by John Nicholl
‘Take a seat, Mrs Williams.’
‘It’s Mandy. Call me Mandy.’
‘I really appreciate your help, Mandy. You’re doing unbelievably well in the circumstances.’
She focused on the tiled floor. ‘Just get on with it, Sergeant. Nothing you can say is going to make me feel any better.’
‘Okay, just to be clear, before I commit anything to paper, are you certain that your daughter was wearing the necklace when she left the house the last time? If you’ve even the slightest doubt, now’s the time to tell me.’
‘She was wearing it. How many times do I have to say it? She always wore it. I can’t be any clearer than that.’
Kesey opened her pocketbook and poised her pen above the first blank page. ‘Can you describe it to me?’
‘It’s got a delicate sixteen-inch, nine-carat gold chain, with a heart shaped pendant encrusted with tiny blue sapphires and a single diamond. Simon worked overtime for weeks to pay for it. It’s not like he earns a lot.’
‘Thank you, Mandy, that’s very helpful. Just one more question.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Did she ever wear lavender perfume?’
‘What?’
‘Did Amanda ever wear lavender perfume?’
‘No, never.’
‘You're certain?’
‘She thought it was an old lady scent. It reminded her of my mother.’
Kesey noted her response as the grieving mother gripped her hand and spat, ‘You’ve got to get the bastard for me. I want him caught and locked up forever. I want him to rot. I want him to suffer like she did.’
The detective nodded. ‘I won’t rest until I find him, that’s a promise. We’ll lock him up for the rest of his miserable life.’ She meant every single word.
9
Charles Turner was keenly anticipating whatever the evening might bring, as he arrived at his Caerystwyth home. He discarded his winter coat on the bannister, on entering the spacious hall, and hurried upstairs to prepare himself with, what he considered to be, the appropriate degree of attention. Meeting the infamous DI Gravel and taking his daughter to dinner were significant developments in his eyes. He wanted to impress. And this, he assured himself, was the opportunity to do exactly that. Getting to know Gravel socially could provide valuable insight into the man, his methods, and the investigation itself. Keep your enemies close. Wasn’t that how the saying went? He’d read it somewhere, or was it a film? Yes, yes, that was it, a film. Keep Gravel close and pump Emily for information at every opportunity. That was the key.
He showered, shaved, and dressed in a suitably impressive smart-but-casual outfit that he thought reflected his elevated status. He had to look just right. Perfect for the role. Preparation was everything.
Turner ran a hand through his still damp hair and stared in the full-length mirror on the back of his wardrobe door. He looked himself up and down, drinking in his image. He really couldn’t have chosen better; that’s what he told himself. The made-to-measure grey jacket, the white Egyptian cotton shirt, the tailored black trousers, and the highly polished slip-on shoes all screamed impeccable style and taste. Fabulous. No wonder his previous victims had put their trust in him so very quickly. No wonder they’d fallen for his charms like the bitches on heat that they were. He was a good-looking man – successful, affluent – and now, it was Emily’s turn to fall under his Machiavellian spell. A tweak here, a tweak there, and she’d be an eminently suitable victim. It was nothing if not inspired – a win-win.
Turner checked his watch, for what he told himself was the final time, and smiled. Plenty of time. Being late wasn’t an option, but neither was being early. Impressions mattered. Don't seem too keen; it could stink of desperation. Why not indulge himself? Yes, what the hell, take full advantage of the available time.
He strolled into his large and modernistic lounge, picked up his laptop from where it was charging, relaxed in a leather armchair, and sought out his film of choice. Ah yes, there it was: AW. He wouldn't have time to watch it all, more’s the pity, but he could get a flavour of it to feed his fantasies for the evening ahead. Was it too soon to give Emily the necklace? Of course, it was. What the hell was he thinking? Get a grip, man. The long game was long for a reason. He had to play safe, however difficult, however frustrating.
