Thicker Than Water (32 page)

The easiness had now given way to something more serious; the guy was leaning towards her, talking earnestly. What the hell was going on, and was the burly husband aware of it?

I was examining a shop window when they emerged, and although my back was to them, I could see them reflected in the glass. They exchanged a few words on the pavement, then went off in opposite directions. So what was I to make of that? If she had a new escort, she was unlikely to miss me. I’d have to step up my pursuit.

I held off for a day in case the guy was still around, but there was no sign of him, so the following morning I seated myself on a bench almost directly opposite the hotel. If Jill followed her usual pattern, she’d go down to town soon after ten. I could only hope the new man wasn’t with her.

The ploy worked better than I could have hoped. She emerged alone and made a beeline for me, demanding to know if I lived in Sandbourne, and if not, why I was spending so long there. I really had got under her skin. I explained I was a schoolteacher with long holidays, which seemed to satisfy her. Then I pointedly returned to my paper, but for some reason she continued to stand there, until in the end I told her to sit down as she was blocking the sun. Whereupon she flounced off down the hill.

But time was running out. I’d dallied my way through three weeks of my holiday, and only one more remained. Though still loath to be hurried, I must make a move soon.

For another couple of days I maintained my policy of now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t; but on the Monday I put my next plan into action.

As yet, Jill hadn’t received the preliminary jolt of fear, but I’d made provision for it, bringing with me the photocopy of the
Cumberland and Westmorland Post
. I’d established there was an Internet Café in town, and I knew the hotel’s email address.

I’d have given a lot to see her reaction, and was still trying to picture it when she took me completely by surprise.

I was in the café she’d visited with her friend, actually sitting at the same table, and the first I knew of her presence was when she plonked herself down opposite me. For an anxious moment, I wondered if she’d connected me with the email, though that didn’t seem possible. What I definitely wasn’t prepared for was for her to apologize for being ‘unwelcoming’ and then – I couldn’t believe my ears! – invite me to dinner! And at a restaurant along the coast, at that! I’d spent some time planning how to inveigle her out of the hotel, and here she was, handing me the opportunity on a plate!

She suggested going that evening, but I quickly scotched that; I needed time to amend my plan, and pleaded engagements for the next two. Which brought us to Friday, my last night and the date I’d already earmarked for my task. We were to meet at the far end of the prom at seven thirty, after which the condemned woman would have her last meal.

Even better, she suggested taking her car; I certainly didn’t want traces of her in mine, but nor could I afford to leave any of my own in hers. I already had a hand-held vacuum cleaner for the car; it would collect fibres, but I’d need other cleaning agents to remove fingerprints. Mentally, I added them to my shopping list.

The following day, I hired a bike from a shop in town and put it in the boot of my car, together with a carrier bag containing a length of clothesline and a change of clothes. These last were necessary because, since a plastic mac would be out of the question here, I’d have to strip afterwards.

I then set off along the coast road, keeping an eye open for places to stop on the way back. It was all very open, and not promising.

Fortunately, the local map I’d bought showed an alternative, inland, road, that proved much more to my liking, running as it did through a couple of copses. I parked at each in turn to examine them thoroughly before deciding which to settle on. Having made my choice and checked that no one seemed to have been there recently, I drove the car fairly deep into the wood, where I removed the bike from the boot and cycled back to Sandbourne.

So far, so good. All that worried me now was that we might see somebody Jill knew at the restaurant. I’d no wish to be introduced to anyone who could describe me later, but it was a chance I’d have to take.

Seven thirty found me waiting at the side of the road, watching for her car. Unused to being sociable with my victims immediately prior to killing them, my nerves were stretched to the limit. How I’d be able to force any food down, I couldn’t imagine.

She was spot on time, and we made inconsequential chat during the fifteen-minute drive. At least, she did; my tongue seemed glued to the roof of my mouth. This continued once we were seated in the restaurant, and though I knew I should make some positive contribution, my brain seemed to have atrophied, and it was left to her to broach every topic. When I did speak, though, I was exaggerating my accent, in the hope it might ring unwelcome bells, but she gave no sign of it.

