Thicker Than Water (31 page)

‘It doesn’t seem a year ago, does it?’ Hayley said tearfully, as we stood by the grave in the windswept cemetery. She bent and inserted the flowers we’d brought, one by one, into the holder.

I thought of all that had happened since, the change in me, the hardness, the cold calculation.

‘In some ways it does,’ I said.

‘And that stuff she told us before she died. I just can’t get it out of my head. How could she
bear
it, Bry, knowing all those years that whoever killed them had got away with it, and let Dad take the blame?’

I said carefully, ‘What would you do, Hayl, if you found out who’d done it?’

She turned her tear-stained face, meeting my eyes. ‘Stick a knife in them!’ she said.

Shock went through me, prickling my skin. ‘Really?’

She gave a choked laugh. ‘Don’t be daft, Bry.’

‘Well, what
would
you do?’ I persisted.

‘Get the police on to them, of course. What else?’

I let it rest there.

It was Good Friday when I finally returned to the park, nearly two months since I’d been there. In the meantime, spring had arrived, and leaves on the trees obscured part of my view across the road.

I’d expected, since it was the holidays, that the kids would be running back and forth, but there was no sign of them – no sign of anyone, in fact. Both front doors remained resolutely closed. The Nelsons would be grieving for their son, but the Firbanks should be around. Then, like a lead weight, a possible explanation struck me.
They’d gone away for Easter!
Why had that never occurred to me?

I swore fluently. Little point in hanging around, then.

I turned to go, stopping in my tracks as the front door of Tree Tops swung open and Dr Nelson, his wife and the little girl emerged. They all looked sombre and somehow deflated, very different from the carefree family they’d been. The doctor opened the garage doors and drove the car out, while his wife and daughter stood in silence. Then, still without exchanging a word, they got into the car and drove off.

I didn’t bother to show myself, not wanting to intrude. In any case, with all that had happened since, he’d have forgotten me, even if Callum hadn’t.

Well, I’d been wrong about the Nelsons being away; perhaps the Firbanks weren’t, either. I considered ringing their doorbell, but decided against it. If they
were
home, I didn’t want a confrontation. Not at this stage.

I walked back to my car, parked, as usual, in the next street. They might just be out for the day; I’d come back tomorrow, and try again.

But there was still no luck, which meant that, infuriating though it was, I’d have to kick my heels till the weekend was over. At least I’d the advantage that Callum had to be back at work on Tuesday, whereas I’d another week of holiday. And though as yet I’d no definite plan, I wasn’t worried. It was best to remain flexible, and I’d no doubt whatever that my mission would be accomplished.

I spent the weekend wandering round the town, drinking coffee at the quayside and walking alongside the river watching the punts go by. But all the time, inside me, excitement was building, drying my mouth and bathing my body in sweat. Soon, very soon, I would cross Number Two off my list. Mingling with the other tourists in the spring sunshine, I wondered how they’d react if they knew I had murder in mind.

After dinner in the hotel on Easter Monday, I went to my room. The Firbanks should be home by now; time, perhaps, for a phone call. I took out my diary, checked the number, and punched it out, hearing the phone ringing in distant Richmond Close.

I almost jumped when a voice in my ear said, ‘Callum Firbank.’

I held my breath for several seconds before breaking the connection. He was back. We were on track at last.

There was no point driving out to the Close in the morning, since he was sure to be coming into work. Instead, I waited on foot at the corner of his building, and sure enough, at five to nine, he drove into the car park. I decided I’d waited long enough, and today would be D (for death) Day; I’d just have to trust the opportunity would arise.

And at lunchtime, I hit the jackpot. Callum emerged with two other men, and they made their way not to the usual restaurant, but to a pub down one of the side streets, where they joined another man at a table. Shoulder-high partitions divided the tables, making a series of little booths, and by a stroke of luck, the one next to theirs was free. I slipped into it.

‘Good weekend, Callum?’ That was the man who’d been waiting.

‘OK, thanks. We were with the mother-in-law.’

‘Contradiction in terms!’ said someone else.

‘No, she’s good value, is Daphne. The family’s staying on till the weekend.’

So he’d be alone in the house! I’d started to amend my plans, when a third voice said, ‘Got your speech ready for this evening?’

