Want You Dead (33 page)

‘Yeah, well, I’ll just have to get used to that.’

She pinched his nipples, sending frissons of pleasure shooting through him. Then she whispered, ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to talk with your mouth full?’

‘She said that didn’t count with tall, leggy blondes.’

She slapped his cheek playfully.

And at that moment, Grace did not think he had ever felt happier, or hornier, or more at peace in all his life. ‘I love you to the ends of the earth and back.’

‘That all?’

‘Bitch!’

‘Horny brute!’

They kissed tenderly, then she whispered, ‘I love you way, way, way beyond the ends of the earth.’

‘And right back at you.’

Deep inside her she squeezed him hard. ‘Married life’s not total shit, is it?’

He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Nah, it’s not. Not total shit.’

83

Sunday, 3 November

‘And this is the master bedroom!’ Red said proudly. Her father shambled along behind her, followed by her mother. Although she was elegant, he was wearing stout shoes, baggy denims and the kind of bulky, shapeless anorak he always wore. Years of gardening and sailing after his retirement had long removed any of the fashion consciousness he might once have had. Clothes were functional for him, their purpose to keep out the wet and cold. No more.

Red was fine with that, although she had always secretly hoped that if she ever had a relationship that lasted anything like as long as her parents’ that her partner would still bother to make himself look attractive to her. Sometimes she wondered when her parents had last had sex. Looking at her father now, she decided fondly, it must have been several decades ago.

‘This is a lovely room, darling!’ her mother said.

‘Pity about the view, though,’ her father added.

He was right about that, Red thought. It was a huge room, large enough for a king-size bed and space either side of it to put in fitted cupboards. But it was at the rear of the flat, with a view straight across an alley to another building, so it would never get any sunlight. ‘I’m only going to be using it for sleeping, Daddy,’ she said. ‘So much of the year it will be dark anyway. It’s the living room that I really love.’

To her relief, both her parents nodded approvingly. ‘Yes,’ her mother said. ‘The living room is lovely.’

It was.

The apartment was on the top floor of a mansion block in Kemp Town. It comprised a large living/dining area, with a breakfast bar, an island hob and a generous kitchen, and had a wide sun terrace overlooking the English Channel. In addition to the master bedroom there was a much smaller guest bedroom, and another room, not much bigger than a broom closet, that would take a spare single bed or make a small office.

‘I can see you living here!’ her father said.

‘You can?’

‘It’s delightful. How many apartments at this price level have a sea view?’ he said.

‘Very few,’ Red replied. ‘I can tell you that from work. And thank you again for the loan.’

‘Your father and I are always here to help you, darling,’ her mother said.

Red smiled. ‘I love you guys. As soon as my flat money comes through, I can pay you back.’

‘Don’t worry about that, darling,’ her father said. ‘The important thing is for you to have a home you feel safe in.’

‘There’s something about this place that really does make me feel safe,’ Red said. She walked across the bare living room, opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The fine weather had lasted through the weekend, and Brighton looked at its stunning best. The sea, reflecting the sky, was a deep blue. To her right, she could see the Brighton Eye and the pier beyond. To her left, the west harbour mole of the marina. A mile or so out to sea in front of them, several yachts were taking part in a winter race series, their sails shimmering in the early afternoon sun.

‘When do you hope to exchange contracts?’ her father asked.

Red shrugged. ‘Well, if you are really still happy to lend me the money, bearing in mind what’s happened, as soon as possible. But if it’s going to be difficult now, please don’t worry. I’m okay where I am, I hope.’

‘You are not okay where you are, darling,’ her mother said. ‘We want you out of there as quickly as possible and away from that horrible man.’

‘We were well insured, luckily,’ her father said. ‘Your mother and I will be fine. Your safety is our prime concern now, darling.’

‘Just let us know when you need the money,’ her mother said. ‘And one thing that is terribly important for you is to make sure that horrible man never finds out where you are moving to.’

‘I’m making sure of that, as best I can,’ Red replied.

‘I agree with your mother,’ her father said.

