Victims
Page 21
‘You’re worrying me sick! What the hell did he say to you? It can’t be that bad. You can sort it.’
‘I hope so.’ She looked down from Fay’s pained and searching eyes. ‘I told you. That’s why I have to get away from here. I need time to think.’
Her neck stiffened and she tried to turn her head as Fay put her hand beneath her chin.
‘No! Look at me … Christ, I’m terrified you’re going to kill yourself!’
‘I won’t do that … promise … I’ll ring you this evening. All right? And I’ll be back soon. I only need a couple of days.’
‘OK.’ Defeated, Fay kissed her, then dropped her arms in despair. ‘What do I tell him if he turns up on my doorstep again?’
‘That I’m not here … No, call him to make sure.’ Joyce sighed and opened her bag, taking out a ballpoint pen. ‘I don’t want Mummy having another row with him. Will you do that?’ Unable to find a piece of paper, she wrote the number on Fay’s palm. ‘Say I’ll talk to him when I get back … He’ll understand.’
‘I wish I did. Is there anything else?’
‘I don’t think so … Oh, yes. Can you feed Macavity? I’ve forgotten. You’ll find everything in the cupboard under the sink … and tell Tom just to leave one pint for Mummy … and, no, it’s all right. Anything else can sort itself. I’ll talk to you tonight.’
Fay rested her hand on the car roof, pulling it away and waving as Joyce drove off, then blotted tears with her fingertips. Every question she’d asked had been deflected or ignored, every effort to make contact thrust aside. Whether Randall had been unspeakably cruel or killed it with gentleness made no difference. Joyce would have wanted to talk to her of all people. Cry on her shoulder, lament her stupidity, become maudlin over too much drink; not this void of unspoken pain. And Randall had looked dreadful that morning as well, as if Joyce had rejected him and he was desperate for a chance to persuade her to return. There was no sense to it.
*
Lambert pulled into a lay-by just outside Ipswich and punched Jowett’s number into his mobile.
‘It’s me. Has anything happened?’
‘No … Where are you?’
‘On my way … no sign of the police, then?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good. When do you reckon she read that laptop?’
‘Sometime yesterday afternoon.’
‘So she’s still not reported it, has she?’ He poured reassurance into his voice. ‘They’d have picked you up by now if she had. Where is she?’
‘I don’t know. She’s gone away. A friend of hers called to tell me.’
‘Where’s she gone?’
‘I don’t know, but Fay — she rang me — says she wants to talk to me when she gets back.’
‘Then we’re OK for the time being. Just hang loose. I’ll be there in about half an hour.’
He switched off. If the police had answered, he’d have raced back to London and got out of the country any way he could, but this woman obviously hadn’t gone screaming to them yet. There could be time to do something. Curiously, a traffic jam had calmed him down; furious at the hold-up he’d found some Valium in the glove compartment, left over from a bad time in his life, and taken them. As his mind calmed, he began to feel unexpectedly good. This was Randy Jowett, the puppet he could make jump any way he wanted; as long as the woman held off — and for some reason she was still doing that — he could get up there and grab this situation before it went critical.
He pulled out and drove on, calmly running over the possibilities, the way he had in nineteen ninety. More risks than he’d have liked, but sometimes you had to take them. What was the alternative? Waiting like a sacrificial goat for them to get him? Making a panic dash with little more than fifteen grand and rotting in South America or wherever until they traced and extradited him? He’d killed five people and got away with it for six years; you don’t just give up after that. He stopped just outside Finch and rang Jowett again, pretending he was lost. Still no police.
Driving down The Street he remembered the baker’s shop, the old-fashioned metal sign in the shape of a cottage-loaf above the window — and he noticed the house with the crooked chimney. He’d been in control while Jowett was shitting himself; he wasn’t going to be brought down by a wimp like that. He slowed as he dropped down the hill from the church, watching for flashing blue lights or other signs, ready to drive past if necessary. But there was just a scarlet MGF on the Tarmac hard-standing — was that Randy’s? He was the type who ought to own a Sierra, which he washed every Sunday morning. As he parked on the opposite side of the road and stepped out of the car, Jowett opened the cottage door.