‘Just about,’ Callum replied. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s over.’

‘Oh, you’ll be great. And at least the food’s always good at the Alhambra.’

So. Callum would be attending an official dinner at the Alhambra Hotel. Better and better. I’d be waiting for him afterwards in the car park.

As before, I’d prepared the confession before leaving home, with much the same wording as Abigail’s; and the same tape was back in the recorder, so that his admission would directly follow hers. I’d also invested in another plastic mac and disposable gloves. There’d been plenty of chances to memorize Callum’s number plate, so all I had to do was find it in the hotel car park. I’d also been practising opening locked cars – one of a range of skills I’d acquired in case of need – and though I’d only tried it (many times) on my own car, and once on Gary’s when he wasn’t around, I’d more or less perfected the art. So, as fully prepared as possible, I waited for the evening.

Since the hotel where I was staying was within walking distance, I left my car in its slot and, at ten o’clock, set off for the Alhambra, making my way to the car park round the back.

It was as well I’d left plenty of time, because I had to keep breaking off my search while a constant trickle of guests came to collect their cars. In all, it took over twenty minutes to locate Callum’s, not helped by the fact that it was at the far end. He must have been late getting here, and while it was good it was so far from the building, a major disadvantage was the lamp directly overhead. When the coast was clear, I’d have to immobilize it, and I anxiously checked for security cameras. There was one a few yards to my left, and another further down on the right, but fortunately the car itself was in a blind spot. My luck was holding.

Seizing my chance, I smashed the lamp, then did my trick with the door, breathing a sigh of relief when it swung open. Climbing into the comfortable back seat, I settled down to wait.

No need for a blow-by-blow account; it was almost a carbon copy of Abigail’s, except that I grabbed him from behind, so had easier access to his throat. It was lucky most of the other cars had gone, because I’d quite a struggle heaving him up, and another plus was that the lamp’s crossbar was quite low. Finally, breathing hard after my exertions, I slipped the blank postcard into his pocket, removed my gloves and raincoat, and, an innocent-looking carrier bag in my hand, sauntered back to my hotel.

I didn’t suffer the reaction I’d had after Abigail – must be getting hardened to it. Just as well, too, because it created considerably more interest. The fact that his murder so closely replicated hers – the stabbing, the hanging and the postcard – but had taken place at the opposite side of the country, caught the public’s interest, and, it was to be supposed, that of the police. Theories about long-distance lorry drivers and commercial reps were being bandied about.

Blood inside the car proved it to be the scene of crime, and mud on the floor in the back, together with the smashed lamp, suggested the killer had lain in wait. Brilliant! But again what puzzled them was, why the double cause of death? Why the bother of heaving a fairly heavy body out of the car and stringing it up on the lamp-post, when he was already dead? Was the killer making a specific point? I could have enlightened them on that one.

Though the police admitted both postcards bore a Manchester postmark – making, as one imaginative reporter suggested, a Bermuda Triangle – the view depicted had so far not been disclosed, perhaps to deter copycat crimes.

Well, it hadn’t worked, had it, and, perhaps acknowledging this, news broke soon after that in both cases it had been of Scarthorpe, in Cumbria. It also emerged that the police had made undercover enquiries there following the first murder and were now intensifying them, but reports that someone had been enquiring about local murders the previous summer had led to nothing, and the mystery continued.

Watch this space! I thought, and turned my attention to Jilly.

I’d already accepted that since their aunt, who used to pass on family news, had died before Abigail’s wedding, neither Cal nor Jilly would have associated the murder with their sister. But Callum
Firbank
’s death was sure to ring alarm bells, especially once the postcards had been identified. With luck, Jilly would already be extremely agitated – and serve her right. But it might also have put her on her guard.

As she lived by the seaside, I decided to take advantage of the fact, and at the same time enjoy what would be a well-earned holiday. And when both she and it were past tense, I’d pass this manuscript to Hayley and the confession tape to the police.

The trouble, of course, was that once they had it, the wronged man’s son would become the obvious suspect, and a little digging might reveal that Jack Spencer’s boy was now Bryan Reid. To avoid a triple murder charge myself, I reckoned I had two options: a) to dispose of the tape and content myself with having rid the world of three murderers. (Much the safest course, but it would be letting Dad down, since he’d never be vindicated.)

