‘Stupid fucking Mummy Bear… Look what you’ve done… Look what you’ve made me do… You’ve ruined everything you selfish, stupid bitch!’
Kizzy can’t struggle, not physically anyway, she’s been bleeding out for hours, the life draining slowly from her veins. Fuelled by an influx of cortisol, Danni-Jo pushes the pillow hard onto her face, applying more and more pressure until Kizzy is still again. Her hands are shaking as she tentatively removes the pillow. She’s half-expecting her to sit up or to struggle for breath again, but she’s motionless. She checks for a pulse in her neck. Nothing. She’s dead. Really dead this time. Pulling Kizzy roughly by her hair, she places the pillow back underneath her head and throws it down in disgust. Her moment of serenity has been shattered. Mummy Bear has ruined everything. She sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, gathering her composure, waiting for her breathing to regulate. Once her heartbeat begins to steady, she gets up and, without turning round to look at her handiwork this time, leaves the apartment, softly closing the door behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lime Basil & Mandarin. It’s a nice combination: citrusy and earthy, unique and heady on the nose, which is probably why it’s always stuck in my memory. The assistant in Jo Malone is all over me like a cheap suit, asking me who it’s for, explaining the top notes of the fragrance and all of that business. It’s wasted on me. She might as well be talking Lime Basil and ‘Mandarin’, literally. Clearly she’s on commission and I feel a bit sorry for her, it must be a drag having to be so upbeat all the time in the hope of making a sale. Still, I feel pleased with myself because my gut, or more accurately, my nose, hasn’t let me down. I checked with housekeeping at La Reymond and they gave me a list of all the complimentary toiletries that should’ve been in Baxter’s suite that afternoon, only they couldn’t be specific about the particular bath oil that had been used: the list simply stated ‘a selection’ of Jo Malone products. But I knew I’d smelt that smell before. Rachel used to have a candle with the same fragrance. She lit it occasionally, generally before we had people over because it made the whole apartment smell good. I remember commenting on it once and she told me its name. It was irrelevant at the time, words said in passing you know, but I must’ve logged it subconsciously, the name and the smell. Rach liked it for the scent of basil; as a chef she was into her herbs and spices. Cost a fortune these candles, she told me. And, the best part of one hundred quid later, I leave the shop realising she wasn’t wrong. I buy the bath oil, and a candle – for Rach and for our apartment – and I know that when I light it I’ll have to try to think about her and not Nigel Baxter’s body in the bath. Now I think of it, I’m pretty sure I smelt it on my fleeting date with Florence too. I guess it’s popular, which is great for Jo Malone – and pretty shit for me.
* * *
Craig Mathers infiltrates my thoughts as I leave with my purchases. I don’t know why I went to his mother’s house last night. I’m not entirely sure what I wanted to happen and with hindsight I gave myself a bit of a fright. I could feel the anger and resentment rising inside me like a thermometer as I made the journey, the sense of injustice that he, Mathers, is alive and breathing, that he gets to go home to his mother and father, to his girlfriend; he gets to laugh and eat and smile and sing and to make love, to be normal again. He gets to put the past behind him; he has the chance to start again, to forgive himself and move on. I imagine he already has – forgiven himself, I mean – and I imagine the things his family, his girlfriend, say, the reassuring words of love and support they give him: ‘you’ve done your time, son, you’ve paid for your mistake, now it’s time to start over, time to start living, to forgive yourself and move on.’
