PRAISE FOR DAVID JACKSON

  ‘Recalls Harlan Coben – though for my money Jackson is the better writer’

  GUARDIAN

  ‘Hitchcockian suspense’

  FINANCIAL TIMES

  ‘David Jackson is officially the King of One More Chapter’

  JOANNA CANNON

  ‘A seriously creepy thriller’

  MARK BILLINGHAM

  ‘A fast-paced and darkly disturbing thriller’

  CLARE MACKINTOSH

  ‘A brilliantly chilling story with tension on every page’

  T. M. LOGAN

  ‘Twisted, clever and funny. Highly recommended’

  MARK EDWARDS

  ‘A contender for thriller of the year’

  FIONA CUMMINS

  ‘Disturbing, blackly funny and completely compulsive’

  ALEX NORTH

  ‘Clever, addictive and brazenly terrifying’

  CHRIS WHITAKER

  ‘A brilliantly creepy, edge-of-your-seat, tense thriller’

  WILL CARVER

  ‘An intense and compelling read’

  LISA HALL

  LOVE KILLS

  DAVID JACKSON

  Copyright © David Jackson 2024

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  For Lisa

  Table of Contents

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  1

  Love is All Around – Wet Wet Wet

  It begins, as these things often do, with a chance conversation in a bar.

  Franklin B Goodman is looking for love. As soon as he walks through the door, he begins searching for it in the clientele. He sees a young couple, notices how they keep touching each other’s hands and raising knowing eyebrows. There is enough love there already. At the table next to them, an older pair contain their love in the quiet and dignified discussion of matters important only to them. Further along, a gaggle of four girls keeps breaking out in uproarious laughter. For them, love is in their indestructible friendship. And for a gang of five lads near the bar, football is the focus of their passion at the moment.

  Love is everywhere, just the way Franklin B Goodman likes it.

  But not quite everywhere. The anomaly is striking, as it always is. It jars his universe. It’s the single black cloud in an unbroken expanse of blue sky.

  The man sits alone at the bar, cradling a pint of beer. His eyes are already heavy with alcohol. When he scratches his nose, the movement is slow and lacking certainty. He appears to be in his early thirties – at least ten years younger than Franklin. His grey suit is as sober as he is drunk. He looks at nothing except the patterns in the froth of his ale.

  He’s the one, Franklin decides. There’s an aching there, a desperate sorrow. He needs help.

  Franklin navigates to a spot just a couple of feet away from the man. Not so close as to provoke any discomfort but near enough to strike up a conversation. He signals the bartender and orders a pint of bitter. He doesn’t like beer, or any alcohol-based drinks for that matter, but it looks as though that’s what the loner has in front of him. Franklin is aware that people make instant judgements according to choice of tipple. If he ordered wine or a spirit, he would be instantly labelled as hailing from a different tribe. The pint will act as his membership card. He is even willing to discuss football or boxing, if that’s what it takes. He reads the sports pages for that reason alone.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says to the man, then takes a long draught of the amber fluid. The foul taste makes him want to regurgitate it immediately, but he puts on a show of smacking his lips in apparent satisfaction.

  He points to a stool next to him. ‘Anyone sitting here?’ he asks. It’s a question that begs one of two responses: a straight one, or a sarcastic one such as ‘Yeah, the ghost of my mother-in-law.’ Either way, it will tell him a lot about the man’s attitude and how much work will be required here.

  The man plays it down the line. ‘No. Go for it.’

  Franklin hitches himself up onto the stool. The man pays him no attention. He just stares straight ahead, both hands encircling his glass protectively.

  ‘This is a nice place,’ Franklin says. ‘Good atmosphere.’ He raises his glass. ‘Not a bad pint, either.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ says the man.

  He’s not making this easy, Franklin thinks. But then sometimes love requires a lot of effort. Love deserves that effort.

  His bet is on a woman. Love comes in many forms: for a god, for riches, for fame, for power. But in this case, he would stake everything on it being a woman. Personally, he wouldn’t know what that feels like, but he can recognise the signs. He’s done the research.

  ‘Having a good night?’ he asks. Of course, he knows the answer is negative. The question is whether the man will admit as much.

  ‘I’ve had better.’

  A crack. The first chink. Something that can be prised open.

  ‘Yeah? What happened? Your horse fall at the final fence?’

  ‘Something like that,’ the man says, sealing the fissure again.

  ‘I’m just escaping the missus,’ Franklin tells him. ‘She’s in a foul mood tonight.’

  Which will have three effects. First, it will reassure the man that Franklin is as hetero as they come, and that this isn’t an attempt to chat him up. Second, it moves things onto the topic of female partners – a subject that this man is bursting to talk about, even though he hasn’t realised it yet. Third, it says, I know your pain, brother. I will get where you’re coming from. So, share.

  ‘What’d you do?’ the man slurs. ‘Forget her birthday?’

