Phil sat back, looking at her. About to ask more questions, but they were stopped in his throat. Because Marina’s assailant was on him.
‘Phil!’
He felt hands round his throat, choking him. A feral roar accompanied the action. Phil felt himself go light- headed. He put his hands to his neck, tried to pull the hands away. No good. The grip was too strong.
He dropped the torch, tried to scrabble around for the hammer, couldn’t find it.
The beam of the torch etched the whole thing against the wall in a grotesque shadow play. He saw the man behind him, his shadow making him look seven or eight feet tall. He had to fight back.
He pushed his elbow back as hard and as fast as he could. The man grunted in pain, loosened his grip. Phil pressed the advantage, did it again. The grip round his throat loosened. He grabbed the man’s thumbs, twisted them away from the rest of his fingers as hard as he could.
The man shrieked in pain. Howled like a wild beast. Phil kept pulling until he heard them snap. Then he let go, wriggled away from him. Turned and faced him.
The man was older than Phil had expected, tall, well built and bald. He looked like an older, meaner version of Hester. Phil knew straight away who it was. Laurence Croft. Hester’s father. Hester’s husband.
Sophie had been wrong. Or she had lied to him.
Croft lunged at him. Phil tried to dodge out of the way, but Croft’s right hand came down as a fist, crashing into his face. Phil spun away, lost his footing, the blow was that strong.
He hit the ground on his back and was winded. He spat out blood, felt a tooth amongst it.
Then Croft was on him, aiming another punch at his face. Phil tried to move, but was too slow. He felt his nose break as the knuckles connected. Felt blood spurt out of his battered face.
Croft knelt over him. Phil tried to sit up, fight back, but his head was spinning.
Croft laughed, brought his fist back for a blow that would cause Phil serious, if not fatal, damage.
Then stopped.
His eyes went wide, his head jerked to the side. His arms fell to his sides.
Phil opened his eyes, confused.
Croft’s head jerked again, his eyes once more widening.
Then again.
Then his eyes rolled to the back of their sockets and he fell over sideways, hitting the ground with a huge, echoing thump.
Phil looked up. There, standing over the inert body of Laurence Croft, was Marina. Holding in her hand the hammer he hadn’t been able to find, the head coated with blood and other matter.
It dropped to the floor. Phil stood up, went to her.
Had her in his arms before the tears started.
Both hers and his.
86
November gave way to December, and with it Christmas. But there would be no celebrations for Phil.
He sat in his house, the only seasonal decorations a couple of Christmas cards from colleagues, one from Don and Eileen. And one from Marina. He opened it. There was a letter inside.
Phil sighed, decided not to read it, not just yet. He could-n’t face it without his props. He got up, went to the kitchen, fetched himself a beer, came back to the sofa. Flicked the remote at the stereo. He knew which album was in there.
He closed his eyes, rubbed his hands over his face. His nose was healing. He hoped the rest of him was too. He took a mouthful of beer. Thought back over what had happened since that night in Wrabness.
He had found the key to the door in the pocket of Croft’s overcoat, saving another crawl through the tunnel. But Marina was clearly in pain, clutching her stomach as soon as they made it out. He bundled her straight into an ambulance and off to the hospital.
Then it was a question of mopping up, sorting out.
After having his nose patched up, he had gone back to the station, Anni alongside him, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.
‘So Hester’s husband was real after all,’ said Anni, sinking exhausted into her office chair.
Phil nodded. ‘Sophie played us.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘Protecting her father?’
‘After all that?’
‘Who knows? Maybe she still loved him.’
‘Or maybe she just lied.’
‘They all lie to us. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. Something I said to Clayton…’ He sighed, his eyes moist. ‘Christ. What a mess…’
The media spotlight was intense. Phil kept out of the way as much as possible, leaving it to Fenwick to deal with. After that, things moved quickly.
Laurence Croft was pulled out of the cellar. Dead. Phil knew there would be an inquiry, but it was strongly intimated that no charges would be brought against either him or Marina. If anything, he would receive a commendation.
Hester was taken to a secure hospital and placed under psychiatric supervision. Phil believed it was only a matter of time before he – he couldn’t think of him as she – was declared insane. The baby was doing well and would soon be released to her father. Phil hoped that Graeme Eades would be able to cope.
Brotherton was going to stand trial for attempted murder. And Sophie Gale/Croft had been formally charged with murder.
Which led Phil to recall Clayton’s funeral.
That was the toughest part of all. It was held at the Colchester Baptist Church in Eld Lane, right in the middle of town. The Georgian building looked out of place sitting alongside the eighties red-brick shopping arcade that took up most of the town centre.
As Phil stood inside, holding on to the curved wood of the pew in front, he was struck by how small the coffin looked next to the huge organ pipes behind it. How insignificant.
The minister was talking about man having but a short time to live, and Phil knew that everyone in the church was well aware that Clayton’s had been shorter than most. Twenty-nine years. He was also aware of the divide between Clayton’s family and his work colleagues. He had been asked to say something as part of the service but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.Too much pain, too much guilt. Had asked Fenwick to do it instead.
The minister went on to talk of the gift of hope. Phil had looked around the congregation. Clayton’s mother and sisters looked shell-shocked. Even Anni was in tears. He didn’t think there were many there sharing that gift.
Afterwards, walking out, Fenwick had approached him.
‘There’s a reception back at the family home. We’ve been invited.’
Phil nodded. ‘You go,’ he said.
‘I think they’d like it if you were there.’
‘You go, Ben.’
Fenwick nodded. Didn’t move. There was something else he wanted to say. Phil waited.
‘You know, it might all come out. About… Clayton. At Sophie Gale’s trial.’
‘I know.’
‘I mean, I’ll do what I can, but…’
‘I know you will.’ Phil looked across to the other mourners leaving the church, Clayton’s mother having to be helped. ‘Do what you can, Ben.’
He walked away.
