, bad person . . . he hadn’t had the chance to make his final choice.

  Harry had sat himself down next to her. She saw his legs appear as he trailed down the steep staircase. His shoes were doing their best to burst out of the blue forensic overshoes that only came in one-size-fits-nobody. She had hesitated long enough.

  ‘Alright. You?’

  ‘Tough find that. Just a boy really.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘Just a boy.’

  ‘You know him well?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. It was just cops and robbers stuff. He was a regular. We had a few games with him.’

  Harry sniffed. ‘You’ll hear cops saying things about Toby, like he got what he deserved and good riddance. They don’t mean it. We all know it’s a waste of a life in there. No kid deserves that.’

  ‘I know. I know it’s part of coping.’

  ‘It is. So, how do you cope?’

  ‘Find who was responsible, I suppose.’ She turned to Harry; he was looking at her intently. His face creased a little.

  ‘Foul play for you, then? No hesitation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s no clear evidence of that. The devil, if he had an advocate, would say Toby fell asleep in the bath. He was a known drug user . . . maybe he took a downer — something he hadn’t had before. I’ve seen it happen.’

  ‘He was terrified when I last saw him. He was worried about something — about someone. I think this was it. This was what he was worried about.’

  ‘That won’t be enough,’ Harry said.

  ‘It won’t. When I got in that room, the water was brimming — I mean to the very top. But the tap was off and he was laid down. No way he could have shut that tap off without disturbing the water. The floor wasn’t wet when I went in, either — not noticeably. And there was nothing around the edge . . . no soap, nothing to wash with and certainly no drug paraphernalia. And where are the clothes he was wearing? I know his place is a mess, but there would be a pile of clothes, the one’s he took off, his boxer shorts in the bathroom or thrown on the floor somewhere. I had a quick look, there was nothing like that.’

  Harry turned away. He smirked a little.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I agree,’ he said.

  ‘Harry Blaker . . . agrees! Well, that was worth the nine-month wait on its own!’

  ‘I worked with some good detectives when I was first in and I was taught a valuable lesson about deaths. You always have to ask yourself a question at a scene . . . what isn’t here?’

  ‘Well, that is helpful.’ Maddie rolled her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood for riddles.

  ‘It will be when you take the time to think about it. You’re right about his clothes. No evidence of drug use and where’s his phone? Do you know a teenager these days that doesn’t have a smartphone with them twenty-four/seven?’

  ‘We took a phone off him the day before, but I get your point. He would have replaced it in an instant. Is that why you’re here, then? To pass on your wisdom?’

  Harry groaned as he got to his feet and turned towards the flat. ‘Nope. I’m here to open a murder investigation. Why else would I be here?’

  Maddie managed a grin. ‘Because you’ve got nothing better to do!’

  ‘Well, now I have. This is my case, apparently.’

  Maddie suddenly turned serious. ‘I want to be involved, Harry. I don’t want to be shut out of this one. I understand that I can’t be in there now, I get the forensics bit, but I want to—’

  Harry held up his hands. ‘I’ve already cleared it with the boss. Go back and type up your statement with all that happened here. Be detailed. I’ll come and find you when I’m back. We’ll talk about what we do next.’

  Maddie’s couldn’t help but smile. ‘You’ve missed me, haven’t you.’

  ‘Nope. You know this kid and his background. And I’m still not allowed out on my own.’

  ‘So it’s a marriage of convenience? That’s still a marriage, Harry, you know that, right?’

  ‘It’s beginning to feel like one. Take that as you will.’ His growl was back. He stepped back into the flat.

  Maddie stood up and leaned to the door. ‘Happiest day of my life, Harry!’ She started down the stairs. She felt like she could leave now, knowing that Toby was in good hands.

  Chapter 20

  Grace sobbed so hard it came out as a snort. Her body slumped and then straightened immediately as the pain tore through her arm. It wa
sn’t coming free. She was no closer than she’d been five hours before when she had first started. Her throat was sore now, her voice all but shouted out. Her eyes moved around the room, desperate for something she could use. There was nothing in reach.