The solicitor sat back in his chair and focused on the screen as Amanda Williams’ last hours unfolded before him. She was huddled, cold, naked, and afraid, chained to a cast-iron radiator in a bedroom at the back of his house. A room, free of furniture or any other unnecessary adornments, that had been carefully soundproofed and fitted wall-to-wall with waterproof, beige and green plastic flooring that he considered practical and aesthetically pleasing.
Turner focused on Amanda’s quivering, alabaster-white body and noted that she was crying as a stream of urine ran down one leg and pooled under her. Lovely, what an incredible sight to behold, providing not just enjoyment, but exhilaration, too; a level of euphoria no drug could engender. She was lost in torment and bereft of hope. The pleading had stopped, and she was seemingly resigned to her fate.
Perhaps she was in some psychological hell as she’d sat there and wallowed in her own filth. It certainly looked that way. Waiting for, and anticipating, whatever death may bring. Yes, the girl had been surprisingly insightful for such a limited creature. Interesting that she gave up the fight surprisingly quickly. She’d known she was approaching the end game; that he was a man devoid of empathy or virtue. Maybe kill the next one on film. Yes, why not? It was worth considering. Although, walking them to their place of execution had its undoubted advantages: a thing of beauty in a place of beauty; the body there for anyone to find and appreciate. He had to remember that. Everything for a reason. Why deviate from such a well-established and successful modus operandi?
Turner felt his penis engorge with blood as he pictured himself placing his hands around Emily’s slender neck and squeezing, harder, harder, harder, as he looked in her doe- like eyes and witnessed her life-force draining away. He stroked his genitals and considered undoing his zip, but thought better of it. Time was getting on. He couldn’t be late, not tonight, not the first time. What sort of impression would that give? Reliability mattered. Good timekeeping mattered. Where would society be if professionals such as himself let their standards slip?
He jumped to his feet, stretched, and strode purposefully into the hallway. Where the hell had he left his car keys? He had to concentrate. Focus. It was time to initiate his plan. To play the long game, for once. Time to get it done.
Turner parked his two-seater convertible behind Grav’s aged green hatchback and walked down the concrete path towards the front door with a seductive smile on his face. He rang the bell, once, then again – not too briefly but not for too long either – and waited with increasing impatience until the detective eventually flicked on the light switch in the hall and opened the door.
Grav held out a hand in friendly greeting. ‘Good to meet you, Mr Turner. Emily said she was expecting you. Why don’t you come in and wait in the lounge? It’s brass monkey weather out there.’
Turner followed him into the house. The pleb was almost as moronic as his bitch daughter. It seemed it ran in the family. ‘Please call me Charles. There’s no need for ceremony.’
‘Take a seat, Charles. She shouldn’t be too long. Do you fancy a drink while you wait? I’ve got a few cans of beer in the kitchen, if you fancy one?’
‘A glass of water would be appreciated.’
‘Water? I never touch the stuff myself. You’re sure you don’t want something a bit stronger?’
‘Water will be fine, thanks. You know, with driving. It seems best.’
Grav returned a minute or two later with a glass of tap water in one hand and a can of bitter in the other. ‘I don’t know what the hell she’s doing up there. Women, eh?’
Turner forced a smile. ‘There’s no rush; I wanted a private word with you, anyway. I’m rather gla
d of the opportunity.’
Grav’s eyes narrowed. ‘Something related to Emily?’
‘Oh, no, no, nothing like that. You do understand that interactions between a client and his solicitor are privileged, don’t you?’
‘I’ve been a copper for a long time. What’s this about?’
Turner moved to the edge of his seat. ‘This has to be off the record. I can’t stress this sufficiently. I’d likely be struck off if what I’m about to tell you becomes public knowledge. If I tell you, you didn’t hear it from me. Are we agreed?’
‘Where the hell’s this going?’
Emily walked on to the landing and leant over the bannister before Turner had the time to respond. ‘You’re a little early, Charles. I’ll be with you in another five minutes or so.’
