by Jaime Raven
‘She’s at her mother’s until tomorrow.’
I prayed he was telling the truth because I was in no position to take him on a tour of the house to make sure. The longer I carried on bluffing with the key the more likely it was I’d come unstuck.
‘Lead the way,’ I said.
The kitchen was large and spacious, with a breakfast bar between the fitted units and a dining area.
My eyes were drawn to a wooden block on the breakfast bar containing a selection of kitchen knives with stainless steel handles.
I pushed him towards the table and got him to sit in one of the chairs with his back to the breakfast bar.
Then I took hold of a handful of his hair with my left hand and with the other I pocketed the key and reached for the biggest knife in the block.
My confidence shot up as I flashed the blade in front of his face before pressing it against his throat.
‘You fucking whore,’ he said. ‘You weren’t even armed.’
‘Well, I am now,’ I said. ‘And I want you to be in no doubt that I’ll slice your throat wide open if you don’t talk to me.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘So try me and find out. You see, you’ve pushed me too far, Strickland. I no longer have anything to lose. You’ve taken everything away from me, including my son. Now the police believe I killed Ruby Gillespie, and they’re going to put me back inside.’
‘It’s where you fucking belong.’
I jerked his head back and sliced the blade across the bridge of his nose to show him I meant business. He yelped in pain as the blood ran down his face.
I put the blade back against his throat and said, ‘I know that whatever you tell me now you won’t repeat to the police. You’ll just deny everything, and I doubt I will ever be able to prove it. But I want to hear you confess. It’s the only thing I’ve got to look forward to.’
And I want to hear it before I slit your throat wide open.
‘I had nothing to do with any murders,’ he said.
I shook my head. ‘That’s not good enough. You tell me the truth and you get to live. I’ll walk away and you’ll never see me again. But if you keep on shitting me I’ll kill you.’
His body stiffened, and his eyes almost popped out.
‘I’ve told you I didn’t …’
I moved the blade and pushed the tip into the flesh beneath his chin. Blood rushed out and the bastard shrieked like a baby.
‘Oh, Jesus, no. Please.’
‘The truth then,’ I said.
He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw. Then after a few agonising beats, he said, ‘I couldn’t let Benedict ruin me. He found things out. He was going to put them in the paper so he had to be stopped.’
‘So you sent Delaney and his cousin to the hotel?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know we were there?’
‘Ruby told us. I’d asked her to let me know when Benedict was shagging one of her girls.’
‘Did she know what you were going to do?’
‘No.’
‘But you got her to lie in court about the knife.’
‘Of course. She knew that if she didn’t go along with it she’d also end up dead.’
‘So why frame me?’
‘That’s obvious, surely. You said so yourself. I would have been the prime suspect because I had a strong motive for wanting to stop Benedict publishing his story.’
‘And it didn’t matter what happened to me?’
‘You were collateral damage. No one gave a fuck about you.’
I squeezed the handle of the knife until my knuckles turned white.
‘And then you decided to kill Ruby because she broke her silence and told me what she did,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘It gave me the opportunity to sort you out at the same time. It wouldn’t have happened if you’d heeded the warnings and just got on with your life.’
‘So now tell me what happened to Karina Gorski,’ I said.
‘She vanished. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘That’s a lie. She was helping Benedict. She gave him information about you. So you decided to get rid of her.’
‘You’re right about the information. She was screwing me over and feeding Benedict. Then she tried to blackmail me with the information. But I swear I didn’t get her killed. Someone got to her before I did.’
‘Really? Who was it?’
He didn’t get to answer the question because just then there was a noise behind us and I snapped my head towards it.
My heart slammed against my chest when I saw a woman standing in the doorway. It was the same blonde woman who had been with Strickland in the bar. His wife.
She was wearing silk pyjamas and staring at me through large, fearful eyes.
‘Please don’t hurt him,’ she said in a voice that trembled. ‘Just put the knife away and leave before the police get here.’
‘The police!’ I said.
She nodded. ‘I knew there was something wrong when Joe didn’t come back to bed. Then I heard him cry out so I called the police from the bedroom. Told them we had an intruder. You’ve got a couple of minutes at most.’
It’s now or never, I thought. All I have to do is whip the knife across Strickland’s throat and he’ll be dead in minutes.
So why was I hesitating?
‘Please don’t do it,’ his wife said as she stepped into the kitchen. ‘Just go. I beg you.’
‘It’s what I came here for,’ I said. ‘Do you know what your husband has done to me?’
‘I heard what he just told you, but it’s not true. He was telling you what you want to hear.’
‘And you really believe that?’
‘I do. I know my husband. He’s not a monster.’
I swallowed hard and bile stung the back of my throat.
‘Your husband deserves to die, Mrs Strickland. He’s a sick, immoral bastard and you must know it.’
Her eyes flared hot. ‘You’ve got it wrong. Please don’t hurt him. Leave while you still can.’
Those eyes shot through me like a thousand volts, and her words melted my resolve. I felt my heart drop into my stomach.
