Kill Me Again (22 page)

Suzy stared at Maggie for a moment or two then turned and went to the fridge.

‘Why is there never any bloody wine in this house?’ she muttered, knowing the answer. ‘Shall I go and get some? Duncan can hardly complain if he comes home and finds us both pissed.’

Maggie sighed and leaned back against the worktop. She was going to call the police but she would defy any happily married woman to believe this was a straightforward choice.

She could have done with a drink herself, but until this was over it didn’t seem smart to let her guard down. There was one thing she wanted more than any alcohol.

‘Actually, Suzy, would you mind looking after the kids for an hour or two. Then I promise I’ll go and get you some wine. I’d like to disappear upstairs for a while and get my thoughts together because if I’m going to the police I have to make it good, and I have to try as hard as I can to keep Josh out of it. I don’t want him questioned on top of everything else.’

Suzy walked across the kitchen and gave her sister a tight hug.

‘Take as much time as you like. We’ll be fine. And try and get a bit of sleep. Everything will seem clearer then.’

Maggie made her way slowly up the stairs, using the bannister for support and pulling herself up, step by weary step. She climbed onto the bed fully dressed, pulled the duvet over her legs and closed her eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come. The dull ache in her chest grew and the first sob was loud – loud enough to be heard downstairs. She quickly clicked the TV remote and turned up the volume – she didn’t care what was on – because the storm of unhappiness that had been building inside her was about to erupt. Her last defences had gone, and she lay on her side, her arms wrapped tightly around a pillow and wept for everything she had lost. No matter what happened now, she didn’t know how they would ever recover from this and be the family they had been.

Finally the tears subsided into gulps, and she lay exhausted on top of the bed, her body shuddering from time to time. Memories of the years with Duncan flooded her senses. With her eyes closed she could hear him, smell him, taste him. She wished with all her heart that she had insisted on more photographs, but there were none of the two of them together. She tried to conjure his face in her mind, but it wouldn’t come.

It was the word Manchester that penetrated her brain, and Maggie rubbed her eyes to clear them. The television was tuned to a news channel, and on the screen there was a white tent under what appeared to be railway arches. Several people in white suits were milling about.

She listened to a report of a body being found that morning. This time the police knew the name of the victim. Maggie couldn’t help feeling relieved when she saw a picture of the dead woman. For a moment she had feared it would match the one that had been pushed through her door the evening before. But this woman looked nothing like her, and anyway her body had only been found that morning.

As the newsreader’s face faded, the camera homed in on a full-screen image of the victim and Maggie grabbed the remote, hitting the pause button. She leapt off the bed and ran downstairs, startling her sister in the kitchen.

‘What is it, Maggie? What’s happened?’

Maggie ignored her and grabbed her handbag, groping around under the accumulated rubbish. Finally she walked over to the worktop and upended it. Out spilled coins, lipsticks, her purse, a pair of sunglasses, car keys, comb, tissues and several assorted bits of paper. She rummaged through these and plucked out the folded sheet she was looking for.

She pushed past her sister, barely hearing her protest, and raced back to the bedroom, flattening the paper as she went.

She looked from the paper to the screen. She was right. The woman had a mole near the bottom left corner of her mouth. As did the woman in the photo that had been sent to Maggie. It was the same woman – the garish make-up and black wig in the image sent to Maggie had obscured her natural features. But Maggie had received this photograph more than twelve hours before the body had been discovered. There was only one person who could have taken this photo – the killer.

There was no longer a choice to be made. The children’s safety was everything, and this couldn’t be ignored.

She picked up the telephone.

In spite of knowing how devastating the outcome was going to be, it felt like a huge relief to be doing something. Maggie didn’t want to talk to just any policeman, though. She knew that if she told them everything, the case would end up with the detective running the murder enquiry, Tom Douglas. But she hadn’t made her mind up what she was going to say yet, so decided to talk to one of the desk sergeants at divisional headquarters. She had met Bill Shaw several times, and he seemed to like her. She would play it by ear and ask him to recommend somebody who would take the threat to her and the children seriously.

To her disappointment, he wasn’t on duty.

‘Shall I put you through to somebody else, madam?’ a polite female voice asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Maggie couldn’t decide what to do. ‘When’s he back on duty?’

Having asked for Maggie’s name, the woman agreed to check the duty rota and she was put on hold. If she spoke to somebody who didn’t know her, it would waste so much time. ‘Madam, I’ve had a look and Sergeant Shaw is due in on first shift tomorrow morning. Does that help?’

Maggie sighed with relief. That would be fine. She would get Suzy to look after the children and go in to talk to him in person. She could show him the note with the picture.

She had only just put the phone down when it rang again. Assuming it was the police calling back, she picked up the phone.

‘Maggie Taylor,’ she answered.

‘Hello, Maggie.’ She froze. ‘Good to see you out and about with the children this afternoon.’

Maggie wanted to scream at him – ask him what he thought he was playing at – but her mouth had gone dry. This man had somehow been involved in the murder discovered today, and probably the previous one too. Maggie had dealt with murderers before, but only in the safety of a police station. She didn’t have time to plan what to say.

‘Have you seen the news?’ he asked.‘ Did you recognise our latest offering? Sadly they showed a picture of her on the television without the special hair and make-up we gave her. But I bet you knew who it was, didn’t you? That could have been you.’

The silky voice made her skin crawl. She wanted to lash out at him and suddenly she found her voice.

‘Was it you in that van today? You need to know I’ve called the police. So don’t phone again, don’t leave me any more disgusting photos and
don’t
speak to my children.’

When he spoke again his voice had a harder edge. ‘That’s a real pity, Maggie. You don’t know where Duncan is, do you?’

