Want You Dead

by Peter James

  She had to stop this.

  She took a deep breath, then another.

  Roy looked so calm, standing so upright, so confident. Was this how the congregation had seen him on their own wedding day? Had he been such an assured man then?

  Father Martin began speaking. ‘In the presence of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we have come together to witness the marriage of Roy and Cleo, to pray for God’s blessing on them, to share their joy and to celebrate their love.’

  ‘Mama, who are they?’

  She squeezed his hand and raised a silencing finger again in front of her veiled lips.

  ‘Marriage is a gift of God in creation through which husband and wife may know the grace of God. It is given that as man and woman grow together in love and trust, they shall be united with one another in heart, body and mind, as Christ is united with his bride, the Church.’

  She had to stop this. Somehow, she had to find the strength to do it. This was what she had come to do.

  ‘The gift of marriage brings husband and wife together in the delight and tenderness of sexual union.’

  She let out a soft weeping sound.

  ‘Mama?’ Her son looked at her, alarmed, squeezing her hand tightly with his own tiny one.

  ‘And joyful commitment to the end of their lives. It is given as the foundation of family life in which children are born and nurtured and in which each member of the family, in good times and bad, may find strength, companionship and comfort, and grow to maturity in love.’

  More words went over her head as she realized she had never before considered Roy making love to another woman. Doing the same things that he had done to her. He’d been an incredible lover. Always considerate, always determined to pleasure her fully before himself. None of the handful of sexual relationships she had had since had come close. And now, tonight, he would be going to a hotel room, somewhere, and would make love to this blonde stranger, and no doubt do all the things to her they had done. And tell her they were soulmates. And not think for one damned second about her. About all they had once been and once had.

  Unless she intervened.

  The moment was getting ever closer. Less than a minute or so away. Father Martin continued intoning.

  ‘Roy and Cleo are now to enter this way of life. They will each give their consent to the other and make solemn vows, and in token of this they will each give and receive a ring.’

  Sandy twisted the wedding ring that Roy had put on her finger nearly two decades ago.

  ‘We pray with them that the Holy Spirit will guide and strengthen them, that they may fulfil God’s purposes for the whole of their earthly life together.’

  She took a deep breath. Now. Her moment. Her moment in the sunshine. The chance to change her life. To go back to how it all was. She took another breath. She had it all prepared.

  He’s already married. To me.

  Father Martin said, loudly, ‘First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry to declare it now.’

  Suddenly, Roy Grace turned and looked back down the aisle, staring at her. Staring straight through the veil into her eyes.

  She froze.

  He turned back to face the altar.

  Her legs turned to jelly. She thought for an instant she was going to throw up. Had he seen her? Did he know she was here? How? It wasn’t possible. She had made this journey to stop the wedding, but she couldn’t do it. She didn’t have the strength. Her mind was a vortex of confusion.

  ‘The vows you are about to take are made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all the secrets of our hearts.’

  Sandy gripped her son’s hand hard, and dragged him, half running, out of the church and out into the sunlit afternoon.

  ‘Mama!’ he protested.

  Behind her, she heard the words, ‘Therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you must declare it now.’

  She stopped to listen. Hoping. Half hoping.

  ‘Mama?’

  ‘Ssshhhh!’

  ‘Roy, will you take Cleo to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?’

  Sandy stood still. The silence seemed eternal. Then she heard the whispered words she dreaded. Faint, but distinct enough. Like the whisper of a ghost.

  ‘I will.’

  Dragging her son by his hand again, she ran, stumbling, blinded by her tears, down the church path to the road, and back up the hill towards where she had parked her rental car.

  81

  Saturday, 2 November

  It really did feel as if God had planted this tree just for him. This massive oak, with its dense golden and red autumn foliage, and a supportive frame around the base, which had made climbing up onto the first branch a doddle.

  Bryce Laurent had been here since before dawn had broken this morning, dressed in waterproof camouflage fatigues, thermal underwear and a balaclava. He had found a comfortable, secure perch, and he’d only needed to break a couple of small branches in front of him to give him a clear line of sight of the church porch. And a clear shot.

  In his rucksack he carried a dry-cleaner’s suit bag, a flask of coffee, sandwiches, a Mars Bar and a bottle to urinate in. He had already drunk most of the coffee and eaten over half his rations, and he felt happy. It had all worked out so well, and he knew he was totally invisible up here – unlike everyone in front of him, who he could see clearly. Such as the woman with the small boy coming out of the church now, well before the service was over.

  Who was she? Had she gone to the wrong church? She didn’t look like she was dressed for a wedding, all in black like that. But, he thought, she did look familiar.

  Then he realized he had seen them, very briefly, at Strawberry Fields. They had crossed on the stairs. He didn’t like that. Was she bloody stalking him? He didn’t think so. A few minutes earlier, he had seen her hurrying up the path, almost dragging the small boy, and entering the church after the bride had already gone inside and the organ had struck up. Now they came hurrying back out, almost at a run. She had a look of desperation on her face.

  Was she meant to be going to a funeral somewhere else?

