The only evidence against me is hidden here somewhere, the dresser catches his attention, I just have to find it. He heaves it away from the wall, the feet scrape against the flagstones, the crockery rattles against the glass. There’s nothing behind it, he checks inside, nothing there. He quickly moves around the room, picking up this and that, scraps of paper loose on the worktop, old receipts. The larder door creaks open, it spooks him a little. A shudder runs down his back, someone has just walked over his grave. Although he’s no believer in that sort of drivel. Don’t be a pillock! He jerks open the door, tugs at the light pull that swings in front of his face. His mouth gapes open. The pantry is full of produce: glass jars filled with ruby coloured winberry jam, tomato preserves, plums with rum, apple and onion chutney, pickled onions… all the things that Lottie had planned to do but never did.
His fingers run along the top shelf; they catch against something. The long metal snout brings a smile to his face, what a wonderful coincidence, a fortuitous gift, he thinks to himself. The walnut stock cold to his touch. Carefully, he slides the gun off the shelf, takes it down. He nestles the butt into his armpit, uncocks it, just one shot of ammunition, no chance of practise.
The floor creaks the other side of the door, he recocks the gun, slips his forefinger onto the trigger, eases open the door with his shoulder. Nothing. The room is empty. He lays it on the table and continues his search of the kitchen. Poking out from beneath the unopened cards, a document catches his attention. His finger and thumb ease it out.
His eyes read the letters that flow across the page. A receipt for evidence, found in the loft. Mary Quant makeup, magazines—a diary. His nostrils flare, his hands curl into fists, the creature inside of him unleashed.
‘Stupid bitch—stupid bitch!’ His right-hand grabs the hammer, the left the chisel. He lunges at his first target, the dresser, wielding both weapons with an uncontrollable rage, the glass panels explode into thousands of tiny shards that hover in the air before him. The chisel gouges deep rifts in the wood. He carries on, teeth bared, the carotid artery bulging in his neck, one blow followed by another. Nothing safe. The kitchen table covered in potholes, the roll top desk in the front room, both shattered beyond recognition. The china dogs no longer stand guard at the window. The glass in every photograph broken. He works his way through each room, never stopping to think. Never stopping to see the havoc he’s unleashed.
The clanging of the landline stops him dead.
70
She’d thrown on her clothes, set off immediately from the motel, drove through the night. There was only one way she was going to find out. Halfway up the track, Thomasine puts her foot down on the accelerator, the four-by-four lurches side to side as it rumbles in and around the potholes that clutter the lane.
It can’t be true—it can’t. I never saw him. I never met him. Dad’s photograph albums, Mum kept them in her bedroom. Bennett must have got hold of them. Or did Karen give them to him? Why the hell would she do that?
Every muscle, every nerve, aches. Fear clings to her like a wet sack. Her eyes sting, almost blinded by the glare of the snow. One thought plagued her, raged at her for the last hundred miles. Had she all along known who the killer was? Only too afraid to admit it as a child.
Had she repressed the memory?
No, I’m sure I haven’t. That photograph of Bennett, his hands on Karen’s shoulders, in the middle of the dance floor, I didn’t recognise him. It was definitely the first time I’d set eyes on him.
The farm buildings rise out of the mist – long thin shards of ice hang from the guttering. Angry with herself, she gets out of the car, goes to open the gate. Her fingers wrap around the padlock, she inserts the key. The clang of the phone drowns out the rush of wind. She throws her weight against the gate, it doesn’t budge, a thick swathe of snow and ice holds it in place. The bell hurts her ears, she shrugs her shoulders, whoever is at the end of the line must wait. She leaves the four-by-four on the track and climbs over the gate. The cobbles are covered in a deep layer of virgin snow. The clanging stops, unconsciously, she looks to the right. To the kennels, waits for the riotous greeting. She feels a rush of emotion, of hate, for the bastard who poisoned them.