Turner smiled and replied, ‘No problem, take your time,’ before returning his attention to Grav, who was tapping the first two fingers of his right hand on the arm of his chair. ‘Am I correct in saying that you’re the lead detective investigating the recent murders?’
‘If you've got something to say, just say it, man. I think that’s best, don’t you?’
Turner wrung his hands together and paused for a beat, keen to make the moment as memorable as possible. ‘This isn’t something I’ve ever done before. I need you to understand that. I take my professional responsibilities extremely seriously, but I feel I have a moral obligation to share this information with you.’
‘Okay, I’m listening.’
‘It has to be on a strictly confidential basis, as I said. Do I have your assurances? I need to know I can trust you.’
Grav reached out and shook Turner’s hand firmly, thinking he had nothing to lose. ‘You have my word. Guaranteed. I don’t break my promises.’
Turner relaxed in his seat. ‘Do you know of a man by the name of Peter Spencer?’
‘The wife beater?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s the man I’m talking about. I’m currently representing him.’
‘And?’
‘I think he may be the man you’re looking for.’
Grav pondered Turner’s information as Emily descended the stairs and entered the room, wearing fitted jeans, knee- high, brown leather boots, and a matching jacket.
‘Ah, here she is, and looking even more radiant than usual if that’s possible.’
Emily chose to ignore the solicitor’s compliment. ‘So, what have the two of you been talking about? It all seemed rather serious from the little I heard.’
Grav met his daughter’s eyes. ‘Can you give us a minute, love. There’s something I need to discuss with Mr Turner.’
‘Charles, please call me Charles.’
She looked at one man and then the other. ‘Are you telling me you want to speak privately?’
‘Please, love.’
Turner took his car keys from his trouser pocket and casually tossed them to Emily. ‘My car’s on the driveway, start the engine and put the heating on. This won’t take too long. There’s some CDs in the glovebox, if you’re interested.’
She glared at him, turned on her three-inch heels, and strode towards the front door without the need for words.
‘You were telling me about Peter Spencer.’
Turner nodded. ‘It’s nothing concrete. Nothing that would lead you to conclude he’s a brutal killer, but some of the things he says have had me questioning if he could be. Does that make any sense to you?’
Gravel shook his head. ‘Not really. What the fuck are you trying to say? It all sounds a bit nebulous, to be honest. Can you give me some specifics?’
‘It’s more a feeling than anything else. That’s the only way I can put it. He seems to take pleasure in his wife’s suffering. The man’s a sadist; I think that’s a fair way of putting it. I get the distinct impression that he likes hurting her. It gives him satisfaction. There’s a glint in his eye when he talks about it. Why she stayed with him for as long as she did is a total mystery to me. Maybe some form of Stockholm syndrome would explain it.’
‘That’s it? The man’s a scrote, for sure, but that doesn’t make him a killer. There’s a lot of them out there: wife beaters, men who get pissed and take their anger and insecurities out on their partner and kids. You know that as well as I do.’
‘I’m sorry if you feel I’ve wasted your time.’
‘You’re sure there’s not more to it? There’s nothing you’re not telling me? Now’s the time to say if there is.’
They approached the front door with Turner taking the lead. ‘Look, I think I may have said too much already. Maybe I’m overreacting. The last thing I’d want to do is misdirect the investigation. It’s a terrible business.’
‘You needn’t worry about that. I’ll check him out, it’s easily done, and you know where I am if you’ve got anything else you want to discuss. You can get hold of me here or at work. Day or night, don’t hesitate. Just pick up the phone.’
Turner smiled. ‘I will, Inspector. I appreciate your understanding. I was beginning to wonder if I should have kept my mouth shut.’
‘Not at all. And have a good night.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we will. I feel certain that Emily’s going to be an invaluable addition to our team. I’m glad to have found her. She’s a credit to you.’
Grav beamed. ‘You won’t hear me arguing. She’s a chip off the old block, for sure.’
‘Right, I’d better make a move. I think the young lady’s been waiting long enough.’
