by Helen Phifer
George reached out and clasped her arm. ‘She’ll be fine – try not to worry too much. Thank you for these and thank you for being so good about everything. I’m sorry.’
Lucy stared at him. ‘What are you sorry for?’
‘For screwing up your life. You’re an amazing woman, Lucy. I hope that you find someone who appreciates you for what you are. I’m a stupid old fool.’
She smiled, then turned around. Damn him; this was the very last time she would cry over George. She was going to put all this behind her and start living her life. She walked back to her car, hot tears rolling down her cheeks, and she prayed that no one was watching her from their windows. She didn’t like anyone seeing her in this state, yet he had the same effect on her almost every time she saw him. As she sat in the car and started the engine, she lifted her sleeve to wipe away her tears. No more, Harwin. Your daughter is growing up and George is no longer your husband. It’s gone, done, all in the past, and it’s time to start making some new memories. She took a deep breath and put the car in gear; she was going home for a large glass of wine and something to eat. She wondered how Tom was and hoped he was recovering much more quickly than anticipated because she didn’t know how long she could stand to work with Patrick Baker.
Chapter Forty-Four
Toby was dithering about whether or not he should call it a day when Lucy got back into her car and drove away. This was just as well because she might have noticed him if he’d left first. Instead, he followed her once more, this time to what he assumed was her home. There was so much about her that he didn’t know and wanted to find out. This house was a semi, much smaller than the grand property she’d just visited. It was nice, though; the outside was painted white and it had pale-green windows. She must like the colour green. He made a mental note to remember that, wondering if it was possible to buy flowers in that shade. He didn’t know – he wasn’t really into stuff like that.
He parked at the end of her street, afraid she might realise she was being followed because she wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t exactly good at this kind of thing. He watched her run up the drive and into her house. The automatic lights came on and he noticed a burglar alarm on the front of the house. He scanned the rest of the street – her house was the only one with a state-of-the-art security system.
He was intrigued. What’s happened to you, Lucy Harwin? You’re so full of yourself at work, yet you scurry into your house like some scared mouse. He needed to know; he could help her out if he knew. He could protect her. He might look like a wimp, but he was a third-dan black belt in karate. He realised that he was probably the last person she would want to see standing on her doorstep, but what he had to tell her was very important. She would want to know, he was sure that she would. The lights went on upstairs and he could make out her shadow as she closed the blinds. He would give her ten minutes to sort herself out and for him to pluck up enough courage; then he’d go and knock on her door.
Lucy started to warm up the microwave meal she’d bought at the Co-op a week ago and hoped that it hadn’t gone too far out of date. She was too scared to check the packet; she’d rather not know if she was about to get an attack of food poisoning. She should have ordered a takeaway; after today she deserved it. Neither she nor Mattie had eaten much, surviving on cups of coffee and adrenaline instead.
As she sunk into her sofa, she closed her eyes. Sara Cross, her counsellor, had suggested trying to use meditation as a way to get rid of the day’s stresses. Lucy had rolled her eyes at her, then gone home and tried it – what did she have to lose? She wasn’t very good at it, but it was helping her to clear her mind a little. Of course, she would never admit that to Sara; they hadn’t got off to a flying start due to Lucy’s stubbornness.
She sat on the sofa now trying to empty her mind and breathe deeply in through her nose and out through her mouth, when a knock on her front door disturbed her flow. She looked up at the clock on the mantle; it was almost seven and she wasn’t expecting anyone. She thought about ignoring it but then it came again. She flew up and crept into the hall. It couldn’t be Ellie – she would have been dropped off at Fern’s by now, ready for their early-morning flight. Pushing her face against the door, she stared through the spy hole and jumped. Standing on the other side was Toby. What the hell did he want? Furthermore, how did he know her address? She opened the door, keeping it on the safety chain and feeling like a bit of an idiot. After her run-in with Lizzy Clements, she knew that it was better to be safe than sorry.
‘Toby! What do you want?’
His cheeks flushed a deep red. ‘I, erm, I’m sorry to bother you. I just had something to tell you.’
Amanda’s jibes about him having the hots for her repeated in her head and she felt herself groan inwardly. Oh God. ‘How did you know where I lived, Toby? And could it not have waited until tomorrow when I’m in work?’
She saw his shoulders sink and his cheeks turn even redder as he mumbled, ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t think, I just thought you’d want to know. Sorry.’
He turned and began to walk away down the path, looking like Tom Hanks in Big when he’d turned back from an adult into a child and his suit was too big for him. Hoping she wasn’t going to regret this, she slid the chain off the door and opened it wide.
‘Toby, if you think it’s important you’d better come inside.’
He spun around and smiled, nodding his head. ‘I do think it’s important.’
‘Come on, then. My gourmet meal is getting cold. You can tell me while I’m eating it.’
Fully aware that she was dressed in a set of My Little Pony pyjamas, she stood to one side and let him pass. She shut the door and snatched her mobile up from the hall table, also grabbing the too-big knitted cardigan that Mattie’s aunt Alice had made her and wrapping it around herself. She led him into the kitchen and pointed to a stool at the breakfast bar.
