The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  Raheem came out of the house to where Rivlin was waiting politely beside one of the vans. ‘Boss says come and join the party.’

  Rivlin nodded his thanks and they began to walk back. ‘Did Kemal say anything?’

  ‘Possibly a curse word in Turkish. But make the most of this – he’ll have an alibi by breakfast and his lawyers’ll be threatening to sue for wrongful arrest before lunch.’

  ‘We’ve got him on the back foot, though. It was a mistake, him going after Karen Phelps in person, and he knows it. We might get lucky and find the hospital security uniforms.’

  Raheem shrugged. ‘Last time we turned his brother over he got five grand compensation and a new front door.’

  Rivlin smiled. ‘Look at it this way: that won’t have even covered his lawyers’ bill. So we’re still disrupting their operations.’

  45

  Most of the time, Paige Hollister was bored. She hadn’t had a decent glass of wine in weeks and was subsisting on twenty Marlboros a day that she was bribing some care assistant to fetch for her. The old Jacobean manor, where she’d been incarcerated, was not far from Tewkesbury. Set above what the website called idyllic water meadows, it retained the air of a country house hotel, which it had formerly been. Now it housed – warehoused was more accurate, in Paige’s view – rich reprobates whose addictions or mental health problems made them a social embarrassment.

  The rooms were comfortable, the largely foreign staff a cross between care assistants and servants, and there was a team of medical professionals on hand 24/7 to deal with any kind of crisis. Paige had opted for equine-assisted therapy. She’d done some three-day eventing as a teenager and spending time in a field of horses seemed preferable to sitting in group therapy listening to a bunch of crazy plutocrats bitch and moan.

  She’d managed for years on Xanax, but they’d taken her stash and prescribed a new regime of SNRIs, the administration of which was strictly controlled. The private American healthcare company that ran the place was well aware they were operating in a litigious world and if any of their charges came to harm they’d be slapped with an enormous lawsuit. As a result, every nook and cranny was covered by CCTV. It was impossible to even go to the loo without being under surveillance. But in spite of the many annoyances and restrictions on her freedom, Paige had to admit she was feeling better.

  The howling fury that had nearly torn her apart when the police took her in for questioning after Robert’s arrest had been labelled a psychotic episode. All Paige remembered was a murderous anger at being put in a room and bombarded with questions. She’d kicked off all right and that had soon put an end to their nonsense.

  Since then she’d had plenty of time to reflect on her situation. She was missing Phoebe. Her parents sent pictures every day: ice-cream treats, an outing to the beach. But even in a few short weeks she’d begun to notice her daughter changing. The child needed to be back home and in school. She needed her life back, they both did.

  Robert had not been in contact since his arrest. He seemed to blame her for his predicament, which was absurd. She’d been trying to save him from the consequences of his own folly. As a loyal wife, that was her job. And she might’ve succeeded if he hadn’t been driven by an overwhelming compulsion to shag any slut who looked twice at him.

  Early on in their relationship she’d sought some maternal advice on what to do about her fiancé’s roving eye. Her mother had dismissed her concerns – men were like that. What mattered was the woman they married and came home to. It had taken Paige another ten years to realize this wasn’t a viewpoint most women would share. Her own father was loving and kind, a man who’d kept his infidelities discreet and never allowed them to impinge on family life. And he adored the grandchildren. She wished Robert could be more like him.

  Helen Warner occasionally strayed into her consciousness, but she refused to feel any guilt. Helen’s death was unfortunate. The woman had been a hypocrite, who, in spite of all the feminist claptrap she spouted, still used sex to get ahead. Even as a kid she’d played Robert, teased him, and Paige had been forced to watch. She had no regrets about discussing the threat Helen was posing to Robert and his career with Viktor Pudovkin. It was a ruthless world; Helen had made it plain that she was out to destroy Robert, and Paige couldn’t be blamed for what happened as a consequence.

  Although it was many years since she’d been on horseback, Paige had soon become proficient enough to be allowed out of the field on longer rides with a couple of other inmates and a groom in attendance. Her daily excursions had become the thing she looked forward to; it broke up the tedium of the day.

