Why did trying to help people – genuinely help people – have to end in such tragedy? Where was the motivation to continue helping people? Well, he’d learned a lesson: fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all.
And then there was his dad and that Wendy woman.
He sighed again. Things had gone by so fast over the last few days that he hadn’t had the chance to touch base with any of his feelings recently, let alone spend any time with his dad.
Without knowing it, he’d climbed into the Discovery, and lit another cigarette, and was pointing the car through the slowly opening gates. He was looking forward to getting home and taking a shower to wash away the aches from the walk from Holbeck. He knew that he couldn’t rest or concentrate properly on anything else until he’d resolved that conflict inside his head – the slow air leak from that fucking tyre.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Eddie unlocked the cottage door and slid inside, heeling it closed behind him. For a moment he stood and listened to the rainwater dripping from him and landing on the floor, splashing like Tony’s blood had.
He felt cold, and that was good because whenever he felt hot, his mind worked itself into a rage easily. Cool was… cool.
Charles cleared his throat and Eddie looked around, happy that his dad was back, but a little disappointed that his peace and quiet was now a thing of the past. He tried to hide the regret but its corner pierced through. “If you want an argument you can fuck off and find someone else. I ain’t interested.”
“Would you like a coffee?”
Eddie looked at him with suspicion.
Charles held out his hands. “No strings.”
Eddie nodded, lit a cigarette and took a long drag. He stood still, trying to hear the raindrops hitting the floor, but was no longer able to. Instead he could hear the tobacco burning and his dad shuffling around on the kitchen floor. Outside the rain still fell, and Eddie thought he could just hear it grazing the windows.
Moments later, Charles handed him a mug of coffee. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for having a pop at you earlier.”
Eddie looked at him, but he was thinking about Jess. He nodded and walked off towards the shower.
“That it? Just a nod?”
Eddie slammed the door.
* * *
He dried himself and walked into his room to dress. As he entered the bedroom, he thought he might put on some Pink Floyd – maybe Wish You Were Here, something mellow to keep him cool. But as he closed the bedroom door behind him, his mobile phone danced on the bedside table.
Eddie tutted, slid a pair of boxers on and then accepted the call.
“Eddie?”
“No, it’s Alice fucking Cooper!”
“It’s me, Jeffery.”
Eddie closed his eyes. “Hi, Jeffery, sorry about—”
“I’ve had some time to donate to that case you mentioned.”
“Jessy Ripley?”
“Jessica Ripley, yes.”
“And?”
Jeffery took a deep breath. “Your research checks out; she’s the common denominator in the case. Don’t you remember saying the common denominator was Jessica Ripley? You were right.”
“Doesn’t mean she killed Sebastian, though, does it?”
“No, no. It doesn’t mean that. But what I found curious were the victims since she was released from prison. There’s the lawyer, Marchant; there’s the pathologist, Bolton; and I don’t know if you’re aware, but—”
“Probation Officer and his mother, yes. We’re aware of them.”
“I was going to ask if you were also aware that I was the scene examiner on Sebastian’s case?”
Eddie went cold. “Yes. We’d worked that one out too.”
“I was the one who said there was a possibility of a third-party involvement. The door to the flat – she said she often left it open because the kitchen window was painted shut and it was the only way to get any air into the place.”
“You said that?”
“And it was buried. Marchant buried it.”
“What? Didn’t you tell Cooper?”
“Cooper was as much use as a chocolate fireguard.”
“We, well I, think that a man called Tony Longbottom – who’s actually called Anthony Hardwick – might have been responsible for Sebastian’s death. He had the opportunity.”
“I found him just now while searching, yes. But did he have a motive?”
“If he did, I don’t know what it was.”
“And you think he’s been killing everyone responsible for convicting Jessica Ripley?”
That ninety percent question again. “Yes.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Am I in danger?”
Eddie swallowed. “No, you’re fine, Jeffery. Anthony committed suicide.”
“Yes, I saw that, too. You’re happy it’s suicide?”
Eddie was nodding, “Yep, it’s suicide. Sealed room suicide.”
“Sealed room?”
Eddie sat on the bed, dragged a hand down his face. “Front and back doors locked, windows secure, and the body inside. No way in or out.”
“And you’re happy?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m happy.”
“Okay, thank you. But you’re not happy, and you’re not sure. You haven’t sworn at me once. I know when doubt is eating you, Eddie.”
“There’s no doubt, Jeffery,” he lied. “Are you… are you okay?”
Jeffery sniffed. “Yes. I have more to do on a search I’m running, then I’m heading home. Bit of luck, I should be in time to miss Coronation Street.”
“Okay. Catch you later.” Eddie hung up and felt awful. Even if he were safe, which he was, perhaps they ought to have had the courtesy to let him know he’d been on some kind of list before he found out for himself.
Never mind; too late now.
Eddie dressed, grabbed his lanyard, wallet, and cigarettes, and walked into the lounge, ready for round two. Charles stood there like a twig with clothes on. “We need to buy you an appetite,” said Eddie.
“Women, eh? Who needs them?”
Eddie stole a glance at the clock on the oven door and smiled at Charles. “I have a confession to make.”