Well, I’m here to remind him; I’m here to make sure he never forgets what he’s done, the lives his actions have affected, the ripple effect of my girl’s death. I want Mathers to know that while his family may have given him absolution, I absolutely have not and never will. They say you dig two graves when you seek revenge and for the most part of my life I have agreed with this statement. But now, now I get it, the crimes of retribution I have witnessed, the natural human desire to hurt someone who has hurt you, destroyed your family, your life, your future. I understand what drives a person to even the score now. And I don’t like it, I don’t like the way it makes me feel, but I feel it nonetheless. Murderous thoughts enter my head as I make a sharp right; I imagine Mathers standing in the middle of the road, his rat-like features bleached out by my high beams, his forearm covering his face to protect his eyes as I put my foot down on the accelerator…
* * *
Mathers’ mother’s house was a fairly modest semi situated down a suburban cul-de-sac near Southgate. It was secluded and out of the way. A nice road I suppose, the sort of road a builder who’s not done too badly for himself would live – the sort you’d expect. I had parked up by a tree a few houses down, making sure I had a clear view of the Georgian-style front door. There was a light on at the front, people at home. I stared at the house, unable to take my eyes off it for a second in case I missed something, what I don’t know. I couldn’t say how long I sat there, watching, waiting, but after a while a woman left the house. I didn’t recognise her, but I presumed that it was Mathers’ mother. Upon seeing her, I now remember her from the court case, a brassy-looking blonde woman who wore garish suits and heavy make-up, a bit ‘Peggy Mitchell from Eastenders’ I had thought at the time. She made eye contact with me once throughout the manslaughter case and I recall thinking how sad she seemed. We never spoke but I got the impression she was a salt-of-the-earth type of woman, a little coarse but kind, and that she was sorry; for me, for her son, for herself. This woman’s hair was darker though, shorter maybe, which made me think it might not be the same woman. She had a dog with her, one of those English bulldogs with the eye patches and snub noses. She was across the street and I turned away, grabbed my phone and pretended to look at it until she passed. I checked my watch and realised I’d been sitting outside the Mathers’ house for almost two hours. It jolted me back to reality and once she disappeared in the rear-view mirror, I started the engine and drove away.
On the drive home I gave myself a talking to and decided that I never wanted to see that man’s face again, and that it was stupid and reckless of me to drive over there but it’s a battle of wills between the cognitive dissonance I feel, a cerebral stand-off in my brain, literally, between good and bad. And I’m frightened it will be a battle to the death…
* * *
When I arrive back at mine and Rach’s empty apartment after my pricey shopping trip, I run myself a hot bath, put one of those delicious ready meals that reminds me I’m alone in the microwave, and light the Jo Malone candle. I feel spooked so I decide to have a drink. I fancy getting drunk, blotting out my feelings, feelings that have led to thoughts – dark, black thoughts that are already taking me to places I don’t want to go to. Craig Mathers is a living breathing free man, alive and well, and Rachel’s still dead.
The apartment is cold and I switch the heating on. It’s April, and that’s kind of depressing. Rachel always wanted to live in a warm climate; we talked about it a lot. She fancied California; LA would’ve suited her down to the ground, ‘right up my boulevard’, as she used to say. Barefoot and bohemian, she was cut out for beach life and she’d have loved riding the open roads on her bike. I’d have struggled a bit more I think. ‘I’ll bring out the gypsy in you yet Danny Riley,’ she’d tell me and I’d say I could be like that Ponchorello from Chips, riding up and down the highways. I used to love that TV show as a kid. I wonder if anyone else has noticed how much the actor who played him looks like Bruno Mars, back then anyway. A real pin-up was Poncherello. All the girls from my primary school had a crush on him and I wonder, a little miserably, as I pull the plastic off my processed shepherd’s pie and pour myself a far too generous tumbler of neat Jack and ice, what he looks like now. I think about googling him, Poncherello, but then my phone beeps. It’s Fiona men
tioning how nice it was to see me today, which I translate as her wanting to know if I’m okay after what’s she told me. She wishes me luck with the online dating too, which is good of her after spectacularly cock-blocking me today, or whatever it is the kids refer to it as these days. She says it will do me good, getting back out there. It reminds me to message flirty Florence. I suppose I should come good on my offer of dinner, although I have to admit – and this doesn’t happen to me very often… I got the distinct impression she would’ve skipped dinner. I check the time: it’s gone midnight. Too late to send a text. According to ‘Rachel’s Rules’, as I used to call them, women would consider messages any time after 11 p.m. to be a booty call. I liked her rules; they made sense. How much I wish I could’ve lived a lifetime by them. I would have abided by every single rule.
