Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (14 page)

After that day, Larry had remained the doting husband and had given his ‘wife’ dozens of opportunities to come clean. Clean? That would be a laugh after having that Steve Belmont’s cock in her disgusting mouth.

But she never did, so after a while he had found himself searching the internet for a certain poison, a poison that would be totally undetectable in an autopsy. His search had led him to Saxitoxin, also known as Shellfish Toxin, and then to an unscrupulous supplier in Eastern Europe.

Just one milligram would kill the average human stone dead within seconds when taken orally or through injection. As the bitch-whore was no ‘average’ human, he purchased two milligrams.

So, this was the stuff that would kill his wife and the mother of their only daughter. Looking at the small unassuming vial, he considered that last statement, as he had many, many times since learning of his wife’s infidelities.

He still loved Janet, as much as it pained him to admit it, but the hate had grown far, far stronger. The disgust burned inside him like molten lava, eating away at his insides; consuming every happy memory of their years together, every reason to stay his hand. So, killing Janet, although difficult, had not been impossible to come to terms with. What he had struggled the most with, and struggled still, was that Kerris would lose the mother whom she loved dearly.

There was a battle raging within his head and the final victor had yet to be decided.

He slipped the vial into the thigh pocket of his combats, then collected the packaging and headed out of the back door to the public rubbish bin in the car park. After shoving the packaging deep into the bin, under crisp packets, cans and old newspapers, he trudged slowly back to the house, with the vial still resting next to his leg.

Guess who’s coming to dinner.

Whitman and Lisa crunched up the gravel lane towards the Bryce family farmhouse. The evening sky lent a soft red hue to the broken white clouds, and the warmth of the day still lingered. The air was still and fragrant with a myriad of wildflower and woodland aromas, but as they approached the farm, these gave way to the far fresher smell of manure.

Lisa was fidgeting nervously, constantly adjusting her short denim skirt and blouse. Her cheeks were flushed, and only part of that was due to the walk.

Whitman glanced at her and smiled. Sighing, he said, “You look fantastic, hun. Stop fretting.”

Lisa stopped abruptly and, defensively, said, “This is a big deal for me. I don’t
do
dinner parties.” Her annoyed tone vainly tried to disguise her anxiety.

He turned to face her. Swapping the bottle of
Rioja
to his other hand, he placed the free hand on her flushed cheek. “John’s a good bloke, and Sally’s supposed to be nice too, from what I’ve heard. It’ll be fine.” He kissed her soft lips then added, “It’ll be a laugh.”

Lisa let out a deep breath and said, “Wey, if they bring out Trivial Pursuit I’m getting the hell out.”

Whitman laughed and gave her a brief hug. “I’ll be right behind you.”

John Bryce swung the front door open on the first knock. Grinning, he said, “Welcome! Welcome!” Then, cocking his head to one side, shouted, “Sal, Han and Lisa are here!”

“How about letting them in then!” his wife called back from the kitchen with an exasperated tone.

“Brought you a bottle, big fella,” Han said, shaking his hand.

Bryce took the bottle and glanced at the label. “Canny, you shouldn’t have. We’ve got enough to sink a battleship already, so I hope you’ve got your drinkin’ heads on!” He led them past a cluttered study to a spacious lounge. As Whitman and Lisa sat next to each other on one of the two old and cracked, burgundy Chesterfields, Bryce went to a glass fronted mahogany wall unit with a flip down shelf. Dropping the shelf, he opened the glass doors to retrieve a stout corkscrew. As he uncorked the bottle, his wife appeared.

Sally Bryce was a tiny, frail looking woman with loosely tied-back mousy hair. She had piercing blue eyes that were framed by the gradual onset of crow’s feet. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she offered them a warm smile and said, “Hi, Han, nice to meet you finally. Hi, Lisa, how are you, pet?”

Whitman rose, quickly followed somewhat timidly by Lisa.

Sally waved a hand at them. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, pet. You two make yourself comfortable.” Feigning impatience, she turned to Bryce and added, “John, you big lug, get our guests a drink before they die of thirst.”

“Aye-aye, divvent get your knickers in a twist.”

Rolling her eyes, she said to her guests, “I’ll be right back. I hope you both like lamb.” With that she whisked off back to the kitchen.

Pouring the red wine into four plain-stemmed glasses, Bryce said, “Anthony’s staying round his mate’s tonight, so it’s an all adult night. We haven’t had one of them in years!” He chuckled at that. After handing out the over-filled glasses, he raised his in an impromptu toast. “Here’s to a crackin’ night.” On reflection, he added more sombrely, “We could all do with it after recent events.”

Raising his own glass, Whitman looked from Bryce to Lisa. She smiled back at him and now looked a little more at ease. Hesitantly at first, she took a sip of her wine, and then proceeded to take a big gulp. He glanced at the dark liquid in his own glass for a moment, then followed suit.

Beat the Parents.

As August fell by the wayside, a warm September settled upon Haydon. Police activity relating to Mandy Foster’s disappearance faded and, one by one, the posters disappeared from the lamp posts and notice boards. The two prying detectives, Wright and Mitchell, seemed to have drifted off into the ether. Even the nightmares had become less frequent.

Erika Foster became more and more reclusive, rarely venturing out. Her husband began spending a lot more time in both pubs, alternating between the two when things got a little out of hand. He drank and, as the night wore on, he would become steadily angrier, until he would snap. Anyone who happened to be nearby was likely to be on the receiving end of his temper.

