by Tania Carver
Marina was silent, nothing more to ask. Anni looked at her, aware of the weight she had been carrying for the last few days. It seemed to be pressing her down so much now that she seemed unable to move from underneath it.
‘So,’ said Anni, leaning forward once more, ‘if you don’t know her real name, d’you know anyone who would?’
Prosser looked up. ‘Well, I suppose Caitlin might.’
‘Caitlin?’ said Marina, springing back to life. ‘The woman I spoke to? The one who gave me your name?’
‘Yeah, that’s her.’
‘And she would know her name? Her real name? Would she have photos of her? Or know of her whereabouts?’
‘I don’t know, but she’s worth a try. She’s got access to those files.’
‘Come on,’ said Anni, standing up. ‘Too late to do anything tonight. That’s for the morning.’
And now Anni sat there, watching Marina sleep.
She was sure Marina wouldn’t have wanted her to, would have insisted that she get up, start looking for this woman. But Anni was content to let her sleep on. It was the right decision. Because one way or another, Marina was going to need all her strength for whatever lay ahead.
An Easy Life
If the tabloids had got hold of what she was doing, they would have called it a killing spree. Or worse. Her gender would have been invoked in as titillating a way as possible, there would have been a scramble to get photos of her, or background on her, and there would be lurid reconstructions of her seductions and murder methods. Because sex sells. And sex and death sells best of all.
But the tabloids would never get hold of what she was doing. She knew that. Never in a million years. Because she genuinely believed she wasn’t like anyone else and she wasn’t going to be caught. Serial killers got caught because they got careless. Because they thought they were all geniuses and couldn’t resist letting their pursuers know that. Then they became sloppy, like they wanted to be caught. Then they were, eventually, stopped. One way or another. It was a cycle. She knew all about it. Had read up on the subject. And she knew that wasn’t her or what she was doing. She had as much in common with them as she had with suicide bombers.
This was how she made a living. Nothing more, nothing less. And when she had enough to live on she would stop. Simple as that. Doing what she did was just like going to work every day. Well, not every day for her. Because she was so good at her job she didn’t need to work every day.
She had honed her skills down to a fine art. But that didn’t mean she had become complacent. Complacency was the enemy of creativity, she had once read. And she liked to think that, if nothing else, she was creative.
On the surface it seemed simple. Go to a hotel, wait, find her target. Take him back to his room, seduce him, paralyse him, clean out his bank account. Or at least skim an amount that was in itself sizeable but wouldn’t be traced. Like an ISA or two. Something like that. She didn’t get greedy. She worked within her system, her rules.
But beyond that surface simplicity was more complexity. She planned, watched. Targeted from a distance. Then when she was ready and only then, she would make her move. Conventions were best. Or business gatherings. She had become very proficient at spotting which of the herd was the most vulnerable. Or at least the most susceptible. Years of training had developed that skill. But that wasn’t enough. She would then study her prey, his mannerisms, his likes, dislikes. His interactions with women, especially. Most important of all. And then she would see who he responded to, who he didn’t and she would build her character, her look, accordingly.
This would all be done in the space of a day or so. If there wasn’t anyone there who she thought her approach would work on, she left it alone. Went somewhere else, tried someone else. There was, she had discovered, no shortage of middle-aged married men ready to take a young woman to bed if they could get away with it.
When she had her target in sight, she would think best how to approach him. It wasn’t always as easy as sitting on a bar stool waiting. She had to be cleverer than that. She did what needed to be done. She improvised sometimes. Other times she stuck to a rigid script of her own devising. But always with her focus on the eventual prize.
She went to great pains not to be noticed while she prepared, to be as anonymous as possible. She was good at that. What the Native Americans called hiding in plain sight. She had read about that too. And then she moved in on her prey. Separated him from the rest of his pack, moved in for the kill. Literally. Upstairs to his room, the promise of sex luring him on.
Then the fatal, simple wound. Then she would tell him that he was paralysed and the only way he could get out of it was to give her a substantial sum of money. They always did. And they always died. Then she would pack up her iPad, wipe down any surface for prints, check she had made as little contact with the deceased as possible, and move on. Back to her own room, ditch the guise she had been in, sleep and leave the next day.
She would have the best night’s sleep after doing that.
And that was that. Her glory years, she called them.
Was she lonely? Did she wish for comfort, companionship? Sometimes. Maybe. But the more she did this, the more she found herself pulling away from any other kind of contact with people. She was an attractive woman, and picked up admirers along her path. Men and women. But she rebuffed them all. Because, she rationalised, nothing would give her the thrill she got from her work.
Because it was a thrill. Yes it was a job, but what kind of life did a person have if they didn’t enjoy their work? It was a cumulative thrill. Watching their excitement as they realised this woman was interested in them, the realisation that they were going to have sex with her and, most important of all, get away with it. Then back to the room, the nervous hesitation, or some speech about how they loved their wife but… She would listen patiently. Then the gasp when she undressed. She loved that part. It was her second favourite bit. She felt a huge surge of power through her body as the men gazed on her nakedness. Drank her in with their eyes. Stared in awe. She felt so alive in those moments. Like her body was composed purely of electricity. Immortal, beautiful, shining electricity.