‘Would you like a drink?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t drink tea or coffee, but thanks.’
‘I have wine, vodka, cola?’
‘A Coke would be great, thanks.’
She opened the fridge and passed him a can, then took her meal out of the microwave and peeled back the film. Sniffing it, she decided it smelt okay and tipped it into a bowl. Toby looked at the burnt offering.
‘Is that your dinner?’
‘Yes, do you want some?’
He shook his head. ‘God, no. That looks worse than my cooking. You can’t live off microwave meals, you know; they’re not good for you.’
She looked at him. ‘Who sent you – Browning? You sound just like him.’
Toby looked puzzled. ‘No one sent me.’
She started to laugh. ‘Lighten up, Toby, I’m only kidding. Browning is always moaning at me about what I eat, that’s all. Now tell me what’s so important you’ve had to come and see me at home when it’s your day off.’
‘I know this is strange; you’re going to think I’m weird. I suppose I am, but I’m not a complete freak and I need you to understand that.’
Lucy crossed her fingers behind her back. Please don’t declare your undying love for me.
‘Go on, I’m listening.’
‘Well, I’ve always had a fascination with serial killers.’
That was not what Lucy had steeled herself to hear, and she stared at him.
‘It’s because of my mum.’
‘Why, was she a serial killer?’ Lucy was staring at her phone wondering if she was going to have to ring for back-up to come and section Toby, because right now he sounded like a close relative of Norman Bates.
He started to laugh. ‘God, definitely not. She was a very kind, amazing woman, although her morbid fascination with serial killers was even weirder than mine. She read lots of true crime books. She used to bring them home every week and I was intrigued by them. I didn’t actually understand much at the time I started to read them – I was only about twelve. I found them so horrible, yet absolutely addictive.’
‘That’s great, but I’m a bit confused.’
‘Sorry, I digress without even realising it. Well, I’ve been thinking about these murders a lot. In fact, if I’m honest with you, I can’t get them out of my head.’
‘I know – it’s tough. They get under your skin and stay there. Buried for a little while… then they rear their heads every now and again. It’s even tougher for you, this is your first week and it’s been nothing but carnage. Honestly, it does get better. It might not seem that way now, but it will.’
He nodded. ‘Good, I hope so. Although there’s a lot to be said for being thrown in at the deep end; I’m learning a lot more than I ever expected. Well, the more I think about it the more it seems possible. I know it doesn’t look like these murders are connected, but I think they are. It’s not so obvious because of the different modus operandi. You wouldn’t really connect Melanie Benson and Stacey Green to the Martin family because they’re all so different. But that’s exactly what he wants you to think. This killer is good; in fact he’s excellent. He’s playing a game of cat and mouse with you all and at the moment he’s winning hands down.’
She wanted to laugh at him and tell him to stop being so ridiculous, to brush it off, but she couldn’t. Deep down something had been bothering her about them and she’d been wondering just what the connection could be. Catherine had found similar blue fibres during the post-mortems on Melanie Benson, Stacey Green and now Michelle Martin too. They were all being fast-tracked through the trace evidence examination process to determine whether they were definite matches.
‘Why do you think this? I need more than your fascination with serial killers, Toby. I’m sorry to sound so harsh, but you know how it works in the police force. It’s our job to find cold, hard evidence that will stand up in a court of law.’
He pulled a crumpled plastic poly pocket from the inside of his jacket and spread out the contents on the side in front of her. She looked down at the grainy black-and-white copies of old newspaper reports; she didn’t recognise the men in them but she’d heard of the names.
‘The Beast of Birkenshaw was Scotland’s worst serial killer – his real name was Peter Manuel.’
She picked up the printout and stared at it.
Toby continued. ‘The remains of a meal are cold on the table whilst the bodies of three members of the same family are all lying dead in their beds. Pete, Doris and eleven-year-old Michael were all shot in the head at close range.’
Lucy looked up at Toby. It was far too similar to the scene of the Martin family’s murder, except for Craig. He hadn’t been in bed, but his body was close enough to it. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘Google – you can find out anything you want if you know what to look for.’
She didn’t know what to think of the man standing in front of her. He passed her another sheet of paper.
‘Bible John, the notorious serial killer whose identity has baffled the police for over forty years. He was a strangler who quoted Bible scriptures as he killed. He left his victim in a backstreet; she was strangled with her own stockings after leaving a nightclub. Here’s the weird part: a sanitary towel was tucked under her left arm.’
He handed her yet another piece of paper, this time with an article about Peter Sutcliffe. She stared at it.
‘The Yorkshire Ripper hit his victims over the head with a hammer to render them unconscious, then stabbed them, leaving them in public areas to be found. His first victim, Wilma McCann, was discovered lying on her back, her trousers down by her knees and her bra lifted up to expose her breasts. She was also under the influence of alcohol when she was attacked.’
Lucy felt her blood run cold as goose bumps broke out along her arms. ‘Melanie Benson’s murder was almost identical, but she wasn’t stabbed. Why?’
Toby shrugged. ‘Maybe he doesn’t like to get too messy – blood is a hard thing to wash away if you get it everywhere.’
