'Til Death (DI Steven Marr Book 1) - UK Crime Fiction Whodunnit Thriller (22 page)

‘Including Warren Street?’

Alex laughed.

‘First name on the list. Stanic hasn’t talked to any of his clients either.’

‘Unless Brooke is going to call a manhunt…’

‘He won’t: Caroline Marcus has ‘confessed’ already.’

‘Then God knows if Stanic will re-appear. And off goes Thomas Coulthard, probably wanking over a collection of dismembered feet.’

‘You do paint a pretty picture, Bex. You agree with Marr, then?’

Becky wrinkled her nose. Alex laughed.

‘Oh, do continue. I love it when you disagree with him.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve got no reason for it: just a hunch, I suppose.’

‘Well then it’s lucky you’re a cop.’

‘Shut up. I just don’t…well, I just don’t think Coulthard would have it in him to kill people, let alone two of them. I mean, sure, half the murderers out there ‘didn’t mean to’, but he’s so…spineless. He wouldn’t last three months in prison without killing himself or being killed, and I’m sure he must know that.’

Alex smiled.

‘Bex, you’re a brilliant cop. But my God you under-estimate how far men will go to protect their ego. Give us pointless delusional optimism any day. Speaking of which, did you set the box to grab Match of the Day for me? United are playing Chelsea, and I’ve got a fiver on United.’

‘Ah, yet more of your wages down the toilet. Yeah, I set it. Can’t you watch it on catch up anyway?’

Alex shrugged.

‘Could do, but where’s the fun in that?’

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Across town, Marr had woken with a start, and was unable to get back to sleep.

He thought about calling Sam, but decided to call Becky instead, and was happy that she picked up.

‘If you’re drunk, I’m not doing shots with you.’ she said, sounding amused.

Marr smiled.

‘Sorry. Couldn’t really sleep.’

‘You should try calling Stanic: you might get luck and get a clean confession out of him.’

‘He’s probably already picked up a burner, and if not I bet he’s ditched his old phone. Too much tracking information, and he’s not an idiot’

Marr sighed.

‘It’s just bugging me. I mean, Thomas must have killed both girls. Anna’s dead, Caroline too. Stanic on the run and Thomas away scot-free. I can’t believe he’s done it so easily.’

‘Me neither, sir,’ Becky replied, truthfully. ‘Just goes to show you can never take slimy bastards for granted. And what even some loser at a call centre can be capable of when he puts his mind to it.’

‘You sound like you admire the guy.’

‘Boss, credit me with some morals. I’d cut his balls off if I thought I could get away with it. But if it was him, he’s far more than some bum-feeler who can’t get it up.’

‘Nice image. I’ve been thinking, though: the knife. I don’t think Thomas will have been dumb enough to wonder up to Stanic’s house and put it in the garbage. Stanic could have seen him, as could any of the neighbours. I’m wondering if he posted it.’

‘Posted it? That’s crazy.’

‘No, think about it: he posts it, registered, using a fake name and address. Stanic gets a package, opens it and pulls out a clean knife. You’ve instantly got hand-prints on it. Then, he realises what’s going on, and panics: chucks it away, thinking it’ll just get taken to a scrapyard or something. Then, when we find it, he’s scared of admitting that he touched it in case it makes the case against him look even more damning.’

‘Sketchy. But I suppose it’s possible. Royal Mail?’

‘Probably. Most couriers ask for more information that the Post Office. Get Alex to call them, or go to the distribution centre. I want proof that Thomas sent the knife to Stanic.’

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Thomas was on the way back home, when he heard his message tone blaring from his phone. He pulled up to the side of the road before picking up the phone that was on the spare seat.

I no it was u.

He didn’t recognise the number, but that didn’t mean much. He rarely saved phone numbers: most people weren’t worth talking to twice. This mystery texter could easily be Marr.

Thomas sent a text back anyway, interested to know more.

What was me?

It took less than thirty seconds for the reply to come

U killed Anna Markham.

This was stupid.

I don’t know what you’re talking about,
Thomas shot back.

Again, a swift reply.

U killed Anna. I no it.

Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Another Buzz.

You killed Anna. It was u.

Thomas sighed. He thought carefully about what to text next. In the end, the mystery texter beat him to it.

Meet me. Hendon House, tomorrow, 3pm. No police.

Thomas breathed out. He wasn’t stupid; there was a good chance this was the mighty boyfriend, coming in to play the hero and placate his own ego at the same time.

It took Thomas ten minutes or so to consider whether or not to go. He looked out across the countryside. He felt good about things. What’s more, he was pretty sure that even if this was the cop, this would be entrapment.

Anyway, Caroline had already confessed.

OK,
he text back
, no police for you either.

Thomas thought carefully for the moment, then smiled to himself.

It was ending.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

It took Alex two hours of being on hold and four cups of coffee to get through to the right department, but they were able to clarify that a parcel had been sent to Gregor Stanic from a John Martyn, the day before the knife had been found in Gregor Stanic’s bin.

‘John Martyn?’ Alex said, his disgusted tone probably not making the worker on the other end feel more helpful.

‘Thomas must have been a fan.’

‘Wouldn’t Stanic have thought something was up?’

