She seemed pleased I had made the connection without making a fuss. “I expect you’re wondering what the devil I’m doing here and why.”
“Yeah, of course I am.” I collected my thoughts. “I take it you knew I was here because I visited the police station just before I came away. I left my holidays details with the station. But why you’re here, I have no idea.”
“That’s right I saw your entry in the book. I’ve worked for the police for the last three years. It’s handy for being in the right place if you want to keep tabs on someone. Can I trust you, Moya?”
“Ye-es. But I’m bloody mystified. I want to know why you’ve come all this way and gone to a lot of expense and trouble, when you could easily have called on me back home. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not annoyed, just very puzzled, and if I’m honest, uncomfortable with it.”
“I know this sounds crazy, but it’s because I wanted absolute assurance that no one would find out we’d met and spoken. If I’d chanced it back home, you could easily have told me to bugger off or worst of all, the person I’ve been keeping an eye on would catch on that we’d seen each other. You must understand I’m terrified of being caught, as he’s dangerous.”
I felt a feeling of dread crawl all over my skin. “It is a pretty drastic action to take,” I said slowly. “Are you going to tell me whom you’re watching?”
It was her turn to say yes and she nodded.
“First, though, you’ve got to understand, this is all off my own bat. Nobody back at the station has a clue I’m here or what I’ve been doing. The expense of coming here doesn’t matter a whit to me, as my sole aim is to catch this vile person out and have him convicted for his appalling crimes. I wonder if you’ve guessed who it is. Martyn Cousins. But that’s not his real name. He was christened Thomas Hammond but changed it as soon as he could by deed poll.”
I sat back, letting my held breath out in a whoosh. She said crimes. What the devil had he done?
“Okay. You’ve got my attention. But why all the subterfuge? I know he’s a creep, but as far as I know, that’s all. ”
She flicked her hair back, revealing the scar I noticed earlier. “See this? Cousins did that. Three years ago. Only the bastard is so clever, I’ve never been able to prove it.”
“Bloody hell, that’s awful! I did notice. But why, what happened?”
“As I said earlier, it’s a long story.”
Amanda proceeded to fill me in, making sure I understood she wasn’t some kind of psycho on crack and completely off her head. She made it quite clear I should be wary of Martyn.
“I’d already come to that conclusion,’ I murmured. “But after seeing your scar, I realise he’s more dangerous than I thought.”
“I usually keep it concealed with face make-up. About four years ago, my favourite cousin met this guy. I say favourite cousin, but she was more than that to me. We were brought up together and were more like sisters. Anyway, Sally was a sports freak and adored trying out new things. For her thirtieth birthday, her parents—my aunt and uncle—paid for a course in diving lessons, and it was during these lessons she met Martyn. He was already qualified as an advanced diver, and he helped the dive coach with the practical lessons in the pool. Within a couple of weeks after their meeting, Sally and Martyn began seeing each other on a regular basis.
“She told me she’d met this amazing guy, a male nurse, who had literally swept her off her feet and they’d fallen in love. Sally hadn’t been out with many men…she took her physiotherapy job seriously and always said she’d little time for romance. But with Martyn it was different. Within six weeks, they’d moved in together, into Sally’s flat, and announced they would be getting married later that year. You can imagine how thrilled my aunt and uncle were, and so was I. Sally wasn’t ugly but always found it hard forming relationships. Anyway, they decided to move up to Scotland. Martyn was between jobs and heard they were looking for male nurses in a new hospital in the Edinburgh area. Sally, with her qualifications, was always in demand.” Amanda paused as she gave her drink a stir and took a mouthful.
“Poor Sally. Anyway, she sold her flat and they found a new place to live. It was a bit larger, but more modern and less expensive, and they were happy with their find. They said the money they’d saved would be put towards new furniture. Two months later, they got married, and this was the strange thing. Sally had always yearned for a fairy-tale wedding, the real thing with a five-tier cake, coach and horses, an amazing dress and a wedding breakfast at a country hotel. She was an only child, and my Aunt Betty was all for it. But instead, they had a civil wedding, and we only found out they were married after the event.”
