by Jay Gill
He’d heard some couples had another baby in the hope of rekindling their relationship. He and Kate had had the crazy idea of idea working together on designing and managing the build of a new home in which they could both grow comfortably old together.
Ironically, Kate did now live in a dream home; it just happened to be with Patrick, the site manager he’d hired. As he’d overheard one of the workmen say with a laugh, ‘Instead of laying bricks, Patrick’s laying the wife. He’s doing it while the poor bugger is paying him, too.’
Etheridge stepped inside the caravan. He threw his jacket on the back of a chair. It slid off into a pile on the floor. He reached into the sink for a glass and half-heartedly ran it under the tap. Without bothering to dry it, he filled the glass with brandy. He drank half the glass and topped it up. He sighed heavily and pushed the front door open with his foot. He leaned on the doorframe and looked out.
He felt lonely; drink did that to him, amplified what he was already feeling. He thought about phoning Kate. Maybe she was ready to come home. He didn’t feel ready to pick up the phone. What if she sounded happy? He didn’t want to hear that in her voice. What if Patrick picked up the phone? Could he text her? Maybe later, after another drink or two.
A voice caught his attention. He leaned out and looked back up the path he’d just come down. The footpath was a public right of way, but he’d never seen anyone else use it. He stepped down from the caravan to get a better look.
“Ruby!” called the woman. She had the brightest red hair he’d ever seen. She wore blue glittery welly-boots, blue jeans and a jacket the same red as her hair. “Ruby! Where are you?” The woman looked his way and immediately waved and called to him. “Woohoo! Hello!” She started to trot towards him. He wanted to back himself into his caravan and close the door, but it was too late.
“She’s about this big, brown, with one white foot and white down the front of her face.” The woman, who was a little out of breath from trotting over to him, was one of those very animated people who were fun when you were in the right frame of mind. She was now crouching down and using her hand to demonstrate the size of the dog. “Please say you’ve seen her. Please tell me you’ve seen my little Ruby.” She tilted her head and gave him her pleading face.
Etheridge hid the glass of brandy behind his back. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been home long. I’ve only seen you. Sorry – I didn’t mean you’re a dog.” He smiled with amusement, but she seemed oblivious to his poor choice of words.
He watched as this wacky woman started looking behind and under the caravan and the surrounding area. It was like she was moving in fast-forward while talking incessantly. “I’ve never walked this way before. It’s a beautiful walk. So secluded. No other dog walkers. I thought it would make a change for Ruby. I can’t believe I came out without my phone. Poor little Ruby. I’m sure she must be lost. She must be frightened. I hope she’s not hurt. She’s only just back from the vet. Cost me a fortune. The only time I don’t have my phone; can you believe it? I love little Ruby to bits. Do you have pets? I’ve always had a dog. My whole life. I can’t imagine life without one.” She started calling again. “Ruby! Ruby! Ruby!”
Etheridge thought about it for a moment then said, “Would you like to use my mobile phone? You won’t get a signal here, but we could walk back up the path together.”
“I don’t want to be any bother but . . .” Her face was beaming, and for a fleeting moment Etheridge thought she looked familiar. “I’m at my wits’ end with worry,” she insisted. “I can phone my husband and children. They can help me search. Ruby couldn’t cope alone out here at night. She might be eaten by foxes or badgers.”
Etheridge felt sure foxes and badgers wouldn’t attack and eat her dog but said nothing. “Give me a second. I’ll just get my phone.” He stepped inside the caravan and bent over to pick up his jacket, then called out over his shoulder. “Do you live very far away? Perhaps Ruby went home.”
When he turned and straightened up, she was there in front of him. Uncomfortably close. “Oh, you’re there. I thought you were still outside. Sorry, the place is a mess.” He smiled awkwardly. She smiled back. He watched as she pulled off the red wig. He searched his memory for where he’d seen her before. Holy shit. As he lurched forward, she fired the Taser. Every muscle in his body seized. He let out a pitiful groan before collapsing to his knees. He fell sideways, his head bouncing off the chair on the way down. She shocked him again and again. Everything went black.