  It was a chilly morning for late September but the lanes and hedgerows were starting to explode with autumn colour. As usual, they ended with a canter across the field behind the manor house. She’d been given no notice of Robert’s visit. They clattered into the stable yard at the end of their ride and there he was. He was a total bastard who was threatening to divorce her, but even so the unexpected sight of him sent a rush of adrenaline through her whole body. He was standing, hands in pockets, chatting to one of the management team.

  As she was helped off her horse, he came over wearing his I’ve-been-a-bad-boy-but-I’m-sorry smile.

  She pulled off her helmet. ‘Thought they’d put you in jail. Or is that just me?’

  ‘I’m on bail.’

  ‘Lucky old you. Can I get bail?’

  ‘I would’ve come before, but—’

  ‘That’s such a cliché, Robert. Remember that little PR girl you used to fuck, wasn’t she always warning you about clichés?’

  ‘She was a colleague. I never slept with her.’

  Paige shot him a cynical look. Same old lies, same boyish grin. But lying was his default setting, it was what had made him such a successful politician.

  ‘Have you seen the boys? Alex sent me a text saying he’s got a bad cold.’

  ‘I’m in contact most days, but I hardly think they’re going to thank me if I turn up at the school and embarrass them.’

  Paige had to agree. Both her sons had dealt with their father’s disgrace in a silent and manly way. Being away at school was the best thing for them and she was glad now that she’d stood out against sending them to some crap comprehensive so the party managers could demonstrate that their rising star was on message.

  As they strolled from the stables back to the main house she remained silent. Was she glad to see him? Relieved even? She’d never admit it. He’d come with some kind of agenda, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. She led him to the sitting room, where coffee was served. They each took a cup and then found a secluded corner in the conservatory.

  Paige glanced up at one of the unobtrusive wall-mounted cameras. ‘I don’t know if the place is wired for sound, but they certainly get everything on camera.’

  Robert looked up too and the presence of the camera seemed to inspire him. He sat down on a cane sofa and placed his face in his hands. ‘I do know I’ve been an absolute fool.’

  She took a chair opposite and settled back to watch his performance with a sardonic eye. His mea culpas were always well rehearsed. She said nothing.

  ‘You know how much I’ve missed you, Paige?’ He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

  After all these weeks, he’d finally turned up. But what was his game? The tears were real enough but this was a ritual they’d played out many times: his contrition, followed by a declaration of love. He needed her back onside – but why? She’d been almost certain that this time he really was dumping her. Speaking to Pudovkin, seeking his help to deal with the threat posed by Helen Warner, had been a calculated risk on her part. And when Robert had first found out what she’d done, he’d gone ballistic. It had turned into one of their classic rows and the memory was still bitter.

  Now she simply smiled. ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘Darling, I was angry. You put me in a very difficult position. But you know I love you.’

  ‘I put
you . . . ? I saved you, you ungrateful bastard! That sly bitch was planning to go to the media. They’d have crucified you, but I found a way out. It was a risk worth taking.’

  ‘Did you really not know what he’d do to her?’

  She met his eye. This was ridiculous. Did he expect guilt? Was he so weak that she was supposed to carry the burden of all this?

  ‘What the fuck do you care about Helen Warner? She was out to destroy you.’

  ‘Pudovkin would’ve had me in his pocket.’

  ‘You’d’ve still been in office and still had a career.’

  ‘And say we win the election next year? What did you think was going to happen then? The man’s ex-KGB, Paige! I love my country. Why on earth would I want to be a stooge for the Kremlin?’

  His tone was peevish, but what she found more annoying was his naivety. He was the politician, how could he be so ignorant of how the world worked?

  She fixed him with a disdainful glare. ‘It wouldn’t have come to that. Are you seriously telling me that once we made it to Number Ten there wouldn’t have been ways and people to deal with a man like Viktor?’

  Hollister shook his head wearily. ‘Well, it’s all gone tits-up, so I’m not going to argue the point now. The end result is’ – he threw out his palms – ‘it looks like I’m going to jail.’

