Cold Kill (17 page)

Jack took a drink of his beer. ‘I’ve got the story in one of the nationals,’ he said.

‘Harry?’

‘It’s still good to have favours to call in.’

‘He won’t be there for ever,’ she said.

Jack shrugged. ‘Who is?’ He took another drink of beer and then said, ‘You’re back early. We could have a night in.’

‘We could, provided that you don’t grill me any more about the case.’

‘What is there to know? Is Don a suspect?’

‘Should he be?’

‘Maybe he’s a copycat, covering up something he’s done in the past by making Jane look like a second victim.’

Laura put her hand over her mouth, shock on her face. ‘What, you mean a police officer might have leaked things about the first victim to him?’ Then she grinned playfully. ‘We thought of that, Sherlock. You’re not the only sleuth in town, you know.’

Her head went back and she put her hands to her face before she swept back her hair.

‘You need to get more rest,’ Jack said.

‘And you need to drink less.’

‘Come on, Laura, you know what I mean. Stop feeling like you’ve got something to prove. You’re a good detective, everyone knows that.’

Laura shook her head. ‘There’s always something to prove, you know that. I’m a woman, I’m from the wrong end of the country, the London upstart. There is always someone jostling for my position, and the handicaps mean that I’ve got to jostle a little bit harder than others.’

‘Okay,’ Jack said. ‘Just don’t forget about us two at home, waiting for you.’

Laura didn’t respond at first, and for a moment Jack thought he had said too much, until she replied, ‘You’re both my family,’ her voice slow and low. ‘I could never forget that. We’re getting married, for goodness’ sake.’

Jack nodded, smiling. ‘Thank you.’

‘And that reminds me,’ she said, pushing herself away from the counter and walking past Jack. ‘I’ve got to fit into a dress, so I think I’d better go for a run.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Laura was looking down as she started the jog up the long hill. It would take her home eventually, but there was still over a mile of hard running first and it was getting dark. She worried about the traffic. She had already slipped the headphones out of her ears, but the steady pound of her feet on the footpath filled her head instead, and every slam of her shoes on the ground reminded her that she was getting closer to home.

She didn’t enjoy running, never had. It made her knees hurt and too much moved around for it to be fun, but she knew that if the wedding day was ever going to come around, she had to do this. She would have the rest of her life to wind down, and so she pushed herself on, her water bottle gripped in one hand, sweat pouring down the end of her nose. It seemed like every step was an effort, her shoulders working hard to keep the rest of her body going, blowing heavily as she went. She told herself that it was about more than just getting trim for the wedding. It was about shaking off the memories of the day, about feeling alive as she felt the fading sun on her face and enjoying the rolling green hills she saw whenever she looked up. But she knew that was a lie. She hated every step, and she knew she would stop as soon as the small band of gold went around her finger.

Laura glanced ahead. The road climbed steadily, with the pavement petering out further on. She glanced back. She could hear an engine getting closer, straining. It would appear around the bend shortly, the beams of light just painting the wall ahead as it got closer. Her clothing was bright, with dayglo strips running down the arms and legs of her running gear, but she put in some extra effort to get ahead of whatever it was, to get away from the corner so that she didn’t appear as a surprise, her arms pumping, her head down again.

Laura looked around as the engine got closer and then rounded the corner behind her. It was an old van, small, and the wind caught the scent of the fumes that were billowing from the exhaust. She couldn’t see the driver because of the glare of the headlights.

Laura glanced up. The pavement was about to run out and so she knew that the van would catch her up when she was on the road. But there was no traffic ahead and so there was plenty of room for it to pass her.

She stepped onto the road as the pavement ended, and felt the harder ground jar at her knees, every step sending jabs of pain through her legs. The van was right behind her now, the sway of her body caught in silhouette on the road from the beam of the headlights. She waited for the van to go straight past, her mouth set firmly, not wanting to take in the blast of exhaust fumes as the van carried on up the hill, her breaths coming fast through her nose.