Chapter Nine
Etheridge touched the cut on his head. He was on the floor. He tried to sit up. His body ached, and he felt bruised. He got to his hands and knees and threw up beside the armchair. His head was spinning as though he was drunk. The room was moving uncontrollably. He was trying to remember what had happened. He pulled himself up onto the armchair. On the worktop next to the sink he could see the red wig. The woman. Kelly Lyle. The Mentor. Where was she? And what was that smell? Gas? The air was thick with gas.
He put out a hand to steady himself. Leaning heavily on the armchair, he pushed himself up on to his feet. Stepping forward, he knocked against something metal on the floor. A saw. A surgical saw. Where had that come from? Had she left it? Had she intended to use it on him?
He needed to get out before she came back. He’d seen the sick and bloody things she’s done to her victims. Etheridge lunged forward and nearly fell flat on his face. He was chained around his ankle. What the fuck? He kicked his leg, and the chain rattled. It was short, like a leash. There wasn’t enough chain to reach the kitchen area to turn off the gas. Could he even reach the door?
His head was pounding. The cooker hob hissed. His vision was blurred. The room swayed. He needed to move. He must open the door. He needed fresh air. Oxygen. He got down on his belly. Staying low, he crawled to the door. He reached up for the door handle. He pulled the handle. His fingers slipped. He reached again. The handle didn’t move. The door was locked. She’d locked him in. Shit. What now?
Etheridge looked around for ideas. He turned to the window behind him. It was locked. The key was gone. He grabbed a dining chair and smashed it against the window. Not even a scratch. The thick, modern, insulated window wouldn’t break; he knew that. She knew that. He was caught like a rat in a trap. Etheridge’s eyes scanned the room. They eventually fell upon the key hanging from the handle of a kitchen cabinet. The key was so far beyond his reach it might as well have been on the far side of the moon.
There must be a way out. Think!
An alarm sounded then stopped. What now? On his knees, he looked towards the sound. Next to the sink he could see a timer. He strained his eyes to see. The digital numbers were counting down. Counting down to what? Wires ran from the timer to a gas torch. He was in one of Kelly Lyle’s perverse games. His imagination told him that when the timer reached zero, a switch would ignite the gas torch and... Boom!
This couldn’t be happening.
Panic set in. What could he do? Stay calm and think. The saw. He grabbed it and started sawing frantically at the heavy chain. The alarm beeped again. He stayed focused on the chain. Sawing like a madman. Keep going! Keep going! He stopped and examined the chain. Barely a scratch. The saw was no good for cutting metal. He threw it down. It was a surgical saw. Lyle knew it wouldn’t cut through metal. It was merely meant to taunt him.
He sat back. Think. It was no good. He would die. How long did he have? Minutes? Seconds? He tried desperately to see the timer, but his eyes were failing. He was starting to lose consciousness. He didn’t want to die this way. He didn’t want to die.
He found himself staring at the saw. It was medical. The sort used for cutting bone. He laughed hysterically. He understood now. Lyle had left the saw for him. The saw was his only means of escape. He started to sob as he reached for it.
Saw in hand, he looked down at his foot. Should he cut above or below the shackle? Could he do it before passing out and before the timer finished? Was he really considering this?
He pressed the blade just above his ankle. He winced and sobbed and yelled and screamed. He couldn’t do it.
He had to do it. A rat would gnaw off a trapped leg to survive. He had to decide how badly he wanted to live.
The timer sounded. He heard a click. Then the crack, crack, crack before the flame was lit.
Etheridge panicked and started sawing at his leg. Screaming and sawing. Sobbing and sawing. Blood poured. He kept sawing.
The blast was heard for several miles.
From her car Lyle watched the smoke rise high above the trees.
