He shook his head. What was he thinking about? Right now she had something he wanted, something he couldn’t get from anywhere else, something he needed even more now than he had before. Not just for his escape pay-off to Joe and the others and to make a new life somewhere far away, but to cross the fucking channel and see a foreign medic. He’d already phoned a mate about a lorry leaving Stockport every Tuesday night at midnight bound for the French coast. It would cost a packet but when he got the cash it would feel like peanuts.
He dug in his pocket for the screwdriver. His whole body ached but he couldn’t stay here much longer. He was used to being rejected, thrown out of houses. He’d always been leaving somewhere. Orphanages, foster homes, prisons. He didn’t care. He didn’t belong anywhere. Or to anyone. Nobody mattered except himself. Sam Smith.
So, where to now?
The pain in his head was getting worse. Worse than the pain between his legs. And much worse than the slight pain in his stomach. He tensed his hands on the steering wheel until he felt he could snap it in two.
The engine roared into life. Bitches. Whores. What had they ever given him? Sod them all. They all deserved to die . . .
He thought of Ada. Already he could smell the brandy and the cheap perfume. Feel the pain of the cigarette searing his flesh.
His mother. Nameless, faceless. If he knew who she was and where to find her he’d have killed her long ago for leaving him to the mercy of all the other bitches. And every other one he’d ever known followed in quick succession. He put his foot on the accelerator and swung out of the side street.
He slowed down at the next intersection. He could hide up in that derelict building he’d seen in Castlefield near Dukes Bar, the night he’d picked up the Peugeot. Just until the pain eased. But he’d have to ditch this useless Rover before venturing into the city. If only the fucking banging inside his head would stop ─
As if from nowhere a girl appeared from behind a wall. Her long blonde hair blew across her face as she stepped towards the road.
The light caught her face.
Ada!
The pain moved to the front of his head.
Ada smiled. He jammed on the brakes.
Leapt out of the car.
Saw her eyes widen.
Saw the smile turn to fear.
THURSDAY
- 56 -
Paul followed Kevin down the muddy lane. He saw the trail of footprints cordoned off. Saw the trail overlapping it as though something had been dragged behind the owner of the shoes.
Stepping over the blue and white police tape, Kevin uncovered the half naked body. ‘Forensics are on their way, boss.’
‘I hardly need to know any more, do I? The body’s in exactly the same state as Joanne Perkins' was.’ He turned away, but not before he had sickened at the row of burn marks running up both the girl’s arms and across her cheeks, presumably from a lighted cigarette. And the knife wound that almost certainly had finished her off. ‘Do we know who she is?’
‘Not yet, boss. But any girl hanging around the Alexandra Park area at midnight is usually after only one thing.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘None. No murder weapon either.’
Paul looked around the litter-strewn enclosure. ‘I want to see Forensics’ report soon as possible. Just to make doubly sure.’
‘Think it was Smith?
Paul turned to the body. ‘Who else? Pattern of burn marks on the thighs, the arms, the hands. Same angle of cut in the chest. Nipples missing . . . ’ He twisted his head away.
‘And the hair too, boss.’
‘For Chrissake ─ ’
Paul forced himself to look at the blood-encrusted strands draped around the girl’s fragile shoulders except for a two inch gap where the hair had been hacked off to bare the neck. ‘Anything under the nails?’
‘Nothing obvious. Didn’t put up much of a fight.’ Kevin glanced uneasily at Paul. ‘Sorry I called you out, boss. But it’s one I didn’t think you’d want to miss.’
‘You did right.’
Nodding to the uniforms on duty at the scene, Paul climbed into the Honda and buzzed down the window.
‘I want surveillance in the house opposite Julia Grant’s intensified.’
Kevin gave Paul a puzzled look. ‘We’ve already done that as far as we can go, boss. Wouldn’t it be better to have the men closer? In her garden and her house? And twenty-four hours personal?’
‘No chance of that.’ Paul banged his fist on the steering wheel.
‘There’s got to be some reason, boss. But what? Something we don’t know about but I’m damned if I can begin to guess what it is. In your wildest dreams you might even think she might be protecting him.’
Paul turned the key in the ignition and the CRX roared into life. ‘I’ll be at Chester House,’ he said, winding down the window. ‘Let me know what happens.’
‘Yes, boss. I didn’t know you liked Smarties,’ he said, pointing to the large multi-coloured box lying on the passenger seat.
- 57 -
Julia eased the Polo into the visitors’ car park at Chester House and made sure the car was locked this time. The call-out mechanic had fixed the problem in five minutes, but she’d be glad when she got her own car back tomorrow. Paul’s early phone call, asking her to come and see him about extra security in view of the early morning murder of a prostitute in Moss Side, enabled a smooth passage through the gate.
She walked slowly towards the entrance. He had said he was too tied up to leave his office, but felt it was imperative the situation was discussed. Julia felt she could not refuse.
At the enquiry desk she spoke to the clerk. ‘I’ve come to see Mr Moxon.’
‘Your name, please?’
‘Julia Grant.’
