The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 6
I’ve gone by Grantham now, and am heading towards Stamford, or so the signs say. Doing well. Just keeping the car going nice and steady. I’m sat in the inside lane, going at a level fifty. Nobody will notice me. No one at all. I’m not drawing attention to myself, see? I look like a regular Joe on a day out.
I can see her now, in my head, laying on the kitchen floor. I’d twisted the knife out of her hand and slashed desperately at her with it. Just once. That’s all. To scare her off. No more than that. But I misjudged it and sliced her neck open. I did not mean to do it.
She looked up at me, her eyes trying to focus. All I could see was the blood. And I could hear her gurgling as she fought to get her breath. Her eyes, looking past me, then centred. Focused. Fixed on me. Uncomprehending.
Cars go by, at seventy or eighty miles per hour, some of them. But not me. I’m concentrating. And I’m a careful driver, even though it’s been a year or two since I’ve been in a car. I was always a good driver, me. Careful and thoughtful, just like the perfect driver should be.
Her eyes focused, then seemed to blur and lose their sight. Her head lolled back. Eyes rolling upwards. I stood there for what seemed an age. A minute probably. No more than that.
Did I say she gurgled?
Like a baby.
I did, didn’t I?
Her skirt, that short black skirt, had ridden up towards the top of her thighs. I could see underneath, could see what she was wearing. Not much. I looked. Stared. God help me, I looked. I couldn’t help myself. It had been so long. But I knew I mustn’t touch, I mustn’t touch, I mustn’t touch.
I reached for a tea towel.
To cover her face.
I pushed her head to one side.
I have to keep driving, slow and steady. Just got to put it all out of my mind. I need to start thinking straight. Focus. Do what I have to do. What’s done is done. I can’t do anything about it now. Too late.
I’ve got to get to Suffolk as quickly as I can. Before she might be found. Before the car’s reported missing.
Not so long now. Not if I keep going at a nice level fifty.
I tried to tidy her up afterwards, leaving her there neatly, arms and legs by her sides. Mopped around with tea towels as best I could. Shoved them and the knife at the back of the cupboard, behind everything else, underneath the sink. Pushed her body towards the fridge so that the blood might run away under it.
There was a lot of blood.
So much of it everywhere.
All over me too.
I pushed my old clothes, drenched red, as far back in the cupboard under the sink as I could.
I did my best to put things right. There’s not much I could do though. Just so much mess. I may have left bloodied footprints as I went upstairs to find clothes. I washed myself clean in the bathroom. I may even have left some mess there too. And nothing will disguise what else I’ve done. No, not at all. Too late now. They have forensics. They’ll know. Yes, they’ll know alright.
No use being sorry about it, though.
Sorry won’t help.
No, not one little bit.
There’s a police car behind me. Inside lane. About three cars back. It’s going at a steady speed too. About fifty miles an hour. It’s just keeping pace with me. No more, no less.
I slow from fifty, through forty, to thirty-five; too slow, too obvious? Three cars between us. I keep my head level and facing straight ahead. But my eyes are looking in the mirror.
I hold the car steady, moving along nicely. One, two cars coming by me in the outside lane. Looks like they’ve all clocked the cop car. They all go by on the dot of seventy, I reckon.
Not the cars behind me, though. They’re still there. The same three cars between me and the police. Not one of them is willing to overtake with the cop car right there, watching.
I accelerate slowly, nudging the car carefully back up towards fifty. Nice straight run. All three cars come with me, keeping pace. All in a line. None of them pulls out. Not one.
And still the police car stays put. Tailing me. Watching me. I try to see how many coppers there are in it. Looks like two to me. Men. Both in the front, I think. I can’t see anyone in the back. Hard to tell, though. Too far to see clearly. Too many cars in between.
One driving, following me? The other radioing CID. Calling for more coppers. Just tailing me until the other cop cars are in place. Somewhere ahead of me. Pulled into a lay-by. Two cars? They’ll pull out in front of me. Sirens wailing as I approach. Two ahead, blocking the road. One behind, closing me down. Forcing me in. Trapping me.
