by Michael Wood
Matilda took slow steps into the living room. Ben was in the armchair, feet up on a matching footstool. Both items had seen better days. The widescreen television on the wall was showing a horse race with the volume muted.
‘Say what you have to say, then go,’ Ben said without turning around.
‘I thought you and Sara got back together again after you …’ she tailed off, not wanting to mention his attempted suicide.
‘After I tried to kill myself?’ he finished for her.
‘Well, yes.’
‘We did. She didn’t stay long, just long enough so that she wouldn’t feel guilty if I tried and succeeded a second time.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
He looked up at her. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes. Can I sit down?’
Ben shrugged. Matilda went over to the sofa and tried to find a space among the newspapers and discarded clothing.
‘Ben, what’s happened to you?’ she asked with genuine concern.
Ben took in the room as if seeing the mess for the first time. ‘This is what happens when everything in your life turns to shit. I have no job, no wife, no family. I couldn’t even kill myself properly. What do I have to look forward to? Who do I have to look after myself for?’ His voice was full of resentment.
‘For yourself. Ben, you used to be so well turned out. You had haircuts and wore nice clothes. You took care of your appearance.’
‘And then you came along and destroyed everything.’
‘No. That’s not true. I didn’t do anything. All I did was my job. When I became DCI I made it clear that we could work together. I was prepared to make our relationship work. It was you who refused to adapt. I’m not taking the blame for all this.’
‘No. I didn’t think you would. When you went on leave I thought that would be it. The MIT would be mine. It should have been, too. When you returned you should have been back as a DI, with me in charge, but oh no, there were too many men at the top already. There had to be a woman running things somewhere. So Queen Matilda is given back her throne and I’m tossed aside once again.’
‘My God, you’re still bitter after all this time.’
‘I’m not bitter. I’m just angry. I’m angry at you being able to get away with fucking murder and not face the consequences.’
‘What did you say?’ Matilda asked. Like the killer, Ben had accused her of murder.
‘What?’ he asked, genuinely perplexed.
‘You said I was able to get away with murder. Is that what you believe?’
‘Well, yes. When you came back, you weren’t in a fit state to run the MIT. You were popping pills and running into the toilets to cry every five minutes. You were unstable. But you were also Valerie Masterson’s blue-eyed girl. Like I said, you could have walked into her office with a body over your shoulder and slammed it down on her desk and she would have let you off with it.’
‘Ben, you need to get over this. If you let all this resentment eat away at you then it’s going to kill you,’ she warned.
‘I don’t exactly have a lot to live for.’
‘Yes, you do. You have two daughters. You’re not even fifty yet. You can start again.’
‘And do what?’
‘Anything you want to do. Go travelling, get a new career—’
‘Become a security guard at Tesco,’ he finished her sentence. ‘A very tempting offer. Look, just say what you came here to say and then go. I really don’t want to have a long conversation with you about the future.’
Matilda sighed. On the drive over she had not expected to see the house and Ben in this state. It was a shock. It was incredibly sad. Despite their differences, Matilda knew Ben Hales was a brilliant detective. To see him wasting away in his own filth was heartbreaking.
‘Ben, I know you don’t like me, but, would you do anything to hurt me?’ she asked carefully.
He looked up at her. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Would you ever do something that could lead to me losing my job?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Matilda, you’re not making any sense. Stop pussyfooting around and just come out with it.’
‘OK, let me ask you another way. Where were you on Thursday, the 9th of March?’
Matilda knew his reply was going to be laced heavily with sarcasm just by the twinkle in his usually dull eyes.
‘Oh, that’s easy, Thursday night is opera night. Yes, I was with a few friends all dressed up in top hat and tails. I can’t recall without looking in my incredibly packed diary, but I think it may have been Don Giovanni.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘What do you think I was doing? I was probably sitting here drinking until I passed out like I do every night. Now are you going to tell me what is going on or are we going to play twenty questions? What’s the significance of the 9th of March?’
Matilda shook her head. She was growing tired of Ben’s self-pitying. Why should she go for the softly-softly approach? ‘Ben, did you kill Brian Appleby?’
‘What? Who the hell’s …?’ The penny dropped. ‘What?’ He almost yelled. Matilda recoiled. ‘You think I’m the killer, don’t you? You think I’ve been going around killing people who have committed crimes and given light sentences in order to shame the police? Matilda, I really do dislike you. In fact, I loathe you with a passion; but do you honestly think I spend my days sitting here wondering how I can get back at you?’ He stood up. Matilda did too and started to back away slowly. ‘You are some piece of work,’ he seethed. ‘Do you honestly think I could have killed two people?’
Matilda didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She was struck mute by the rage emanating from him.
‘Well? Do you?’
‘No. I’m sorry—’
‘Oh, that’s OK then, if you’re sorry. Let’s all go back to being friends and we can get on with the rest of our lives. How do you feel every time you pick up a newspaper and see Carl Meagan’s face staring at you? I bet you feel sick, I bet you feel guilty, like you want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. It’s the worst feeling in the world, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she whimpered.
‘So why would you come around here and make me feel exactly the same way?’
‘Ben, I’m sorry. I really am.’
