‘ There’s no easy way to say this. I won’t be coming home.’
Myrna remained silent as an icy blast of chilled air wafted over her.
‘ Are you still there, Myrna?’
Yes, she was. Her voice was brittle. ‘Who is it? Somebody I know?’
‘ No, no, it’s someone I met at a convention in Salt Lake last year, a fellow surgeon.’
‘ A fellow surgeon! That’s a nice way of putting it. What’s her name?’
‘ No, Myrna, you don’t understand. When I say “fellow” surgeon, that’s exactly what I mean.’
Bombshell number two. A crackle of static on the line.
Myrna sat there, wide-eyed, as the meaning struck home. ‘You’re leaving me for a MAN?’
‘ Yes, I’m sorry. We are very much in love. You’d like him.’ Ben sounded weak and contrite.
‘ I doubt it.’
‘ He’s a heart-surgeon, too. Married, couple of kids. We’re setting up over here, both got positions in the best private hospital around. Chief surgeons. You can have the house and the cars. I don’t want anything from you, Myrna… just your understanding and maybe one day your blessing.’ His words tumbled out. ‘I know you haven’t really loved me for some time and I think this coincided with two things: Steve Kruger, and me discovering my sexuality. I think you’ve secretly been in love with Steve for a long time, haven’t you? I just wish I’d had the courage to let you go to him sooner…’
It was on these words that Myrna slammed the phone down.
She stood at the window. Miami was in darkness, a million lights on in buildings. She rested her forehead on the glass and cried as the heavens opened and torrential rain sluiced down over the city.
Without any financial recompense, merely accumulated days off which she would never find the time to take, Detective Sergeant Danny Furness had put in sixteen hours a day since the Monday-morning arrest of Trent and the subsequent discovery of Claire Lilton’s pathetic, battered and sexually mutilated body on the perimeter of the public golf course in Stanley Park.
‘ Welcome to life on CID,’ as FB might as have said.
What Danny had hoped to be a smooth change of career had been anything but. By the time midnight came on Wednesday, she was, once again, mentally and physically a wreck.
She crept into her bed after a long cold drink. Her newly installed house alarm was set, and the panic button on the wall within reach from the bed, glowed a dim, reassuring red. She lay naked under the cool sheet, legs and arms splayed wide, constantly searching for the next cool bit, loving the sensation of lying in a bed she had not seen for seventeen hours. She had not even bothered to have a bath, so desperate was she to get in. She was aware of the dried body sweat, the stale hair, the make-up and the rather obscene knickers she’d had to toss into the washing basket with a grimace of disgust on her face.
A deep sigh lifted her chest and she explored her physical sensations.
She had leg-ache, like she used to get when she was a kid; no doubt varicose veins were a real possibility. Her stomach gurgled in protest at the junk food she had consumed thoughtlessly for the last seventy-two hours, food she would not normally have even looked at. Her eyes were heavy and dark patches grew daily underneath them.
Suddenly the desire to sleep came over her. She reached out, clicked off the bedside light. As she drifted off she thought about the last three days…
Danny had immediately recognised Claire Lilton, though the youngster’s face had been smashed to a pulp and was bloated horrendously by the ligature around her neck. Once the work at the scene had been done, Henry went with the body to the mortuary whilst Danny went straight to see Claire’s parents. She had delivered numerous messages in her time and it seemed that always — always — the receiver of the message knew what the bad news would be even before she opened her mouth. Danny could see the knowledge in their eyes, and Ruth Lilton’s eyes had been no different.
She knew her daughter was dead as soon as she saw Danny.
As she delivered the tragic news, Danny kept one eye on Joe Lilton, the stepfather. Danny knew never to judge a person’s grief; grief was an individual thing, dealt with by people in their own way. Sometimes they were hysterical, other times they reacted with cold detachment. No two people were ever alike, but something crept up Danny’s backside when she witnessed the shifty look of discomfort on Joe Lilton’s face. He squirmed where he sat. And it caused Danny to wonder… Joe, what the hell do you know about Claire’s death?
Before leaving the Liltons’ that day, Danny did everything she could for Ruth.
The work of investigating then began, even though the prime suspect was already in custody.
During the course of that first day, Danny and Henry had little contact with each other. They managed to get together late to have the drink they had missed a few days earlier, when things had taken a bad turn for both of them. Unfortunately, their meeting brought about the second argument Danny had ever had with Henry.
The chat was innocent enough to begin with. They discussed their experiences on ‘the night of the missed drink’, as they called it between themselves. It was probably the tenth time of going over it, but both needed it, Danny in particular. She was grateful to Henry for listening. Each time she spoke, it got easier. The fear lessened; the horror subsided, though still lurked in a dark corner of her mind. But Danny was nothing if not resilient and she was determined to work herself through it.
‘ So, Henry,’ she said eventually, ‘any idea who might have cracked you? You didn’t let on to FB.’
‘ I know… but I reckon we both know who is favourite, don’t we?’
‘ Jack?’
‘ Just his kind of trick, I’d say. Not that he would have done it himself. He’s been a detective in this town for a lot of years and he knows a lot of toe-rags who’d do it for the price of a pint. I’ve bumped into him a couple of times today and he has a sort of knowing look on his face. Supercilious, even.’
‘ And it’s all my fault. Should never have got involved with him.’
‘ No,’ Henry corrected her, ‘it’s his fault. But it’ll all come out in the wash one day, in the not too distant future. He’ll come a cropper and someone will fettle him.’
A minor, but pleasant silence descended on the couple whilst they considered their drinks.
Danny looked at her watch: 11.45 p.m. ‘I suppose Trent’ll be sleeping like a baby now,’ she observed. ‘He’s spent most of the sodding day giving them the runaround at the hospital. He’s only got a scratch on his head… boy, I enjoyed hitting him.’ She curled her hands into tight fists and said, ‘Yeah,’ through gritted teeth.
‘ And the interviews have been bloody slow,’ Henry whined. ‘He’s a tough one, saying very little other than being a clever dick. It doesn’t make one jot really. We’ve got enough forensic and other evidence to convict him of…’ Henry held up his fingers and counted off, one at a time: ‘Theft from the old woman on the train, Meg Tomlinson’s murder, your kidnap and assault, theft of your car, the murder of a police officer, the woundings in the estate agent’s.. He’s been a busy man. Tomorrow we’ll get into his ribs about Claire Lilton; that’s not even been mentioned to him yet. He probably doesn’t even know we’ve found her body — and there’s all the other stuff concerned with the prison escape. That’s seven more bodies. He’ll never see the light of day again, other than from a prison yard. He’ll probably end up in Broadmoor… something wrong?’
Danny had been frowning as Henry spoke. She looked as though she was building up confidence to say something.
‘ I don’t think he killed Claire,’ she said flatly. Henry sat back, aghast.
‘ Course he effin’ did.’
‘ She was strangled. Trent’s been using a knife.’
‘ But he used to half-strangle his victims when you caught him last time. He’s obviously reverted to that.’
‘ Yeah, half-strangle is right. He never actually killed them back then. Now he’s gone over the top into murder, it’s not his hands he’s been using, it’s that knife. It seems to give him that extra feeling of power. Why would he revert to manual strangulation… doesn’t make sense.’
‘ Nothing in that bastard’s mind makes sense.’
‘ I know, I know… but to me, it doesn’t seem to add up right.’
‘ I think you’re wrong.’ Henry was adamant.
‘ Look — we can’t simply assume he killed Claire, become blinkered to it. That’s not fair or just.’
‘ What happened to Claire wasn’t fair or just,’ Henry argued.
