The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 5
I’ll slip quietly upstairs. Find some clean men’s clothes tucked away at the back of a wardrobe or maybe the bottom of a drawer. Stuff that’s not worn any more. Clothes that won’t be missed for ages and maybe never at all.
A shave would be a smart idea, if they’ve got one of those disposable razors they’d never miss. I need to get all this fuzz off my face. I’m told I look ten years younger without a beard. Spink told me that when I shaved it off before. Said she wouldn’t have recognised me. She smirked (like she always does), so I wasn’t sure if she was taking the piss.
But I’d look different anyway. Nothing like the photo they’ll put in the papers. I know the one they’ll use. The one where I jerked my head away at the last second. The one with the beard. No one who sees that in the papers would notice me without a big fuzzy beard; they’d never give me a second glance.
I’ve got to get some food too. I’m going to find that first, I have to. I’m hungry now, really hungry. It’s been hours since I ate anything. One of Spink’s stews. Was it only last night? Seven o’clock. Twelve, thirteen hours ago? It seems longer, much longer. The tablets have been wearing off, it’s been ages since I took them. It’s giving me my appetite back. I feel ravenous.
Maybe I’ll find some loose change as well. Not much, not so’s anyone would notice. I’ll rummage in the pockets of old jackets, the backs of drawers, places like that. Perhaps they’ll have a bottle of old coins by the fireplace. Full of twenty- and fifty-pence pieces. I’ll take a couple of handfuls so they’ll not see. Two handfuls can add up. Maybe a fiver’s worth or more. Enough to get a train ticket for one or two stops from Nottingham. Once you’re on the train, you can go where you want in the system, it’s easy. I’ll hide in the toilets if one of the inspectors comes along. Then jump off at an isolated station in Suffolk. I can hitch from there.
I’m going to go for the house to my far left, at the end of the cul-de-sac. A professional couple live there by the look of it, and are getting ready for work. Mid- to late-twenties, I’d guess. No kids – not that I can see. He’s about my size and build. Close to six foot, quite solid but not fat. A smoothie, with his slicked-back hair and stupid goatee beard. Like Rick Veitch, the oily fucker. A yuppie’s what they call them. Or they used to anyway. You lose touch when you’ve been away, so to speak.
She’s a skinny little thing. Not my type at all. About five six, I’d guess. Slight build. Boyish even. Blonde hair, cropped quite short. She’s in a business suit now. (She wasn’t to start with, I can tell you.) Black jacket, white top, short black skirt and heels. Very nice, some would say. If you like that sort of thing. I don’t. Not particularly. No, not me.
Best of all, the house is on a corner plot. Trees down one side, all along my left. A tall fence between this house and the next one to my right. Just one neighbour, that’s all. Very nice. All quiet and peaceful.
They’re in the kitchen. She’s at the sink, standing over it, holding a bowl of cereal and trying to eat it. He’s behind her, pressed up tight. His hands are everywhere; I can see that very clearly. She’s wriggling now and smiling. Putting her arms out to keep the cereal bowl away from her, stopping it from splashing milk down her front. His hands are up and round her breasts. She’s laughing and I can see her mouthing “No!” as she twists and faces him. They kiss. Seems like forever.
I feel myself stirring.
It’s been a long time.
A very long time.
It’s been years since I was with a woman. I lower my eyes for a moment, thinking about the wife, Katie. Mustn’t think about her or any of that. Daren’t. Not yet. It upsets me. A lot. Got to hold it all together.
When I look up, they’ve gone. I move to my left, looking through a tear in the wood to see the room to the right; the lounge, I guess. They’re not there, not as far as I can see. Have they gone upstairs? Would they do it before they went to work? I don’t know. Maybe.
I move again, now back to my right, so I can look through and get a better view of upstairs. The frosted bathroom window to the left, the bedroom window to the right. The curtains, which they pulled back a good hour or so ago, are still wide open.
I wait. I’m sure they’ve gone.
I’ll give it five minutes. Just to be on the safe side.
