Keeping (17 page)

She shook her head and stared at the ground again. “Nope. Nice to have a bit of company. I don’t get out much these days. Not since…”

What was up with her? She looked dopey as fuck. “Since?”

“Since my husband died. That’s why Jerry, my dog…why I don’t know what I’d do without him. Companionship, you know?”

David nodded, feigning understanding. He didn’t dig dogs, didn’t comprehend how anyone got attached to them. They were hairy bastards that smelled, pissed and shit in your house and garden. The bogey woman, when David had been sixteen, had dog-sat a neighbor’s mutt while they’d fucked off on holiday. Doted on it, she had, telling David she cared more for the dog in the short time she’d looked after it than she’d cared for him his whole life. That she was taking it for a walk to this field—this very field he was in now—and he’d better make himself scarce because she hadn’t wanted to see his sorry arse in the house when she returned. He’d followed her. Killed the dog, then killed her. And here he was, years later, following the same pattern, over and over.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. It was just something you said, wasn’t it. Something she’d have expected him to say.

“Me too, but being sorry won’t bring him back. I need to move on, sort myself out. Who knows, there might be someone else waiting out there for me. I just want…I just want to love someone, you know? Have someone love me and my dog back.”

She lifted her head, stared right at him, and sincerity shone from her eyes.

This is it, isn’t it? She looks so nice. So…so for me. But the dog will still have to go. I can keep her, though.

“Listen,” he said, coming to a stop at the forest entrance. “I know we’ve just met and all that, but do you fancy going for a drink? I mean, I realize it seems a bit weird, me asking you like this, but…well, you look like you could do with some company and I certainly could. Been one hell of a day…”

She nodded, fast bobs of her head that jostled her hair, and she smiled so wide the corners of her eyes creased. “I’d love to. That would be nice. Can Jerry come?”

“God, yes. I love dogs.”

“Great!”

She seemed so animated, totally different from how she’d been when he’d first seen her, and he got a feeling in his chest—a swelling, a lung-filling euphoria—that finally,
finally
he’d found what he’d been searching for all this time. He hadn’t known
what
he’d been searching for before tonight, but now that he did…God, what he’d done before this moment had all been worth it. He’d found a woman who seemed to like him. The others had too, but not with quite so much genuineness. They’d held something back, yet this one,
this one
had revealed so much about herself in such a short space of time that it was obvious she felt comfortable enough with him to share her deepest, darkest secrets.

“You want to go to the pub through there?” she asked, nodding at the forest. “There’s a Wetherspoon’s on the edge of the estate, isn’t there. Nice place, and they don’t have music in there. Be nice and quiet so we can chat. I can chain Jerry outside to the railing fence they have.”

David smiled. “Great, yeah, that’d be great.”

He wanted to laugh at how this was going. To punch the air in excitement that everything was falling into place. Those feelings he’d had earlier were all a bunch of bullshit. If he’d thought something was off then he’d been wrong. He could get her to his car with no problem after he’d bought her a few glasses of wine and she was unsteady on her feet.

No problem at all.

* * * *

Langham carefully stepped back, hoping to God his feet didn’t dislodge something on the ground and make it crack. Time seemed to still, and the only sounds he could hear were the thump of his thundering heart and his majorly loud breathing. As Villier and the man headed toward them, Langham held his breath, almost closed his eyes because he couldn’t bear to see if the man sensed them and everything went to shit.

Once Villier and her companion went past them, far enough ahead that movement wouldn’t be heard, Langham guided Oliver to the other side of the tree. They watched Villier as she chatted to the guy, Jerry lolloping beside her, having been obedient in not sniffing at them or Fairbrother and Higgings as they’d walked through. They couldn’t arrest the bloke yet—he hadn’t done anything—but the pub scenario hadn’t featured in their plans. Still, Langham knew where they were going and would follow, keeping out of sight as much as possible.

He spoke quietly into his mic, relaying the information to the officers just to be sure they’d heard the conversation between Villier and the man through their ear buds. After five minutes, Langham, Oliver, Fairbrother and Higgings pursued, reaching the other side of the forest in short time. Before emerging out onto the street, Langham checked in to make sure he had the all clear. He got it as the four of them stepped out onto the estate path, then frowned as the idle chitchat in his ear turned to something more serious.