  Not that he cared a toss. He looked at his watch. Listened to the organ. This could have been himself and Red walking down the aisle, if only things had been different. He felt so sad for a moment. This could have been their wedding. Oh Red, my love, why did you have to screw it all up?

  A group of about ten uniformed policemen were standing outside the church entrance. Why hadn’t they gone in? he wondered. Maybe they were going to form some kind of guard of honour when Detective Superintendent Grace and his bride emerged? Well, they were in for a surprise.

  He raised the crossbow carefully, steadied his arms on the sturdy branch in front of him, and stared through the telescopic sight. Holding the cross hairs steady on the wooden doors. The pair of them would be coming through soon, then standing outside, posing for the traditional photographs, the one destined for their mantelpiece. Thwang! Well, that would be a different one for the family album! The groom standing there with an arrow sticking out of his right eye.

  He lowered the crossbow, imagining the chaos when that happened. He had his escape planned. He would slip down to the ground and sprint away up the road to where his car was parked, well before anyone had figured where the arrow had come from. Oh yes, he liked this so much. What a signal this was going to send to Red!

  He waited. Time passed slowly. Then finally, he heard strains of organ music striking up. And he could not believe his ears. It was Van Morrison’s ‘Queen of the Slipstream’.

  His and Red’s song.

  You bastards.

  You absolute bastards.

  He could not believe it.

  The doors were opening now. He could see the bride and groom stepping out. His target. He raised the crossbow, shaking in anger still,
finding it hard to hold his aim on Roy Grace’s face. Then a shadow passed across, blotting out his view. It was a huge double-decker coach pulling up right in front of the church, completely blocking his view.

  ‘Get out the fucking way!’ he said.

  But the coach did not move. Then he saw a second pull up behind it. Then a third behind that one.

  Shit, he thought. Shit, shit, shit.

  What the fuck was going on the other side of them?

  He rammed the crossbow into the dry-cleaner’s suit bag he had brought with him and dropped down to the ground. Three sodding, chuntering coaches. He hurried up beside them, and found his view of the church now blocked by a row of limousines. Two of their drivers, their caps removed, were leaning against an old, gleaming black Rolls-Royce, smoking cigarettes. He walked over to them and said, ‘They’re bad for you, those things. They kill you.’ Then, in a strop, he walked off back towards his car.

  ‘Fuck you!’ one of them shouted after him.

  He raised a hand behind his back and gave him the bird.

  82

  Sunday, 3 November

  Roy Grace woke with a start from a troubled dream. His right arm, curled around Cleo’s neck, was numb. But she was sound asleep and he did not want to disturb her. He loved the feeling of her warm naked body against his. Her bum pressed up tight against him. She stirred for an instant, then her rhythmic breathing continued again. Suddenly she snored, for a few moments, and he grinned, loving the sound. Outside was total silence.

  That felt strange, but wonderfully peaceful. They were in a suite in Bailiffscourt, a country house hotel and spa twenty miles west of Brighton, secluded and close to the sea, where they were staying before jetting off on honeymoon on Monday. Cleo’s parents were in their house looking after Noah.

  It was never silent like this in the city. Nor was it ever so pitch dark. He thought back to the events of yesterday. The wedding service had been beautiful, and he had never seen Cleo look so lovely. The reception at the Royal Pavilion had been an intensely happy occasion, surrounded by friends, colleagues and Cleo’s family. Her father’s speech had been brilliant, and Glenn, bless him, had told a number of jokes of questionable taste that had fallen a little flat, but overall his mate had been generous and witty.

  Then Norman Potting, clearly the worse for wear, had suddenly stood up, despite Bella Moy’s attempts to make him sit back down. Potting had raised his glass and announced that he wished to propose a toast to the happy couple.

  ‘Roy and Cleo, I just want to give you one word of advice. Don’t buy a bed from Harrods for your new home. I’m told they always stand by their products!’

  To an awkward silence, punctuated by a few titters of laughter, he’d sat back down, chortling away to himself.

  At least his own speech had gone down well, Grace thought, despite his nerves.

  And part of the cause of his nerves had been from the dream he’d had on Thursday night. The dream of Sandy standing at the back of the church, responding to the priest.

  Father Martin, saying aloud and clearly, ‘First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry to declare it now.’

  Then Sandy’s voice, equally clearly, carrying down the aisle.

  ‘I do! Me. I’m married to him!’

  The dream that had made him turn and stare at the rear of the church yesterday. And see the veiled woman in black, with the small boy standing beside her.

  Had he imagined her? Had his mind been playing tricks?

  It must have been that. Because when he turned to look again, as Glenn had stepped forward with the rings, she and the boy were no longer there.

  Had he imagined it?

  He shook suddenly, and shivered. Someone walking over your grave, his mother used to say whenever he did that.

  ‘All right, my love?’ Cleo murmured.

  He kissed her softly on her back. ‘Love you,’ he said.

  ‘Love you so much,’ she replied sleepily.

