Exhibit (17 page)

Marsh was out of the door before he could finish his sentence. He went straight to the nearest bathroom, took a slug of whiskey from the hip flask he always kept close to hand, and tried to phone Elisa. When his call went to her answer phone, he screamed a series of expletives and kicked a cubicle door until it came off the hinges. A young officer came into the bathroom while he was looking at the mess he'd created.

“Sir?” he said.

“Fuck off”, Marsh warned him, and he backed out of the room.

“T
his is a fucking mess, Detective”, Hawking said. “Why didn't you fucking tell me you were romantically involved with these girls? I would have pulled you off the case. You know how this looks now. It's a fucking mess.”

“I was hardly romantically fucking involved. They were prostitutes, I fucked them. I'm sure I'm not the only police officer that's visited the fucking lanes for a bit of after work action.”

“You're off the case, Detective. I'm giving the clear up to Brown.”

“What fucking clear up? Elisa is missing.”

“It's over. As of today, you're taking a months holiday. Get as far away from Hanley as possible until this blows over. We'll sort out the rest. Prensall will be put away for the murders and the case will be closed. No one will remember the Detective who was supposed to be investigating the case and fucking the girls instead.”

“That's a bit fucking harsh.”

“Harsh? You're lucky Prensall came forward. Otherwise it might have been you fighting off would-be rapists in the iron jungle. Take a month off, clean yourself up, spend some time with your wife and kids. Fucking forget about this mess.”

“What about Elisa?”

“What about her? Elisa will be as dead as the rest of those girls. If Prensall tells us where she is, fucking great, we save a life, and you don't feel so guilty. If he doesn't, then another prostitute dies. Big fucking loss.”

“Give me forty eight hours to find her.”

“I'm giving you a month off, full pay. You either take that, or I sack you for misconduct. Prensall has a broken nose and you have a drink problem. It's enough.”

“Then give it to Carter. Give it to someone who can work it.”

“I'm not wasting police resources on a prositute. We've spent too fucking long on this investigation already. It's over. Case fucking closed.”

“You cunt.”

“I'll allow that in the circumstances. You say it again, and your career is over.”

“You know who he is, don't you? Prensall.”

“Aye, I know who he is.”

“I should have seen the fucking connection. I should have known someone was doing it to get at me.”

“Anyone else leading up this investigation would have had you as number one witness. If Prensall had wanted to, he could have dropped you right the fuck in it. Your cum is all over those girls. Your prints, your fucking life.”

“Why the fuck didn't he?”

“So you would know who he was. So we would all know. And so you would feel responsible for every single one of those girls. Particularly the last one. Particularly her. Prensall knows what he's doing. He's a clever cunt. Cleverer than you by far, Detective.”

There was a moment of silence, while Marsh contemplated this.

“Well”, Dean Hawking said finally. “What are you waiting for now. Fuck off!”

R
ebecca Tan recognized the house immediately. It had been a while since she'd been here, but her experience was so vivid and fresh in her mind, she would remember it to the day she died. Marsh was already drunk when he answered the door and let her in. It wasn't much different to his normal state - Marsh was either drunk or nearly drunk, and the difference was tangible. When he wasn't drunk he was slightly more offensive. That was pretty much it. He welcomed her in, and they sat down at his dining table. The same dining table he'd fucked her on, and the same dining table around which he'd only recently had an awkward 'make-up' dinner with his family.

“What have you got?”

“Well, not very much I'm afraid”, Rebecca confessed. “He's definitely our man. He described exactly what he did to those girls, and I corroborated it with the autopsy report. He's one sick fucker. I nearly punched him when he told me as well.”

“Aye, we know he's guilty now. I didn't fucking see it before, but it's clear.”

“I know why too. Carter told me.”

“Aye. Do you want a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

Marsh went to the kitchen, took two glasses from the draining board, a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, and returned to the table. He poured a generous amount into each glass, and then drained almost half of his in one massive series of gulps.

“When did you know?” Rebecca asked him.