‘Do me a favour, Matilda. Fuck off and leave me alone.’
He’d backed Matilda into a corner against the front door. It was almost like a year ago when he’d trapped her in her own house. This time it was much worse.
Ben leaned into her, grabbing her by the throat with a strong and dirty hand. He squeezed hard. She tried to pull him off, but he was too strong.
With his face almost touching her he said, ‘If you ever come back to my house again I swear to God I will fucking kill you, do you understand me?’
She tried to answer, but she couldn’t. She made a squeaky, whimpering noise. That seemed to be enough, as Ben released his hold and Matilda almost dropped to the floor. He pushed her out of the way and pulled open the front door. A cold blast of fresh air rushed into the hallway. She ran to her car, one hand on her throat, the other searching in her pockets for her keys.
Matilda climbed in behind the steering wheel, closed the door and locked it from the inside. She looked out of the side window, half expecting to see Ben threatening her from the pavement or glaring at her from his doorstep, but he wasn’t. She suddenly felt incredibly guilty. What was she thinking of, coming here, accusing him of two murders? She took a deep breath and started the ignition. She could still feel Ben on her. She could still smell him. Matilda opened the windows and allowed the cold air in. There was no doubt in her mind that Ben Hales had the potential to kill, but he wasn’t the killer of Brian Appleby and Joe Lacey.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Day Twenty-Two
Thursday, 30 March 2017
Katie Reaney had two small travel cases open on her bed. Next to them were two piles of tiny clothes. She gently began packi
ng, smoothing each item as she delicately placed them in the cases.
‘Erm, you do realize they’re only going away for two nights,’ her husband, Andy, said as he entered the bedroom.
Katie muttered in agreement and nodded. She didn’t turn around.
‘Don’t you think you’re packing too much?’
Katie shook her head, still not saying anything, still not turning around.
‘What’s wrong?’ He went over to her and saw she was crying. ‘You silly cow, Katie, come here.’ He took the small T-shirts from her hands and pulled her into a hug. ‘Is that why you don’t want to come with me to drop them off?’
‘Yes,’ she cried into his shoulder.
He pushed her out of the hug and held her at arm’s length. Her mascara had run slightly.
‘You have nothing to worry about.’
‘I know.’
‘They’re spending two nights with my mum. I’ll be with them tonight, and we’ll both go and pick them up on Sunday morning. You’ll be pulling your hair out again in no time.’
‘I know. I’m being silly,’ she said, sniffling.
‘No, you’re not. It’s natural.’
‘Then why aren’t you upset?’
‘Well, according to my mother I’m a heartless sod, and in our last argument you called me insensitive.’
Katie laughed through the tears. She heard the sound of tiny feet thundering up the stairs. ‘Don’t let them see me crying, and change your T-shirt.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve snotted on your shoulder, sorry.’
Katie looked at her reflection in the mirror to make sure her mascara hadn’t run. Her eyes were red and puffy; there was nothing she could do about that. She neatened her dyed blonde hair and tried various smiles before she found the most convincing one.
‘Right kids, give your mum a big hug and tell her you love her,’ Andy instructed the well-wrapped children in the hallway of their semi-detached home.
In turn the two children hugged Katie. She gave them both a big kiss, told them to behave, not to eat everything Grandma had in her pantry, to go to bed on time and not to traumatize the cat too much. She also gave Andy the same instructions.
She helped Andy secure them into the back seat of the Audi then stood in the doorway of the house, waving them off, smiling through the pain of her two children spending the night away from home without her for the first time. As soon as the car turned right at the end of the cul-de-sac, the floodgates opened. Katie closed the front door and rested against it.
‘Andy was right, you are a silly cow,’ Katie told herself.
She splashed her face with cold water in the bathroom and looked at her blotchy reflection in the mirror. Tomorrow she would be thirty years old. How did that happen? Where had these dark lines under her eyes come from? And the crow’s feet?
Katie opened the bathroom cabinet and took out a face pack. She had her evening all planned out – her favourite film on DVD, a big pack of peanut M&Ms, manicure, pedicure and face mask and she would look amazing for her birthday meal out on Friday. Before she went downstairs she smiled at the black dress hanging on her wardrobe door. She couldn’t believe she was back to being a size ten.
The house was eerily quiet without a five-year-old and three-year-old running around the place, screaming at full volume. Katie would have access to the remote controls for an entire night – that almost never happened. Suddenly, she wasn’t so sad Jenson and Bobbi were away for a couple of nights.
Katie had just sat down on the sofa, This Means War was starting, and the wine was poured, when her mobile started to ring. It was probably Debbie, seeing how she was coping without the kids. She stood up to get her phone from the table and didn’t look at the display. She muted the volume on the TV.
‘Hello?’ she asked.
‘Hello,’ it was a man’s voice. ‘Can I speak to Naomi Parish, please?’
Katie froze. That was a name she hadn’t heard for almost twenty years…
Naomi Parish stood in the doorway of the small bedroom. A soft night light gave the room a warm, comforting glow. She stepped in quietly so as not to wake the sleeping child. She could hear the deep breathing coming from the cot, the little whimpering sounds. She smiled. She looked down and saw Alistair on his back, mouth slightly open. His dummy had fallen out. His eyelids fluttered, and she wondered what he was dreaming about. She reached into the cot and picked him up.
