Guilty Innocence (30 page)

Easy enough for Natalie to desire revenge. It’s proving a lot harder than she’s imagined to carry out her plan, however. She stares at Rachel’s number in her contacts list, summoning up her rage against the man who’s betrayed her, but somehow it’s insufficient to make her press the call option.

What she fears, she realises, is Rachel’s condemnation. For not having realised Mark’s identity as Joshua Barker before, for being so gullible as to believe his innocence. For Natalie being Rachel’s rival as far as Mark’s concerned. Ah, that last one rings true, deep in her gut. Jealousy, the real reason for her hesitation.

More time slips by. Finally, she manages to bolster her courage enough to call Rachel.

The other woman’s mobile rings several times. Natalie’s on the point of giving up, and then Rachel answers.

Her voice is girlish and breathy. Natalie conjures up the images she’s seen of Rachel at the vigil, all frail and fragile-looking. A perfect match with the nervous timbre of her
hello
.

She identifies herself, dismayed at the dryness in her mouth.

‘I’m Mark Slater’s ex-girlfriend. My name is Natalie Richards.’

The stunned quality of the silence greeting her announcement weaves its way down the phone to Natalie.

Eventually Rachel speaks. ‘Why are you calling me?’

In the background, Natalie hears a male voice, shouting. Loud, aggressive, angry.

‘That’s not him, is it? Is that sick bastard phoning you, Rachel? Tell me you’re not talking to him.’

Natalie thinks:
Shaun Morgan
.

‘Rachel,’ she says. ‘I need to talk to your brother.’

25

YOU LEAD, I FOLLOW

Wednesday evening. Mark’s in his flat, sitting on his sofa, nursing a beer, raking Adam Campbell over in his mind. No police waiting for him when he gets back from Moretonhampstead, thank God. Rachel obviously hasn’t informed them of his parole violations yet. She will, of course, but for now, Mark’s simply grateful for the extra time.

His eyes are drawn to a crumb nestling between his sofa cushions. He pulls it out, holding it up so he can examine it. A fragment of biscuit. Must be from when Natalie raided his kitchen after finding the letter from Linda Curtis. Odd he never noticed it before, though. Mark shrugs. Biscuit crumbs are insignificant in comparison with Adam Campbell.

Adam’s an itch he’s unable to stop scratching. It’s as though the man represents the final piece of the jigsaw concerning Abby Morgan’s murder. He’d thought the Morgan family might be the answer, but now, with Rachel an open wound for him, he’s uncertain as to whether that’s the case. Sure, he’s discovered more about the Morgans, but at what cost? All he’s done is fuck with Rachel’s mind and ensure himself a swift return to prison. Right now, the ends don’t appear to justify the means, and with time running out for Mark, perhaps he’ll do better concentrating on Adam Campbell.

Nothing I’ve done since getting out of jail has even come close.
The words worry away at Mark, in the same way the little Italian girl used to. Along with
the first cut is the sweetest.
The need to find out what Adam Campbell’s been up to since prison is an itch Mark’s desperate to scratch. One thing’s for sure. Adam’s also suffering an itch. The urge to brag, and if Mark handles things right, the man won’t be able to resist scraping his nails over it much longer.

Only one thing for it. He needs to contact Adam again if he’s to get any answers. Whether he can handle two doses of the man in one day, even if one of them is over a phone connection, is another question. He breathes in deeply, starting a counting ritual in his head.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
It takes two rounds of the nursery rhyme before he’s up to dealing with his old nemesis. When he’s finally ready, he pulls out his mobile.

Adam answers almost immediately. ‘You again?’ He laughs. ‘Can’t get enough of me, can you?’

‘Adam.’ Mark wills himself to stay calm. ‘Good to catch up earlier on, mate. Like you said, it’s been far too long.’

‘Yeah, well, I guess that’s down to getting banged up for ten years. Not to mention our new identities.’

‘Been mulling things over. What we were talking about before, I mean. How what we did was…’ Mark’s forced to pause before he can bring himself to say the word. Ordinary enough in itself, but grotesque in the context in which he intends to use it. ‘Fun.’ God, how he hates having to come out with such shit, but it’s a means to an end.

‘Yeah. Well, I certainly got off on it.’ A pause. ‘You, though, nancy boy - thought you were about to piss your pants at times.’

‘Didn’t expect what happened. Came as a shock.’