As she crosses the yard, she stops dead. Something unnerves her, the curtains hang loose in the windows. She’d left them shut. The china dogs are gone from their places. Warily, she treads towards the window, her boots pierce the crisp snow with a crunch. She squints through the break in the curtains, unsure of what to expect. Large chunks of painted porcelain lay on the window sill. The room has been trashed, it’s in chaos. Her stomach summersaults, the house has been burgled. The press, the bastards! That’s the first thought in her head. No, they’re not that stupid, they’d never do anything like this. She checks the front door; undisturbed snow climbs up against the porch. Whoever they are must have got in through the back.
The only person who would trash the house would be Bennett, looking for evidence. For one awful moment, she’s grateful for Rosie’s warning, that the killer might come back. Then the fear weaves it way into her psyche, she pacifies herself with the thought that he’s probably already come and gone.
Thomasine leans forward, puts her ear to the door. She hears the sound of glass breaking, then the thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Key in hand, her fingers hover over the lock. He must be still inside. Her mouth goes completely dry.
She makes her way around the back of the barn. Tentatively, clambers up onto the drystone wall – the only place to get a signal on her mobile phone. The wind whips up the snow swirling it around her. The phone almost directly in front of her face, she taps the number at the top of her Recent’s list.
Mel Philip’s voice competes with the wind, ‘DCI Philips, please leave a message.’ In a heartbeat it goes to answerphone.
Her hands tremble, the words croak out. ‘I’m up at the farm, I think Bennett, the guy from the diary, has been here, is inside the house. He’s trashing the place.’ She pauses, takes a breath, ‘I need your help.’
Silently, she makes her way back to the car, eases the boot open. Large flakes of ice cold snow cling to her hair and eyelashes. She is on high alert, every nerve in her body attuned to the sounds and sights around her. Her kitbag lies open, she pulls out her body-armour, takes off her coat, slips on the vest. Her hand grabs the taser she’d bought from the internet only days before. She transfers it to her coat pocket, then shrugs the coat back on, zips it up. Fully kitted up, Thomasine retraces her steps, makes her way back around the barn, huddles behind the drystone wall and waits for Mel to call her back. Confident that, when he sees the four-by-four, he’ll come looking for her. Her clothes already covered in a down of crystal white snow, she waits.
‘Hello, Thomasine.’ The words are caught with the wind, the hair on the back of her neck bristles. The voice speaks again, it’s coming from the other side of the wall. ‘Hello, Thomasine… or shall I call you, Thom?’ There is no trace of an accent, no hint of where he’s from.
She lifts her head up, just enough to see over the barrier between them, peers into the mist, can’t see a thing. Thomasine dips down, pulls the hood of her coat over her head, tries to block out the howling wind.
‘No point in hiding from me, Thom.’ He laughs loudly, pretentiously, ‘I know exactly where you are.’
A cold shiver slaloms down her back. She raises her head again – the world about her is shrouded in a thick smog of snow.
He’s bullshitting. He’s a fool, if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.
Thomasine climbs over the wall, eases herself down in front of it. ‘Careful, careful,’ she tells herself softly, her gloved hands clinging to the rocks. She stands tall, cleaves the back of her heels to the base of the wall.
‘The police have all the evidence.’ She shouts loudly into the wind, gestures towards the farmhouse, ‘There’s nothing in there for you.’
‘I know,’ there’s a slyness in his assertion, ‘that made me a
little angry. I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a mess.’ He giggles like a child, ‘Not much left of the family heirlooms, not that you’ll be needing them.’ The owner of the voice materialises out of the mist. A tall, thin, bald man with two rows of startlingly white teeth. He bears no resemblance to his younger self, the fingers of his left-hand wrap around the stock of the shotgun. ‘Which is a shame because I quite liked some of them, especially that secretaire.’ With the back of his sleeve, he wipes the snow from his face.
Her heart beat pulses erratically against her breastbone; a sudden panic about what she might find in there. The taser nestles in the palm of her hand. He takes a step towards her, swings the gun in front of him, steadies the stock into his elbow.
He’s playing with her. ‘Why did you kill my sister?’ Her chest constricts, ‘What did she ever do to you?’
‘Quite a bit really,’ He rubs his hand over his bald head, ‘Karen and I—’
‘Yeah, like she’d be interested in you.’ She loads her words with sarcasm, ‘You’re just a paedo who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.’