But it didn’t go past. Something was wrong.

She looked back again. She was blinded by the glare of the lights. The van was only a couple of feet away now.

She tried to pick up her speed, worried, but the van stayed with her, the front bumper too close. She kept looking back, but she knew she couldn’t stop because it was right behind her. It hugged the wall at the side of the road, so that she couldn’t just move out of the way.

She ran faster, her breaths coming hard now, her lungs aching in her chest, the heat from the front grille on her calves. She gestured with her hand that the van should go past her, but it didn’t. It stayed with her. It wasn’t just another motorist.

Laura looked ahead, hoping for someone else to approach. There was nowhere to go on her left, the wall right up to the road. The engine seemed to pick up, trying to find some acceleration on the slope. She could leap for the wall, her only escape, but the van was too close. It would catch her ankles and drag her to the floor if she did anything to change her stride. Her legs were tight with effort, her heart was beating hard. She looked quickly over her shoulder again. The van was moving into the centre of the road, trying to get alongside her. She could feel the vibrations of the wheels under her feet. She could see a grass verge ahead, too steep for the van. Twenty yards away. She could dive onto that and then scramble for the wall.

She put her head down and tried to sprint, but her legs didn’t respond. Her head went back. Almost there. Ten yards. Five yards.

The driver must have realised what she was going to do, because the van swerved towards her, the front wing heading straight for her legs. She let out a shout and made a leap for the verge.

She landed in a heap, banging her leg on a rock that jutted out of the grass, her hands breaking her fall, pain shooting to her shoulder. She felt a rush of air as the tyre brushed her foot and then there was a bang as the van ran into the verge.

Laura looked up angrily, her chest pumping hard. The van reversed quickly, the bumper dented, and then stayed there, smoke trailing from the exhaust at the back. She started to get to her feet when the driver door began to open. Laura got ready to shout, but then she stopped. The driver’s actions were too deliberate. The door was fully open, but no one was moving. And then she noticed something else too: there was no registration plate.

Think, she told herself. He might have a weapon, whoever it is. She started to back away up the verge, towards the grey drystone wall at the top, and she felt trapped when her back hit the stones.

She tried to work out what to do when a car rounded the corner towards them, coming down the hill, going slow.

The driver’s door slammed closed, and then Laura coughed as the van took off up the hill, her face shrouded in blue smoke, the noise of the engine loud.

As Laura watched the van go, the driver of the other car wound down his window.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

Laura nodded her thanks, her smile weak as she got up. ‘I’m fine. Just took a tumble, that’s all.’

The other driver smiled back at her and then pulled away slowly. Laura sat down on the grass again and listened to the noise of the other engine as it faded into the distance.

What was all that about? Was it because she was a lone woman, jogging along a dark country lane, or because she was a police officer, some kind of revenge?

Then she remembered the emails. Whoever had sent them knew about Jack. Did he also know about her? She looked up the hill again, the van gone now, but then she thought of what was at the top of the hill. Her home, with Bobby inside. Had he gone there?

She dragged herself to her feet and set off running again, except this time all she could think about was her son. It drove away the pain in her legs, her chest, her heart going too fast. She needed to get home.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Nothing was clear anymore. He drove quickly in the van, too aroused, too angry. He couldn’t go home. The noise in his head was loud now, like a scream that he knew he had to silence. The journey was just a stream of red lights, blurred, blending into one. He couldn’t remember where he had driven.

He thought he could hear people mocking him, just quiet laughs, almost inaudible, but definitely there. He took deep breaths, sweat prickling across his body, his shirt sticking to his back.

He had to find someone. Blackley was too far. He headed back into Turners Fold on one of the back roads, so that he wouldn’t pass her. She hadn’t got a look at his face, he was sure of that, but he couldn’t give her a second chance.

He was soon in the town centre, looking for a woman, any woman. This was different to Jane and Deborah. This was about the instant need, not revenge, and the rush of adrenaline blocked out the noises outside.