She asked if I was married, if I had a girlfriend, where I lived, and I answered monosyllabically. But then she gave me an opening I couldn’t resist, enquiring what kind of books and films I enjoyed.

‘Murder,’ I said promptly, ‘every time.’

I was surprised by her reaction, though perhaps I shouldn’t have been. Her face paled beneath her tan, and she gave a quick shake of her head, declaring that she hated all forms of violence; she’d never seen a film or read a book dealing with it, nor did she follow real-life cases in the press.

Twenty-four years too late, but it explained how she’d missed reports of Callum’s death.

At last it was time to leave, and on the way to the car, I made the speech I’d rehearsed, suggesting we return home by the inland route. Though she warned me we’d not see much in the dark, she seemed happy with the idea, as I’d expected, and minutes later we were approaching the designated copse.

I cleared my throat, tried to sound seductive as I suggested stopping for a while. She was quick to agree, even taking the rug from the boot.

And that, really, was that. Except that she tried to kiss me, and despite all my lusting after her, I almost vomited. I sat her down on the rug and took out the recorder.

It went like clockwork. I located my car, collected the clothesline, and went back to string her up. Then I stripped, putting the bloodied clothes in the bag and changing into fresh ones. The cleaned knife, recorder and confession I left in the boot, and removed a fresh pair of gloves and the cleaning materials. Then I went back to her car, praying no one would drive past.

They didn’t, and twenty minutes later, I was pretty sure not a trace of me remained.

Well, Dad, I thought, fait accompli, at long last. My mission was complete.

By the time the news broke I was back home, and learned the details, along with the rest of the country, from the papers and television. Jill’s husband had reported her missing, a friend who’d provided an alibi was uneasy and came forward, and the restaurant confirmed she’d booked a table. After that, it wasn’t long before search parties found her car.

Despite the fact that they’d had a recent row in public, her husband was never considered a serious suspect. More interesting, later in the week, was the report that another man was ‘helping the police with their enquiries’ – at a guess, Jill’s mysterious companion. It amused me that they were considering him in the role of postcard killer.

Over the next week or so I watched or listened to every bulletin, in a very mixed frame of mind. I no longer had a goal, and combining with my sense of achievement was one of anti-climax. I almost regretted having no one left to kill.

So, having just finished writing the above, my journal, as I’ve come to think of it, is complete. Three weeks have passed since my return from Sandbourne, and the papers are still full of the case. I’m back at school, where I learned that Patty has moved in with Steve Blakely, though we’re not supposed to know. They certainly didn’t let the grass grow.

I’m due for lunch at Hayley and Gary’s on Sunday, and I’ll hand this over to them then. I wonder what they’ll make of it.

Epilogue

In the last ten days, there have been two dramatic developments concerning the so-called postcard murders, which have also thrown new light on a double murder nearly a quarter of a century ago.

Firstly, on Sunday 14th September, Bryan Reid, aged thirty-three, was killed in a head-on car crash near his home in Stockford, Greater Manchester. The police, who were quickly on the scene, discovered a bulky buff envelope on the back seat, addressed simply to ‘Hayley’, and containing a document purporting to be a blow-by-blow account of the postcard killings.

In addition, a tape of three different voices was found in the deceased’s pocket, giving their names as those of the victims, and apparently confessing to a murder that took place in Cumbria in 1985, in which Harold and Elizabeth Sheridan died in a car crash after their vehicle had been tampered with. Even more startlingly, the three identified themselves as the son and daughters of Mrs Sheridan.

At the time, a local man, Jack Spencer, had been arrested in connection with the crime, but hanged himself before the case came to court. Bryan Reid claimed to be Spencer’s son, and had determined to find the real killer in order to avenge his father.

There seemed no reason to doubt the veracity of either the document or the tape, since in both cases details known only to the respective murderers were accurately described. Media interest has, of course, been intense, not least because of the hitherto unknown link between the postcard victims.