‘Bullshit.’ The word erupts down the phone. Mark’s glad Adam’s not there to witness the way he flinches, as though stung by a whip. ‘Don’t give me that crap. You knew what I had in mind, right from when I persuaded the little bitch to come with us. What the fuck did you think I was going to do with her? Play hide and seek? You fucking stupid bastard.’

Mark’s confusion at the time, born from his naïveté, as well as a total unawareness of how the psychopathic mind works, comes back to him. Adam’s wrong. He didn’t have a fucking clue back then what was going on, so he needs to ensure this time is different. No more being weak, he tells himself. Adam’s pissed off now, the last thing Mark wants or needs. Time to placate the bastard.

‘You’re right, I suppose. I mean, I kind of knew. Just wasn’t sure what exactly you had in mind.’

‘Stupid fucker, you are. Always have been.’ The aggression’s gone from Adam’s tone, if not from his words, causing Mark to release the breath he’s been holding.

‘Yeah. I guess you’re right. At the time, though, I’d not seen anything like that before. Got to me a bit, I agree. Almost did piss my pants, too.’ True enough, besides which he needs to keep his place in the pecking order. ‘Thing is, I had plenty of time to think things over, once they banged me up. Couldn’t admit it to myself at first, not for a while.’

‘What? Spit it out.’

‘That I liked…’ The words choke Mark with their vileness.

‘What? That you enjoyed seeing the bitch bleed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, fuck me. I was right, then. You got off on it, same as I did.’

‘I guess.’

‘Took you long enough to realise it.’

‘I’m not like you, Adam. I couldn’t do something like that, you see. But watching you - that’s a different matter. Wish I had your guts, mate.’ Mark injects a note of wistfulness into his voice. ‘More of an observer, me. Not got the balls for it myself. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy being an onlooker, though.’

‘Well, listen to you.’ The sound of a carton being opened, the hiss of a lighter. Adam drags on his cigarette. ‘The wuss does have a dark side after all. Everyone does; it’s just that most fuckers never let it see the light of day. Too busy playing life straight, keeping in line with all the other sad bastards.’ Contempt fills Adam’s voice.

Mark makes his tone reverential. An acolyte worshipping at the feet of his master. ‘Not like you.’

Adam takes the bait. ‘Nah. All the rest of them sad shits; such narrow lives they lead. Trudging to work from nine to five each day, paying the mortgage, hatching out brats. Dickheads who allow others to tell them what to do, how to think. No fucking individuality. Sheep, all of them. Always playing by the rules. What fucking rules, I say.’

Mark’s silent, unsure how to follow up, when Adam catches him unawares. ‘You should watch me sometime. Be just like old times.’

Watch me sometime.
Words implying more Abby Morgans, either already accomplished or planned for the future. The itch that’s been bothering Mark ever since their earlier meeting flares up again. He scratches it.

‘You said…’ Mark licks his dry lips. ‘You said nothing since has come close to her.’

‘Too right, in spite of me doing it too quick. But you never forget your first, right?’

Your first.
The itch prickles harder.

When Mark doesn’t reply, Adam laughs. ‘Listen to me. I need to remember I’m talking to a fucking virgin here. No idea how good it is to snuff out someone’s life, have you? OK, so you watched whilst I killed the brat, but you’re too much of a wuss to do anything like that yourself.’

‘Horses for courses,’ Mark forces out. ‘Like I said, I’d rather be an onlooker. Do it by proxy.’

‘Yeah. Too fucking gutless yourself.’

‘But it works better that way, doesn’t it?’ Now Mark’s found the way forward, he goes for it, his disgust temporarily shelved. ‘Any partnership – someone always takes the lead.’

His ploy succeeds. Mark can almost hear Adam’s ego inflating. ‘Not many of us around. Like I say, too many sheep-like people in the world.’ He laughs. ‘You’re a prime example, mate. I remember when we were at school. Useless, you were, without me to show you the ropes.’

‘We work well together,’ Mark replies. ‘You lead, I follow.’

‘Reckon it was probably that way with, say, Leopold and Loeb.’

Mark’s lost. ‘Who?’

‘American killing combo. Did some teenage kid with a chisel, way back when. Spent months planning it.’ Adam’s tone is reverential, before switching to disgust. ‘Stupid buggers got caught, though. And buggers sums them up. A pair of fucking queers.’