‘Got anything to eat?’ Lambert asked as he opened the gate.
‘What?’
‘Food. I haven’t had lunch.’ See, no panic. The Valium had got his head together.
‘Yes. I … I haven’t eaten either. I wasn’t hungry.’
‘Well, I am.’ Lambert followed him inside and closed the door. ‘Come here.’
‘Why?’
‘Just come here.’ Jowett stepped forward, then staggered back, stumbling over a chair as Lambert slapped him viciously. ‘I needed to do that. Now make a sandwich or something.’
Jowett got up nervously and walked out of the room. Lambert walked into the front room and found the laptop.
‘Have you wiped this?’ he called.
‘Wiped what?’
‘Your fucking life story.’
‘No.’
‘Christ Almighty,’ Lambert muttered. He took out the machine, leant it against the angle of the tiled hearth and the floor, then savagely stamped his heel on it until it shattered.
‘What are you doing?’ Jowett appeared in the doorway, holding a butter knife.
‘What you hadn’t got the sodding sense to do. If she goes to the police now, there’s only her word that she read anything.’ Jowett watched in dismay as he collected the pieces and put them in the bag.
‘I needed to write that.’
‘It’s no great loss to literature. We’ll have to dump this somewhere.’
‘Giles, that was important to me.’
‘Important?’ Lambert laughed. ‘The only thing that’s important is that we don’t go to gaol. And I’m going to have to sort that out again, aren’t I? Isn’t that why you called me?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Then leave it to me and do as you’re told. Now, are you just going to stand there waving that knife about or do we eat?’
Jowett stared at him for a moment then looked away, defeated. Lambert followed him through to the kitchen. ‘When did you get this call about her going away?’
‘Just before you rang.’ Jowett was twisting the key on a tin of corned beef. ‘She says she’ll talk to me when she gets back.’
‘When’s that going to be?’
‘Only a day or so apparently … Do you like chutney? It’s home-made.’
Lambert laughed again. ‘Christ, you’re the perfect host. No, I can’t stand it. Got any booze?’
‘There’s beer in the fridge.’
‘Scotch?’
‘There’s some gin in the other room.’
‘I’ll find it.’ Lambert went back, knowing he’d have to be careful after the Valium, but needing a drink. He couldn’t understand this woman. Instead of turning Jowett in, she’d simply vanished … and wanted to talk to him when she came back. Did not compute, unless … He returned to the kitchen.
‘So why hasn’t she gone to the police?’
Jowett cut two slices of bread in half. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘How about she’s working out how much you’ll pay her to make sure you don’t end up inside?’
‘No. She wouldn’t do that.’
‘Why not? Unless she’s totally thick, she must have realized you’ve got money. How much did those wheels outside cost, for a start?’
‘You don’t understand.’ Jowett pushed the plate towards him and lit a ciga
rette. ‘I think she’s in love with me.’
Lambert sneered. ‘Please. Do me a favour … How long have you been here?’
‘Just over three weeks.’
‘Well, you’ve had plenty of time to screw her, but what the hell makes you think it’s more than that?’
‘What she’s said. The way she’s been with me.’ Jowett sounded slightly defiant. ‘I mean it, Giles. That’s why I think she hasn’t told anyone. She’d never blackmail me. She’s got money. You should see her house.’
‘How old is she?’
‘She wouldn’t tell me, but … over forty.’
‘Married?’
‘Yes, but her husband’s a prat.’
‘They don’t usually fall in love with their toy boys … What’s so special about you?’
‘I don’t know. It just happened.’
‘She must have been desperate.’ Lambert bit into a sandwich. ‘I’ve got to make a couple of calls, then I want to know a lot more about all this.’
He took out his mobile and pressed a memory button. ‘Hi, Kim. It’s Giles. Can you put me through to Steve … Steve? Giles. She’s not too bad, but they’ve admitted her. I’ll need to stay a few days. OK, thanks. If you need me, try the mobile.’