He throws back his head, laughs, ‘You’re wrong, completely wrong. Karen and I,’ he lets out a sigh, ‘it was special.’
His conceit rankles her. She wants to tear the gun from his hands, point the barrel in his groin. Listen to him beg.
Get a grip girl, slow down.
She knows she needs to take control, it’s not the first time someone has threatened her with a gun. ‘Why don’t you put that down before you do some harm with it.’
The smile disappears, he takes another step forward, wobbles slightly as if unsure on his feet. For a second, a microscopic look of confusion flickers across his eyes. ‘That’s the whole point of a gun, to do harm, isn’t it?’ The barrel drops slightly. ‘I fully intend to do you harm. I think I’ll start with the face.’ He raises an eyebrow, winks.
‘Start where you like, you’ll probably miss,’ play the game, Thomasine, play the game. She takes a shallow breath, tries to push back the angst that’s hammering in her chest. Behind her in the barn, a pair of crows squawk and fight. She pushes back into the wall, brushes the snow from her eyelashes. ‘I’ve seen your paintings, your private collection, down in London. You’re very sick in the head.’
Bennett grimaces, lets the stock of the gun slip into his elbow.
He’s still twenty-five feet or so away from her, the snow churns up around them.
He looks like he’s handled a gun before. It’s definitely Dad’s. She wonders if he’s checked it, whether it’s cocked ready to fire.
Her response is emotionless. ‘Yes—they’ve been taken for evidence, and what a load of shite they are.’ She watches his face twitch. ‘They’ll be used in court then chucked in the incinerator.’
He flinches, his mouth contorts—she’s hit her target.
‘I doubt if a jury would convict me based on four paintings,’ he snorts, laughs, ‘that’s stretching it a bit, isn’t it? Besides, I think you’ll find that all the fingers are pointing towards Jimmy Fairfax.’ He pulls himself up, presses on. ‘No time for talking now. Time to terminate this particular ending.’ There’s an eagerness in his tone. ‘I’m thinking suicide, after all, you’re the only one left, and it would make sense, wouldn’t it?’
‘Aren’t you interested in the diary?’ Thomasine pulls her shoulders back, ignores the fear knotted in her stomach, her smile fades. ‘It makes such interesting reading. She mentions you by name, and that Capri you had. That’s how I found you.’
‘I think I found you, is more accurate.’
‘I think not,’ She shakes her head. ‘Is that Dad’s gun?’
He lifts it up, smerks, points the barrel towards her. ‘Sorry, you can’t have it back. I’m going to need it in a minute.’ That slyness again.
‘So, aren’t you interested in what Karen said about you?’
‘She loved me.’ He places his hand on his heart, ‘I was her first.’
Keep it in, don’t react, keep him talking. Thomasine fakes a laugh, wags her finger at him. ‘Is that what she told you? Well, we’ve got it in black and white, in the diary. Apparently, you were an impotent twat who couldn’t get it up.’
The pretence drops. His face flushes, ‘Time to say bye bye.’ He looks straight down the sight.
‘So how did you kill her?’
He eases the butt of the gun into his shoulder, closes one eye, aims. ‘You don’t need to know that.’ He lifts his feet, wades through the snow, it’s up to his knees. He must need to get nearer, to get a good shot.
Automatically, her hand grips the taser, her heart batters against her ribs. ‘Go on, tell me. It’s not like I’m going to be telling anyone else, not with my head blown off.’
He doesn’t respond, continues on, step by step. There’s a breaking sound, a crack, his face clouds. He looks down. His legs have completely disappeared into the snow beneath him, he is knee deep in shit and urine. The colour drains from his face.
‘Wha—’ The sour smell of the slurry pit fills the air.
She lets out a breath, ‘Why did you kill—’
He presses the trigger.
71
Thomasine blinks. Her blood courses through her ears in a thunderous rush. She stands transfixed, the toes of her boots centimetres from the rim of the slurry pit. Its snow-covered surface splattered in bright red blood.
His blood.