“When I saw him. I knew who he was when I saw him. Philip Prensall was Peter Holden back then. All that fucking time ago.”

Marsh took another series of gulps, and finished his drink. Rebecca had never seen anything like it. She'd barely sipped at the fire-water in her glass, and Marsh had already downed nearly half a pint of it. He filled up his glass.

“Is it true?”

“Of course it's fucking true. Peter and I used to work together in Chicago before I came over here. He's fucking changed a bit now, I wasn't sure at first if it was him or not. I fucked his wife and I put a little baby boy inside her, and they'd both still be alive today if she hadn't fucked topped herself.”

“Why did she kill herself?”

“Because she was fucking stupid. I don't fucking know. Why does anyone fucking kill themselves? She had problems. She was a beautiful girl but she had problems. She hated Peter and she wanted me. She kept talking about running the fuck away to Scotland and living in a castle like it was a fucking fairytale. She wanted me to leave my wife for her”

“And you didn't?”

“No, of course I fucking didn't. Alice Holden was a bit on the side. We fucked each other because we were bored. At least that's what I always thought it was. That's not what she put in the suicide note she left with her body for Peter to find. That fucking cunt blamed me for her death. That's why he's doing this to me. He's trying to make me feel guilty.”

“Do you?”

“What kind of a fucking question is that?”

“It's a question.”

“Where is she?”

“He didn't say.”

“Fucking cunt.”

“He did say something else though.”

“What?”

“He said she's pregnant.”

“Aye, he would.”

Rebecca sipped at her drink, and it burned as it went down her throat.

“Is she?”

“It doesn't matter if she is or not.”

“Are you alright, Detective?”

“There's going to be a media shitstorm about this tomorrow. How much do they know?”

“They know that you were romantically linked to each of the girls”, Rebecca put inverted commas around the romantically linked part of the sentence. “And they know there is another girl missing. Prensall has told the press that he has given you forty eight hours to save the life of the missing girl, and has given you a series of clues throughout the investigation, that a Junior Detective would have no problems in solving. He says he expects that a man with your intellect will be able to find the girl before the story breaks.”

“What is the station saying?”

“They will release a statement saying that you have been taken off the case for personal reasons. Investigations are being continued by the department's best officers.”

“Tweedledum and Tweedledee? For fuck sake.”

“They are going to release a personal statement from you, apologizing for your misjudgments and lack of perspective. That you have been going through a messy separation and haven't been coping well. The usual things. Would you like me to read it to you?”

“No. Is that it?”

“Almost.”

Rebecca sipped her drink again. Marsh watched her eagerly.

“Prensall told me to tell you something. He said it was vitally important.”

“Go on.”

“He said, when you look into Elisa's dead gray eyes, you'll understand. You'll understand what loss is. You've done so much wrong, and hurt so many people, not even God will forgive you. See you in hell, Detective.”

“Right. Well that's fucking helpful isn't it?”

“Do you love her?”

“What are you asking me, Tan?”

“I'm asking if you care what happens to her.”

“I can't fucking love anything, look at me.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Aye, believe what you fucking want.”

“Why didn't he take your wife or your daughter?”

“Is that all, Sergeant Tan?”

“Why didn't he take your wife and your daughter?”

“Is that fucking all?”

“She's not yours, is she?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“You don't care about her because she's not yours. It wouldn't have mattered. Either of them.”

“Smart fucking girl. Drink up, you'll make a Detective yet.”

“Why are you still with your wife?”

“Because guilt is a cunt and for some reason she loves me. No-one has ever done that before, Tan. No-one has loved me like she does, the stupid fucking woman. Now stop fucking asking me questions.”

Marsh topped his glass up again. There was a sheen across his eyes that could have been from the alcohol or from tears forming. It could have just been the way the light reflected.

“Is she dead already?”

“I don't know. Aye, probably. Let's find her, and find the fuck out.”

T
he bottle was empty. The information had been passed over, and it was time for Rebecca Tan to leave. Marsh swayed a little as he walked her to the door, using the wall, the table, or anything else that came easily to hand to keep him propped up.