The receptionist spoke briefly to Paul’s secretary, then smiled at Julia. ‘Mr Moxon will see you in about ten minutes. I’ll give you an identity badge. Please take a seat. Someone will be down for you shortly.’
Julia sat down on the edge of a chair in the reception area.
Five minutes passed.
Paul had seemed certain the murder was Smith’s handiwork. So the fugitive was becoming more desperate and in theory she would have to do something more to safeguard Nicky, just in case. She couldn’t think what more could be done, but she might suggest they post a couple of discreet plain-clothes at the school, discreet enough not to be noticed by Smith and his spies.
The thought that so far Smith had never harmed a child nagged at her. Did this mean he never would?
Ten minutes.
It was only after she had put the phone down this morning, shaking with the shock of the news of the latest murder, that she realised Paul would undoubtedly tell her that not only was Nicky not sufficiently protected, but neither was she. Armed only with a sparse knowledge of self-protection that when first tested had resulted in nothing more than a scream and a kick to the groin, plus a gun she was ethically and morally incapable of using, and a hatpin that judging by Smith’s subsequent nocturnal activities had proved totally ineffective, she would be inclined to agree with him. And he would expect her to give him some kind of explanation of why she had to continue not risking letting Smith see any evidence of police protection.
This would not be easy. If she only told him about her possible relationship to Smith but not what he’d threatened to reveal, he would probably say, Okay, big deal, Julia, you can’t choose your family. Being Paul, he would ask a few pointed questions and the next minute she would be cornered and would find herself telling him about the sexual abuse from her foster father. He would be disgusted. Maybe even sympathetic. But he would know that these two facts alone, if publicly revealed, were certainly not enough justification for her to risk Nicky’s safety. And he would probe further for a more feasible reason.
So she was back to square one. She could not tell him anything.
Fifteen minutes.
She wanted to believe that what Smith claimed she had do
ne could not possibly be true. But what if it were? She desperately wanted to know but at the same time she couldn’t bear the thought of knowing. And yet she couldn’t deny that each day a tantalising trickle of memories was gradually and haphazardly returning random pieces of the puzzle slotting in yet still not revealing the full picture.
Twenty minutes.
Be realistic, Julia, she told herself. Forget all that. There’s only one thing you have to do and that is to prevent Smith telling the authorities.
How?
By giving him the money, of course, Dummy. That was priority number one and it would solve everything: ensure Nicky’s safety and prevent her own ruination. Simple.
There was still time to abort her visit. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell the police . . .
Oh God. What am I doing here? I should have made an excuse not to see Paul.
She leapt from her seat, plucked the identity badge from her lapel, mumbled an apology to the clerk and fled through the big glass doors and out into the car park.
As she fastened her seatbelt her phone rang.
‘What happened, Julia? They said you just left.’
‘I’m sorry, Paul. I had an urgent call. I’ll ring you later.’
Half a minute later it rang again. John Cartwright’s secretary. Could she be in his office at nine o’clock?
Her spirits soared. If his answer were yes, everything would be solved.
- 58 -
Julia parked near the Royal Exchange, cursing as a sudden downpour drenched the city. With her hat down over her eyes and every muscle tense, she ran across the cobbles into St Anne’s Square.
‘Please take a seat, Mrs Grant,’ said the clerk at the reception desk.
Dutifully she sat down in one of the armchairs arranged around a small table covered with today’s morning papers. What she really wanted was to walk straight in to John’s office. She didn’t want one of his plausible excuses. Didn’t want the final blow wrapped up in his flowery language, or delayed a minute longer. If his answer was no, she wanted it straight so that she could put Plan B into action without wasting any more precious time.
The killing of the prostitute in Moss Side in the early hours of the morning hadn’t made the national papers yet. It wasn’t in the Metro either, and the Manchester Evening News first edition was only due out at noon, when inch high headlines announcing the sickening murder would be all over the city. She closed her eyes and into her vision swam a picture of the girl. She would be slight, with straggly dyed blonde hair. What was left of her thin underfed body would be half-clothed, burned, mutilated, with certain parts missing. And if her eyes were still open they would be wild with fear . . .
Somehow Julia would have to stop any more of this carnage.
Only a quarter million pounds to get Sam Smith out of the country could do this. Or he had to be put behind locked doors again. But the consequences of this alternative were not worth thinking about.
She stared at the panelled wall in front of her as though it were a movie screen. She saw Paul snapping on the handcuffs. Saw herself standing in the dock, the headlines proclaiming her monstrous genealogy and the crime she had committed.
She hadn’t spoken to John Cartwright since he’d called her on Monday morning. The days were flashing by in what seemed like hours. If his answer were negative, she’d have no option but to go for Plan B. She clenched her fists and took a deep breath. You can’t do it, Julia, she told herself. No self-respecting lawyer would contemplate such an act of forgery. And if John Cartwright is any kind of a bank manager he’ll give you the money now if only to prevent such despicable malpractice. Crimes came in all degrees of despicability, she reminded herself. She still couldn’t believe what she’d done to Smith last night. Everything had been automatic. The scream. Blindly thrusting the hatpin into the nearest part of his body. Right foot flying to his crotch. Running till her lungs were exploding. Stopping to get her breath back so the policemen watching from the empty house wouldn’t be suspicious. Opening the gate. Walking as sedately as she could to the front door.