  ‘The lawyers have told you that?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Can’t they do anything?’

  Hollister slumped back in his chair. ‘Probably only serve a couple of years. Open prison, won’t be too bad. I’ll write my memoirs.’

  ‘You’re a bit young for that.’

  He reached out and brushed her hand; the earnest look he gave her was one of his best, with a lick of hair tumbling over his forehead. ‘I’ve disappointed you, my darling, and I’m so sorry. I’ve disappointed everyone. That fatal flaw.’ His eyes glistened with tears. ‘Got me in the end.’

  Paige felt a lump in her throat. Seeing him defeated brought her no pleasure. She had a sudden desire to take him in her arms, stroke his hair and soothe him. He reminded her of one of his own sons, trying to be brave after taking a tumble off their skateboard. The hurt was obvious. And it ripped into her.

  His gaze met hers; his dark eyes were pleading and his chin quivered. ‘I just need you to forgive me. I was too ashamed to come before.’

  ‘Oh, Robbie!’ She got up and went to him, she couldn’t help it. He pulled her onto his lap, enveloped her in a hug and squeezed her tight. Then, burying his face in her shoulder, he began to sob.

  She kissed his hair, soft and glossy as ever. Stroked his damp forehead. He was such a beautiful man; he wasn’t perfect, nowhere near, but he’d chosen her. He’d married her.

  ‘Sssh, my sweet boy!’

  ‘I’m lost without you.’

  ‘I’m here. I’m always here, you know that.’

  ‘I don’t care about the career, I don’t even care about going to prison. As long as I’ve got you and the kids.’

  ‘Sssh! We’ll get through this.’

  ‘Will we?’ He looked up at her, face streaked with tears and snot, like a lost child.

  And Paige smiled down at him. She was his mother, his protector, his saviour. The bond between them was eternal, that was something a stupid little dyke like Helen Warner could never hope to understand. Marriage was a sacred vow. He was her life.

  Pulling a tissue from her pocket, she wiped his face. ‘There must be something the lawyers can do. Maybe you should get a new lawyer?’

  ‘I have. A woman Henry recommended. Supposed to be really smart.’

  ‘Well, what does she say?’

  ‘The evidence is stacked against me. And you know what the media’s like: they want blood.’

  ‘Surely she can come up with something? If she’s that smart.’

  Robert Hollister gave his head a sorrowful shake. ‘The only thing that might make a difference is if we could say Helen was sixteen when I first had sex with her.’

  ‘So why don’t you say that? She’s not here to contradict you.’

  ‘Me saying it is not enough.’ His teary eyes sought hers. ‘There has to be evidence to back me up.’

  ‘What about if I said it?’

  He tilted his head and his gaze drifted off across the room. ‘I don’t know if that would work.’

  ‘It’s worth a try, surely. Now that I’m better, I could make a statement to the police.’

  ‘But you’d be lying. Perverting the course of justice, that’s what they call it.’

  ‘Who would know? And how would they prove it?’

  His eyes brimmed with tears. ‘You’d do that for me?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  With a ghost of a smile he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. ‘I don’t deserve you.’

  As she rested her head on his shoulder, he glanced at his watch. Mission accomplished; he’d be back in town by lunchtime.

  46

  Kaz Phelps remembered little of the journey back from her sister’s. It was late, the country lanes full of inky black foreboding. Darius had dropped her off at the Ackroyds’ house and, refusing Rafaella’s offer of a hot drink, she’d gone straight to her room.

  The image of Joey forcing himself on their baby sister was burning in her brain and she could find no way to expunge it. The fact that it was her fault made it all the harder to bear. She should’ve known that by challenging her brother she’d been putting Natalie at risk of some twisted reprisal. No wonder her sister hadn’t turned up to his funeral. Kaz had thought it odd at the time. Then all hell had broken loose. It was only a week ago, but it seemed like an age.

