City of Dreadful Night (37 page)

For him the life had gone out of her weeks before he'd killed her. It had drained away the day she said:

‘There's something I have to tell you. It will come as a surprise to you – as it did to me.'

He knew she didn't know about him. How could she? And so when she told him, she saw the immediate change in him but misunderstood the cause.

He'd explained the rules right at the start of their relationship. It was just a bit of fun. He would never leave his wife. He said things, of course. The things women liked to hear. But she knew – she must have known – that was just pillow talk.

He had been intoxicated by her. In bed there was nothing she wouldn't do. Things his wife would never contemplate. Soiling things. He was shocked by some of her suggestions – she could be coarse, using phrases he'd never heard before – but he had enjoyed what she did with him, there was no doubt about that.

He tolerated her wish to be seen in public with him. In the best places, places he would never take his wife. A part of him liked being seen with her – she was as beautiful as a movie star – whilst another part worried about being seen. Especially as she laughed in a ribald way. She was loud and vulgar. In private, he accepted it. In public, he was faintly embarrassed.

When she told him she was pregnant, his heart had hardened. She sensed it. She thought he was worried about a scandal. She promised to get rid of it but he could see she hoped to keep it.

It wasn't the scandal. She didn't know the reason. How could she? An abortion would make no difference.

He went to the kitchen and took her apron from behind the door. He put it on. He bent and opened the cupboard beneath the sink. He took out the toolbox. Removed the short saw.

He crossed to the window. He had a coppery taste in his mouth. All he'd asked of her in return for this flat, the money, the expensive meals was fidelity.

He knew the baby wasn't his. It couldn't be. His inability to give his wife a child had been a heavy burden for many years. It wasn't that he couldn't do the deed. It was that nothing ever came of it.

The day outside went on, unconcerned. Nothing in the street had changed.
In a Monastery Garden
was drawing to a close. It reminded him of the beautiful ruined frescoes he'd visited some months earlier in the churches on the South Downs whilst they were staying in Brighton.

He moved from the window to stand over her, the saw in his hand. The music stopped and there was silence. For a moment.

To be continued in
The Last King of Brighton
 . . .

A few things I need to explain about what's true and what isn't in this novel. First the Brighton Trunk Murder(s). The epilogue is my imagination, as is the diary. Everything else is factually correct, including anything in the diary to do with the police investigation of the actual case. The headquarters for the enquiry was transferred to the Royal Pavilion, but the files that are found there in this book are actually in the Sussex Records Office in Lewes along with the other files and photographs Kate Simpson looks at. Ditto the files at the National Archives, although they are much thicker than I suggest.

As far as the contemporary police story goes, I have invented a police region but tried to be accurate where certain police procedures are concerned. I have also been shamelessly inaccurate with other police procedures. (Peter James will be appalled.) Several of the disgusting cases thrown at Sarah Gilchrist (man dismembering friend, man pulling out girlfriend's teeth, raid on rotten meat warehouse) are, sadly, all too real.

I have taken a liberty with Brighton's geography in the creation of the troubled Milldean housing estate – which doesn't exist. And I've brought the old chain pier back into existence to sit alongside the West Pier and the Palace Pier because – well, because I can.