‘You want to cheat on me, you bitch!’ he growled into her ear. ‘Huh? You want to fucking cheat on me?’
‘Yes, I cheated and I fucking liked it.'
Grabbing her throat, he mashed his whiskey tasting mouth to hers and slammed her up against the wall, a scattering of picture frames crashing to the floor. She tore breathlessly at his shirt, the buttons popping open to reveal his stubbled chest. She raked her nails across his skin and he grunted, jarred.
Spinning her to face the wall, he grabbed her hair again, his free hand yanking down her pants, knickers. As he freed himself from his jeans he grunted, ‘This is how I treat dirty little cheats, you fucking whore!’
She pushed her arse hungrily back against him, desperation gripping her, and he thrust himself roughly into her from behind. He grappled ruthlessly at her breasts through her shirt as he ground in and out, tugged at her hair, gripped her throat tightly. Tighter. Bang, bang, bang, the two of them panting in unison, unceremonious grinding, sweat dripping from their noses. Aching and hurting, she allowed herself to be abused, battered, thrust ruthlessly into, bodies colliding together, backs moist, until in minutes they exploded as one, great gushes erupting from each of them, leaving them quivering, breathless, hearts pounding.
They remained as they were against the wall, David’s chin resting on her shoulder, sharp gasps exhaling. It took only a moment to free himself; another to pull up his jeans.
She turned to look at him but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Instead he tucked in his shirt, stood still and eyed the carpet, blinking uncertainly.
‘David…’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’
He glanced at her once, eyes filled with sadness, and walked into the hallway.
She pulled up her underwear and wiped the moisture from her eyes.
The front door slammed shut.
*
In a screech of tyres York tore into Newport’s street and spun the car into the driveway. His partner’s vehicle lay dormant in front of the dark house. David’s was gone.
Despite the car the house looked vacant, zero signs of life.
He climbed from the car and jogged to the front door, hoping to God that she was in bed.
Others had emerged from their homes, pairs and groups of excitement deprived neighbours.
Back at the station Braddock was sitting at Mason’s desk, phone glued to his ear hoping Newport would pick up. By the time York left, the psychologist had struck out.
Tentatively, York gripped the handle and pushed the door inwards.
The phone in the hall was ringing…
*
…ringing, ringing, but the sound was incoherent. Newport had poured herself some of David’s whiskey and taken his place on the sofa. Around her the silence felt comforting, frightening.
How had she managed to fuck things up so monumentally? David was gone, York was pissed off at her, and Kellie hated her. And what about the sex? How pathetic was she to assume she could get David to stay with the offer of lovemaking.
Lovemaking?
Hardcore fucking.
He’d abused her and she’d deserved it. One thing was for certain too, David hadn’t been the only one who’d enjoyed it. Tacked onto the end of the electrifying conversation with Kellie she’d been horny, and David had been in the right place at the right time.
Picking up the glass, she swigged back the whiskey in one wince. The phone began to ring again, the only sound for a million miles. This time she acknowledged it. Perhaps it was David to accept her apology, or Kellie to say she was backing down from her assignment.
Neither was likely.
She crossed the carpet groggily and wandered into the hallway, eying the place where David’s case had stood. Pushing her hand tentatively through the nostalgia, she reached for the phone, but in a flash was dragged back as the strong hands grappled her from behind, lifting her off her feet. She swung a sharp elbow upwards connecting with bone, hopefully an eye socket. As she fought, only two things tore through her mind, cutting a path inside her own unequivocal terror:
He was already inside.
He’d been there all along.
*
The cacophony of the shrill ring set York on edge as he entered the shadow laden hallway. The entrance remained vacant and soulless.
He wanted to call his partner’s name but held back. Instead he bent down and unplugged the phone, the chimes dying away echoingly. His eyes began to adjust and he moved stealthily into the equally dark living room, enough light from the street dappling the space with vision. In the centre of the floor, a sole glass stood empty on the small coffee table.
Slowly he took off his hat and laid it on the table next to the tumbler. And then he saw her.
‘Oh shit, Holly!’ he called. ‘Oh, shit-shit-shit.’
He found the wall-switch, flooding the room with light. There, on the floor next to the kitchen door in a small pool of red, red fluid was his partner, unmoving, one arm up over her head, legs twisted unnaturally, peppered with photographs of herself and a cute blonde woman.
He rushed to her, fell to his knees and saw where the damage was focused. In her side, high enough to have punctured one of her lungs was a serrated blade thrust in at an angle.
‘Oh, Jesus, Holly,’ he moaned.
Down in the blood, he drew closer. He brushed her hair aside and pressed his fingers to her throat, his palm to her chest. He felt no pulse, no rhythmic whumping of her heart. His partner was not sleeping. She was dead.
31
Since the discovery of Newport’s body the scene had become a circus. Press parasites were lingering around outside, as were do-gooders from the neighbourhood, insistent of knowing every scrap and