  ‘If only. I could understand something like that. I mean, that would definitely be a pretty unforgivable mistake. But no. You want to know what it was?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The dishwasher. I forgot to switch on the dishwasher. A simple error, right? Anyone could do it. I mean, it’s not as if I forgot everything. I cleared the plates and rinsed them, I loaded them into the dishwasher, I put in the little tablet thing. I just forgot to set the program. That’s not the worst thing in the world, is it? Anyone could do that. But she didn’t see it that way. She wanted a particular cup – because any old cup wouldn’t do, would it, oh no – and it wasn’t clean, and she freaked out. Over a cup. A fucking cup!’

  He lets his mock fury build until it shines so brightly it cannot fail to penetrate this drunkard’s thick fog. The expletive at the end almost chokes him – he detests swearing – but he has found it to be a price worth paying to gain acceptance in male company.

  ‘Jesus!’ says the man. ‘Women!’

  ‘Tell me about it. You know what I mean, don’t you? I mean, you’ve been there, right?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’ve been there. Don’t know any man who hasn’t been there.’

  He clams up again. Raises his glass and takes a good long swallow. Franklin notices he’s wearing a ring on his wedding finger. It’s not the conventional gold band but a silver ring with a gemstone.

  ‘The thing is,’ Franklin says, ‘it gets worse over time. When we got married, we hardly ever argued. Now, though, I’d say we argue at least once a day. And almost always over trivial things. Today it was the dishwasher. Yesterday it was about whose turn it was to fill the car with petrol. And that’s another thing. I’m not allowed to forget stuff, but her own memory is conveniently flexible when it suits her. I fill the car up all the time. I mean, all the time. She, on the other hand, just happened to fill it last week. In her mind, that means it must be my turn again. Would you call that reasonable?’

  The man shakes his head but stays silent.

  ‘Sometimes I think I should do a trade-in for a newer model.’

  ‘Your car?’ the man asks.

  ‘No. My wife. I wouldn’t, though. The weird thing is that, despite all the arguments, I’m still crazy about her. I’d never get rid of her. Well, not unless she cheated on me or something.’

  Franklin notices how the man’s face instantly sours, and that his response is to take another massive swig of alcohol in an attempt to rearrange it again.

  ‘Don’t be so sure she wouldn’t,’ the man says.

  Ah, thinks Franklin. We’ve found the nerve. We’ve drilled through t he enamel and found that sensitive little nerve.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks, all innocent.

  ‘They cheat. Women. They’re no different from men in that regard.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Not my wife, though. Not Camilla.’ He doesn’t know why he chose that name for his imaginary spouse. Perhaps something he’d seen in the news.

  The man issues a scornful laugh. He seems not to care that it might be taken as an insult. ‘How would you know?’

  ‘I’d know,’ says Franklin. ‘Believe me, I’d know.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. About my girlfriend.’

  Girlfriend. So not married, then?

  ‘She cheated on you?’ Franklin injects a calculated amount of incredulity into his question, as though to challenge the temerity of the woman.

  The man opens his mouth, then seems to think again now that the accusation has been stated in such bald terms.

  ‘Well, I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty fucking sure. It’s the only thing that would explain her behaviour.’

  ‘Her behaviour?’

  ‘Yeah. With this other guy.’ He says ‘other guy’ in a way that makes it the worst insult ever uttered.

  ‘Ah,’ says Franklin. The third-party scenario. It crops up time and time again. He could write a book on it. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Not really. She works with him. Too closely for my liking.’

  ‘But you think it’s more than that? More than just work, I mean?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Have you talked to her about it?’

  The man gestures to the space around him. ‘Why do you think I’m here by myself? To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t even going to bring it up with her. Like I said, I didn’t have any proof or anything. But she kept mentioning him. Kept talking about him like he was the only person in her life. Wouldn’t you find it a little insulting if your wife kept talking about some other guy? Course you would. So I asked her.’

  ‘You came right out and asked her? Did she deny it?’

  ‘Naturally. What else was she going to do? Only, the way she denied it was… excessive, do you know what I mean? What’s the phrase, the Shakespeare thing?’

  ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much?’

  The man snaps his fingers in the air, then points at Franklin. ‘Abso-fucking-lutely. That’s exactly what methinks. The way she was yelling, you’d think I was the one who’d been sleeping around. That’s a guilty conscience if ever I saw one.’

  Franklin bobs his head with a lack of conviction. ‘Maybe. On the other hand, maybe she just reacted badly to what you were saying about her.’

  The man leans his head back to peer beneath his drooping eyelids. ‘Whose fucking side are you on, pal?’

  Franklin shows his palms. ‘Yours. I’m just saying that it can be easy to jump to conclusions sometimes. I’ve done it myself: thinking the worst when actually there’s nothing to be worried about.’

