Not Quite Nice (32 page)

‘It’s in the newspaper photo,’ said DI Wilton. ‘Look! He’s holding it.’

‘We reckon that that photo of you all was taken minutes after the attack on Mrs Duckworth, while Stewart McMahon was still in the house.’

Theresa’s stomach flipped.

‘But Brian, er, Ronald seemed so calm and affable that day. To think that he’d just . . .’ She put her face in her hands.

‘Mrs Duckworth was lucky,’ said DCI Thomas. ‘Their last victim, a lady in Chelsea in January, wasn’t so fortunate.’

Theresa gave an enquiring look.

‘Murdered,’ said DCI Thomas. ‘In her bed. She surprised them. They didn’t want to be recognised. They’d done work for her previously. Looked at the plumbing or something. They’d copied the keys and, when they thought she was away, they let themselves in. But she had had a cold, and stayed home.’

‘They’d attacked Faith for a phone?’ It really didn’t seem possible.

‘They’re a pair of chancers. They were after her jewellery, but she hasn’t got much but a wedding band. They like living the high life, those two, but they prefer other people to pay for it.’

She told the officers about Carol.

‘We’ve already put out an alert with Interpol,’ said DI Wilton. ‘Her credit card was used to empty her account in Naples night before yesterday, and the Jaguar he stole was sold for cash yesterday morning in Palermo.’

‘Palermo, Sicily?’

The detectives nodded.

‘Did the car dealers see Carol?’

The detective shook their heads.

‘But they did give a perfect description of
him
. He was alone.’

Theresa saw from their faces that they did not think this was in any way good news.

‘We have the Italian authorities searching the sea on the ferry route.’

Theresa understood what they were implying: that Brian had killed Carol and thrown her overboard.

She asked a question that had been nagging her.

‘Do they usually work together, Ronald Arthur what’s his name and Stewart?’

‘They
always
work together.’

‘So if Stewart is still here, in Nice, why isn’t Brian, sorry, Ronald Arthur, here too?’

The detectives exchanged a look. ‘We believe there’s been a falling out among thieves, so to speak. Ronald Arthur Tate seems to have had a plan to work alone and keep all the takings for himself. From what we gather, Mr McMahon isn’t a very happy bunny. All he got was the smartphone.’

Back in the flat, Theresa made some tea, and lay on her bed to think.

But after a sleepless night and the heavy lunch, she quickly fell asleep.

When she woke, it was dark and the cup of tea on her bedside table was cold.

She wanted to get up and get herself some water, but felt heavy and tired and unable to rouse herself.

She fretted about poor Carol.

Theresa prayed that Carol was OK and not floating face-down in the Tyrrhenian Sea.

She rolled over, facing the window.

All the lights in the Hôtel Astra were out.

The whole town was asleep.

Theresa sighed.

Then her sigh came to a stop.

The strange thing was that the sound of her sigh seemed to continue.

It was as though there was another person in the room with her, breathing quietly, inches away.

She turned back to face the room, and she saw, standing above her in the ghostly light, the man who had robbed her – Stewart McMahon.

They caught eyes.

There was no way she could pretend to be still asleep.

He had seen her.

In the micro-second in which he raised his fist, Theresa sprang forward, using her shoulder to knock the man off-balance. He staggered slightly, while she scampered out of bed.

Her mouth opened but she could not utter a sound. All her attention was focused on getting away from this lethal man, getting out of the house, surviving.

She took a few strides towards the living room, but, before she crossed the threshold, Stewart had grabbed her by her hair and yanked her back into the bedroom, flinging her on to the bed.

Theresa writhed around as Stewart punched and kicked her, grabbing at her arms to keep her under control.

He tried to twist her arm behind her back. She kicked backwards like a donkey, and managed to catch him where it hurt. He staggered backwards into the wall, yelping.

Then, in the total darkness she leapt from the bed and ran forward with all her strength, into the black-dark living room, making for the front door.

She was only a few feet away from the handle when she unexpectedly bumped into something.

What could be in the way? It felt like a man. But Stewart could not have outrun her.

A strong pair of arms flung around her, gripping her so tightly that she was unable to move at all.

‘Where is it?’

It was Brian’s voice, but that voice was cold and rough and there were no shades of the suave charm he had always used before.

She peered up in the darkness and could see the outline of his face.

He raised his fist and gave her a hard slap across the head.

She felt the bones in her neck crack.

He slapped her next on the other side with the back of his hand.

His breath was hot, damp and rancid on her face.

‘Where the fuck is it. Tell me NOW!’

Theresa’s heart thundered. Her voice came out in painful gasps.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He took her by the shoulders and shook her, while leering into her face.

‘The painting. The Dufy. Where have you put it?’

Theresa’s heart thundered. ‘I sold it,’ she whimpered.

‘No you didn’t.’ Brian shook her violently. ‘You wouldn’t.’

His eyes flickered up and he stopped shaking her.

Theresa’s heart was beating so hard she felt it might burst through her ribcage.

Calloused hands slid round her neck from behind, and she smelled the familiar scent of stale tobacco. She could feel the bristles of Stewart’s moustache against the skin of the back of her neck.

Stewart whispered into her ear. ‘If you can’t tell us, where the fucking painting is, bitch, we can just dispose of
you
. Then we’ll have all night to look for it.’

‘All right, all right,’ she said, her voice coming out in a wavery whisper. ‘Let go of me and I’ll show you.’

Brian nodded.

She took a step towards the back of the flat. The hands round her neck tightened.