I decide to message Flirty Flo tomorrow instead. I doubt she’s waiting up for my call anyway. Still, as I get into the bath and start on my Jack I can’t help thinking about the fact I haven’t had sex in almost two years. My body is screaming out for it, well, a certain part of it is anyway, not wishing to be crude. But although I joke, I do miss the touch of a woman; skin-to-skin contact, soft hair resting on my chest… it’s not just the animal act, I miss the intimacy too. Yet as much as my physical needs are screaming out to be heard, my mind keeps silencing them. Because I know, deep down somewhere inside of me, I know, that if I was to touch another woman, even without any deep emotional connection to her, a part of me would be letting Rachel go. And realistically, I wouldn’t really want to sleep with a woman I didn’t feel a deep connection with; it would be like betraying Rach even more. So I’m fucked – or rather, I’m not fucked – whichever way you look at it. I guess I’m just not ready, and it scares me that I might never be. So I masturbate, I have to relieve the pressure somehow. It’s only been in the past few months that my libido has returned, a gradual trickle, a pull I’m unable to ignore but which makes me feel guilty and grim. I don’t want to feel turned on without her, I don’t want to come alone. I think of her as I go about doing what I do; I imagine her skin against mine, her intimate scent and how I felt inside her. As I close my eyes, I visualise my fingers on her, holding her thighs while she’s on top of me, looking down… Her breathing is heavier, her small breasts gently bouncing, her nipples stiff as my lips make contact. I’m close to coming now, I feel the familiar sensation in my stomach as it builds, guiding me towards it, and I look up at her face, at those big wide eyes and thick lashes, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose… ‘Mmm, mmm, yeah…’ her noises get me there and as I come I imagine looking up at Rachel again, but this time her face has changed slightly, her voice too, ‘shall we get a hotel, Daniel? Do you want to fuck me, Daniel?’
It’s not Rach anymore, it’s Florence… Florence Williams.
I’m still for a moment afterwards, I guiltily wipe the vision from my mind and place the Jo Malone candle on the side of the bath; afterwards I add a little of the oil to the water, not too much; I don’t want to smell like a tart’s handbag as the boys down the nick say. Nigel Baxter comes into my thoughts now; I don’t want to think of him either but I do, I can’t help it. Baxter betrayed his wife, poor, unsuspecting, loyal Janet; he gave in to his most base carnal desires and this subsequently led him to his unknowing demise. Murdered in a bath, just like the one I’m in now. Dance with the devil and your feet get burned, as my dad always says.
The Jack’s gone to my head already so I take another mouthful as I sink into the warm oily water. Baxter wasn’t killed for money; his bank account hasn’t been touched and his statements show no unusual or unexplained withdrawals. He wasn’t being blackmailed, which would be the obvious motive, given his alleged penchant for deviant behaviour. I think of the bear again, its little black eyes shining like beads. The killer’s calling card. Goldilocks. She left it there, as many killers do, for a reason. But what? If it wasn’t for money to blackmail the poor bastard, then why?
I’m relieved when I hear Rachel’s voice again: ‘Sometimes Danny, there is no why.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Delaney has already kicked off the briefing as I enter the room and I nod at him to continue. I can’t quite put my finger on Martin Delaney. It’s not that I don’t like the man, or respect him because I do, on both counts. He’s a tenacious young copper and thus far has proved to be an efficient number two but there’s something about him I don’t fully trust, not like Davis, I trust Lucy Davis, yet I’m no more familiar with her than I am Delaney. Davis is a tenacious copper too, yet somehow I feel like she’s on my side, like she’s working for the good of the team. Something about Delaney makes me think he’s working for the good of himself first, like he wants to get noticed, more of a glory seeker. Perhaps I’m being unfair but I feel there is something disingenuous about him. It’s subtle, but I sense it, the consideration in his words, making sure even his smallest triumphs are claimed. I can’t knock his contribution to the case so far though, credit where it’s due. But still, I’m keeping a clandestine eye on Delaney because something tells me I should. Something tells me he’s watching me closely too, waiting for me to slip up.
‘Keep going with the handbag, yeah, Davis?’ He nods at her, his tone authoritative.
