by Tania Carver
But not Phil, thankfully. Beside her, he busied himself with his wires and battery pack. He wasn’t having much success. Every time he pushed the pack down into his waistband, his earpiece pulled loose.
‘Bugger…’
‘Oh, give it here.’
Marina stood up, took the earpiece from his fingers. She stood directly in front of him and fitted it into his ear, holding it there with two fingers. ‘Plug it in now,’ she said.
Phil reached round to the small of his back, pushed the battery pack into the waistband of his trousers. Marina adjusted the wire behind his ear, smoothing it down the side of his neck. She was aware of his breathing, of the warmth of his skin. She wasn’t aware that she had stopped breathing.
Phil was saying nothing, his eyes on her. She knew that without looking at him. She couldn’t look at him. Not now. Not yet. Her fingers were trembling. She smoothed the collar of his shirt, his jacket. Stood back.
‘There. That’s better.’
Phil didn’t move. Marina didn’t either. The two of them stood before each other, Marina still avoiding eye contact. She should pull away, sit back down. Look at her notes. She knew that. She stayed where she was.
‘Marina…’
Phil put a hand out towards her. She wanted so much to let him touch her. So much. And to reciprocate that touch. Despite everything that had happened between them. But she couldn’t. From somewhere deep within she found a reserve of willpower, pulled away. Phil withdrew his hand.
‘Not now, Phil. Concentrate. Get in there and do what you’re best at.’
He nodded. ‘How do I look?’
‘Like a policeman who’s just had a fight in a scrap metal yard.’
‘Did I win?’
She smiled. It was tense, tight. ‘On points, perhaps.’
‘Well.’ He smiled. It was equally tense and tight. ‘That’s all right then.’
Phil closed his eyes, took a deep breath, another. Anchoring himself, she knew. Zoning in for what he had to do.
‘Right.’ He opened his eyes. There was no trace of the earlier Phil, Marina’s ex-lover still conflicted over the end of their relationship. There was only Phil the copper. A dedicated professional with a job to do. And whatever needed to be said between them could wait.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
39
Brotherton was slumped in his chair, legs spread out underneath the table. He looked broken, defeated even before Phil had started in on him.
The room was small, barely big enough for the chairs and the table, and despite the efforts of the cleaners, it still smelled of unclean bodies and filthy minds, of stale sweat and desperate actions, of human waste in all its forms. Air, like hope, seemed to have been sucked out of the room.
Three of the windowless walls were covered with acoustic tiles and painted a depressingly institutional shade of grey-green; the fourth wall held a mirror. If Brotherton had looked up, he would have seen his own reflection. The door was heavy and grey. One overhead strip, quietly fizzing like a dying fly, threw out shallow, flat light. The kind of light that depressed Phil, reminded him of what he had said to Marina about the aftermath of murder scenes and empty theatres, places from which the life had departed. This, he knew, was deliberate. Just as the observation room was all about power, this was the opposite. It was all about powerlessness, helplessness.
He sat down opposite Brotherton, trying not to be aware of Marina watching him. He looked down at the table. It was scarred and marked, layer added upon layer like recidivist geological striations: names both written and carved into the surface, protestations of innocence and sometimes love, anonymous attempts to grass up members of the criminal community, experiences of the police in general and certain individuals in particular. Phil always checked for his own name and the context in which it appeared. It was a little slice of immortality – at least until it was scribbled over – and he took a perverse pride in the fact that he had affected someone to such a degree that they wanted to tell the world about it. Even if they did just want to tell the world that he was a cunt.
He looked at Brotherton, who kept on ignoring him. He took a deep breath. Looked at Brotherton once more.
‘Okay, Ryan,’ he said, looking straight at him, hoping to establish eye contact, ‘this is not a formal interview under caution. We won’t be recording it or anything like that. Not just yet. This is just a chat between you and me.’
Brotherton shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothin’ to say to you.’
Phil smiled. ‘No.You let your actions do the talking.’
Brotherton looked up. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Phil leaned forward. ‘Oh come on, Ryan. Chasing my DS round the yard with the grab? Dropping a whole load of metal on him? I mean, that’s imaginative, if nothing else.’
Brotherton shrugged, but with the compliment, Phil felt the man’s attitude was thawing slightly. He pressed on. ‘You didn’t need to do that, you know.’
‘No?’
‘No. No need at all. Why didn’t you just talk to us? Talk to me.’
Brotherton’s eyes narrowed. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘What do I mean? You know what I mean.’ Phil smiled conspiratorially, leaned forward over the table. ‘Man to man.’
Brotherton eyed him quizzically. Phil pressed on.
‘Ryan, I kept saying to you about Claire, you know, it’s a difficult situation, I appreciate that, but let’s have a chat. And if you’ve got something to tell me, tell me. But you insisted Sophie was there all the time.’
‘What would I have to tell you?’
Phil smiled. ‘Come on.You’re not the first person to have woman problems. And I doubt you’ll be the last. Happens to all of us.’
Brotherton snorted a laugh. ‘Even coppers?’
Phil shook his head, sighed. ‘Like you wouldn’t believe. And not so different from your troubles, either.’
