'Til Death (DI Steven Marr Book 1) - UK Crime Fiction Whodunnit Thriller (16 page)

‘I love you too.’

‘And I’m going to have a bath and wash this crap off my face. I feel like a circus clown.’

John watched his wife leave the room, instantly feeling a bit better. He knew that he didn’t always give Michelle enough credit. Yes, Julie was an idiot, but she wasn’t. She knew that Julie always had it in for him a bit. Michelle was tough; clever and tough, and she’d been a truly brilliant mum to Anna.

It made lying to her even harder.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Gregor Stanic sat at the back of the coffee shop, staring out of the window. He’d been given fifteen minutes by the lawyer to grab a drink. He didn’t like him, but then you weren’t supposed to like lawyers, were you? Fucking scum. Being an accountant might be dumb, but at least it didn’t involve keeping rapists out of prison.

‘Fifteen minutes, Mr Stanic, and we’ll resume.’

Thanks for the permission, you cunt. I’m paying you five hundred pounds an hour for the privilege of being treated like I’m still in school.

Stanic practically growled to himself. He’d have punched the table, but the girl behind the counter was pretty fit, and he didn’t want her thinking he was some hooligan.

Which was, in the end, where all of his problems seemed to stem from.

Women, and his need to impress them. To fuck them.

To
conquer
.

Because, if you didn’t hunt down and take what was yours, how could you even consider yourself a man?

Stanic had seen enough of the average guy on the street to know he felt sorry for them. They were everywhere: at restaurants, at bars and at clubs. They all looked the same. Not in terms of features, or what they wore, though: it was that
desperation
. Lined up at the bar, eyeing up girls. Maybe even cracking jokes about them to their equally average friends.

Hey, look at the arse on that girl.

Yeah, look at the arse on that girl. The girl they wouldn’t have to nerve to speak to. Night after night, stood by the bar making judgements.

‘Look at the state of that.’

‘Maybe if I was drunk.’

‘You’d have to pay me.’

No, Stanic thought, it was the girls that would need paying. Stanic had always found it strange how guys could be so delusional about it all. About fucking girls. About work. About life in general.

Thousands of men repeating the mantra over and over to themselves.

Oh, I could do that if I tried. I could be that guy. I could fuck that girl.

I just don’t want to.

But it was all a lie, and they knew it. They’d never do anything that they said they were going to do. Never. They’d settle down with some trashy, gossipy, stupid girl who they didn’t even respect, let alone love. And then they’d make do with fifty years of TV, work, dinner, repeat. And then, eventually, those gossipy stupid girls would leave them, taking all their money.

And then, just as revenge, the girls would fuck someone like Greg, if he was prepared to lower his standards for an evening. And Mr Average would wonder why the hell, when he’d played by all the rules, he was having his ass handed to him.

So yeah, Stanic had occasionally kept someone in line, or had to smack someone around a bit. It was funny, those wallflowers – they’d never talk to a woman, even if one gave them the eye – but as soon as Stanic started chatting to the girl, and as soon as the girl started laughing, Mr Average would start feeling brave.

‘Is this guy bothering you?’

Why didn’t they understand? Stanic inhabited a different world to the one they struggled through. Their world of fear, and weakness, and of asking for permission, like a child. Greg didn’t ask for permission; he took what was his. And sometimes that put people’s noses out of joint.

But that couldn’t be helped.

Stanic knew that he’d put Thomas Coulthard’s nose out of joint. Well, you talk about average men: Thomas was the ultimate. Wasting away his life in a call centre, no girl, no future. And pining after Anna for ten fucking years.

How the hell could you pine after anyone for that long? Greg loved Anna; he really did. But fuck, if you weren’t getting anywhere after a couple of
hours
, it was time to give it up. Girls decided if they liked you in the first five minutes, so what was the idiot expecting? For Anna to turn around and suddenly change her mind once the first decade had passed?

But no, year after year he sniffed around, like a lapdog wanting attention from its master.

And
yet
, that fucking lapdog had Stanic on the ropes.

Stanic
knew
that Coulthard had planted that blade. Which meant that he’d killed Anna.

And probably Caroline too. Because there was no way Caroline would have gone through with it. She got depressed sometimes, sure; but that was where it stopped – feeling down. Weaker days, she used to call them.

Stanic was going to wind up in jail, because Thomas – the ultimate fucking loser - couldn’t stand to be beaten by a better, stronger
man.

And he
was
the weaker man; Stanic was sure of it.

He checked his watch; he was due to return to the lawyer in five minutes.

There was really only one thing to do.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

‘Ray, it’s Steve’.

‘I know you silly bastard, I have your number saved on my phone, like everyone does. Because it’s 2015.’

Marr rolled his eyes.

‘Good to talk to you, too. Now, stop being a prick and tell me that you’ve found something useful on the knife.’

Ray sighed.

‘Well, let’s just say it depends what your definition of useful is.’

‘Stop stalling.’

‘Your wish is my command. There’s one print on the handle, and it’s Gregor Stanic’s. No other DNA, though; I’d say it’s been very carefully washed clean.’

‘It’s a plant?’

‘Well, no. Gregor Stanic definitely
held
the knife at some point, but as you said quite rightly: it’s his bloody knife, what the hell is anyone expecting?’

