Cold Kill (10 page)

Jack held back his first response, that he didn’t need a lesson in newspaper politics. Instead, he said, ‘You know it’s difficult for me. Laura’s on the murder squad, for Christ’s sake.’

‘So that’s a no, is it?’ Dolby said, his eyes wide, and Jack guessed the subtext, that there were plenty of eager young hacks getting ready to step in, and that it wasn’t just the one story that was up for grabs.

Jack sighed. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said quietly.

Dolby slapped his legs with his hands and jumped to his feet. ‘Good man, I knew you would. Can you get something to go in tomorrow?’

Jack pointed at the clock. ‘It’s too late.’

Dolby shook his head. ‘I’ve held back the front page. We’ve got the headline set, with a picture of the crime scene. We need just two hundred words to go underneath.’

‘How soon?’

‘An hour.’

Jack sighed, and then he shrugged and nodded.

Dolby slapped him on the back and went towards the door. Just as he got there, Jack said, ‘Just one condition.’

Dolby turned round. ‘Name it.’

‘Print it under a different byline. For the sake of my pending marriage, if it ever happens, I could really do with Laura not knowing.’

Dolby flashed that grin again. ‘No problem.’

As the door closed, the silence that descended felt heavy, because Jack knew he’d just promised to undermine Laura’s investigation.

He went to the computer and navigated to the
Telegraph
’s website. The write up from the press conference had attracted some interest. Forty-eight comments. Maybe it was the Simon Cowell effect, but it seemed like a story wasn’t really a story until everyone knew what Bert from Burnley thought of it all. He flicked through them anyway.

The first few were expressions of sadness, but then the identity of the woman must have leaked out. Jane Roberts. It meant nothing to Jack at first, but when the posts turned nasty and he saw the name of Jane’s father, Don Roberts, he wondered whether there was more to the story than a random attack. Jack was a crime reporter, and so he had heard the name Don Roberts bandied around. Don never turned up on the court lists, but there were always whispers and hints that he was the big man around town.

Jack stopped reading when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The screen told him that it was Laura.

‘How’s your day going?’ Jack said.

‘Are you speaking as Jack the boyfriend or Jack the reporter?’

‘Jack the boyfriend,’ he said, laughing.

‘Long,’ she said, ‘and about to get a lot longer.’

‘What time are you coming home?’

Jack heard the fatigue in her voice as she said, ‘I don’t know, Jack. I’m sorry. That’s why I’m calling. The post-mortem is tomorrow, and so we are going to have a briefing and then see how the night looks.’ She paused, and he heard her steel herself before she said, ‘Say goodnight to Bobby for me.’

‘I will,’ he said. ‘And I’ll wait up for you,’ and as they said their goodbyes, he glanced over to the kitchen and remembered the wine that had been in the fridge for a couple of days. It was no way to fill the slow hours, because the hill only ever slopes downwards, but just then, it seemed the right thing to do.

Laura clicked off her phone and looked at Joe, who noticed the clench of her jaw and raised his eyebrows at her.

‘Why didn’t you just tell him that we were going for a drink?’ he said.

Laura paused as she thought about this. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘It’s Bobby. I should be there for him.’

‘Having a career doesn’t make you a bad mother,’ Joe said.

Laura looked at Joe. He looked thoughtful, his brown eyes soft. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I just feel like I don’t do enough for him.’

‘That’s natural, but he’ll grow up proud of you, because of what you do. It all comes good in the end.’

She reached out and touched his hand, gave it a squeeze. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and let out a long, slow breath. She looked in the car mirror and teased out her hair, before frowning. ‘I look tired.’

‘You look fine,’ he said.

‘
Fine
is no good,’ she said, smiling now.

‘Okay, more than fine,’ he said, laughing with her. ‘Attractive, sexy.’

Laura’s blush took over her face. ‘Enough about me. What about you?’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When are you going to let a lady sweep you off your feet?’

Joe smiled. ‘I analyse things too much, so nothing seems to happen naturally.’