‘No; he was a die-hard rap fan. Jay-Z, Kanye and all that.’

‘And all that?’

Alex shrugged.

‘I’m hip.’ he said, putting the phone down.

‘Their security is done by an independent firm who keep records of a month old. If we check the CCTV, we should be able to find out who Mr John Martyn really was. And I’m guessing it’ll have nothing to do with folk-jazz.’

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Andertons Security operated out of an industrial fixture between Colchester and Brightlingsea. Fortunately, they were a twenty-four seven operation, so Marr, Becky and Alex were able to gain access.

They were welcomed by a Mark Anderton, the owner of the firm, who showed them through to the closed footage room. There were thousands upon thousands of hard discs piled up, in boxes, on shelves and on the floor.

‘We have CCTV here from every post office in Essex from the last twenty-eight days. Now, I’m hoping and praying that at the very least, you’ve got a date for me. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’re in for a long night.’

Alex held up a piece of paper, on which he’d written the details as given to him by the woman at Royal Mail. There was a date, a time and a name.

Mark smiled.

‘Thank fuck for that.’

It took him about ten minutes to find the right hard drive. He plugged it into the nearby laptop and began to whisk through the hundreds of folders contained on it.

‘Here we go; Greenstead, between one and two PM.’

He put the footage on fast forward, and they waited. People paid for their parcels and their letters. They filled in forms. They argued with the staff and stormed off. They told jokes and walked off laughing.

And then, eventually, a face came onto the screen that they recognised.

Thomas Coulthard. Holding a small brown parcel, and with a shit-eating smile plastered across his face.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

They left the factory feeling happy with their day’s work. Becky drove off to speak to Brooke about bringing Thomas Coulthard in. Marr, meanwhile, decided he was just going to go and grab the bastard himself.

He was about to get into his own car when he felt the buzz of his phone. It was Alex.

‘Sir, Thomas Coulthard.’

‘My favourite topic of the day. What about him?’

‘He’s at Hendon House. Brian, the barman just phoned it in. Saw him pull up in a rental car.’

‘Fuck.’

‘That’s not the worst of it. Someone else turned up ten minutes before him.’

Marr nearly dropped the phone.

‘Who?’ he asked.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Thomas felt some trepidation as he ascended the stairs. There were people around; too many people. He wasn’t exactly planning for a shoot up, but this was more witnesses than he would have liked.

A fucking wedding fair, though. Whoever the texter was, they had a sick sense of humour. Thomas almost respected them.

Would-be brides and their tag-alongs flitted about looking at dresses, cakes, tablecloths, and avoiding talking to seedy-looking guys promoting stag dos. There was something about the whole thing that made Thomas feel disgusted. He’d gone to one of them with Anna when Caroline hadn’t been available.

‘A bit of support,’ she’d said, ‘I don’t want to turn up looking a singleton.’

And so he’d gone, gone and been bored silly by the sheer flocks of screaming girls. Some, it had to be said, looked happy to be there. They were the ones that weren’t running around making as much noise as possible.

Look at me. Someone just look at me.

Hendon didn’t look quite as bad, but that was to be expected. You weren’t going to get many low-income brides around here. No, these brides here had decorum; they’d been trained to be respectable, whether they realised it or not. They’d been trained to care what other people thought, not that it mattered much.

Death came for every man, Thomas thought, as he ascended the last few stairs.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Marr ran towards the main house. He didn’t quite know why, but he found himself heading to where Anna and Stanic would have stayed: the Honeymoon Suite.

He jogged up the spiral staircase, trying to stop himself barging into the many people dotted around, ogling displays. He caught the eye of a sales rep, who held out a brochure. Marr shook his head, holding up his wedding ring. She smiled.

‘Congratulations’.

Marr took the two corridors to the left and approached the door. He held his ear as close to it as he could. Thomas Coulthard was laughing; a huge, comedic, belly laugh. Marr didn’t like just how manic it sounded, so he decided to go hell for leather, barging the door open.

Thomas was stood facing one of the main windows, which was wide open. At the sound of the door opening, he turned his head around. His smile fell.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, sounding irritated. ‘How the hell did you know to come here?’

He was holding a gun up towards the window.

Between him and the afternoon sky stood Michelle Markham.

She looked at Marr.

‘Hello, inspector.’

Marr met her eye for a second, then drew his gaze back to Thomas.

‘Thomas, put the gun down.’

Thomas chuckled.

‘Why the hell would I do that?’

‘Because Michelle hasn’t done anything.’

Thomas laughed.

‘Well, that’s not exactly true, is it? She might not have done anything to
me
, but then that’s not quite the same thing. I was lucky I decided to come armed: who knows what she’d do to me.’

Marr looked back to Michelle; her eyes were bright.

‘We were just talking’ continued Thomas. ‘I mean sure, Michelle needed a bit of persuasion to get going, but she was happy to spill the beans after a while. It’s a load off, you know? Being able to talk about things. Not everyone knows what it’s like to kill someone: I mean, you certainly don’t, do you?’

‘Thomas, pass me the gun.’

Thomas looked back, and took another step towards Michelle, who almost involuntarily took a step back in response, making contact with the wall and jumping as she did so.