Not with his own hands. He sat on the sofa in Donna Warren’s house, stared at the body on the floor. He had seen postmortems before, watched while body parts were removed and weighed, cut and prodded, listened while decisions were made as to causes of death. But that was all afterwards. This was now.
Now he had the body of Rose Martin on the floor in front of him. He stared at it, transfixed. Her middle section was a confusion of red, lumpy gore. He couldn’t identify organs or body parts; it was all just a mess. Her blood was all over the room. He knew that a blood-splatter expert could recreate what had happened from the various sprays and gushes, but right now he was content to just sit there and stare at it. Like an artist in his studio.
But it was the face that fascinated him the most. Minutes ago, it had been so full of animation. Eyes alight and burning with hatred, mouth spewing forth truths he hadn’t wanted to hear. And now this. Nothing. Mouth slack, empty of words and sounds, eyes dull and staring, like a gutted fish on a marble slab.
He didn’t feel bad about what he had done. On the contrary. He felt elated.
He just had to make sure he got away with it, that was all.
He rubbed his head. It was still sore from where Donna Warren had hit him. Tender to the touch. He had a bruise, a lump coming. At first he had been livid with rage that she – and the boy – had got away. He knew that following them wasn’t an option. Causing a scene in public, brandishing a knife on a street – even in New Town – would attract attention. So he had had to let them go. But now, sitting here, he thought that was the best thing that could have happened. Because now he had a scapegoat. Now he had a murderer.
He knew what to do. Leave the body to be found. By him, later. And then shift all the blame on to Donna Warren. Make his later visit an explanation for how his DNA came to be in the house; let his verbal testimony be enough to catch and convict her. Take charge of the interviews. Make sure they went his way.
Oh yes. This would be easy.
And he had planned how to explain his sudden disappearance from the hospital too. He was giving chase to the person who had abducted the boy. And he had lost him. Simple. In fact, once he was certain the 4x4 was well away, he had put in a call asking for assistance in finding it. Covering himself. Muddying the waters further.
And Phil… He had looked in no fit state to say anything against him.
Glass nodded. Good. All good.
He stared at Rose Martin’s body once again.
It was the first time he had killed someone.
But it wouldn’t be the last.
78
The night was moving in. Bringing with it the chill of autumn, the threat of winter. But inside Phil and Marina’s house in Wivenhoe, the windows were closed, the curtains and blinds drawn. The night was being kept at bay.
Or it should have been.
Because Phil could feel the night inside him. Deep within.
He sat in an armchair, staring straight ahead. Marina and Don stood in front of him, concern etched on their faces.
‘Shall I give you a hand upstairs with him?’ Don said. ‘Get him into bed?’
Marina looked down at Phil. His eyes were open, but there was no movement. Whatever he was seeing wasn’t in the room with them. It wasn’t even in the present. Her heart broke to see him that way.
‘No,’ she said, ‘leave him there.’
‘But he needs rest, Marina. He needs-’
‘Yes, Don,’ she said, voice low, but calm and firm, ‘he needs rest. But there’s something he needs before that. Answers.’
She locked eyes with the older man. He couldn’t hold her look, turned away.
‘He needs to confront this, Don. It’s gone on long enough. It’s gone on his whole life.’
Don shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘I don’t want… I don’t want him hurt.’
Marina almost laughed. She gestured towards Phil. ‘Look at him, Don. D’you think he could be hurt any more than he is already?’
Don sighed, eventually shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I suppose not.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s do it. Let’s get him sorted out.’ Each word was dragged out of him, like a chained concrete block being picked up and moved.
Marina took a deep breath, then another. She sat down opposite Phil, took his hand in her own. It felt cool, dry. ‘Phil?’
His eyes flickered. Like a weak current of electricity had been passed between them.
‘Phil. It’s me. Marina. I want to talk to you. Can we do that? Can we talk?’
An imperceptible nod of the head.
‘Good.’ Still holding his hand. ‘I just want to ask… who did you see, Phil? In the car, who was it?’
‘The face… the face from my dream… ’ His eyes closed, face contorted, as if seeing it all over again.
‘OK. Good. The face from your dream. Good. What was he in the dream? What was he doing?’
‘He was… I was in the cage, the cage of bones, in the cellar… and he was… ’ He looked away, shook his head, as if trying to get the image out of his mind.
‘You’re doing fine, Phil. Just keep going.’
‘I was in the cage and he was coming towards me, and… those eyes… in the hood, those eyes… ’
‘What about those eyes, Phil?’
‘Dark… dark… like looking into something black and bottomless… ’
‘And he was hooded?’
Phil nodded. ‘And then… and then he was there, outside the hospital… there… real… ’
Marina looked at Don, who nodded too, grave-faced.
‘Don’s here, Phil. He’s going to talk to you. He’s got… things to talk to you about.’
She slid her hand from his, moved away. Don sat next to him. Leaned in to him.
‘Phil? It’s me. Don. I’ve got… I’ve got something to tell you. About the hooded figure. The man who kept you caged in your dreams. OK?’
Another imperceptible nod.
Don took a deep breath. Another. Ready as he would ever be. ‘He’s real, Phil. That’s why he was at the hospital. He’s real. And I know who he is.’
Phil opened his eyes, stared at Don. ‘How…? How…?’ His voice small, tiny, like a child’s. A lost child’s.
‘Because I know him, Phil. I’ve come across him before. And I’m going to tell you all about it. This is about you and your life. Are you ready for this?’
‘Will it… will it stop the nightmares?’
‘Hopefully.’
Phil swallowed. Hard.
‘Then I’m ready.’
79
The car drove through the night-time streets. Dwindling, emptying of people and traffic the further it moved away from the centre of town.
In the back, Donna tried to control her heartbeat. It was slamming against her chest, almost up into her throat. She hadn’t felt like this since Bench gave her some of that nearly pure charlie that time at a party. But that was a pleasant experience. Well, at least until the nosebleeds started. This was anything but.
Beside her, Ben sat staring out of the window. Not wanting to look at her, too scared to look at the men in front.
Donna had tried talking to them. No response. They had just pulled them into the car, driven away.