Brotherton seemed interested now. Phil looked at him, the expression on his face showing uncertainty as to whether to tell him any more, share any more intimacies with someone on the other side of the table. He leaned in even closer to Brotherton. Before he spoke he looked round, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and lowered his voice.
‘All I’m saying, Ryan, is I know what it’s like. Sometimes you have to…’ He balled his hands into fists. ‘You know what I mean?’
Brotherton’s face was a battlefield of warring emotions. Phil knew he wanted to believe him, hear him talk further, find a kindred spirit, someone who might be able to understand him, help him in this hell of a mess. But he was naturally wary. Phil pressed on.
‘I had a girlfriend,’ he said. ‘My last girlfriend, actually. And you know what it’s like. Everything’s great in the beginning, you can do no wrong, always there for you, wanting to please you… and then they start, don’t they? Wanting to change you. You don’t dress well. Don’t look right. They don’t like your friends.You know what I mean?’
Brotherton nodded. ‘Yeah. Know exactly what you mean.’
‘And then they stop wanting to please you. And before you know it, you can’t do anything right, can you?’ Phil shook his head in despair. ‘I mean, why do they go out with you in the first place if everything you say or do is so wrong and they want to change it?’
‘Claire was like that,’ said Brotherton. ‘Just like that. So fuckin’… exasperatin’.’
Phil smiled knowingly. ‘Yeah. Exactly. And what can you do? Sometimes you just get so…’ He flexed and unflexed his fists, grimaced as if in anger. ‘You have to, don’t you? It gets to you.’
Brotherton sat back slightly, wary again. ‘You’ve never done that. Hit a woman.’
‘Really?’ Phil gave another look round, another check for eavesdroppers, lowered his voice even further. ‘Like I said. You’re not the first or the last.You’re not the only one.’
A kind of hope sprang up in Brotherton’s eyes. Cautious, but wanting to believe what Phil was saying.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil, as if imparting a particularly deep truth. ‘Not the only one in here, either. Tell you the truth, loads of blokes in here hate prosecuting cases like yours. Waste of resources when we could be doing proper police work. Like catching paedophiles or real villains.’
Brotherton nodded. ‘Absolutely right.’
‘Way it should be, isn’t it? Only natural. Course, you can’t say that now. Political correctness and all that. They’d have you for it.’
Brotherton shook his head. ‘Don’t I know it.You can’t do anythin’ these days. Don’t know what the fuckin’ world’s comin’ to.’
Phil sat back, swallowed the smile. ‘Tell me about it.’
He had him.
40
I t was nearly time.
He had parked in just the right place – not too near to the entry of the estate, not far enough in to attract suspicion from residents. Not that they bothered him too much. He could have walked into every house on this estate if he had wanted to and stolen something from each of them without them realising. The kind of people that lived in these types of houses were so intent on looking out for leering tabloid monsters that they missed the ones already in their midst.
Broad daylight. Or as broad as the grey November sky would allow.The time when most home invasions occurred.
He switched the engine off, waited. He made a mental plan of what he would do, based on his surveillance and research, what obstacles to look out for, random factors to try and account for. He checked he had everything he needed in his bag on the passenger seat. Satisfied, he sat back.Thought himself into the right frame of mind.
This was being done hurriedly. Normally he would spend weeks – months, even – planning something like this. But he didn’t have months or weeks. Or even days. He needed another baby now to replace the other one.That wasn’t important to him, though. It was all about the hunt.The chase.The kill.That was all that mattered. Everything else was justification. Excuse. This was everything.
He made one more inventory, one more mental check, and was ready.
He tucked the hammer up the sleeve of his overcoat, got out of his vehicle.
Walked up the road.
He could smell his prey on the wind.
41
Graeme Eades could barely keep his hands steady on the steering wheel he was so excited.
A whole afternoon with Erin. Not just a snatched lunch break in an empty storeroom or a quick fumble in the front seat of his Seat parked up in a shadowed corner at the back of an out-of-town supermarket car park. No. Actually the whole afternoon. Together.
He pulled up in front of the Holiday Inn, switched off the engine. The hotel was outside Colchester at Eight Ash Green, laid out in what Graeme supposed was a low-level American ranch style, holding the usual business-traveller facilities. He knew this from arranging stays there for associates. But that didn’t bother him now. He wouldn’t be using the gym or the pool or going for a spa treatment. For one thing he wouldn’t be there long enough, and for another, his time was all accounted for. And it was sufficiently out of the way of the town centre so he wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into anyone.
He got out of the car, grabbing the carrier bag from the passenger seat, locking the door behind him. He had paid a visit to Ann Summers before leaving the town centre, stocking up on clothing and accessories to make his afternoon as memorable as he had imagined it would be. Stockings, a basque, crotchless panties, all in Erin’s size. He had checked when she hadn’t been looking. Then there were the accessories. Creams, lotions, oils, toys… he had gone to town. Once inside he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Just had to have everything. The girl behind the counter had looked taken aback and he’d replied with a wide grin. She wasn’t bad either, he had thought. A bit short, perhaps, and could do with losing a few pounds, but he wouldn’t have said no. Could just imagine using some of the stuff he was buying on her. Imagine her face as she came… He knew what she was thinking when she was ringing up the prices for his items and bagging them up. Someone’s going to be lucky. That’s what. The thought of that made him grin all the more. He had winked at her as he took the carrier bag. She hadn’t returned it but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need her and had forgotten about her as soon as he left the shop. He had Erin to think about. And Erin was all he needed.
