What Lies in the Dark (20 page)

He is looking for attention, he has been killing secretly for over four years and has now gone public. His kills are elaborate, dramatic. He is working up to something. Bullface is sure of that, if he gets the opportunity it will be big. The victims have shown no sign of sexual assault (except for Stella.) Whilst he has a huge disdain for females, Bullface thinks that he is unlikely to be a homosexual. He is the type to get release from the targeting and the kill itself. Which is why he must be building up to something big. Maybe he has already chosen his next victim and his next kill site. They need more information. The killer is playing them, tormenting and tantalising them. Bullface thinks that they should be suspicious of any leads from any of the cases. This killer is likely to play them, leave conflicting evidence on purpose, leave DNA on purpose – not his DNA of course.

They think he might be unemployed, maybe he has been made unemployed within the last year which could explain why his public kills have increased. If he has been fired by a female boss as well that could explain some of the disdain. If he is employed, his job would be not a regular 9-5. He operates during the night and during the day, which suggests a shift worker; or someone who works from home.

Bullface thinks that he will be young; he is strong and very mobile. She will be very shocked if it is anyone over the age of forty. He has to have good looks, a harmless look to him. Maybe not good looks, good looks would be noticed and remembered. He would look average. He is a local. He is more likely to be found socialising with guys rather than girls. A guy between the ages of 25-40, good health, reasonably good looks, who works random hours or does not work at all … oh and he owns a Polaroid. That should narrow the suspects down – maybe to a thousand or so!

There is just too much they don’t know, too many maybes. Bullface is tired of going over everything. Every time she analyses what she can, she comes up with a different answer, different explanations for this killer’s behaviour. They can’t be sure of anything.

Bullface feels suffocated by her thoughts, by the constant crunching sounds as her family grazes in front of the blaring television. She has to get out for a little while. Perhaps go somewhere to really, really think. Somewhere quiet and alone.

Fletcher is actually feeling quite relaxed. He has on a festive jumper (Claire didn’t expect him to wear it) and has a drink in his hand. It doesn’t matter that his in-laws are due to arrive any minute. It doesn’t matter that he has bought Claire the wrong piece of jewellery – again! It doesn’t matter that the Christmas turkey is burning in the oven. He is going to quit. They have decided on it. He is going to quit as soon as this case is over. He has sworn on his marriage. That day he came home from football and she had said those fatal words, “We need to talk.” He had thought it was over completely. He thought she was going to ask for a divorce. She said that work was destroying him and he agreed. She said she was tired of arguing all the time. Things had been too tense and she was afraid and angry and stressed. He said he was tired of being blamed for everything and he was sorry he was stressed all the time. He said he found it hard to cope with the
deaths of so many women and was only worried about her safety. Then they hugged and forgave each other and talked again about having children. He said that he was going to quit his job. She thought it was for the best. And now they are going to have a perfect family Christmas, with her parents, with no arguing or bickering. It is all going to be OK now because this is the Christmas Day special where all the dreams come true and everyone is happy. There aren’t three little Donaghue girls wondering why their mother hasn’t come home. She has just walked through the door with the most amazing Christmas story to tell them. They had caught the killer six months ago thanks to Fletcher’s genius idea and everything is going to be just swell and dandy on this Christmas Day.

Robert Leona, the man who can’t escape the nickname Robbie Bobbie, even though he isn’t a Bobbie any more. Rob is spending the first Christmas in seven years without his wife, he had never even thought something like this could happen. He had always thought she would be by his side no matter what, for better, for worse. The tears threaten again. He is always on the point of tears these days – one of the many reasons he has to be alone. They are all worried about him, he knows that. Rob, for the first time since he was a teenager, has had to lie to his mother. He has told her that he is spending Christmas with some friends. To his friends, he said that he is spending Christmas with his parents. Lies to everyone, just to stop the worrying. They might call to check on him, lies have a way of exposing themselves faster than … no, he can’t dwell on the lies, he has to focus, has to make a decision.

