The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 18
Then he’d wanted water.
And he wet himself.
Every time he turns or sits up and does that looking around thing he does, I’m awake.
It’s non-stop.
Not a wink.
We’ve had the TV people arrive.
And the helicopters go over.
No, not a peaceful night at all, not for either of us.
William seems to be quiet at last, though. At peace, finally. I am just going to lie here, try to relax, shut my eyes.
I’ll not fall asleep now.
Too late for that.
Or is it too early?
Still dark but sunrise soon, for sure. I will just lie quietly and work out what we’re going to do today. I’ve got to keep the little fellow silent for some time, that’s for sure. I don’t know how I am going to do it.
Play games I suppose.
Not sure what.
Will need to give it some thought.
It’s nice now, with William. We had one or two troubles in the night, him and me, but all is well. We have made our peace, I think. We’re pals again, just like a daddy and his little boy should be.
I will have to see if I can find some paper in the house.
And pens, or something like that.
We can do some drawing.
I’ve always liked drawing, had something of an eye for it, you might say. I drew in the annexe, sketches of how I imagined William would look. And views of the south of France. Beach and sea sketches were more trouble than they were worth, though, to be honest. Sprake and Ainsley would find whatever it was I had drawn and I’d come back to find a naked man with a huge swollen penis etched into the middle of it. Every single time. William would want to draw rocket ships, I think.
Or maybe cars.
Or boats or trains, I don’t know, I can’t think straight at the moment, I’m so tired.
Need to shut my eyes.
Have a little rest.
Catch up on my sleep.
I’ve never been to the south of France, you know. I’ve got it all worked out, though. What we’re going to do. It’s all in my head; I can shut my eyes and imagine it now. We’ll spend a week or two in a villa down by the beach. There are bound to be some holiday ones empty at this time of year. We’ll just relax, putting all of what’s happened behind us.
I can see it in my mind’s eye. I’m outside by the pool, stretched out on a sun lounger, just catching the last few rays of the year.
William is playing by my feet. I shut my eyes, snoozing for a moment or two, not really thinking of anything. My mind drifts and floats away and I feel totally relaxed. I’ve not felt like this for ages. It’s just like a lovely warm dream where everyone is happy.
A man leans over the sun lounger.
I hear him say something to me.
He’s offering me a job!
He must think I’m here as a caretaker for holiday homes owned by Brits across the south of France. I go in and check empty properties daily, clean out the pool now and then and just double-check everything is safe and secure. The man would like me to do the same for his holiday home and wants to know how much I charge.
That’s got me! How much do you charge to check a property regularly? I don’t know what to say. I hesitate, thinking. I must say something. Got to think of a price. Hurry now. I hear the man’s voice asking me something, angrier this time. He asks me how much I’ll charge. Still I don’t answer. I don’t know! He shouts now and I hear William stirring and moving; he’s being frightened by the man’s loud voice.
I wake – in the bed next to William.
Looking up, there’s a man staring down at me.
As I come to and focus, he swings round to run away.
51
10.40am, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I reach out to grab the man, too late – he is up and by the bedroom door, pulling it wide open.
As he does, he turns, wasting precious seconds, glancing back at me. He’s scared, knows who I am. I can tell.
I’m up and out of the bed and after him, almost without thinking – he’s the owner, I know instinctively, and I have to get to him before he’s down the stairs and out the front door, screaming for help.
At the top of the stairs, he hesitates, looking down and then back at me for a second or so, deciding whether or not he can outrun me.
Too late now, he stops, turns round and says, almost defiantly, “I know who you are. You and the boy.”
“It’s not what you think,” I answer, keeping my distance from him.
“The police stopped me on the way in. I never dreamed for a minute . . .” He holds my gaze for a second, then drops it, not knowing what to do next.
He seems to rally in confidence, what with me unsure what to say and not replying. “Give yourself up. The police are all over the place. You won’t get away.”
“We were going to stay here for a day or two, that’s all, until it blows over. I’ve got it all figured.”
He nods, trying to look calm and thoughtful, his hand going up to his chin. How he must yearn to wipe those pinpricks of sweat from his face.
“I have to stay here. We have to stay here. Me and my son. For a day or two longer, that’s all.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that. Yes, that makes sense.” He nods slowly and then stops, not certain what to say or do next. It’s as though he’s about to turn and walk away as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. As though this is a perfectly normal conversation.
He looks at me again, eye-to-eye this time. He’s terrified, I can see.
I look back at him, working out how to tell him he has to stay here too.
“I . . . I can’t let you leave the house.” My voice cracks, it comes out sounding more like a nervous request than a statement of fact.
He looks around, swallowing on a dry throat.
“My partner’s coming up,” he whispers. I have to strain to hear him. “He’ll be here soon.” We look at each other.
Neither of us knows what to do next.
I can’t keep two of them here and quiet until we leave, that’s for sure.
“Papa?”