And then came the killing. Her favourite part. Not because she wanted them dead particularly, but because it was an extension of that power, that electricity. She had the power of life and death over these men. And they knew it. What could be better than that?
And then that slow, lingering part when they would die. She would watch them, eyes wide and staring, as the life drained from them. They couldn’t talk by this time, so complete was their paralysis, so she couldn’t ask them questions. But she wanted to. What did they see? What were they feeling? What was there? It fascinated her. If she allowed it, it could consume her.
And then death. And it never ceased to be an amazing moment. One second there would be life. The next, nothing. Just dead meat. Incredible. And that just made her wonder all the more. Where had that energy gone? What was there to see? She was envious of them, in a way. They were having an experience that she couldn’t share in. At least not yet.
So that was that. Her easy life. She had a home, a place she had bought, but she very rarely visited. And when she did she felt restless, wanting to be out on the road again. Home was where she went when there was nowhere else to go.
Yet she knew this couldn’t last. For many reasons. She would get older, perhaps lose her looks, become less attractive to men. Or she might get bored. And if she got bored, she might become complacent. And she knew all about guarding against that. So no. It couldn’t last. Best to make as much as she could right now. Go out on a high, while she was still enjoying it. And then let the future take care of itself.
That was the plan. And then she came back to Essex.
Was it out of sentimentality? She didn’t know. Was it fate? Perhaps. Whatever the reason, she found herself back in Colchester, just up the road from her old home, if she could call it that. She didn’t know how she felt. She ha
d been expecting some kind of rush of emotions but she hadn’t felt it. Instead it was like walking familiar paths but in an unfamiliar way. Like she was visiting places an old friend had told her about.
And then she turned on the TV. Saw the news.
Fiona Welch was dead.
And she genuinely didn’t know what to think, how to feel. Stunned? Shocked? Yes, probably. But that was nothing compared to the news that followed. Because she saw the detective who was at the heart of the case, the one who had caught her.
Sean. Back from the dead.
45
‘Back from the dead then, are you?’
Phil opened his eyes. A woman’s face floated before him. She looked familiar. In a good way. The best way. He smiled.
‘Eileen?’
‘That’s right, Phil. It’s me. Eileen.’
He blinked. Hope rose within him. Those last few days had all been just a horrible dream. No, not even a dream, a nightmare. But so real he could have touched it, felt it. Experienced it. But it was gone now, that face said. He was home. Safe.
He blinked again. Eileen’s features shifted, rearranging themselves, coalescing from something familiar to something different, yet still holding enough of a seed of familiarity to make him catch his breath, believe what he saw. He kept looking. And with a groan of despair that echoed down at the bottom of his soul, he realised who she was and where he was.
This was no dream. This was real. If it was a nightmare it was a waking one.
‘That was a long sleep you had. I thought it best to just let you. You seemed very tired last night. And agitated, too.’ She sat down next to him. Reached out a hand, stroked his hair. ‘But I calmed you down, didn’t I?’
Phil closed his eyes, remembering. The feel of her body. His mouth on her breasts…
His mind was consumed by guilt, rage, embarrassment, pain. All there, running through him, triggered by the memory. And on top of all that were plenty more emotions too. Ones he couldn’t so readily name. Ones that kept him down, stopped him from taking any action. He should have been up, off the bed, screaming at her. Telling him what he thought, planning all the while how he could get away. But something stopped him. He tried to work out what it was. Realised. He just didn’t have the energy. The will. He couldn’t even be bothered to move.
And with that revelation came another. He no longer knew what to think, what to feel. How to react. He didn’t know what he was doing any more. Right and wrong, good and evil, order and chaos even, had gone, slipped away from him.
Resignation. That was his overwhelming, overriding emotion. Besting all the other emotions, hitting him like a train and laying him flat. He just wanted to close his eyes, let it all slip away. Let everything go. Forever.
This was his world now. This was his right and wrong. Whatever she said.
‘You going back to sleep?’ the irritatingly perky voice continued. ‘No time for that now. But there’ll be plenty of time for that later.’ She laughed. ‘Plenty. But not now. Now you have to be awake, get ready. Big day.’
Phil struggled to sit up. The room seemed lighter, as if it really was morning. It could have been for all he knew. But it could also have been the middle of the night too. Day and night, light and darkness, time itself, had all ceased to have any meaning for him. He was just here. Now.
His hands were still tied to the bedframe. He couldn’t rise far.
‘Whuh… why’s it a big day?’
‘Just is, that’s all. Lot to do. Lot to get ready for.’
She stood up from the bed, walked round the room, examining things as if she should be doing something with them. Dusting or moving objects. But of course there was nothing there to move. Everything was only two-dimensional, so if she wanted to do that she had to mime at best. Which she did, humming to herself, smiling. Like she imagined a mother would do. The brightness of the overhead lighting just showed up how artificial the room was. The walls seemed even flatter than before. The blown up photo walls unconvincing, the life leached out of them. But for Phil the make-believe room didn’t matter any more. None of it did. They had gone beyond all that now.
