Thicker Than Water (30 page)

The horror in her eyes seemed genuine. ‘We didn’t know that,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

‘But unfortunately sorry won’t bring him back. The least he deserves is a posthumous pardon.’

‘Yes,’ she gabbled. ‘Of course! Anything we can—’

She stopped, her eyes on the recorder I’d suddenly produced. I passed it to her, and she automatically took it.

‘And here’s how we go about it.’ I took the prepared sheet from an inside pocket, opened it out, and handed it over. ‘I’d like you to read this into the recorder.’

She nodded, moistening her lips, then flinched as I stepped forward. But all I did was switch on the machine, containing a brand new tape specially for the occasion.

‘Right,’ I said, and, her voice shaking, she began.

‘I, Abigail Markham, née Poole, formerly Firbank’ (that left no room for doubt, I reckoned) – ‘wish to make the following statement in the presence of a witness: that, on the twenty-fifth of June, 1985, I conspired, together with my brother and sister, to put gravel taken from the garden shed into the brake-fluid of my stepfather, Harold Sheridan’s car, causing the crash that killed both him and our mother. And I further state that by not admitting our guilt, we are also responsible for the death of Jack Spencer, who was claustrophobic and who, having been wrongly arrested for their murder, committed suicide rather than be locked up in prison. I swear the above to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.’

She came to the end, and there was silence, except for the whirring of the tape and the pattering of the rain on the leaves above us. I’d taken a lot of time perfecting that statement, and I was pleased with it. It covered everything, and while she’d been reading it, I’d pulled on a pair of skin-tight surgical gloves and was now ready with the knife.

For a moment longer her eyes remained on the paper, and in that moment, I pounced. She’d barely time to gasp before my left hand seized her hood, jerking her head back as my right drove the knife into her exposed throat. Immediately, hot, red blood spurted out, covering my gloved hand, the confession – appropriately enough – and the plastic raincoat.

In the same instant I withdrew the knife and leaped back, watching, mesmerized, as, her head lolling forward and the blood continuing to stream, she slid the remainder of the way down the tree trunk.

Breathing heavily, I wiped the blade and my bloodied hands on the ground. The recorder had fallen clear, and I retrieved it before taking the clothes line, with its ready-prepared noose, from my pocket, and flinging it over the branch she’d been plundering.

Slipping the noose round her neck was a messier business than I’d anticipated, as it kept slipping on the wet blood that continued to gush everywhere. Eventually, though, I managed to tighten it and, choking down growing nausea, hoisted her up, supporting her body between my own and the tree and pulling on the rope until her feet were just above the ground.

I only just made it before I had to stumble aside and vomit violently into the bushes.

And now, I thought, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, for the finishing touch. It had occurred to me before leaving home that Abigail’s death mustn’t be considered just another everyday murder. It had to be significant from day one, branded with my signature.

So I took from my pocket the last of the ‘tools’ I’d brought with me; one of the Scarthorpe postcards. Her husband was sure to remember the first, and it would give them all something to think about. Steeling myself, I reached up and tucked it into the pocket of her anorak.

Then I stepped back, looking at her hanging there, and shaken by a hundred different emotions.

‘For you, Dad,’ I said aloud. ‘One down, two to go.’

Twenty-one

God knows how I managed to drive back to Manchester. Though the heater was going full blast, I was icily cold, and every now and then violent shudders shook me, rattling my teeth so that I repeatedly bit my tongue. My mind was totally disengaged, but thankfully my body performed all that was required of it on auto-pilot. I kept reliving the moment the knife went in, and wondering when she’d be found, if anyone had known she was there, who would find her. A nice Christmas present for someone. Not that I’d intended it as such; if all had gone according to plan, she’d have died during the summer, before she was even married.

Mentally, I went through a checklist: the knife, wiped clean, was in my jacket pocket, together with the recorder. The plastic mac, though the rain had sluiced off most of the blood, was in a carrier bag in the boot, together with the surgical gloves and the sodden confession, ready to be disposed of separately at the earliest opportunity. All that remained in the orchard was the limp body hanging from the tree, and the blood already soaking away into the ground. All was well.

The motorways were black and shining in the rain, and occasional accidents, lit by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, reduced the holiday traffic to a crawl. All in all, it was a wonder I completed the journey in just over three hours.

The answer machine was flashing as I let myself, still shivering, into the flat. A message from Patty, rather wistfully wishing me Happy Christmas, and three from Hayley, enquiring, with increasing impatience, when she could expect me, and where the hell was I?

I poured myself a tumblerful of whisky, and drank it standing in the middle of the room. It looked strangely unchanged from the last time I’d seen it, before I became a murderer.