Maggie didn’t answer.

‘But I do. If you show that picture to the police your husband will feel the pain. Pain you can’t imagine. Duncan owes me, Maggie. He owes me.’

She could feel the man’s rage now that the smooth tones had been scrubbed away by something brittle, dangerous.

‘Tell me how much and I’ll pay you. We’ve got savings.’ She could hear the pleading in her own voice and hated herself for appearing weak.

A line had been crossed. She knew it. They had been playing with her before – scaring her for some reason she didn’t understand. As a means of getting to Duncan certainly, but now it felt as if the game had changed.

‘Money won’t solve the problem, Maggie. There’s only one way back for your husband. If you talk to the police, his life is over.’

The line went dead.

35

Sunday

Any ideas Becky Robinson may have nurtured of having a lazy Sunday had been blown out of the water by the discovery of the body of Michelle Morgan. Not that she would have been taking the time off anyway with so little progress on Hayley Walker’s murder, but the added workload created by the second victim had made it even easier for Becky to avoid going to Mark’s mum’s for Sunday lunch. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her, but if she mentioned grandchildren one more time, Becky was going to throttle her.

Mark thought it was funny. He always put on his serious face and nodded, knowing he was winding Becky up. Last time his mother had asked if they had named the day yet, and Becky hadn’t known what to say. They hadn’t talked about getting married, and she wasn’t sure she was ready. They had only been seeing each other for a year and she had made so many mistakes in the past that she wanted to be sure. Becky had been certain that she loved him, but now she had a nagging doubt. If she truly loved him, why did she get all hot and flustered around other people?

Mark hadn’t been annoyed that she couldn’t make it; he had just teased her about missing out on the planning of their future for the next twenty years. He knew she wasn’t ready to commit, and he was happy with things as they were. But that was Mark. Generally happy with life.

Becky pushed open the door to the staff restaurant. She needed food, preferably something loaded with carbs, to get her through the next few hours. As she waited in line, she turned her head and saw one of the desk sergeants standing next to her. Bill Shaw had been in the force for years and in Becky’s opinion was as solid as a rock.

‘How are you doing, Becky?’ he asked. ‘I bet you’ve got your hands full now. Any further on with the first murder?’

Becky shook her head slowly. ‘I wish we were, but for the moment it’s not coming together. It will, though.’

Becky reached out to take the cheeseburger and chips she was being handed and put it on her tray, feeling slightly embarrassed that the duty sergeant had selected a chicken salad and she’d got a burger
and
a doughnut. She walked over to an empty table and sat down.

‘Mind if I join you?’ he said, not waiting for an answer. ‘You found out who the first murdered girl is, didn’t you?’ he asked as he pulled out a chair.

‘Yep, she was a nurse. Hayley Walker. We’ve got some leads, but they’re all a bit tenuous at the moment.’

‘I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the drawing in the paper on Thursday. I thought "I know that girl," but then realised it couldn’t be who I thought – I’d seen her alive and kicking when the victim would already have been dead.’

‘Who did you think it was?’ Becky asked.

‘The drawing was the spit of Alf Horton’s solicitor. I nearly picked up the phone to Tom. I would have, if I hadn’t known it couldn’t be her. I’m glad it’s not, though. Nice woman.’

‘Poor cow, getting Alf Horton as a client,’ Becky said.

The sergeant laughed. ‘Funnily enough, Maggie Taylor – that’s her name – tried to phone me last night, but I was off duty. She said she wanted to talk to me about something but she didn’t call or come in this morning.’

Becky bit on a chip. ‘What did you do?’

‘I decided to give her a quick call before I came over here to check she was okay. It’s a bit odd, really. She tried to brush it off, but I could hear the stress in her voice.’

‘Did she say what was worrying her?’

‘She said she thought it might be nothing, but she’d noticed a white van parked at the top of their road a couple of times, and when she went for a bike ride with the children yesterday, it followed her.’

Becky waited. That wasn’t enough to make anybody suspicious, surely?

‘She’s had a couple of odd phone calls too. No number came up on the screen, and I guess it’ll turn out to be an untraceable mobile. She said there was no explicit threat – just a man saying he knew where she was, or something. The thing is, it was as if she wanted to get rid of me – as if she wished she’d never called. I actually wondered if she was a bit spooked because she looks so much like your first murder victim – the nurse. Maybe it’s made her feel vulnerable.’ Bill shrugged and stuck his fork in a cherry tomato.

Becky had never claimed to have the same level of gut instinct that Tom had, but she felt a prickle at the back of her neck. A woman that looked like the first victim – and like the second victim was supposed to look – and she thought she was being followed? Becky couldn’t imagine that this woman was the hysterical type if she was used to handling scumbags like Alf Horton.

‘Who’s dealing with it?’

‘Dan Pierce. Do you know him?’

Becky thought she recognised the name but couldn’t place the guy. Tom would probably know him; he seemed to know everybody.

‘Thanks for telling me. I’ll mention it to Tom, if that’s okay with you. I’m sure it’s not relevant to our enquiry, but you never know. Have they got anything to follow up on? If it’s a ubiquitous unmarked white van and the calls were from a disposable mobile it doesn’t sound like there’s much they can do.’

‘Well, it seems we have all – or part of – a registration number. So they’ll be running a PNC check to see what they come up with.’ The sergeant ate his last forkful of a small salad, and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to your lunch.’

Becky looked down at her plate and suddenly the burger didn’t look so appetising. Tom always said he hated coincidences, and maybe it was catching. But if a woman who looked like the other victims believed she was being stalked, it wasn’t something Becky should ignore.