Laura’s throat dried up. The hand holding her phone dropped to her side. Her other hand reached out, wrapped around the handle of the freezer door, pulled it up and open. She leaned forward, looked inside the freezer.
Later, when she played back the recording on her phone, Laura could hear her own breathing, harsh and uneven as she stepped closer to the freezer. She could hear her footsteps echoing on the concrete floor, the sudden catch of breath in her throat when she leaned forward to look inside. And finally, the last sound before the recording ended when her phone fell from her hand, the ear-shattering sound of her own voice, screaming for that useless lump Gary Locke to call for back-up.
Nineteen
‘He has a house near Eastbourne,’ Cosima said. ‘At Birling Gap. You know, along the coast from Beachy Head?’
Beachy Head. Where Annalise Cooper’s body had been found.
‘No one knows about it,’ Cosima said. ‘It’s where he goes to do all his dirty work. He thinks I don’t know it’s what he uses it for. But I know far more than he realises.’
She spoke in the same monotone voice she’d been using ever since they’d found her on the balcony. Ellen guessed the girl was in a state of shock.
‘Do you know the address?’ Ellen asked.
‘Not a clue,’ Cosima said. ‘But I can take you there. I’ve been there with him a few times.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that,’ Ellen said. ‘You need to see a doctor.’
‘I don’t need a doctor,’ the girl said. ‘I need to come with you. Please.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Ellen knew her protest was half-hearted at best, but her concern for Abby outweighed other considerations.
‘You have no choice,’ Cosima said. ‘I’m the only person who knows where he is.’
* * *
‘Out!’
The voice was insistent. A hand on his arm, shaking him, pulling him awake. His good eye opened. Blinding light. A white line of it cutting through the dark night.
The shadow of a man behind the light. He cowered back, away from the torch, begging for his life. Words tumbled from his mouth, pathetic, pleading, useless. Pete had a gun and was pointing it at him. Pete’s other hand was on Nick’s arm, dragging him out of the boot.
Every movement sent spasms of pain through his body. Arms, head, face, back and stomach. Everything was pain. Shadows moved behind the torch, seemed to crowd around him, suffocating him.
He had no idea where he was.
Pete pulled him and he shuffled forward. A huge expanse of star-speckled sky stretched out in every direction. He looked around for houses, a road, any sign that they weren’t alone out here. Listened for the sound of traffic or people, but all he could hear was the whistling of the wind and the crashing, crunching, roaring sound that he remembered from childhood trips to the seaside in the south of Ireland.
‘No.’
Charlotte’s voice rose above the wind and the waves. She sounded scared. He swung his head around. Saw two shapes coming towards him through the shadows. The beam of Pete’s torch brought them into focus. Charlotte and the bodyguard, Clive. A dark stain had spread across the front of Charlotte’s trousers and down the insides of both legs. When he realised what it was, a sudden sadness swooped down on him. She’d been so lovely once.
‘No.’
Clive was holding an open bottle of wine. He grabbed her head and pushed it back, forced the bottle into her mouth, tilting it up so the wine poured in. She struggled and gagged, arms flailing uselessly as the wine went into her mouth and dribbled down her chin.
Nick’s legs wobbled. He would have fallen if Pete wasn’t holding him so tightly.
‘You always said the booze would be the death of her,’ Pete said. ‘Pity the poor cow had to bring you with her too.’
Pete continued talking. Tragic accident. Drunk driving. Not the first time. Way over the legal limit. Words swimming at him through the sickening sounds Charlotte was making. Sobbing and gagging and retching.
‘Lucky for you this needs to look like an accident,’ Pete said, pulling him closer to the sound of the sea. ‘Otherwise I’d cut your fucking dick off first.’
Nick strained his eyes, looking for the white horses, but all he saw was sky and stars. Suddenly he understood. The sea wasn’t in front of him. It was down there somewhere. At the bottom of these cliffs. He tried to resist but the gun against his cheek gave him no choice. Like a small child, he let himself be pulled towards his death.
