'Til Death (DI Steven Marr Book 1) - UK Crime Fiction Whodunnit Thriller (18 page)

‘Greg. Come in. I wasn’t expecting you to come here.’

Stanic followed him into the living room.

‘Beer?’ Coulthard said. Stanic shook his head.

‘Please yourself.’

Coulthard moved across to the armchair and sat down, indicating for Greg to do the same on the sofa.

‘How can I help you?’

Stanic looked at him.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you kill them?’

Thomas laughed.

‘What, you think I’m some serial killer? Stay here, I’ll go and get a nice Chianti from the kitchen. I assume you don’t want any fava beans…’

‘Don’t take the piss, Tom. I know you killed them. You stabbed Anna and then forced Caroline to kill herself.’

Thomas leaned forward, and smiled again.

‘Oh, you do have a good imagination Greg. Maybe you’re not the monkey I always took you for. Calm down and have a drink.’

‘I don’t want a drink.’

‘Well, if you insist, but you do look very stressed. Don’t mind me, anyway.’

Thomas poured himself a measure of Dalwhinnie. Taking a sip from what looked like a crystal tumbler, he looked at Stanic.

‘Must be hard for you, Greg. I mean, this time four days ago you were taking turns with two beautiful women. Must have made you feel good. Especially marrying one of them: you could have a proud son to look up to you – because that’s what people like you always want – and then carry on Carolining on the side. Does it feel lonely, having it all taken away? You must feel pretty helpless. I mean, that really can’t be easy, even for one of life’s alphas.’

‘Don’t talk about them, don’t talk about my so…’ Greg’s voice trailed away, and he was furious with himself for letting it slip.

‘Your son? Oh, Greg….’

Thomas’ face morphed into mock seriousness: an expression it couldn’t hold for long.

‘Well, I’m sure the poor thing didn’t suffer much. Anna would have been a good mother, and…well, I suppose I’m jumping the gun, there. Maybe you knocked Caroline up.’

Stanic shook his head, not able to meet Thomas’ eyes.

‘Don’t insult me, it was Anna’s, I would never…’

Thomas cut in with a shriek of a giggle.

‘Ha! You’d never what? Never knock up your mistress? Christ, you’re an honourable man to the last. We should all be so noble. Just why the hell are you here, Greg? Expecting to beat a confession out of me?’

Greg looked up, his face dangerous.

‘I could. I could beat almost anything out of you. You’re a squealer, you’d be crying for mommy inside a minute. You’re barely a man.’

Thomas smiled.

‘Depends how you define man, I suppose. Yes, Greg, I don’t doubt that you could give my neck a good wringing. It’s why you had women like Caroline and Anna, and here I am with nothing except a few books. Such is life. However, it wouldn’t look great in court, would it? It would be pretty reasonable to assume I’d confessed simply because a trained ex-soldier was crushing my larynx. Not that it matters much, anyway. By the look of it, the soldier didn’t come armed.’

Thomas reached behind him to the sofa, and pulled out a gun. Stanic jumped: he couldn’t help it. It looked like a Walter, the PPK. Where in the name of fuck had this desk-bound freak got a fucking revolver from?

Thomas was smiling.

‘With lunatics like you around, I thought it was probably wise to arm myself.’

Stanic was stunned: completely, totally stunned. Thomas could go to jail for ten years just for
having
that.

‘It’s licensed, genius’ Thomas said, almost sounding bored. ‘I’m in a shooting club. Only targets though, I can’t claim to have massacred any little brown babies – something I’m sure we differ on. So, unless you’ve got any evidence you’d like to throw my way, or any big emotional speech you’d like to make, please leave. I suppose I’ll see you at the funerals. I wouldn’t miss the chance to pay my respects.’

As Stanic walked out towards the front door, he considered whether it was worth simply reporting Coulthard for the use of his gun. It was illegal to have it out of the case. Then Stanic
really
thought about it. He’d run away from his lawyer with the intention of hurting a character witness. How would that look? Would they really believe Thomas had a gun? Would it keep Stanic out of prison?

No; there was nothing he could do. Not for now. Stanic opened the front door and shut it behind him. Then, he heard Coulthard’s muffled, mocking voice behind it.

‘Will your son’s name be on the gravestone, do you think?’

Greg turned and roared, punching and kicking the door, trying to beat his way back through to the murderer on the other side. After he had spent the last bit of the anger and the energy, he collapsed onto the stone of the front step. Then, he heard a sound: a muffled giggle, coming from the other side of the door.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Marr pulled into his drive, completely sick of the traffic. The procession of cars had snaked its way down the avenue, trapping him before he realised he should have taken the detour.

It had taken around an hour to get home from there, and Marr wanted nothing more than to relax and take a bath, maybe with a cup of tea. Manly, it was not. Relaxing, it bloody was.

He clicked the lock open and walked into the living room, where the lights weren’t yet on, despite it starting to darken outside.

Lizzie was lying down on the sofa, headphones in her ears, eyes shut. Marr smiled. She often fell asleep like this; and, he supposed, she’d needed a snooze after the week’s stresses. He decided to make her a hot drink.

But when he got up and began to walk to the kitchen, he felt her move behind him. He turned, and his wife’s face was level with his. Her eyes were open, and were boring right through him.

And he knew.

‘Lizzie, I…’

He tailed off, realising that, in the end, he had nothing. No justification, no consolation. There was simply no explanation for it, other than the truth.

