by Adam Carter
“I’ll live,” she said.
“What are you up to tomorrow?” Stoker asked him. “My wife’s cooking Christmas dinner a little early. You’re welcome to come.”
The old hermit looked offended. “I have a hermit’s image to maintain, Stoker. I’m keeping the dog, by the way.”
“Nothing to do with me,” Stoker said, “but I couldn’t think of a better home.”
Whistling to his dogs, Truman departed the church. Stoker did not envy the man walking directly into the crowd, or the fact the media would be all over him as soon as they got wind of what had happened.
“What about you, Father?” Stoker asked. “Fancy a Christmas dinner?”
“Thank you, but no. I have too much to do here now. Just cleaning up all this blood will take forever.”
“Sorry,” Hart winced, holding her side. “My bad.”
“That was heartless of me, Felicity; I’m sorry.”
“Not half as sorry as Dominic will be when we bang him up. So, what about me, then?” she asked Stoker.
“You? How do you mean?”
“This Christmas dinner you’re inviting everyone to. Where’s my invitation?”
“I wasn’t going to invite you.”
“Oh.”
“I figured you were already coming. I didn’t think I had to invite family.”
He saw the warm smile light up Hart’s face and knew in that moment it had all been worth it. They had caught some jewel thieves, solved the murder of a snowman, helped a teenage girl through her bad-boy crush, rescued a dog in distress and made a hermit happy. But Stoker did not care about any of that. All he could see before him was a smiling young woman who could easily have been his own daughter had he been able to properly look after her.
“Come on,” Stoker said, feeling happier than he had in years. “You can come help me untangle my plastic bells.”
“Sure. Right after I see a doctor.”
Stoker had almost forgotten her injuries had not all been faked. Helping her to the church door, they walked out into the street. Some semblance of the crowd was still milling around, but most had probably either followed the criminals to the police station or got cold and gone home for some tea. Stoker paused, gazing out at something happening across the street, where the snow was even now still falling.
“What is it?” Hart asked from where she was leaning against him.
“Nothing,” Stoker said and resumed walking. “Just thinking about cycles, Liz. How everything always seems to come back around eventually.”
He did not look back at the scene as he took Hart in the other direction. Oblivious to having been observed, three children were busy laughing, making a snowman; only this one was far more snow than man.
MURDER
WHILE YOU WAIT
CHAPTER ONE
Technically, it wasn’t murder. However, as Suzie Locke stared down at the body pumping blood into the carpet, she could see how other people might have seen it that way. It was odd how her senses had been suddenly sharpened as she stood there, unable to look away. She could smell the rich, almost sweet, aroma of blood and sweat; could taste on her tongue the bitterness of words left unspoken. She surprised herself by not being distraught, for being able to stand there and coldly assess the situation. She wondered whether she would ever be able to get the stains from the carpet.
What surprised her most was that she did not much care that Harry Slade was dead.
Moving away from the body, Suzie went to the bathroom to wash her hands. There was no blood upon them, for when she had smashed him over the back of the head with the table lamp he had fallen forward, away from her. But she washed them anyway, convincing herself she should scrub as hard as she could, as though she was some modern-day Lady Macbeth. The truth was her hands were clean, at least physically, and by the time she came to dry them she still wasn’t even trembling.
Stepping back into the living room, she figured she would have to do something about the body. Then, and only then, would she think about what she would tell the police if they came knocking.
Fetching a few bin bags, Suzie began cutting them up while she thought about Laura. An hour ago she had not even known Laura existed, but somehow Harry had thought it was about time she found out. It turned out Harry Slade was more the man of mystery than Suzie had expected; and not in a good way. Harry Slade was married to Laura Slade and through his somewhat babbled explanation, Suzie had found out she was nothing more than his bit on the side. Bit of what? she had asked. Harry’s face had fallen when she’d asked that. It seemed he genuinely expected her to be happy that he had decided to leave his wife for her.
It was after the resulting argument that Suzie had bashed him over the head. She wondered whether she would ever regret it, wondered whether it made her a bad person that she didn’t think she would ever care. She also wondered why anyone ever thought of hiding a body in a bin bag.
Entirely surrendering that idea, her eyes found the settee in the centre of her living room. She had never liked that settee and, since she now didn’t like Harry either, decided to let the two have one another. Fetching a knife from the kitchen drawer, she sliced open the material at the front of the settee, exposing the gaping hole beyond. For the first time since she had bought it, she was rather glad about the thing. No, she realised, she wasn’t glad at all. She wanted to feel glad, but she still wasn’t feeling anything.
Harry fit snugly into the settee, as though the thing had been designed with a mind to hiding dead bodies, and Suzie began the laborious task of sowing the material back together. She was good at sowing, but then she had always liked the domestic arts. Being a modern woman did not mean she had to hate sowing, cooking and cleaning. It was, she reflected, perhaps what Harry had found attractive about her. Maybe his wife refused to even load the dishwasher. While she worked, Suzie decided she should have clobbered him with the iron; it would not only have been ironic but would have been a good pun for the tabloids to use.
