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

by Charlie Gallagher

‘You need to pull over — for a chat,’ Vince said. Tim could hear the glee in his voice. ’Over there.’ Vince lifted a thick finger and pointed to a lay-by that was the first exit off the roundabout. The driver’s window slid back up. Tim edged the patrol car right, allowing the Passat to move off. He made sure he was right behind him. The pace was just above walking for now.

  ‘Not the talkative type, is he?’ Tim said.

  ‘Suits me. I’ll do all the talking.’

  ‘Zulu One, confirm you received my last?’ The radio operator was back. Tim pressed the button on the dash to reply.

  ‘No, sorry, Control, we were just talking to our subject. He’s pulling over. We should be with him very shortly. Can you still keep the other patrols rolling this way until we have a confirmed stop-stop and he is out of the vehicle?’

  ‘Received that. My update was in relation to this incident. The other patrols are with the informant. The other involved person has already left. The witness cannot confirm a fight has taken place, just that two males were both seen with injuries and she had heard some shouting from the male toilets. We have no details for the other party. At this point we do not have any offences unless you get something from your male.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off!’ Vince exclaimed. ’He needs to be arrested, surely!’

  Tim huffed. ‘For what, though? We don’t have the other party, there’s no allegations.’

  ‘Affray! We don’t need a victim for that.’

  ‘No, but you need evidence of a fight.’

  ‘He’s got a bloody nose!’

  ‘I saw that. We’ll ask him what happened. If he says he got a punch on the nose in a pub fight then we’ll get him in and I’ll call the other patrol to put a bit more effort into finding this other fella. It probably won’t go anywhere, but at least we get to upset him.’

  Vince was the one who looked upset. ‘What do you think the chances are of him talking to me about how he got his nose bust?’ Vince said.

  ‘Slim.’ Tim had been watching the movement of the silver Volkswagen the whole time. It had come to a stop in the lay-by he had indicated. There were no signs of the driver’s door pushing open. He could see the front wheels too, they were angled outwards, how you might sit if you were still considering making off. ‘We might get a proper offence anyway,’ Tim said. ‘I’m not sure he’s planning on hanging around.’

  Vince looked at the back of the Volkswagen as they pulled up behind it. The brake lights were still showing too.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right. Don’t you drive off without me!’

  ‘What, and leave the brains behind? No chance.’ Tim rested his hand on the handbrake, he kept the car in gear but he was hanging back. He wanted enough room to be able to swing out or to react if the subject decided to ram them in reverse. Tim could hear that the Volkswagen’s engine was still running when Vince opened his door. He had a strong feeling that their subject wasn’t about to play nice. He watched his colleague walk the long way, around the back of the patrol car, to come up the driver’s side — wary of him suddenly reversing and trapping him between the two vehicles. Vince got to the driver’s window and bent in to speak. The brake lights went off. Tim had his own window down and he heard the Volkswagen’s engine cut out. He relaxed a little and put his car into neutral. He might be getting off on time after all. This could be a very short conversation. Part of Tim was disappointed, of course he was, but at the same time he reckoned the subject would come to their attention again. Tim was a strong believer in karma. One day their wife beater was going to get what he deserved.

  * * *

  For the first time, Grace allowed herself a little bit of hope. She had managed to strip off her nightie and fashioned a twist of material that might just be strong enough. She lowered it towards the spindle, leaning a little further still, putting more pressure on her left arm, but it worked. She snagged the handle and tugged it cautiously. Even with some strength in reserve she was damned sure she felt movement.

  Her left arm didn’t feel any looser, but she accepted it might not instantly. It was in a constant state of pain; it was swollen in some parts and numb in others. She leaned to the left, far enough to see down the left side of the chair. The spindle on the right was slightly higher than it had been. It’s working!

