Death Sentence (22 page)

‘Had enough, little man, hey?’ Melanie asked the baby after a while, lifting him higher in her arms. ‘You can come in, you know?’ she said, noticing Ashley hovering. ‘We don’t bite.’

Ashley’s mouth curved into a small smile. ‘He doesn’t have any teeth,’ she pointed out, doing as bid, and still feeling a bit spare, even though Melanie said she didn’t mind her being there. She would though, if she was there for long.

It was a nice kitchen, bright and modern. Not like Matthew’s and Becky’s, which was warm and farmhousey, but still it was cosy. Like family kitchens should be. Would Becky really want her to stay, Ashley worried afresh, when she had a baby of her own, who would keep her awake at night and need loads of attention?

No,
the insistent voice in her head said.
She’ll be tired and snappy, and if you try to help, you’ll only get it all wrong.

Uncertainly, Ashley wondered across the room, as Melanie got to her feet, the baby still nestled in the crook of her arm.

‘Does he have a name?’ Ashley gazed at him, taking in his tiny rosebud lips, his huge blue eyes, wide and innocent. As Emily’s had once been. They’d soon grown wary though. Ashley recalled how Emily had learned to read the signs even before she could talk, crying whenever their mum had picked her up, rather than gurgling contentedly.

‘Lucas,’ Melanie supplied, scanning his face adoringly and then looked at Ashley. ‘We wanted something strong-sounding, you know, manly. What do you think?’

Ashley nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s cool.’

‘Do you want to hold him?’ Melanie offered, easing Lucas towards her.

Ashley stepped back a little. ‘Uh, uh, better not.’

‘It’s all right,’ Melanie assured her. ‘They’re not made of glass.’

‘I know,’ Ashley said, defensively. She did know how to hold babies. She just didn’t want him ending up crying and her getting the blame.

‘Go on,’ Melanie urged her. ‘You’d be doing me a huge favour. I could really use a quick break.’

‘Okay.’ Reluctantly, Ashley relented, as Melanie blinked beguilingly at her.

‘Brilliant. Here you go then. Just pop one arm underneath him,’ Melanie said, giving Ashley instructions as she handed him over carefully. ‘And support his head with your other … Oh, well, there you go.’ She looked on, amazed, as Ashley took the baby expertly into her arms. ‘You’re a natural. You’ve got the job. I was gasping for a cuppa. It’s a wonder I don’t die of dehydration when my husband is working away. Want one?’

‘Please.’ Ashley nodded, turning to walk to the table and sit down with her charge.

‘Do you have any sisters or brothers, Ashley?’ Melanie asked conversationally, as she flicked on the kettle.

Ashley hesitated before answering. ‘A little sister,’ she said, after a pause.

‘Oh?’ Melanie eyed her curiously over her shoulder. ‘Is she at the care home, or has she been—’

‘She went away,’ Ashley supplied quickly, her hair falling over her face as she looked down at the baby.

‘Oh,’ Melanie said again, awkwardly this time. She rattled the cups noisily as she turned back to the tea. ‘So, how’re you getting on with Becky and Matthew?’

‘Yeah, good,’ Ashley supplied, studying the baby, who was smiling up at her. It was probably just wind, Ashley suspected, but still he looked cute.

‘Are you going to stay with them, do you think?’ Melanie asked, popping teabags in cups and topping them up with water.

Ashley kept her gaze averted. ‘Dunno.’ She shrugged. ‘I’d like to. Depends on what happens when they have their baby, I suppose.’

‘
Baby?
’ Melanie crashed the milk down so hard little Lucas jumped in his Babygro. ‘She’s pregnant?! You’re joking! Why on
earth
didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t Matthew say anything? Oh God, is that why she’s gone to her mother’s? I bet it is. I bet there’s something wrong. She’ll be devastated. I’d better ring her.’ Melanie furrowed her brow worriedly and turned for the hall.

Shit.
Ashley couldn’t let her do that. ‘It’s past midnight,’ she reminded her urgently. ‘She’ll probably be in bed,’

Melanie checked her watch. ‘You’re right.’ She sighed and turned back. ‘Oh, I so wish she’d told me. That’s what friends are supposed to be for.’

‘She probably didn’t want to jinx things,’ Ashley suggested, easing the baby against her shoulder, as he was now getting a bit fractious.

‘No wonder Matthew seemed so preoccupied. Poor man, he’ll be devastated too, if things don’t work out this time. He loves that woman to bits,’ Melanie pondered out loud, as Lucas let out an ear-piercing wail. ‘He’s probably beside himself,’ she said, tsking and shaking her head as she walked across to Ashley.

