A Cold Cold Heart

by John Nicholl

She beamed. ‘Shall we take the paintings to the van? The rain seems to have stopped.’

  He nodded and followed her into the hallway. ‘Yes, time’s getting on, and it’s a good omen. The universe is smiling on us. The van’s just outside, let’s get it done.’

  18

  Grav stretched out on his three- seater settee, closed his veined and bloodshot eyes, and waited for the debilitating pressure in his chest to subside. He manoeuvred himself upright, placed a soluble aspirin on his tongue, and washed it down with a generous slurp of twelve- year old Scotch whisky. He wasn’t getting any younger. He’d seen and heard too much. Maybe retirement wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  He looked across the room to where a silver -framed photo of his deceased, much loved wife of thirty years sat in pride of place on top of the television. ‘I’ve been to see the doc again, love, like you told me to. She gave me some more of those tablets I’ve been taking. Not that they’re doing much good. The chest pains are getting worse by the day.’

  He lifted the bottle to his mouth and gulped down another generous measure, savouring the malty spirit as it warmed his throat. ‘You’re quiet this evening, love. Nothing to say for yourself?’

  He took off his shoes, lay back down, and rested his head on the armrest. ‘So, what do you think about Emily coming back home? That was a turn up for the books. The killer’s still on the prowl; she could have timed it better.’

  He closed his eyes and heard her whispering in his ear, as if she was still with him, as if she hadn’t died. Don’t go changing the subject. I know your game.

  He smiled, picturing her face as clear as day. ‘What the hell are you talking about, woman?’

  If you put on any more weight, you’ll have trouble getting through the door.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what the doc said. I’ve put on another four pounds, apparently.’

  So, what are you going to do about it, Grav?

  He sighed. ‘Maybe I’ll be with you sooner than you think.’

  What about the investigation? What about those poor girls? You need to think about them before giving up on life. They deserve justice. It’s your job to give it to them.

  Grav took another slurp of whisky. ‘I’m struggling, love. Maybe I’m losing it. My mind’s not as sharp as it was. I’ve been in the job too long.’

  He pictured her, shaking her head and wagging her finger in that familiar way of hers, and he knew what was coming next. Oh, come on. That doesn’t sound like the Grav I know and love. You’ve got a murderer to catch. Now’s not the time for wallowing in self -pity. You need to focus and get on with the job.

  ‘I know, love, believe me, I know.’

  Well, do something about it, then. Put down that bottle and concentrate on the investigation. You’ve put away a lot of serious villains. You’re a good detective. You need to remember that.

  He threw aside the bottle, spraying the carpet with golden liquid. ‘I was good, one of the best, but maybe not so much anymore. Maybe I’ve lost my edge. Perhaps it’s time to pack it all in.’

  He opened his eyes and saw her, drifting in and out of focus, with a frown on her girlish face. Right, it’s time to get off that sofa, take a shower, and get back to work. If this is going to be your last case, you’ve got to go out on a high. Catch the swine. People are counting on you. I’m counting on you. I don't want you to let anyone down.

  Grav lowered his legs to the floor and lifted himself upright. ‘All right, love, I hear you. One last time. I’ll nail the bastard if it’s the last thing I do.’

  19

  Charles Turner took Zoe directly to his imposing Victorian home on returning to Caerystwyth, alleviating her initial concerns with what he considered surprising ease. ‘I’ve forgotten the keys, Zoe, but not to worry. Collect the keys, a quick cup of coffee, and we’ll be at the gallery in no time at all. It’s only ten minutes away.’

  Her breathing quickened as she questioned his motives, but she relaxed immediately on first sight of his house. ‘Wow, nice place. Impressive!’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s not bad. I bought it for cash about five years ago. I like to think of it as a reward for the gallery’s success. All the hard work paid off for me, and it can do the same for you.’

  She’d had her doubts during the journey. Nagging doubts that wouldn’t let up, whatever she said to herself. But the house, and the stylish two- seater convertible sports car parked on the sweeping driveway, silenced Zoe’s feelings of anxiety. ‘It’s huge. The garage is almost as big as my parents’ place.’