She sat down on the edge of the bed once more, still smiling at him, beatifically. Her eyes glanced at the two tablets, still on the bedside table. Her smile increased, then she returned her look to Phil.
‘Are you hungry, love? Want some breakfast?’
Phil had to think about that. Was he hungry? When had he last eaten? What was his body telling him?
‘I… I don’t know…’
She laughed at his muddle-headedness. ‘What are you boys like… Course you’re hungry. You’re always hungry. I’ll go and get you something to eat, then. Would you like a bacon sandwich?’
Would he?
‘I’ll make you a bacon sandwich.’ Another giggle. ‘You can have it in bed. Like I said, special day. But watch for crumbs. And don’t get sauce on the sheets. Bet you’ve heard all that before, haven’t you? Sick of me saying that to you, nagging all the time.’
She stroked his hair once again. Kept stroking, staring into his eyes all the time. Her fingers moved from his hair to the skin of his face, caressed his cheek. Smiling all the time. Her breathing increased. He was aware of her breasts, heavy, straining against her blouse, rising and falling with every breath she took.
Phil began to get an erection.
She moved her other hand down the bed, found it. Moved in closer. Mouth on his ear.
‘You’re a naughty boy, Phil Brennan, you really are. It’s a good job I’m an understanding mother. But then…’ Her lips right on his ear now. Whispering the words, he could feel her soft breath against his skin, the feel of her hand on his face, stroking the faint scar that was there, the other on his growing erection. ‘All boys want to fuck their mother, don’t they? Really, deep down?’
She kept her hands, her mouth moving against him.
‘And you’re no exception…’
He closed his eyes. She was still calling him Phil Brennan, but he didn’t feel like that person any more. This person still had the same name but he was now someone new. And he didn’t know who – or what – he was.
Yes he did. He was whoever she told him he was.
She took her hands slowly away from his body. He opened his eyes. She straightened herself up. Smiling at him all the while. It was a different kind of smile this time, though. Gone was the previous indulgence, the mother almost neurotically smothering her child. Now it was like a different person was occupying the space she had previously rented. This smile was hard-edged, matching her eyes. This smile said one thing:
I win.
She stood up. Rearranged herself as if the mirror on the wall was a real one.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘I’ll get your sandwich. Then I have to pop out for a little while.’
Phil tried to clear the fog in his head. ‘Why?’
‘Just a few errands to run. People to meet. That sort of thing. And then I’ll be back.’
She turned to him once more, smiled again. This time the meaning behind that smile was impossible to read.
‘And then everything changes.’
Phil frowned. ‘In what way? How?’
‘You know how I said you have to embrace the darkness of your life, Phil? Go through the darkness, own it, then come into the light?’
He said nothing. Tried to remember whether she had actually said that. It seemed so long ago.
‘Well, that’s what we’re about to do. You’ve got to go through the final phase. Into the final darkness. And then… Oh. So exciting.’
‘What?’
‘You’re going to come into the light. And your life is going to change. In the biggest and best way ever.’
‘How?’
‘You’re going to meet someone, Phil. Someone very, very special. And you’re going to be so happy, that the two of you are going to be together forever…’
46
Matthews stared at his screen. But the words, imag
es just moved about, like they were flowing over the surface, falling off the bottom onto his desk. He rubbed his eyes. No good. He just couldn’t concentrate.
Imani. That was all he could think about. DS Imani Oliver. And what he had done to her. Or may have done to her.
He had phoned her several times. Nothing. No reply. Straight to voicemail every time. OK, he had reasoned at first, maybe she was on her way back to Birmingham. Driving, unable to pick up. But even as he thought that he knew he was trying to convince himself. What police officer would be unavailable, even when they were driving? Everyone he knew – including himself – plugged their phone in on entering the car, put it on hands free. Stayed contactable at all times. No. That was wrong. She wouldn’t have done that. And also, he had seen how much she relied on her phone the day before, constantly trying to remain in touch with Anni Hepburn and Marina Esposito and making herself available to them in return.
No. There had to be a different reason.
He went over all their conversations from the previous day, tried to find some clue as to her whereabouts. And it all came back to one thing: she didn’t trust Beresford. And she was going to look into his background. Starting with his car.
She had had a feeling that it wasn’t in the garage as he had claimed. And Matthews had been listening, heard no mention from Beresford that his car was out of commission and he was borrowing a pool car or a hire. Nothing like that. So that just ramped up his suspicions.
He knew which garage Beresford had claimed to use. Imani had told him. So, furtively, checking no one was in earshot, he had called the garage. And received voicemail there too. Several times.
Now he was becoming uneasy. His unease was powered by guilt, he knew that, but he was starting to fear that something was wrong. Seriously wrong, perhaps. He glanced round the office. Beresford was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared after receiving a phone call. And that had been peculiar too. Whoever it was had seriously shaken him up. Matthews had watched as he listened to whoever it had been, his face getting paler all the time. Then, when he had put the phone down, he had looked round the office and left.