He saw a young woman coming out of a shop, a carton of milk in her hand, looking down, her car keys with her. He slowed down. He liked her. She wore a tight T-shirt and he could see her titties bounce as she went back to her car. She shouldn’t have worn that. Bad choice. But then he saw him, the boyfriend, waiting. She skipped as she got closer.

He drove on. He knew there’d be more. He thought about going where he said he would never go again, where the women roam in packs, their skirts short, handbags slung across their bodies, ready to laugh at him, fucks for money. Weak man. But it was a bad idea. They were in Blackley, a few miles away, and he needed release sooner than that. And anyway, the women who sold themselves looked out for each other, and they always fought him off whenever his hands went around their throat, just for a tease.

He carried on driving in a loop around the small town centre and then onto some suburban curves. And then he saw her.

The noises got louder.

She was young, in her twenties, walking on her own, head down, her arms folded across her chest, wrapped up in her thoughts, a cigarette jammed between her fingers. Perhaps on her way home from an argument, so it was possible that she wouldn’t really hear him.

He drove past her and pulled into a side street. He got out of the van and waited, leaning against the driver’s door. He would have to be quick, there were houses nearby, tall Victorian buildings that had been converted into flats and bedsits. Practice meant he could do it quickly. The snap of the cuffs, the hands around the throat.

The noises in his head receded. They always did when it was time, as if they didn’t want to put him off. He had to be perfect. The timing of the grab, the threat. All he could hear was the stillness of the night, and like always, it seemed like sound had been magnified, so that her footsteps were loud slaps on the tarmac. He could hear her clothes rubbing together as she walked, the suck of her lips on the cigarette. Traffic sounds were distant. It had to be now.

She was there, crossing his side street, her head still down, the grey-blue cigarette smoke curling behind her. Why had she chosen that route? Choices again. She had made that choice, put herself in danger.

He set off walking, falling into step behind her. He was wearing soft soles, so that he could get close before she heard him. He tried to keep to the left, to keep out of the shadow of the street lights.

And then he was within grabbing distance.

He reached behind, for the cuffs that were attached to his belt. He took a deep breath through his nose. It made her turn around. She looked startled and was about to scream, when his arm snapped forward, his hand went around her throat, squeezing hard, his free hand snapping the cuff around one wrist, his legs moving quickly, pushing her towards an alleyway he could see ahead.

Chapter Thirty

Jack had finished the article for Dolby and was drinking another beer when Laura burst into the house. She was limping, panting hard, her cheeks streaked with tears. When he looked round, she went to her knees, her face in her hands.

Jack ran to the door and looked along the road, tried to see what had frightened her. There was nothing there. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, kneeling down, his arms going round her. Her back was sodden with sweat and she was sucking in huge lungfuls of air.

‘Someone in a van just tried to run me over,’ she said.

‘Shit! Are you okay?’ He pulled away and looked for injuries.

She shook her head, and then gave a small sob. ‘No, I’m not. I’ve hurt my leg.’

He saw a rip in her running gear and a graze on her leg.

‘You shouldn’t run on these country roads at night,’ he said. ‘They’re dangerous.’

‘Don’t make it my fault!’ she shouted, a hand wiping tears from her cheeks. ‘He was doing it on purpose.’

‘What do you mean, on purpose? Are you sure? I mean, how do you know?’

‘I just know, because I saw how it happened.’

‘But why you?’

Laura got to her feet, grimacing in pain. ‘I don’t know. I’m a police officer. I’ve made enemies.’

‘But why now?’

She was leaning forward, her hands on her knees, still out of breath. ‘That’s what worries me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, Jack, think about it. Someone gets in touch with you who might be a killer, and then this,’ and she gestured to the blood on her knee.

‘He threatened this,’ Jack said quietly. ‘
If you tell the police, I’ll know
. That’s what he said.’