The Book of Revenge (7 page)

Avril? He needed to remember something about her. He had an image of her face looking down at him. She had been there, last night, he was sure she had been there.

Matt stumbled from the bedroom. He was still groggy, the hangover from hell. He pulled open the door to the spare room, but it was empty. He forced himself to tackle the stairs even though every step jarred, sending a shooting pain through his head.

But Avril was not in the house.

He made himself a coffee and searched the kitchen drawers until he found paracetamol. He sank down into a chair at the table and tried to relive and remember the night’s events. Not very successfully, his thoughts were blurred and unfocused. Had he imagined the whole thing? Surely if the killer had been in his house, in his bedroom, pointing a gun at him, he would not be sipping coffee several hours later.

By the time he was showered, dressed and at his desk at work, Matt had convinced himself that none of it was real.

It had been a long and difficult shift. Liz parked her car on the drive and climbed out. Seeing her mother had really rattled her and she hadn’t been able to concentrate all day. The only good thing was that focusing on her mother meant she’d been able to block Matt from her thoughts. How had everything become so muddled?

Her neighbours were in the front garden. Liz had mostly managed to avoid them, despite them spending a lot of time in the outside. Since it was already immaculate, Liz had come to the conclusion they liked to watch the street life unfurling. The man was middle aged and wore a long suffering expression; he was mowing a lawn that didn’t need mowing. His wife was weeding, or at least was pretending to be engaged in the task while spying on the street life.

The woman waved, and Liz smiled and waved back, desperately hoping that she wouldn’t have to stop and talk. All she wanted was a strong cup of tea and a long soak in a hot bath.

The young teenage daughter of the couple hurried out of the house. She was dressed for fun – short skirt, skimpy top, bare midriff, hair newly straightened and her face made up. She was a pretty girl with a wide sunny smile.

The smile however wasn’t shared by her mother. Liz watched as the woman stood up and scowled at her daughter.

‘You can’t go out looking like that. You’re asking for trouble...’

The teenagers smile disappeared.

A car with windows down, music pumping, pulled up. The daughter ran for the car, climbed in and it shot off at speed.

Liz was flooded by memories. She was fifteen, her sister Melissa two years older. They were dressed to impress. Just like in the pictures on the wall at the place she had dinner with Matt, short RaRa skirts, big big hair, high heels and great glittery make up. Liz had been particularly proud of the makeup, Mary Quant; she’d spent all her Saturday job wages from Woolworths on buying it. They were laughing and joking together, happy and excited, until their mother followed them out of the house wagging her finger.

‘You look like a pair of cheap tarts. Don’t come crying to me when you get into trouble.’

Liz gritted her teeth against the unwanted memory and watched the car drive away. She walked across to the fence and looked directly at the woman.

‘Nobody asks for trouble, but sometimes it finds you anyway.’ She said, then without waiting for an answer she turned around and headed quickly for her front door.

Once safely inside she couldn’t hold the tears back any longer.

Matt, her mother, memories, it was all too much.

I knew that this hit would be successful. No more mistakes. I had to up the pace, I was already behind schedule. And now I had the added problem of dealing with James Tate. 

Getting close to him a second time wouldn’t be easy. I had been weak. But I knew what I had to do and nothing was going to stop me.

I would leave him to last. Or maybe second to last. Let him get complacent, catch him with his guard down. Right now I had to concentrate on this job.

The house was dark. That suited me fine, I knew the layout, I had memorised it. The street was quiet, a nice suburban house with neatly trimmed hedge and perfect lawns. Brian Chard had done well for himself. I knew he was divorced, he had a daughter who lived with his ex and he ran a small but profitable estate agency. He’d managed to remain independent, mainly because he’d cornered the lucrative lettings market. Even now with house prices plummeting and the recession biting, he was doing alright.

I’d watched him, closely and frequently for several years. He was a charmer. Always ready with a smile and a handshake, the kind of man who made everyone his best mate. I’d had to stop myself a few times from running over and declaring to the world that the man was a fake. Why could nobody look into his eyes and see the blackness that dwelled within. Strip away the trappings of success and charm and all that’s left is bleak, black evil.

I had three names on my hit list that were highlighted in red. Thick, bright, blood red, and he was the first of them. I’d known even in the moment of my deepest terror and torment, that he was different. Him and the other two. When all around were doing dreadful deeds, he stood out as a man who was motivated by cruelty and hatred. A man without humanity.

As I slipped quietly into his house, I felt a surge of excitement. I knew he would want to live. I knew he would not give up his life easily.

I was right.

His eyes never stopped searching for a chance, an opportunity to escape. He offered me money. He tried to cut a deal. He was babbling in the end. Anything he could think of, to buy me or bribe me. The bastard even offered me his daughter.

It’s always in the eyes.

Why did nobody else ever see it? Had his wife? Or was she as blind as everyone else?

He fought back tears when resignation finally found him. He knew he was going to die. He dropped the lipstick onto the carpet and looked up at me. ‘Do I get to know what I’m sorry for?’ he managed to sound indifferent, dismissive, even though his voice broke from fear. If I hadn’t hated him so much, I might have admired him for that.

I pointed the gun and then on a whim I pulled the balaclava from my head.

I saw his shock, then surprise, recognition replaced by terror. He went to lunge for me but the bullet stopped him. A perfect shot straight into the forehead.

I almost expected to see black blood ooze from him, but I knew I was being absurd.

The bastard was dead.

Matt heard her come in. He glanced at the clock beside his bed and groaned. It was almost two. He heard her shoes on the stairs. He knew she wouldn’t come into their bedroom. He was right. She went straight for the spare room and shut the door. How had it come to this? They had been happy once, hadn’t they? He thought so, but then how and when had it all gone so wrong?