  Her eyes fell to her nightie. It had ridden up her thigh. Her skin was pimpled as if it was cold. She wasn’t feeling the cold or the damp cushion anymore. Maybe she was beyond that. She forced herself to look back at her arm and at the iron vice that held it. She had to run over every detail. That was how you found weaknesses, by studying every element. That seemed to make sense. She had never really looked at it. She had never really wanted to get out of it before; she knew the repercussions would have been so much worse. Taking the time to study it might help keep her calm. She focused on the device, talking out loud and describing what she was seeing.

  ‘It’s cast iron. Matt grey, painted . . .’ she managed, her voice croaking and breathy. ‘The metal plates of the vice are long . . . shiny and black on the outside. Dimpled on the inside where they touch my skin . . . raised teeth on the edges — I can feel their grip . . .’ She shut her eyes for a second. The pain came in waves, and every now and then she had to suck in a breath and hold it until it passed. It was just a few seconds. She carried on.

  ‘The plates are screwed to tighten them.’ She leaned to the left. It increased her discomfort but she needed to see it all. She could see the mechanism that was locking her in. Her voice was still strained.

  ‘There’s a handle . . . matte grey. There are . . . one, two, three, four, five spindles to the handle. They twist to tighten it. They will twist to undo it. I cannot reach them with my free hand . . .’ She stopped abruptly. Her whole body was screaming at her to move back to sitting straight, to take the pressure off her left side. She held her position for just a couple more seconds, still looking down at the five spindles on the handle. She had an idea — it came to her all at once. Maybe it could work? It had to work! She suddenly felt a little rejuvenated. It was something at least. But it was going to take some time. She checked the clock. She needed to rest — just for a little while.

  ‘I have time. He doesn’t even finish work for a good few hours.’ She spoke out to the empty room. It made her feel better. It made her a little calmer. ‘You still have plenty of time,’ she said again.

  * * *

  Sergeant Tim Betts was staring out of his driver’s window when the radio sounded. An emergency call had come in — a fight at a pub. The offender had left the scene and they were still broadcasting details of the car, a silver VW Passat. They gave the last-known location and a general direction of travel. The pub was in the next town over. Tim had sat up straighter, but now he relaxed back into his seat. Someone would be closer. Their car was ticking over where they had stopped for a takeaway coffee. It had been a busy shift. He went back to staring out of his window, hoping they would be left alone for the half hour it would take to finish another day. The broadcast was still going on.

  ‘The informant only got a part reg and said a name for one of the offenders was “Craig”, we have a possible match on PNC for a VW Passat, colour silver, with the RO from 17 Campbell Road, Hawkinge . . .’ The chatter was just washing over Tim now; he was only half listening — until Vince Arnold snapped to attention beside him.

  ‘Tim! 17 Campbell Road! That’s our wife beater from the other night! He might be heading home. That’s not far from here.’ Vince didn’t need much of an excuse to get excited.

  Tim picked his coffee back up. He took a larger gulp than originally intended, then pushed the lid back on. So much for being left alone.

  ‘And you want to head up there?’

  ‘Well, yeah. I was desperate for an excuse to nick that fella the other night. This is fate!’

  ‘It’s a part reg and a possible match. I don’t think it’s a nicking yet.’

  ‘Don’t mug off fate, Tim! Bad things happen when you do that! It’s gotta be him! The fella’s a thug and the witness got what? Five out of seven digits right and a first name!’

  Tim shrugged. He couldn’t argue. He put his cup in the holder. Hawkinge was just a couple of minutes up the motorway from here — the next junction. They might as well make progress. He put the blue lights and siren on — maybe a little early. Tim looked up to see the milkshake of a young lad, who had been walking across the front of their parking bay in McDonald’s, spreading out over the damp concrete. Tim put his hand up. The lad waved back — still with a shocked expression and a grimace at the sound. He stepped out of the way.

  ‘Zulu One, show us attending the area of the h/a for that last broadcast. We know the male. He might be heading home.’

  ‘Zulu One . . . thank you for that. All received.’ Tim heard other patrols over the revving of the engine, they were calling up to go to the pub where the informant was. His eye flicked to the clock.

  ‘Part of me hopes it isn’t him. I’ve got plans with the missus tonight.’

