by M J Johnson
Sally burst into deep sobs again. Megan hugged her and whispered soothing words of comfort. There were tears in the corners of the older woman's eyes too as she considered the positive spin she'd attached to Gil's ability to recover. She recalled how worried his friends had been about him after the crash; how fundamental Kate and Felix had been to his recovery; like towers of light when he had been adrift in an ocean of darkness, pillars of strength at moments of deepest despair.
Yet, for all these brave words of encouragement, Megan wondered if Gil could truly get over what had happened. And deep down, though she kept her own counsel on this, she wasn't certain at all.
14
Sally stayed until the following weekend. Then she rejoined the company to prepare for the London previews and first night. She had found it a hard decision to make. It felt like she was abandoning Gil in his hour of need. But then, it wasn't fair to let Roz and the other colleagues who had so resolutely stood in for her at Bristol, make final preparations and shoulder responsibility for the London opening.
The steadfast Megan had encouraged her to go. From the older woman's perspective, the present situation was putting Gil and Sally's relationship under a colossal strain. Megan believed a time apart might help Gil focus, see the good thing his unintentional neglect might be in danger of losing.
Although Gil said nothing to Sally directly he understood her reasons for going. He was aware too of how dreadful it must be for everyone to be around him; he felt cut off from life, emotionally shut-down and unable to communicate. However, being in this frozen state didn't mean he couldn't actually experience emotions or feel the pain associated with them. The idea of Sally being stalked by the killer, unidentified and still out there, gripped him at moments with a paralysing terror.
Strangely, the only person Gil felt able to confide in was Mullings, "I'm worried for her safety, Chief Inspector."
"Of course. I can assure you that Miss Curtis will be the subject of round the clock surveillance," replied the policeman.
"I know a lot of people," said Gil. He stated this as a grim fact before going on to say, "There are over three hundred names on my Christmas card database, at least half that number I'd call friends." He felt like a plague-carrier, bringing destruction to those unfortunate enough to enter his orbit, a harbinger of death.
Mullings nodded sympathetically.
"Do you intend to watch over all of them? Can you offer everyone I know protection, or is it going to be the luck of the draw?"
The tone of Mullings' voice hinted at the pressure and burden of responsibility he was experiencing as officer in charge, "This is not an enviable position to be in … not for you, the victim of crime, or for us its investigators. It would be dishonest of me to suggest that we are even close to solving this case. Having said that, a piece of evidence might appear and change everything, forensic might suddenly discover something … you can never tell when a case is going to break."
Mullings paused to clear his throat, "But I can assure you that every avenue of investigation, however remote or seemingly implausible, is being vigorously pursued. So far, I admit every lead has got us nowhere. Whoever is behind this prepared meticulously, they haven't left us much of a trail to follow. We can only advise everyone close to you, to be vigilant. We're concentrating our resources on people you mention in your diary regularly. The Paddick family is being shadowed to and from school and work … the same goes for Mrs Hollingsworth and your agent, Mr Small. The Somerset force is keeping an eye for us on your late wife's parents."
"I feel responsible … to think just knowing me could get you killed!"
"We don't know that's the reasoning behind these killings, but I can understand how you feel."
"Do you think you can?" asked Gil. He put the question straightforwardly without a trace of self-pity.
Mullings pursed his lips, "Let's say I empathise, then."
Gil sighed. Although desperately frustrated with the investigation, he wasn't angry with Mullings. He had never doubted the man was leading a thorough inquiry, doing everything in his power to apprehend the killer.
"Any luck with the names you asked for?" enquired Gil, without holding out much hope of a positive reply.
Mullings shook his head, "Nothing so far."
Five days earlier, Gil had been asked to compile a list. It included anyone who may, at any time, have harboured a grudge, real or imagined, against him. It was to include kids he hadn't got on with at school, students at the Slade, contemporaries or rivals who might be jealous of his success, past difficulties and disputes with neighbours, minor prangs he'd had in cars, even altercations in shops and any obsessive fan mail he or Felix had ever received. The list had taken hours to complete.
Inevitably, the name Geoff Owens had cropped up again in the course of this. Kent Police had checked out Owens' whereabouts, as a matter of course, within hours of Felix and Kate's deaths. Several eyewitnesses had seen Owens walking home from the local pub along a footpath around 9.30 pm. It had been early for him to leave the pub as he generally stuck around until closing. He had told the barmaid he was expecting a phone call. Geoff Owens didn't own a mobile phone apparently. It was just about feasible for Owens to travel the twenty odd miles from Speldhurst, to reach East Peckham in time to have committed the murders. However, Geoff Owens not only didn't possess a driving licence, but far more significantly didn't own a vehicle. If Owens had been driving about illegally, and to the extent suggested by the case, Mullings felt certain someone would have seen him and come forward; he was not a popular character locally. There was also a question of motive. It was difficult enough to see a reason for murdering the elderly children's author and his wife, let alone connect Owens with Michael Chilvers. Lastly, the murderer had left imprints of his wellington boots in the soft grass verge outside Felix and Kate's oast. It was one of the few bits of tangible evidence the police possessed; Owens wore size nine shoes but the killer had been wearing size eleven.