Pete stopped. They couldn’t go any further. Another step and they’d be over the edge.
* * *
‘He’s in love with me,’ Cosima said.
Her flat voice fell into rhythm with the movements of the car as they drove south out of London, towards the coast.
‘His mother was a prostitute. Did you know that? She messed him up good and proper and now he’s doing the same to me, even though in his head he believes he’s saving me. He thinks sex is dirty. The way he sees it, sex destroyed his mother and then his wife. So even though he’s in love with me, he’ll never touch me. Not that way. He wants to. I can see it in his face. It’s like a hunger. And when he looks at me like that, it scares me because I know what he’s capable of.
‘I suppose you’d say I’m a coward. I’ve always been too scared to leave. I knew he’d find me, no matter where I went. And if he did, I don’t want to think about what he might do to me.’
She stopped speaking and they continued the journey in silence.
It was dark now, the only light from the pale new moon and the thousands of stars that twinkled across the night sky. Ellen had read somewhere that the stars we could see on Earth were already dead. It took so long for the light to reach us from their part of the universe to ours, the stars were dead by the time we could see them. She’d felt sad when she’d first read that and felt sad now, remembering it.
* * *
Too much wine hit her stomach too quickly. Her body rebelled, spasming and retching as it tried to get rid of the poison. But more kept coming. Pouring into her mouth and throat until she was drowning in it. Until she couldn’t take it a second longer. She fought against it, lashed out, hitting nothing. The man’s hand steady on her head, the bottle hitting her teeth, hurting her.
Suddenly, he let her go. She fell forward, retching and coughing.
‘Over here. With him.’
She saw a gun. And she saw Nick, his face white in the silvery half-light of the new moon. Tears were running down her face but she wasn’t crying. Nothing left to cry for. The tears were just another reaction to the wine.
The gun clicked.
Pete wanted it to look like this was her fault. Easy enough to believe. Drunk woman gets behind the wheel of her car. A terrible accident. He was going to make them jump and then he’d send the car after them. Everyone would think she’d driven the car over the cliff, killing herself and her husband.
‘I’m not mad,’ she said. Noticed the slur in her voice but kept speaking. ‘Besides, won’t they be able to tell? If we jump, it will be obvious we weren’t in the car.’
‘Doesn’t work that way,’ Pete said. ‘The sort of injuries you get from a fall like that, it will be difficult for anyone to guess how it happened.’
She could make a run for it. But he would shoot her. Better that than everyone thinking this was her doing.
‘You don’t have a choice,’ Pete said, as if he knew what she was thinking. ‘You jump and we make it look like a tragic accident. Or I shoot you. But I swear to you, Charlotte, if I have to do that, I will go straight back to London and shoot your daughter too.’
‘How do I know you won’t shoot her, anyway?’ she asked.
He smiled and the fear was back, blocking out everything else, making any choices impossible.
‘You’ll have to trust me.’
He waved the gun towards the edge.
‘Move,’ he said.
She put one foot out and her body froze, refused to do what she told
it to. Clive pushed her. She stumbled forward, towards the edge.
* * *
‘No record of Pete Cooper owning any house on the south coast,’ Alastair said, coming off the phone from Malcolm. ‘We’ve organised for two local units to meet us at Birling Gap. One from Eastbourne and an armed response from Brighton. Helicopter as well.’
‘East Sussex has their own helicopter unit?’ Ellen asked.
‘Beachy Head,’ Alastair said. ‘Suicides. They need the helicopter to find the bodies apparently.’
Ellen was familiar with the coast between Eastbourne and Brighton. Stunning white cliffs that rose high above the sea. Miles and miles of wild, unspoiled countryside. The perfect place to kill someone and dispose of their body. She pressed her foot down on the accelerator and willed the car to get them there before it was too late.
* * *
‘For God’s sake, please. You don’t have to do this.’
Pete swung the torch so the light was shining in Nick’s face. Wet with tears, white with terror. He looked pathetic. Maybe it was the wine, but Charlotte wasn’t feeling anything. Or maybe she’d already given up.