This, I told myself, would not do; it was essential that I pulled myself together. At long last, all had gone according to plan, and there was absolutely no way I could be linked with Abigail. Until, that is, I wanted to be, and I hadn’t thought that through yet. Yes, I had her confession on tape, but I didn’t intend handing it over till I had the full set.

After a very hot bath and some sleeping pills, I fell into bed and a deep, blessedly dream-free sleep, waking to the sound of church bells. Thankfully, my self-control was back in place, and I was able to go through the routines of the day without giving any hint of the turmoil inside me.

By Boxing Day, however, reaction had set in, in the shape of flu-like symptoms – more shivering, a headache, sore throat. I took to my bed and stayed there, refusing all offers of help from my sister, and emerging only to heat up some soup. Though anxious to see the papers, I hadn’t the strength to go downstairs, let alone along the street.

The murder did, however, make the television news: the body of a woman identified as Abigail Markham had been found in an abandoned orchard outside Inchampton; she’d been stabbed and left hanging from a tree. A post-mortem revealed the hanging had taken place after death, and police were puzzled by this apparent double execution. Another curious factor was that a blank picture postcard had been tucked into her pocket. According to James Markham, the dead woman’s husband, his wife had received a similar card through the post some weeks previously, which had upset her at the time. Abigail Markham, a well-known interior designer . . .

The rest of it washed over me. They’d fastened on to the postcard; that was good. Don’t worry, mates, you’ll have two more before we’re done.

I went back to bed.

Back to school again, and a new year. What a time this was all taking. Nevertheless, anxious to avoid falling ill again, I waited a week or two before turning my attention to Cal.

My first act was to repeat my Internet search of the phone book, and it didn’t let me down: Callum S Firbank, The Poplars, Richmond Close. I copied out the address and phone number, and sat back to consider.

I was pleased with the postcard trademark and intended to repeat it, but since I’d only two left, I couldn’t spare one to post as an advance warning. Some other method would be needed. Silent phone calls, perhaps? Trouble was, there was nothing sufficiently unusual about them to suggest a personal threat.

Although Cambridge, like Inchampton, was only three hours’ drive away, a weekend wouldn’t be long enough for my reconnaissance. No use trying to rush things, I told myself, reining in my impatience; once again I’d wait until half-term, in mid-February. My profession was certainly proving an asset; no other job would have given me so much leeway in which to scout out the ground. And it wasn’t long till February.

Ignoring Patty’s hint of a Valentine meal out, and hoping Interflora would let me off the hook, I drove to Cambridge on the Saturday morning, locating the relevant suburb with no difficulty. Very plush. Large houses, large gardens. No doors opening on the pavement here. All the same, a different approach would be needed.

As luck would have it, there was a small park almost opposite the house, which provided a first-class vantage point. The only drawback was that as it wasn’t warm enough to sit there, I’d have to keep strolling about, and hope I wouldn’t attract too much attention. Too bad I hadn’t a dog.

Aware that I’d need to spend a fair bit of time in the area to monitor Cal’s movements, I’d taken the precaution of bringing a variety of coats and jackets with me, even a baseball cap which might help my disguise. Also, though it was more expensive, I’d booked into an hotel rather than a B and B, feeling it would be more anonymous.

I hadn’t brought any tools, since there was no chance of killing him on this visit; I’d need to know more about the layout and his lifestyle, and also I wanted to give the fear factor time to kick in. My aim this week was to learn as much as I could about him – where he worked, how he spent his spare time – and sow some seeds of disquiet. Then, during the second half of term, I’d settle on my plans for the Easter holidays.

It was obvious from the word go that the Firbanks and their next-door neighbours were best buddies. There was a continual toing and froing between the houses; in fact, the kids were running back and forth so much, I couldn’t make out who belonged where. Then Mrs Firbank went round, returning minutes later with Mrs Next Door, and finally, when Callum himself appeared and began to wash his car, he was joined by her husband, who stood chatting.

While pretending to admire some blossom by the park gate, I studied Cal carefully. He was of medium height, slightly built, with mid-brown hair. Mr Average in person, he wouldn’t be easy to pick out in a crowd. The other man was taller, fairer, more confident-seeming, and at first I thought this closeness between the families might be a handicap. But then I began to see it could be useful. I’d follow the neighbour as well, and, with luck, make use of him to put the wind up.

Sunday was, as usual, a wasted day, the two families not venturing outside their own front gates. But by eight thirty on Monday, I was in my car at the end of Richmond Close, waiting for Callum to emerge. When, at eight forty-five, he did so, in the newly cleaned Bentley, I slid in behind him and followed him to town. There, however, he eluded me by turning into a private car park, while I had to seek out a multi-storey.

Having left my car, I walked back to the building behind which he’d driven, and studied the brass plaques beside the door. Bingo! On the third floor were Hamilton and Firbank, Chartered Accountants. I dialled directory enquiries on my mobile, asked for the firm’s number, and noted it in my diary. That would come in useful later.

