The Sister (44 page)

When he reached her room, she was naked, half out of the bed, he tried to rouse her, but she was so drunk, he probably need not have gassed her.

Gasman strikes twice in one night.
He was pleased with himself. When he was finished, he carefully withdrew with his condom intact. He put it into a small plastic bag, to take away with him and sealed it.

He undid the small package he had with him and then transferred the contents of the condom Marilyn had given him into a syringe; which he carefully inserted into her vagina, and then slowly pushing the plunger as he withdrew it, allowed a small amount to dribble down onto the bed beneath her.

Leaving the trademark jar at the scene, he gathered up the rest of the apparatus and took it with him. Later, he stashed it alongside the mask and the seven remaining jars that he'd planted in Kennedy's garage some time back.

She was still unconscious when he left.

Chapter 91

It was late. Lynch had been trying to reach Melissa all night. It was unlike her to ignore his calls. At first, he didn't let it bother him. After the fifth successive unanswered call, he decided he would check up on her. She always took his calls, if not straightaway, she'd get back to him usually within an hour or so. There had to be something wrong.

He arrived a little after 11 o'clock. He'd wanted to talk to her about staying on Saturdays nights as well, he'd tried talking about it earlier, but she became evasive. He imagined what he would do if he caught her with another man. Then he remembered what she'd told him the night before. Maybe Kennedy was round there, and that was why she wouldn't take his calls. He was firing himself up for trouble.

As he approached the entrance, he looked up. All her lights were on. He pressed redial as he ascended the stairs. Her telephone was ringing. It sounded different, louder, he started taking the steps two at a time without quite knowing why.

The front door was open. A burst of adrenaline surged through him. He bunched his fists and not wanting to alert the neighbours to his presence, pushed the door noiselessly all the way back against the wall.

Satisfied no one was hiding behind it, he called out, "Melissa - are you there?" Senses in overdrive, he marched down the hallway to the lounge. The TV was on low. A newspaper lay on the couch. An opened bottle of tonic water sat on the coffee table with the lid next to it as if she'd left the room only moments ago. An unfamiliar feeling descended on him. For a moment, he felt afraid. Anxiety evident in his voice, he called out, "Mel, stop messing about…" He knew, even as he said it that she couldn't be messing around with him. She hadn't known he was coming. He paused in the hallway and looked at her bedroom door; it was ajar, and the light was on. A disembodied question from a TV interviewer filtered down the hall and registered in his consciousness.
'Do you think there was anything you could have done about it at the time?'
The answer failed to register. He cocked his right fist to his shoulder and using his left hand, opened the door fully.

Nobody.
No sign of her in the bedroom. No one was hiding behind the bedroom door. He approached the wardrobe where she kept her safe; he wouldn't want someone sneaking out behind him after he left the room. The thought made him check under the bed first.

Nothing.
The mirror door rumbled on its runners as he quickly slid it open.

No one.
Then he saw the safe door. It was open, the key still in the lock, the safe empty. Apprehension turned to anger in the instant it took for his brain to comprehend.
She's run out on me!
Then he saw her car keys.
Why didn't she take her car?

He ran out into the hall. Guided by some instinct, he went into the kitchen and there he found her, naked and lifeless, sprawled across the floor.

"Mel!" Lynch was not a man known for expressing any emotion other than anger or hatred, but he cried out for her, raw and without restraint. He sank to his knees next to her; he knew death when he saw it.

Someone had found out about the money . . . Killed her for the money, and when he found out who it was, they'd better hope the Old Bill got them first.

He needed to think. His hands floated above her body. He wanted to caress her one last time. The urge to touch her was almost too much. Standing up, he looked down at her. "Jesus, Mel . . ." he said, wiping his face with his palm. "I'm going to get whoever did this, I swear - whoever they are."

On the worktop, was an empty plastic shopping bag, he put his hand inside and used it to pick up the red-cased telephone. There were five missed calls, and all of them were his. He checked the call register. There was one number other than his recorded there . . .
JFK
. Using the camera on his mobile, he photographed the entry on its screen and put it back to where he’d found it. Next, he checked her white phone; there was a message icon on the display. He listened to it. It was Tony trying to smooth his way in with her. "Listen, I got to be with you again. I'll call round in an hour . . . See you."

What Kennedy told her was true, Tony was moving in on him. He disconnected from the message, replaced the phone on the worktop and screwing up the plastic bag, put it in his pocket.

"You know what my love," he said. "I didn't really believe you when you told me, now I'm going to do what I said I'd do. Give him enough rope and then I'll finish him."

Careful not to touch her, he leaned over and blew a kiss close to her face. She smelled as if she'd had a lozenge. It puzzled him. He'd never known her to eat sweets before, chocolate maybe . . .

He stood, about to leave.
An empty jar.
It looked out of place. The same sweet, chemical lozenge smell became stronger as he approached it. He leaned over the counter and sniffed. A residual, head-spinning belt from the odour took his breath away. His senses reeled.
What the fuck was she sniffing out here in the kitchen?

In the morning, the paperboy pushed the paper through the door. It swung open.

Chapter 92

When Lynch heard the message on Melissa's phone, he knew for sure what she told him was true. Tony had gone behind his back, trying to steal his girl. That was just the start, now he was after his business as well.
Jesus!
He punched himself hard in the forehead. He needed time to think . . . Tony called her at 8:30 p.m. A couple of hours later, she was dead.
Tony! It was Tony. He told her, to tell him Kennedy said it.
It made more sense now; all he needed to do was keep himself in check until he understood why. He would do as he said he would.
Give Tony enough rope. All this keeping calm is killing me!
He took a deep breath, picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

"All right, Tony? Anyone seen Billy, he never showed up at the club last night?"