No, they’re not there. No one’s there.
Time to move. It’s been a good five minutes, maybe more. I slip sideways to my right. Peer through next door’s fence. Crouching, waiting for two, three, four more minutes. No signs of life there either. The curtains, top and bottom, are still pulled to. All still in bed. Maybe a retired couple? Could be, looking at the poxy garden with its neat, trimmed borders and stupid fucking gnomes.
I move back to my left, pulling at two or three large clumps of loose turf by the bottom of the fence. They fall away easily. Enough room to crawl under, I think.
I lie flat, slide forward. No, not enough room, no way enough.
I slide out, dig again a little deeper. Try once more.
Still not enough for me to slide under and through. I dig deeper still, wiping my hands clean on my trousers.
I’ve done it. I slide under. Wriggle. The fence catches in the small of my back. I pull, hard but steady. My full weight’s tugging against the fence. For a moment, I think it will crack, the noise ricocheting around the close. Waking neighbours. Faces at windows. The old couple next door at their back window, looking down, seeing me, half in, half out of the garden. What a way to get caught. Trapped under a fence, for all to see.
I pull through, the fence snapping back into place behind me. A noise, for sure, but not enough to wake anyone, or attract attention. I move quickly up the path, keeping low and close to the fence between the two properties so I’ll not be seen. Six, seven, eight strides and I’m at the patio doors. I’m up against them. It’s too late to back out now. I’ve no excuses, no good explanation if I’m seen. Up to no good for sure.
I pause.
Catch my breath.
I feel my nerves rising.
I expect one of them to come into the lounge at any moment and see me standing there. I try to think of something to say. “I’ve come for the rubbish,” is all I can think of. There’s no chance of that sounding very likely. It’s a Saturday. And I’m in a T-shirt and wet trousers, for Christ’s sake. Binmen don’t do their rounds looking like that.
No one is there, though.
It’s all quiet.
No sounds, nothing.
I gather myself, calming my nerves. It’s going to be alright. Easy. I’ve just got to remember what I’m going to do. Slip in. Get food. Clothes. Loose change. Slip out. Gone. That’s it.
I put my fingers on the handle of the patio doors, still thinking, calming myself down. It opens, the door swinging away in front of me. I stand for what seems an age. Can you believe it? Jammy devil, that’s me. I won’t have to force the doors and risk the noise. I can just slip in, here and now. Get what I want. And slip out, shutting the door behind me.
I step in, pulling the door slowly shut. I hear it click into place. I wait for a moment, my head cocked at an angle, just listening. Nothing to hear. No sound at all. This is going to be oh-so-easy.
I move to the kitchen. Sink to the far right by the back door. Work surfaces. All nice and shiny. Fridge freezer to my immediate right behind the half-open door. To the left, there are work surfaces full of kitchen utensils, a knife rack and fancy dried flowers. Cupboards all along above, washing machine and tumble dryer below. And for the next ten minutes, I can do whatever I want.
I’m suddenly overwhelmed by hunger. It’s been so long. More than twelve hours? I push the door to behind me and stand in front of the fridge. My stomach’s straining for food. I crouch down and pull open the door to see what’s inside.
I reach for a pot of yoghurt, pulling back the lid. It tears, splits in two, half off, half still attached to the pot. I push the remaining foil in with the back of my thumb, yoghurt spurting up over my fingers. I laugh out loud. At this moment, I really don’t care. I’ll clean it up afterwards. I just dip my fingers in, scooping the yoghurt out and pawing it into my mouth.
I flip the empty pot onto the work surface. Wipe my hand on the leg of my trousers. Look back in the fridge again. I’m pushing all the low-fat and fat-free shit to one side to find something halfway decent to eat at the back. Something they won’t notice is gone.
I see various plastic containers. I open one or two. They’re full of some sort of fancy vegetable muck. Who eats that? There are other things wrapped in foil. Maybe cold sausages and meats?