  ‘Ah yes, the new flame! And you’re at the time when it burns the brightest of course. Does it make you feel better if I promise you I won’t make you late off?’

  Tim smiled. He felt the front wheels scrabble for grip as he came off a roundabout. ‘It never has in the past.’

  Vince laughed heartily. ‘Don’t you worry. Today will be different.’

  * * *

  Grace dared not breathe as she leaned to her left. The pressure on her arm was as bad as it had been at any time, but she was coping. Having something to focus on was helping. Even the simplest task was taking time. She had removed her underwear one-handed. Shifting her weight to slide it under her buttocks had nearly made her vomit again but she had managed. Now they trailed from her right hand, the waistband swinging against the spindle on the left side of the handle. If she could hook it over, if she could pull it up, then surely it would loosen the clamp on her arm? It had to. It was her only chance.

  She moved back to sitting straight. She couldn’t breathe when she was leaning over; the pain was too much. She sucked in a deep breath. She needed to start again. She leaned left, her eyes shut as the wave of pain came again. She opened them to see the spindle. She lowered her underwear, still holding her breath. The waistband fell over the spindle on the first attempt. She pulled it taut. She leaned back to sit straight, still holding the material firmly in her right hand. She pulled — gently at first. She thought that increasing the pressure slowly might stop them from tearing. The spindle didn’t move. It couldn’t be that tight. It didn’t need to be. It was the thread that held it shut. But it wasn’t budging and the material was stretched as far as it would go. She would need something stronger. Her nightie might do it. If she could twist it up to increase its strength it might be enough. It had to be. She sat back straight. She needed another rest. She needed to think. She looked at the clock. She still had plenty of time. She just needed to stay calm.

  * * *

  Vince saw the silver Volkswagen first. Tim was drawn to his excited pointing. They were parked on some rough standing at the bottom of Spitfire Way — a steep hill that led up to the village of Hawkinge. Two roads led into the village from this end, but both came off the same roundabout. Tim had known that if their target was heading home, he would have to come this way. When he did arrive he certainly wasn’t hanging around. It was lucky Vince was switched on or they might have missed him completely. The Volkswagen was already over the roundabout and picking up speed on the hill when Tim joined the traffic. He had no choice but to put the lights and sirens back on. They were only a few minutes from the VW driver’s home address and Tim would much rather stop him before he had the chance to get behind a locked door.

  Traffic was steady on the hill, where two lanes merged into one near the top before another roundabout. There was also a set of traffic lights for pedestrians to cross to a supermarket. The lights were on red.

  ‘Subject is held at the traffic lights, top of Spitfire Way,’ Vince announced into the car’s radio set. ‘We are
attempting a stop.’ Tim had turned up the radio and the acknowledgement was loud — as was the next contact.

  ‘Zulu One, from Control . . .’

  ‘Go ahead, Control!’ Tim could tell Vince was tense. He was leaning forward, fixed on their target vehicle ahead. They were edging closer, just two cars behind now and both of those were trying to push over to the left to get out of their way. The Passat was the first car held at the lights. When they turned to green he would have a clear run. Tim was ready if he did. A mother pushing a pram with one hand and holding a squirming toddler with the other walked across in front of them all. She would have no idea that she was the starting gun for a police pursuit. Tim had long since killed the siren, leaving just the lights sending his message. She got to the other side. The traffic lights blinked orange. The Volkswagen moved off, but it stuttered and shifted clumsily to the left. He was getting out of the way. He was letting them past. He couldn’t know they were there for him.

  ‘Get in front of him! Block him in!’ Vince was more excited. He talked over radio operator and Tim missed what she said. He pulled the car up roughly across the front of the Volkswagen. It wouldn’t stop him making off if he really wanted to, but he would be in no doubt they were there to speak with him. Vince’s window slid down and both officers stared across. Tim could feel his heart in his chest.

  The driver was staring forward. He took his time to turn and acknowledge their presence. He looked furious. His window eventually rolled down and Tim saw that he gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. When he turned to look over at them, his chin was lifted in a show of aggression, the corners of his mouth curled in a sneer. There were remnants of dried blood around his lips and on the lower half of his face. There was no doubting that he’d been in a fight. It looked like Vince was going to get his way: the chance to nick him for something at least.