Or b) leave the tape in a deposit box, with instructions for it to be handed to the police in the event of my death. It was, after all, immaterial to Dad whether exoneration came in twenty, forty or sixty years – he was already dead and it wouldn’t bring him back – but the drawback to that option was that the people who’d known him would never realize he’d been innocent.

A possible ‘c’ was that prison mightn’t be so bad. I wasn’t claustrophobic, thank God, and liked my own company. I could write a fuller version of this document, and in time-honoured fashion sell it to the papers. Even branch into fiction. John Bunyan and Jeffrey Archer had written books in gaol, and possibly Oscar Wilde, as well. He’d certainly written
about
it. And I might be able to plead extenuating circumstances.

But I’d have time to decide on all this once Jilly was dead. I might even discuss it with Hayley and Gar; they’d want what was best for me. In the meantime, I had a third murder to plan.

A basic consideration was that a prolonged stay in Sandbourne would require adequate funding, and if I was calling myself Gary Payne – as I would be – there was no way I could use a cheque or credit card in the name of Bryan Reid. So I began to withdraw regular but differing sums of cash each week, with the aim of acquiring five hundred before I set out for Dorset. (Was there such a thing as a Bermuda Quadrangle?)

Since I’d had no luck on hotel proprietors, I approached the problem by way of my now routine trick of typing in the name Irving, helpfully given to me by Miss Jenkins. And sure enough, up came D B Irving, Bay View Hotel. Fair enough. I’d book in somewhere cheaper close by, and visit the Bay View for drinks in order to clap eyes on Mrs I. After that, it was in the lap of the gods.

Twenty-two

Since it would be the height of the holiday season, I wasted no time in picking a boarding house from the Internet, and, using my anonymous email address, booked myself in for four weeks. The deposit was a problem I’d not anticipated, but since one was needed, I posted off the specified amount in the form of a money order. God knows what they made of it, but they raised no objections.

Since guests were taken from Saturday to Saturday, I drove down the day after school broke up. Yet again, I’d had to dodge prospective holiday plans from Patty, though this time they’d been half-hearted at best. Not surprisingly, she was getting fed up with me and my absences, and just recently I’d noticed significant glances passing between her and Steve Blakely, head of history. He was recently divorced and no doubt lonely, so good luck to them. I’d been tiring of Patty for some time; it was obvious that now she was thirty she wanted to settle down, and I’d never intended it to be with me.

I was in no hurry to begin my search. For one thing, I was tired at the end of a long term, and the preparations for sports day had been exhausting; for another, the sunshine and blue seas filled me with a pleasant sense of lethargy. After the toing and froing with both Abigail and Callum, I intended this last strike to be a more leisurely affair. And it was my holiday, for God’s sake!

So I spent the first few days reading paperback thrillers on the beach, plastered in a high-factor sunscreen to protect my fair skin. I slept long and deeply, breakfasted in fine style, and enjoyed the ‘high teas’ offered by the establishment – kippers, or smoked haddock, or pork pie and salad, served with pots of tea. The only drawback – that it was unlicensed – wasn’t a drawback at all, since in due course it would serve as an excuse for trying the hotel bar. In the meantime, I contented myself with a local hostelry.

On the Wednesday, I started work. The first necessity was to identify Jilly, and to this end, protected by my sunglasses and a floppy sunhat, I braved the foyer of the Bay View. Once inside, the darkness seemed absolute and I had to wait for my eyes, still behind their shades, to grow accustomed to it. As my vision slowly cleared, it focused on an attractive woman behind the reception desk, and something about her – an air of authority, the way she held herself – indicated that she wasn’t the receptionist; could this possibly—?

In quick confirmation, a voice from inside the office called, ‘Phone for you, Jill!’

‘Coming!’ she called back, and disappeared through the doorway.

So
that
was Jilly – or Jill – Irving! I drew a deep breath. As far as I was aware, I hadn’t any preformed mental picture of her – if I had, it would have dated from childhood – but she wasn’t what I expected. Abigail had been lovely, even in the cold and rain and scared out of her wits. She’d also been dark, as, if memory served me right, were they all; but Jill was now stridently blonde. From a bottle, perhaps. Her hair was short and somehow spiky, and her face, though not pretty, was arresting. It startled me to realize that, if I’d not been determined to kill her, I might have fancied her.