‘It wasn’t me,’ Ashley said, as Melanie distractedly plucked the baby from her arms. ‘I was trying to make him stop. I—’

‘Well, good luck with that. I haven’t found his off button yet.’ Rolling her eyes, Melanie nestled Lucas against her own shoulder. ‘Don’t look so terrified, Ashley.’ She looked back at her, surprised. ‘It’s not your fault he’s crying. It’s what babies do.’

****

Matthew realised his hands were shaking as he waited for the owner to come back to the front of the shop. Rage and frustration vying with absolute terror, he was shaking pretty much all over. Attempting to still his nerves and focus on what he was doing there, he paced a few steps, taking in the customer-facing wares. Bars at the windows, he noted, stuffed birds, feathers full of dust, perched beyond them. They were posed. Matthew smiled sardonically: two pelicans feeding, faux green grass under their feet. They wouldn’t be pecking at that any time soon. Turning back, Matthew scanned the vast array of firearms he generally didn’t study so interestedly. Everything from air rifles to big game rifles, and shotguns from .410” single barrel to 12 bore. Gun cabinets displaying sporting rifles, target rifles, military rifles, all lined up like soldiers. Matthew wasn’t after any of those.

‘Detective Adams,’ Danny Caswell finally reappeared from his flat upstairs, dressed in something he obviously felt offered him more protection than his boxers when greeting the law in the small hours, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure?’

He looked Matthew dubiously over as he attempted to smooth down hair that looked as if it had last seen water about the same time the pelicans had.

The whole place was dusty, dark corners and dodgy dealings going on under the counter, Matthew knew it.

‘Not pleasure, Danny,’ he informed him, ‘business.’

Danny groaned. ‘Aw, come on, Mr Adams. I’m legit. You know I am. Registered and all licenses in place.’

Matthew smiled wryly. ‘On the surface, Danny.’

‘Nah, that’s not right. I keep my nose clean, Mr. Adams. Sportsman’s Association membership and everything. You ain’t got nothing on me.’

‘Yet,’ Matthew said.

Danny raised an eyebrow warily. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning there are at least two unlicensed guns at the station I reckon might be traced back to here.’ Matthew shrugged casually.

‘Uh, uh, no way.’ Danny looked flustered. ‘I ain’t—’

‘Plus the ammo.’

‘That’s bullshit.’ Danny was now definitely ruffled. ‘You know it is.’ He eyed Matthew defiantly.

Matthew coolly held the man’s gaze, though he could feel perspiration wetting the back of his shirt. ‘Then there’s the drugs.’

Danny dragged a hand under his nose. ‘What drugs?’ he asked, underlying fear now belying the challenge in his eyes, which was exactly what Matthew had hoped for. Any kind of conviction could mess up his so-called legit career. Danny knew it.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Matthew walked calmly across to the counter the man was standing behind.

‘These.’ He placed the suspect plastic bag he’d extracted in front of him.

Eyeing the contents, Grade A cocaine, Danny’s shoulders sagged. ‘Aw, for fuck’s …’

‘Allowing the premises you occupy or manage to be used for the supply or production of controlled substances is illegal, Danny. Do you want to keep your license?’ Matthew waited.

‘Bollocks,’ Danny muttered, looking away. ‘I didn’t have you down as dirty, Adams. Coppers, all the bloody same …’

Matthew slid the bag closer.

Danny sighed and met his eyes. ‘What do you want?’ He didn’t bother to hide his disgust.

‘A gun,’ Matthew said simply, as if he went shopping for one every day.

‘Oh, right.’ Danny’s expression was now curious. ‘For personal use, I take it?’

‘Just the gun, Danny. Save the questions.’

Danny looked him over, seemingly debating, then shrugged and turned to his cabinets. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ he said, unlocking one and opening it with a flourish. ‘I’ve got everything here: full range of sporting calibres, pump-action and semi-automatic shotguns …’

The semi-automatic was a nice idea, but, ‘None of those.’ Matthew shook his head.

‘Side-by-sides, over and unders?’

‘Handgun,’ Matthew supplied.

Danny furrowed his brow, puzzled. ‘But why not get one from the police—’ he started.

‘Small, compact, nothing less than a .22,’ Matthew said over him, no inclination to share why he couldn’t go to the police armoury.

Danny’s wary look was back. ‘You mean business then?’ He studied Matthew enquiringly for a second. Getting no reaction, he shrugged indifferently and turned to head back upstairs, where, no doubt, his under-the-counter stock was kept.