‘But the Martins were shot; that involved a lot of blood.’
‘Not as much as stabbing someone multiple times would have, and there would have been minimal back spatter from such close-range gunshot wounds, if any. Look, this could all be a complete coincidence, Lucy, but I thought it was too important not to bring to your attention.’
He stood up. ‘I’d better get going now and let you finish your dinner; I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Thank you for the drink.’
Lucy looked up at him. ‘Oh, you’re welcome. Thanks for this, Toby. I’ll look into it.’
He walked towards her front door, opened it and stepped outside. ‘You’re not mad at me for coming here?’
She smiled. ‘No, I’m not; you just caught me by surprise. I really appreciate you working on this on your day off.’
He grinned back at her. ‘You’re welcome. See you tomorrow.’
He jogged off to his car and she shut and bolted the front door behind him. That had been strange and she still wasn’t sure what to make of Toby, but she was convinced he was right. She shivered as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end – the thought of a killer who was so clever and calculating terrified her.
Chapter Forty-Five
Mattie was sprawled across his sofa, about to make history on FIFA 17, when his phone began to ring. He let out a huge yawn and thought about ignoring it; surely there hadn’t been another murder. He looked at the screen and saw Lucy’s name flashing across it. Pausing his game, he leant over and grabbed it straight away.
‘Hello.’
‘I think we have a copycat on our hands.’
He shook his head; he knew that he should have ignored it. He hated Lucy’s insightful phone calls, which usually came at the most inconvenient times of the night.
‘A what?’
She spoke more slowly. ‘A copycat serial killer. Toby has just been here with some rather compelling evidence that I’ve been studying for the last two hours. I’ve searched everything on the internet he mentioned and I think he’s right.’
‘Who the hell is Toby and what does he have to do with it?’
‘The new CSI – don’t be dim. This is important, Mattie. What if we do have a perpetrator who’s going around copying other serial killers?’
‘Then we’re in deep shit, that’s what.’
‘Anyway, I just thought I’d share that snippet of information with you. Make sure your doors are locked.’
He sat forward. ‘Why? Do you think he’s coming here?’
‘No, I’m just worried and being cautious, especially after the last time. You know how quickly it all went wrong.’
He did. ‘Should I come over to yours, bring my pyjamas and we can have a sleepover?’
‘Piss off.’
‘I’m being serious, Lucy. I’m man enough to admit that I still get a bit freaked out by all of this and we both know what you’re like for getting yourself mixed up in trouble. You have some weird magnet that attracts killers and freaks to you.’
‘No, I’m going to bed now. Besides, my house is locked up tight. My burglar alarm is on too. I just wanted to get it off my chest. Run it by you and see what you thought.’
‘Oh, well thanks for that; as long as you’re all right, then. What did you have to ring me up and tell me that for? I haven’t got a fancy burglar alarm. Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?’
‘I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Yes, cheers. Night.’
Annoyed with her, he ended the call, stood up and went to check that all his windows were shut and his doors were locked. She’d given him the chills – why the hell was she so stubborn?
Lucy felt bad. She had a way of blurting everything out to Mattie to make herself feel better. She hadn’t even stopped to consider how he would react to the news.
Chapter Forty-Six
His visitor had been in the shower for quite some time; his skin was so clean it was glowing. He was impressed – he’d used the razor and was now clean-shaven. Dressed in a brand-new pair of Nike j
oggers and matching t-shirt, he looked like a completely different man. The only thing that gave away the fact he was a drug addict was that he kept raking his nails along the skin of his arms; he was trying to ease the itch caused by the lack of heroin in his veins. Unless, of course, it was a reaction to being clean for the first time in days. He laughed to himself. It was the heroin withdrawal – he knew this because he’d complained about the dull ache in his bones when he’d first come downstairs and told him that he needed something to take the edge away.
As Lewis walked into the kitchen now, he heard him inhale.
‘You look different – do you feel a bit better?’
‘Yes, I do. Thank you.’
He turned back to the stove. ‘You’re welcome. There’s some co-codamol on the table. If you take a couple they’ll help with any pain you might be in. There’s also a selection of spirits in the cupboard behind you or there’s vodka in the freezer.’
He watched as his hand reached out for the blister pack of painkillers and popped out three of them. Crossing to the freezer, Lewis took out the vodka, and he handed him two shot glasses.
‘Good choice. I’ll join you.’
Lewis took the glasses from him and filled them both with the ice-cold liquid, handing one back to him. He watched as Lewis put the tablets in his mouth and threw back his head, downing the shot of pure vodka in one gulp. He swallowed, then began coughing and spluttering.
‘Are you okay? Don’t be choking on me; do you need me to rub your back?’
Lewis shook his head, sticking his thumb up at him, which irked him.
‘Will your girlfriend mind you taking in a waif and stray? Mine would have gone mad at me if I’d turned up with someone in tow who looked like me.’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment; she dumped me a while ago. So I can do what I want in my own house now. It’s easier that way.’
‘Women, eh? They’re amazing, but hard work all at the same time.’