Reminding myself forcibly that she was what Shakespeare alluded to as ‘Third Murderer’, I blundered back through the swing doors and, once outside, broke into a sweat, pulses racing.

For God’s sake, I thought impatiently, get a grip, man! But a different approach, infinitely tempting, was beginning to suggest itself. It would be a novelty to meet my victim socially, perhaps even get to know her. Thrice-married Jill might have a wandering eye that I could use to my advantage, though any attraction between us would be purely physical, in no way lessening my implacable hatred. In some curious way, it might even add to it.

Even so, there was no denying my first sight of her had shaken me, and though I’d originally planned on going to the Bay View that evening, I postponed my visit. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

That night, I dreamed we were in bed together, though our activity couldn’t be described as ‘making love’; one of the uglier terms would be more appropriate. I was conscious, throughout the dream, of an intense desire to dominate, to inflict pain, and the feeling was still with me when I woke in the dark, shaking and drenched in sweat. I’d have to get myself under control before seeing her again.

In the event, I was unprepared. The next morning I stopped at the newsagent’s-cum-post office to buy a paper, and was reaching for the door when it was pushed open from the inside, and I found myself face to face with Jill Irving.

God knows what my expression was as I muttered an apology, but there was a pleased little smirk on her face as she went on her way. Used to male admiration, perhaps; little did she know it was not admiration I was feeling.

That settled it; I’d go to the hotel that evening.

Seated at the bar nursing a beer, I was wondering how I could ‘accidentally’ meet her, when she obliged me by coming in and starting to hand out menus for that evening’s dinner. And on reaching me, asked, with no hint of recognition, if I’d be dining with them.

Yet again, I was caught on the hop. I shook my head, mumbling something incoherent; but then, annoyed with myself and determined to make her admit she remembered me, added that I hoped I’d not startled her that morning. To which she coolly replied she wasn’t easily startled. We’d see about that.

My eyes followed her round the room, filing away details of her appearance. She was fairly tall, though in high heels it was hard to judge, and on the thin side – certainly not as well endowed as Patty. It was, though, just the right figure for the designer dress she was wearing, and the effect was stunning.

For the rest, though her hair was honey-gold, her eyes were brown – reinforcing my theory – her cheekbones high and prominent, her mouth too wide for beauty and her nostrils too flared. Nonetheless they amounted to a lethal combination positively exuding sexuality, as was evidenced by the glances, admiring, assessing, or lustful, that, like my own, were following her progress.

Suddenly irritated that she hadn’t looked back, I deposited my half-finished drink on the bar, and left the room.

The next evening I returned, and Jill, remembering, no doubt, that I’d not wanted a menu, made to pass me by. It gave me enormous satisfaction to call her back and request one. She apologized, obviously disconcerted, and I ignored her embarrassed smile.

God, the prices! That would be the only meal I’d eat there, or the five hundred would disappear like the Cheshire Cat. However, since I
was
there, I deliberately avoided the less expensive dishes and chose what I fancied. If she was interested enough to check, which I wouldn’t put past her, at least she’d see I wasn’t penny-pinching.

Before leaving the hotel that evening, I strolled casually to the reception desk and helped myself to one of the glossy brochures. As I’d expected, it gave both the hotel’s web site and email address.

I didn’t return to the Bay View, hoping my absence would arouse her interest, but I continued to track her movements, wearing an assortment of leisurewear to follow her at a distance about the town.

Most afternoons, she set off along the promenade with a beach bag, and although I realized this could be the ideal opportunity to confront her, two things held me back. The first was that it would be harder to remain unobserved, since there were fewer people about in that direction, and the second was that I was enjoying playing cat and mouse, and in no hurry to end it. However, curiosity finally got the better of me; halfway through the following week, I decided to try my luck and, clad only in shirt and swimming trunks, my book and sun-cream rolled into a towel, I set off after her.

A hundred yards or so along the prom, she turned off the road on to a grass track that led along the cliff top, and I fell farther behind, conscious there was nowhere to hide if she turned round. But she didn’t turn, and we proceeded in single file for several hundred yards, the sea far below us on the left, the road to the right now out of sight.

