Authors: Mark Billingham
And Marina Green was supposed to be the actress.
I was amazed, I still am, at how well it went. There’d been tears when they were needed and each sob, every catch of the breath
and agonised pause had done its job brilliantly. To be honest, it wasn’t actually very hard because I
was
sad that Ed had died. It might sound strange, but I missed him and I knew that adjusting to life on my own was not going
to be easy. And I
did
think all those things they’d said he’d done were appalling. I mean, looked at objectively, how could you think anything
else? Of course they were terrible.
Except it wasn’t him who had done those things, was it?
I was staggered by the size of the crowd afterwards. Well-wishers, gawpers, whatever. Standing there listening to my solicitor
making his speech, delivering my words with just the right amount of compassion and sincerity, I couldn’t help thinking how
many more people there were on those courtroom steps than had bothered to show up at poor old Ed’s funeral. Just a few members
of his family – none of whom had ever liked me much, as it happens – and a couple of morons from the tennis club. Not a bumper
turnout, but what can you expect?
I half expected a queue to spit on his coffin.
It all started with that first, stupid lie of his and the ironic thing is that I was actually angry about it at the time.
He’d panicked, worried that the cops over there would find out about his record at home, that he might get held up. As it
was, that paved the way for everything. One stupid little lie, saying he was with me when the poor sod had actually slept
the afternoon away in our cabin. I gave him the second lie of course, when I told Quinlan he’d dropped me off at the mall.
He was
grateful
at the time, like I was backing him up somehow, like I was getting him out of a hole or something when all I was really doing
was putting him right in the frame. Ed, the man with a previous arrest for rape, alone in the car and driving around just
when Amber-Marie Wilson was snatched off the street in Siesta Village.
And the police here were happy enough to believe I’d gone along with that first lie because he’d made me do it.
Did he
threaten
you?
Were you
scared?
It’s
OK
, Mrs Dunning … we understand.
Which all fitted in perfectly with the witness statements, thank you very much. Ed wearing the trousers and being a ‘bit of
a bully’ … God bless you for that, Marina and Angie. The fact is, I’ve never done
anything
he or anyone else told me unless I wanted to. Yes, in the bedroom perhaps, but I happen to have … preferences in that department
that have got nothing to do with this, so no need to dwell on that, is there?
Lies and luck then, like I’ve said before, and plenty of the latter.
The seven of spades, that was another bit of luck! Being downstairs that night meant I was nice and close to the kitchen,
handy for the knives. Don’t get me wrong, I would have found a way to do it if we’d been upstairs in the spare room. A lamp
or a shoe or something. The knife was way better though, and it
did
make the whole self-defence thing a damn sight more credible. I’m not sure I could have convinced the thickest copper in
the world that I was just trying to defend myself if I’d had to batter him to death with one of my high heels.
Winding Ed up and getting that row started had been the easiest bit of the lot. He was pissed anyway, which helped, and a
few words
about what had happened with him and Annette Bailey had been more than enough. He started trying to tell me that it was me
and the whole ‘Emma thing’ that was to blame.
That
was why he’d gone with other women, he said,
that
was when it had all started to come apart. I told him I was starting to think that maybe he
had
raped that woman – which, let’s face it, is neither here nor there – and that was when he slapped me. Bingo! A cut lip or
something would have been even better, a nice black eye … but it did the job.
He tries to apologise but I bolt for the kitchen and he comes after me.
I grab the knife and he puts out his arms.
He says, ‘Please, darling,’ or something and I bang the knife in …
Not too much else to say, though of course there are always the Angie Finnegans of this world who can’t bear a loose end.
The ones who like everything nice and neat. The location of the school on Ed’s sat-nav … well, that’s pretty self-explanatory
I would have thought, and a clump of his hair teased out of the shower drain, dried and folded into Samantha Gold’s fist,
did the job nicely as far as DNA evidence was concerned. As for what happened in Florida, well, there were clearly things
that needed to be done after that initial … rush of blood. Gardner was more or less right about the disposal of Amber-Marie’s
body, except that I
pushed
the kayak, because the water’s no deeper than three feet most of the way. I remembered that from when Ed and I had been there
before, as well as where the kayaks were tied up. I got to the tunnels and back in about forty minutes, was out of my swimsuit
and back at the resort in another fifteen while Ed was still dead to the world. Because he
was
a heavy sleeper.
Talking of ‘heavy’, Amber-Marie could certainly have done with losing a few pounds. I’m stronger than I look, so it wasn’t
too
much trouble getting her bagged up and in the boot of the hire car, but still I was sweating like a pig on the way to that
mall. Mind you, even tying your shoelaces gets you hot and bothered in that kind of climate and the air-con soon cools you
off.
Oh, and that line I put into Ed’s mouth?
‘
Don’t you want to know
why
?
’
Come on …
really?
Girls like Amber-Marie Wilson and Samantha Gold walking around.
Creatures
like that, breathing through their mouths, flapping and grinning, when I know my own girl would have been perfect.
So, in a word: balance.
I was aware of Angie and the others behind me, desperate to get my attention as things were finishing up and turning to look
at them I realised I would have a few phone calls and invitations to ignore. They’d all played their part in what had happened,
albeit without a clue they were doing any such thing, but I can’t say I was mad keen to stay in touch.
Life’s too short and I’ve got better things to do.
As I was bundled down towards the car, I noticed the BMW on the other side of the road and I recognised the man at the wheel.
He slid the window down, as if he wanted me to see him. That inspector I’d met at the house on the night of Ed’s death and
at the police station later on. It was a little disconcerting, I’ll admit that, but only for a few seconds.
Him staring across at me like that, like he
knew
something.
I managed a smile before my solicitor urged me forward and we got into the car. As it drove away, he was asking if I was all
right and I probably said that I was, but I was already miles away.
All I really wanted was to get home, to make some tea and get busy.
I was so looking forward to taking Emma’s pictures out of the drawer. To polishing them up until they shone and putting my
daughter on display where she belonged.
Though
Rush of Blood
is a very different book to any I have written before, my need for help and support was as great as always and I am hugely
grateful to all those who gave generously of their time and expertise and made the novel far better than it otherwise would
have been.
Thank you to my new friends in Sarasota, Bob and Marie Black, and to Michael Connelly for the warm welcome, the generosity
and, of course, the fishing.
Not for the first time I am grateful to Caroline Haughey for her legal expertise and Wendy Lee for her eagle eye. NH was indispensible
and Tony Fuller was, as always, a mine of useful advice and procedural brilliance. At Little, Brown it continues to be an
enormous pleasure to work with Tamsin Kitson, Hannah Hargrave, Thalia Proctor, Sean Garrehy and Emma Williams. Rob Manser
and the Sales team are workers of wonders when it comes to getting the books out there to as many readers as possible. So,
thanks to them.
When a writer steps outside their comfort zone – as they certainly should from time to time – the support and enthusiasm of
publisher
and agent is more important than ever. In David Shelley at Little, Brown and Sarah Lutyens at Lutyens & Rubinstein, I have
the finest editor and agent that any writer could wish for. Simple as that.
And thanks most of all to Claire, of course.
One day we’ll have that view of the water …