It is understood that discussions are taking place to consider whether these two items, taken together, constitute a sound enough reason to reopen the earlier case, and, pre-empting any conclusion, a pressure group has already been set up with the aim of obtaining a pardon for the allegedly wronged man.

However, following all this publicity, the case has taken a second, equally unexpected, turn: Sidney Lester, aged seventy-seven, of Crosthwaite, Cumbria, has made a death-bed declaration to the effect that he was also involved in the deaths of the Sheridans.

Appalled to learn the true identity of the postcard victims and the reason for their murders, Mr Lester claimed that in 1985 Harold Sheridan had been his accountant and, in his opinion, had failed to carry out adequate checks on a company in which he was considering investing a substantial sum of money; with the result that when the company subsequently crashed, he was left virtually bankrupt.

Following Reid’s example, he requested a tape recorder and dictated the following, a few minutes at a time, over a period of three days, the last section being recorded the day prior to his death. Since the original recording was hesitant, repetitive and occasionally out of sequence, the published version has been edited, at his request, by his daughter.

Having set the scene as outlined above, Mr Lester continued: ‘I was almost out of my mind; my wife had left me, taking the children with her, and I’d also lost my home, my business, and most of my capital. And, rightly or wrongly, I laid the blame for it all on Mr Sheridan and his failure to advise me of the risks involved. The more I brooded, the more enraged I became. I’d been told I’d no chance of winning a court case, but I’d worked myself into such a state that I had to do
something
, and spent weeks thinking up and then discarding a number of wild schemes.

‘Finally, I decided simply to give him the fright of his life, and at the same time, ensure that he’d never forget me and what he’d done to me. I knew he drove down the lake road each morning on the way to work, so I took my shotgun and concealed myself in the bushes alongside the road. Though I’d have been more than happy to shoot him, I intended merely to fire a shot in front of his windscreen as he passed.

‘He was later than usual, which suited me as there was less traffic about, but eventually I saw his car approaching. I took up my position, and was aiming the gun when I saw to my consternation that his wife was with him, and retreated hastily to the bushes – but not before he’d seen both me and the gun. He swerved violently to avoid me, then, to my horror, the car went into a spin, crashed at speed into a stone wall, and shot back towards me, rolling over on to its roof as it reached the verge.

‘I like to think I’d have gone to their assistance, but I was still frozen with shock when a car came round the corner and, on seeing the accident, screeched to a halt. So, knowing help was at hand, I made my unsteady way home, where I was violently sick. The next week or two passed in a drunken stupor, while I blamed myself continuously for causing Mrs Sheridan’s death. Then the news broke about the gravel in the brake fluid, and it seemed like a reprieve. I told myself I hadn’t after all been responsible, and the suicide of the man we all assumed had put it there seemed to confirm that.

‘This last week, however, I, together with the rest of the country, have learned not only that Spencer did not tamper with the car, but that his son had discovered the Sheridan offspring were the culprits, and murdered them to avenge his father’s death. Therefore, by keeping quiet about my own part in the tragedy, I am at least partly responsible for the deaths not only of Mr and Mrs Sheridan, but of their three children, and possibly Jack Spencer as well. It is quite simply beyond bearing, and I’m truly thankful my life is now at an end and I shan’t be called on to endure it for long.

‘To sum up, it is my opinion that while the gravel would have seized up the pipes, it was unlikely to have caused death had Mr Sheridan not been panicked by my sudden appearance with the gun. By the same token, nor would the sight of the gun have had a fatal outcome had he been able to control the car. It was the combination that proved lethal.

‘I, Sidney Lester, being in my right mind, swear that the above is a true and voluntary account of events that took place twenty-four years ago, and may God have mercy on my soul.’

It is sobering to reflect on the far-reaching consequences of two fatal car crashes, separated by a quarter of a century, and the crucial light that the second threw on the first.

Since none of the participants remain alive, it is to be hoped that the tragedies and misunderstandings the crashes revealed can now be buried with them, and both cases be finally closed.