Nick’s crying triggered a memory. And with it, a flash of emotion that cut through the deadness. The last time she’d seen him cry. It was right after Freya was born. Standing over the bed where Charlotte lay, body and mind shut down from the shock and the pain and the awfulness of what she’d gone through. Freya in his arms, wrapped in a pale pink blanket, screaming her rage at the brutal way she’d been taken from her mother’s body. Each scream like a knife through Charlotte’s heart.
He didn’t notice. Too wrapped up in his own happiness. Tears of joy pouring down his face as he looked down at his child. Their child. A little fist shot up from the blanket. Nick lifted Charlotte’s hand so that the child could wrap its tiny fingers around one of hers. Held on so tight that Charlotte, weak and exhausted, couldn’t pull away from the strength of that tiny grip.
She felt a surge of love – unexpected and unfamiliar. Their child. A lifetime of waiting to feel this way and now, just when it was nearly over, she understood what it meant to be a mother.
‘Hold her.’ Pete shone the torch in Charlotte’s face, blinding her. Clive grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her back.
The torch went off.
The world went black.
Nearby, very close, she could hear Pete and Nick struggling. Someone grunted. Nick screamed, still begging for his life. Another scream. Louder and longer, gradually fading, until there was nothing.
She kicked back, hit Clive’s shin, making him shout out. The grip on her arm loosened. The torch came on. A beam of light cut through the darkness, swung through the air. Coming for her.
She kicked again. Harder. Clive let her go. She started running.
The light from the torch followed her through the night, latched onto her and refused to let go. She dodged left, right, left again, but the torch found her every time. A loud bang rocked the air. Instinctively, she ducked. Kept running. The whistle of air as the bullet sped past her ear. Too close.
She kept running even though she knew she wouldn’t make it. Images of her daughter kept her going. Freya at every stage of her life. An endless spool of lost moments she should have cherished.
Another gunshot. Something slammed into her shoulder, sent her flying forward. She hit the ground face first. Tried to get up. Too weak, no energy left. She crawled on, dragging herself across the damp ground, crying. Tears for a lifetime of regrets.
The whole world lit up, bright and white. A roaring monster hovered over her. Death. Through the dark tunnel to the welcoming light. Death coming for her. Roaring its rage, turning the world into a hurricane, making the air swirl around her, blades of grass and dirt flying around her face, catching in her mouth and nose and eyes.
Through her stomach, she felt the ground vibrating; the tremors of the earth ending. A steady thump-thump that seemed to get stronger. A foot in front of her face. A man’s voice, telling her it was okay, she was okay, it was all over now and she was safe.
She wanted to ask if he was God or the Devil, but she had no breath left to speak. She let her body slump forward, her face on the wet grass, her eyes closing. God or the Devil. No need to ask. She already knew the answer.
* * *
Everything happened at once. The deafening roar of the helicopter, the air whipping around his face and body, making it difficult to know which way he should turn. Bright lights, voices, someone screaming. He still had the gun. He lifted it, ready to shoot his way out of it if he had to. A man’s voice through a megaphone, telling him to drop the gun. Panic made it difficult to think straight. He swung around, saw Clive standing with his arms over his head, staring at the helicopter. And then, like a miracle, through the noise and the lights and the spinning air, there she was.
Cosima!
Running towards him, tears pouring down her face. Someone coming after her. Ellen Kelly. Pete lifted the gun and aimed. Kelly stopped, put her hands in the air. Cosima was still hurtling towards him. He grabbed her with his free arm, tried to pull her close and tell her it was all right, everything was going to be all right. She was here now and he forgave her. He wanted to tell her this but she wouldn’t let him. She was screaming at him and beating her fists against his chest, asking what he’d done, what the hell had he done?