But the tabloids were not going to be using anything, because they were never going to find the body. Even while she was finishing her sowing, she was thinking ahead to what she would do next. She knew a good way of getting the stains out of the carpet – she had a foolproof method for almost every stain imaginable – but getting the plush coffin removed was going to be difficult. She reasoned she could just buy a new settee and have the old one taken away, but sooner or later someone would wonder what the smell was and cut it open. Same thing if she asked the council to take it away. She could take it to the dump, but that would only buy her a little extra time before someone found it; and somehow they would be able to trace it back to her.
As she made the final stitch, she realised she had reached the only decision she really could have. It was not exactly the ideal solution, but she had never before murdered anyone, so did not have any experience to fall back on. Next time she would get it perfect, assuming there was ever a need for her to kill anyone else. Besides, she had made the trip once before and had got away with it, even though there had been no body back then.
The first thing she did was fetch a clean pair of trousers. She had a feeling she was going to need them.
Getting the settee to her van was going to be a problem. That she had a van at all instead of a car was fortunate, but then it all came full circle so it wasn’t that much of a coincidence. She needed the van for one of her jobs (she sold cleaning products); it was her job which gave her all the domestic knowledge (or her domestic knowledge which had made her go into the business); and her domestic knowledge which had attracted Harry to her in the first place. Looking at it that way, the poor guy had guaranteed she would have the perfect means to dispose of his body. She assumed, of course, he had never given a moment’s thought to the possibility she might one day kill him.
Taking one end of the settee, she dragged it across to the living room door and down the hall. As she opened the front door, she planned her route to the van. She lived on a busy roa
d but thankfully had managed to park outside her house, so there was not a great distance to drag the thing. It was a chill November afternoon and as she got halfway to her van she considered going back for her jacket. Leaving the settee in the middle of the pavement, however, did not seem the best of options, so she pressed on. It was as she opened the back of her van that she realised she would have a problem lifting the settee to get it into the vehicle.
“Suzie.”
She had not noticed her next-door neighbour but he was approaching now with a beaming smile. There was a newspaper tucked under one arm and, since he was heading back to his house, she supposed he had just been to the newsagent. His name was Jack Eddings, but she always called him Oddings. Not to his face, obviously. He was always taking too much of an interest in her affairs, asking her how she was and what she was doing at the weekend. At first she had assumed he was trying to chat her up, but she had long ago reached the conclusion he was just making inane small talk. Suzie was not a fan of small talk, especially since most of it contained a hidden agenda.
“Afternoon, Jack,” she said.
“Need a hand with that?”
Her automatic reaction was to say no, she had it fine thanks. But she did not have it fine and there was no way she was getting the settee into the van without help. Reluctantly, she nodded.
“Right-o,” he said, taking one end and hoisting it to rest upon the floor of the van. “This weighs a ton, Suzie, and the weight’s lopsided.”
“It’s not a very good settee,” she said flatly. “That’s why I’m getting rid of it.”
Oddings didn’t say anything and between the two of them they managed to shove the settee into the van. Suzie closed the doors, not even feeling relief they could lock without much effort.
“Thanks,” she said mechanically and Oddings beamed before continuing onto his house. He truly was odd.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, Suzie shoved her spare trousers on the passenger seat and took a moment to look in her mirror, but there was no sign that anyone had paid any attention to her shoving her furniture into the back of her van. It was the normal thing to do if she was looking to get rid of it, and everyone at some point got rid of their old furniture.
Suzie did not think of much as she drove. She knew where she was going because she had been there to dump furniture before. This time was no different, and she had not been caught the last time so doubted there were cameras in the area. It was possible the body would be found eventually, but by that point there should be nothing connecting her to the crime.
Crime.
She thought about that word then. Harry would have loved to hear her use that word. But then Harry had always been obsessed with crime and criminals. He liked to find out precisely how people did such terrible things to each other, and why. She thought he would have found it funny he was himself now a murder victim.
Murder.
Murder was pre-meditated. Harry had told her that. She had not pre-meditated his death, just clonked him over the head and that was that. It was barely even manslaughter, but that was only because Harry could only loosely be described as a man. Pest control; that was more like it. If a rat wandered into your home, you were within your rights to kill the thing. Harry Slade had been a rat and she was rid of him.
The road became a little bumpy, but she was expecting that. Travelling through the dirt tracks between fields was never pleasant, but she knew the end would be worth it. She could even see her destination approaching and found a good place to park. Stepping out the van, Suzie cast a quick glance about, but there was no one for miles. That was the good thing about fields in November: no one tended them.
Opening the back of the van, she struggled to get the settee out, but managed it even without Oddings. It fell into the mud with a sickly squelch and she got behind it and gave it a mighty heave. It took more effort than Suzie had ever expended upon Harry in life, but finally the settee hit the water and then it was somehow easier to push. Suzie felt water slosh over her shoes, but she needed to make sure it went deep enough into the river not to be discovered.
