“Oh, bugger. I’m so sorry, it’s my mistake. I’ve got your appointment written in on both days. I must have changed it and forgotten to take the other one out. That's why I got confused.”
“So, it’s a mistake?”
“Yes, a stupid mistake. I’ll call the police and rectify it. I was at the centre that day, I’m sure of it. There’ll be a record somewhere.”
She let out a shaky breath. “Oh, thank goodness, Paul. I was really worried there for a moment. You know, with everything they were saying…”
“What did they say?”
She hesitated. “Oh, you know what, it’s not important. The main thing is we got to the bottom of it. Listen, I have to go, my bath is getting cold. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay, night Dessie.”
“Night, Paul.”
After she hung up, he stood staring at the phone until his tea went cold.
The lights were off, so he knew she’d gone to bed. It was midnight, but she didn’t stay up late, she was always too exhausted. Her job took it out of her.
He went around the back and stopped in front of the faulty window. She’d once told him it was her backup plan if she ever got locked out. He even knew how to wiggle it so that it gave just a little and the inside hook jumped off the knob.
It barely creaked as he eased it open.
It was a quiet night, only a sliver of moon. A tiny crescent frowning down at him. Was that the Lord’s way of telling him he was committing a sin?
He pulled the window wide open and climbed inside, using the pot plant below as a ledge. Bloody geraniums.
He’d killed before, but never like this. This was different, it felt different. Adrenalin pumped through his veins. Tonight, he wasn’t killing to save an abused child, he was killing to save himself.
Didn’t he count too? Weren’t they all God’s children at the end of the day?
He padded through the room; his trainers silent on the thick carpeting. He knew the layout of her house by heart, could have done it blindfolded.
He placed his hand on the railing and made his way silently up the stairs to the master bedroom. Dessie had converted Gail’s room into a makeshift office while she was away in London. At the moment it was filled with test papers she had to mark, and flip charts she had to finish.
The landing was in darkness, as was the crack beneath the bedroom door. Dessie couldn’t sleep if there was a glimmer of light.
He placed his hand on the door handle and turned it slowly, hoping it wouldn’t creak. It emitted a soft groan but not loud enough to wake her. She was a deep sleeper.
He clenched the coil of rope in his gloved hand. It would be over quickly. He didn’t want her to suffer. She was a good woman, just a little dim-witted. Especially for a teacher.
He could tell by her voice she was spooked, that she didn’t believe him. He couldn’t risk her telling the police what she knew.
Once he’d done the deed, he’d trash the place. It would look like a break-in gone wrong. He might even take a trinket, something to remember her by. Nothing too garish, though. She didn’t have very good taste.
He pushed the door open and slunk towards the bed. He could see her sleeping shape. She was on her side facing away from him. Closer he crept, until he stood right beside her. Still she didn’t move.
He raised the rope and twisted it around his hands, then he bent down to wrap it around her neck.
Suddenly the light flicked on.
A thunderous voice yelled, “This is the police. Stop and put your hands in the air!”
He froze. What the–?
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw DCI Miller and his sidekick from the Common both pointing guns at him, along with four other armed officers.
He dropped the rope and stuck his hands in the air.
It was a trap!
The woman in the bed sat up.
He gasped. “You!”
“Paul Daley,” Jo said, getting out from under the covers. “You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Dessie Barton.”
54
“Hello, Paul,” said Jo, as she entered the interrogation room. “Or should I call you Michael?”
The dark eyes followed her as she walked.
“Which do you prefer?”
“Paul.”
She sat down. “So, Paul. Why didn’t you tell us you were also Michael Robertson, the boy who lived up the street from me and my sister in Manchester?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“So, you don’t deny that was you?”
He scoffed. “Why would I deny it? It’s not a crime to change your name.”
“No, it’s not.”
She studied him from across the cold interview table. Gone was the congenial open-faced smile. Now he regarded her with suspicion.
“I remember you, though.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes. You were a scrawny little thing, always following Rachel around like a lap dog.” it was true, she’d worshiped her big sister.
“What happened to her, Paul? What did you do to her?”
“I didn’t do anything to her. I was as upset as anyone else when she went missing.”
“You were the last person to see her alive,” Jo pointed out.
“We sat in the park and talked, then we went to the shop and she went home. I said goodbye to her and watched her walk up the street.”
“You didn’t see her again after that?” she asked.
“No.”
Jo paused for a moment. Then she opened the file she’d brought with her and took out a drawing. She placed it on the table in front of Paul.”
“Do you recognise this, Paul?”
He stared at it for a moment, then shook his head. “Should I?”
“It’s one of Rachel's pictures. Good, isn’t it?”
He tilted his head to the side.
“I think she had a certain flair.”
He didn’t respond.
“Do you know what it’s of?” Jo asked.
“An angel?” He shrugged.
“It’s an angel, yes. With wings and a halo. She’s floating above a