Chapter Ten
Emma stared at photos of Scrabble letters as if staring at them hard enough would magically reveal their meaning. A Scrabble piece had been left at the scene of each murder. T, C, H, I. She moved them around. HICT, CHTI, then CHIT. Perhaps, the word was CHRIST and the letters R and S were missing. Maybe there are two more bodies, and they haven’t been found yet. And if the word was CHRIST, what did it signify? Was the killer some religious nut? She was clutching at straws, and she knew it. She squeezed her shoulder muscles and twisted her neck until it clicked. She sighed long and hard.
The time was 9.34 a.m. Etheridge was late. Emma sipped her coffee and pulled out the photos of the five victims. It was nearly a year since the first body had been revealed by the retreating tide under Boscombe Pier. A few weeks later a second body was discovered beneath Bournemouth Pier. Back then she had been a Detective Sergeant, and she’d had no idea it was the beginning of a serial murder investigation.
About six months back, she’d taken the decision to call Hardy, on the off chance he’d take a look at the case. It seemed the right thing to do considering the way the victims had been mutilated and the bodies left. She’d read about the type of cases he investigated and of him leaving New Scotland Yard to live in Dorset.
Looking back, she’d been naïve to call him. She’d acted out of emotion. Secretly perhaps, she’d hoped she’d get to work on the case with him. She was lucky Etheridge was a decent boss and hadn’t been offended. Etheridge, too, was more interested in bringing the perpetrator to justice than worrying about anyone’s ego or an outsider coming in and stepping on his toes. She liked him for that. At the time, Etheridge had seemed distracted by stuff in his personal life and had said very little about her going over his head. She got nothing more than a word of warning to never do it again.
The day Martin Burke was discovered mutilated and tied to a pillar under Bournemouth Pier was the day she’d first met retired DCI James Hardy. Before that, she’d spoken to him briefly on the phone, but meeting him at the crime scene had left quite an impression.
He was confident without being an arrogant prick like some senior detectives she’d met. He spent a lot of time listening to others and offering his perspective. Hardy looked young, and Emma wanted to understand more about why he’d retired so early. She also recalled, with embarrassment, thinking he was handsome in the way older men who stay in shape and look after their appearance sometimes are.
She’d watched out of the corner of her eye as he spoke at length to Etheridge about both murders. Later, she’d heard he and Etheridge had visited the scene of the first murder at Boscombe Pier. Later, Dylan Durrant, too, had been mutilated and tied to a pillar under the pier. He’d been there a while before being discovered, and it was hard to stomach. Every fish and crab for miles had taken a nibble at his corpse.
Etheridge had obviously hoped he’d be able to convince Hardy to work with him, everyone had, but it hadn’t panned out that way. She’d never learned why. All she knew was that one morning Etheridge had come into the office in a foul mood. He’d assembled the team and informed everyone that, despite the rumour, Hardy was unavailable for the foreseeable future. When she’d pressed Etheridge, he told her Hardy had insisted ‘it was better he wasn’t involved.’ Whatever the hell that meant.
What they did get from Hardy was a name, a suspect they needed to consider. That was the first time she’d heard the name Kelly Lyle.
Kelly Lyle was known to Hardy, the London Metropolitan Police and Interpol. Though she worked alone, Lyle was nicknamed ‘the Mentor’ for the way she coerced others to kill on her behalf. She was known to assist other killers by offering them advice and support in an exclusive online website community she controlled. It had never occurred to Emma the killer might be a woman.
Emma leaned back in her chair and looked out into the main office. As she chewed her pen, Detective Phil Gross walked past. She smiled and held up a hand. Gross opened the door and stuck his head into the office.
“Morning. You okay?” said Gross. He had a mouth full of breakfast roll. She could smell the greasy bacon. Her stomach rumbled.
“Have you seen Etheridge?” she asked him.