I see a container of that squirty cream. I like that. You couldn’t have it inside, not even on a Sunday. I’ve missed that. I grab it. Sit down in front of the fridge. I’m going to enjoy this. I whoosh a gulp into my mouth, swallowing and gagging on the stuff. I do it again, coughing and spluttering. It’s good, really fucking good. I’ve not had this for years. I do it once more, letting my head fall back this time, spraying the cream down into my throat.
I can’t stop laughing.
I’m roaring my head off.
And then I freeze.
I hear a key in the front door. It’s opening. Someone’s coming in and moving quickly.
I drop the canister on the floor, start rising to my feet, turning to face the kitchen door.
It all happens so fast. The kitchen door slams open. Hits me full on the shoulder. I stumble against the fridge. Regain my balance. Turn round. She’s there, looking up at me. Her mouth wide open in shock.
No fear.
No anger.
Just disbelief.
I hit her across the face with the back of my hand as hard as I can. Panic, not anger. I can’t help it. I don’t mean to. It’s the survival instinct kicking in. Like it was with Smith.
She flies back against the work surfaces, the top half of her body somehow folding backwards, scattering knives from the rack and God knows what all over everywhere. Then she dips towards me, convulses and hits the floor among the clatter of knives.
She lies still. All I can hear is the sound of my own fractured breathing.
God forgive me, what I have done? Now what?
10
9.00am, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“Ignore it, Nat,” Rick shouts, as he reaches for some of the bags piled up at the foot of the staircase, “they’ll just be selling something.”
The landline phone rings on.
He pulls open the front door, carrying the bags down the path to the car.
How much did they need to take for an overnight stay? Not this much, surely.
Rick returns, dumping the unwanted contents of the car boot in the hallway.
The phone is still ringing.
“Who rings a landline these days? It’ll be PPI . . . or worse. There’s this thing now where you hear a click and it switches you to a premium-rate number in Costa . . .”
He tails off, shaking his head as he realises she probably isn’t listening to him.
The ringing stops as he picks up the last few bags and the boy’s little blue bicycle and heads out the door again.
Thank goodness he’d sold the Audi; they’d never have got all of this in that.
He comes back into the house, now ready and waiting to leave. He checks his pockets for his spare pair of glasses and his wallet and keys.
The phone starts ringing again.
“Oh for . . . don’t get it, Nat, we’ve got to go now or we’ll never get there.”
He pauses and then chuckles to himself, realising how quickly be becomes irritated whenever he is stressed.
He waits, his foot tapping, as the phone seems to ring on forever. He isn’t sure if he is now just hearing an echo in his head, it has been going for so long.
It stops again.
He hopes she hasn’t picked the phone up on the bedroom extension. If it is one of her friends, it could be at least another half an hour before they left.
He waits, not sure what is happening.
She appears at the top of the stairs, smiling sweetly at him, carrying the little boy, who puts his arms out towards Rick for a hug.
“I thought you’d answered it; if it’d been Lana, you’d have been on for ages.”
“Private number. I’ve set up a message on the answer phone – so if it is PPI or Costa whatever, they’ll be calling your mobile.”
He shrugs, “Not this weekend. It’s meant to be my weekend off. I’ve left it by the bed. I can’t be doing with pointless calls from the office that can just as easily wait until Monday. I assume you’ve got yours for emergencies?” He reaches out, taking the boy from her and rubbing their noses together to make him laugh. “Come on, let’s go before it starts again. They’re persistent, I’ll give them that.”
They leave, shutting the door behind them, as the phone begins ringing yet gain.
There is a click as the message plays.
And then a clear and strong voice.
“Hello, this is a message for Mr and Mrs Veitch. As a matter of urgency, please call DS Flanagan at Notts CID on . . .”
11
9.02am, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
I’ve just got to keep my focus. Concentrate on what I’m doing and where I’m going in my nice new shiny car.
I’m driving to Suffolk. To get my little boy, William.
We’re going to get away to France and start a new life together.
I have it all worked out. I’ve got a plan. I need to think about that. And that alone.
