Buried Slaughter (17 page)

Brian’s face went hot. The pictures of him being dragged away from the Pendle Hill crime scene had not escaped his son’s attention, after all. “Not if I can help it.”

“How is that case going, anyway?” Vanessa asked, as a waitress took away their plates and cups. “Seems to have gone a bit quiet on that front.”

Brian pulled himself into his leather coat. Two years ago, he’d never have been able to wear this. A victory against the chub. “I don’t know much more than you, to be honest. No DNA. No fingerprints. Not a trace.” He thought of the question mark, engraved onto Marie’s forehead. And the fact that “Harold Harvey II” still had one murder pending, if the history books were correct. “But anyway. It’s…‌it’s none of my business. My business is my family right now. My family and my job. That’s where my head is.”

“Good,” Vanessa said, a genuine warm smile crinkling her cheeks. “You’re learning.”

The three of them exchanged a hug and another awkward kiss on the cheek before leaving the Station Café.

Just before Davey had the chance to leave, however, Brian revealed he’d had a pair of football tickets for the Preston North End game hidden away in his pocket. Davey’s brown eyes lit up when they saw them.

“On one condition,” Brian said, waving them in his face. “You turn that frown upside down. Okay?”

Davey smiled and hugged his dad. “Okay. But do I have to keep smiling after the football match, too?”

Brian and Vanessa laughed. “You stubborn little so-and-so.”

“Definitely takes after his dad,” Vanessa added, before walking away towards her car with Davey.

Brian smiled as they got inside the green Honda and disappeared up the hilly high street. It was nice to be amicable with Vanessa again. She could turn out a good friend.

“Treat her like she’s broken a leg,” Brian muttered, as he walked towards the flower shop. “Weirdest bit of advice I’ve ever heard.”

Brian took in a deep breath as he unlocked the door of his house. The November wind was picking up out in the street, sending the fallen autumn leaves flying like a minor tornado. Next door’s plant pots had fallen over again. Silly buggers. They insisted on placing the paper-light pot right beside the front door, where even the smallest gust of wind was likely to knock it over, and acted surprised when bloody gale-force speeds knocked it down. Idiots.

Holding the flowers he’d picked up from the shop in Longridge, Brian opened the front door.

Hannah was already waiting for him in the hallway. Her eyes were still puffy and red. Her hair was still a mess. She was scratching at her arms, and biting her lip.

“Hello, honey,” Brian said. He waved the huge bundle of roses in her direction. “Surprise…‌I guess.”

A smile twitched across Hannah’s face as she saw the flowers, then dropped away. “How was Davey?”

Brian tilted his head from side to side. “Yeah. Good. We’d better put these in a vase beside the window. Got to give them a bit of light‌—‌”

“She was there, wasn’t she?”

Brian’s shoulders slumped. There was no point in lying, not now. It was getting ridiculous, anyhow. There was nothing between them. Why couldn’t Hannah just accept that?

“Yes,” Brian said. “She was. I met up with her and Davey and we had a coffee and a cookie together.”

Hannah’s fearful expression turned into a snarl. “Rubbing it in my face, that’s what you’re doing. You’ve no respect for me. No respect.”

“Actually,” Brian said, raising his voice, “I went to speak to my ex-wife about how I could help you. She looked after me when I was in a rut for the first few months. You can turn your nose up at that all you want, but I went to ask for help, because I just can’t seem to get anything right at the moment.”

Hannah shook her head. She grabbed her coat from the side of the staircase, and made for the door.

Brian stepped in her way.

“Let me leave,” Hannah said, squaring up to Brian. Tears built up in her eyes. “I want to leave. I want to get out of here.”

“No,” Brian said. It felt good saying it. He knew he had to put his foot down. He had to get his point across. It was the only way they were getting through this. “Now, we’re going to go into that kitchen, we’re going to sit down, and we’re going to talk. Hannah, I love you. Love you to fucking pieces. And you don’t think it hurts me, too? What happened to your sister. You don’t think that affects me? I want to be here for you. I want to be a good partner to you.”

Hannah lowered her head. She was still snarling, but with less ferocity.

