Hidden Killers

by Lynda La Plante

  “I know what it is, Peter, but she keep saying she has evidence that she can prove you done the rape. I very worried . . . I paid her first time, but she call me again and want another five hundred.”

  Peter held his head in his hands. He knew who it could be, but he wasn’t about to tell Marie. He looked over at the officers, then turned back to his wife.

  “Go from the beginning, Marie, because I’m not quite understanding what this is all about.”

  Bit by bit Marie told him everything. She recounted how she had been instructed to take the money wrapped in a newspaper and put it into a bin by the 73 bus stop on Park Lane. She was crying when she said that she had done exactly as she had been asked, then took the next bus that came so she never saw who collected the money.

  Peter kept on rubbing at his neck, then running his hands through his hair. He was sweating and obviously very agitated. Seeing his wife crying and being unable to calm her made it worse.

  “Should I go to police?” Marie looked at her husband. He was still in good shape despite his complaints about the food being pigswill.

  “Listen, I would lay money that it’s that bent fucking officer who stitched me up. I don’t know anyone called Angie, I swear on my kids’ lives I don’t . . . I mean, five hundred quid is a hell of a lot of money . . . it’s more’n a month’s takings for God’s sake, and it’s blackmail . . . it’s bloody blackmail!”

  “She want me to do same as I did before, on Tuesday. Tell me what to do, Peter. I not know what to do.” He took a deep breath.

  “Right, my worries are that if this bitch is trying it on then you need to contact the cops. But then part of me is freaking out because I am innocent, Marie, and I’m banged up in here until I can prove it at the trial. I didn’t rape anyone, and that woman is lying because there is no evidence against me. But if she’s workin’ with that bent DI Moran they could screw me over . . . so maybe try and find out who she is, and do what she wants.”

  “You mean pay her again? But I should go to police?”

  “Listen to me, OK? Yeah, go to the police but, and listen good, if you find a connection with this bitch and it’s to Moran then the case against me will be slung out of court, understand me? You need to find out if there is a connection, sweetheart, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I not know, Peter, I so nervous about doing it again . . .”

  “You’re going to have to do it, Marie. If you do I can get that false confession thrown out. This is what you do—make it look like you get back on the bus. You have to find out who she is, because it’s all a pack of lies.”

  “I not understand. You mean, I leave money like before, but not get on bus? Please don’t lie to me, Peter . . . if you know who she is then why would she say these things?”

  Peter became increasingly agitated as Marie started crying again. He leaned closer and patted the table with the flat of his hand.

  “Money . . . that’s obvious, isn’t it? But we need to find out exactly what they’re doing.”

  Marie wouldn’t meet his eyes, refusing to look up.

  “Look at me . . . we can get through this. We’ve talked about what I did, Marie, you know why I did those stupid assaults. I mean, it was me being frustrated because we couldn’t have sex. I’m disgusted at myself and you know I love you more than anything else in the world. I love my kids and I want to make it up to you. I never raped anyone . . . it was just me grabbing their tits, feeling them up. It was dumb and stupid and I am so ashamed because of how it’s turned out. I want to get out of here. My defense lawyer is really positive the case against me will be thrown out, and after the time spent in here I’ll be released straight away.”

  Marie nodded, but she was still frightened and unable to look at him.

  “So what you want me to do?”

  “Pay her . . . find out who the hell she is, because it’s all bullshit. I’m innocent and I’m scared they’re trying it all on and using you. There’s no evidence connecting me to that rape, because I didn’t do it!”

  “What if it has to do with Susie Luna?”

  Allard sighed deeply and leaned back, shaking his head.

  “Don’t even think of that . . . it was over a long time ago. This is what is important, and I’m depending on you. Don’t you dare tell Mum about this blackmailing bitch. I don’t want her worried. You know what she’s like, so just keep this between us until we know if this bent detective is behind it.”

  The clanging bell rang loudly to indicate that visiting time was over. Marie agreed to drop the money again and said goodbye, watching as her husband was led away. She tried to smile when he glanced back at her but when she left the prison her head was throbbing so much she thought she was going to faint. She felt sick and couldn’t stop herself from breaking down in tears. By the time she got home she was shaking. She had only just taken her coat off when the phone rang. Her hand shook even more as she picked it up.

  “Hello, Marie? It’s me.” It was her mother-in-law. “I rang earlier to find out how Peter was. Did you take the food parcel in?”

  “Yes, Hilda, I did.”

  “Are you all right? You sound very down, dear.”

  “That prison always give me big headache. Peter was OK . . . he still waiting for the date of trial.”

  “Taking their bloody time. Listen, I was goin’ to pop over as I have some cash for you from the bloke using Peter’s taxi. It’s not a lot but he pays the rent regular into the account.”

  “Can you pick up kids from school?”

  “All right, love, I can do that. So I’ll come by later then, all right?”

  “Thank you, Hilda.”

  Marie replaced the receiver and sat down on the stairs, her head in her hands. She started crying because deep down she had thought Peter would tell her to report the blackmail to the police. She was trying to accept his reason for her not doing so, that it was the police officer who lied about his confession. She had to force herself to trust her husband but she couldn’t silence the nagging doubt that he’d known who Angie was.