“You don't have to go you know”, Marsh whispered to her at the door.

“I have to go”, Rebecca said, unconvincingly.

Marsh leaned into her. He was already standing quite close, but now he had his head rested on her shoulder, his mouth close to her ear. He could feel her heart beating rapidly through the thin cotton of her top, which he lifted up now with his hand.

Rebecca opened the door, but it was an action as if of performance, and not one that she looked like she ever intended to complete. Marsh pushed the door shut again, just as soon as she had taken her hand from it. He put his hand back under her top, and smoothed the skin towards her breasts. Tan tried to push him away, but despite being drunk, Marsh was firm.

“Why are you playing games with me, huh?” Marsh whispered into her ear. “You like playing games don't you, Tan? Oh I remember what you like and what you don't like.”

He had his hand on her breast now, squeezing her skin firmly and pulling on her nipple. It was painful, but Rebecca responded to pain like a dog to a bouncing ball. She chased after it with every single ounce of energy she had. She tried to push herself away from Marsh, but her movement lacked desire. Marsh flattened her against the wall, holding her hands tightly against her side. Rebecca tried to struggle free but the more she fought, the tighter Marsh's embrace became. Pressed up against her, she could feel his cock pushing into her thigh.

They were face to face, so close their noses were touching. She could feel his breath against her lips, and taste the bitterness that contaminated his smell like rust on oxidizing metal. He kissed her and she let him. He smiled, a bitter warped smile that a mad man might display on his day of condemnation, and then spun her around violently. Marsh wasn't a big man, but he was strong. His body was covered in wiry muscle like wet twisted cloth over metal posts, and when he wanted something, it was difficult for people to resist. Rebecca knew this performance well. Despite his force however, she could have left if she wanted to. Rebecca was no shrinking violet herself and she'd dealt with her fair share of hungry men both in work and out of it. Rebecca was twisted around and pushed against the wall because she let Marsh do it. He had the power to drink a bottle of whiskey and twist her, it was true, but it wouldn't have happened if she hadn't wanted it to.

Marsh worked at her hurriedly, urgent now to force himself inside her. He was like a bloodhound who'd just got a whiff of a scent that had driven him mad his whole hunting career.

Marsh tore at her top, snapping a button off in the process. He ripped off her bra and pulled again at her tits, working the nipples erect between his thumbs and forefingers, slapping them with an open palm if they didn't respond. He paused momentarily to run his fingers across the bobbled scars on her back, remnants of a night of pleasure and pain in a bdsm dungeon with a whip wielding master, but described to Marsh, for fear of provoking jealousy, as wounds suffered during a car crash, none of which she could remember.

Marsh didn't give a fuck that she'd lied to him. He'd lied to enough people throughout his life, and it didn't matter anyway if the end result was the same. He fucked her that night. He added a few more to her criss-cross display with a leather belt, and the truth didn't change a goddamn thing. Marsh pulled angrily at her jeans, remembering that night of passion. There were two things in the world he couldn't control about himself. If he wanted a drink, or he wanted to fuck, he couldn't ever stop himself. It was hard for others too.

Her jeans came down in one mighty downward jerk of his hands, that carried her panties with it too. Rebecca spread her hands against the wall and her legs wide, as though she was preparing herself to be frisked. Next came his own jeans. He wrestled them down with one hand, never taking the other one from the back of Rebecca's neck, where it was leaving red marks she'd have to cover up in the morning. Marsh held her like a bagged rabbit he was getting ready to skin. His cock hung behind her like a knife, sharpened and prone.

His hand went to her pussy, and a finger disappeared up inside her, before she had a chance to brace herself. This was foreplay from a rutting brain-dead caveman, but it was what turned Rebecca on. Immediately her pussy responded, sending flashes of panic to her brain, that were then converted into silky threads of pleasure as they took the journey back down to her cunt. Marsh leaned into her as he fingered her, ramming his closed fist up against her sensitive lips.