That mousey woman, Jennifer, she is just like Shannon. Mouse on the surface, but lion at heart and look at what happened to Shannon. He has to protect Jennifer now doesn’t he? If he fails to protect another woman, then what good is he? But what Jennifer wants to do, that isn’t right. He needs to talk her out of it. But then … then … Shannon’s wedding ring has gone. Of all the things to take, he had taken
her fucking wedding ring. Tears, lit only by next door’s Christmas lights, run down his face. He had taken her wedding ring …

Jack Sasha’s house is empty and cold. It has been stripped to its bare bones. Fresh coats of plaster cover spots where furniture, flung in rage, had fire-worked across the room, then exploded into bursts of wood and wall. Everything he and his wife had worked so hard for has been destroyed. Every day he wakes up and destroys something else. It had started with her cup, then the plates, whose patterns he had hated but she had loved (or maybe she also hated, but she liked to make him mad.) Then, just the sheer satisfaction of bending the knives and forks into twisted memorials. He had built a fire in the garden, shit, after that one he was surprised that his neighbours hadn’t called the police. Maybe they had decided it was closure or some other bullshit. The fire had helped a little, and now gone were the Christmas decorations, gone were the condolence cards and most importantly gone was the
Coping With Your Grief
book her mother had given him. He had sat and watched it all burn, relishing the heat, sipping a whiskey.

The anger still hasn’t gone away. Christ he is allowed to be angry isn’t he? He had seen what that bastard had done to his wife. He’d made Anna Stevenson tell him everything she knew. Jack knows he should feel angry at his wife’s infidelity but then he couldn’t blame her. It’s not like his eye had never strayed. She would have never left him. Jack knows that, no matter how good this guy was, Adelina would never have left him. That bastard took her away.

What had he promised?
“I will find you, everything you did to her, I will do to you.”
right on the news. That bastard must have seen that, must be laughing at him now. But he means it. He will find this fucker.

When that mousey woman came to him at the funeral, he wasn’t really listening to her but then, then he saw her plans. The mouse had brains. Jack is too angry to think, he knows that, but she could still think. He will follow her, to
a certain point, it could work for a while.

Jack is ready now. He has quit his job (“You are welcome back anytime,” his scared boss had said. “Just take all the time you need.”) The stripped house is up for sale – hence the fresh coats of plaster, to hide the undesirable parts. Adelina’s most cherished possessions have gone to her mother and the evidence of his rage has gone into the dustbin. The rage hasn’t gone, oh no, it is buzzing around his head from the minute he awakes. Just one stick of rage, that’s all he is now. Rage threatens to spilt him apart at the seams but it doesn’t matter. He is ready. Every day he focuses on the training, the running, the punching bag, he is ready. Oh yes, he is definitely ready.

Jennifer Taylor keeps up appearances alongside her husband. They have to. Have to be seen as being OK, even if they aren’t. It makes things awkward otherwise. More awkward than usual. You would think after ten months, people would be able to look her in the eye and talk to her. God knows what would happen if she actually showed how she is really feeling, instead of smiling and being polite. Pretending she is happy. Happy? No, there is no happiness anymore, no peace, no joy. That plaster had been ripped away when her daughter’s throat … no, stay calm, composed. The guests only need to stay another hour, an hour will be sufficient. Then she can go back to her maps and plans. The thought that they are going to catch this bastard is the only thing keeping her going now.

They will catch him – if the police are just going to fail them then they owe it to the others to find him. They have to do something, she can’t keep watching the news and seeing another girl’s face. Can’t keep ringing to be told, “No progress.” They are going to go out and find him. It will take some work, it’s not like he is obvious. She has tried to get more help. Help from people she knew wouldn’t talk her out of this. Mrs Hilarie had refused, Jennifer hadn’t expected that – she’d just flat out refused. Told Jennifer that she needed help, and then just walked away! She hadn’t managed to talk
to Ms Addison and then none of Stella McQam’s family were reachable. Then there was Mr Donaghue, Mr Donaghue with his three young daughters. She couldn’t ask him, he needed to be with his children. Mr Donaghue was the only one out of them who still had something to lose. This unfortunately means that it is just her, her husband and Jack. Maybe Robert Leona, if he ever makes up his mind. She could ask other people, but then could she really ask her friends and family? They are just waiting for a sign that she is going crazy. She could ask strangers but then could she trust strangers? Fran Lizzie had trusted a stranger hadn’t she? Despite all those years of telling her not to. Only people like her husband and Jack know how it feels, how bad the pain is. Only people who have already lost, had nothing left to lose. Stick with those people, she tells herself, those are the only people she can trust.