Gross wiped tomato sauce off his mouth with his wrist then licked at it. “Now what have you done?” Gross said. He took another bite, careful not to lose any of the dripping egg.
“Sod off. He wanted to see me first thing. Probably another promotion.”
“Yeah, right, and I’m dating Jennifer Lawrence.”
“Who?”
“If I see Etheridge, I’ll let you know. And Cotton, you really need to get out more.”
“You might be right.”
“How are the wedding plans coming along? I haven’t had my invite yet.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” The knot in her stomach tightened at the mention of it. She still hadn’t called her mum to tell her it was off.
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Sorry to hear that. Look, I’ve got to go. Something is going on. I’m getting waved at. Catch up later, yeah?”
Cotton watched Gross push the last of his sandwich into his mouth and disappear along the hallway to his office. She got to her feet to see if she could see what was happening.
Cotton stepped out of her office and looked around. There was a lot of commotion. Something felt wrong. She watched as people ran this way and that.
Gross came running back towards her. He was struggling to get his arm in the sleeve of his jacket.
“What’s going on?” asked Cotton.
“We just heard. It’s Etheridge. He’s been killed. Some sort of gas explosion at his home.”
“Oh, my God.” Cotton’s mind skipped back to the last time she’d spoken to him.
Gross leaned close and spoke quietly. “That’s not all. First indications are it wasn’t an accident. They’re saying some sort of incendiary device was used. He was murdered.”
Chapter Eleven
Tears and hushed conversations were everywhere. As soon as the fire brigade and forensics teams established Etheridge’s death was no accident, a wave of shock passed through the station.
Rumours spread like wildfire. Whispers and theories permeated every office and every corner.
I heard the killer kept him alive while cutting off all his limbs.
I heard it was Lyle. If she can kill Etheridge, then she could pick off any one of us.
She tortured him for hours.
They say she wears disguises. You don’t know it’s her until it’s too late.
She’s only here because of that ex–Scotland Yard detective. How come she killed Etheridge and not him? Surely that’s a bit weird?
Cotton heard it all but said nothing. She hated herself for not intervening. She looked around the office and felt ashamed. If it had been one of them who’d died, Etheridge would put a stop to the rumour mill. He’d also know what to do next. The feeling of being in limbo pissed her off. When she could stand it no longer, she grabbed her coat and walked out.
She needed to see Hardy. Bring him up to date and let him know how out-of-control this case had become.
Cotton crossed the station car park. The only thing darker than her mood was
the dark clouds overhead. Fumbling for her car keys, she noticed an envelope tucked under the windscreen wiper. It was addressed to her. It felt lumpy.
Without thinking, she ripped it open. She got into the car and poured the contents onto the front passenger seat. There was another Scrabble piece. This time the letter ‘E.’ There were photos too. They were of Etheridge. He was asleep or unconscious on the floor of his caravan. A close-up of the chain around his ankle. A close-up of Etheridge’s face. She flicked through the images. Why was Lyle communicating with her? Did Lyle want something from her? Had she killed Etheridge to slow down the investigation? Or had she done it just to show she could, to tell them that she could reach anyone?
She pulled a forensics bag from the glovebox and dropped the Scrabble piece and photos and envelope inside. It was time to talk to Hardy again.
Chapter Twelve
I felt like the luckiest man alive as I walked along the Sandbanks promenade with Monica beside me. We talked and watched Alice and Faith down on the beach as they played beside the ocean. They followed the withdrawing waves then turned and ran as the returning waves chased them back up the shore. Sandy barked and bounced around with excitement, occasionally veering off to chase another passing dog.
Monica leaned into me and tilted her head. “Are you happy?”
I lifted her hand and kissed it. “Completely. Moving here was the right thing. I love it. Alice and Faith have settled in and are happy. I don’t remember the last time I was this relaxed, and the icing on the cake is I’m completely in love with a loving, sexy, smart, patient and caring woman who seems able to tolerate me.”