Dead Blonde

by Beck Robertson

  “Yeah thanks Jen.” At this time he needed all the help he could get, especially from someone of Doyle’s calibre.

  Apparently everyone had seemed to worship Sally Brooks and not one person could think of a single reason why anyone would want to kill her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE - BIRTHSTONE

  It had been a nice touch sending the wreath. He wondered if Gaine would appreciate it. It wouldn’t be done the same this time. Everything had been leading up to this after all and things would have to be done very differently. He looked down at the items he had laid out on the navy cotton of the bedspread; the spool of duct tape, the syringes, three of them, containing a clear amber coloured liquid, alongside the eight lengths of rope he’d pre-cut especially for the occasion. And the small silver coloured pistol loaded with bullets of course. He stared at the gun on the bed. One way or another they would be together forever.

  Ever since he’d found her again he’d been watching in the shadows for so long. Now was finally the right time. Now was the time when he could confess his love for her. He knew she felt the same way. He could tell just by the way she looked at him, her blue eyes smiling, he’d not seen her look that way at anyone else. And now they’d both been given a second chance to make things right, to make up for the past, the lost years. Make up for it all together.

  Sally. All those long years they had been apart, he had held on to the memory of her. Of the way she had made him feel. He was so young, yet he had felt it then, and he felt it even more strongly now. Why hadn’t she been able to see it? If only she had then they could have been happy, and all of it need never have happened.

  No. Don’t think about it.

  “You’re so pathetic. Disgusting.” His mother’s voice.

  ”Thought you were going to get rid of me as easily as all that?” She was dead he’d seen it with his own eyes, it was a trick, nothing more, he had to just ignore her.

  “She doesn’t love you. No one could ever love you, even your own mother couldn’t love you.”

  Shut up, shut up, shut up. Just ignore her and she’ll go away. This was his time now and he’d waited too long for it. Long hard, cold years, years spent on the outside of everything, pretending to be a part of it. When in reality he’d never found anyone he belonged to, anywhere he could belong. Except when he had been with her.

  He’d thought it was going to be so different with her. It had felt different with her. Everything from the way she’d looked at him to the way she had made him feel when she spoke to him had just felt, right, somehow. Like it was meant to be; like she saw who he really was when no one else in the world did.

  They had shared his secret, he’d shared it with her, and she’d acted like she understood. That’s why she’d been so important to him, and why it had hurt so much when she’d turned away from him. Now she would have had time to realise her mistake, time to realise they belonged together.

  He walked over to the mirror eyeing his reflection. No it wasn’t like usual. The denims, the white shirt, the Converse, it was almost eerie how you could turn back time. He felt for the box in his pocket, the red velvet pliable beneath his touch, soft like her flesh.

  She’d accept it this time. It was different now; she would see that. He had been reborn; he was self-made. He was a man now, not a confused, frightened, scrap of a kid. He leaned into the mirror and grinned, showing even, white teeth. Posed in front of the glass, the gesture exaggerated, one hand sweeping back through his hair, holding it away from his face. Remembering something, he stopped abruptly, letting the hair fall back down in to his eyes. Crossing the room he walked over to the small, black box placed on top of the mahogany coloured dresser and pressed the silver oval button.

  “Found pieces of Jennifer’s Body, found pieces of Jennifer’s Body, just relax just relax just go to sleep.”

  Courtney Love’s voice rasped out of the little stereo, the cheap, tinny CD player making her tone sound scratchier than usual. He remembered the song well, Sally had loved it. He moved back to the mirror and began to dance, as if he were moshing at a concert, the movements ridiculous, hopping from one leg then the other as he waved his arms about wildly. Catching sight of himself he grinned again, holding up two fingers at his image as if he were aiming a gun.

  “She won’t love you, it doesn’t matter what you do. She didn’t want you then and she doesn’t want you now.”

  I know you’re not real Mother, I’m not going to listen to you.

  Ignoring her voice, he continued to dance, maybe he could dance her away, dance the memory of her out of existence. Jumping from side to side, his feet drummed at the floor wildly as he transferred the weight. Tonight is the night, he could feel it, it was right, everything was right.

  It would be how it should have been all those years ago. The circle completed, he had them all now. All of them except the very last of all. The prize. Soon he would have that. “Never.” Shut up Mother.

  He stopped dancing; standing there in front of the mirror and eyeing himself for a few seconds before walking back to the dresser again. Opening the drawer, he retrieved an old photograph. He’d kept it for all these years, the only photograph he had of her and him together, taken in the passport photo booth that used to stand at the end of the checkout in the Boots in town.

  Studying it - two kids innocently mocking for the camera - he closed his eyes. He could smell her perfume, spicy and sweet at the same time. Sniffing hard, he inhaled deeply, imagining that magical smell, the odour of youth, and hope and promise.

  He recalled the little black bottle of scent she used to keep in her school bag and reapply constantly as he watched, in awe. She would uncap it tipping back her head as her blonde hair tumbled in waves down her back, and spray her slender throat. The liquid would spurt out suddenly as it hit the tender flesh and ran in rivulets down her lovely neck, the aroma of it rising to permeate his nostrils.