‘I’m tracing purchases made in the UK in the past year but there are enough fakes out there to keep eBay in business for the next ten.’ She addresses me first and call me pedantic, but this gives me a tiny slither of satisfaction.
Delaney goes to speak but I get there first. ‘Anything from Baxter’s colleagues? Any beef, affairs, bad business deals, anyone with a vendetta?’
Harding shakes her head.
‘Nothing boss… but there is something interesting you need to know…’
‘I’m all ears, Harding.’
She takes a visible breath, her diaphragm expanding. ‘That rogue number you found… the phone records between Baxter and Goldilocks…’
‘Yes, the number that was missed.’ I shoot Davis a look. ‘The once you missed, Lucy,’ I say, calling her out. I’m not partial to a public slaying but I need Davis to know she’s cocked up and never to do it again, but she stares at me expressionless, like she doesn’t know what I’m on about. ‘The phone records,’ I address her, ‘when you checked them you missed a number; one lone number that was on Goldilock’s record, buried among the rest.’
Davis looks at Delaney and opens her mouth to speak. I watch the silent exchange between them.
‘Well,’ Harding continues, ‘the number was registered to a Janet Baxter.’
I feel my guts drop into my sphincter. Janet.
It’s my turn to take an audible breath. ‘Right, well, this gives a slight spin on things,’ I say, as matter of fact as possible, because I don’t want to believe, to even think, that Janet Baxter has anything to do with her husband’s death, not just because I like her and I feel empathy for her, but because it would mean that my instincts are wrong. But I suppose it would, could, make sense, the spouse is always the first person you look at. Only Janet has at least three alibis and it certainly wasn’t her on the CCTV footage coming out of Baxter’s hotel suite the day he was murdered – unless of course she’d had a particularly outstanding week at Slimming World and managed to lose at least 50lbs in a couple of days, and grow a few inches taller. That’s not to say she isn’t involved though. This could be a collaboration, the blonde a stooge to lure him in. She could’ve found out about his penchant for prostitutes and paid one of them to knock him off; it’s feasible, there’s motive, it would make sense, only it doesn’t. That was no act she put on when I told her of her husband’s death. I’d bet my house on it I’m that sure. But instinct doesn’t stand up in court, so all avenues must be thoroughly explored. I need to speak to Janet.
‘Maybe she found out he was seeing someone else, boss,’ Harding says, ‘sent his mistress a warning?’
‘Perhaps,’ I say tentatively. ‘We’ll need to see the phone. And who’s been
onto the website… that hook-up site, Sugarpops or whatever it’s called?’
‘Bogus ID,’ Baylis reminds me. ‘They’ve been pretty helpful though. Trying to trace an IP address. Don’t think they want the negative publicity.’
‘I’m sure.’ I raise an eyebrow. I suspect our Goldilocks, like millions of others out there, has a string of false identities, setting up fake accounts and deleting them as quickly as she’s made them up. Literally anyone can make up a fake profile these days and it’s patently clear that’s what most people do. It’s kind of the whole point really: anonymity, a society of nameless, faceless people who exist behind computer screens.
‘Please tell me forensics have thrown up something?’ I scan the teams’ faces but there’s not a single sparkle between them.
‘Not yet boss,’ Davis says, keeping her tone upbeat.
‘Nothing?’ I say flatly, ‘not a fingerprint, a hair, not a trace of foreign DNA?’
She shakes her head and I hope my own face isn’t reflecting the ones who’re blinking back at me because it’s my job to keep the fires burning.
‘Let’s look at what we have got then’, I say. ‘The bear, unlike the bag, is unique; someone had the little bastard made specially; it’s one of a kind. I want every shop assistant who works in Steiff Bear shops across the country spoken to; check the records of every franchise and every online outlet. Something will come up with the bear, I feel sure of it. We’ve got CCTV of a potential suspect; a female with blonde and, later, dark hair – it’s the same woman by all accounts. Someone saw her that day in the hotel – we need to find them.’
They’re making notes. Delaney is silent.
Black Heart: A totally gripping serial-killer thriller Page 12