She paused, and I noticed a glistening tear on her eyelash. “Sal never got to wear a white dress, her mother missed out on her only daughter being led up the aisle by her father, and I never got to be bridesmaid to my favourite cousin. Two months later, she was dead.”
I gasped. “What happened?”
“She died in a car crash. Crushed when the car she was driving ran off the road and went down a steep embankment.”
I waited while she composed herself.
“There was a local enquiry, of course, and the Scottish forensics decided she’d been forced off the road. Her car showed signs of paint marks from another vehicle. The paint samples were matched and discovered to have come from a dark-blue Toyota.”
“Don’t tell me,” I interrupted. “Martyn.”
She shook her head. “That’s the trouble. Checks were run, and a blue Toyota had been stolen in the area two days before, only they—the police—couldn’t pin it on Martyn. The car turned up a week later, dumped in a quarry. There were traces of the same paint from Sally’s car on it, plus dents and scrapings, but inside it was as clean as a whistle. Plus, Martyn said he was in Stirling for that day and night. It was checked out and it appeared he was telling the truth. Plus, he was able to produce a rail ticket, which, he said, he hadn’t handed in. To get to Stirling you have to go via Falkirk. I’m thinking he broke his journey there and backtracked to Edinburgh and somehow did the deed.”
“So you’re saying you think Martyn was responsible for your cousin’s death.”
“Yes,” she nodded emphatically. “Except I don’t think. I’m positive. He must have stolen the car and waited for the right moment. Sally always took that road at a particular time. Martyn claimed he left her at home that morning and went off to Stirling. And he did stay the night in the hotel—there was a bill to prove it.”
“But if there are no witnesses or a lack of evidence, what makes you so sure he caused her death. And what about you? How come you’re so scarred?”
“I have no proof whatsoever, and there’s little collaboration between the English and Scottish police services. The CCTV in the area around the hotel wasn’t working—it was a pretty dodgy hotel, actually. All I have to go on is my gut instinct and that Martyn was left a nice nest egg with the house he and Sally owned together. But don’t forget, it was bought out of the proceeds from the sale of Sal’s flat. I know Martyn claimed he was waiting for funds to clear because Sal told me, but I bet it was all made up. When Sally met Martyn, she was over the moon to have met the love of her life. After their marriage, I sensed that everything wasn’t as rosy as it could have been. Sal seemed nervous and depressed at times but wouldn’t tell me anything. I knew my cousin like I know myself, Moya. Something wasn’t right. Anyway, after she was killed, I was stupid to make my suspicions known very loudly. Martyn was taken into police custody and cross-examined, but it was all circumstantial, and he was soon released.”
She stopped and raised her eyebrows when I gasped. “What?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute…go on,” I said.
“About a month after all this happened, I came home late one night, and to my horror, I found someone waiting for me in the dark. My assailant wore black, including one of those horribly sinister balaclavas—that’s what I remember about him. And it was definitely a he, I’m
convinced of it. He was tall and slim and strong in a wiry sort of way. As I was being attacked, I managed to grab hold of an anti-insect aerosol I’d left out on the kitchen worktop. I sprayed and sprayed into his eyes for as long as I could, and he eventually had to let go of me but not before he’d slashed his knife down the side of my neck. I can’t really remember what happened after that. I was so terrified. I know I must have got him, though, as he yelled out in pain, and then suddenly I was alone.”
I was stunned, and I sat staring at her as I took it all in and assimilated her words. If what she’d just told me was all true, then Martyn was a complete nutter, and as she said, highly dangerous. But I wasn’t stupid; some things didn’t add up. Would someone really go to all the trouble and expense of following me here?
“That’s just awful, dreadful,” I said, swallowing hard. “But what about where you work? Surely someone must have believed you? I presume you said you thought your attacker was Martyn.”
She looked away and sat staring at the horizon. It was an incongruous scene considering what she had just told me. There we both were, sipping cocktails in a Caribbean hotel on the edge of a fabulous beach. Palm trees swayed in the afternoon breeze, humming birds sipped nectar from hibiscus flowers, and the only sound, apart from the occasional rattle of the barman’s cocktail shaker, was the soft hiss of the waves as they rippled over the hot sand.