“Hannah,” Brian said, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I’ve been at the lowest point. Yes‌—‌I wrapped a noose around my neck and jumped from a staircase. My son witnessed that, and judging by how cold he is with me these days, he’s just beginning to understand. I cut at my wrists for months. I shacked up in a pit of misery and I let the world turn me into a cynical fat bastard all because it felt like the easiest thing to do.

“I’m not undermining the pain you’re going through. Believe me, I’m not. But I just…‌I want you to know that I saw a light.” His voice faltered. “I…‌When I thought I was at my lowest, I pulled myself up again and I fought back. And it was hard. Fuck‌—‌I was knocked back time and time and time again. But…‌but here I am. Here we are, in this lovely house with our amazing lives. You pulled me through. You gave me my strength. I…‌I want to do the same for you.”

Hannah’s eyes met Brian’s. Tears were running down her cheeks now, as if she was realising the truth of his words, waking up from a long, hard nightmare.

Brian gulped. His hands started to shake. “So, Hannah, take these fucking flowers out of my hand and let me be here for you, okay?”

After a few seconds of complete stasis, Hannah pulled the flowers out of Brian’s right hand.

He gulped again. He’d imagined the next part a thousand times in his head. He wasn’t sure how well-timed it was, but fuck. Vanessa had got him thinking. He was a family man. He was a man back on the right track. This was right, it really was.

As Hannah took the flowers away, Brian lowered onto one knee and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket.

He pulled out a purple, velvet-covered square box.

Hannah’s tired, bloodshot eyes widened. The flowers shook in her hand as her grip loosened.

“Hannah Wootherfood,” Brian said. He cleared his throat. He could barely look her in the eye. This was nothing like he’d imagined. Fuck. What was he doing? How could she possibly say “yes” to him? “I, er…‌Will you marry me?”

Hannah dropped the flowers to the floor and wrapped her arms around Brian’s shoulders. “Yes,” she said, whimpering and crying, her hot tears dripping down Brian’s back. “Oh God, yes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Brian was glad Hannah wasn’t looking, because his eyes were streaming with tears too, as they held their heads close to one another in the entrance area to their house.

But they were good tears. Happy tears. At last, something to smile about. Something he hadn’t fucked up.

He’d watched him in Longridge, and really, it couldn’t have gone any better.

First, he’d watched him take the card from his ex-wife. Idiots, the pair of them. The ex-wife bitch should’ve known she’d sent the card, and the ageing murdering scumbag fuck should’ve known he’d already received a card.

But fuck. He’d fallen for it. Thank fuck.

He stared between the hedges at the front of the semidetached house. A suburban dream house. But inside, nothing but misery. Tears and misery and grieving. Just what they deserved. Just what they deserved for all the pain they’d caused.

But then he’d seen the scumbag fuck go into the jewellers and buy a ring. Platinum. Wasteful cunt. Wasteful, materialist, clichéd cunt. Just like the rest of his family. Just like all of them. Scum.

There was a positive, though, and that’s the way he’d been grinning as he left the jewellers. The way he fumbled around to slip the ring into his pocket. A proposal. A planned proposal. Perfect. Just what he needed.

He looked from left to right. The road was completely clear. A few houses down the road, he could see a kid playing a video game in his bedroom. At the end of the street, which led out to Sharoe Green Lane, traffic drove by, unaware. Completely unaware. Just how he liked it.

He pulled the letter out of his pocket and smiled as he read and reread it. This was perfect. A perfect way to congratulate the newly engaged. Everything was falling into place. He’d gone quiet for a few days in the aftermath of the funeral, lay low, evaded the pig cunt fuck cunts for all this time. It was easy. Fucking easy. He should’ve done it years ago.

He folded the letter, licked the envelope, and pulled up his hood. His heart raced. What he was doing was risky. It would look so risky. He knew for a fact there were cameras on this road, but being discovered was a part of the next step.

And it wouldn’t matter anyway. Not if he timed everything precisely.

He approached the front door of Misery House and placed the envelope under a stone beside the door. His skin crawled when he heard them inside, loud voices, that bitch moaning. Forgetting a death by fucking. Sick cunts. Deserved all that came their way. Filth.

He looked to both sides, being sure to keep his head low, then walked off the drive, across the street, and back into the hedges.

