‘Why did you let Squeaky talk like that in the car?’
Through the open door to the en suite bathroom, she saw Brendan freeze in the act of lifting his electric toothbrush.
‘Just leave it, can you, please?’
‘Brendan, I’m trying to help.
‘You’re not helping,’ he muttered.
‘Why did Squeaky want to go into the forest?’
He spat into the basin and padded back towards their king-size bed. She saw that he’d developed some sort of tic in his left eye. Nerves? What did he have to be stressed about?
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
He clambered into bed and she stretched an arm around his waist.
‘Brendan, it’s not natural. We both know what happened in the forest. Why are you letting that bloody doll talk like that? What’s going on?’
He lifted a hand and switched off the light. They never made love in the dark, she didn’t know why. Her guess was that Gilly had preferred it with the lights out, and this was one of the changes Brendan had made in his life. New woman, new house, new adventures in the bedroom. He’d been so inventive, until the arrival of Squeaky.
‘Goodnight.’
‘Brendan, we need to discuss this.’
He wriggled out of her grip and did not reply.
‘Brendan.’
No answer. Was he trembling? And if so, why?
~ * ~
‘Let’s go into the forest.’
Adele woke in the early hours, hearing Squeaky’s voice in her head. As a rule she was a sound sleeper; even when Josh died, she’d kept managing to get six or seven hours each night.
The forest meant only one thing to Brendan. Among the oaks and the firs was the lay-by where Gilly and her boyfriend had parked their car, not far from the cottage where the lover lived, before poisoning themselves with exhaust fumes.
Brendan was snoring. The sleep of the just? Adele couldn’t help doubting it.
Was he giving money to Finucane in that padded envelope, and if so, why was payment due? Time to think the unthinkable. Suppose that, instead of being in Dublin, Finucane had sneaked back into England, and killed Gilly and the man on Brendan’s behalf. He was capable of murder, but surely Brendan wasn’t? Not Brendan, the charming, introspective worrier she had fallen in love with.
Yet he had a powerful double motive. What if greed and jealousy had driven him to do something terrible - or rather, hire Finucane to do something terrible, and now he was tormented by guilt?
That might explain an obsession with the two deaths in that fume-filled car, and Squeaky’s insistent demand.
‘Let’s go into the forest.’
No! There was a flaw in the theory. Relief flooded through her. Finucane was streetwise, in a way Brendan never could be. If Finucane had agreed to carry out a couple of contract killings, he’d have insisted on payment in advance. Or, at the least, half his money upfront, half on delivery of his side of the bargain. Inconceivable that he’d have waited until now to take his money. Brendan couldn’t have been paying him for services rendered. Maybe there was something other than cash in the envelope, maybe . . .
Another thought struck her, and even snuggled under the thick duvet, she found herself shivering.
What if he wanted Finucane to undertake another job for him?
~ * ~
‘Where’s Squeaky?’ Brendan demanded the next morning.
They were breakfasting in their magnificent new kitchen. Through the panoramic windows, Adele watched tentative snowflakes drift on to the York stone flags before melting.
‘More toast?’
‘Did you hear me?’ Brendan’s voice rose as he struggled to control his emotions. ‘What have you done with Squeaky?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
A good impersonation, even if Adele said so herself. Her lips didn’t move at all, and she thought she’d captured Squeaky’s provocative, malicious tone.
Brendan slipped off the high stool and advanced towards her. His eyes shone with anger, his shoulders were rigid with tension.
‘For God’s sake, what have you done?’
‘Oh, dear me!’
Adele had climbed out of bed in the middle of the night, taken Squeaky from the bed in the room next door to theirs, and hidden the doll in a linen basket in the utility room. The temptation to throw Squeaky in the dustbin, or even go outside and toss it down into the stream, had almost overpowered her. Yet somehow she’d kept calm enough to resist the urge to be rid of Squeaky for ever.
And it was worth the effort, to see the truth revealed in Brendan’s eyes.
He cared more for Squeaky than he did for her.
~ * ~
A week later, Adele was sitting in a restaurant, enjoying a turkey dinner with colleagues from the school where she worked, when a discreet waiter asked her to accompany him to the manager’s office. There she found a young woman police officer with sorrowful eyes and a bad case of acne.
‘Mrs Keane?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘I’m so sorry to interrupt your Christmas meal. Would you like to sit down, please?’
The restaurant manager, face etched with anxiety, pulled out a chair for her.
‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’
Adele counted the pimples on the woman’s cheeks. Said nothing.
‘It’s your husband. I’m sorry to say that he has been in an accident.’
‘Oh my God. Is he hurt?’
The woman bowed her head. ‘I’m afraid he died a short time ago.’
