Eddie looked at his dad. “Surely you told her? Even Ursula isn’t that good at fishing.”
Charles didn’t know where to look.
“You walked out. That’s what happened.” Her pearly yellow teeth caught the morning sunshine like a jagged row of hearing aids.
Eddie shrugged. “So?”
“You can’t handle responsibility, boy.” She took a couple of steps towards him and lowered her voice, “Your father’s days of bailing you out when the world gets too tough for you are gone now. It’s time you dealt with the consequences of your own actions. You will learn that you are totally dispensable and that the world will not collapse should you decide it’s all getting too much for you.”
“Ouch.”
“We want you out by the weekend, Eddie,” she said.
Charles looked at the floor like it was going to perform a trick. And then he looked up, a plea on his face as though Eddie had the power to crush his dreams with just a handful of careless words. Wendy sat down in the chair next to him, crunching a biscuit, and reached up to hold Charles’s hand – united against Eddie.
Through gritted teeth, Eddie said, “Can I speak to you alone, Dad?”
“Whatever you need to say,” said Wendy, “you can say in front of us both.”
“I don’t mind,” Charles said to her. “If he needs—”
“Both of us.”
Eddie took a breath, and then someone knocked at the door. He sighed it all out again. “I guess it’ll keep,” he said, opening the door.
Benson stood there. “Get dressed, you prick, we’re going to knock on Jess Ripley’s door again.”
Eddie’s shoulders slumped. And then he stood up straight, and turned to face them both. “What was that about being totally dispensable?”
“If you’re having an argument, I’ll wait in the car,” Benson said. “Don’t be long.”
Eddie closed the door. Wendy stared at him defiantly, and Charles looked like a lost puppy. “Okay, Dad. It’s time you came clean. I was going to just let things hang for a while and hope that it just sorted itself out. But I think we should tell Wendy. What do you say?”
Wendy’s smile dropped off her face and her head swivelled around to Charles.
“Ah, yes.” Charles scratched his ear. “I’d been meaning to have a quick word with you—”
“Charles.”
“Erm…”
“Charles!”
He mumbled, “You see, the thing is… this is Eddie’s place.”
There was a moment where it was obvious that she expected the punchline any second. It didn’t come. “You’re kidding me, aren’t you?” She patted Charles on the backside – Eddie cringed – and she said, “One of the things I love about you most, Charles, is your sense of humour—”
“He’s not kidding,” Eddie said, heading for the shower. “He’s been trying to impress you. But since I don’t like you, and I’m not trying to impress you, I can tell you how it is. And it is like this: I want you out by the weekend. Okay, love?”
“But—”
“And he doesn’t have a sense of humour.” Eddie stopped and stared at her, appraising the curlers in her fake blonde hair, the blood-red lipstick, the hoop earrings, and the rouge circles on her cheeks. “At least, he never used to.”
Charles shouted, “Eddie!”
“And as for you. Grow up, or I’m disowning you!”
Chapter Fifty-Six
It was supposed to be a treat. She’d worked hard all night, right from killing that bastard Sidmouth. In fact, she’d been working hard since before then, gathering the things she’d need. And she’d had about twenty-five minutes’ sleep.
But the piece of cold chicken that hung inches from her lips looked like the most wondrous banquet anyone could have prepared. Her stomach growled and her mouth watered.
The doorbell rang again. She dropped the chicken back into the box and wiped her greasy hands on the duvet. The bell rang a third time as she approached the front door, and one of the junkies opened his bedsit door.
“Sup?” he mumbled.
Jess stopped walking. She turned to him. “What’s up? What’s up?”
“I only—”
“Why don’t you answer the fucking door for a change and find out!”
The junkie curled his lip at her and slammed his door.
Jess, eyes drooping, opened the front door. If she’d had a full stomach, she would have emptied it right then and there all over the two coppers who stood panting on the top step. How the fuck did they know? So quickly!
“Jessica Ripley?”