“You do?”
“I was jealous of you. You know,” he shrugged, “you’d found someone to be with. You’d finally got someone you could hold tight. I wanted that; I was jealous of you.”
Charles nodded. “It’s nice. Well, it was nice. Till she ended up in a cell.”
“Shit happens,” Eddie shrugged again. “I never made it past first base.”
“But you were brave enough to give it a go. That’s worthy of a pat on the back, Eddie.”
“I was brave, wasn’t I?” He looked at the ceiling, a smile broke across his face, and then it clouded over again. “I was silly though. I don’t think I’ll be doing it again. I like things the way they are.”
“Me too. And I want you to know that I forgive you.”
Eddie nearly swallowed his tongue. “Beg your fucking pardon?”
“Hey, no need for an argument. I just want you to know that I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t hold it against you.”
Eddie blinked. “You don’t hold it against me? I really ought to punch you in the nose for that. I saved your house from being owned by a con artist who made politicians look honest. I saved your arse from getting too involved with a woman so evil she makes Cruella de Vil look like a candidate for a Dogs Trust Award. So what you really mean is ‘thank you, Eddie’.”
“What? No, I mean—”
“You don’t get to forgive me, and you’re not entitled to not hold it against me. All you get to do is thank me. For once, I got involved in your stupid antics and luckily this time I managed to pull you out of the fire before you got too badly burned.”
“But—”
“Listen! You would have got burned, you stupid old fucker. Your dick, or your need to be dominated by a drag queen,
was leading you down the road to oblivion, and I fucking pulled you back! So don’t you fucking dare be in a mood with me when I saved your sorry fucking arse! You stupid old man!” Veins stood out in Eddie’s neck, and his face was the colour of an overripe plum.
Tears glistened in Charles’s eyes. “How could you?”
Eddie felt like shit, like he’d kicked a puppy. “How could I what? How could I smash up your laptop so you can’t use Facebook ever again?”
Charles took a sharp breath. “You didn’t?”
“No. I didn’t. But I should have done.” He stepped closer, licked his dry lips and tried to calm down. “I hope you learned your lesson over this, Dad. There are bad people out there.”
Charles stared at the floor. “There are bad people in here too.”
“Yeah, blame me if you like, I don’t care; I stopped you—”
“No, you don’t care. That’s perfectly obvious. It’s like a bloody dictatorship.”
“You think I’m oppressive? Am I as oppressive as your psycho girlfriend was?”
Charles snarled at him, folded his arms, and whispered, “If the cap fits, Eddie.”
“You cheeky—” Eddie stared at his father, accusatory finger at the ready, when he stopped. He stared at Charles, saw the snarl smooth out, saw the creases disappearing.
“Eddie? You okay?”
Eddie stared into the distance. “If the cap fits.”
Chapter Eighty-Six
Eddie ran to the Discovery and slipped on the gravel. He picked himself up, cursing, slapping mud and leaves from his wet jeans as his phone rang. He crawled inside the car and answered.
“Eddie?”
Eddie looked at the phone. “Benson. Did you dial my number?”
“Yes, of course I—”
“Then it’s me, isn’t it? Why do you keep asking if it’s me! Of course it’s—”
“Shut up, you prick, and listen to me. We found a motive for Tony Longbottom’s involvement in Sebastian’s murder.”
“Go on.”
“His house. Bought for cash, twelve years ago.”
“And?”
“Khan traced the origin of that money: Stanley Archibald. Sebastian’s brother.”
Eddie started the engine and got the AC fighting the misted-up windows.
“He was a hitman?”
“Of sorts. Stanley stood to gain a small fortune if Sebastian wasn’t alive to lay claim to his dying dad’s money.”
Eddie glanced at the cottage. “Families, eh?”
“There’s more. Stanley and his wife, Valentine, are fostering Jessica’s son.”
“You’re shitting me. How could anyone let that happen?”
“Valentine was having fertility treatment for years. She can’t have kids of her own.”
“They’re stealing Jessy’s kid?”
“They’ll be turning him against her, yes.”
“You sure Tony has a motive for all the other murders too?”
Benson paused, coughed. “Wait a minute – you said he was responsible.”
“I know what I said!”
“He doesn’t have a motive for Sidmouth or even Bolton – unless we’re working along the lines of their deaths being gifts for Jessy – or orders from Stanley, to shut them up.”
“No. She killed them.” Eddie screwed his eyes shut. A moment later he heard a noise that sounded like Benson punching something.
“What?”
Eddie sighed. “She played us. She made an idiot out of me, Tom. The CAT hat on the table.”
“You’re making no sense. The hat? What about it?”
Eddie put the car in gear and wheelspun away from his house. “The more I looked at it, the more I could see something was wrong with it.”
Benson was now yelling down the phone. “What, Eddie? What was fucking wrong with it?”
“It was too small for him. No way would it fit on his head. It’s a plant.”
“Ripley?”
“She wore it at Sidmouth’s murder, left it on Tony’s table, but forgot to make the strap bigger.”
“We got the results through for the coat found at Bolton’s scene, too,” said Benson.