  Eventually Marie went into the kitchen to prepare the children’s tea. She made an effort to clean up the kitchen, set the table and had made boiled eggs with toasted soldiers ready, when the front door opened.

  “We’re home, love!” Mrs. Dawson called from the hallway. She took off the children’s coats and hung them up on the hooks along with all the other outdoor clothes.

  “Tea’s on table. No need to get them changed, they can do it later.”

  “OK, go on in, the pair of you.”

  Hilda hung up her own coat as Marie ushered the children into the kitchen. They sat down obediently as she poured two glasses of milk and told them they could have ice-cream after their eggs. Hilda walked in and gave a cursory glance at the table.

  “Shall I take their heads off for you? Then you can dip the soldiers in. I always like eggs for breakfast, but never mind. Just tap the top of the egg—you don’t want to eat bits of shell now, do you?”

  Marie said quietly that they could do that themselves and she would go and run them a bath.

  She sat on the edge of the bath, making sure the water was not too hot and poured in some Matey bubble bath to make it smell nice, watching as the bath filled with bubbles. She took two towels from the airing cupboard and rested them on the heated towel rail. She could hear Hilda downstairs organizing the children while they finished their tea. Eventually they went into their bedroom and took off their school clothes, putting on their dressing gowns in preparation for their bath.

  Marie let Hilda take over in the bathroom and collected clothing to put in the washing machine, having already laid out clean shirts and underwear for the following morning.

  Returning to the kitchen she saw the dirty dishes piled up on the draining board, and by the time she had washed and cleaned up the mess left on the table, she could hear the shouts and yells from upstairs. They wanted to watch TV but Marie didn’t want them coming down so she went to t
he stairs and called up.

  “Do your homework, then I’ll read story.”

  It was a while before Hilda joined her in the kitchen, carrying in her handbag.

  “What’s all that wood hammered across Peter’s games room for?”

  “Police damaged door, and I not want the children going in there. He has knives in there, and he always keep it locked.”

  “Bloody disgusting. Did the coppers take anything away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fitting him up they are . . . I dunno how, but we’ll get through this, Marie. The kids’re washed and clean and playing, but it’s earlier than usual. Maybe let them come down and see a bit of TV before bedtime?”

  “I still got headache. After you go I read to them. You want cup of tea?”

  “I’ll do it, love.”

  “I already made a pot, yes or no?”

  “Yes, I’ll have a cuppa while we go over the accounts. The bloke that’s renting out Peter’s taxi is paying in weekly with a cut of his takings and I’m putting it into your joint bank account. But I want you to see how much you can depend on coming in.”

  Hilda opened her bag, took out a small notebook and an envelope of cash.

  “If you give it to me I can put it in the account myself.”

  “Whatever . . . it’s just what Peter told me to do as I know exactly how much we should be getting in. Not that I don’t trust the bloke but I’ve asked that he details all the fares. He’s getting a good price to rent the taxi and he’s using our Peter’s ID, which is not exactly legal as all taxi drivers are supposed to have done their knowledge tests.”

  “I know, I know . . .” Marie put down a mug of tea in front of Hilda and opened a packet of biscuits.

  “Are you all right?” Hilda asked, spooning in sugar and stirring her tea.

  Marie sat down opposite her mother-in-law.

  “I mean, if there is anything you don’t understand you should tell me because being Filipino I’m sometimes not sure if you do.”

  “I been here since I was thirteen years old . . . of course I understand and I very capable of doing our accounts.”

  “No need to get snappy with me, dear. Don’t think I don’t understand the strain you must be going through, but so am I and I’ve got Cherrie, who’s a constant worry. She’s not to be told . . . she wouldn’t understand anyway but she keeps on asking when Peter’s coming round. He’s such a good son, and takes such good care of Cherrie. He always has done, ever since we knew she wasn’t right. But it’s a heavy weight on my shoulders because I have to take her back and forth to the mental care home. I always think she was the reason their dad left, and going through the divorce was a terrible time.”

  Marie sighed. She had heard the story so many times before, but she didn’t have the strength to interrupt so she just sat there nodding “I never thought I’d get through it, but after he died we had the taxi and he’d only just started paying it off. So it was virtually new for Peter to take over and he made it a good business, working all hours. He’s a good provider, and I know if anything, God forbid, was ever to happen to me he’d take over caring for Cherrie. He’s a good man.”

  “Shall I count money?” Marie said, unable to listen to her mother-in-law’s repetitive conversation.

  “You’ve got to be positive, Marie. I can see you’re not looking your best. Have they given you a date for the operation?”

  Marie was counting out the bank notes from the envelope.

  “Not yet.”

  Hilda drained her mug of tea and placed it carefully back down on the table.

  “He told me all about it. I’m not laying any blame on you, love, but my son is a handsome man and you know what they say—if they’re not getting it at home they’ll stray, that’s what this is all about. I know Peter. He was always one for the ladies and when he was a teenager they were all after him. He could have had his pick, I can tell you.”