  The day the picture was taken they had decided to head into town. They had hung around the stores fingering the posters in the HMV, and stealing erasers shaped like bags of French Fries from WhSmith, before heading to the fish and chip shop to purchase a cone of chips each. Soaked them in too much tomato ketchup and stuffed them down their throats hungrily, occasionally stopping to feed each other one, before bursting into laughter at their own greed. Then on the way home Sally had decided she wanted some bubble bath, so they’d gone into the little Boots where they had stopped off at the photo booth.

  He stared down at the picture; it had been one of the very best days of his young life. For a moment he’d dared to believe that he could feel almost normal. Then she’d betrayed him, betrayed his trust, and thrown it all back in his face.

  “No one could ever love you.” Shut up.

  He tucked the photograph into his trouser pocket. It might be fun to show it to her, she’d probably forgotten about it after all these years. It would be a talking point, something to re-bond over, to remember just how happy they had been.

  “You’re deluded. She doesn’t want you. She’s normal. Not like you, you’re just a freak.” You’re back again?

  “Did you think I’d gone away?” Why can’t you just leave me alone?

  “She’s not Sally you know. You killed her remember? Sally’s dead and she’s not coming back.” I killed you too but that didn’t stop you from coming back.

  Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. She wasn’t dead, that was a lie, he’d spoken to her only that afternoon.

  She does love me, you’ve always been jealous.

  “We’ll see.”

  He shook his head trying to rid himself of her voice. No, this time would be different from the other times. He eyed the picture tacked to the wall, the colours just a little too bright, the ink from the printout bleeding slightly. Walking over to it he fingered the face, a small dot, microscopic almost. She stared out at him sitting on the bench, tucked away among the other members of the basketball team, the resemblance unmistakeable.

  Sally. His
heart hammered at the thought of her. Not long now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY - DEACON

  Deacon sat on the sofa flipping idly though the TV channels searching for something to momentarily distract him from his thoughts. He needed something, anything would suffice, some noise that would fill the room, fill the empty silence. The house seemed so quiet since Maria had left, the silence, almost stifling persisted in hanging over him and underlining his low mood.

  ITV, that would do. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle of whiskey he’d bought on the way home and poured himself a large measure. He sat back against the cushions of the sofa, his glass in hand, his eyes not really watching the screen. The shrill tones of his mobile phone rang out over the buzzy hum of the television, and he cursed under his breath, getting to his feet to retrieve it from where he had dumped it on the table in the hallway when he’d first come in.

  “Hello?”

  “Sarge?”

  Barnes eager voice was in his ears from the other end of the phone. The young cop always seemed so full of energy, fast forward ten years or so and he’d probably be a little less enthusiastic.

  “Yep what’s the problem?”

  “Sorry to bother you Sarge, I clocked off but Doyle called me and told me. I’ve got the number you asked for, had to call forensics to get it,” Barnes said breathlessly, the words coming out in a rush as he spoke.

  “Alright just let me grab some paper and a pen,” he said, walking up the stairs to his study, still holding the phone to his ear.

  “Got anything else for me?”

  “Not really Sarge, Been doing some digging around to try and track down Louise Randall like you asked me to. Doyle got Beeton to sign off the subpoena on the medical records, I’ll let you know when they come through. Found a scan of her yearbook photo online.”

  “Randall’s?”

  “Yeah, been uploaded by a school classmate on one of those reunion type sites. Seems to have uploaded the entire bloody yearbook.”

  “Well I don’t see how it’s gonna help us out but send it through.”

  “Found a pic of the Brooks girl too. Couldn’t find much else on Louise at all to be honest. Want me to send ‘em both through via email now, I’ve got my laptop here?”

  “Yeah, sure, alright, send it through to my email,” he said, before hanging up the phone..

  He sat down in the heavy leather chair, letting the handset drop on to the desktop with a noisy clatter. The call to Jackson would have to wait until tomorrow, his brain hurt too much right now. He hung his head in his hands, the throbbing at his temples was intense, why wasn’t any of it becoming any clearer to him? There had to be something he was missing, something he had overlooked, a possibility not considered.

  He booted up the monitor. He’d quickly look over the pictures Barnes sent through before going down and having another large whiskey. God knows he needed one

  Opening up the email, he clicked on the first image, waiting for it to load. Sally Brook’s face suddenly filled the screen, beautiful and haunting. This is where it had all begun, it had started with the Brooks murder and somehow Louise held the key to it all.

  Clicking on the second image, his eyes alighted on a picture of a dark haired girl, the kind that would usually be described as boyishly handsome rather than pretty, her short dark hair framing her face. She was smiling in the photograph, though her eyes seemed to say something else.

  There was something familiar about the picture. That mole on her left cheek by her eye, he’d seen it before on someone else. Well moles were quite common weren’t they? Besides what did it really matter what the Randall girl looked like when there was a murderer still out there? Hitting the power button on the computer he got up to head back down the stairs. The comfort of the sofa and his bottle of whiskey were calling.