The shotgun nestles in the snow about a metre ahead of him. Whimpering sobs rise out of his chest. His hands cover his face, his legs struggle to keep him upright. He lifts his head, lets his arms fall to his side. The kickback shattered his cheekbone, his left eyeball hangs loose in the socket. Blood streaks across his forehead and cheeks. He tries to move, the slurry thickened by the cold weather, clings to him like a brace. The wind carries the stench of ammonia towards her, she covers her nose and mouth.
An icicle drops from the guttering on the farmhouse, slices through the snow like a knife.
He cups his eyeball in his left hand, winces, tries to put it back in its socket. He clearly has no idea of how much damage the gun has done to his face. Drugs, she wonders if he’s taken drugs.
‘Who’s a silly boy then?’ Her mouth hardens, ‘Who didn’t check the gun first?’ She inches along the wall; moves away from the stink. Away to safety, the only clue to the size of the pit, a pile of granite rocks that protrude through the snowfall.
His mouth slackens, the scream that follows turns her cold. He tries to wade out of the slurry, apparently still unaware of the futility of his plight. Torn muscle and tendon ravage his face.
‘Welcome to the slurry pit.’ She gives out a hard laugh, ‘I would have thought you would have recognised the smell.’ When the milking parlour had been demolished, the circular slurry pit sunk beneath had been left untouched. The job of cleaning it out too much for her mother. And no money to pay for it to be professionally cleared. Her cousin, Paul used it for silage, as a compliment to their own. Until her mother’s death, the gelatinous mass was covered by planks of wood and a tarpaulin, open at the edges to allow the gases to escape and tightened weekly so the rain didn’t pool on it.
It had taken Thomasine hours of back-breaking work to get the cover off, literally inch by inch, a dangerous job that required her full concentration and strength.
Heavy snowfalls had finished the job. Within days, the pit and warning sign were completely hidden from view. Exactly as she’d hoped.
Bennett doesn’t respond to Thomasine’s taunt. His whole being now focused on lifting his body out of the thick grey noxious liquid. The world around him blurs, exhaustion creeps into his bones.
She shouts over the roar of the wind. ‘Tell me why you killed her? If you tell me that, I’ll get you out.’
Bennett scowls at her, ‘I can get out myself,’ Suddenly energised, he twists and turns, the viscous liquid sucks at his waist, pockets of ammonia bubble out.
‘There’s a rope in the barn it’ll just take
me a moment to get it, you’ve only got minutes before you—’
‘Piss off!’ There’s venom in his voice. ‘You won’t let me die—it’s not in your DNA. You’re a copper.’
She whispers the words out, ‘My mother’s blood is in my DNA.’ The cloying stink of the pit wafts up towards her, she ambles her way across the yard, then turns to look at him. ‘The gas will get you soon.’
‘What gas? He sniffs the air, ‘I can’t smell anything. You’re lying!’ The nasal infection that took his sense of smell now corrupting his senses. He tries to move. His body feels like a dead weight. With terrifying clarity, he watches her head towards the barn. He realises he has no chance of escape without her help. She disappears from his view.
‘For God’s sake,’ his shrieks become more intense, ‘For God’s sake—please don’t leave me here.’
Inside the barn, Thomasine coils the rope over her shoulder. She pauses for a moment, takes in some clean air before returning to the pit. A gust of wind carries her voice. ‘You’re in a tank of shit and piss, ten feet deep.’ She stops by the pile of rocks, squats to her knees. ‘Here’s the deal, Robert. If you tell me why you killed her, I’ll throw you the rope, pull you out.’
The world around them is an eye-watering white, she waits for the information to sink in.
Bennett panics, he’s not tall enough to stand up in it. His lungs strain for oxygen; his words come out in a slur, ‘She let me in, through the back.’ For some bizarre reason he laughs, ‘I brought her a gift.’
‘You’re lying,’ a bitter taste fills her mouth. ‘We would have heard you, I would have heard you. The dogs would have barked.’ She drops the rope to the ground, it coils like a snake at her feet, ‘Tell me the truth.’
She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller Page 30