It happens so fast. We both hear William call out at the same moment, the rustling as the duvet is pushed back followed by the soft sound of footsteps on the floor. The man takes his chance as I turn to look towards the bedroom. He twists round, ready to run down the stairs. In the split second he stands there, with his back to me, I lift my foot, put it in the small of his back and push him with all of my might out and over the stairs.
He seems to hang in mid-air for a second.
Falls forward, hitting the banister, once, twice and again as the momentum of his weight carries him downwards.
He hits his head hard on the wall at the bottom and lies dead still.
“Papa?” says William, coming out of the bedroom. He’s rubbing his eyes. “Wee?”
I watch and wait. A moment. Maybe a minute. There’s no movement from the man. I take William by the hand, steering him away from the staircase and gently towards the bathroom.
We stand here, by the toilet, me straining to hear something, anything, maybe the sound of the man twitching, even struggling painfully to his feet.
I’m distracted.
William reaches to flush it.
“No,” I shout suddenly, reaching out and hitting his hand away, instinctively.
I stand for a moment longer in the terrible, strained silence, hoping to God no one has heard me next door or outside on the street. It’s all quiet – I think. I’ve no real way of knowing now. Just have to take my chance and carry on. William turns his face to me, his bottom lip pushed out. I pick him up, making soothing sounds and noises as I sweep him back into the bedroom. I’ve got to get him to lie down or at least sit quietly, keeping to himself, while I check the man at the bottom of the stairs.
Is he dead?
Stunned and about to wake up?
What do I do with him if he’s dead – or close to it?
William does not want to sit quietly. He certainly does not want to lie down. He doesn’t even want to be on the bed. However much I cajole and jolly him along, he struggles and simply won’t stay put. I hold him in place on the bed with one hand, an angry, almost buzzing noise coming from him, as I rummage by the side of the bed for the biscuits.
“Here,” I say, sounding more angry than I should, as I thrust a handful of broken-up biscuits at him. “Here’s your food, eat it all up now. Come on.”
That seems to settle him, at least for a moment, as I move across the bedroom to the door.
Do I shut it?
So I can deal with the man without William seeing?
But what if William yells out and they hear him next door?
I leave the door half-open, taking a quick glance back at William, head down and chewing on the biscuits, as I step back onto the landing. I look down the stairs. The man hasn’t moved, not a flicker. He’s still and utterly lifeless.
Know what?
He’s stone-cold dead.
I wish he wasn’t. I’d not hurt a fly except in self-defence, that’s for sure. You know that, don’t you? Yes, of course you do.
No one will know what happened; not if I leave him there as he is. When someone eventually comes, they’ll just think he fell down the stairs. A tragic accident. I’ll tidy up behind us. Leave everything as we found it – even put the key back by the shed – and no one will know we’ve been here at all.
I pause, listening for William, maybe next door too.
All quiet.
Two, three, four steps down I go at a time.
Only problem is this, I realise, standing over the man’s dead body – if someone comes up to the front door, a neighbour maybe, and looks in, they’ll see the man’s body at the bottom of the staircase. But how likely is it that someone will come up the path, let alone peer through the glass on the door, on a Sunday?
Not very.
But if they do?
Before we’ve had a chance to get away.
I could move him. Maybe drag him into the living room or the kitchen? No good – anyone glancing into either, maybe that beat bobby on his rounds again, will see the body straightaway.
Can I drag him upstairs? I’d have to keep him out of the bedroom and bathroom; I can’t have William seeing him. It wouldn’t be right and proper, would it?
The spare room? It’s full of boxes and household things; maybe this man and his partner have been moving themselves in from London over a few weekends. It’s probably the best place – only thing is, I’d need to arrange things so that it looked as though he’s had an accident there. Clean up the mess here on the stairs too.
There’s a smear of blood on the paintwork by the side of his head.
Have to lift him up, off the stairs, to drag him upwards.
I put my hands round his shoulders and head, ready to lift him.
He’s breathing.
Fuck’s sake, he’s alive.
I turn him slowly over, so he’s lying on his back stretched out. His head falls back; a dark trickle of blood, more black than red, runs from his temple to the lid of his right eye. He’s spark out, that’s for sure. But, moving my head closer to his mouth, he is breathing. It sounds shallow but steady. There’s life in him for certain. I feel over his skull, not sure what it is I am doing or looking for; some sign, maybe, that he has cracked it and is going to die anyway, no matter what I do. It feels, well, as it should, I guess. He’s alive and is going to stay that way.
Now what?
You tell me.
I’m damned every which way.
Leaving him where he is for now, I move quickly back up the stairs and into the spare room. Remember? Boxes and bags and all sorts? I crouch down – just in case – and shuffle across the floor. Men’s clothes – casual stuff, nightwear, some shoes and slippers – are in the first few bags. Towels and fabrics in the next two. A box with curtains and various knick-knacks wrapped in newspaper. I open these carefully; a couple of pieces of china, a heavy doorstop in the shape of a dog and a garish, multi-coloured glass ashtray. I pick the last two items up, one in each hand, to work out which is the heaviest.
It’s got to be done.
What choice do I have?
You tell me. There’s no choice at all.