Amanda sighed. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Have you any experience of working in a predominately male environment? Where testosterone is the order of the day and women are still only barely tolerated, let alone taken seriously? Not one of the fuckwits believed me. It didn’t help that I wouldn’t sleep with any of them, either.” She shrugged. “Egotistical pigs. No, I was labelled a troublemaker, and when they found no damning evidence to even suggest I’d had an uninvited visitor that night, including no sign of a break-in, one or two had the cheek to hint that I’d inflicted the wound on myself or that I’d been asking for trouble after suggesting Martyn had been responsible for Sal’s death. After the chief inspector had a ‘bit of a word’ with Martyn, he told me to shut the fuck up or else. They hadn’t found anything, and I was branded a liar and warned I’d be moved elsewhere or sacked if I didn’t toe the line. So I can do nothing now except keep careful watch. Martyn petrifies me, but I have to go through with this, and that’s why I followed you here and didn’t take the risk of speaking to you back home. Incredible but true, I swear.”
“I can’t believe it.” I shifted in my seat, feeling very uneasy. The whole scenario was fantastical. Not least because she had followed me out to the Caribbean. Or was I prejudging? If Martyn had attacked her after killing her cousin, then she had every right to be terrified. Didn’t she?
“You’d better believe it. And that’s not all. You remember I said he’d changed his name from Thomas Hammond to Martyn Cousins? I ran a check on it. As a teenager, Thomas Hammond was once a keen venture scout. One summer, he and the rest of the scout troop went off on a trip to Grindelwald in Switzerland. It was a disaster, because while they were there, two of the scouts were burnt to death in their tent. It was during the night, and the theory is the boys had lit their hurricane lamp and were smoking cigarettes inside the tent. They turned the wick of the lamp up too high, and the air inside the chimney became very hot, causing the chimney to explode. The shock of the explosion caused the bottom part of the lamp to fracture and the spilt oil rapidly caught fire setting the tent alight. Neither boy managed to escape because they were overcome by the toxic fumes from their foam mattresses. Thomas—Martyn—was in the next tent, and although he said he wasn’t part of the boys’ smoking venture, I’d bet my life he was involved somehow. More caution is taken these days and more checks are carried out.” She shuddered.
“Poor kids. If he wasn’t involved, then why change his name? I believe he’s one of those people who enjoy killing things and started young. I don’t know if he’s a sociopath because he does feel certain things. So you see, Moya, if I am right, then Martyn might not stop at graffiti. You could get badly hurt. You might be next.”
A chill crept in between my shoulder blades. She was right about two things. Martyn did seem to ‘care’ about me in a weird sort of way, but Amanda didn’t know the full story. She knew nothing about Martyn and his insinuations, his snide remarks and heavily veiled hinted threats. Yes, she knew Martyn and I were no longer a couple; I hadn’t mentioned anything about Evie and Martyn’s relationship to her. She mentioned that Martyn said he had been waiting for his finances to be sorted…exactly the same thing he had said to Evie.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Even if I weren’t the one in real danger, could I say the same about my sister?
Chapter 16
After the glorious Caribbean weather, I was a little shocked on my return to England. The new month brought with it blustery weather in the form of heavy rain and some ferocious winds. The journey home from the airport was ghastly. I didn’t consider lashing rain and hold-ups on the motorway much of a welcome. As I battled against the elements, I wished I had agreed to let Jon pick me up from the airport. For some reason, I didn’t want to inconvenience him and politely declined his offer of a lift. I felt great relief when I left the main highway, turned into my road and caught sight of my ground-floor flat. It may have been wet and cold, but after an eight-hour flight and lengthy car journey, the thought of a hot bath and slipping into my own bed filled me with joy. I enjoyed travelling abroad but always loved coming home to my own place.
I slammed the lid of the boot shut after collecting my suitcase, locked the car and shot up the path to the front door, my keys at the ready. Since finding Martyn sitting uninvited in my living room, I always kept them on me. Once bitten, twice shy, and I certainly wasn’t about to repeat my mistake.