  She dared to expel a breath of air but bit quickly down on her bottom lip. She couldn’t celebrate yet. The jaws were still too tight to lift her arm up and out. But she was closer. She got a firm hold of the material again. She wrapped it once round her right fist for better grip. She closed her eyes and braced herself. She pulled the makeshift lever straight up. A shot of added discomfort broke through her left arm. She considered it was probably blood rushing into where it had been forced out, as the plates of the vice loosened. She used the pain to pull harder. She felt a definite give through the material. Her left arm wasn’t working, she tried to lift it but it wouldn’t respond. She could see the plates had parted a little. Enough maybe. She used her right arm to scoot underneath her left, then yanked at it roughly — no point being careful now. Her arm lifted. It bumped and scraped against the unforgiving iron — but it came free!

  She was out.

  Grace snapped hastily to her feet, still holding her left arm limp in her right. She was too quick: the blood rushed from her head and she felt dizzy, her vision suddenly tainted with darkness and her ears buzzing. She took a moment until she felt steady, until her head cleared and she felt like she could move. She assessed her arm. It was disfigured, worse than it had been, with a pronounced lump halfway along her forearm. There was no time to ponder it now.

  Her eyes flicked to the clock: 1.53 p.m.

  She scooped up her diary then headed up the stairs. She needed to wash; just her lower body would do. She snatched the shower head from the wall and shivered as the water arched out of the spout. She was back out before it had chance to get warm. Getting dressed was difficult with just one arm and sore legs, but she was in a hurry and she didn’t care so much anymore. She put on some jeans, a loose T-shirt and a jumper. She had lost so much weight that none of her clothes fitted her properly anyway. She swept back out of her bedroom without looking back. There was no emotion attached to this house, nothing positive at least. She had never really moved in, not in her heart. There was not a picture on the wall or ornament on the mantelpiece that made it hers. It was nothing more than a carpeted prison to her, and right now she was fleeing it.

  She plunged her hand into a small bag on the way out of the bedroom, filling the pockets of her favourite coat with a few bits of make-up, bits she hadn’t been allowed to use for months. There was no time to apply them now. She walked carefully back down the stairs and into the kitchen where she grabbed the boxes of painkillers that were stacked up at the back. Craig counted them at night — part of his control over her. Next she tugged open the kitchen drawer with the knives in it. She selected the sharpest and paced back through to the living room. She dropped to her knees. She struggled to lift the sofa from the front. She needed the phone that had fallen into the bottom of the sofa. Among other things she needed the pictures saved to its memory. They documented her torment and catalogued her injuries. The next person to see them would be DS Maddie Ives. And then she would know.

  Grace pushed the sofa backwards using one arm and her shoulder. It proved heavier than she expected, and the cast-iron vice on the side added to the weight significantly. She slashed the full length of the underside with the knife. A heavy object fell out — the phone. She scooped it up and let the sofa fall back, leaving the knife handle poking out from underneath.

  She stared down at the phone in her hands, watched the screen light up when she turned it on. This was it. This was when she set herself free. She brought up the panel of numbers on her screen. Her fingers were shaking, but she was careful and the digits built up on her screen until she hovered over a symbol of a green telephone. She hesitated, lifted her eyes away from the phone and to where she had parted the blinds so tha
t she could at least see the outside world. She heard a car. She could see it now, too. It was silver! It slowed, then the engine revved a little and it carried on. It wasn’t him, but it was a reminder that he could come back at anytime. She stayed at the window, attracted by the movement of a woman pushing a buggy with her head bent. Grace had seen her a few times. She didn’t look over at her house; she never did. No one did. No one cared if she lived or died here. And she would die here if she stayed. She knew that. If things carried on as they were, Craig Dolton was going to kill her. Maddie Ives had told her that straight the first time they had met. She had to do something, something that would last. The clock chimed behind her: 2 p.m.

  It had to be now.

  Her attention moved back to her phone. The number she had typed was still on the screen. She pressed the green button to make the call. It came through the speaker. It played the note of each digit in quick succession. The phone rang. Just once, then it cut off. She sucked in a rushed breath. That was it? All that planning? All that build-up and that was it? One ring and then silence? She didn’t know what else she had expected.