“Listen,” the man said. “D’you mind if I go and get my car? It’s parked just down here. I’d rather have it in the car park if we’re going into the pub.”

A knot of apprehension settled in Langham’s gut, a painful ball that made him feel sick. He glanced ahead at some red-brick houses—lights on, someone was at home—then down the street to the right where the unmarked police car sat—blue Ford Fiesta, the silhouettes of two officers inside.

“Sure,” Villier said. “Want me to come with you?”

“Where are they?” Langham whispered into his mic.

“Go left,” a voice said in his ear. “They’re about two hundred meters along, right by the second unmarked car.”

“Yeah, why not,” the man said.

He sounded so normal, so genuine that Langham had the brief thought that he might not even be the one they were after. What if he wasn’t? Didn’t matter, he reminded himself—officers were still positioned at Morrison’s.

“Saves me sitting in the pub on my own,” Villier said, her voice light. No traces of fear there. “Never was much good at that. Walking into a pub by myself, I mean. I’d rather have you with me. Saves any men getting the wrong idea, if you catch my drift.”

Langham glanced at Fairbrother and jerked his head to the left. They split up—Fairbrother crossing the road with Higgings, Langham and Oliver staying on the right-hand side—and began walking casually down the street. Just men on their way home from the pub.

“Oh, yes, I know exactly what you’re saying,” the man said. “There it is. You see it? Just down there, look.”

“Oh yes. Nice little brown Fiat,” Villier said.

Jesus Christ, I wonder if it’s him.
“Stand by,” Langham muttered.

“Oh, how weird is that?” she said. “You have a number plate almost identical to mine, except where you have a three and an L, I have a six and an H.”

“Really? Might be fate.” He laughed.

Langham didn’t like the sound of his voice or that laugh. It was high-pitched—
like a woman
—and tinkled oddly. Sounded a tad manic if he were honest.

“Watch it,” he murmured into his mic. “His voice has changed. He’s on the turn.”

* * * *

“And fate
is
weird,” David sing-songed, wondering if she was mocking him or being genuine, “but in a good way. Here we are. Let me just open the back door so Jerry can get in, then we’ll be on our way.” He shut the dog inside, then reached into his pocket for the syringe.

It felt good against his skin, something he could depend on. His voice had changed early—he didn’t usually speak like that until The Time. It made him a little uneasy, and confusion ran amok in his mind for a few seconds as he stared at her, silently questioning why she hadn’t seemed to notice. She appeared the same—relaxed in his company, no signs of distress—and he told himself it was further confirmation that she was the right one for him.

That was good, wasn’t it? Maybe this would be the last time he’d have to do this. Maybe he’d found the mother he should have had all along. Would she even want to act as a mother? She might want one of those relationships, expect him to fuck her, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to. If he didn’t find either gender sexually appealing, how could he get an erection? The only time he got one of those was in the morning as he was waking up. He knew from reading and watching TV that he was supposed to want to have sex, to get urges, but he’d never had them.

Her expression suddenly changed, throwing him off-kilter again. This swinging back and forth between emotions, this…this bloody constant changing of his mind, was going to mess things up if he wasn’t careful.

She looked nervous now the dog was on the back seat and glanced in at Jerry, one hand to her mouth, squeezing her bottom lip with her finger and thumb. He risked turning away to look at the dog. It stared out at her, panting, his breath fogging the glass, nose pressed against it, making a wet patch.

Just like he’d always thought. Smelly, dirty, disgusting animals. That wet patch would dry and leave a smeared gray mark. He’d have to clean it—lug his portable vacuum cleaner down all those stairs and get it to suck up the hairs that were undoubtedly scattered on his back seat. And how the hell he’d get rid of that dog was anyone’s guess. It wasn’t like he could break its neck, was it? He’d probably have to drug the ugly fucker.

He glanced at the woman again. “I just realized I didn’t tell you my name.” He stuck out his free hand, tightening the other around the syringe. “I’m Sally.”

Oh fuck. Oh, Jesus fuck, what have I said?