‘What was that about?’ Jowett asked.
‘The office thinks my mother’s ill.’ He pressed a second button. ‘It’s me. I’m in Coventry. Mother’s had a heart attack. I’m calling from the hospital. What? I tried, but you were out … I don’t know. Two or three days probably … I can’t help that … No, but I’ll get some stuff here … It depends on how she is … I’ll ring you again.’
He ended the call and pushed back the aerial. ‘My ever-sympathetic wife, otherwise known as the bitch from hell … Where are the nearest decent shops round here?’
‘Bury St Edmunds. Why?’
‘I need some clothes, I didn’t have time to go home and pack.’ He chewed the last of the sandwich. ‘I’ll follow you and leave my car there somewhere.’
‘What for?’
‘Think, shit for brains. Two cars outside means two of us here and people might notice. Why do you think I parked on the other side of the road when I arrived?’
Frightened and confused, Jowett nodded agreement. Seeing Lambert brutally destroy the laptop had horrified him — but it meant he had the strength to try to find a way out for both of them.
*
Perhaps it was because she had grown up near the sea that Joyce had gone back to it, even though Fay would have regarded Great Yarmouth as final proof that she’d gone mad. She found a hotel on the north side of the town, its original middle-class Edwardian comfort decaying, stair carpets wearing thin, the proportions of its spacious bedrooms dissected and ruined by dividing walls to increase accommodation. Most of the guests resembled hiding remnants of Empire, carrying with them an air of bamboo chairs on hot colonial terraces.
She had not wanted dinner, but had ordered tea and sandwiches in her room before going out and across the road to the beach. From her right came the distant clamour of a fairground, and the garish lights of the resort were starting to glow faintly against slow mother-of-pearl twilight; to her left, a man digging for lugworms was a lone figure on a barren strand that stretched away to dunes. The tide was turning, barely breathing water bubbling into a thin string of silver froth as it sleepily stroked the beach. She walked away from the town, avoiding the fisherman, and on to slopes of soft sand and harsh marram grass, her feet slithering down into a silent hollow from where she could sit and stare at shimmering sea.
She lifted back the pages of her sketchpad to the portrait and now recognized what she had been unable to identify and capture. The secret guilt of an evil she would never have dreamt possible. But that was unthinkable in this gentle, pleading face that she had seen glow with gratitude or fired by the hunger of love. He must be terrified now — but Fay had said he was still at the cottage, still wanting to see her. She lay back and closed her eyes. There had been no alternative to running away from it, but that offered only false escape, not answers — if there were any that did not break her heart and all her hopes. Surely she was allowed to be alone for a while with such a thing, but staying away would solve nothing. So … She would spend tomorrow trying to think, remember a friend and her children — and ask forgiveness — then return to Finch in the evening. It was impossible for her to see beyond that, but they had to be together and discover if anything could be saved.
*
The last time Jowett and Lambert had been together in a pub had been the night of the murders; now they were back in one, although this time it was a Beefeater steakhouse chosen by Lambert because it was on a main road where passing trade meant strangers would not be noticed. Jowett chewed at a thumbnail as Lambert bought more drinks at the bar, trying to interpret his feelings. At some point Joyce and he had confusingly become like people without guilt, playing with visions of happiness. Such dreams were mad, but more powerful than reason … Lambert’s chair scraped on the flagged floor as he sat down again, scratching his jaw as he thought.
‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘She might well have a thing for you, which could mean there isn’t a problem. How serious do you think it is with her?’
‘She’s talked about … you know. What it would be like if there were just the two of us.’ Jowett saw Lambert’s cynical sneer. ‘I’m sure she meant it.’
‘Yeah, well, they have different brains from us — but if she didn’t feel something, you’d be in a cell by now. So … bollocks.’ He reached into his inside jacket pocket as a shrill cheeping sounded; other customers looked slightly contemptuous. ‘It’s not mine … Have you got one?’