I had an affair because I wanted to. I love you. And that was enough emotionally, but I wanted more sexually. And risking our relationship was, in the end, worth it.

And she knew that, too.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ he said.

She slapped him; hard. Harder than he could remember being slapped before. He tried not to show just how much it hurt.

‘Who told you?’ he asked.

Lizzie slapped him again. Even harder, in the same spot.

‘Leave’ she said.

Marr nodded, and he walked out towards the door. There was no point arguing, was there?

‘How long? Lizzie asked, just before he reached the front door.

Marr turned.

‘Why?’

‘How long?’ she repeated.

‘Eight months,’ he replied.

‘Is that the truth?’

‘I don’t love her.’ He said, unsure what he was really trying to achieve by saying it, even if it was true.

Lizzie laughed. A hollow laugh: the laugh atheists make in foxholes.

‘Do you love me?’ she asked.

Marr nodded.

‘Then what does it matter whether you loved her or not? Your love doesn’t mean anything; it doesn’t translate to respect, or caring, or putting us first.’

‘I’ve always put us first. Our relationship is what matters, I’ve already…’

‘Steve, I don’t care if you’ve already broken up with her. It doesn’t mean any more than your ‘love’ does.’

‘I did the right thing.’

Again; that laugh. He hated it; he hated it because he’d never heard it before. It was a cold laugh. An unattached laugh. It was the sound of Lizzie shutting him out.

It scared him because it was the sound of someone who didn’t care anymore.

‘Steve, you didn’t do anything even close to the right thing. The right thing would be not fucking someone else whilst we were married. The right thing would have been not even proposing to me in the first place.’

‘I proposed because…’

‘I know, I know. Because you love me.‘

‘I do love you.’

‘So why do it, Steve? Oh I don’t even know why I’m asking that question, I know the answer. Fuck, you’re a pathetic cliché, a waste of time. I didn’t mean to, it just happened it was a mistake, I just got carried away. FUCK!’

On the last syllable, she hurled her headphones across at him.

‘Why couldn’t you just not do it? Aren’t we happy? Is this not enough? No, it’s never enough, is it? You’re as bad as all those scumbags you spend hours trying to put away. Another stupid fucker who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Well, congratulations: that’s you. Except you’re fucking worse because you’ve seen it all and still couldn’t control yourself.’

‘I’m not like them.’

‘Oh? Why’s that? Steve; you don’t get it, do you? It doesn’t matter what you say, or how you talk to yourself, or how many mantras you repeat; you don’t get to do bad things and still be a good person. Good people don’t do bad things; bad people do. Sleazy fuckbags cheat on their marriages to feed their ego, and guess what? That’s you.’

Lizzie seemed drained; her face was suddenly tired.

‘Leave,’ she said. ‘Really: get out.’

‘What about the baby?’ he asked, ‘what about our child?’

She looked up at him.

‘Why the fuck would I want to raise a child with you now? I wanted to bring a child into the world with a wonderful, loving father. A strong man, who’d look out for them. But that’s not you, is it? After all that, you’re just as weak as the rest of them. No; you’re not strong enough to be a father.’

Marr’s blood ran cold as he realised what she might be talking about.

‘You don’t mean…’

Lizzie laughed, again.

‘Says who? Says you? No, Steve; see, it’s not your call to make. I decided whether or not I want to bring a baby into the world, and cheating fucks like you don’t get to decide anything, except which sad little pathetic bedsit you want to live in from now on. Now, get the fuck out of my house.’

‘Our house, Lizzie, not yours.’

‘No; it was ours, Steve. Now, ‘ours’ doesn’t exist. You wanted to fuck Sam so badly you decided it was worth the risk. Well, congratulations, this is what happens. I won’t ask you again to GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE.’

She grabbed a picture frame from by the fire; the pair of them at Warwick Castle on their second anniversary. She threw it, hard, in his direction. He ducked, and it shattered on the wall behind him. Lizzie reached down to pick up another frame.

Marr sighed, and left the house, only turning round to look at the top bedroom, where Lizzie was standing, watching him leave. She pulled the curtains closed.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Marr resisted the urge to get drunk. He went into town and purchased a couple of shirts and another pair of trousers before he went to his hotel room. He considered it carefully, but decided that he needed to call Sam first.

‘What?’ she answered.

‘Did you tell Lizzie?’ he asked.

Sam paused before answering.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I won’t pretend I didn’t think about it, but no, I didn’t. She found out?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Castleford Hotel in town.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Becky, then.’

‘Must have been. See you.’

‘I can come over if you want.’

‘See you, Sam.’

Marr cut the call and laid back on the bed. It was comfy, which irritated him; he instantly felt the need to be on his battered mattress back at home. Hotel beds made him think of Sam, and that wasn’t what he wanted right now.

There was a buzz as a text message came through, it was Becky.

Call me.

Marr thought about it. Did he really want to talk to Becky right now? No, was the honest answer. He wanted to strangle her, and that wasn’t the best mood to be in if you were trying to remain professional.

Oh, fuck it.

Becky picked up after half a ring.

‘Sir?’

‘What do you want, Becky?’

‘I just spoke to Sam.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I really am.’

‘Why?’

‘I told Lizzie.’

‘I know that; I’m asking you why.’

‘I felt I owed her it.’

Marr was confused; he’d always been under the impression that Lizzie didn’t like Becky much. He’d certainly didn’t think they were close.