Mark’s chilled by Adam’s study of the murder game. ‘It’s true, though. About one person out of a pair taking the lead.’ He warms to his theme. ‘Look at Fred and Rosemary West. Or Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. One of them the doer, the other the helper.’

Adam’s laugh is mocking. ‘Always said you were a woman inside. All girlie emotion and such crap. Don’t get any ideas about me riding your arse, you fucking pansy. If I get so much as a hint of you wanting to take a walk down Queer Street, I’ll cut your fucking dick off and shove it in your mouth. Got that?’

Even over a phone connection, the man intimidates Mark into forgetting where he is. He’s no longer safe at home, with Adam miles away in Taunton. Instead, it’s as if the other man’s beside him, coercing him into submission. They’re back in the park after school; Adam’s pinning him down, his knife at his throat, and the eleven-year-old Joshua answers rather than Mark.

‘I got it, Adam.’

‘I lead, you follow.’

‘Right.’ Mark’s breath is coming more easily now. ‘The thing is - all those people we’ve mentioned. They got caught, same as we did. It doesn’t bother you? The thought of going back inside?’

‘I’ve learned from my mistakes. Not going back to jail, not ever.’

Mark tries again. ‘You’ve kept your nose clean since you got released?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ The voice of an eleven-year-old again, bragging, and Mark’s suspicion that Adam’s nose is pretty damn dirty gathers force.

‘Nearly ran into trouble when I first got out. Stupid bitch I’d been fucking gave me some lip one night, so I knocked her around a bit, taught her a lesson. She knew better than to make waves about it, but her fucking mate didn’t. Ran into her the next day and she gave me a load of shit about her pal’s busted nose. Banged on about going to the cops. Who gives a shit about some broad’s nose? Not as though she was much of a looker in the first place. No way will I do more time inside, especially for some bitch with saggy tits and an arse to match.’

Mark’s mouth is dry. ‘What did you do?’

‘Knew where the bitch’s mate liked to hang out. Followed her one night. I let her live, but only because someone saw me approach her. Let’s just say she’ll be keeping her mouth shut from now on.’

Thank God. At least he didn’t kill her. Mark wonders whether Adam Campbell’s pupils, blackened with the lust for murder, have ever been some other woman’s last sight before death, though.

‘You ever think about…’

‘What? Spit it out, nancy boy.’

‘Well, you know. About…’

‘Killing again?’ Adam laughs. ‘What makes you think I haven’t?’

Shit. Draw him out gently, Mark tells himself. ‘Have you?’

‘Why, you want to help me, wussy-boy? Be Bianchi to my Buono?’

Mark’s stumped again. ‘Who?’

‘The Hillside Strangler duo over in the States, dickhead. Although, as I recall, one of those fuckers testified against the other to get a lighter sentence.’ Adam’s voice grows tinged with menace. ‘You ever snitch on me and I’ll slice your balls off. That’s assuming you have any.’

Mark’s transported back through the years once more, to Adam’s threat to kill him if he blabs about Abby. He does his best to tame the unleashed tiger.

‘Not going to happen. Didn’t snitch on you before, did I? Besides, you said it yourself. You’ve learned a thing or two. You won’t get caught again.’

‘Too fucking right. Been honing my skills.’

‘Care to elaborate?’

‘Not right now. So, you up for doing it again?’

Mark stalls for time. ‘Might be.’ He needs to establish a rapport with Adam, gain his trust, make him think they’re the same under the skin. How he’s Rosemary to Adam’s Fred West, the other half of a dynamic killing duo. The only way he’ll ever get the better of the man.

Adam laughs. ‘Think of the fun we can have. As well as giving our do-gooding parole officers the run around. God, those fucking meetings every month, having to fake being all sweetness and reformation, especially after sticking it to some bitch who had it coming to her anyway. Doesn’t it make you sick, having to pretend? Not that you do, what with you living the life of a regular Joe. Working at some shitty builder’s yard. My parole guy, he’s always on at me to find a steady job. Like they grow on trees.’

Mark’s itch prickles back into life. ‘You get work from time to time, though, don’t you? What is it, labouring, scaffolding, you said?’

‘Yeah. Here, there, everywhere.’

‘You work away sometimes?’

‘Occasionally. The odd contract job. Places like Plymouth or Southampton. Have myself some good times along the way. Cash in hand, as well.’

‘How long do you normally go for?’