by Leona Turner
“Aha! The dirty bastard didn’t even have the decency to give it back to me in person.” Knowing there was no easy way of doing this, PC Bannerman blurted out,
“Complete with his finger.”
Joanne had drawn a breath, readying for a long line of expletives, when she stopped dead.
“What did you say?”
“I’m afraid the wedding ring was still on his finger when it was discovered.”
“So you mean to tell me someone cut his finger off?”
“Yes.”
“I want to see him.” Her voice changed suddenly; the hostility was gone and she now sounded quiet and concerned.
“I’m sorry?” Bannerman replied.
“Take me to him—he’s still my husband and the father of my children. I need to see him.”
As she was talking, she moved around, locating her handbag and checking that she had her keys in there. Then she slipped off her slippers, went into the hall, and came back with a scruffy pair of shoes. As she started putting them on, Bannerman once more looked at his colleague and, practically pleading with his eyes, gently spoke.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mrs Hamilton.”
She stopped what she was doing and looked the young PC straight in the eye.
“What do you mean? Why can’t I see my own husband?”
“I’m afraid we haven’t been able to locate his whereabouts as yet.”
Joanne dropped to the floor in front of the PC. PC Bannerman watched her as she dissolved into sobs in front of him. Then almost as quickly as she had started to sob she stopped. Getting up she walked through into the kitchen. The PC followed her. She put the kettle on and then going over to the dresser she opened the top drawer and retrieved an envelope. Grabbing the contents of it she laid it out on the table in front of her. PC Bannerman walked up behind her and glanced over her shoulder.
Sensing the PC’s presence Joanne spoke.
“It looks like he hasn’t made any transactions for over a week.”
As Bannerman reviewed the statement, the other PC gently took Joanne by the arm and led her back into the living room and sat her down on the sofa. Returning to the kitchen he made the tea.
Joanne sat in the interview room at the police station. She’d never been inside a police station, let alone been in an interview room before. And she decided she didn’t like it. She didn’t like being made to feel like a criminal. She’d been questioned about Jon’s behaviour leading up to his disappearance and asked the obligatory question about if there were any problems within their marriage. That had almost made her laugh—she couldn’t think of a time when they hadn’t had problems. Not that that would have had any bearing on the facts. So, resolutely, she had continued to play the doting wife and said that everything was fine.
Although she had been reassured that she wasn’t a suspect, it hadn’t stopped her feeling guilty. It was as if these sparse rooms were designed to make you believe the worst of yourself.
She’d left the kids at home alone, and even though they were old enough to be there unsupervised, she still didn’t like it, especially not with the way things stood at the moment. No one had seen hide nor hair of Jon in well over a week; well, discounting the sudden appearance of his ring finger. She was also unaware of exactly how she should feel about the news. So far the thing troubling her most was the thought of explaining it to the kids, and then there was the question of life insurance. She was sure they needed to produce a whole body before the insurance company would cough up. Typical bloody Jon; he’d been disappearing most of their married life, and now it looked as if his disappearing act would yet again leave her bereft, but financially this time. Then, of course, she’d felt guilty for being so callous about a man she had once loved who was the father of her children. The Police had told Joanne that they had questioned the mistress about Jon’s whereabouts leading up to his disappearance, but apparently she hadn’t seen him for a week prior. But then she was probably lying; her type always did, especially when in a tight spot. It was after all the tart stock and trade: lying, cheating, causing pain to people they’d probably never met before in their lives.
A WPC broke into her thoughts by walking into the interview room.
“Ok Mrs Hamilton, we’re finished for tonight. We can give you a lift home if you’d like.”
As the WPC had walked through she’d been taken aback by the broken shadow of a woman sitting in front of her; it looked as if she’d had all the fight drained from her. The irony of what had been found in Sarah Lester’s apartment earlier had not been lost on her. She’d been brought up in a household where it had been practically expected for her father to stay out at his mistresses’ houses at least one night a week. She’d watched her mum go through all the stages. Anger, belligerence, and denial, until finally her father had worn her down from the proud, formidable woman he had married to a doormat.
Now she felt she was looking at her mother, only twenty years younger and with a more permanent absentee husband. The WPC couldn’t shake the feeling she was having about the killer—he seemed almost vigilante in his choice of victims. Although the police still weren’t sure about the identity of the first victim, the second victim, Matt Reynolds, was rumoured to have been a drunken, abusive partner. Their enquiries had led them to a girl called Rebecca, an ex of the late Matt Reynolds, and although they had split up years ago, she was still a shadow of a woman. The WPC had stood there, practically agog, as Rebecca’s mother had recanted the miserable affair of her daughter and Matt Reynolds’s abortive relationship. She had seen all the scarring up the girl’s arms and wondered how one person could be allowed so much control over another. As soon as Rebecca had heard about his demise, she had run off upstairs, sobbing. According to her friends and family, she’d been lively and outgoing—that was, until she’d fallen under the spell of Matt.