She picked him up.
She should never have picked him up.
He opened his eyes, but it was obvious he was still half asleep.
‘Hello, Alistair,’ she said in a high-pitched sweet voice. ‘You’re a lovely boy, aren’t you? Lovely big blue eyes. Just like your daddy. I like your daddy, Alistair. Do you think he likes me? I bet he does. The thing is, your daddy used to look at me a lot at one point, but then you came along. And now he only has time for his precious little boy …’
‘What!’ Katie said quietly. Her mouth had dried. She gripped the phone firmly in her left hand and pressed it hard against her ear. Had she heard correctly?
‘Naomi Parish. I’d like to speak to Naomi Parish, please.’
Katie was visibly shaking now. Sweat was trickling down her back and it felt like her heart was trying to break out of her chest.
‘I … I … There’s nobody here by that name,’ she stumbled.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked, his voice calm and steady.
‘Yes. Sorry.’ She hung up and slumped onto the sofa before her legs gave way.
The sounds of the house faded, and she was cocooned in a heavy silence. Her breathing was very restricted and laboured. Her vision blurred as she stared into a past she thought was long forgotten and deeply buried. She looked at a small framed photograph on the television unit – Jenson and Bobbi in a paddling pool in the back garden last summer, all smiling and happy…
‘Mr Macintosh, I’m so sorry for your loss. My mum sent these flowers round,’ Naomi said, standing shyly on the doorstep.
Naomi had spent all morning anxiously watching the house until Mrs Macintosh had left before visiting. She wanted to get Mr Macintosh alone, all to herself. While waiting for the door to open she had undone a couple more buttons on her shirt. She didn’t have much of a bosom to show off yet, but it was getting there.
‘Thank you. Come on in.’ He stepped back from the door and headed for the kitchen. Naomi followed.
‘Is Mrs Macintosh in?’ she asked.
‘No. She’s gone over to her mum’s.’ He slumped down on a chair. He looked like he’d aged in the three days since his son had died. He hadn’t shaved and had hardly slept, but it gave him a rugged edge that Naomi liked even more.
Naomi bent down in front of him, placed her hands on his knees and looked up with her big sad eyes. ‘If there’s anything I can do for you, Mr Macintosh, you only need to ask,’ she said in a low and breathy voice. She stroked his legs, his huge muscular legs.
‘That’s very kind of you, Naomi. Thank you,’ he said robotically. His body may have been there, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t take in the horrific reality of his son dying.
‘Mr Macintosh.’ Naomi leaned in towards him and kissed him firmly on the lips.
That brought him back to reality. He jumped up in disgust.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
She began opening the remaining buttons on her top. ‘Would you like to take me to bed, Mr Macintosh?’
The mobile rang again.
It was still in her left hand. The number was withheld. Was it the same caller? She refused to answer and watched the display until it stopped ringing and faded to black. It started up again almost immediately.
‘Shit,’ she said under her breath.
Katie threw the mobile onto the armchair. It landed under a cushion, the ringtone muffled. When it stopped ringing the sound of an incoming text message lit up the phone again. She reached across for it, hoping it was Andy or Debbie.
&n
bsp; I’d like to talk to Naomi Parish.
As she glared at the phone, the doorbell rang.
Katie looked up. Her heart missed a beat as the sound echoed throughout the house. Andy had a key, he had no need to ring the bell. It wouldn’t be Debbie, she was housebound.
The doorbell rang again.
The curtains were closed in the living room. It felt smaller. Claustrophobic. She listened intently for any sound outside the house. She couldn’t hear anything.
The doorbell rang for a third time, and she slapped a hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming.
Katie went out into the hallway and looked at the solid oak door. There were no window panes, so she couldn’t see who her caller was. She edged closer, her legs shaking, barely able to hold herself up. With sweaty palms pressing against the door she leaned forward and looked through the spyhole – there was nobody there.
She breathed a sigh of relief and felt her heart rate begin to slow. It was probably just a coincidence: those twins two doors along messing about.
Katie turned around to go back into the living room when she stopped dead in her tracks. Ahead of her, in the doorway to the kitchen, stood a man. He was tall, dressed from head to toe in black. He wore a hooded sweater, the hood pulled right down, concealing his face. Katie tried to scream but nothing would come out, her mouth had dried up in fear.
‘Naomi Parish,’ the man said.
‘Oh my God,’ her voice shook with fear. ‘I knew you’d come for me.’ Tears ran down her face. ‘Who are you?’
From behind his back he revealed a thick rope with a noose on the end. ‘I’m the Hangman. I’m your executioner.’
‘Shit!’
Katie screamed and turned to the front door. She grabbed at the handle, but it slipped out of her sweaty palms. The chain was on and it was double-locked. She fumbled to unhook it with shaking fingers, but it was hopeless. She felt the noose go over her head and press into her neck. She tried to pull at it, to get her fingers beneath the rope to stop it from strangling her, but the man was too quick.