‘What about Rachel Mason?’ she said.

‘What about her?’ Joe said, his hand paused on the door handle.

‘You know she likes you,’ Laura said. ‘She stares at me whenever I’m with you, as if I’ve trespassed into her territory or something.’

‘Come on,’ Joe said. ‘The rest of the squad will be waiting.’

‘Is that your way of avoiding the subject?’ she said.

‘Something like that,’ he said, and stepped out of the car.

Joe was still smiling as she joined him on the pavement. Laura glanced upwards, at the darkness of the sky, and took a deep breath. Getting on wasn’t just about turning up for work. There was this side too, being a squad member.

But why did she feel so reluctant?

She looked at Joe and her smile returned. ‘Your round,’ she said, and then headed for the pub door, Joe close behind.

Chapter Fifteen

He rewound the footage again, as he had done for the last ten minutes.

It was Inspector Carson on the news. A stern look to the camera.
We are not ready to reveal details of her murder, but I would like to say this: that whoever carried out this barbaric act must be caught.
And then the flashback from the press conference three weeks earlier, images of Corley in distress. Oh, he liked that, but when will they be ready to disclose more?

The image was back in his head. Corley’s daughter this time. Less fight than Roberts. A scream and then she was crying. She almost gave up, it had been too easy. Her choice. The wrong choice. She could have walked a different way, or put up more of a struggle, but she chose surrender, as if he was going to maul her and run. He was different. She should have realised.

He was aroused again. His breaths were fast, and he knew he had to look at Jane again, but something wasn’t right, wasn’t how he expected it.

He went to his study, really just something he had crafted from the space under his stairs, so that the slope of the steps was just in front of his face, smoothed out by plasterboard and wallpaper. It was cramped, and so his knees had worn blue marks into the wall where he turned in a tight circle on his chair. He couldn’t move back much, but it was private and felt like somewhere separate from the rest of the house.

He felt the space close in as he shut the door behind him. The light from the screen bathed his face in flickering lights and his head was filled with the soft hum of the computer fan.

Normally he liked the darkness, the confinement, but it wasn’t the same today. Jane was supposed to be the finale, the crescendo, but it didn’t feel any different from before.

He closed his eyes. He could feel the hiss of the pressure release, like a loose valve. He had tried to smother it, but it was impossible, like a song in your head that never stops going round. You can try to ignore it, but eventually the beat gets in your fucking head and you just go with it. But, oh Christ, the thoughts of her. Her look of fright, short squeals, drowned out by his hand, tight around her neck, squeezing, her skin soft, bruised. His breaths came as short gasps, loud in the confined space.

His hand went to his belt, but he stopped himself. Don’t waste it, not here.

He went to the website of the local paper and read the story. He saw the outrage in the comments, but then he read the scorn for Jane. He remembered her differently. The swish of her hair, the soft scent of her perfume as he pressed her down, the roar of his thoughts as he gripped her. The struggle. The fight.

He took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He had projects to complete, he knew that now. Jane was supposed to be the last one, but the need was still there. It didn’t feel like he was finished. He needed that final rush, to get somewhere near the intensity of his first time. And he should listen to that need.

But it was hard not to think of Jane. The young woman. Pretty. Scared. The dirt. He had seen the buzz around the station, the big shirts wheeled in, and still they didn’t know of the connection. Jane and Deborah. He had to do more.

He saw the reporter’s email address at the bottom of the article. It was time to go public. That had always been his plan.

His fingers started to tap on the keys, soft clicks that echoed in his tiny office.

Chapter Sixteen

Jack’s movements felt sluggish as he read the words on the screen. He had thrown together Dolby’s article, questioning why the killer was still at large, a rehash of facts from the press conference mixed in with the article he had submitted earlier. It would appear in the paper in the morning. He had just opened a second bottle of wine and his vision was starting to swirl, fingers moving clumsily over the keys as he headed to the
Blackley Telegraph
site to check for the latest comments.