The woman smiled, didn’t seem fazed
at all
. What was up with that? Was she one of those types who literally accepted people for who they said they were? He knew somewhere in his increasingly fogging mind that she should have been surprised at the name he’d given her. At least frowned before masking her surprise. Yet she hadn’t. Something was wrong, wasn’t it? Where was Mr Clever? Why wasn’t he here, giving his usual advice?

“Nice to meet you, Sally,” she said, smiling away. “I’m Cheryl.”

Another Cheryl?

Panic whirred inside him. What was going on? Was this some kind of joke? He asked Mr Clever in his mind, and thankfully the voice replied that it was fate that she had the same name as the previous woman—that he’d nearly gotten what he’d wanted with the first Cheryl, and this woman having the same name was proof David was on the right track. He felt better, especially when this new Cheryl grasped his hand and shook it.

A babble of laughter erupted from him, and he let her hand go to open the passenger door. She stepped forward and placed one hand on top of it, leaning her hip on the edge. He made a show of pretending he’d forgotten the seat had books all over it.

“God, let me just clear these off for you,” he said, leaning in front of her while frowning and wishing his voice would stop doing that. “Sorry about this. I read quite a bit, see. Just been to the library today, good girl.”

Oh, God. Why did I say that?

As he swiped some books into the footwell with one shaking hand, he eased the syringe lid off with his other, fumbling because his fingers seemed to have thickened. Turning a bit, he spied her thigh to his left and pulled the syringe out, getting ready to lunge at her, to stab the needle into the muscles there beneath her baggy tracksuit bottoms.

“Get!” she said, clicking her finger and thumb then stepping back and taking her hand off the door.

David wondered what the fuck she’d meant and frowned, readying himself for changing tack and waiting until she sat beside him before he jabbed her instead.

But Jerry bounded over the front seats and clamped his mouth around David’s wrist, applying pressure and growling. David yelped, tugging his arm, panic ripping into him.

Don’t hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me.

The dog held firm. The syringe slipped from his grasp, and he stared at Jerry, at the spit dribbling from his lips, at how those big teeth indented his skin but hadn’t pierced it. Something cold snapped around his free wrist, and he turned from the beast to look into the eyes of another, the eyes of someone who no longer had brunette hair but blonde.

Someone who looked just like the bogey woman.

Chapter Thirteen

Langham reached the Fiat and winked at Villier, letting her know that was a job well done. She acknowledged his praise with a nod of her own and smoothed down her real hair, flyaway tresses standing every which way. The wig was now a heap of synthetic fibers at her feet, one tress draped over the toe of her trainer like a hairy tongue. He looked away from her, unable to stand seeing the relief mixed with fear in her eyes—she’d go into shock later, he’d bet, but for now she’d hold it together, if only so she didn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.

His dislike of her melted—changed into admiration. She might be a strange one, but she had guts, he’d give her that.

Langham gave the man his attention. He was stretched into a star shape, one wrist cuffed to the door, the other clamped between the dog’s teeth. He was bent forward, his back arched, head bowed, and his body bobbed as though he had trouble breathing.

Langham reached inside the car and gripped the man’s elbow while Villier took one end of the cuffs off the handle.

“Leave,” Villier said.

The dog let go, sat on the driver’s seat, and appeared to smile as though it knew it had been good. Langham yanked the man’s arm and took his other from Villier, cuffing both wrists at the small of his back. He wrenched the suspect away from the car and onto the path, into the hands of Fairbrother and a shit-scared-looking Higgings. They each grasped one of the man’s upper arms, and Langham took a moment to study the killer who had taken so many lives.

He was aware of Oliver watching, standing a little way to his left, and briefly wondered how he was feeling. He didn’t dare look at him. Emotions of that kind didn’t have a place here—they could be set free later, when they were alone. For now, with the excitement of the catch raging through his veins, Langham wanted nothing more than to get this bastard down the nick and processed.

Tears streamed down the man’s face. He hiccoughed several times, odd noises coming out from between his overly pink lips. Was he wearing lipstick? He had the green eyes and blond hair Oliver had seen, although that hair wasn’t a natural shade. It came from a bottle, no doubt about it, and a home job, the strands of blond uneven where he’d maybe pulled too much or too little through the holes of a streaking cap. Langham tried to feel pity, tried to fathom what excuse the man had for doing what he had, but found not a shred of it going spare.