Is that what’s going to happen?
I can see ahead of me. Two, three miles of clear, straight road. Two lanes this side. Barrier in the middle. Two lanes the other side of the road. Nothing but fields everywhere else. There’s no way I can pull over and make a run for it. I’m not going to outrun two fit young men. That’s how it would end, wouldn’t it? Me stumbling and staggering across a field and being brought down by some baby-faced coppers. They’d pin me down. Cuff me. I can’t have that. Not that. Never again. I’d rather take the car up to one hundred and go straight through the roadblocks and take any coppers on the other side out with me.
If I have to, I will.
Heed my words.
I’ll die rather than be captured.
This side of the road’s still clear. I can see cars coming towards me the other way. But nothing this side at all. Not as far ahead as I can see.
Just the five of us now. Me. The three cars in between. And the cop car. All in a procession. Me in front. Clapped-out Beetle behind. Green Fiesta. A beat-up old farm truck. The cop car. All of us going at a nice steady fifty.
And still we keep going. I can feel the beads of sweat trickling down the sides of my face. One rolls and hangs for a second below my left cheek. I want to dab it, brush it, wipe it away. But I daren’t. I don’t want to move. I need to act normal. Like this is a regular journey. An ordinary fellow wouldn’t be sweating like this. Not in October. Not when it’s cold.
Head facing forward.
Keeping it still.
Nice and steady pace.
The Beetle pulls out. I see it coming by me. Accelerating away, up to seventy. Seems to take an age to reach and pass by me. Signals left, pulls in, moving ahead and slowly away. Textbook driving. He knows the cop car is there. He thinks he’s being watched. You stupid fucker. It’s me they’re after.
The Fiesta does the same. Must have been waiting for someone else to move first, to see if the coppers respond. It pulls out, comes up next to me, and accelerates away, following the Beetle.
Now the old farm truck moves behind me. Police car keeps pace. Just the truck between us now. They’re waiting, the coppers. Getting ready for me to panic. Put my foot down and accelerate off and away. They’ll pull out, moving up smoothly behind me. I can’t outpace them and that’s a fact. Not in this tinpot little car. It’s like driving a can on wheels. The police car will move up, siren wailing, as we move on and over the hill that’s coming up now.
What’s on the other side? A lay-by, I guess. Two police cars there waiting for me. Did I say? Yes, I did. I’m sure. They’re just sitting and waiting for me to make my move.
Here it comes.
Here it comes.
The truck. Pulling out. Puffing and wheezing by the look of it. Moves alongside me, takes an age to go by.
The police car’s right behind me now, and close. I can see the copper driving. He’s looking at me, watching me, seeing what I’m going to do. The copper next to him – it’s a woman, I can see now – is talking into something, a radio, I’d guess. Radioing ahead. To the police cars just over the hill.
Got to keep calm. Just stay calm.
Think what to do.
Over the hill, there’ll be a lay-by. I told you, didn’t I? Another cop car there, maybe two. They’ll be a little way ahead. Will pull out as they see me. Get in place to force me over and slow me down. I’m trapped, so help me God.
Here we go.
To the top of the hill.
We’re almost there. At the top. Up we go, up and almost over.
What am I going to do?
Tell me. Please.
What the fuck am I going to do?
12
11.07am, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
The old woman, sitting in a high-backed armchair in the front room of the tiny cottage, turns her head slowly to the window and watches the old man struggling up the path with handfuls of carrier bags. She listens as he dumps them on the doorstep, coughs and then rattles repeatedly through his pockets for his keys. As she hears the door opening at last, she speaks, her voice raised.
“You’ve been ages . . . did you get everything? They’ll be here soon.”
The old man draws in his breath. “I had to go to the other bakers, they didn’t do kiddie things at the usual, only croissants and scones. I’ve got some biscuits with those sprinkles on top and eclairs and a nice Chelsea bun for Richard. We’ve got scones . . . or we can share one if you prefer, they’re quite large.”