‘It’s OK,’ said Brian. ‘There’s no other way out.’

‘The door?’

‘Just a place to put the bins.’

The hands slipped away from her neck.

Theresa turned and faced the bedroom.

Brian gripped one forearm, Stewart had her wrist.

She staggered forward.

‘Through here,’ she said.

It felt terrible, giving away the picture her mother had left to her, giving it to these vile men, but she wanted so desperately to
live
.

As she reached the doorway of her bedroom Theresa remembered what the detective had said about killing that woman because she had seen them . . .

She realised with a jolt that if she showed them the hiding place they would take the painting, and kill her anyway.

They had no respect for her or anyone.

They killed the woman in Chelsea.

It was a miracle that Faith survived.

Why did she think she was so different?

Theresa’s mind was set.

She was
damned
if they were going to kill her.

She was going to put up a fight.

‘Through here,’ she said, walking past the bedroom towards the back door. ‘I have a safe box out here.’

‘No you don’t,’ said Brian.

‘I do, Brian. I bought it after what happened to Faith,’ she said calmly. ‘I hide it behind the bins – where no one would look.’

The two men shoved her roughly against the back door.

‘Show us,’ hissed Brian.

‘You’ll have to let go of my hands,’ she said, ‘or I cannot unlock the door.’

Brian stood behind her, blocking her way back into the house as Theresa pulled open the door and led them out into the tiny yard.

‘I need the key to the safe,’ she said. ‘It’s hanging up in the kitchen.’

She turned to go back in, and Stewart hissed, ‘Oh no, you don’t.’

He ran in front of her, leaving her alone with Brian.

Theresa pointed to a pitch-black corner. ‘The safe is down there.’

As he stooped, to crawl behind the bin, Theresa kicked him hard in the backside and then opened her mouth and screamed for all she was worth.

‘HELP! HELP! MURDER! MURDER!
AU SECOURS!
HELP! HELP ME!
M’AIDEZ!
HEEEEELLLLPPPP!’

Above, in the Hôtel Astra, windows were flung open.

Brian and Stewart lurched towards Theresa, shoving her into the dark corner.

As she was slammed back, hitting the stucco wall, a whistling sound came from above, and, seconds later, a naked man landed in their midst.

He had jumped from the hotel window above.

The man battered the surprised Stewart and Brian, kicking and grappling with his fists. He then grabbed both men by their hair and slammed their heads together. Brian and Stewart collapsed into a heap.

‘Get yourself outta here, gal,’ the naked man yelled to Theresa. ‘Get gone before they come round – the nasty scumbags!’

It was Ted.

‘They’re both out for the count. Come on.’ Ted grabbed Theresa by the hand and looked up to the window from which he’d jumped. ‘Bugger me, that’s a long way up. Hey, Marianne,’ he called. Have you called the plods?’

As Ted hauled Theresa into the house she caught a glimpse of Sally’s daughter, Marianne, leaning from the window, holding a phone to her ear and nodding frantically.

28

Sally was woken in the early hours by frantic banging on the front door. She opened up. It was Marianne.

‘Ted just saved Theresa’s life.’

Sally rubbed her eyes.

‘Marianne? Are you drunk? It’s the middle of the night. And Ted is in Australia.’

‘No, Mum. He’s with the police in Theresa’s flat.’

‘Slow down.’ Sally shut the front door and shuffled into the house. ‘Is Theresa all right? Should we go there?’

‘They have it all under control,’ said Marianne. ‘Thanks to Ted.’ She paused and said, ‘He’s my lover.’

‘Ted? But he’s married.’ Sally could see that once again she was in for revelations. She sat Marianne down. ‘You’d better explain.’

‘Pour us a glass of something, Mum.’ Marianne looked down into her lap and started her explanation. ‘It started months ago when I came down for an interview with Sian. She put me up in the Hôtel Astra.’

‘You could have stayed here . . .’

Marianne held up her hand. ‘After the interview I was planning to give you a surprise, but there was no reply – you were out. While your number was ringing there was a bleep on the line and it was Sian telling me the job was mine. So, while I waited for you to come home, I sat in the hotel bar and treated myself to a drink. A friendly Australian bloke came to my table. I was on cloud nine and he seemed ever so sweet. Well, one thing led to another and we ended up in my room in the Hôtel Astra. An hour or so later, Sian took it upon herself to arrive at the hotel with a portfolio of work for me to start work on. Ted recognised his wife’s stentorian tones, barking into her mobile phone as she came along the corridor towards my room, and then, to use his own words he jumped down “bollock-naked” into Theresa’s backyard for the first time.’

‘You were the tourist . . . ?’ Sally put her head in her hands, thinking of how this was all going to go down in the town gossip mill.

‘Our romance, and it
was
a romance, Mum, blossomed, by phone and email.’

‘How could you?’ Sally flopped down on to the sofa and passed Marianne a glass of whisky. ‘Sleeping with your boss’s husband?’

‘No, Mum. I never put two and two together. He’s such a daredevil madcap . . . And before he jumped out of the window he hardly had time to explain who he was. I had no idea that Ted was Sian’s husband until that unsettling trip out on your boat. And seeing how he was with Jessica that day I began to doubt him. But, once I knew who he was, I was put in a very odd pos­ition with Sian.’

Sally took a slug of whisky. ‘I cannot imagine why neither of you told me you were Sian’s assistant.’

‘Sian wanted total secrecy. You see, one of my duties was to keep an eye on Ted.’

Sally snorted. ‘You appear to have rather overdone yourself on that score.’