  She’d tossed the white padded envelope on the bed and stared at it. It felt like bundles of cash. The nausea was still churning in her gut and her head was in a spin. She thought about her small nephew, an innocent child. But with Joey’s malevolent genes, what were Finlay’s chances of a decent life? Would Natalie succeed in bringing him up free of the taint of the Phelps family? She was a recovering addict, scraping a living as a cam girl. The odds didn’t look good.

  Natalie had made it clear that she didn’t want Joey’s money or Kaz’s help. But what good was that going to do? Grabbing the envelope, Kaz had ripped back the tab and tipped the contents onto the bed: three bundles of banknotes, vacuum-packed in plastic, and a small rectangular envelope. The notes were fifties, each bundle only a few centimetres thick. The envelope was blank. Kaz had torn it open. Inside she’d found a small dove-grey business card and a key. The card looked classy. The inscription, in a fine oblique font, read: Jonathan Sullivan LLB. There was an email address and a mobile phone number. Kaz had turned the card over in her fingers in search of any message, but the reverse was blank. The key was silvered metal, small and flat, maybe some kind of locker key?

  She’d scooped up one of the bundles. It broke a memory of her father, who’d always dealt in cash and carried a fat roll of twenties in his trouser pocket. The fifty-pound note was slightly larger. On the back, it had two old blokes in wigs instead of the usual one and it matched the stash she’d found under the floorboards in her mother’s bedroom.

  Picking furiously at the seal on one of the bundles, she’d managed to peel back the plastic on the compacted banknotes. It was a hefty wedge, a lot of money. She’d tried to count it, but her tormented mind refused to focus. Eventually she’d given up.

  Collapsing on the bed, she’d fallen asleep fully clothed. Her dreams were tense with menace. She was running from a man whose face she couldn’t see. She felt the heat and bulk of him overwhelming her and she gagged on his acrid breath. Escape was impossible; her mouth was being stuffed, lungs filling with a thick tarry sludge and she was suffocating.

  She awoke with a gasp and had to take several breaths to convince herself she was still alive. It was daylight. Getting up, she looked out of the window to discover a grey morning. The fields were sombre and a heavy slate sky was threatening rain.

&nbs
p; After a long, cleansing shower she dressed herself in her borrowed clothes and ventured downstairs. Rafaella was loading the dishwasher and Paul was sitting at the breakfast bar perusing his iPad.

  He jumped to his feet, wreathed in smiles. ‘All right, mate? You was late last night. Did you have a good kip?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  Rafaella painted on a smile. ‘You look better. Some breakfast?’

  Kaz was fairly sure she looked worse, hollow-eyed and pale. ‘Just a coffee, thanks.’

  Paul turned one of the bar stools round for her. ‘Nah, you gotta eat, babes. Rafa bakes her own bread. Bit of butter and jam, it’s ace.’

  He was fussing around her, couldn’t keep still, and Kaz got the impression he’d been waiting for her to come downstairs.

  She sat on the stool he was offering. ‘Maybe one slice then. I’m not that hungry.’

  ‘Tough day yesterday.’ He frowned. ‘How was your mum?’

  ‘Not too good. I think she’ll be in hospital for a while.’

  Paul shook his head with concern. He was making all the right noises, but Kaz couldn’t help feeling suspicious. Had Darius reported back to him? Did he know she’d seen Natalie? Did they see her with the padded envelope last night? She’d taken pains to hide it under her sweatshirt.

  He faced her, hands on hips, a restless energy pulsing off him. ‘So what’s on the agenda today and how can I help?’

  Rafaella put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Let her be, Paul. She seen her poor mother, now she don’t need no hassle.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’ He beamed and turned away.

  Kaz watched him prowl the room as Rafaella made coffee and cut bread. Before taking her shower, she’d finally managed to count Joey’s money. In the shrink-wrapped bundle she’d already opened there were two hundred notes, all fifties, which added up to ten grand. The other two packets looked identical, so thirty thousand pounds in total. A sizeable chunk of cash, and it had made Kaz think of the words Paul had used before: the tip of the iceberg. Had Joey Phelps died a rich man? Paul seemed to think so and it could well be true.