  Marie glanced up as she made a note of the amount on the back of the envelope. She knew her mother-in-law had never approved of her or, for that matter, really liked her. It had been difficult to handle. Even when her children were born Hilda made disparaging remarks about them looking oriental. Eventually she had grown to admire their silky dark hair, as Peter had similar coloring. Now she never admitted ever saying anything untoward, but Marie had heard Peter giving his mother a severe talking to, even threatening that if she didn’t appreciate his love for Marie then she would not be allowed to see her grandchildren.

  “One hundred and twenty pounds.” Marie tucked the money into the envelope.

  “And you got all his savings to pay out for the mortgage. And you know if you ever do get short, which I doubt, I’ve got a few quid and also the benefits for Cherrie.”

  Marie could not even think about telling Hilda about the phone calls, and just wanted her to leave.

  “Did you give Peter the food parcel?”

  “I told you, yes.”

  “I’ll visit him tomorrow. And you said there’s still no news about the date for the trial?”

  “No.”

  “It’s disgusting. He’s innocent and it’s breaking my heart because I know my son. I hope you keep a positive attitude. I think you should take the kids in to see him as it’s tearing him up being away from them.”

  “I not want to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  Marie picked up her mug and rinsed it in the sink.

  “I not think they should see him in prison.”

  “Remand, Marie, he’s not in prison, he’s on remand.”

  “It’s still prison. I already get sick when I take them to school and pick them up because the other mothers stare at me. It’s been in the newspapers, Hilda . . . they too young to understand why their dad is away. I not taking them to those awful visiting sections.”

  “Listen to me, your husband is a good father and a good son. If any of those bitches say anything, or give you nasty looks, you tell ’em to piss off and mind their own business. If you don’t stand up for him like I’m doing, how do you think he will feel?”

  Marie gave up. She didn’t have the energy to argue, and, thankfully, Hilda looked at her watch as she had to collect Cherrie.

  “I have to go. I can come by again tomorrow.”

  Marie followed Hilda into the hall as she got her coat. She opened the front door and stood patiently waiting.

  “Call me tomorrow and I can be here to make their tea.”

  “I call you.”

  Hilda hesitated then leaned close and gave a dry kiss to Marie’s cheek.

  “Put the money in the bank.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Tarra, love.”

  Marie closed the front door and slipped the chain lock on. She looked over to the stairs where her children were standing side by side on the top step.

  “When’s Daddy coming home?”

  Marie went up the stairs and took her son Kim by the hand. “You have to be a big boy because you are eight years old and Mummy needs you to be very well behaved.”

  Leann, Marie’s little girl, put her arms around her mother’s neck. “I am a very good girl and I always look after you, Mummy.”

  Marie kissed her. “Yes, sweetheart.”

  “I’m five years old.”

  “You’re my big girl.”

  “So when is Daddy coming home?” Kim repeated.

  Marie answered abruptly, “I don’t know . . . I don’t know. And please don’t ask me again.”

  “Has he been naughty?”

  Marie’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes, and you know when you are naughty you have to be punished.”

  Chapter Twelve

  An old Victorian archway covered the rather majestic entrance into the stone cobbled yard of the mortuary, where the mortuary vans and ambulances were parked. The reception area was housed in a modern extension, and was accessed through two large glass doors. Inside, the floor was covered with blue linoleum and there was a small recepti
on desk, which was invariably empty as they were always short-staffed and there was never an employee to work behind it.

  A row of straight-backed chairs lined one wall and the overhead lights gave the reception area a yellowish hue. Although the reception was some distance from the rooms used for post-mortems and the chill section where the bodies were kept, a faint smell of disinfectant permeated the area. The smell became much stronger along the corridors.

  Jane had arrived five minutes late and Barry Dawson was already in the reception sitting on one of the hard-backed chairs. He was obviously nervous and as soon as she passed through the double glassed entry door, he rose to his feet. Jane gave him a friendly smile of encouragement. Having now been to the mortuary on numerous occasions she was familiar with the routine, but she had never previously handled a viewing alone.

  “I just have to check if there is an assistant mortician available.”

  “Do I wait here?”

  “Yes please, Mr. Dawson. Have a seat and I will come straight out.”

  Barry sat back down, hunching his shoulders. One knee jerked as he kept his eyes on the door through which Jane had entered. It took longer than she had said as there was no assistant around, but eventually it was organized and the numbered drawer 312 listed and checked as holding the body of Shirley Dawson. Jane opened the door and gestured for Barry to join her. He hurried toward her and Jane again gave him a nod of encouragement as she let him pass her before closing the door behind them.

  Barry was standing ramrod straight as Jane explained quietly that he just had to confirm his wife’s identity. They would usually have taken the body into the small chapel next to the mortuary, but due to staff shortages they would have to see Shirley in the chill room. The assistant slid open drawer 312. The body was covered with a white shroud, which was slowly eased back. Shirley’s eyes were closed, her hair had been combed neatly away from her face and, apart from the stitched wound in the center of her forehead, it was as if she was sleeping. Barry looked down. He ran his fingers on his right hand over his lips, swallowed and Jane could hear his sharp intake of breath.

  “Is this your wife, Shirley Dawson?” Jane asked quietly.