  The enormity of it hit her all at once. She dropped the phone and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The phone clattered and bounced, the screen stayed lit. She brought her hands to her mouth.

  There was no going back now.

  * * *

  Tim saw Vince push away from where he had been leaning on the subject’s car door. Even in that movement he could tell that the outcome of the conversation was not what Vince had been hoping for. It had been short, just as Tim had anticipated. Neither of the men were talkers. The rear brake lights of the Volkswagen flickered as the engine started. The subject could carry on to his home address, a minute’s drive from here, and Tim would make his date after all. Vince was stomping back to the police car. He walked along the front this time. Tim looked away to find the talk-button on the dash to update Control of the outcome. His head jerked up at a bright white flash that split his windscreen into a million squiggly lines, followed by a sudden noise.

  The noise was all consuming. A deep woomf that seemed to come from everywhere, like the loudest thunder he had ever heard. Tim’s eyes slammed shut and instinctively he turned away as the Volkswagen was consumed by the brightest orange. He tried to look back; his windscreen was nearly opaque, but his window was still open and through it he could see a large cloud of smoke and ash that rose to the sky in a rolling, squirming ball of white, black and grey. Objects thumped, clanged and pinged off Tim’s car as he felt the whole thing lift and shake on its suspension.

  Instinctively he pushed his door open and rolled out. In his haste he got caught up in his seat belt and the palms of his hands were first to strike the tarmac. The next thing to hit him was the heat. The Volkswagen was still engulfed in a wall of fire that roared, whooshed and whistled and forced him to look away. He lifted his hands to shield his face and scanned for his colleague, his shocked and confused mind trying to recall where he had seen him last. He took a step towards the front of his car but he had to turn back, the heat was too intense. He stumbled around the back. He could see Vince now, not far from his passenger door. He was on his back, his eyes scrunched tightly shut, his face a fixed mask of shock, his legs and arms wriggling like an upended insect. Tim ran to him, instinctively grabbing him under the arms and wrenching him backwards away from the searing heat. Something popped loudly, sparks shot from what had once been the front of a Volkswagen Passat. Vince’s feet scrabbled to propel them both backwards. Tim kept going until he reckoned they were far enough away to be safe. He looked around to take in his surroundings. They were now on the side of the road and cars had stopped beside them. The startled occupants had stayed in their seats. Bits of fiery debris were littered across the road and out into the field on the other side, where they still burned.

  Tim shook his head to try and clear it. Flames still roared from the Volkswagen’s blown windows. The blast had come seemingly from out of nowhere. He pressed his emergency assistance button.

  * * *

  Grace stared at the phone where it lay for a second; she didn’t want to pick it up. She was going to have to. It felt heavy in her hands. The keypad was still showing the last number dialled, the eight digits that would change her life. She still had one more number to call. One more number that she had committed to memory, rigorously testing herself so she would know it when she needed it, just like the one she had dialled before. She typed it in.

  ‘Hello?’ A bored voice answered this time. It didn’t even make one ring.

  ‘Hello.’ Grace had meant to say more but her throat was so dry it cut out completely.

  ‘Can I help?’

  She swallowed a couple of times. ‘Yes. I . . . er, I need a taxi please. From number seventeen Campbell Road. The name’s Hughes.’

  ‘Sure. Where can we take you today?’

  ‘The . . . away from here . . . please.’

  She could hear tapping on the other end of the phone that stopped abruptly.

  ‘Sorry?’ was the nasal reply.

  ‘The train station!’ Grace snapped.

  ‘Okay. Can I take a number?’

  ‘No. I won’t have a phone. This is a . . . a friend’s.’

  ‘Okay . . . well, the driver will normally send you a message when he is outside is all? Can he send it to your friend’s phone?’

  ‘No. No, I will be waiting.’

  The woman hesitated. ‘Well, okay then. It’ll be ten minutes.’