Her heart tripped, and for the briefest of moments she thought about barging past them and running away. She looked at the fat one, the one who was breathing the hardest, and then across at the tall one, who seemed to be staring at her feet. It was like a Laurel and Hardy sketch. “Yes,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m DI Benson, and this is Eddie—”
“What do you want?” Her mouth had turned very dry.
“Can we come in?”
Suddenly her appetite had vanished. She stepped aside. “Sure.” There was no point in trying to smile; the motors working the smile muscles had seized up, couldn’t even get a twitch going. She nodded into the darkness at the end of the corridor, and when the tall one – who was actually quite pleasing to the eye – stopped and said, “It’s okay. I’ve got the door,” she knew that her moment to flee had just vanished too.
Had she been prepared for their visit, she would have been out – obviously. But if she’d thought they would turn up on her doorstep the very next fucking day, well, she would have cleaned herself a bit more thoroughly to begin with; her hands, her nails especially, still had blood—
“Chicken,” the fat one said, sniffing into the air.
And as well as her personal appearance, she might have put up a bit more of a fight on the doorstep. She was not friends with the law; not one bit.
The smell of fried chicken was still strong as the tall one closed the bedsit door behind them. Her hands shook, and she wondered if it was hunger or fear. “Would you like some? It might be a bit cold now, but…” Oh yeah, a small voice in her head said, very unfriendly! Positively scathing!
They both shook their heads, but she could tell DI Benson was tempted; a little flick of the tongue over wet lips. Dead giveaway. Also a dead giveaway was his yellow shirt and red tie combo – he’d been wearing something equally outrageous yesterday when he’d tried to collar Tony on the bus. So the first question, when it finally came, was no surprise to her – and she never even considered giving a dodgy answer.
If this was it, if this was the big one, then she needed them to think she was a good girl who was telling the truth and trying to cooperate.
“Where were you yesterday” —he looked at his watch— “about this time?”
Inside, she let out a sigh of relief; they were starting with the easy ones. She sat on the bed as they remained standing, cramped by the door. The fat one, Benson, put his hand on his colleague’s arm, said, “Eddie,” and gently moved him aside, so he could sit in the chair by the door, the chair Tony used to sit in. He’d never sit there again.
She folded her arms. “Am I under arrest?”
Benson snorted, “What for?”
“I don’t know. What crimes do you have that need clearing up this time? You could always frame me for them.”
Benson clapped. “Very good, Jessy. If we were framing you for anything, you’d be in cuffs right now, and I’d be stealing your KFC, okay?”
“Wow,” she said, “déjà vu.” She almost smiled, but smothered it. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Look, love,” said the tall one. “You don’t need a lawyer, okay. He just wants to ask you some questions, I just want to look at your footwear, and then we’ll be out of your way. Okay?”
“You want to look at my shoes? Do you have a fetish?”
She saw Eddie look down at Benson, and shrug; he said,
“I thought I did the fucking jokes.”
“Leave it to me, Eddie. Please?” He turned back to Jessica. “So. This time yesterday?”
“I was trying to catch a bus, actually.” She offered them both a smile.
“Why?”
“There was someone on it that I needed to speak to.”
Benson stared at her. “Look, if I’m going to have to nudge you every step of the way, then perhaps we could do it in more comfortable surroundings down the nick. Get my meaning?”
She did, and she’d always promised she was never going back inside one. Ever. “There was a man on the bus who’d broken into my flat last week. I wanted my stuff back.”
That made Benson sit up. “You know him, this man?”
“Tony.”
Benson raised his eyebrows.
She sighed again, and said, “Tony Longbottom. He’s an old boyfriend of my mine from way back. I’ve known him since before Sebastian…”
“What did he steal?”
“A jacket. A knife from the drawer; I only had two! And you’re going to ask why he stole the jacket, and I’m going to say it had my purse in the pocket.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”
“How much in the purse?”