  Turner opened the garage’s double doors with the click of a button and drove straight into the roomy concrete building before switching off the diesel engine and closing the doors behind them. He led Zoe through a side door and into a spectacular kitchen that was meant to impress, and invariably did. ‘Take a seat at the table; tea or coffee? I drink double espresso with a little local cold- pressed honey myself. It’s delicious. Do you want to try it?’

  She glanced around the room with a quick turn of her head. ‘That’ll be lovely, thanks. What a great place. It’s like something out of a glossy interior design magazine.’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘Is there a bathroom I can use?’

  He smiled warmly. ‘Second door on the right. No need to go upstairs. Do you fancy a quick bite to eat? A sandwich perhaps, or some biscuits?’

  ‘No, I’m good, ta. I had something before you picked me up. I’ve never got much of an appetite.’

  Turner poured the strong coffee into two cups and took a small, plastic bottle, containing a thick green syrup, from a cupboard next to the range cooker. He glanced behind him, confirming that Zoe hadn’t returned, before adding what he considered to be just the right amount of benzodiazepine medication to one of the cups, and stirring it vigorously.

  Zoe flushed, washed her hands with scented soap and checked her appearance in the illuminated wall-mounted mirror above the sink. She smiled nervously as she re entered the kitchen. ‘You’ve got a lovely home, the nicest I’ve seen, but I’m surprised there’s no art on the walls. I’d have thought it would be covered in the stuff. Aren’t you a collector?’

  He stared at her, searching for the right words

  ‘Are you okay, Michael?’

  He picked up her cup and walked towards her. ‘Yes, sorry, I was thinking about the exhibition. I’m surrounded by art all day at work and tend to keep my walls blank at home. I think that’s a creation of sorts itself, don’t you?’

  She looked at him with a puzzled expression that evaporated as he handed her coffee to her. ‘Yes, I guess so, a homage to minimalism.’

  He lifted his cup to his lips and sipped, hoping she’d do likewise. ‘I knew you’d understand. You’re special; not everyone’s blessed with your degree of insight.’

  Zoe blushed. ‘That’s very kind; I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Try your coffee.’

  She lifted her cup to her mouth. ‘It tastes a little strange.’

  ‘It’s a special blend that’s not available in the shops. I import it directly from Columbia. I felt sure you’d like it. You seem like a girl who appreciates the finer things in life.’

  Zoe laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

  ‘Oh, your life’s about to change forever. That I can guarantee you. I’ll introduce you to a world you can’t even imagine.’

  She sipped her coffee again. Wanting to like it. Desperate to like it.

  ‘Is it growing on you?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Do you mind if I add a little cold water?’

  He pointed towards the Belfast sink. ‘Of course not, help yourself.’

  She turned on the tap, added a splash, and tasted it again. ‘Yes, that’s better. It’s got an interesting aftertaste, almost medicinal.’

  He sat at the breakfast bar and gestured for her to join him. ‘Are you sure you won’t have something to eat? It’s no trouble. I’ve got a nice vegetarian quiche in the fridge, if you
fancy it. I could heat it up, or serve it cold with a light salad and some chutney?’

  She raised a trembling hand to her face and rubbed her eyes, which were slowly closing. ‘I’m feeling a little lightheaded, would you mind opening a window? I could do with some air.’

  He stood and slowly approached the back door, opened it an inch or two, and returned to his seat. ‘Is that better for you?’

  She yawned expansively. ’Yes, thanks. I’m feeling a little overheated.’

  ‘Finish your coffee. The caffeine should help. It must be all the excitement. You’ll be feeling better before you know it.’

  She took another gulp as the room became an impressionist blur of bland colours that made no sense at all. ‘I’m not feeling very well.’

  He studied her carefully. ‘Just sit there and rest. There’s a good girl. That’s all you have to do.’