  Grace hung up. She moved back over to the chair. Her lips formed a snarl as she looked down at it. She bent down and picked up the duvet that Craig had thrown off that morning. She bundled it back over the arm, covering the vice. She still couldn’t stand the sight of it. She would never have to see it again. Not that chair, not this house and not that man. She walked to the front door and pulled it open. The sudden burst of light hurt her eyes and a chill nipped instantly at her face. She slipped on the coat she had been carrying under her arm and lifted the fur-lined hood. She left her injured arm hanging limp under her top two layers. She stepped out, leaving the front door swinging open. It was snowing now, the flakes were small but still delicate and they fell with that delightful hushing noise she had always loved. She lifted her face, closed her eyes and felt the flakes bump off her cheek like an icy embrace. She felt herself smile. She had loved the snow when she was a little girl, and for just a second she was one again. She hoped it would fall harder, with bigger flakes, the sort that could cover everything in a layer of thick white so that, for just a short time, it would look like a blank canvas, like the world was starting again — a sign from Mother Nature herself that maybe she could start again, too.

  She got to the end of the drive and carried on walking. The virgin snow swirled around her feet now, like white dust. She would wait for the taxi down the road.

  Away from this place.

  Chapter 21

  Ian Hughes parked the car hurriedly. He was two hundred metres from his daughter’s address but he had passed it already. He knew Craig’s car wasn’t there.

  He pushed open the driver’s door. His shoulder complained as he did. He didn’t know if it was stiff from him throwing his useless punches or if it had taken a hit — probably a bit of both. He hadn’t had time to assess his injuries, save for a quick look over his face in the rear-view mirror, prodding bits that were tender and trying to direct his anger away, rather than towards himself. There would be time for that later. Right now he needed to know Grace was safe.

  He jogged along the pavement. There had been some snow but not enough to settle. It was a quiet street and nothing was moving. He could hear a police siren in the distance and slowed to see if it was coming closer. If anything it sounded like it was going further away. He paced up the drive of 17 Campbell Road. The jog and the tension increased his heart rate; he could feel it pulsing through the swelling on his face, his lips and cheek particularly. He had to stop and lean on the porch for a secon
d. He had been feeling dizzy off and on since his return to consciousness on the floor of the toilet cubicle. He couldn’t afford to pass out again. His head cleared and he looked up. The door was open.

  He stumbled forward, his mind immediately conjuring scenarios of Craig returning home, of Grace still being here and him dragging her out, bundling her in the car and taking her somewhere where they could be alone and he could vent his anger.

  The front door banged off the wall. He hadn’t realised he had pushed so hard and the noise made him jump.

  ‘GRACE!’ he bellowed, the panic rising in his stomach. He moved through the ground floor to the kitchen. A cupboard was open, some cough medicine hung out of it, threatening to fall. He took in the rest of the room; nothing else looked out of place. He moved into the living room. There was an instant and distinct smell of vomit. He moved close to the small sofa in the corner, opposite the window. A thin duvet was thrown untidily on one of the arms. Under the other arm was a stain that looked to him like the source of that smell. The seat cushion was disturbed. A white nightie made a bundle on the floor, the ends bunched like they had been twisted together.

  ‘GRACE!’ he shouted again as he sprang from the living room and onto the stairs, taking two of them at a time. The bathroom door was open; he shot a glance inside then kept on moving. At the end of the landing, he burst through the door into the master bedroom — there was no one there. He could see a few items of clothing discarded on the floor: some balled up socks and a couple of tops. A make-up bag spilled its contents over the dresser, as if someone had plunged in a hand to grab what they could. The house in general had that look: like someone had left in a hurry. He started to feel calmer. The scenarios in his mind were no longer quite so bleak or horrific. He even allowed himself a little smile. Grace had done what she said she would: She’s left him!

  He moved to the bed. A piece of neatly folded paper lay dead centre on the crisp white duvet. It was good quality writing paper, the sort you might save for special occasions. He unfolded it and recognised Grace’s handwriting, even if it was messy — rushed maybe?