And now there was Mr Hamilton. The killer must have been feeling more confident now, as it had been quite a daring stunt to pull off. To have the wedding finger complete with ring frozen inside an ice-lolly, where it was discovered several hours later by the adulterers’ mistress must’ve taken some planning.
Joanne spoke up then.
“Are you going to question her more?”
“Miss Lester? No, there’s nothing tying her to your husband’s disappearance.”
“But she was his mistress, wasn’t she? She must have a clue to his whereabouts. She managed to keep their relationship a secret, lying and cheating; what makes you think she’s telling you the truth now?”
“She has a watertight alibi.”
“Fine, well, if it’s all the same to you, I would like to go home now, please; I’ve got kids at home who I’ve yet to tell the news to.”
With that, Joanne got up and strode to the door. The WPC opened it for her and followed her out back into the reception area.
“Would you like a lift back home, Mrs Hamilton?”
“Please.”
“Ok, just wait here, I’ll get a car sent round to you.”
Joanne watched as the WPC disappeared back into the station. Realising it may take a while Joanne sat down once more on one of the hard plastic seats located in the reception area and stared around at all the various posters and paraphernalia littering the walls—this truly was a depressing place. Joanne was aware that her circumstances for being there were less than ideal, but she got the distinct impression it would still be just as depressing to the casual observer. Leaning her head back against the wall, she stared up at the ceiling. She was absolutely shattered. As soon as she got in, she was going for a hot bath then straight to bed. Her gaze fell back towards the desk in the reception; it was deserted. And then, in her peripheral vision, there was movement—the door she had just come through was opening. People were talking.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help more, Officer.”
The voice had a whiny, childish quality to it.
“That’s ok Miss Lester, I’ll send a car straight round to
pick you up.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
Joanne heard the door swing again as the officer went to sort out an available car.
Joanne knew she shouldn’t look; she knew she didn’t really want to see, but she already knew who it was: Sarah Lester. She’d met her before; she’d shown up at the restaurant when her and Jon had been out about three weeks ago on their wedding anniversary—one of the few times of the year he actually took her out.
Sarah had introduced herself as an ex-employee, and even though she could have sworn she’d seen a flicker of annoyance cross Jon’s face, she had naïvely put that down to the fact that he hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Now, though, she knew differently. Joanne had taken an instant liking to the girl, who had seemed young enough to be their daughter and had invited her to join them. Now, as she fixed Sarah with a steady gaze, everything suddenly made sense. That little bitch had not only been sharing her husband, she’d had the audacity to befriend her. Whether part of a power trip or just to see the look on Jon’s face, it didn’t matter—the humiliation was still there whatever spin was put on it. She looked at Sarah now, tight clothes and makeup smeared down her face, and she knew that if her husband were here, he would still want her. Even with her hair a mess and panda eyes, and that hurt—really hurt. Joanne’s look hardened as she stared at the pathetic girl and she felt nothing but burning, seething hatred. She knew it was unfair; Jon was as much—if not more—to blame for the affair, but he wasn’t here now, and this young tramp was, still laughing at her and mocking her with her tight stomach and creaseless face. She couldn’t hold herself back any longer and she launched herself at the girl.
Sarah had failed to notice the small, drab woman staring daggers at her and sitting not six feet away. She had been far too wrapped up in her own predicament. It hadn’t been finding the finger that had unsettled her so much as the fact that if what the police had suggested was right and Jon had become the serial killer’s latest victim, where did that leave her as far as her child allowance and detached house were concerned?
All of a sudden, as if from nowhere, she had some crazy beast on her back, pulling at her hair and slapping at her face. She screamed out in terror as the woman on her back started screaming obscenities at her.
The WPC and PC who had interviewed the two women earlier came bursting back into the reception area and dragged Joanne off of Sarah.
“Now, can we all just calm down?” The PC sounded tired and both women regarded him warily, Joanne still panting from her energetic assault.
“It’s been a very stressful time for you both, so let’s just concentrate on getting you both back home,” the PC ventured. Sarah swung about to face the PC.
“Hold on—I want to press charges; she just attacked me for no reason.” The indignation in her voice was palpable. The WPC who was still holding Joanne by the arm turned to face Sarah.
“If you want to press charges Miss Lester, you are of course within your rights. However, these are exceptional circumstances and Mrs Hamilton here has just suffered a terrible shock, emotions are running very high for you and for her.”
Sarah regarded the both the WPC and Joanne as the last statement hung in the air waiting to be addressed. The PC, sensing that a man had no place in the argument, held his tongue and did his best to blend into the back ground.
“Do you wish to press charges?”
“No. Take me home.”
Sarah turned and headed out the door, the PC following behind her.
Then the WPC turned to Joanne.
“Christ, I wouldn‘t want to get on the wrong side of you.”
Joanne gave a weary smile.
“Guess I must still have feelings for the cheating bastard after all.”
The WPC held the door open for Joanne and they made their way to the squad car waiting for them outside.
Chapter 23
Dean arrived at The Tin Whistle at eight as previously arranged and saw that Mark was already waiting for him with a pint ready. He wandered over to the table, sat down, and took a long drink before acknowledging Mark.
“So come on then, what do you know?”