Adele made a small yelping noise of incoherent distress.
‘I am so sorry, Mrs Keane.’
‘What . . . what in Heaven’s name happened?’
‘He was hit by a motor vehicle as he left a public house.’
Adele stared. ‘Yes, he told me he’d be popping out for a pint while I enjoyed myself with my friends.’
The woman cleared her throat. ‘I have to tell you, the driver did not stop. We suspect he’d been drinking. There were eyewitnesses who said the vehicle swerved before it knocked down your husband, and then accelerated out of sight. The driver must have known he’d hit someone. But it’s the time of year. In the run-up to Christmas, people drink far too much. It’s appallingly irresponsible.’
~ * ~
‘Nice place,’ Finucane said a couple of nights later, as he looked around the living room. ‘No expense spared.’
Adele was bored with playing the grieving widow. Putting her glass down on a glass-topped occasional table, she sat on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. ‘Nothing but the best, was Brendan’s motto. He had the money, and he didn’t mind spending it.’
Finucane said something coarse about Brendan.
‘I suppose we ought to talk about your fee,’ Adele said.
Finucane grinned at her. ‘You already made a payment in kind in the hotel, don’t forget. I’m not some bog-standard mercenary, you know. We can come to an arrangement, you and me.’
Adele chortled and lifted her glass. ‘Suits me, sweetie. So here’s to . . . mutually satisfactory arrangements.’
He swallowed some wine and fingered the brickwork of the exposed chimney breast. ‘Not bad,’ he said, with deliberate ambiguity. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘I want to know about Gilly.’
He put a stubby finger to his lips. ‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
‘Come on, Ged. I’m dying to know the gory details. How did you do it?’
He laughed. ‘You’re really something, you know?’
‘Yes, I do know. Satisfy my curiosity, and then we can finish the bottle upstairs.’
A theatrical sigh. ‘Women, eh?’
‘Can’t live with them, can’t live without them?’
A broad grin. He wasn’t handsome, not in Brendan’s league at all in terms of
looks, but she was conscious of a crude magnetism pulling her towards him.
‘All right, if you really must know. When Brendan was away, Gilly had the house to herself. Once her feller, Hodgkinson, left his wife in hospital, he came around. They had a few drinks and smoked some dope before going to bed. I was waiting for my chance.’
‘Go on.’ She saw he relished having an audience. A bit like Brendan with Squeaky.
‘I fitted a garden hose that Brendan had left out for me to the exhaust of Gilly’s estate car, using a kid’s feeding bottle which he’d cut in half. Wearing surgical gloves. I ran the hose through the garage and utility room and up a hole in the floorboards right underneath the bed. As soon as I switched on the engine, I nipped upstairs. The two of them were dead to the world. I pulled the duvet over Hodgkinson’s nose and mouth, squeezed hard for half a minute and pushed the hose into his face with my right hand, and held it there until he was dead. Same with Gilly, she was stoned, and barely struggled. Not that she was strong enough to fight back, even if she’d realized what was happening. She was a tiny, frail woman. Big tits, mind.’
‘Not as nice as mine, though.’
‘No way, darling, you’re one of a kind.’
She licked her lips provocatively. ‘You’d better believe it.’
‘Anyway, I lugged both of them to the car and put them in the boot with a blanket over their heads. I’d put a folding bicycle in the car as well. After I’d driven to the forest, I dumped Hodgkinson in the driver’s seat. Gilly stayed in the boot. I put some family photos that Brendan gave me next to her body, put earphones on her, and switched on her iPod, so it seemed she’d been listening to her favourite Leonard Cohen tracks. And then I connected a length of vacuum hose to the exhaust, put the other end in the boot, and switched on the ignition. Once the scene was set, I took out the bike and cycled away. We had a couple of lucky breaks. Hodgkinson had told his wife’s nurse that he couldn’t bear what was happening to her. She thought suicide was in his mind. And the detective leading the inquiry owed me a favour. Some of the forensic stuff was mislaid. Nothing could be proved.’
Adele clapped her hands. ‘Amazing!’
He fondled her bare neck. ‘Yeah, that’s me. Amazing.’
‘And it doesn’t bother you? That you killed a couple?’
He exhaled. ‘It was a job. You can’t be sentimental.’
‘Not like Brendan. His conscience bothered him.’
‘Not enough to stop him wanting you out of the way, sweetheart. Lucky you realized and got in touch.’
‘Lucky you were willing to change sides.’
A raucous laugh. ‘No contest. I’ve always fancied you, Adele, you must know that.’
‘I suppose so,’ she said with a sweet smile.
‘Brendan didn’t know when he was well off.’
‘No.’ Adele ran her fingers through Finucane’s hair. ‘Did he say anything about this . . . new relationship?’