‘Oh … yeah.’ Alarmed that anyone should ring him, Jowett pulled out the phone and connected the call. ‘Hello?’
‘Randall?’ Even on a bad line, he recognized her. ‘Where are you? I can hear voices.’
‘In a restaurant. I … came out for a meal.’
‘But you’re still at Finch?’
‘Not far away.’
‘I’m glad of that. I didn’t want you to run back to London.’
‘Where are you?’ Lambert had seen the reaction on his face and was leaning forward, straining his ears to hear.
‘That doesn’t matter, but I wanted to let you know I’m coming back tomorrow evening. We have to talk.’
‘I know. I want to explain about … I can’t like this.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I can come to the house.’
‘No. You mustn’t do that. Promise me. And I don’t want to come to the cottage. It would be better on neutral ground. There’s a hotel in Stowmarket called the Crown. It’s on the market square. I’ll be there by seven o’clock. All right?’
‘Yes. I … I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’ He heard her voice catch. ‘Please be there. I deserve that.’ The line went dead.
‘Was that her?’ Lambert asked.
‘Yes. She’s coming back tomorrow night. She wants me to meet her … I think it might be OK.’
‘Tell me in a minute. I need a slash.’
Lambert had not wanted to risk Jowett seeing his agitation over what he had suddenly realized. The lavatory was unoccupied and he stared at the tiled wall as he thought. With the laptop destroyed there was no proof — real proof — that Jowett had been at the farm. But he could be traced back to it. His father had sold both shotguns to a friend, so the police could find them — and he’d once read that they were as identifiable as rifles or revolvers to forensic experts. All that woman needed to do was to leave her husband, move in with Jowett — who was in no state to refuse her — then send the police an anonymous tip. They’d find the lock-up and start tracking down what he’d sold; it only needed one dealer to recognize him. He could drag Jowett in, but suppose she simply told him to deny it, even lied to give Jowett an alibi? She could probably manipulate him better than anyone. There would be hard evidence against Giles Lambert, but, however s
uspicious the police were, a lawyer could knock down an accusation against Jowett based on nothing more than his word. So she would end up with everything; Jowett in her bed and him in gaol for the murders. Women were like that …
Get a grip, it’s not a problem. Randy will never work this out and she won’t do anything until she’s got him on the hook … so, turn it round. Who knows I’m here? Only Randy. I’ve told the office and Victoria I’m in Coventry, and they’re not going to question it. Which means … Holding his hands beneath the drier, he began to think urgently. It could be dangerous, but what else is there? Why do I feel sick?
‘Go on,’ he said as he returned. ‘She said she wants to meet you.’
‘Yes … in a hotel in Stowmarket.’
‘Why there?’ He’d have preferred the cottage.
‘I think she wants it to be somewhere without any … you know. Somewhere we’ve not done it. No vibes.’
Lambert shrugged. ‘I can’t see what difference it makes … but I’ll come with you.’
‘You can’t! She read your name on that disk.’
‘I’m not going to ask you to introduce me, you prat! We’ll get there early and I’ll just sit in the bar. I don’t want to listen.’
‘Then why come at all?’
‘I’d like to see her for myself. OK? Come on, you owe me here.’
Jowett wanted to argue, but knew there was no point; Lambert simply wouldn’t allow him to go alone. But why did he want to? The worst fear, the one he’d refused to recognize, stunned him.
‘Giles, for fuck’s sake, you can’t be thinking of killing her!’
I was beginning to think you’d never make it to the real world; you’ve been living in a fantasy one for long enough. I’ll get you back there. Lambert shook his head, forging a smile of regret.
‘You never understood me, did you? How long did we know each other? Did you really believe I was the type to kill anyone?’ He paused, letting the suggestion take root. ‘Remember what it was like. We were planning nothing more than a robbery, but we were hyped up. Yeah? It wasn’t the sort of thing we made a habit of. I never meant to fire that gun, but when that mask snapped, it just went off. I was on my nerve ends.’