He took another drink of wine as the page loaded, his name writ large at the top, and saw that snipes at Jane’s father had taken over from sympathy. Some had even found a racial angle, putting forward one ethnic group as potential suspects. Jack knew that the comments were moderated, but Dolby usually took a relaxed view because he knew that bile kept the page counter turning.

He was about to shut down the computer when it flashed up that an email had arrived. He went to the inbox, expecting an offer for bogus medication, but instead there was a message entitled
Blindness
.

He started to read:

You’re writing the wrong story, Jack Garrett. So another woman has died in Blackley, just the daughter-whore of the town’s biggest thug. My message to him is that you’ve wrecked lives too, so how does it feel now? Both fathers. Both sinners.

Spot the link, win the prize, because they won’t, I can guarantee it, those special boys in blue. Yes, spare a thought for the girl in the woods who gorged on the floor, but don’t think too long, think then of Daddy at last feeling the pain.

Jack put down his drink, surprised. That was strong stuff. He checked the email address. It was a Google address, so it would probably be hard to trace the owner.

He sat back and tugged at his lip. Crime reporting certainly attracted its fair share of oddballs, from those who sat at the back of court, just for the public viewing, to those who sent out paranoid emails without a second thought. But why the reference to gorging on the floor? And what was the link between the two victims? The police had hinted that they were random, that
all
women were in danger.

Jack looked around for a notepad, and felt a familiar tremble of excitement in his fingers. If the police were holding facts back, he needed to know.

He pressed the reply button and typed,
Gorged on the floor. What do you mean?

He clicked send and drank some more wine, wondering what the reply would contain. He didn’t have to wait long.

Good to see that you’re alert, Jack, but this is just for you and me. If you tell the police, I’ll know. I’ll hear the whispers. But what about a poem, an ode to Jane:

What is this that I can see,

Cold icy hands taking hold of me,

For Death has come, you all can see,

Hell has opened a gate to welcome thee,

He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk,

He’ll bind your legs till you can’t walk,

He’ll tie your hands till you can’t claw,

And he’ll close your eyes so you see no more.

Jack took another drink of wine. It seemed like the story had taken a new twist

Chapter Seventeen

Light streamed through the open curtain, making Jack groan. He lifted his head off the pillow and the bed seemed to shift. He shouldn’t have opened that second bottle of wine, and he could still taste it as he smacked his lips.

He put his hand out, expecting to feel the rise and fall of Laura’s body, or the spread of her dark hair across the pillow, but she wasn’t there. He squinted at the alarm. Eight o’clock. He flopped back onto the pillow. Everything felt heavy, and quick movements sent flashes of pain through his head. He lay back and listened for the sounds of Laura downstairs, chatter with Bobby or the noise of the hairdryer, but there was only silence.

He tried to think through what had happened the night before. He couldn’t remember Laura coming home, but he remembered her weight against him in bed, her naked skin, warm and close. Yesterday’s clothes were discarded on the floor and he could smell the flowery haze of her perfume spray.

He clambered out of bed and shuffled to Bobby’s room, just to check that he was awake. He wasn’t. His dark hair peered out above his England football duvet, a remnant of his World Cup mania from the year before. Jack rubbed his eyes. He would have to rush now, and he didn’t feel much in the mood for speed.

Jack nudged Bobby gently until he stirred and then pointed at his school clothes, set out by Laura.

‘Time to get moving,’ he said, although his voice still had a slur.

It was going to be a slow morning.

Laura threaded her way through the Incident Room, her coffee in her hand, the smell of stale booze hitting her, the remnants of the trip to the pub the night before, everyone more bleary-eyed than the previous day. Mornings were always the toughest part of a murder investigation, because they were no nearer the killer and hours of uncertainty lay ahead.

As she got to Joe, he looked up and smiled. ‘Did you get in trouble for being back so late?’

‘Jack was all tucked up when I got back,’ she said, and returned the smile. ‘I enjoyed myself. Thank you for making me go.’ She took a sip of coffee and then nodded towards some sheets of paper in front of Joe. ‘Is there anything new?’