Her mobile bleeps, bringing Jennifer back into the world, her husband had been about to shake her, worrying about the people around them. She excuses herself to answer her phone to a message.

“OK, I am in. I have some friends I know will help.”

Finally, a Christmas miracle.

Elizabeth Mitchell’s house is pure Christmas for the grandchildren. Her family sit, joyously opening presents. Her husband photographing the day, but Elizabeth doesn’t feel a part of the Christmas joy. She tries to focus on the grandchildren and their happiness, tries to focus on the cooking and her own presents. Tries but her eyes only see one thing – the house across the road. What is he going to do next?

John Roberts is still angry. He is angry at his pathetic now ex-girlfriend. He is angry at his magazine ceasing publication, but he is angry most of all because his mother has decided to move into the house

“Just until this all blows over Johnny.”

“Johnny, how could you live in such filth?”

He hates being called Johnny, hates her sneers. His mother is never going to let this go. She is always going to be there, waiting for him to screw up again. He hadn’t screwed up though. They had picked on him. They had broken into his house and gone through all his stuff. Then had the audacity to arrest him! Then that fucking hag had told his mother about the mooning. She fucking deserved it, if she was going to be watching him every second then she deserved to see his ass. Probably the most erotic thing the old bitch had seen in years.

“Johnny, I think it is best that I stay with you.” His mother had said, after receiving that hysterical call. “I don’t want you doing anything else stupid.”

He might have been able to cope with that. He is not that stupid, he knows how dangerous anger can be. Learned that at his father’s feet. He might, despite everything, be able to cope with his mother living with him. If she didn’t nag him every day, every damn day.

It started with the house. OK, maybe it was a little messy but it was just how he liked it. It was comfortable. The garbage bags on the lawn kept the old ladies muttering. It sent out a signal to them, a leave-me-alone signal. So what does his mother do? She rents a fucking skip. She cleans every bag, every rotting bag off the garden. She plants flowers … FLOWERS. She nags and nags about the state of the house. “If you don’t clean this up Johnny, I am going to clean this up.” Like he is still a child! Well there was no way he was going to, was there?

He retreated to his bedroom, slammed the door and played rock music as loud as he dared. When he came out, a few hours later, for something to eat, it had all changed. Gone were the whiskey bottles cluttering the stairs. Gone were the take-away boxes. Gone was the dirty stained but comfortable sofa. Even the carpet had been pulled up. The walls had been scrubbed, really scrubbed. The kitchen was empty too. Instead of washing the mouldy plates, his mother had simply binned everything. Everything had gone into the skip. She was in the bathroom cursing and scrubbing. The towels had been thrown, the shower curtain had been thrown, everything
else was being treated with a heavy dose of bleach. She was on a rampage.

“I am doing your bedroom next, Johnny.” She warned.

She threw out his trench coat. “It stinks, Johnny.” She wanted to repaint the walls and make everything look nice. She decided to make herself comfy and put up tinsel. She put up a Christmas tree. She wanted to invite the hag across the road over for Christmas cake. “She needs to see you are not a monster.”

John drew the line at that. Mrs Interfering Mitchell could stay in her cave and watch through her curtains (she is still watching) but she was not ever coming back inside his house.

“You can’t live like this Johnny.”

“Well, she will be dead in a few years, Mother.”

His mother hadn’t liked that comment at all. His mother wished for the days when she could put him over one knee until he agreed with her.

John knows she is just waiting until after Christmas to do the talk. She is building up to something. Already she had suggested cutting his hair.
“You would look so smart without a ponytail.”
She has suggested tweezers for his eyebrows, like he was a girl! A new year, a new you. No, no, no. She wanted to get him new clothes for Christmas. He wanted to shit in a box and wrap it, a gift for his mother and Mrs Interfering Mitchell. He didn’t have the balls to do that, only to mutter it occasionally.