  Zoe attempted to stand, but her legs gave way, and she fell, slowly at first, like a gradually deflating beach toy, and then quickly as she lost her grip on the table’s edge and hit the tiled floor, hard. ‘What’s … what’s hap- happening to me?’

  Turner jumped to his feet and rushed towards her. He bent down and took her arm in his before dragging her to her feet. ‘Come on, up you get. You don’t want to sleep down there on the cold tiles. Let’s get you upstairs to your room. You’ll feel much better in an hour or two after you’ve had some sleep.’

  Turner nudged her with his foot when she didn’t respond. ‘Come on. You need to make some effort. I’m not in the mood to carry you.’

  She turned her head stiffly and looked at him as the room began to spin. ‘What ab- bout the…the g- gallery?’

  ‘All in good time, Zoe. You just have to do what you’re told for now, nothing more and nothing less. It won’t go well for you if you try to struggle – that’s never a good idea.’

  She was drifting in and out of consciousness now, stumbling repeatedly as he shoved her down the hallway towards the stairs. ‘Come on, up you go. For fuck’s sake, girl, stay on your feet. One step at a time. Get up there.’

  Zoe climbed one step after another as Turner ascended the stairs behind her, shoving her repeatedly and swearing when she slowed, or lost her footing.

  ‘Come on, bitch. Up you go. Two more steps and you’re almost there.’

  She fell to her knees on reaching the landing and screeched loudly as he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into the room.

  Turner threw her against a cast iron radiator, and slapped her hard when she came around momentarily and tried to pull away. He watched Zoe closely as she drifted into a deep, drug -induced sleep; he screamed in her ear when he thought the time was right, and smiled when she didn’t react.

  He stood in front of her, spread his legs wide to provide optimum stability, and took each hand in turn, dragging her wrists up towards the black steel shackles that were secured to the wall, above the radiator. It took a lot of effort on his part, but he was a relatively strong man for his size, and within a few minutes, she was hanging, limp and pale, as others had before her.

  When Zoe first stirred in the semi -darkness several hours later, she thought, for a glorious but all too fleeting moment, she was waking from a frightening and unpleasant dream that she couldn't begin to comprehend. But all too soon, the pounding in her head and the searing pain in her wrists, arms, and shoulders brought her new reality into sharp, unrelenting focus.

  She shouted out, calling for help with increasing volume and urgency, but outside the room, the results were limited to muffled sounds that would be impossible to hear beyond the immediate vicinity. She tried to stand as her blood pressure soared, but both arms jarred against the tight steel cuffs securing her thin wrists, and she fell back to the floor. She hung there shaking, twitching, with a thin stream of yellow urine running down one bare leg and pooling under her. She searched her troubled mind for any potential means of escape and narrowed each hand in turn, attempting to slip them through her manacles. But it was hopeless, utterly hopeless.

  Zoe closed her eyes and screamed. The man was a maniac. Why had she trusted him? Despite her misgivings, despite the alarm bells in her head that had gotten louder and louder until she had finally silenced them. She’d been like a child in a sweet shop, clamouring for candy – greedy, needy, desperate for fame.

  Turner checked the time, listened intently to the baby alarm, which was plugged in, in one corner of the lounge, and heard more than enough to know she’d finally woken. He jumped from his seat, ran down the hallway, and ascended the staircase two and three steps at a time until he reached the top. He stood outside the door and listened again, amused and gratified to hear the faint sound of weeping coming from inside.

  He was laughing as he opened the door and slowly approached her, one considered step at a time, until at touching distance. ‘It might be an idea to stop all that pathetic snivelling if you want to survive for very much longer. Just shut up and listen. There’s a good girl.’

  She screamed out again, and he laughed in response, before suddenly stopping and meeting her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t waste your energy, if I were you. There’s no escape. There’s never any escape. My previous guests could tell you that – were they still alive and breathing.’

  ‘Let me g -go. Please l let me go. I won’t t -tell anyone.’