He shook her and shouted at her to stop. Everything he’d done, all of it, was for her. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t see that. If he could get her to shut up, just for a second, then maybe she’d listen to him and she would understand. But she kept screaming and hitting him and he didn’t want to hurt her, because he loved her and he’d never harm a single hair on her head but he had to get her to shut up because he couldn’t bear it. He lifted the gun before he knew what he was doing. And he wasn’t going to hurt her, not for a second, but even with the gun pushed into her cheek she carried on screaming and accusing him of things, such terrible things. And then Kelly was running towards them and she was screaming too and suddenly the world exploded and after that there was no screaming.
There was nothing at all.
Monday
One
Nick Gleeson’s body was found at the bottom of Beachy Head early on Monday morning. Ger called the team together to tell them the news.
‘We can start to shut things down now,’ Ger said. ‘We’ll need to notify the family, of course. Once that’s done, it’s over. Well done, everyone.’
The end of a case brought something special. Weeks of hard work, long hours and the slow sapping of hope replaced by a giddy, infectious euphoria and the self-satisfied belief that it had all been worthwhile. This time, Ellen wasn’t feeling it. Partly because of Abby, of course, but something else too. The sense of things left unfinished.
Pete Cooper was dead. Shot by his own daughter, who’d fought him and managed to turn his gun on him at the last moment. Whether the gun had gone off by accident or on purpose, they would never know. The CPS had decided to believe Ellen, who swore Cosima had shot her father in self-defence. There would be no case against her.
Cooper’s bodyguard, Clive Merchants, was in custody, charged with accessory to murder and attempted murder. Nick Gleeson had been named as the killer of Kieran Burton and Virginia Rau. Cosima confirmed that Kieran had been blackmailing Nick, although she swore she knew nothing about her lover’s involvement in any killings.
The hair sample found on Kieran Burton’s jumper had come from Freya. But, as Ger pointed out, Freya was his girlfriend so that was hardly a surprise.
‘Two people dead,’ Ellen said. ‘And no one charged for their murder. Maybe that’s the problem. It feels unfinished, somehow.’
‘Nick Gleeson got his punishment,’ Ger said. ‘He was killed too. Some would say that’s worse than any punishment he would have got if he’d stayed alive and gone through the courts.’
‘Some might say it’s a fairer punishment,’ Ellen said.
She l
ocked eyes with Ger, waited for the usual lecture on vigilantism and the death penalty not being an answer to anything. Ger’s expression darkened, like something about Ellen bothered her. And then, abruptly, she looked away.
‘It’s been a difficult few weeks,’ she said. ‘But it’s all been worth it. The Dacre Arms at four o’clock. And that’s an order, guys.’
She scanned the room, making eye contact with everyone. Except Ellen.
For a moment, Ellen was back at primary school, standing on the edge of a group of girls planning a game they were about to play. All ignoring Ellen, who was doing her level best not to show just how desperately she wanted someone – anyone – to ask her to join in.
* * *
The doctor said Abby could go home tomorrow. It was good news, she supposed. Except she didn’t know where home was anymore. Sam wanted her to stay with him for a few days but she wasn’t sure she wanted that, either. She didn’t know what she wanted.
‘You need time,’ Sam said. ‘And we’ve got plenty of that. As much as you need.’
He patted her hand, reminding her of Ellen, who’d done a lot of that earlier. Patting Abby’s hand and asking all sorts of questions about Sam and generally acting in a most un-Ellen-like fashion. When Abby first woke in the hospital, she’d found Ellen sitting by her bed looking suspiciously as if she’d been crying.
She’d almost died. Hypothermia and lack of air working together to finish her off. She wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for Laura McKeown.
She couldn’t think about it. She lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes. Wished she hadn’t. She was back inside that dark place. Confusion, terror, grief surged through her as everything else shut down. She tried to breathe but nothing happened. Tried to speak, to cry out for help, but something in her throat made that impossible too.
‘Abby!’
Hands on her shoulders, shaking her, pulling her up. Arms wrapped around her, warm and tight, and a voice saying her name and telling her she was okay. Everything was going to be okay.
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