She sits back, waiting for him to put things away in the kitchen. She hears him turning the kettle on and clattering cups and saucers out of the cupboards, making a pot of tea.
“Do you want a pot . . .?” he asks, looking in on her. “Oh . . . I’ll just use a bag then . . . you’ve started early.”
She holds her glass up. “It’s gone eleven; it’s just to get me warmed through. It’s so cold.”
He comes in with a cup of tea and sits opposite her, so he can see out the window and up the path, wanting to watch for the son and daughter-in-law and the small boy to arrive in their car. From here, he can see out and across the car park where they’ll arrive.
“I’ve been thinking. While you were out. I’ve had enough of this place and the North Sea wind,” she says wearily, looking at him. “It’s always so cold and it’s just so remote.” She thinks for a moment or two and adds, “We should sell it and buy an apartment or something somewhere warm, Majorca or that other island . . . not Ibiza. The one we went to once when you were working in Belgium, France, wherever it was.”
“Menorca . . . It’s not so bad here . . . it’s been a long time now. You used to love coming up here when Richard was young.” He hesitates for a moment or two, watching her expression. “And Roger, Roger loved this place too. With the boats. He did love his boats.”
She nods once, twice, several times, as if thinking to herself. “We did. Roger did like the boats. But it was so long ago. And we’re old and this place is a ruin. Look at it.” She gestures at her armchair and to his sofa across the room. “It’s so tatty.”
“It’s how you wanted it kept. Like it used to be when . . . in the old days. We can do the place up if you like. Get Sky telly in. If we get a phone installed, they can run it off that I think. Maybe some double glazing.”
“The cottage is so cold, it’s always so cold here.” She goes quiet.
“The radiators just want bleeding, that’s all. I’ll do it later, this afternoon, if the kiddie has a sleep. I can get one of those keys from that shop opposite the bakers.”
Her head has dropped down and she is silent. He could kick himself. He knows he shouldn’t have mentioned Roger. It is still raw, even now. He thinks perhaps it always will be. And the drinking doesn’t help. She hasn’t the head for it. Drink, when she has it, makes her less sour but more melancholy. Spiteful sometimes, when the mood takes her.
“Come on, old girl,” he says. “Chin up … look, they’re here already,” he adds, seeing the flash of a blue car pulling up outside. “Sort yourself out while I get the door. You don’t want the kiddie to see you upset. Let’s give them a weekend to remember.”
13
11.15am, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
The little boy stands on the doorstep of the cottage, holding an African violet in his cupped hands.
He looks at the brass door knocker shaped like a lion’s face on the door, far above his head.
It is a friendly face, like the smiley lion in Madagascar.
He remembers seeing it before and thinks about how his mama had laughed when he had growled like a lion upon seeing it. He does it again.
“Grrr-rrr-rrr.”
But his mama does not say anything, nor his papa.
“Grrr-rrr-rrr.”
They stand there, behind him, waiting quietly.
He smiles anyway, remembering his mama’s words as they got out of the car and she handed him the plant: “Smile little soldier, say cheese, big smile.” He does not really know what all of that means but he knows he has to smile. And he holds the plant as high as he can, raising it up above his head as the door swings open and he listens to the hubbub of adults’ voices.
The white-haired man leans forward and bends down, his face appearing inches in front of the little boy. “Is that for Grand-Mama? Thank you very much.” The old man takes the plant from the little boy’s outstretched hands and goes to ruffle his hair.
The little boy smiles again, not sure what to say or do, and whether he should attempt another lion’s roar. He puts his face into his mama’s skirt, but she pulls him out gently and moves him forward into the cottage.
He smells a smell, something that reminds him of his papa’s breath late at night when he comes to say goodnight. He does not like the smell at all.
Moving into the cramped front room, the old man sits in an armchair by the window, opposite his mama and papa on the faded sofa. The small boy sits between them, laying down across them at first and then, when they keep pushing him up, pressing his head against his mama. She pulls him out, softly the first time, but more firmly after that.