  He paused before responding, savouring her increasingly desperate persona. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. Not after all the trouble I took getting you here in the first place. And you can scream for the rest of the day, if you want to. Scream your little heart out as loud as you like. It won’t do you any good, not in the slightest. This room’s been comprehensively soundproofed at great expense and to the very highest standards. Only the best will do for my girls. Scream away, Zoe. There’s no one to hear you but me.’

  She dropped her head and began whimpering as he loomed over her.

  ‘Right, if you’ll shut the fuck up and stay still for five minutes, I’m going to dye your hair a lovely shade of copper-blonde. Or at least that’s what it says on the box. How does that sound? The mother who abandoned me had much the same hair colour in my recurrent recollections. I can remember her face, her hair, her lavender perfume, and the sound of her voice before she walked away and left me. You want to look your best when they find your body, don’t you? I can’t strangle her, so you’ll have to do.’

  Zoe lost control of her bowel as he grabbed her hair tightly and jarred her head towards him. ‘Not to worry. It’s nature’s way of confirming that my methods are working as intended. You’re not the first, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. I stripped you naked while you slept, so no need to worry about soiling your clothing. And you won’t need them again, anyway. I have a rather stylish vintage dress for your final journey. Just wait until you see it. What a way to bow out.’

  ‘Please, I’m b- begging you.’

  ‘I was thinking about leaving your body on a remote beach. What do you think? There’s plenty in the area, some within a short drive. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. There’s a day or two before then. There’s no point in rushing things unnecessarily.’

  ‘Please, no!’

  Turner pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and pinned Zoe’s head against the wall with one hand while smearing Vaseline over her neck and forehead with the other. ‘Hold still, you want to look your best, don’t you? It’s going to be a lot worse for you if you move even slightly. I could have done this while you slept, but it’s a lot more fun this way. I want you to fully appreciate the entire process. I want you to understand exactly what’s happening to you.’

  She stilled herself, closed her eyes, and held her breath for as long and as often as she could until he finished, loathing the feeling of his fingers on her skin. ‘Right, that’s done. I’ll just mix the dye, and then, we’re good to go.’

  Zoe opened her eyes wide and stared at him. ‘You’re totally fucking mad.’

  He began running both hands through her hair, applying the mixt
ure, concentrating on the dark roots initially then moving along the entire length of her hair. ‘I’m not sure we’ve got the colour quite right. But, not to worry, we can always repeat the process. I always keep plenty of dye handy. Attention to detail.’

  Zoe opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again when no words came.

  ‘It’s nice to chat, don’t you think?’

  ‘Water, p-please. I n-need water.’

  ‘My name’s Charles, by the way, Charles Arthur Turner; Michael’s fiction, a subterfuge; I think it’s respectful to introduce oneself properly when appropriate, wouldn’t you agree? Society would disintegrate without its mundane niceties.’

  ‘Please, I n need a d drink.’

  ‘Why would any mother leave her child? Can you explain that for me? Even animals provide adequate care for their offspring. What made her so very different? Was I really that unlovable?’

  ‘Water, p please, water.’

  He began massaging her head more vigorously and then suddenly stopped and grabbed her throat. ‘I think you’ll find it’s to your advantage to answer my questions with due forethought. That’s why I brought you here in the first place. That’s why you’re still alive, rather than lying somewhere blotchy and cold in a makeshift grave. Please remember that.’

  She indicated her reluctant compliance and hated herself for it.

  ‘If you can help me understand, if you can help me explore my caustic past and reach an adequate resolution, I may conclude that you’re not as worthless as she was. It’s up to you.’

  ‘I’m s -sorry. I don’t know what you want me to s -say.’

  He gripped either side of her chin between his thumb and fingers and squeezed hard. ‘Try again, Zoe. I’m sure you can do much better than that, if you apply yourself properly. Your life depends on it.’

  ‘I’m bleeding. My mouth’s b- bleeding.’

  He squeezed harder, increasing the pressure and cutting her skin with his thumbnail. ‘Answer my questions, bitch. Your non- compliance is starting to anger me, and that’s not good news for you. I can be surprisingly unpleasant when provoked. If you’re not careful, you’ll find out what I’m talking about.’