Once the water reached her waist, she could no longer see the settee and decided she had pushed it far enough. Dragging herself back out of the cold water, Suzie looked over her handiwork. There was no sign of the settee, or of Harry, and snow was predicted next week so with any luck the river might freeze over. That would stop anyone finding him soon; in the meantime, the fish might start eating him.
Returning to the van, Suzie stripped off her wet trousers and put on the clean ones. She struggled with the clasp and remembered she had not worn them for several months. Finally managing to fasten them, she felt something poke her in the leg from an inside pocket. She pulled out the offending item and discovered it was something Harry had lost a year ago. Something he had got in a lot of trouble for losing. Suzie did not know how it had managed to get into her trousers but reasoned she must have stolen it. Why she would have done that she had no idea, but the point was a tad moot now.
Tossing the thing into the river, Suzie got back into the van and started the engine. It may not have been a particularly good idea to leave identification with the corpse, but she had to be fair to Harry. After all, every detective should always carry his warrant card.
CHAPTER TWO
Detective Ruth Hayden put down the receiver and felt far more depressed than she had been ten minutes earlier. It was freezing in the office but heating seemed to be something her employers didn’t care much about. Outside, the snow was thick upon the ground and still coming down in light sprinkles. She had no idea how she was going to be able to drive home through it all, but that was not something she would have to think about for a few hours yet. Christmas was also not something she would have to think about just yet, but it was December 18th so she knew she could not put it off too long. Rich wanted them both to spend Christmas with his parents but they had done that last year and she wasn’t too eager to repeat it. She would not say the day had gone down as a complete disaster, not now they were all back on speaking terms, but it was a situation best avoided. He had asked her what she wanted to do this year, but Hayden had never much cared for Christmas anyway so was happy to ignore it. Either that, she had said, or go to Honolulu. This was the first time in years the both of them would have the entire day off; she had spent so many years treating it as just another day, that was just what it had become. They didn’t even give each other presents any more, but that had been an entirely different disaster she really did not like to talk about.
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. The phone call from Laura Slade had not done much to brighten her spirits.
A month ago, Laura’s husband had disappeared without trace. Detective Harry Slade had been a popular character around the station, but Hayden had known the man had issues. In the police everyone had issues, it’s what the job did to you, but Slade had seemed to have more than his fair share. He drank too much, gambled too much and from the way he leered over women he likely had a few girlfriends his wife didn’t know about. But, aside from all that, he acted like a decent enough guy. He was good to his friends and was always reliable. That he had upped and left one day should therefore have been surprising, but Hayden only found herself disappointed. She didn’t much like him and Harry Slade was certainly a snake, but he was a pleasant enough snake.
Something plopped onto her desk and she knew even without opening her eyes it was a strong coffee.
“You look like you need it,” Tremens said as he perched himself on the edge of her desk with his own mug. “Need to share?”
Hayden tried not to sigh. She tried not to sigh because Tremens always told her she sighed enough to sail a steamer across the ocean. She never had the heart to tell him steamers didn’t have sails. Hayden and Tremens were very similar. They were both in their late thirties, both physically fit and dressed smartly for work. Neither of them had much of a life, which was probably why they had drifted together. They had be
en lovers for over two years now but Hayden was not entirely certain either of them was actually in love. It was a terrible thing to say about her relationship, but at least it was consistent in how it reflected their lives.
“Laura again,” she said, wrapping her hands about her steaming mug. It was strange how the warmth from a simple drink could infuse her entire body but still leave her soul feeling chilled. “Rich, what do you think happened to Harry?”
Tremens shrugged. He shrugged as much as Hayden sighed and she long suspected he did it just to annoy her now. It was his trademark way of saying he didn’t know and didn’t much care. Tremens and Slade had never been especially close, which was odd because Hayden had always believed lads stuck together and respected any of their male friends who could get away with the things Slade did.
“Maybe he’s dead,” Tremens said, sipping his coffee.
“Rich, that’s horrible.”
“True though.”
When Slade had vanished a month earlier, there had been a lot of talk. Most of his co-workers thought he had just had enough of his wife and left her. That he had also left his job had not been all that surprising considering it wasn’t that much to abandon. There had been an investigation but nothing conclusive had been discovered. His passport was missing, along with a bag and some of his clothes. A month later, no one had heard a word from him, so the rumour of his death was becoming more prevalent. Either that or he really just didn’t want to be found. Hayden had assumed he had run because of gambling debts, but the investigation had not turned up anything of the sort. He gambled too much, true, but he didn’t owe anyone any money.
“I reckon he just didn’t like Laura,” Tremens said.
“What’s wrong with Laura?”
“Well, she’s a little domineering.”
“So it’s her fault her husband ran away?”
“Unless he’s dead, yes.”
“Why do men always side with men?”