I wanted to ignore her and rip her husband’s throat wide open. But I suddenly realised I wasn’t strong enough. Or ruthless enough. When it came down to it I couldn’t commit cold-blooded murder.
It didn’t mean that I wasn’t disappointed in myself, though. I felt gutted that I was weaker than I thought I was.
I took the knife away from Strickland’s throat, and he exhaled loudly.
‘You owe your life to that woman,’ I said, and stepped back from the chair.
He leapt to his feet, swung round and fixed me with a glacial stare.
‘You can say what you want to the police,’ he said. ‘But I guarantee they won’t even listen to you. And my wife’s right. What I told you is a pack of lies. I’ll never admit to anything I didn’t do.’
‘I don’t expect you to,’ I said. ‘But we both know that what you told me is the truth. You’re a scumbag.’
He gave me a perfunctory smile that made me regret letting him live.
‘Why don’t you join me for a glass of wine?’ he said. ‘We can continue our chat while we wait for the police to arrive. It’ll probably be the last drop of booze you have for years to come.’
I looked at his wife. Her eyes dropped like lead weights to the floor. Her shame was evident in that simple gesture and it gave me a tiny crumb of satisfaction.
I turned back to Strickland and said, ‘Your time will come, mate.’
‘Of that I have no doubt,’ he said. ‘But it won’t be for a long time yet.’
His smug expression filled me with a feral rage. I threw the knife across the room because the urge to use it returned with a vengeance.
Then I wrenched my gaze away from him and headed for the door. His wife kept her eyes down as I walked past her.
A shot of adrenaline propelled me forward and I ran out of th
e house like a sprinter leaving the blocks.
I heard the police siren as I was getting into the car, but I was away from there before they arrived on the scene.
I felt no sense of relief or self-satisfaction, however. I just felt like I was the loneliest person in the world.
24
Within minutes of leaving Strickland’s house my sense of isolation deepened. I pulled into a side street, parked up and called the hospital to check on Scar.
I was put through to the emergency department where a nurse insisted I give my name. When I did she asked me to wait and a few seconds later a man came on and identified himself as a police officer.
‘You need to give yourself up, Miss Wells,’ he said. ‘Tell me where you are and we’ll arrange to come and get you.’
I ended the call and smacked the palms of my hands against the steering wheel. Blood vessels throbbed at my temples and a sob stuck in my throat.
I waited a couple of minutes and then tried to reach Tiny’s number again, but the call wouldn’t go through. I wondered if he’d switched his phone off or maybe he’d lost it?
I closed my eyes and sat back, feeling emotionally depleted. I was alone now and in deep, deep trouble. The police were hunting me for killing Ruby Gillespie. And it was likely they would also pin Sean Delaney’s murder on me.
Tiny had said he was going to clean up the houseboat and get rid of the evidence. But he might not have been able to do it. Perhaps something had happened to him. Maybe that was why his phone was off.
I couldn’t see how I could escape from the mess I was in. Not unless Strickland had a change of heart and made a full confession. But that wasn’t going to happen.
My despair was compounded by the fact that there were still unanswered questions that were bugging me.
Who had put the note on the car windscreen when we parked it at The Court Hotel the day I came out of prison?
What had happened to Karina Gorski, assuming Strickland and Delaney were telling the truth when they said they didn’t know?
And what was so explosive about the information that Karina had sold to Benedict and used to try to blackmail Strickland?
I opened my eyes and stared out through the windscreen. It was dawn already, and a tinge of purple was creeping into the sky.
I decided I needed a smoke and some fresh air. I lit up in the car and got out after switching off Scar’s phone so the police couldn’t home in on it.
There was a slight chill in the air and the clouds were breaking up. It looked like it was going to be a reasonable day.
I was in the suburb of Portswood, and it was just shaking off its slumber. As I turned into the high street I caught the aroma of fried bacon and saw it was coming from a greasy spoon café that had just opened up.
My stomach gurgled like an old boiler but at the same time the smell fed my underlying nausea. I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat anything, but I was gasping for a big, hot mug of coffee. The place was called Milo’s Eatery and the frontage looked new or refurbished.
I went in and discovered I was the first customer of the day. The proprietor, a grizzly old guy with rough skin and a heavy accent, gave me a funny look. I held my arms in front of me to cover the blood on my clothes and ordered a strong black coffee.
A TV was fixed to one of the walls so I chose a seat with a view of it.
I watched the morning news while I waited for the coffee, but I didn’t take it in. My mind was struggling with something far more important.
I had to decide whether to go to prison or go on the run. It was a hellish choice but there were no other options open to me.
My coffee arrived and it tasted good, better than the weak dishwater I’d had in the hospital. But I almost choked on it when I saw myself staring out of the TV screen. It was the prison mugshot I was all too familiar with. The commentary that accompanied it came as just as much of a shock.
‘Police have issued a photograph of the woman they want to question in connection with the murder of Ruby Gillespie. Lizzie Wells, who’s twenty-seven, was released from prison only a few days ago and is believed to have known the victim whose body was found last night in her home. She’d been stabbed to death.’