“Academic now.”
“It was hers; wearer DNA on the collar,” Benson said anyway. “She planted it there after she killed him. No one broke into her flat and stole it. Another nail in her coffin.”
“Like I said, it’s academic.”
“Where are you going now?”
“Gonna search Ripley’s flat,” Eddie said. “You get over to Stanley’s. Take care of the boy – she’ll be coming for him.”
“What if she’s there, at her flat?”
“She won’t be.”
Eddie hoped she was; there were a couple of things he’d like to straighten out with her.
* * *
Eddie pulled on the handbrake outside Jessica’s flat and raced up the concrete steps. He banged on the door and eventually the blond-haired junkie answered it. His face was a wreck.
“You again.”
“Fuck off,” Eddie said, and barged past.
“If you’re looking for Jess, she’s gone.”
Eddie stopped, and turned just as the junkie slammed the front door closed. “Where?”
“Like she’d tell me. She just bust us up and took our gear.” The junkie opened his bedsit door, and the dark-haired kid showed his face above the quilt on the sofa. His eyes were swollen shut.
“She did that?”
He shivered. “She took our methadone.”
Eddie looked at them. “The fuck for?”
The kid shrugged, teeth chattering.
Eddie took a step forward, his forehead creased by a lack of understanding. “If you’re not on drugs and you take a load of methadone, what happens?”
“Who? You mean me?”
Eddie growled. “This is why drugs are bad for you! One more IQ point and you’d be a glass of fucking water.”
“I don’t get you, man.”
“Not you. I’m speaking hypothe— I’m not talking about you specifically. If a person isn’t on drugs and they take—”
“Depends how much.”
The dark-haired junkie shouted, “It’ll unravel your brain and fry it.”
“It’s like you’re in an echo chamber.”
“It’s like a tranquiliser.”
“Too much,” said the blond one, “and it’ll kill you.”
“’Specially if you drink too.”
“Drink?” Eddie said.
“Now who’s a glass of water? Booze, man. It don’t mix with booze.”
“Slows your heart down.”
“Happened to a mate of mine. Killed him.”
Eddie kicked Jessica’s door open and marched inside. There was nothing in there. Empty. Except for the Morrisons bag. He tipped it out, nudged aside the bloody pants and saw clearly that they were sitting on top of a pair of bloodied jeans. He straightened the jeans out; there was a little blood in the crotch area, matching the leakage in the knickers, but most of it was halfway down the thigh and there was a healthy spatter along the bottom cuff of the right leg.
That clean shadow on Tony’s floor.
Eddie took them to the window, and the tepid daylight emphasised the spatter. These were the jeans she’d worn when she killed Tony. “Can’t fucking believe we fell for it. One name left.”
* * *
Eddie tore along the inner ring road. It was a dual carriageway that barrelled right through the city centre, right underneath the buildings, as though it didn’t give a shit what was in its way; it was a rude road, it was doing its own thing and sticking up a finger to anything that got in its way. Eddie loved that road, but wasn’t so keen on the forty limit; where he could, he hit sixty and on the long stretch past the speed cameras, he managed almost eighty. The cameras flashed and Eddie didn’t even notice, let alone care.
He kept his eyes on the road, unblinking, weaving through the dregs of the rush-hour traffic t
hat stretched up to the horizon a mile away. In the distance was Killingbeck police station. And sitting inside Killingbeck police station, carrying out some research in an attic room that most people didn’t even know existed, was Jeffery.
Jeffery would be completely unaware of the danger he was in, and despite Eddie trying his phone several times along the journey, no one picked up. Eddie tapped the steering wheel, cheeks throbbing as he ground his teeth. Then he leaned on the horn and punched the steering wheel.
Five minutes out.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Jessica pulled the red coat a little tighter around her shoulders, made sure her hair was tidy in a tight bun up on the top of her head, and watched as the automatic floodlights came on in the car park. The illuminated sign over the front door of Killingbeck police station grew brighter as the daylight faded.
She took a long breath, planted a smile on her face, and walked through the rain towards that front door with confidence, as though she owned the place. The heat inside the foyer pulled at her coat and it wasn’t long before she unzipped it. She walked past the front desk, manned by two bored-looking women trying to deal with the problems of a crowd of youths who didn’t know how to say please or thank you. To the side was a door with a card reader lock mounted on the wall.
She touched the ID card against the reader. It bleeped and the red light on top turned green. She heard a magnetic latch click, and the door opened into a brightly lit corridor with the buzz of overhead tubes and the smell of a busy, twenty-four-hour station. To her left was the back end of the front counter; this part wasn’t seen by the public. She leaned against it. Police officer after police officer came there to collect batteries for their radios and to dump exhausted batteries in a blue plastic box.
The walls were filled with ‘Wanted’ posters – something she’d always thought was a myth produced for television – and handwritten posters reminding officers not to forget to file their reports before going off duty. Then there were the monitors. She counted eight, all showing the car parks and the rear courtyard of the station, where all the liveried vehicles were parked.
“Excuse me,” she said to a female member of staff who was busy tapping a keyboard. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I’m looking for Jeffery Walker.”
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 34