  The man continues to study him with an unfocused gaze, then returns his attention to his almost-empty glass. ‘Ah, what the hell am I talking to you for, anyway? You don’t even know if your wife’s shagging someone else right now.’

  This time the insult wears less of a disguise, but Franklin knows not to react badly.

  ‘Actually, I do. I know I can trust her. And if I didn’t trust her, I’d know how to get the proof before I confronted her.’

  The man faces him again. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about relationships. This is kind of my area of expertise.’

  ‘Oh, Christ. You’re not one of them, are you?’

  ‘One of which?’

  ‘Marriage guidance counsellors, or whatever you call yourselves these days. Poking around in people’s affairs and telling them what they need to do to keep their spouses happy in bed, and all that shit.’

  Franklin dredges up a smile. ‘No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t really like all that touchy-feely stuff.’

  ‘Me neither. So, what are you then?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator.’

  The man stares at him for at least five seconds before releasing a guffaw of laughter.

  ‘Not the reaction I was expecting,’ Franklin says, although in fact he was completely prepared for such a display of disbelief. People who go around saying they are private detectives are usually living in a fantasy world.

  ‘That’s a good one,’ the man says, still chuckling. ‘A private detective. Ha! Love it!’

  ‘No, seriously. I am.’

  ‘What, you’re telling me you’re a private dick?’

  ‘Well, I prefer not to be called a dick, but yeah.’

  ‘A PI? Like that one from the old TV series with the big moustache?’

  ‘You mean Magnum?’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking of Miss Marple.’ The man laughs uproariously at his own joke, slapping his palm on the bar counter. It’s probably the most entertained he’s been all day.

  Franklin reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out his wallet. He thumbs through the many business cards it contains – one for each of his many fake identities. He has in fact taken on the mantle of a relationship counsellor before now. He has also been an airline pilot, a cancer specialist, an international banker, a psychotherapist, a fitness coach, a plastic surgeon, and – for the benefit of one woman who had lost all faith in men – a gay dog groomer, that being a gay groomer of dogs rather than a groomer of gay dogs (and, to be accurate, the word ‘gay’ never actually appeared on the business card).

  Franklin locates the card he’s looking for and passes it across. The man takes it and does his best to aim his eyes at the writing.

  ‘Franklin B Goodman. That’s quite a name. What does the B stand for?’

  ‘It’s like the S in Harry S Truman.’

  The man squints at Franklin. ‘Huh?’

  ‘It doesn’t stand for anything. It’s just a letter.’

  ‘People do that?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  The man studies the card again. ‘Franklin B Goodman. Private Investigator. Our Eyes are everywhere. How many are in your firm?’

  ‘Actually, I work alone. Wouldn’t sound the same if I put My Eye is everywhere.’

  The man goes to hand the card back, but Franklin says, ‘You can keep it if you think you’ll be needing my services.’

  ‘And why would I need your all-seeing eye?’

  ‘You just said, didn’t you? About your girlfriend?’

  ‘What? Wait… what? You’re not actually suggesting…’

  Franklin shrugs, like it’s no big deal. ‘It’s what I do. You’re worried about your girlfriend, right? Well, I could check it out for you. Let you know one way or another. It shouldn’t take long. Discretion guaranteed.’

  The man seems to be mulling over the idea, but then he tosses the card onto the counter. ‘Nah. It’s crazy. Forget it. I don’t do that kind of thing.’

  Franklin takes the card and drops it into the side pocket of his jacket. ‘No problem. It’s not for everyone. Listen, can I get you a beer?’

  ‘A beer?’

  ‘Yeah. Beats drinking alone.’

  The man looks at his empty glass. ‘Okay. Thanks. I’ll have another pint of the IPA. But first I need a slash.’

  He clambers down from his stool, and without its support almost goes crashing to the ground. Regaining his balance, he zig-zags his way to the toilets.

  As soon as his companion has gone, Franklin quickly scans the beers on offer behind the bar. Everything on draught is designed to cause inebriation, and he doesn’t want to risk provoking the distrust of his drinking colleague by having a bottle of zero-alcohol beer placed in front of him.

  He signals to the bartender, who scoots across. Franklin hands over his barely touched drink. ‘Do me a favour and throw that away, will you? Give me a pint of bitter shandy – more lemonade than beer. Can I also have a pint of IPA and a single vodka, please?’

  The bartender works efficiently, but Franklin only just has time to toss the vodka into the IPA before the drunkard enters the room again. As the man completes the tricky manoeuvre of getting himself back onto his barstool, Franklin slides the adulterated drink in front of him, then raises his own.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says.

  ‘Up your bottom,’ says the man.

  Franklin gulps down some of the gassy liquid. The sweetness makes it tolerable, which is useful because he’s realised he may be here for some time. His bait hasn’t been taken yet, but he feels he’s so near. He needs to dangle it again without being too obvious about it. This might be a time for a change of topic, to act as an interlude.

 

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