I glance back into the front bedroom, checking William’s still there – he is, lying on his back now sucking his thumb contentedly and staring into space. Not for long, though. He’ll be up and about any moment. Little children don’t sit still forever even if they’re well-behaved like William is. I have to be quick.
I walk to the staircase and down towards the man. I stand over him again, steeling myself this time to raise the heavy glass ashtray up and then, I’ll have to shut my eyes, bringing it down as hard on his head as I can.
I look down.
A bloodshot eye stares back at me, focusing on my face.
He whispers something, so quietly I almost can’t hear him.
“Help me,” that’s what it is. I stop, thinking for a moment. I have to work things through in my head. Think on my feet, as it were. Thing is, he’s no threat. He can’t be. Not really. He’s not going to live that long. I don’t think so anyway.
I put the ashtray carefully on the stairs beside his feet. Moving behind him, I lean forward, wrapping my arms around his chest, heaving him, as slowly and as gently as I can, back up the stairs, one step at a time. Now we are at the top and it’s easier as I pull him as carefully as I can into the spare room.
I lay him on the floor.
Put towels and fabrics under his head.
Prop him up slightly.
He’s okay to be left for a minute or two as I pull a small hand towel from a bag and walk carefully to the bathroom. I need to wet it, maybe wipe the man’s face, squeeze some water over his lips. Need to be careful, though. I turn the cold water tap slightly, pushing the edge of the towel below it to catch and soak up the running water. There’s a second or two’s hesitation, a knocking and a clanking from somewhere up above and then the water runs freely.
I go back, wiping the blood from the man’s face.
Can’t have William seeing him like that.
I cradle his head as I squeeze water from the towel into his mouth.
He tries to struggle up, is too weak, and settles for a brief smile, of sorts, as he slips back down. He focuses on me again – and I take in his appearance as I look back at him. An older man, maybe late fifties or early sixties, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, free, amazingly, from blood. Thin, what they call wiry. His hair dyed black, too dark for his lined face. But it is a kind face.
Sitting here quietly, it hits me suddenly.
What he said earlier.
“My partner’s coming up . . . he’ll be here soon.”
“Look at me,” I say to the man, as forcefully as I can without William hearing. I lean forward, pulling him up by the arms so our faces are inches from each other. “What did you mean, when is your partner coming up?”
His head lolls back, as he slips in and out of consciousness.
“Listen,” I say, laying him back down and shaking his face to wake him. “What did you mean about your partner? When is he coming?”
No good, he’s unconscious again. I use the wet towel to wipe his face, will have to wait until he comes to once more. Will ask him then.
Meanwhile, I search his pockets, see what there is. Inside his jacket pocket is a thin, black leather wallet. I empty it, spreading the contents by the side of his body. A driving licence – his name is Gerald something-cwski – has a small photo stuck to the back of it, showing him as a much younger man with an older, bald-headed man and a small white terrier between them, its tongue out as if it’s panting.
“Is this him?” I say louder again, shaking the man by the arm and putting the photo close to his face. “Is this your partner?” No use, he’s still not conscious.
I rummage through his trouser pockets. A handkerchief in one, a small key ring, with two keys on it, in the other. I study the key ring, with a Mini logo. One key is an old Yale – the front door of this house, I’d guess – while the other is a car key, presumably for a Mini. So, out there, probably just outside the front door and no more than twelve feet from the house, is our getaway.
“Go,” replies the man suddenly. He’s laid back, his eyes shut, his face twisted in pain. “Go!” he says again, as strongly as he can.
“Gerald?” I say sweetly, leaning forward so our heads are almost touching. “Can you hear me?”
He nods, painfully, his lips twisting. I push the corner of the towel into his mouth and he sucks on it slowly, like a baby. “Better?” I ask nicely. He nods, almost imperceptibly. “What did you say about your partner coming up? When will he arrive?”
It seems to agitate him. “Go!” he says again. “Go . . . please.” It strikes me that he’s frightened, not of me, nor for himself – he must surely know his life is ebbing away – but for his partner. He’s worried that I will kill him too.
“We’ll go, me and my little boy, later; when it’s dark. We can’t go before then. It’s not safe. When is your partner due to get here?”
This time, a huge effort, I don’t know how he does it, he somehow struggles up onto his elbows, as I support him by the arms. His eyes open, he struggles to focus now, his eyes rolling back and he almost spits out the words, “Go . . . now . . . Go . . . now.”
He slumps back.
God forgive me.
I’ve killed again.
I didn’t mean to.
52
11.20am, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
The four of them, the young couple and the old couple, flanked by two police family liaison officers, one man and one woman, look at the older plain-clothes officer who stands before them in the doorway of the cottage.
Rick and Nat go to speak, both of them getting to their feet as the older officer turns to face them.
She speaks, her hands gesturing them to sit down. “We’ve no news yet, I’m afraid. I’ve just come over to tell you what we know, to put you in the picture.”
“No one’s told us anything, it’s been ages . . . I’ve been using this . . . my phone . . . to see if there is any news, on Sky.”