God help me, what did I do? I needed dry clothes, something to eat, some loose change, that’s all. I wanted to feel human for a few minutes, then be on my way without causing any trouble.
I panicked, see? I panicked, and I hit her. That’s all it was. I wasn’t angry and I wasn’t violent. Haven’t been for ages. Never was, really. This was just blind panic. Instinct. I lashed out. She didn’t give me a chance to think, to work things out, not even a second or two. I could have talked my way out of it if only I’d had a few moments to work out what to say.
I’d have made some excuse. I’d have thought quickly. On my feet. I’m good at that, usually. I’ve had tests to prove it. Psycho-something. I’d have said I thought it was my sister’s house. A week off work. Got lost. Mislaid the address. Came to this close, this house, by mistake. Then I’d have smiled. That would have worked, for sure. I have such a lovely smile.
She didn’t give me a chance, though, did she? Even after I’d hit her in a panic, I’d not have done anything else. I was going to go quietly even then. Just slip out the back, the way I came in. Leave her there in the kitchen. She’d have been okay. Might not even have remembered what had happened, it was all so fast.
But I hesitated. I didn’t know what to do. I was trying to think what the best thing would be. Was trying to clear things up, put them away, straighten it all up.
And then she came round and went for me, didn’t she? Mad she was, real mad. Even then it wasn’t too late, not really. I could have explained and spun her a story. Said something that would have explained it. Made it sound believable. Maybe said I was a down-and-out, down on my luck. Christ, I don’t know. How do I know? Something, anyway. An alkie, anything. Just to quieten her. Give me a chance. A moment. An opportunity to get out of there. No harm done.
She went for me. With one of the big knives she’d knocked over on the floor. And she’d have stabbed me. I could see it in her eyes. She was past talking, she was. She was going to kill me for certain. It was her that was angry and violent, not me. She wouldn’t even give me a chance to explain. To say something, anything. I was rummaging for food, that’s all. Not much to ask for, is it? Squirty fucking cream. Even as we struggled with the knife, it might not have been too late. I could have said something then. I should have said something. I know I should. You don’t have to tell me that.
I’ve got to blot out what happened. Ignore it. Make it all disappear. Just keep driving. I’m doing well, really well. Must be thirty minutes from the house now. Twenty miles away from what happened.
I’m in her car. Did I say? The woman’s. A blue Renault. The one she had on the driveway. She’d left the driver’s door open and the keys in the ignition. So all I had to do was a quick check that no one was watching and I was in it and away. And a full tank of petrol too, give or take. Enough to get to Suffolk anyway. My lucky day.
I’m two hours from Suffolk now, two and a half at most.
And I’ve got new clothes, nice and dry they are. I should have said. I picked out a black jumper from the man’s wardrobe. And some black jogging bottoms he had rolled up in a chest of drawers. I’d have had trousers, but I couldn’t find any I liked; a bit too smarmy-tight for my liking. A jacket too, black, with big pockets. They’re useful, they are, big pockets. And I’ve some trainers of his as well from the cupboard under the stairs. He’s a size eleven and I’m only a nine so they’re not a perfect fit, but still. They’re better than stupid fucking slippers.
Just got to keep my focus.
Nice and cool, nice and calm.
Just have to keep going.
I don’t know how long I’ve got until they find her. She’ll have been going to work, I reckon. Will her boss or colleagues call when she doesn’t turn up? Then what – will they call her at home or on her mobile? I never thought to check if she had one. Never occurred to me, but they all have mobiles these days, don’t they? They’d give her until ten for sure. They’d assume she was delayed in traffic, that’s all.
Would they wait until ten-thirty, maybe? Then they’d call, surely. Get no reply. They’d shrug, agree she was ill. They’d send someone round at lunchtime or on their way home after work, perhaps. Make sure she was okay. Then again, maybe they’d not bother, what with it being a Saturday. Perhaps they’d leave it until Monday? I reckon I’ve got until lunchtime at the very least. That’s enough time to get to Suffolk.
