The Murder House (37 page)

‘This is the man who murdered James Paxton and Barry Wright,' I announced, drawing myself up to my full height, and knowing my uniform would ensure they believed me. ‘I've disarmed him and now I'm going for reinforcements. I won't be long, and if he moves, hit him with this.' I handed Kovac the rock.

‘Why not use your radio?' asked Kovac. ‘Or your mobile?'

‘Poor reception,' I replied briskly.

‘That's the officer who came the day I reported the smell,' said Smith. ‘He looks sort of foreign.'

‘He's an impostor.' I headed for the door. ‘Very dangerous. I won't be long, but remember – if he moves, hit him hard.'

I left the house and ran for Oakley's car, but the keys were in his pocket, and I could hardly go back for them. In the distance I heard the wail of a siren. Had they finally worked it out and were coming to get me? Or was the rest of my shift just going to break up some brawl? It wasn't far to my house, so I ran there as fast as I could. I tore off my uniform and donned jeans and a T-shirt. Then I grabbed the suitcase I'd packed. Money and passport were already in it.

There was blood on my hand, but I didn't wash it off. There wasn't time. I snatched up my car keys and drove quickly to Colin's house. Only Oakley knew he was dead, and he wasn't going to be telling anyone. I smashed a window to get into Colin's house, and I knew where he kept his keys, credit card and spare money. I took them all and drove to the airport, where I bought a ticket on the first plane out with Colin's credit card. It was to Alicante, and I'd plan my next move when I landed. I sat back in my seat, and thought with pleasure that the next sunrise I'd see would be a Spanish one.

I
decided to stay in Spain in the end. I'd taken Spanish at school – in the same class as James, actually – and I enjoyed the challenge of immersing myself in another culture. At first, I worked in bars and restaurants – the kind of jobs where you're paid cash and no one asks too many questions. I liked it. It's a nice country, and it made a change to live somewhere warm.

I read the Bristol papers online, and learned that I was wanted for murder. The local press screamed that I'd killed a brave police sergeant called Barry Wright, a brilliant lawyer named James Paxton, and a talented computer programmer called Colin Fairhurst – Colin's body was recovered a couple of weeks after he'd fallen over the cliff. But I was oddly pleased that only three pictures appeared, because it meant that Oakley was still alive. Now I was safe, and nothing he could do or say could make any difference, I could afford to be magnanimous.

I know you can't believe everything you read on the internet, but I didn't have any other sources, so I had to make do. I gathered from local Bristol message boards that Marko Kovac had been completely exonerated, and was quoted as saying that he'd learned not to be careless with keys – having accidentally left those from the physics lab at the Orchard Street house – or bathtubs again. Another report said that he'd offered to pay for the stain on the kitchen ceiling to be repaired – and that was after he'd forked out for an expensive plane ticket to rush back and help the police the moment he learned he was needed. Urvine and Brotherton had made no comment.

Kovac talked about his nanotechnology research, too, which might have commercial applications, but those were so far in the future that the notion of anyone harming him over it now was inconceivable. Internet gossip also reported that he'd seen a psychiatrist about the atrocities he'd witnessed in the Balkans. So DI Davis had been right in that sense: Kovac
had
been disturbed by his experiences, but they hadn't driven him to kill.

A few months later, I read that Billy Yorke had been sent down for the murder of Emma Vinson, while Randal had turned informer and given evidence against the rest of the gang. Michael was acquitted, however, because there was no evidence, other than Randal's testimony, that he'd ever been at the scene of any crime.

Meanwhile, it emerged that Pullen, the corrupt architect, was strongly implicated in his son's wrongdoings: he'd been feeding James information that would help set wealthy criminals free. It was discovered that he'd developed quite an operation from his prison cell, which he and James had used to make lots of money. Yorke, however, had been a friend. No money had passed hands to get him off the Westbury Burglaries. James had aimed to do that for love.

Mrs Paxton was photographed with her head down, catapulted a second time into the limelight for marrying a famous criminal. I felt sorry for her. She'd worked hard to earn respectability after her husband's downfall and it had all turned to ashes again. I kept an eye on the obituary sections for a while, half expecting to see her name there.

I learned the search for me was widened to foreign countries when Colin's car was found at the airport. Somehow, Colin's answer machine messages were leaked to the media and played over the airways. It made me sound callous – phoning the boyfriend I'd killed to ‘cover my tracks'. I can't imagine who was responsible. Not Wright, obviously, as he was dead. It just goes to show that there will always be an element of spite in the police force, and the fact that someone had taken up where Wright had left off made me sick.

A little later, I read that Dr Grossman was retiring – earlier than anticipated, so I suppose the cock up over James' dental records had taken its toll. Oakley would be glad, I was sure.

And finally, I read that Wayne King had been caught using James' mobile. He was arrested and charged with theft, along with a good many other offences. The CID wrote off dozens of unsolved cases and Wayne went to prison. I was sure he'd learn a lot from older, more accomplished villains, and would return to the streets of Bristol a far better crook.

I cut and dyed my hair, and applied plenty of tanning lotion until my skin really was brown and local-looking. I lost weight, too, and felt good. The newspapers screamed for answers, as they always do when they only have half the facts, but in the end it died down and I was forgotten. I began to relax.

I met a man who was able to give me a new identity, and my name is now Rina Carlo. Unfortunately he asked too many questions, then showed me a newspaper clipping with my picture on it, so I was obliged to resort to the rocks again. The Spanish police aren't as assiduous as their British counterparts, so his death was put down to a fight between thieves and quietly written off. I got a job in a translation agency and started dating a nice industrial chemist called Alfredo. I now live in a lovely bungalow overlooking the sea. Life is better than it ever was in Bristol. Crime
does
pay.

Billy Yorke didn't have to endure life in prison for long. A few months after he was sentenced he was found dead in his cell, having suffered a heart attack in the middle of the night.

Michael supposed he should feel angry with the police officers who'd put Billy inside. But he didn't. They were just doing their job, and Neel Oakley had his own problems anyway. He was facing a slow recovery, and questions were raised as to whether he would ever be fit enough to return to work. Still, his nurse had stayed with him, and Michael had heard they were getting married. Michael wished them well. It wasn't the inspector who was the object of his slowly festering hatred – it was the brown-skinned woman who lay sunning herself by the swimming pool.

It had taken Michael months to trawl the kind of places Brits went when they didn't want to stand out. Clare Davis and Graham Evans had done the same, but they were under pressure of time and limited money, and didn't stand a chance. Michael didn't care that his painstaking search had gobbled up every penny of the proceeds from the Westbury Burglaries, or that he had barely rested since his quest had started. He only cared that he'd found his quarry at last.

The woman who now called herself Rina Carlo liked a sweet, milky cocktail containing rum and coconut juice. She always had one when the Spanish began their siesta, sometimes at the beach and sometimes by the pool. That day, she was by the pool. She was drowsing, made sleepy by sun and alcohol, and she didn't hear Michael when he slipped up to her table and emptied a packet of white powder into her drink. He stirred it with his finger and walked away.

Michael knew a lot about drugs. They were how his family had earned much of their money. He wiped his hand on a white handkerchief – it wouldn't do to lick it clean – then sat at the pool bar, waiting for Rina Carlo to wake up. When she did, she took a long, deep swallow, thirsty from the heat. He thought she grimaced at a slight bitterness, but then she waved to a waiter for another.

Michael watched her for a long time. She laid there neatly, arms to her sides and legs straight, and gradually her breathing slowed until it stopped. He stayed where he was until her second cocktail began to curdle in the heat. Then he stood, flung his jacket over his shoulder, and took a taxi to the airport.