"No, mate, I haven't. You know what he's like when he's got a few quid . . . Listen, I heard something. I don't know if it's true . . ."

"Well, spit it out then, I ain't got all day!"

"It's about Melissa . . ."

"What about Melissa?" he said holding his breath.
How does he know? I ain't told anyone.

"Oh, fuck, I hope it ain't true . . ."

"Tell me."

"I heard she's been murdered by that Gasman."

Lynch paused. "Are you sure?" he said, adding with suspicion. "Where are you hearing this?"

"Err; I heard it from someone who lives down the road to her. Old bill is crawling all over her place."

The doorbell sounded. He glanced at the CCTV monitor; a man stared into the camera.
Kennedy!
"I'll get back to you," he said as he disconnected. He walked out of his lounge, down the long hallway to the front of the house and opened the door.

"What can I do for you, Detective?"

He brushed past without waiting for an invitation to enter. "Shut the door," Kennedy said.

Lynch closed it and pointed to one of the armchairs forming a horseshoe shaped reception area around a glass-topped coffee table. "Have a seat. What's this about?"

The detective remained standing. "You don't know? You surprise me."

"I heard about five minutes ago. What are you doing round my place, Kennedy?"

"When was the last time you saw Melissa Lake alive?"

Blowing air in a tuneless whistle, he said, "She came to the club, two, possibly three days ago." He levelled his rival with a stare. "What about you?"

The DCI returned the stare. "It's not about me, Lynch. It's about you, and you telling me anything you know that might help catch her killer."

"They know about you and her, do they?" The briefest hesitation allowed him to continue. "Didn't think so, or you'd have come with that side-kick of yours."

"This isn't helping, Lynch. Wouldn't you like to see us catch the person that did this?"

"The Gasman?" His expression grew dark. "Do me a favour. Let me catch him before you do, eh? And while I think of it, have you seen Billy Wharton lately?"

"Why would you ask me that?" Kennedy said, trying to look unperturbed.

That look just confirmed it.
Lynch thought. "Nothing, just wondered, that's all . . ."

Kennedy turned to leave. Lynch called him as he reached the door. "Kennedy . . . don't you
feel
anything? She's dead, and it's like you never
knew
her."

"I was just thinking the same about you."

He stepped out through the front door, raised his eyes momentarily to the heavens, and then walked away.

Chapter 93

Sunday March 25th

Kennedy had many unanswered questions. Why would the Gasman kill her and not his other victims? He'd moved on to another one straight after her, and he didn't kill
her
. Was it an accident? Had he starved her of oxygen just too long? Her safe was open . . . Did she catch him robbing her, regaining consciousness after he'd gassed and raped her, so he'd gassed her again, overdosing her?

Lynch was wrong about Kennedy. Although he kept outwardly calm, inside he was disconsolate. Because of the nature of his relationship with her, he had to keep it to himself. Apart from losing one of his parents, there wasn't much worse that could happen to him. He sat in the quiet of his office, comparing the loss to the pain he felt, when he first learned of his mother's incurable illness, but this was different. He still had his mother, and anyway, he reasoned, he didn't love Marilyn. She was an infatuation.

When he'd first found out about his mother's illness, he bought himself a personal mobile phone. Only his parents had the number. He kept it tucked away, set to silent in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and he carried it everywhere, transferring it from his pocket to the coffee table at home and then to his bedside at night. He tested it to make sure he'd feel it when it rang, hoping he'd not feel that insistent vibration for a long time. He smiled, remembering the day after her diagnosis. His dad had left her to go shopping. She could no longer get about under her own steam for fear of falling over. The phone buzzed urgently in his pocket. He fumbled for it quickly, fearing that this was it - the emergency call.

It was his mother; he could hear her softly crying.

"Mum . . . Mum? What is it?"

"Oh, Jack, I didn't want to bother you, but I can't get back in bed, I've been trying not to be a bother to anyone, but I'm cold and your father's gone shopping, he never said when he was coming back . . ."

He looked at his watch; it was almost lunchtime, he would, for once, take a break. "I'll be round in a minute."

By the time Kennedy arrived and let himself in, she'd somehow managed to get herself back into the bed.

He sat in the armchair looking at her sternly. "I told you I was on my way, didn't I? You could have fallen and hurt yourself." She burst into tears and looked at the floor; he realised she hadn't been out of bed at all. He transferred himself onto the bed next to her and put an arm round her shoulders, shocked by how thin she'd become, and as he held her hand he could feel every bone beneath her parchment-like skin. He pulled her into his chest, resting his chin on her head. "It's all right, Mum," he said, patting her back as if she were a child.

"I'm sorry, John, I dragged you away from your work and I shouldn't have done . . . I just felt so alone."

"It's all right, Mum, I'm here now." It felt so strange to be comforting the one who had given him so much comfort, when he felt scared in the middle of the night, awakened from some bad dream, or when he'd been burning up with a red-hot fever . . . She was there, always and now he was here for her. How life turns around.

The front door opened; a draught blew in briefly.

"I'm back. Sorry it took so long, is everything all right?" His father closed the door behind him and appeared in her bedroom doorway. "John?" He looked at the two of them. "What's happened . . . is everything all right?" He took in the looks on their faces. The struggle to come to terms with this new phase of her illness etched into them. He moved into the space the other side of her and joined in the circle of three; a trinity of unity.