‘No traces of anybody else on there?’ Marr asked.

‘I hope you’re not asking me if I found semen on a kitchen knife.’

‘You’re a sick man, Ray. No, I’m asking if there’s any chance that this
won’t
be used as exhibit A in Gregor Stanic’s trial.’

‘No, Steve, very little fucking chance of that at all. Might as well get him to start stitching those little arrows on his designer suits.’

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Thomas ordered a double whiskey, toasting the barman who served it.

‘Cheers, Joe.’

Joe grunted and made his way to the other end of the bar. Thomas smiled to himself; he loved this place. Nice atmosphere, and a good whisky selection. He liked the way drinking whiskey made him feel; it was a real man’s drink, wasn’t it? Not like the pink and blue crap you saw in the fridges, or even the taps of cheap lager that most guys went for.

No, whiskey was for men with
class
. Thomas had class.

And he had to admit, that detective did, too. There was something Thomas liked about him. He had guts, and Thomas didn’t doubt that Marr would come after him again. He wasn’t going to be deterred by anything. Even if it
was
the truth.

It was a real shame about Caroline, if Marr was telling the truth about her. Thomas didn’t consider it beyond any cop to try and pull a fast one.

But no, Caroline probably was
really
dead. What exactly was Marr trying to get from Thomas, though? A confession? Good luck with that. No, men like Thomas didn’t confess to men like Marr. Because men like Marr, for all their bluster and their guts and their perseverance, didn’t get what they wanted.

They were too
weak
, too worried about being seen to do the right thing.

Gregor Stanic was, of course, much the same. He saw himself as a real ‘man’, always doing the right thing, even when it was far easier to take the other path.

It was a lie, of course. It might have been what they told themselves, but it wasn’t really why they did it. They did what they did to try and control their little world.

If I always do the right thing, justice will come.

But the world didn’t work that way. Karma wasn’t real. Life was random: a complete lottery. Justice wasn’t given to people just because they
deserved
it. Some days it came, of course, but it was like a gust of wind, and could die at any time.

Caroline and Anna, Anna and Caroline. Beautiful, clever, tough. Both of them rotting in the ground, their white knights unable to do a thing to save them.

Thomas turned around, and caught the eye of a dark-haired woman across bar. She had a pretty face, but her body hadn’t kept up. Thomas smiled at her, receiving a roll of her eyes before she walked away towards the door.

Your loss
, Thomas thought. He smiled, and took another sip, enjoying the burning sensation as it moved down his chest.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Marr bumped into Sam as he was leaving the building.

He smiled, trying to walk past her. Nothing doing; Sam blocked the doorway.

‘We should talk.’ she said, in a way that made it very clear that this conversation
would
end with them talking.

‘My car?’ he said, not wanting to head back into the station. Sam nodded, and they made their way across the car park. Marr looked around to make sure no-one was watching, and was relieved to see that was the case.

‘How’s Lizzie doing?’ Sam asked.

‘Well, she’s doing alright I suppose. Not massively different since last night, though.’

‘Were you trying for a baby with her?’

Marr shook his head.

‘No.’

‘Would you have said yes if she’d asked you to have one?’

Christ, start with the easy one,
Marr thought.

‘I don’t know.’ He said.

‘Yes you do. Would you have said yes?’

Marr repeated his answer, but found himself unable to look Sam in the eye.

‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling?’

Marr considered this, and decided that honesty was probably the way forward.

‘Scared’ he said.

‘Why scared? A baby’s an exciting thing, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe, but it’s a scary thing too. I’ll have a family.’

‘Lucky you.’

Marr sighed. He owed Sam a talk…well, he owed her whatever she wanted. But this was becoming hard work.

‘Sam, what did you want to talk about? Really?’

She sighed.

‘I want to know what happens with us, now. I’m not asking you to run off and leave your family. Why the hell would you? But what happens?’

‘What do you want to happen with us?’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Steve, grow up. This one isn’t my decision. It’s yours. Be a man and make it.’

‘What if I don’t want to?’

Sam laughed. But it wasn’t genuine, and it wasn’t trying to be. It sounded like a threat.

‘I guess I’ll have to make it for you.’

She reached out her hand and ran it along the front of his trousers. He hated his body for how quickly it responded to her touch. Sam slowly began to run her hand along the stiffness beneath the material.

He pushed her hand away, almost instinctive.

‘No, Sam. No. No more.’

She smiled.

‘See? Not so hard to make the decision when you’ve
got
to, is it? You’ll be a good father, Steve. Even if you are scared. It’s not the baby that you’re scared of anyway.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, you’re scared of how Lizzie will react if I drive over to your house and tell her that you spent Thursday night fucking me.’

‘Sam…’

‘Or that you spent your anniversary last year with your head between my legs when you said you were away at a conference.’

Marr said nothing, just looking at her. He’d half expected Sam to make the threat. She had to make some sort of power play; to make him feel helpless, because it would mean Sam felt less so.

Sam was looking at him, too. Not smiling. He couldn’t help but think of the shower, and her flat, and her car. And he thought of all those times, of the sounds of her voice, and of how much he wanted to take her to all those places and do all those things again and again.