Grav called after Turner as he approached his car. ‘If you have any further concerns, you’ll tell me, yeah? Anything at all.’
Turner looked back and nodded before getting in. ‘If there’s anything whatsoever I can do to help you catch the man who killed those unfortunate young women, I’ll do it. That’s cast-iron guaranteed. A line’s been crossed. You can count on me.’
10
Emily was beginning to question the wisdom of agreeing to the arrangement, as they travelled west along the A40 in the direction of Laugharne – a small Welsh coastal town forever associated with the poet and writer Dylan Thomas. It had all seemed practical enough when Turner had suggested it that morning, but she was starting to have her doubts. She liked him well enough, on early impressions, and he was her new boss after all, there was no denying that, but the evening was beginning to feel more like a date than the business meeting he’d talked of earlier in the day. She wanted someone honest, someone predictable. Not another charmer who may only be thinking about one thing.
She pressed her knees together and gave the situation more thought. Was she overreacting? Worrying about nothing? Was she doing him an injustice, or were her misgivings justified? Yes, trust your gut, girl. They could be. He smelt strongly of a heady, masculine scent that she recognised but couldn’t identify; there was passionate music playing on the car’s CD player, and he seemed to be doing all he could to appear pleasant and amusing to the nth degree. A compliment here, a joke or clever comment there. Did he have an agenda she didn’t want or need? Was it his way, his usual persona? Or was he putting on a performance for her benefit? That was what she asked herself as he manoeuvred expertly through the Welsh countryside, dulled by the attentions of winter, with one soaring, classical aria after another filling the car.
She wasn’t the best judge in the world when it came to men. Recent events were a testament to that. Should she say something? Should she clarify matters, or should she go with the flow and avoid the risk of making a fool of herself again? He was nice enough on the face of it. And he held her career in the palm of his hands, that was undoubtedly true. Maybe this was an opportunity to get to know him a little better and curry favour. Turn the tables. Play him at his own game. What the hell, why not see how the evening progressed and re-evaluate from time to time? Yes, that made sense. Oh, God, was she overthinking things again? Probably. Relax, Emily. Just relax. What harm could a meal and a drink or two possibly do?
Emily adjusted her hair, pulled down the sun visor to che
ck her lipstick in the vanity mirror, and swiveled slightly in her seat to face him. ‘Are you a big classical music fan?’
He turned the volume down a notch and smiled. ‘Would you like to listen to something a little more contemporary? I appreciate that opera isn’t to everyone’s tastes. I’m a little unusual in that regard.’
‘No, really, I’m enjoying it.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Verdi’s La Traviata: a tragic love story. I saw it performed at the opera festival in Verona last summer. It was truly wonderful. Music fills me with joy like nothing else could. I think of it as food for the soul.’
‘That’s very poetic.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I’d love to go to Verona one day.’
He smiled again as “Addio del passato” came to a sudden and dramatic end. ‘Do you speak Italian?’
‘Just English and Welsh.’
‘“The joys, the sorrows soon will end. The tomb confines all mortals! Do not cry or place flowers at my grave. Do not place a cross with my name to cover these bones! Ah, the misguided desire to smile; God pardon and accept me, all is finished.”’
‘It’s beautiful, tragic but beautiful.’
‘Perhaps we could go together one day. I could translate for you. What do you think?’
She stiffened, thinking that things were moving too fast. Far too fast. ‘How long have you been a solicitor?’
He paused. For fuck’s sake, Charles, get a grip. ‘My apologies if I’ve overstepped the mark somewhat. I felt we had an unstated connection. Perhaps I’ve misread the signals.’
She shrugged, searching for a response she couldn’t find.
He suddenly switched off the CD player, turned into an unlit lay-by, and brought the car to a gradual halt. ‘Look, the last thing I want to do is upset you. If I have, I can only apologise. I can take you home now, or we can carry on to the restaurant. It’s up to you, you decide.’