‘That I most definitely do,’ Matthew said quietly behind him.

Chapter Seventeen

His hands firmly under his chin, Matthew sat on his sofa surveying the items on the coffee table: his phone, the leftover half-empty bottle of whisky, which he badly wanted to finish, the gun. A gun, purchased with murder in mind, first degree murder, carrying a mandatory life sentence.

Taking a breath, he glanced around at the open-plan lounge he and Becky had worked on together. They’d wanted clean, white lines, but also comfortable and homely. With her flair for interior design—natural wood floors throughout, cream leather lounge furniture, white walls and an open fire—Becky had managed to achieve it. She’d even chosen the lighting to create mood and ambience, subtle up-lighting and side-lighting downstairs. Ditto the bedroom, which he’d jokingly christened their French Boudoir when he’d noted the white satin and frills, and voile canopy above the bed. The bed they’d lain in together such a short while ago. Made slow, sweet love in, as if touching each other for the first time after so long apart. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Matthew reached for his glass.

All this, he could live without, would if he had to. Becky though … He took a slug of his whisky. Losing his freedom against Becky losing her life, suffering at the hands of that sick animal, there was no contest in Matthew’s mind. Taking another sip, he looked around again, at the home where everything had been so normal. Becky and Ashley tucked up on the sofa, watching TV. Watching TV without him, because he was late, again, taking things for granted. Taking Becky for granted, when he knew …
He knew!
He should have shot the bastard long ago. He should have gone for the pump action before now and splatted the sub-human’s intestines all over the wall.

Shakily, Matthew reached for the bottle, pouring another two fingers and gulping it in one. He got no comfort as the liquid burned the back of his throat, sliding down his oesophagus and doing nothing to warm him. Nothing to stop the incessant shaking, as his mind played over and over the images of Sullivan’s hands on his wife’s body, his sneering lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth. His hands all over her: touching, probing, tightening around her neck.

Christ
. Choking back a sob, Matthew grabbed up the whisky, dragged an arm across his eyes, and then banged the bottle back down. Where
was
she? He’d called at the club, got nothing but hunched shoulders and closed looks for answers. He’d walked the streets, tried calling in favours, coerced, bullied, though it stuck in his craw. He’d got nothing. No information, no sign of Sullivan anywhere, not even at home. Sullivan’s house had been deserted, no lights, no signs of life, the place was as still as the grave.

Clamping his eyes shut, Matthew tried to oust the image that thought conjured up: Rebecca, alone and petrified in some confined space, palming the roof of what she would imagine to be her coffin, clawing at it, desperate as the suffocating dark pressed in on her.

Dear God!
He couldn’t do this.
Couldn’t!
‘Help me!’ Raking his hands through his hair, Matthew got to his feet and glanced desperately at the ceiling.
As if there had ever been anyone there to answer my prayers
, he thought furiously. Snatching up the bottle again, he filled his glass, tipped the contents towards his mouth—and then stopped.
So, drink yourself into oblivion instead, why don’t you? Render yourself more pathetically useless than you already are.

‘Bastard!’ he raged, hurling the glass at the opposite wall.

‘Ring, you fucking thing!’ He glared at his phone, dragged a breath raggedly into his lungs, and then pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. He wanted to get drunk, preferably paralytic. He needed to make the pain go away. He wanted to cry, to sob like a child, but he couldn’t do either. All he could do was sit here, knowing Sullivan wasn’t going to ring. He was going to play with him, prolong the pain and make him wait. And Matthew had no choice but to. He
had
to stay in control. Stay focussed. Taking another deep breath, he took his position back on the sofa, then resting his chin once again on his hands, he fixed his gaze on the gun—and waited.

****

‘You see the trouble with your husband, sweetheart, is that he bears grudges. Well, everyone does to a degree, I suppose. Wouldn’t be human if we didn’t, would we?’ Patrick paused, glancing up at her. Looks like she wasn’t answering him either, but he’d have to forgive her that under the circumstances, he supposed.

‘With him it’s a personal vendetta, though,’ he went on. ‘He just refuses to let bygones be bygones. I mean, it’s childish, isn’t it, wanting to get your own back?’ Shaking his head, still not able to comprehend Adams’ obsession with him, Patrick walked across to check the contents of his holdall: water, plenty of that. He didn’t want her to die of thirst while they waited. Various ropes. The slip lead, a sturdy rope version he’d purchased from the gundog shop for just this occasion and which he was going to get great pleasure from using. Cartridges. His trusty short-barrel shotgun wouldn’t be a lot of use without those.