"I read a newspaper article this morning which implied I may have had more of a hand in Felix and Kate's deaths than appeared to be the case at first glance," said Gil. He was referring to a foul little piece in one of the daily rags renowned for its invective. "Did you read it?"
"I read it," replied Mullings, "I suppose these people have to write something contentious every day to guarantee readership and keep their big fat pay cheques rolling in."
The paper had revealed that Gil was the main beneficiary in Felix and Kate's will, a fact which had stunned Gil when he'd been contacted by Felix's solicitor only twenty-four hours before the article was printed. The source of poison was obvious: the paper had interviewed the Blatts' nephew, a man Felix had found detestably creepy and insincere. The nephew's wife, also quoted in the article, and who in Felix's view had been as equally loathsome as her husband, was reported as saying, 'Poor Uncle Felix was taken in for years by the fairly talentless Harper.'
"You don't think I orchestrated this, to get my hands on the money?" asked Gil.
"Mr Harper, I'm a copper, I check everything," replied Mullings. "You own a big house that's all paid for and you earn a lot more money than you spend. I'd find it hard to see a money motive. I expect your bank manager is always pleased to invite you to lunch, which is more than can be said for my relationship with my own bank … I doubt the manager even knows I exist."
Gil smiled. It was probably the first time since Felix and Kate's deaths. "I think the reference to 'the fairly talentless Harper' is what rattled my cage!"
An uncommonly vindictive thought then suddenly occurred itself to Gil. He looked up about to speak.
But the Chief Inspector was already there, "Like I said … I'm a copper. Mr Blatt's nephew was having dinner at his old Oxford College."
Gil managed to share a wry smile with Mullings.
15
Two hours later, in the early evening, when Gil and Spike were alone in the house, Gil received a text on his mobile:
J U L E S
>
16
Sunday 1 March
First, I must apologise.
J U L E S
Alright, I admit it's repetitive.
Well almost.
NB I deliberately changed all the letters to capitals just to add a soupçon of uncertainty.
I'm certain it couldn't have failed to grab your attention!
You wouldn't remember, but around the time I poisoned your pooch, I abandoned my observation of you for a short time. Needless to say, I was totally occupied. It's not easy to befriend the friendless and unloved.
Although, I can't tell a lie, it was less difficult than I'd anticipated. At first it was necessary to look like I wasn't really trying to gain his trust. Pariahs don't do trust and think suspicious thoughts about anyone wanting to make friends with them. So it demanded time, patience and skill.
Eventually, I had him eating out of my hand.
Not literally, I'm pleased to say!
I found him repellent, sad and sorry for himself.
I despise him.
Fortunately, my loathing and contempt is not reciprocated. Our friendship has brought him a new lease of life. He's even trying to drink less. Recently he confided in me that he's hooked on tranquilisers. He went on to solemnly swear to get help after we've gone into business.
Oh yes, we're going into business together!
At least, he believes it!
Imagine! He thinks we're going into business together to manufacture garden furniture. You see, I had to gain his trust. It started simply. I am so inventive. I complimented him on some garden furniture he'd made out of reclaimed timber. He's actually quite skilful at making things, can turn his hand to anything in fact, even mechanical things. Funnily enough, he'll shortly be doing a car repair for me. It seemed a waste to leave his garage empty. I'm certain he'll do a good job. Of course, there won't be anything wrong with the car, apart from the bits and pieces I've tinkered with.
His fingerprints will of course be all over it like a rash.
Anyway, I ran with the garden furniture idea. I praised his skills to the hilt. Took photographs of the stuff he'd made. All the time a plan was formulating. I asked him if he could think of other designs. He enthusiastically produced whatever I asked for like a performing seal. I told him I had a business acquaintance who owned a large share in a chain of garden centres in the north-east. I said I'd like to test them out on him, see what he thought.
From the look of gratitude on his pathetic puppy-dog face, you'd think I'd just saved the lives of his children (little bit of a sick joke there. Sorry!).
The next bit I teased out superbly.
"What did your friend say?" he kept asking with dog-like eagerness.
"Sorry, hasn't got back yet."
"Have you heard anything?"
"He likes them but he's not sure."
(Looks dejected)
"He'll need to show them to his Sales Manager before he can commit."
(Hope rises)
"Have you heard any more … the Sales Manager?"
"Nothing. Sorry."
I kept him on tenterhooks for weeks.
I was a bit concerned he'd start blabbing. I needn't have worried. He's totally paranoid (the pills probably). He thinks everyone is out to steal his garden furniture designs.
The moron hasn't spoken to anyone about our business plan! What a sucker!
The night I dispatched the Blatts to the Great Children's Book Club in the Sky, I was thought by our friend to be in Newcastle, discussing garden furniture.
I'd arranged to call him at home at 9.45.
It was quite touching to hear the excitement in his voice when I told him we'd received an initial order for ten sets of furniture.
Then he suddenly went quiet. There was an awkward silence.
I thought perhaps I'd slipped up in some way.
I asked him what was wrong.
He confessed he didn't have any money to buy the materials and get started.
I told him, "What's the problem?"