None of them took any notice of the small van parked a short distance along on the far side of the street.

84

Sunday, 3 November

‘Fuckwits,’ said Bryce Laurent, sitting in his little Ford van on the seafront, which shimmied in a strong gust of wind while he listened to the conversation. He was staring at the elegant Regency building that, in former times, would have been a single dwelling with servants’ quarters, no doubt, but was now divided into flats.

The kind that would burn easily. Modern apartment blocks were designed to contain fires. Impossible to destroy. But not an old building like this.

He’d looked it up on the internet, and the flat Red was buying was on the top floor. He’d seen them come out onto the terrace and look out at the view. It must be magnificent from up there.

Too bad you’ll never get to enjoy it!

Behind him, the rear of the van was nicely kitted out with a mattress and duvets. And a number of restraints he had fitted himself. Along with a bag containing a few implements with which to cause Red a lot of pain, which she richly deserved. Pliers. Razors. A small gas blowtorch. Some piano wire. An electric shock machine. A hood. And a few masks from a joke shop for him to wear.

The gods of justice were surely smiling on him today. There was a Fox and Sons estate agency board fixed beside the front door.
GROUND-FLOOR FLAT FOR SALE
it read.

He dialled the number and asked when it would be possible to view the ground-floor flat of the Royal Regent mansion block. ‘Whenever you like, sir. It’s an executor sale, so we have access whenever convenient.’

He thanked the agent and made an appointment for that afternoon.

Such good news!

And it was such good news that Red and her parents liked the top-floor flat so much.

The only bad news right now was the lack of accommodation. Strawberry Fields had suited him rather well. He was left alone there. A breakfast box was delivered to his door every morning. He could be totally anonymous there for as long as needed, and he was fully paid up for two more weeks. But he had seen his photograph on television this morning. A big black detective calling him a dangerous man. Warning the public not to approach him.

Me?

I’m gentle.

Until I get angry. And I am angry now. You’d better believe it.

But now the heat was off. They had Matt Wainwright in custody. How good was that?

Except, that girl on reception was sharp. She had seen his face several times. He could not take the risk that she might call the police. So, sadly, there was no going back there. He would sleep in the van tonight. Then tomorrow the fun would really begin!

He sprang to attention. Red and her parents were coming out of the front door of the building now. Going off to the Grand Hotel for Sunday lunch. Such a nice place! He totally approved.

He did not bother to follow their little Honda SUV, he just listened to their progress. Heard them being greeted at the restaurant, and shown to their seats.

‘Anyone like a snifter?’ her idiot father said.

Both her parents ordered gin and tonics. Red ordered a Sauvignon Blanc.

He had to listen to them perusing the menus. Red’s stupid mother and imbecilic father ordered the Sunday roast. Red ordered the sea bass option.

Ah, so healthy. Good girl! That’s my Red. Be healthy, my angel! I need you healthy to endure all I’m going to put you through. I’d hate to think of you dying before I’m done with you. Really I would! You’ve got a lot of suffering in front of you. To make up for all you’ve put me through. Your last words on earth will be, ‘I am so sorry, Bryce, I truly love you. I will love you for ever.’ I promise, that’s what you will say. With your dying breath. Really you will.

Then I will release you. I’m a man of my word.

85

Sunday, 3 November

‘I need to warn you in advance about the condition this place is in,’ the estate agent said, with a slight French accent, unlocking the front door of the Royal Regent mansion block with a jailer-size bunch of keys. With her free hand she held the particulars.

She was an elegant woman in her mid-forties, with chic blonde hair, a smart navy coat with brass buttons, and an expensive-looking handbag. She had told him her name, but he had forgotten it. Sophie? Sandrine? Suzy? He didn’t care, but he didn’t like forgetting things. Normally he remembered names scrupulously. He was too distracted, he knew, too much on edge. He needed to calm down and sharpen up.

‘It’s an executor sale, you see, Mr Millet. The family have been arguing about the valuation for a couple of years, so nothing’s been touched – and I’m afraid it was in a pretty neglected state when the owner died.’