Erin. He crossed the car park to the front of the hotel. Erin. He couldn’t believe his luck. When she’d started in his company he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. None of the men had. And probably a few of the ladies if they were honest, thought Graeme with a lascivious smile. She was young, brunette and well curved. And she liked everyone to know it. He didn’t know what she actually did, something in accounts, perhaps, but he knew the effect she had on him. He had watched her move around the office, her hips rolling, her breasts held high, a smile for everyone. That was it, he thought. She just looked so happy to be there, so happy to be herself. Her smile saying she would be up for anything as long as it was fun.
Not like Caroline at home. She had changed, and really quickly. Big and fat and complaining all the time of aches and pains. And her hand constantly out. Money for the hairdressers. For new clothes. A new fucking car, for Christ’s sake. He had bought them all, just to keep her quiet. He thought the arrival of a new child was supposed to be a joyous affair, but this was nothing like that. He was glad to get away from her. And what a relief to be with someone who was totally the opposite of that.
He couldn’t believe how easy the whole thing had been. How it had come together. Erin had been in his office one day, bringing in something for him to sign, bending over the desk so he got a good shot right down her cleavage, and before he could stop himself he had blurted out: ‘God, I bet you’re good in bed.’
Before he even had time to turn red she had replied: ‘I am. Want to find out how good?’
And that had been that. Not an office romance, because romance had very little to do with it. Just lust. Sex. Pounding, thrusting, hard sex. Anywhere and everywhere they could. At any opportunity. It was brilliant. And so much cheaper than paying for it. But Graeme wasn’t stupid. He knew that there was a chance she might not be doing this if he wasn’t her boss. She had already mentioned promotion a few times. Graeme didn’t mind. Anything he could do to help. Anything that would keep her there longer.
He entered the foyer, went up to reception. ‘Room booked for Mr and Mrs Eades,’ he said to the young girl behind the counter. She checked her screen.
As she did so, Graeme caught sight of himself in the mirrored surface in front of him. He had lost a little weight since Erin. Started dressing better too, even getting his hair cut more fashionably. He looked again at the image. But he still couldn’t hide the fact that he was, essentially, a man tottering on the brink of middle age, doing what he could to turn back time. Oh well, he thought, chasing the image away and getting ready for some fun, at least he hadn’t bought a red sports car.
The receptionist came back from the screen with the details, asked him to fill in a card. Told him what time breakfast was, ran through the list of amenities the hotel provided. Graeme wanted to scream: I don’t care about your fucking breakfast! I’ll only be here this afternoon to fuck the brains out of one of my employees! After that I’m gone! But he didn’t. Instead he listened patiently and smiled when she had finished. Took his key card and went to the room, where he laid all his purchases out on the bed and let his fevered imagination start to run riot.
As he took objects from their packaging and inserted batteries, checked they were working, a thought crossed his mind. He was supposed to have gone home this afternoon. Caroline knew he was leaving early. He had promised to do the supermarket run, as she was too heavy to move. Or too fucking lazy. Still had time to meet her friends for lunch. That he paid for.
Ah well, he thought. She’ll just have to wait.
He turned the pink jellied vibrator on, felt it buzzing in his hand and smiled. Per
fect, he thought, checking his watch, and adjusting his trousers to accommodate the pleasantly uncomfortable bulge that was growing there.
Come on, Erin, he thought, I’m waiting for you…
42
Caroline Eades was beyond tired.
She couldn’t even be bothered to get dressed today; just sat on the sofa, staring at the TV. She usually had something planned for the day: yoga or lunch with her young friends, or shopping for the family. Today it was a hairdressing appointment. But she had phoned up and cancelled. Just couldn’t face making the effort to get dressed.
It had hit her when she woke up. Like a huge mattress had smashed into her and knocked her back on to the bed. She had forced herself to get up, help her children off to school, but flopped back down afterwards. And from then on she couldn’t move. It was even worse than she had felt in the first three months of pregnancy. Not surprising, lugging all that extra weight around. And the heartburn… like she had been eating curries for a week.
So that was it for today. On the sofa with a cup of tea and daytime TV for company. LooseWomen, or Hormonal Harpies, as she called it, was on. All of them shouting over one another, vying for attention. Making risqué remarks to John Barrowman while he responded in kind. It wore her out just watching it. She turned over. Diagnosis Murder. That was more like it. She started to watch it but found even that simple plot was too much for her to follow. She couldn’t be bothered to try any more channels so she flicked the TV off with the remote.
She took a mouthful of tea. It tasted awful. She had been able to manage coffee, but her taste for tea came and went. She hadn’t realised just how much sharper her sense of smell had become. Everything heightened, accentuated. Things she used to like, or at least not notice, now repulsed her. Like the smell inside the fridge or Graeme’s aftershave. Even the smell of the tea made her gag.