So, I had to cough up for a load of timber he's having delivered on Wednesday. Expensive, but not too expensive, it's reclaimed timber because the project has an environmental angle. Anyway, like I said, "That's what friends do, Geoffrey."
"Maybe I can repay you by doing you a favour some time?" he said.
"Well, there is one thing … I wonder if you could take a look at an old Ford Galaxy I've got?"
17
The police wasted no time investigating the text message. Unfortunately very little could be ascertained from it. The word JULES had been sent via a pay-as-you-go phone, and the sim card proved untraceable.
A day later, Gil received a second text: 'an eye for an eye – tooth for a tooth'.
However, Mullings and Jackson appeared to be less than certain about the authenticity of either of the messages.
"It must be him!" insisted Gil.
"It's possible," replied Jackson, "It was sent via another pay-as-you-go mobile."
But Mullings clearly remained unconvinced.
"It has to be the killer … both the texts," stated Gil, now staring incredulously at Mullings, "Who else, then? He deliberately chose my wife's nickname, just like he scrawled it across her portrait … to let me know he'd got into my computer!"
Mullings didn't share this certainty at all, "The damage to the portrait has recently been reported in the media. In the first text, your wife's name was written in block capitals. Passwords are generally case sensitive, and on your computer it was only capitalised in its first letter. Our killer adopted this form exactly when the portrait was defaced. We deliberately misinformed the press that your wife's name was scrawled over the painting in upper case, but the killer would certainly recognise this as incorrect."
Gil was exasperated by what seemed rather simplistic reasoning. "So you're saying these were hoax texts?" Gil could feel his hackles begin to rise.
"Mr Harper, I'm trying not to make assumptions … but I think you are. As for hoax callers, sadly, a lot of investigations are hindered and many hours lost, dealing with them. It's hard to believe but there are people who think it's amusing to feed the police misleading information."
Since the murders, Gil had acquired a haunted expression and more grey in his hair. He feared many things at this time. But ironically, one recurring thought that troubled him a great deal, was that the killer had finished with him and he would have to spend the rest of his life in a state of limbo; never being certain, constantly checking over his shoulder, forever anxious for those he cared about.
Gil took in a deep breath and sighed, "It just felt like him, that's all."
"It may well be," replied Mullings. "Assuming it is, not some prankster having fun, we need to ask why? Why does he choose to communicate with you at this moment, and why in this particular way? What does he want us to think? Is he trying to manipulate us, get us to believe something?"
Jackson spoke next and voiced exactly what Gil was thinking, "Certainly, 'An eye for an eye' etc sounds like vengeance, retribution."
"It immediately made me think of the accident," said Gil.
"But that doesn't make sense," said Mullings. "Seeking vengeance for an accident nobody ever believed was your fault in the first place? And if vengeance really was the motive, why was Michael Chilvers killed?"
"To get me convicted for murder," retorted Gil.
"No. We've been over that," stated Mullings, showing a little exasperation himself now, his voice uncharacteristically raised. The case was taking its toll on everyone. He paused, his tone less strained when he spoke again, "Whoever killed Mr Chilvers planned meticulously. They knew you'd be at the Paddicks' party. They wanted to get you rattled, leave their calling card, but didn't want to land you in too much trouble. They made sure you had a cast-iron alibi."
Gil shook his head despondently, "Christ, what's he after?"
"It's like a vendetta," interjected Jackson.
Mullings immediately glanced acr
oss at his colleague. "Vendetta? A vendetta is personal. Is it really personal … or does the killer want us to believe it is?"
"There surely has to be a reason, some motive?" said Gil, horrified by the idea of murder without cause.
"Oh, there's definitely a motive ... in the mind of the killer," said Mullings.
18
Three days later, a third text arrived. Unlike the first two, this one came via the landline.
Gil glanced at his watch when the phone rang. It was 9.47 pm, too early for Sally. He hesitated. Ever since the call from the bogus doctor, Gil had flinched whenever the phone rang, especially in the evenings with just him and Spike at home.
He picked up the handset. He'd got into the habit of not speaking first.
The messaging service informed there was a voice text. It reeled off a mobile phone number then gave the time Gil had already noted.
Another automated female voice then went on to deliver the actual message with robotic precision:
'This is where it ends.
'You will never be able to understand why I did this.
'You took three lives precious to me. It doesn't matter who was to blame. I've suffered, served my sentence. I wanted you to understand how I've felt the past five years.
'Now we're quits. Your wife, Felix and Kate Blatt. Three for three. I'll let you keep the dog. Do you remember our dog was in the back of the truck with my children and had to be put down?
'I'm sorry about Chilvers. A red herring, to throw everyone off my scent.
'It's over.
'I hope you live a long and painful life.'
Once the message ended, Gil was left reeling like a drunken man. He was finding it hard to breathe, the blood was screaming through his head, ears ringing, heart pounding. Spike, recognising something was not quite right with his master, made small circular manoeuvres about his feet and began to whimper.
Gil covered his mouth with his hand until the shock had subsided enough to replay the message. The main gist of it was straightforward, but the unusual stresses and inflections of the automated delivery had made parts of the message difficult to grasp first off.