The familiar smell of the flat assaulted me, and for a moment I felt disorientated. I suppose at the back of my mind I was fretting there might be something ominous waiting for me: more graffiti, dog mess, splattered paint, God only knew what. But as I walked through the hall and peeked into each room, it all seemed quite usual. Nothing out of place.
I had left the central heating on low while I was away, as the flat was part of an old, much larger building, and I didn’t want it to get too cold and damp in my absence, but now I was home, I needed to turn the thermostat up to a more comfortable temperature, as it felt cold. The building was erected in the early Victorian period, and I was lucky enough to have one of the larger flats. Mine, although on the ground floor, had its own entrance, a pretty upstairs bathroom and two good-sized bedrooms. I found the flat in a dilapidated state when it first came on the market, but I could see through the filth and revolting wallpaper. I spent every spare hour doing the place up, and I loved it. It was my home, my castle…mine.
I filled the kettle to make some tea, and while I waited for it to boil, lugged my case upstairs. My shoes were wet through from the puddles outside, and I looked round for my comfy warm slippers. Oddly, I couldn’t see them anywhere. I dumped the case and trudged round the upstairs, glancing in the wardrobe and bathroom and even checking the spare bedroom.
I started to feel exasperated, cold and tired when I walked downstairs and searched the other rooms. It was bloody stupid, but I couldn’t find them anywhere. I wracked my brains. Had I decided to throw them out? They were pretty tatty. I couldn’t remember taking them over to Mum’s to use; it was something I just didn’t do.
I made the tea and carried it to drink upstairs while I unpacked. The bath water would take another fifteen minutes or so to heat up, giving me ample time to get everything tidied away in its rightful place. Another glimpse through a chink in my armour: I loved being tidy—OCD again, I suppose.
Most of my clothes went straight into the washing machine; make-up and jewellery I put away neatly in drawers reserved just for them. I found a couple of pairs of clean knickers and bras in the suitcase and walked over to the old-fashioned armoire which had
belonged to my great-grandmother. I loved the sheen of the old polished wood, knowing other fingers had lovingly stroked the satin-finished fronts of the doors and drawers. There was still a lingering warm smell emanating from the aged mahogany.
As I went to deposit my underwear, I hesitated. Knickers to the left, bras to the right, as usual. But something wasn’t quite right. Only I would have noticed my underwear was incorrectly positioned, lying slightly skew-whiff. That was how I arranged it: white on the top, going through the colour spectrum until lacy black lay on the bottom of the pile. The first thing I saw was the black.
I gave a mental shake of my head. I had packed in haste for my holiday and must have jumbled my drawer contents. Rearranging the clothes, I closed the drawer and picked up the last remaining articles from my case: a three-quarter-length-sleeved dress I hadn’t worn, as it had been too hot, and a light cardigan. I kept both garments in the hanging part of the armoire, and I swung the doors open, looking for their respective hangers; only they weren’t where I could have sworn I had left them. Confused, I stared and glanced along the rail; it wasn’t logical. In fact, nothing made sense. My clothes were definitely not how I left them.
I knew I could be a real pain with my OCD, but I strived to not let it get in the way of friends and my family. Those who knew me well accepted my eccentricities, and having my clothes arranged, colour coordinated and with near equal space on the hanging rail between items, were two such oddities. Now, however, as I stared, I could see no semblance of order.
Dismayed, I took a step back. I felt a prickle of alarm run down my back. What the hell…? Had someone been inside my flat and gone through my things?
Keep calm. Think. I was under some stress just before going away. Perhaps I hadn’t noticed or realised just how much strain. Anxiety could be a funny thing, and I knew it affected people in different ways.
I slammed the doors shut in defiance. I was a strong woman, used to living on my own. I was simply jet-lagged and hung-over from sleep deprivation and out of sorts with an aching back. All I needed was a good hot soak with a glass of wine, before slipping into the comfort of my bed.
Behind A Twisted Smile (Dark Minds Book 2) Page 9