  For about half an hour he sat there, ensconced, staring at the screen lost in thought and nursing his whisky as he brooded, the TV not really helping to distract him. As he sat there the music of some talk show or other began to play. Groaning, he swallowed the contents of his glass, reaching for the bottle again. Was this really what life had amounted to? A bottle of whiskey and a talk show for company? At the age of forty five, here he was alone in an empty house turning in to a cliché.

  The title of the show flashed up, “Coming out – Stories of survival.” Maybe he should give Maria a call, find out if she was doing ok, if she realised she had forgotten to collect the cat figurines she loved from the shelf in the kitchen.

  No, that would be a bad idea, she wouldn’t want him interfering in her new life, he had to keep his distance. But he missed her, fiercely, or was it her companionship he missed most of all? A warm body beside him in the bed to cuddle in the night, someone there in the morning when he first opened his eyes to the day?

  He poured another whiskey, he shouldn’t have another or he’d have a foggy head in the morning. But he allowed his hand to guide the contents of the bottle into his glass anyway, the amber coloured liquid splashing his wrist slightly and wetting the tip of his white shirt cuff.

  Taking another large slug from the glass, he replaced it on the table, swinging his legs up onto the sofa. One of the only advantages of Maria not being here, if you could call it an advantage, was that she would usually hog the sofa, curling her legs to one side while he rubbed her feet. He liked to do that, she had such perfectly formed feet, high and arched, graceful as a dancers.

  The host addressed the camera.

  “Tonight Ladies and Gentleman, we have some special guests telling their stories of hope and courage. It’s hard to come out sometimes in a world which isn’t always sympathetic but my first guest has had it harder than most. I’d like you to welcome Corey to the stage…”

  The audience began to clap in pre rehearsed applause and a fresh faced looking lad strode out, smiling and waving confidently to the audience. Corey didn’t look like he was more than 20 years old. He turned his head away from the television, kids know who they are so young these days. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the edge of the sofa. The host’s voice droned on in his ears.

  “The last ten years haven’t been easy for Corey but tonight, finally, at the age of 30, he’s here to tell his very personal and difficult coming out story.”

  30?” The lad had looked like he was barely out of his teens. The whiskey was making him wonder if it wasn’t too late to give Brandon a call. He didn’t like to be alone, especially when he was like this, he had a tendency to slip into melancholy. No, he couldn’t do that, it wasn’t fair to dump his misery on other people, he would just have to learn to get used to the loneliness. It was his fault anyway.

  He took another slug of the whiskey again, then, putting the glass back on the table he laid back, closing his eyes as he began to doze. His thoughts started to jumble in the hazy haphazard way they often did before he slipped into sleep. Fragments colliding into one another, and becoming something else, the images morphing and twisting.

  For some reason he saw Mrs Randall, who seemed to be trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t understand what. Why was she pointing at the fireplace? Before he could work out what she was trying to say, her face changed, morphing into Sally Brook’s instead. Only her face wasn’t radiant as it had been in life, but a pale, white mask, lifeless and cold, as her body lay on the floor. As he bent down to examine it, his hand extended to turn the corpse’s face, he saw Doyle’s face instead, her eyes staring blankly open, a line of blood at her throat.

  “No!” Yelling aloud, he jerked awake with a start, looking around him confused. How long had he been sleeping for?

  He rubbed his bleary eyes, the show was still playing and Corey had been joined by several other guests, all of them lined up in a row on the stage on their respective chairs. Picking up the whiskey glass, he knocked it back quickly. Hair of the dog might wake him up a bit or so that hoary old alcoholic’s excuse went. A kindly faced woman with cropped blonde hair was saying something on the screen.r />
  “It must have been hard for Corey coming out, being transgendered is still such a taboo in today’s society,” she said, as she addressed the host. Trans what? He blinked, he was so out of touch, couldn’t keep up with all the new terms that had seemed to crop up. So the boy was a cross dresser then? Well what was the big deal in that? Society had put itself in chains for far too long.

  The host turned to the audience, readying herself for her usual closing segment. She had that overly saccharine sentimentalist tone that all TV talk show hosts tended to adopt at the end of their shows. As if you could put the world to rights in a couple of sentences.

  “Can you imagine audience, looking at Corey now, that genetically he was born a female?” she announced, turning to face the camera. What was she saying?

  She continued, “and that with the help of years of hormone therapy and surgery, he now stands before you today the other side of that transition, as the man he always was inside.” The audience began to clap. What the hell was she talking about?

  His phone rang then, the vibration rumbling through the coffee table and causing the handset to migrate slowly across its surface. Reaching for it he missed, his reactions slightly skewed by the whiskey, then tried again, this time more successfully;

  “Gaine” he barked groggily into the handset. He heard a voice he didn’t recognize at the other end.

  “Chief Inspector Deacon Gaine?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Bart Nunheath from City Cabs Sir. I’m outside your house, I just put a delivery for you on your doorstep.”

  “What do you mean a delivery?” He frowned.

  “Just doing what I was told to Sir, putting it on your doorstep and calling you after.”

  Getting up, he made his way swiftly to the front door, the phone still clamped to his ear. Opening the door, he saw it, lying there on the doormat in the porch. A wreath of lilies and roses, a small white envelope tucked into it.