  Then he felt her hand stroking his thigh, gently at first, then more insistently, moving up until her fingers were lightly playing with his genitals. Instantly he began stiffening.

  ‘I thought you were sleeping,’ he whispered.

  ‘I thought you were too, but one part of you doesn’t seem to be.’ She rolled over and her mouth found his. Her breath was sweet, and her lips soft. She stroked his lips with her tongue, then suddenly wriggled down the bed a short distance and began to tease his right nipple with her tongue.

  He let out a gasp of pleasure.

  She continued teasing it, then moved slowly further down the bed, kissing his chest, then his stomach, then took him softly, so softly in her mouth.

  ‘Christ!’ He gasped with pleasure.

  After some moments, she slowly slid back up his body, lying on top of him, gripped him firmly but gently, and guided him inside her.

  ‘God, I love you!’ he murmured, nuzzling her ear.

  ‘Are you sure, Detective Superintendent Grace?’

  ‘I’ve never been more sure!’

  ‘That’s just as well, isn’t it? ‘Coz you’re really stuck with me now!’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ll just have to get used to that.’

  She pinched his nipples, sending frissons of pleasure shooting through him. Then she whispered, ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to talk with your mouth full?’

  ‘She said that didn’t count with tall, leggy blondes.’

  She slapped his cheek playfully.

  And at that moment, Grace did not think he had ever felt happier, or hornier, or more at peace in all his life. ‘I love you to the ends of the earth and back.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Bitch!’

  ‘Horny brute!’

  They kissed tenderly, then she whispered, ‘I love you way, way, way beyond the ends of the earth.’

  ‘And right back at you.’

  Deep inside her she squeezed him hard. ‘Married life’s not total shit, is it?’

  He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Nah, it’s not. Not total shit.’

  83

  Sunday, 3 November

  ‘And this is the master bedroom!’ Red said proudly. Her father shambled along behind her, followed by her mother. Although she was elegant, he was wearing stout shoes, baggy denims and the kind of bulky, shapeless anorak he always wore. Years of gardening and sailing after his retirement had long removed any of the fashion consciousness he might once have had. Clothes were functional for him, their purpose to keep out the wet and cold. No more.

  Red was fine with that, although she had always secretly hoped that if she ever had a relationship that lasted anything like as long as her parents’ that her partner would still bother to make himself look attractive to her. Sometimes she wondered when her parents had last had sex. Looking at her father now, she decided fondly, it must have been several decades ago.

  ‘This is a lovely room, darling!’ her mother said.

  ‘Pity about the view, though,’ her father added.

  He was right about that, Red thought. It was a huge room, large enough for a king-size bed and space either side of it to put in fitted cupboards. But it was at the rear of the flat, with a view straight across an alley to another building, so it would never get any sunlight. ‘I’m only going to be using it for sleeping, Daddy,’ she said. ‘So much of the year it will be dark anyway. It’s the living room that I really love.’

  To her relief, both her parents nodded approvingly. ‘Yes,’ her mother said. ‘The living room is lovely.’

  It was.

  The apartment was on the top floor of a mansion block in Kemp Town. It comprised a large living/dining area, with a breakfast bar, an island hob and a generous kitchen, and had a wide sun terrace overlooking the English Channel. In addition to the master bedroom there was a much smaller guest bedroom, and another room, not much bigger than a broom closet, that would take a spare single bed or mak
e a small office.

  ‘I can see you living here!’ her father said.

  ‘You can?’

  ‘It’s delightful. How many apartments at this price level have a sea view?’ he said.

  ‘Very few,’ Red replied. ‘I can tell you that from work. And thank you again for the loan.’

  ‘Your father and I are always here to help you, darling,’ her mother said.

  Red smiled. ‘I love you guys. As soon as my flat money comes through, I can pay you back.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, darling,’ her father said. ‘The important thing is for you to have a home you feel safe in.’

  ‘There’s something about this place that really does make me feel safe,’ Red said. She walked across the bare living room, opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The fine weather had lasted through the weekend, and Brighton looked at its stunning best. The sea, reflecting the sky, was a deep blue. To her right, she could see the Brighton Eye and the pier beyond. To her left, the west harbour mole of the marina. A mile or so out to sea in front of them, several yachts were taking part in a winter race series, their sails shimmering in the early afternoon sun.

  ‘When do you hope to exchange contracts?’ her father asked.

  Red shrugged. ‘Well, if you are really still happy to lend me the money, bearing in mind what’s happened, as soon as possible. But if it’s going to be difficult now, please don’t worry. I’m okay where I am, I hope.’

  ‘You are not okay where you are, darling,’ her mother said. ‘We want you out of there as quickly as possible and away from that horrible man.’

  ‘We were well insured, luckily,’ her father said. ‘Your mother and I will be fine. Your safety is our prime concern now, darling.’

  ‘Just let us know when you need the money,’ her mother said. ‘And one thing that is terribly important for you is to make sure that horrible man never finds out where you are moving to.’

  ‘I’m making sure of that, as best I can,’ Red replied.

  ‘I agree with your mother,’ her father said.