I stopped breathing as they ran video footage of the front of Ruby’s house. White-suited Scene of Crime officers were milling around looking for forensic evidence. When the reporter signed off, the show’s presenter linked to another Southampton story.
‘Meanwhile the fire brigade are still at the scene of a blaze that destroyed a houseboat late last night on the River Hamble at Bursledon. A fire brigade spokesman has just confirmed that one person’s remains have been found at the scene. The cause isn’t yet known, although it’s believed the fire might have been started deliberately.’
They cut to a shot of Delaney’s houseboat which had been reduced to a black smouldering hulk.
I allowed myself a private smile. The fire must have been Tiny’s work. He had delivered on his promise to clean up the mess we’d left behind. From the look of what was left of the boat the coppers would struggle to find any evidence linking us to it.
It was a small positive but it didn’t really change anything.
I finished the coffee and glanced over at the proprietor to signal for another. He was holding a phone to his ear and giving me another strange look. I met his gaze, and he turned away guiltily.
I didn’t need to be told what he was doing. He must have seen my picture on the news and was alerting the police.
Bugger.
I slammed the mug down on the table and ran from the café without paying.
The experience had a profound effect on me. By the time I got back to the car I knew that I didn’t want to spend years evading the police and hiding in shadows. I would always be looking over my shoulder, terrified of being spotted. A couple of women I met in prison had gone down that road and had told me what a nightmare it was.
Having made up my mind, I was thrown off balance. I had to light another ciggy to stop myself shaking. And then I sat there infecting my lungs for another fifteen minutes as my head filled with feelings of sadness and loss and pain.
Finally I plucked up the courage to key the ignition. But I didn’t plan on driving straight to the central police station.
First I had to say goodbye to Leo.
25
I got to the cemetery long before it opened, but I had no trouble getting in. Part of the perimeter included a low brick wall and I was over it in a flash.
I trampled between the headstones as the rising sun cast deep, shifting shadows around them.
My breathing was hard and laboured, my body a mess of tightening knots. But when I came upon Leo’s grave I felt an odd sense of peace and finality.
This is where it ends, I told myself. This is where I have to accept defeat.
I bent down, kissed his headstone, ran my fingers over the inscription.
‘I have to go away again,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for being such an awful mother.’
The emotions swamped me and I fell to my knees and cried. It felt like I had failed him all over again, and the pain was like a sword through my heart.
During my time in prison I had been so determined to avenge his death. And after my release I’d been so full of hope. But I realised now that I’d been stupid and naïve. I hadn’t really stood a chance against the forces that were lined up against me. Now I had to face up to it and accept the consequences.
After a while I reached out to tidy up the flowers in the vase and wondered if Pamela Ferris would continue to bring them. Or had I scared her off?
Pamela Ferris.
The woman had slipped from my mind in all the excitement of the last day and night. But I still didn’t know why she had come here week after week or why she had run away when I’d confronted her.
‘It’s a strange thing for her to do, Leo,’ I said aloud. ‘She didn’t know us and she’s the widow of one of the detectives who arrested
me. Yet for some reason she felt compelled to keep bringing you flowers.’
I realised then that I couldn’t go to prison without knowing why she had done it. Did she feel guilty about something? And did it have anything to do with her late husband?
I had one last opportunity to find out before I handed myself in, and I decided to take it. After all, I was in no great hurry to bring my freedom to an end.
I gave my son’s headstone another kiss and mouthed a silent prayer.
I promised him I’d be back one day and that I would always be thinking about him.
Then, through a deluge of tears, I said goodbye and hurried back to the car.
I knew from my earlier internet search that Pamela Ferris used to live with her husband in Water Lane, Totton. I was familiar with the area but not that particular road.
So I went online with Scar’s phone and found it using Google maps. I was working on the assumption that she probably still lived there, and that she hadn’t left for work since it was still only 7.30 a.m.
I didn’t have her house number but I’d recognise her black VW when I saw it.
And I did see it, as soon as I drove along the short, inauspicious street. It was parked on the driveway of a terraced house with a pebble-dash façade.
I pulled over to the kerb a few doors down and walked back. I kept my head down and tried not to look like a desperate murderer on the run from the police.
I went straight up to the front door and was relieved to find that the curtains were closed across the windows.
I rang the bell and a pulse pounded in my head as I waited for it to open. I stood slightly to one side so she couldn’t see me through the peephole.
A full minute passed and I was about to ring again when the door opened, and there she was. She froze when she saw me, gasping involuntarily.
‘Hello, Mrs Ferris,’ I said. ‘I’ve come to have a little talk with you.’
Her jaw went slack and she stared at me with giant eyes. She was in her dressing gown and her hair was wet, but she’d already applied her make-up.
I put my hand against the door before she could close it.
‘I’m coming in whether you like it or not, Mrs Ferris. I strongly advise you not to scream or resist.’