Then I stumbled and tripped over a rabbit hole, nearly losing my footing, and when I straightened again, she’d disappeared.

I swore under my breath, scanning the flat grassland ahead. No one was in sight, and the only movement was the lazy, droning flight of a bee. Reasoning that she couldn’t disappear into thin air, I went on more cautiously, fearing she might after all have seen me and be lying in wait, even though there was no bush large enough to conceal her.

I was concentrating so much on the way ahead that I almost missed it, but some sixth sense made me glance to my left and there, leading downwards at a precipitous angle, was a winding path.

I paused only a moment before starting down it. The sandy surface was slippery and interspersed now and again by worn steps, presumably in the interests of safety. Because of the vegetation on either side, I couldn’t see where I was headed, and must have been more than halfway down before I caught sight first of the sea, and then of a silvery white beach surrounded by cliffs.

I paused, and as I did so, a figure ran out from beyond my field of vision, straight into the sea. It had to be Jill Irving, and she was completely naked.

For several minutes I stood motionless, breathing deeply, while all manner of plans came and went in my head. I hadn’t, of course, got any tools with me; my intention today had been simply to increase the pressure before moving on to frighten her. In any case, it was too soon to move in for the kill; having had to rush both Abigail and Callum’s murders, I intended to savour this one.

Slowly, I lowered myself to the ground alongside the path, the dry grass prickling my bare legs. I was now screened from below by a gorse bush, but still able to see the gold head bobbing among the waves. The sun beat down on the back of my neck, though I was scarcely aware of it.

Memories of my dream returned to torment me. I didn’t doubt I could take her, either with or without her consent. But, again, it was too soon. I might be accused of rape, which would scotch all my plans at this late stage of the game. I couldn’t afford the risk.

My mind was still fluctuating when she re-emerged, dripping, from the water and disappeared out of sight to my right – where, no doubt, she’d left her towel. It was the perfect opportunity to put her at a disadvantage, and if I could appear unmoved by her nakedness –
if
! – it would pique her still further. She might, of course, have dressed, but having swum in the nude, that struck me as unlikely.

Slowly, I eased myself to my feet, stooping to avoid being visible from below, and very carefully continued my descent. When I’d rounded another couple of bends, I at last saw her, stretched on a towel, still naked, her eyes protected by sunglasses.

As I reached the beach, I slipped off my sandals, wincing as the hot sand burned my feet. The small bay, I saw, was completely secluded, unapproachable from the seaside and invisible from above. I wondered how she’d come across it.

Very slowly I started to walk towards her until I stood within a few feet, looking down on her and steeling myself not be aroused. Small high breasts, flat stomach, long, lean thighs, and all of it a deep golden brown. A well-toned body, too, but on the whole I preferred Patty’s more voluptuous curves, and I clung to that thought.

‘Mrs Irving, I presume?’ I said.

What followed was more or less as expected. She was in turn flustered, indignant, and furious, but, ignoring her demands for me to leave, I spread my towel, removed my shirt, and lay down, claiming it was a public beach and I’d as much right to be there as she had.

Also as expected, she lost no time in dressing and beating a hasty retreat. Lying alone in the sunshine, I permitted myself a satisfied smile.
I thought you’d gone home
, she’d said. My absence had had the desired effect.

But by no means all my time was spent shadowing Jill Irving. I swam, explored the coast, went on a boat trip. I tried a different pub each evening, and struck up amiable, if temporary, friendships in all of them. I saw a show on the pier and went to the cinema. I even chatted up a girl in one pub, and made love to her afterwards on the cold sand-hills. Damn it, it was my holiday, and I intended to enjoy it.

I no longer worried how I’d single out Jill when I needed to; I knew she’d come if I raised my finger. From time to time I watched out for her, and once she caught sight of me, which was no bad thing.

However, one morning I spotted her going into the library with someone I’d not seen before, a good-looking guy, and they seemed very much at ease with each other.

Disconcerted that someone was encroaching on my patch, I kept watch, and when they left the library, followed them to a café. It wasn’t large enough for me to go in undetected, but they were at a window table, and I could see them from across the road.