I filled in the rest of the day as best I could, appreciating for the first time how dull a private eye’s job must be, but by five o’clock I was back at the entrance to the car park, needing to know what time Cal left work. He was almost too predictable, emerging just on five thirty.

I signed myself off, and spent the evening at a cinema.

The next morning, I decided to try my luck following his neighbour. He didn’t leave home till almost ten, by which time I was thinking I must have missed him. And, to my surprise, he led me not to the business sector of town, but the local hospital, where he parked in the doctors’ bay.

Well, well! I hastily drove to visitors’ parking, but by the time I reached the building, he’d disappeared inside. I went in after him, and approached the receptionist.

‘Excuse me, could you tell me if that was Dr Davies who just came in?’

She looked up with a frown. ‘We haven’t a Dr Davies working here, sir. That was Dr Nelson.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. My mistake.’ And I made my escape.

Dr Nelson. It didn’t take me long to confirm that R J L Nelson lived at Tree Tops, Richmond Close. Once again, Bingo!

Having decided on my method of approach, I waited outside the hospital that evening, praying he wouldn’t be on call or otherwise unable to leave at a normal time. I’d begun to think I’d miscalculated when he suddenly appeared, hurrying towards his car.

I caught at his arm. ‘Excuse me – Dr Nelson?’

He stopped, frowning. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m trying to trace someone called Callum, and was told you were a neighbour of his.’

His frown deepened. ‘Callum Firbank, you mean?’

‘Ah, so that’s his name now. Thank you!’

His brows drew together, and I went on quickly, ‘Do you happen to know if he ever lived up north?’

Nelson gave a short laugh. ‘That’s a lot of questions, Mr –?’

I dodged that one, and, cutting off my next question, he said brusquely, ‘I’ve no idea where he’s lived. Now you really must excuse me.’ And he walked quickly away.

As I’d intended, I’d aroused his suspicions by my odd questions, and I didn’t doubt he’d relay them to Callum.

Sleep well, my friend!

Nothing much happened over the next couple of days. Each lunchtime, I followed Callum to a restaurant where he met friends or colleagues, but nothing in his daily routine gave me any clue as to where I could eventually approach him. My only consolation was that at least I now knew something of his lifestyle; I could make use of that in my planning once I got home. Meanwhile, the week was running out, and before I left, I wanted to insert one more seed of anxiety.

I hadn’t been back to the Close, but on the Thursday evening I took up my post in the park, and waited for his car. Time moved on, and I was about to give up when I saw the doctor’s car approaching, and moved quickly to the gate. I was wearing a conspicuous red anorak, and when I was pretty sure he’d seen me, I dodged back behind the gate post.

He turned into his driveway, got out of the car, and stood for a minute looking across the road. I held my breath. Would he come after me? That wasn’t part of the plan. Fortunately, he decided against it and went into the house.

I was debating whether or not to wait any longer, when Callum’s wife came out of her house, got into her car, and drove off. They must be meeting in town. I’d have to hope Dr Nelson would pass on the sighting.

That was the end of my preparations, really. Except that one morning about three weeks later, thinking a reminder mightn’t go amiss, I phoned Hamilton and Firbank and asked to speak to him. To my surprise, he’d not yet come in, and his secretary offered to take a message. I told her it was a personal call, and when she suggested he phone me back, said it didn’t matter and rang off, my heart racing.

Though actually, I thought, as I made my way to the gym, it didn’t make much difference; I’d have hung up as soon as he answered. This way, he’d get the message, and with luck it would give him some more sleepless nights.

Then, a week or two later, something totally unexpected happened. I was having supper in front of the telly, only half listening to the news, when the name Richmond Close leaped out at me, and I straightened so fast I spilt my beer. A boy had been murdered during some kind of fête, and he was the son of Dr and Mrs Nelson! Must be one of the kids I’d seen on my visit. He’d been with ‘a friend of the family’ – Callum, I wondered? – when he’d disappeared.

Well, well, so my quarry would be having some extra sleepless nights, without me having to lift a finger.

Easter was later this year, so Mum’s anniversary fell the first week of the holidays; and since Hayley wanted me to spend the day with her, it meant delaying my return to Cambridge.

What would Mum think, if she knew what I was doing? What would Dad? It was for them, really, that I’d embarked on this, but I knew I was now doing it for myself. And to be honest, I was enjoying the hunt. There was something exciting about playing detective, the initial tracing and tracking down, the secret spying, the injections of fear. It had become a deadly game, revenge not only for Dad’s death and Mum’s hard life, but for the slights and snubs the Pooles, as they’d then been, inflicted on me as a kid. They were getting their comeuppance, and before they died, they understood
why
. There was tremendous satisfaction in that.