“Fiver. Some change.”
Eddie looked up and asked, “How did he get in?”
“Through the door. It’s an old Yale lock. It’ll open if you so much as breathe on it. Try it. The junkies next door told me about it. Been like that years apparently.”
“Why hasn’t it been fixed?”
“Because the landlord is more of a taker than a giver, I guess. You’ll need to ask him.”
“Did you report it?”
“To the police?”
Benson nodded.
“No. I mean, what are you going to do about it, send CSI round?” She tried to laugh but it was a crow’s croak.
“That’s exactly what we’d have done, yes.”
“But Tony’s been in here. Finding his prints would prove nothing.”
“You actually saw him take your jacket? You know for sure it was him?”
“I saw him! I was coming home, walking up the road, and he was coming out of the front door with it. He was off like a whippet. And the next time I saw him was yesterday. He was on a bus, so I tried—”
“How did you know it was him?”
“His cap. He always wears a bright yellow baseball cap. Well, it was bright yellow. Mucky now.”
Benson leaned forward, elbows on knees, and the chair creaked beneath him. He shared a ‘told you’ look with Eddie before returning his attention to Jess. “Have anything on it? An insignia, a logo?”
“CAT Diesel Power.”
Benson slapped his leg and then sat back in the chair, satisfied. “Know where he lives?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be chasing after him on a bus.”
“Does he have other friends around here, someone he might have been visiting?”
Until now Jessica had been holding her hands in check, squeezing them tight to stop them shaking, and she’d kept her feet crossed for the same reason, but now, ten minutes into this informal chat, she had to relax them both; her arms and legs were aching like mad from last night’s exertion.
“I need a drink. Anyone like one?”
Both shook their heads, but Jess filled up the kettle and switched it on.
And that was when she almost keeled over again. On the crease of her left little finger was a red line, the remnants of a cut that she didn’t even know about. And now that she’d noticed it, it began to sting, and a low groan tumbled out of her mouth and into the sink. How the hell had she cut herself? And more importantly, where had she cut herself? It became huge, like a gash; unmissable, throbbing.
She wondered if they could see it too.
She swallowed, dropped some coffee into a mug, and turned to face them, folding her arms. “Anything else I can help you with?”
Eddie stepped forward. “What shoes have you got, love?”
Jess clenched her fist over the cut and looked down. “These flip-flops,” she said, “and a pair of trainers in the wardrobe.”
“Mind if take a look?”
“Help yourself.” The kettle began humming, and Jess looked over to Benson. “What’s with all the questions?”
“Do you remember a man called Marchant?”
And there it was: bombshell number one! Had she been able to watch her own reaction to that name, she would have been proud. Her eyes screwed into slits and there was a tremor in her top lip as though she was ready to rip pieces out of Benson’s face. She snapped, “Prick. Of course I know him. I’ll never forget his face.”
“He’s the man who defended you for Sebastian’s murder.”
“No, he’s the man who handed my arse to the prosecution. He’s more of a villain than most fucking villains. ‘Scuse my French.”
“Someone murdered him.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Jessica closed her eyes, took a quivering breath in and felt the heat of impending tears behind her eyelids.
“So there is such a thing as Karma.” She couldn’t hide the relief. Nor did she want to. “How?”
The performance that followed was perfect; Kate Winslet couldn’t have done it any better. Jess made her eyes open wide, sniffled, and dried her eyes on her sleeve. She took a step back, palms still out, but shaking this time too. “Don’t look at me,” she said, “I had nothing to do with it.” She paused. “But you have to tell me how he died. I’ve dreamed of stabbing him, poisoning him.” She looked to the ceiling as though daydreaming. “My favourite was always hanging, though. Closely followed by fire.”
“Not exactly distraught, are you?”