‘Good,’ Bryce Laurent said, scratching his itching chin through his beard. ‘I’m looking for a restoration project.’

‘Well, this is certainly one. The wiring is frankly in a dangerous state. And the plumbing’s pretty ancient.’

Wiring in a dangerous state was music to his ears.

They entered the communal hallway, which appeared to have recently been done up. There was a smell of fresh paint and new carpet, and a row of smart-looking mailbox pigeon holes. Several bicycles stood propped against a wall, and leaflets littered the floor. He noticed the linked fire alarm high up on the wall. City regulations in all apartment buildings. She fumbled with her bunch of keys, found the right one, and unlocked the door to their right, pressed a light switch and they entered.

Bryce wrinkled his nose in disgust at the musty, old-people smell, and the hint of damp and mildew. They were in a tiny hallway, with a framed, embroidered prayer on the wall beside a wooden Victorian coat rack, on which hung a dusty beige mackintosh and a tweed cap. He followed the agent through into the sitting room, a small, drab and sad-feeling space with hideous flock wallpaper, its view through greying net curtains out on to the seafront mostly obscured by iron railings and a row of dustbins. It was furnished with a 1950s three-piece suite, a three-bar electric fire, on an ancient brown flex, in the grate beneath a marble mantelpiece, and a square television that looked like something out of the Ark. A framed replica of Constable’s
Hay Wain
was fixed, slightly crooked, to one wall, and a replica Turner seascape on another.

‘He had nice taste in art,’ Laurent said.

The agent looked at him quizzically, as if unsure whether he meant that or was making a joke. ‘Yes,’ she said, erring on the side of caution. ‘Quite.’

‘Great painters.’

‘Great painters,’ she said. ‘I understand from the family that all the contents are for sale by negotiation.’

He smiled. ‘Good to know.’

He looked back at the television. It was the television that interested him the most, but he tried not to let that show. He glanced up at the stuccoed ceiling, which was an ochre colour above the dado rail, studying the ancient smoke detector.

‘I think he must have been a heavy smoker,’ she said, looking up too.

‘Smoking kills you,’ he replied.

‘Quite.’

He looked at the television set again. Stared at it. For as long as he dared.

‘Quite an antique, isn’t it!’ she said, clocking his interest.

‘Wonder if it only gets old programmes?’

She gave him another uncertain look, as if she was unable to tell whether he was being humorous or serious.

Then he followed her on a tour of the rest of the gloomy little ground-floor flat. He saw the toilet, with its wooden seat and stained bowl, a small frosted-glass window above it, and the wallpaper bulging near the bottom in one corner, and mottled – a sure sign of damp. He stared at the window for some moments, before following her into the kitchen.

In keeping with the rest of the flat, it was a drab, old-fashioned room, with an ancient Lec fridge and a filthy-looking cloth hanging on a wooden drying rack. ‘This is definitely in need of some modernization,’ she said.

Some?
he thought. There wasn’t going to be any need, not for his purposes. But he didn’t tell her that. Again he clocked the smoke detector in here. Following her, he peered into the grimy tiled bathroom, with brown stains running down the tub. Then the master bedroom, which had a candlewick bedspread over a narrow double bed. He wondered if anyone had ever had sex in this room, then shuddered in revulsion at the very idea. It was strange that there were no photographs, he thought, but maybe the family had already claimed them. Not that he cared. The television was the only thing on his mind at this moment.

And the ancient wiring. Oh yes. That was good. So good. Especially the wiring for the fire alarm in the communal areas. None of the furniture in any of the rooms would have passed modern fire regulations, he thought. Perfect. The place was a tinder box waiting to go up.

And it would not have to wait long!

‘What about parking?’ he asked.

‘There is a space that comes with the property, to the rear,’ she informed him. ‘Behind the toilet there’s an alleyway with one space that will accommodate a reasonably-sized car. Quite rare for properties in Kemp Town, actually,’ she said, her voice brightening as she pointed it out on the floor plans.

‘That’s very good,’ he said.