“Well the bloke’s name is Adam, and he’s usually down at Andre’s every Friday and Saturday night.”
“What time?”
Mark checked his phone briefly before responding.
“Well, according to my mate, he should be there in the next half hour—what do you want to do?”
“What do you think I want to do? I want to go down there and kick the living shit out of him. Let’s go.”
Mark downed the rest of his drink quickly and grabbed his jacket as they headed toward the door. Getting into Marks car the two set off at speed toward Andre’s. Pulling up in the car park, they marched inside and ordered drinks—two lagers and a vodka chaser for Dean. They managed to find a small table in the corner of the room where they could watch the door.
“So how are we going to go about this? I mean, are you going to ask him anything or just twat him outright?”
“Not sure yet.” Dean slurped his pint noisily.
The door swung open and three men strode in. Mark nodded at the first of the men.
“That’s your man there. Adam Woodacre.”
“So I see. Look, Mark, I don’t want you to get involved in this. I’m going to wait until he goes to the bogs, follow him, and I’ll meet you in the car after, ok?”
Mark looked across the room to where Adam was standing; he was busy laughing at the landlord with all his mates chiming as required. Mark hated that kind of bloke, all mouth and no substance. Mark could run his mouth with the best of them, especially if he’d had a few, but he had form. He wasn’t necessarily proud of the reputation he had garnered, but at least he had a reputation. Adam Woodacre was a ponce, a lowlife piece of shit who liked to strut about like a big man.
“You sure you don’t want me to come with you? To be honest, mate, I wouldn’t mind kicking that shit eating grin back down his throat myself, and he ain’t even done anything to me.”
“Nah, you just get yourself back to the car. Ah, looks like we’re on.” Dean nodded toward the bar as Adam started to make his way to the gents’ room.
The two men got up, one following Adam and the other heading for the car park.
Adam slammed the gents’ toilet door open. His website’s popularity had grown phenomenally within the last week. Other people had been posting items and this had given him a kick. To him, the fact that there were other people who shared his perverse mind-set had been a form of validation. As he stood in front of the urinal, he smiled a wide smile, lost in his reverie. He barely noticed the door swing open.
Dean stood in the doorway and watched Adam’s back for a moment. Walking quietly up behind him, he stopped just inches from Adam’s back before peering over his shoulder.
“Not as big as the one stood in front of me.”
Adam jumped at the proximity of the voice. Doing up his jeans, he spun round to see who it was.
“What’s your fucking problem?”
“Careful, Adam, you’ve gone and pissed all over your shoes.” Dean hadn’t backed off, and he now stood just inches from Adam’s face. Adam looked down to check his shoes, and as he brought his head back up to Dean’s level, it was met by Dean’s forehead. The blow put Adam straight on the floor as Dean set about kicking him, blows landing on his stomach, legs, and back. Adam had no chance of fighting back through the ferocity of the kicks that were raining down on him, so he was busy trying to protect his head and face with his arms. Seeing this, Dean continued to kick at Adam’s body, trying to focus on his kidneys. Dean had been on the losing side of a fight once and had taken a few blows to the kidneys, and he remembered how painful it had been. He had been pissing blood for a good few days after. Finally Dean tired and he squatted down next to Adam, who was dully aware that the onslaught had ceased. He looked Adam up and down.
“You’ll be pissing blood for the next few days; however,
if you ever go near Clare Heathers again, I’ll be back, and next time I won’t leave you with anything to piss with.”
Dean hawked back in his throat and spat straight in Adam’s already swelling eye.
Getting back up, he checked his reflection; apart from a small red mark on his forehead from where it had made contact with Adam’s nose minutes before, there was nothing to indicate he’d done anything untoward. Glancing once more back at Adam, he left the toilets and met Mark in the car.
“Are we good?”
“We’re good.”
With that, Mark sparked the engine into life and pulled out of the car park.
Chapter 24
Robert Hollister wasn’t a happy man. He was in charge of the estate to the south of Manning’s Town. The estate was run from Shropshire approximately seventy miles away, and so it was up to him to ensure the smooth running of this particular part of it. The estate owned around forty thousand acres of land, ten thousand of which he was personally responsible for.
The estate would rent land and sometimes farm buildings to farmers in the area. In return the estate would be ultimately responsible for the buildings’ upkeep. The estate had originally been set up as a trust fund by a wealthy landowner who didn’t want the land to be sold off to the highest bidder after his death and fall into the wrong hands—the wrong hands being those of property developers or industry. He had wanted to make sure his farmers weren’t forced off their land by large corporate companies; the flipside of the trust, however, was that the farmers could never actually own their land—the trust was not allowed to sell any of it off.
The reason for Robert Hollister’s visit, however, was a specific building within this particular area of the estate: a derelict farmhouse. Its previous occupants had left over twenty years ago and the building had not been touched since. However, with the recent jump in house prices within Manning’s Town, the estate had to been quick to pick up on the fact that the farmhouse was a prospective goldmine. Commuters would pay a substantially larger rent than most in order to have the peace and tranquillity this country retreat would offer.