She smiled, pleased that the muscle motors were working again. “I’m not going to lie. I couldn’t be any happier. That waste of space stole twelve years of my life.” She pointed a teaspoon at Eddie. “I’m not sorry the bastard’s dead.” She shrugged at Benson. “I’m not sorry at all. If I had some bunting, I’d hang it outside the front door. In fact, tell me where they bury him and I’ll go and piss on his grave. He’ll get no tears from me. Wanker.”
The kettle clicked off and she jumped. She poured water. There was nowhere to store milk, so all hot drinks were taken black these days. She carried the mug to her bed, found a clear space on the bedside table and put it down. She sat on the bed, knowing that under the mattress was a Stanley knife with its blade fully extended. Just waiting. Just in case. It was but one small movement away.
A fleeting scene sped before her daydreaming eyes: she took out the knife and she slashed the fat bastard’s neck with it, and then, as he turned around from her wardrobe, she slashed Eddie’s neck too. She’d take great delight in watching sixteen pints of blood spew over the bedsit floor, and watching as two shrivelling men writhed in pain, spraying blood like a pair of Catherine wheels spraying sparks.
If it seemed to be heading towards an arrest, things would get messy in here very quickly. And then she’d walk and never come back. No way was she ever going back inside again.
“Tony was around, you say, when Sebastian was killed?”
Jess blinked awake again. “Not as such. We saw each other, but it was casual; he never moved in or anything. Nothing official.”
Benson leaned forward again. “I don’t recall his name on any statement or report at the time.”
“You’ve looked at them all?”
“Of course.”
“Why? Is this all to do with Marchant?”
“Yes. Just routine. We have to be thorough, Jessica.”
“Ha! Don’t make me fucking laugh. Do you mean thorough as in thorough, or do you mean the kind of thorough you were twelve years ago? Bastard!”
“Oi,” Eddie said, “if anyone insults him, it’s me.”
“Shut up,” Jess said, and turned back to Benson. “You bastard. How can you sit there lecturing me on thoroughness? It didn’t matter when it was my neck on the fucking line and yo
ur lot left every stone unturned, did it? Different story when it’s some twat in a suit, eh? What, is there more scrutiny when the victim is an actual lawyer?”
Benson looked away.
“Well? You gone deaf now?”
Benson seethed. “I’m doing this investigation the way I run any investigation, Jess. Okay? I’m not here to discuss whether your conviction was safe or not—”
“No, you wouldn’t criticise one of your own, would you?” She shook a mocking head. “Oh no, couldn’t do that!”
Benson shuffled in his seat. “Tell me about Tony.”
She took a long blink, and the muscles in her cheeks throbbed as she ground her teeth. “There was no mention of Tony because he wasn’t even there that day. I hadn’t seen him for maybe three or four days, and I wasn’t expecting him.”
“You claimed throughout your trial that you didn’t kill Sebastian. Did you ask Tony to kill Marchant for you?”
“Christ, you are trying to frame me!”
“Jessica—”
“If you can’t pin it on me, you’ll pin a conspiracy charge on me.” She shook her head again. “Priceless, you lot are. Priceless.” She reached for her coffee and felt the knife under the mattress as she moved. Five seconds, she reckoned, maybe eight, and they’d be out of her way. “It was always a straight fight between me killing Sebastian, and him doing the job himself. And I did not kill him.”
“Therefore you blame the establishment. Your lawyer, the police…”
“Of course I do. Wouldn’t you? But I’m not going to kill someone because of it!” She puffed out a breath. “I’m not keen on spending the rest of my life behind bars, Inspector Benson. Trust me, I’d rather accept the unfair punishment I’ve already had, and lick my wounds until my own dying day. I’ve no desire to go back to prison. And I’m not in the habit of getting people to do favours for me. I do everything myself. Trust no one.” She smiled. “It’s my new motto. Like it?”
“Then who did kill Marchant?”
“I don't know; you're the detective.”
A snort from over by the wardrobe.
“Did Tony kill him?” Benson asked.
“Why would he?”
“You said you knew him back then; he was your boyfriend.”
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 21