The fact that they were screwing meant that Brian hadn’t given Hannah her first card yet.

But the second envelope was more exciting. So much more exciting. He almost got hard thinking about it.

Happy fucking engagement, you filthy cunts.

Chapter Nineteen

The following morning, Brian knew things were on the up because he couldn’t feel Hannah beside him.

He smiled, as the warmth from the autumn sun shone in through the window onto his face. She’d got out of bed to see to her freelance journalist work again. He could just picture her, right now, flicking through the day’s newspapers and underlining the most interesting stories with a thick, solvent-smelling marker pen, preparing reports of her own.

He climbed out of bed and threw his smart white shirt and blue tie on, as well as his navy blue trousers. He stared at himself in the mirror. He was getting greyer by the day, but it wasn’t an unhealthy grey. It actually kind of suited him, he thought.

Stepping away from the mirror and out of the bedroom, he jogged down the stairs. He still couldn’t hear Hannah in the kitchen, rustling her papers or whistling through the gap between her two front teeth. In fact, the papers were still on the doormat.

A small speck of dread hit Brian. If she was out of bed, then why hadn’t she collected the papers? They’d been pushed to one side slightly, as if they’d been inspected but ignored.

He was supposed to be back at work in a couple of hours, too. He hoped there wasn’t something else on her mind. He hoped she hadn’t done something crazy like had a second thought about his proposal.

No. Stupid thoughts. Stupid, the lot of them. She was taking things one step at a time, that’s all it was. One little step at a time.

He felt something nick his chest. He reached into his pocket‌—‌it was the sympathy card Vanessa had given him. As he walked towards the kitchen, he started to open it, clearing his throat. He could see Hannah at the table, holding what looked like a standard bill, or even some junk mail.

But the way her eyes stared at it. They were hazy. Taken aback.

“Morning, honey. Everything okay?”

Hannah glanced at Brian and blinked a couple of times, as if she was returning to the room. Her hand was still as it held the paper, shaking ever so slightly.

“Han?” Brian said, putting the opened card to one side and approaching her with hesitation. “What is that?”

Hannah gulped and let out a nervous sigh. It was then that Brian realised how pale Hannah had gone. He’d been used to seeing her pale since her sister’s death, but last night, the shag they’d had returned a bit of colour to her cheeks.

“Let me see that,” Brian said. He grabbed the paper from Hannah, who sat with her eyes still staring into space. The paper slid from her fingers.

When Brian flicked it over, he knew immediately why Hannah had gone so pale.

It was a photograph. Full colour. Clear definition.

The photograph was of Marie with a long blade to her neck, fear in her eyes, bruises on her cheeks and blood dripping from the question mark on her forehead.

Fuck. So the killer had etched the question mark onto her before killing her. Poor girl. Poor, poor girl.

Underneath the photograph, there was writing in red felt-tip pen. Brian had to read it a couple of times to take it all in, and even though it eventually made logical sense, he was still stumped.

Eleven little rats lost their lives,

Flushed right down the drain.

But one little rat ran away to hide,

Then returned to cause some pain.

Brian read the writing over and over, in a complete trance state. It was only when Hannah spoke that he remembered she was in the room with him, and she’d…‌shit. She’d seen the photograph of her sister.

“Why…‌why would somebody do this?” Hannah said, tears rolling down her face. “What does it mean, Brian? What does it mean?”

Brian clenched his teeth together. “Where was this? Where did you‌—‌”

“By the door,” Hannah said. “I went out to get the milk delivery and it was just there, with a question mark drawn on it in that same red pen.”

The question mark.

Brian turned to look at the kitchen worktop. Sympathy cards were scattered across the surface. One of them had a drawing of pink flowers on. They’d received that card from Vanessa, he knew that now.

Brian’s stomach sank even further. If he had received a card from Vanessa after all, then what was the new card Vanessa had given him?

He grabbed it. It was clear, with no picture on it.

Inside, there was another question mark, drawn with red felt-tip.

“Right,” Brian said, storming towards the front door, his cheeks flushing. “I’m going to take these to the police right away and I’m going to make sure whoever did this puts a stop to it.”