As though nothing had happened.
Shaking her head in disbelief she dug into her handbag and found the crumpled foil-backed card of Paracetamol. Her neck was still painful from Wednesday night’s jolt. Her muscles ached from her assault on Mike. She pressed out one capsule and managed to swallow it just as John’s secretary appeared.
‘He’ll see you now, Mrs Grant.’
She knew his office well. Opening up a second branch of Lloyd Grant had been her brainchild. She’d set up the bank loan, using Hillside House as collateral. She’d made all the financial arrangements. Apart from adding his signature to the papers, Ben had left everything to her.
‘Julia. How nice to see you again.’
John Cartwright’s smile was smooth and practised. His slow, gushing voice gave nothing away but was laden with a degree of false sentimentality that made Julia shiver.
She returned his smile with her equally practised poise, confident it did not reflect one iota of her inner turmoil.
From the front of his large, black, polished desk, empty apart from the blank computer screen and a gold pen and pencil set, he pulled out a chair for her. In all the years she’d known him she had never seen him appear even half as busy as she always was.
She sat down, put her handbag carefully on the floor, then placed her hat on top of it to hide the tell-tale shape of the gun.
‘Well now,’ John said. ‘About your request for a loan.’
It was something about his tone that made her certain of his answer.
He cleared his throat, the way someone would if they were nervous about what they were about to say and had an idea it might not please the listener. ‘I don’t have to tell you that in order for the bank to lend you two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and of course, this applies no matter who we’re dealing with, we would need security.’
Get on with it, John. Just say it.
‘Now, under normal circumstances your house would provide that security more than adequately.’ He scratched his florid cheek with a perfectly manicured nail. ‘But because of the existing charge on the house we would need to look . . . elsewhere.’
She sensed that somehow he knew just how desperate she was and was trying to be as gentle as possible. Could she afford to sit here another ten minutes to hear what she almost certainly already knew? Damn. Had that second branch of Lloyd Grant really been necessary? The extra staff were eating up most of the profits so far, leaving Ben and her scarcely better off than they’d been with only one branch.
John Cartwright stroked the fold of skin beneath his chin. ‘But notwithstanding the question of security, you still haven’t told me for what purpose the money is required.’
It would be useless to plead. She could invent something now but in order for the loan to be agreed, John would demand an income and expenditure account. Or proof in writing of her ability to repay.
All of this she knew, so why was she even sitting here? Just another of her ill-thought-out, inconsistent, illogical actions kindled by Sam Smith . . .
‘Would you like some tea, Julia? You look a little ─ ’
‘No thanks. I’m fine.’ She dropped her shoulders and lifted her chin.
‘I’m sure you’re aware that if the decision were in my hands alone, I would . . .’ His voice drifted off and he looked at her with raised eyebrows almost as though he thought she might be the one to provide the solution. ‘I’d like to help,’ he said at last, ‘and I’m sure we could work something out, but ─ ’
‘But without adequate security and clear reasons for the loan,’ Julia butted in, ‘you would turn down my application. Right?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He didn’t even hesitate. So why all that farting around when he could have come straight to the point?
Mumbling that she had to be in court, she grabbed her hat and her handbag. Before John was out of his chair she had covered the space between his desk an
d the door and was out of the room.
‘Plan B,’ she said out loud as she ran into the summer downpour, heading for the office, leaving the car in St Anne’s Square and not caring who heard her or who saw the wild look in her eyes.
- 59 -
Ben was in the lobby when she burst in through the door. He stared open-mouthed at her dripping clothes.
‘Why the hell didn’t you take a taxi?’
His unexpected appearance threw Julia into confusion. She pulled off her sodden hat. ‘It’s like this every June, isn’t it, but it always catches me out.’
He fidgeted with his hands as though he was embarrassed at her reply.
He’d not been due back from London till tomorrow. Julia knew that before putting Plan B into operation she must grasp this one last unexpected opportunity his early return was presenting.
Her skin chilled as he turned and walked towards his office. She was unable to stop herself. She ran after him. ‘May I talk to you?’
He drew in his breath as though he was going to say something, then silently led the way. Julia declined his offer of a seat. If she hesitated for one more second this final chance might be lost.
‘Ben, I want to make an advance of capital out of the trust fund. For the benefit of Nicky.’
She was used to his poker-faced expression. There was seldom any sign before he made decisions. But this long pause was unusual.
For one unbearably sweet moment she had one of her visions of it all happening. Borrowing the money from the trust. Handing it to Smith. Smith somewhere in South America, her ghastly secret forever locked away. Nicky walking happily to school, playing in the park . . .
‘I thought we’d been through all this.’
His voice was non-committal, without the undertone of bitterness so obvious on Monday. She waited but he said nothing more.
Okay, Julia Grant. It’s up to you to plead your case.
With one hand she leaned on his desk.
‘Since last talking to you, I’ve taken expert advice.’ She paused. How she hated having to lie to him. How she wished things could revert to the easy professional relationship that had existed between them until last Friday night.
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