“Do you remember me, Willie,” the old man smiles. “Is it Willie? Or Billy? Or do they now call you a very grown-up William?”
“Will,” answers Nat, “we always call him Will.”
“Will it is then,” says the old man, winking and smiling at the little boy.
They sit there for a few moments as Rick talks of distances and speeds and miles per gallon: “Litres, these days, of course.”
And then the old woman comes back into the room, pushing an aged silver tea trolley with a pot of tea and cups and saucers on the top and a range of pastries underneath, all arranged neatly on bone china plates.
The little boy sits up, pointing at the chocolate éclair he has spotted. He has eaten these before, one after another, at a party. He likes them a lot. But he also remembers when his mama had come to collect him and there were raised voices, mainly Mama’s. She had taken his hand and walked him away. He tried to smile bravely as they went, knowing he would not now get a present as the other children did at the end of a party.
“Mama?” he says, turning towards her. He points towards the éclair.
“That’s my favourite,” says the old man, leaning down to pick up the plate. “But you can have it this time.”
The boy smiles and goes to reach out for the éclair as Rick and Nat look at each other. He pulls a face. She grimaces back. There is a moment’s silence as the older couple watch on.
Nat speaks up, leaning forward to take the éclair from the boy.
“Thing is . . .” She hesitates, looking again at Rick, who glances away. She speaks more firmly, “Will is type one. I mean he’s diabetic. He can have the occasional treat but we then have to change his insulin dosage, so it would be easier all round . . . just for now . . . if he didn’t . . .” The little boy lets out a loud cry.
14
12.03pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Want to know where I am?
I’m in Aldeburgh.
Too fucking right.
You’ll never believe it. What happened? I’ll tell you what happened.
Nothing.
Jack diddly-squit.
I came up over the hill and that was it. Sweet FA. Nothing on the other side at all. Not on the left. Nor on the right. No cop car in a lay-by. Just that long A1 road stretching out and away again in front of me.
I kept the car at a nice pace, mind you. Because I still had the police car behind me at this point, remember? So I couldn’t be sure I was safe. Not one hundred per cent anyway. I just kept going on. Cool, that’s me. Dead cool.
I went on and on to Suffolk. Easy it was. The petrol light flashed with a little way to go. But I held my nerve. And I arrived in Aldeburgh, turned right by the old bookshop and the cinema, and made my way through to the other side of town.
I’m sitting here now. Stretched out and relaxed. I’m just lying here, watching. I’ve tipped my seat back a touch. I’m taking a breather. Well, you’ve got to, haven’t you? Not for long, mind. Because it’s all going to happen soon. It’s all going to kick off big-time.
My plan’s worked so far.
Just perfect.
Did I tell you about my plan? I did, didn’t I? Yes, I’m sure I must have done.
It’s why I got out last night. The night before Halloween.
And late – too late for the Saturday papers, see? Probably the Sundays too, if truth be told.
I had to get to Aldeburgh for Halloween. Where the Veitchs are. And the grandparents. And my little William, of course.
The Veitchs won’t be at home in London, see – so the cops can’t warn them I’m out.
And I reckon the cops won’t know about the grandparents’ place in Aldeburgh.
And they certainly won’t know they all get together here at this time of year.
In a seaside cottage with no television and no telephone.
Perfect.
Just fucking perfect.
Now I’m here.
In Aldeburgh.
Today’s the day. Halloween.
It’s the day that’s the key. It’s the Halloween festival tonight.
That’s why little William’s here. And the Veitchs. And the grandparents. The family all here for the Halloween festival. I know exactly what they do. I used to come here with them, see? Years ago, when I was with, well, you know. The wife. They do like their routines, I’ll tell you that for nothing.
They spend the morning on the beach, usually. Or at least they used to do – they walk up to the town and back along the seashore. I reckon they might still be doing that. Little William would be collecting shells by now. They do that, you know. Small children. Collect shells.