‘Nah, he made a mystery out of it. Whoever he was seeing, I bet she didn’t compare to you.’
Adele pictured Squeaky’s weird eyes and red lips.
‘You’re right.’
Finucane closed his eyes as her hand slid between his legs.
‘Ged, is that you?”
Finucane sat up with a start, swearing wildly.
‘What was that?’
Adele moved away from him, gasping in fear. ‘A voice . . . it sounded like . . . no, it can’t be.’
‘Some kind of joke?’ Finucane swore again. ‘You’re not telling me Brendan’s risen from the dead?’
‘I think the voice came from outside.’ Adele pointed to the sliding doors. They hadn’t pulled the curtains when they came into the living room. Outside, the night was black. Not a star to be seen.
Finucane sprang to his feet. ‘Some bastard spying on us? They’ll be sorry.’
‘Ged, be careful!’
‘Don’t worry.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small knife. ‘Nobody messes me around.’
‘I don’t think I locked the doors,’ she said in a whisper. ‘He might . . . come in.’
‘Switch the light off,’ Finucane hissed.
With her finger on the switch, Adele said, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What do you think?’
The last thing she saw before the light went out was the glint of the blade in his palm. She heard him pull at the handle of the sliding doors, and then move through them. Moments later came the scream.
‘Oh, dear me!’
She just couldn’t resist it, as she switched the lights back on. Walking to the open doors, she looked down at the concrete fifteen feet below. Finucane’s body was a heap of broken bones. Better check to make sure he was dead before she called the police to tell them about the intruder who had threatened her with his knife before falling to his death, unaware that the sliding doors gave on to a balcony that did not exist. Adele didn’t believe in taking chances.
Five minutes later, after dialling 999, she made her way upstairs and went into the spare room. Squeaky was lying on the bed, staring at her. At least, Adele said to herself, her ventriloquial skills had come in handy tonight. Only one thing left to do now. Was that fear in the doll’s eyes? If not, it ought to be.
She tore the doll’s head off, and then the rest of its limbs.
Yes, it was childish, but strangely satisfying. Certainly she didn’t feel a twinge of remorse as she waited for the police to arrive. She’d never fretted about tipping Josh out of that boat, the day after he told her he wanted a divorce, and she wouldn’t waste any tears on Brendan or Finucane, let alone horrid, ugly Squeaky.
Leave the guilt to her dead husband, and his dismembered conscience.
<
~ * ~
FISTS OF DESTINY
Col Bury
I
t was time. They were ready. In the modest living room of the red-brick council semi, Bill took a breath to compose himself and gazed into innocent eyes.
“Apologies for the swearing in advance, guys, but I want you to know the full story,” he said, dipping his head, before recounting the events of the day evil visited Manchester...
~ * ~
The infamous Manchester rain gave way to a rare and stunning sun. It certainly wasn’t a day to be stuck inside the biggest skyscraper in the UK outside London - the Beetham Tower.
The business conference was due to start at 9 a.m., but Steve being Steve, he was there half an hour before. The discipline and respect gleaned from his military days were still a big part of him, despite now being on civvy street. His punctuality and meticulously bulled shoes, so shiny you could check your hair in them, were a testament to that.
The droning increased as people filed into the Hilton Hotel conference room on the twenty-second floor, just under halfway up, and Steve wiped sweat from his brow with a hanky as he headed for the large windows to take in the sights.
He noticed a big Asian bloke wearing a puffy jacket, who took a seat on the front row. Steve briefly felt uneasy, wondering: Why would somebody wear a padded winter jacket on such a hot day? Quickly dismissing the thought, he smiled inwardly, realizing his army days had made him paranoid.
He gazed in awe at a panoramic view over half the vast city; the “capital of the north” they called it. In sheer contrast to the plush tower, he looked south at the clusters of gloomy high-rise flats in the distance, where buying drugs was as routine as popping to the corner shop for a loaf. Focusing on the “The Seven Sisters”, a group of flats in Old Trafford, one of which Steve had managed somehow to escape, he could just make out the roof of his dad’s old local, where, sadly now, heroin ran as freely as ale. The surrounding streets led to the notorious Moss Side, home of the tit-for-tat shootings that had resulted in the media giving the city its unfortunate epithet: “Gunchester”.
On the flipside, Manchester’s vibrant music scene, stemming from the likes
of The Smiths, The Happy Mondays, Stone Roses and, latterly, Oasis, had given rise to another nickname: “Madchester”. Steve recalled bopping on the dance floor of the Hacienda while brimming with amphetamines. Happy days...though long since tainted by unshakable images of his friends being blown up in Kabul, the guilt of survival still jabbing at his heart every day.
The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10 Page 8