Even through the wall he could hear that she was crying. And not just a few muffled tears, she was sobbing loudly. He thought about going to her, he even threw the covers back and climbed out of bed. But then he changed his mind. She wouldn’t want to see him, nor talk to him. The marriage was over, they both knew that. He couldn’t give her comfort. He couldn’t give her any of the things she wanted. Not even a baby. He tried to switch his mind off and not dwell on who or what had reduced her to tears. It certainly wasn’t him; the only emotion she had left for him was contempt.

He wrapped the quilt around him, pulled it high to his face to muffle the sounds of his failed marriage and went back to sleep.

Chapter Nineteen

Matt stared down at the body of Brian Chard. He knew he couldn’t deny the link any longer. Three dead bodies, James a near miss, he couldn’t shrug it off as coincidence.

Jen hurried into the room, she was flushed and excited. ‘We’ve got ‘em Gov...’

Matt knew her well enough not to get contaminated by her enthusiasm. What she probably meant was that tyre tracks from something really popular like a Ford Fiesta had been discovered. That would narrow it down to about a third of Bidbury inhabitants.

‘Guy across the road...’ she continued, ‘he runs the neighbourhood watch for the street. He has a camera pointed out of his bedroom window and straight onto this front door!’

Matt was mildly impressed. Certainly better than tyre tracks, but he had a feeling that this particular killer wasn’t going to be quite so easy to track. Each hit had shown a level of competence that could only have come about by meticulous planning. Matt was pretty sure that would have included extensive surveillance. But he knew he ought to show some enthusiasm, so he forced himself to smile. ‘Great. So what’s it show then?’

Jen got very animated, barely able to contain herself. ‘A figure left the house just after midnight, looked like a woman. They got into a car and drove away at speed.’

He could tell by her face there was more. ‘And?’

‘And we got the registration number, Jefferson is running a check on it now.’

Matt allowed a tiny spark or optimism to stir. Maybe they would get lucky with this one. ‘Good work. Anything else on the tape?’

‘Not on a tape Gov,’she said. ‘It goes straight onto the laptop.’

He knew she was silently laughing at him, and probably with good reason. He felt old and obsolete and was wondering if it was time for a desk job.

PC Jefferson hurried into the doorway. He stopped without entering and waited until Matt and Jen turned around from the body to face him.

‘Result?’ Jen demanded.

Jefferson looked down at his notepad and read from it. ‘Car belongs to a Mrs Avril Cane. The address is number 9 Chilton Gardens...’

Matt reached out and snatched the notebook from the young PC. He stared at it in disbelief.

‘Sir?’ the young PC said uncertainly.

‘Chilton Gardens, why is that familiar?’ Jen asked ‘Do you know her, Gov?’

Matt looked up from the notebook and stared at Jen. ‘She’s my wife. Cane is her maiden name.’

Liz groaned. Her bed was warm and comforting, her dreams had been unusually happy and it was Saturday with a rare day off. But someone was banging on her door, and whoever they were they didn’t seem to be taking the hint to bugger off.

With huge reluctance Liz threw the quilt off and climbed out of bed. She stepped into her slippers and wrapped a fluffy dressing gown around her pyjamas, then she headed out of her bedroom and down the stairs.

Seriously irritated she pulled the door open.

Dawn was standing there, one finger pressed on the bell and with her other hand waving goodbye to Phillip as he drove away. Dawn, elegant and immaculate as ever and wearing a huge beaming smile stepped into the hallway. ‘You need coffee.’

Liz was not impressed. ‘What are you doing here? And why are you hammering on my door? It’s barely morning...’

Dawn was totally unperturbed by the outburst and walked into the kitchen. ‘I wasn’t hammering and it’s nearly nine.’

Liz slammed the front door shut and followed her friend into the kitchen. ‘You any idea how rare it is to get a whole weekend off? I don’t need you waking me up!’

Dawn let Liz rant. She calmly found her way around the kitchen; she boiled the kettle, pulled two mugs from the cupboard and found the instant coffee.

Liz sat down at the kitchen table. Dawn plonked the steaming coffee in front of her.

‘Still a miserable cow in the mornings then...’ Dawn said happily. ‘Shut up and drink. Toast?’

Liz nodded her head and sipped the coffee.

‘So what time are we leaving then?’ Dawn asked, as she placed a couple of slices of hot buttery toast in front of her.

Liz took a long slow slurp of the coffee and waited for the caffeine to hit the spot. She looked at her friend, a combination of irritation and amazement. ‘How did you know?’

Dawn shrugged her shoulders elegantly. ‘I just did.’

Liz nodded her head in resignation. ‘Nobody likes a smartarse, keep the coffees flowing; I’ll go and get ready.’

Matt wished there was another way. If only Miss sunny smile and ultra-efficient Jen hadn’t been standing beside him. But she was, and there was no way he could bypass procedure, not for a possible serial killer. Of course he knew it wasn’t his wife, true that the partners of killers always claimed to be innocent of any knowledge. Sonia Sutcliffe, wife of the Yorkshire ripper claimed she had no idea what her husband was up to. But Matt knew exactly what he was going to hear from his wife’s lips and it wasn’t an admission of murder.

He wasn’t even allowed to question her. He had to leave that to Jen. Of all the people in the station she was the one to grill his wife on why she was at another man’s house in the middle of the night.

Matt knew why, he didn’t need to be a genius or even a detective to work it out. Soon, so would everyone else in the station. Most already did. He kept getting sympathy glances from colleagues. He paced the corridor, waiting. Jen came out. She didn’t want to look him in the eye; he couldn’t blame her for that.

‘She said she was sleeping with him.’ Jen said to her shoes.

‘Right.’ Was all he managed to reply.

‘They had a fight. She left...’

‘What time?’