Ron’s increasingly erratic behaviour came to a head one night in the Miller’s. As the evening progressed, Ron became louder and more animated, attracting concerned glances from several patrons. If he saw any of them, he chose to ignore them. He knocked back a pint and shouted for another.

His face furrowed, Bryce said, “Take it easy, mate.” He glanced briefly to Duncan who stood beside him at the bar.

Duncan offered an apologetic shrug. After a lip-biting moment, searching for the right words, he said, “I think I’m about ready to call it a night. What about you, Ron?”

Ron spun to glare at him, wavering slightly. His eyes were bloodshot and the dark growth on his chin – several days past stubble stage – lent a pale tinge to his features. “Nah, divvent go yet, man. Loretta can wait.”

There was a flicker of a cringe, then Duncan said, “Erika needs you, mate.”

Ron waved a dismissive arm and turned back to the bar, leaving Duncan and John staring at each other. Wordlessly, they exchanged their concerns.

A young lad, lost in an over-sized duffle coat with a spotty forehead, squeezed past Duncan to get to the bar. In the process, he knocked Ron’s shoulder. Big Joe was now, reluctantly, pouring fresh pints for them.

Ron spun round to confront the person who had stumbled into him.

Not suspecting trouble, the lad in his late teens hardly spared him a glance, but muttered, “Sorry.”

Ron’s face reddened. “
Sorry
?”

“Ron, leave it,” Bryce said, tensing immediately. Big Joe glanced up from the hand pump, sensing trouble.

The young lad turned to him. Seeing the drunken man’s growing anger, he at once said, “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to knock you, like.”

Even in his drunken state, Ron was easily capable of grabbing the lad by the scruff of his jacket. He yanked him towards him and snarled in his face, “Sorry isn’t good enough, you cheeky little prick.”

Both Duncan and John lunged for him, dragging them apart.

His eyes wide and his voice shaking with terror, the boy cried, “Get off us!”

“Ron!” Big Joe bellowed, discarding the half-filled pint. His voice silenced the entire pub in an instant. “Get off the laddie, NOW!” He rushed round to the other side of the bar to join Duncan and John who were struggling to free the frightened youth.

“Got nee respect!” Ron shouted, shaking him roughly. Spittle flew into the boy’s contorted face.

Big Joe reached them, puffing and panting. He grabbed Ron’s shoulder. Ron, reacting, rather than thinking, lashed out, catching Big Joe across the chin with his elbow. The blow brought tears to the landlord’s eyes, but he maintained his grip, and in a calm, sincere tone, said, “Ron, pal, it’s time fae yae tae get yourself away home tae Erika. She
needs
yae.” The last three words came out almost as a plea.

Bryce and Duncan both relaxed their grips of his arm and coat. The fury ebbed away, leaving Ron looking tired and dejected. He released the young lad, who immediately backed away to his two friends who had been observing nervously from a safe distance.

“Take him home,” Big Joe said, patting Ron gently on the shoulder. His chin was reddening from the blow, but he appeared not to notice. He glanced in the direction of the three lads. “I’ll get yae three laddies a drink on the hoose, eh?”

Duncan and John escorted Ron out of the Miller’s and down Main Street. They had walked only a few yards from the door when Ron stopped and turned to look at them. His eyes were wet with tears. His voice was heavy with emotion as he said, “I-I’m sorry.”

Duncan put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, mate. We understand, honestly we do.” Bryce nodded earnestly.

Tears openly streamed down his cheeks as he looked at his two friends with a mixture of desperation and despair. “I just … where is she? What happened to my baby?” He thrust his hands to his face as his knees buckled under him. Making no attempt to stop himself, he dropped to the pavement heavily. Sobbing, he cried, “Mandy!”

Duncan instinctively bent to help him. Bryce shook his head and said quietly, “Nah, mate. Give him a sec.” Instead, they both placed a hand on each of his trembling shoulders as he sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes.

After the dinner party with John and Sally, which turned out to be a very enjoyable and drunken evening, Whitman and Lisa seemed to be accepted by the rest of the village as a couple. This amused Whitman and delighted Lisa. For Lisa, it was the most accepted she had ever felt. For Whitman, the settling into a relationship for the first time in years was a refreshing tonic. He felt at ease and composed … content even.

The majority of the villagers had come to accept him as part of the furniture, and his relationship with Lisa certainly helped cement that. The most notable exception being Miss Marple-meets-Bet Lynch. Tess Runckle was like a pitbull with a bone, refusing to give up on her theories and making no attempt to be discreet about them. Everyone and anyone to whom she spoke got the speech about
Mister Murder
(Dean Koontz at his best – shame about the film).

The sideways glances from Tess and some of her cronies, including that camp goon, Moe (Sloth to his friends …
Hey you guys
!), were really starting to get under his skin, despite his overall contentment.

He had decided, and Lisa, John and Big Joe all agreed, that the best course of action was to ignore it. She was the El Supremo of gossip, nay, the Goddess of Gossip, and everyone knew it. Who, apart from Sloth, would really take her seriously?

But still, it was irritating.

So, maybe he
should
go talk to her? Straighten things out once and for all. What harm could it do to put the old girl’s mind at ease? Yeah, maybe that was best; clear the air. Then they could drink to each other’s health (as long as it wasn’t Merlot.
I am NOT drinking any fucking Merlot!
). Aye, he could just see that happening … not.

No, he should just leave well enough alone. Let the sleeping bitch lie.

I’m a firestarter, twisted firestarter.

Despite the warm, still evening, Jimmy Coulson shivered and drew his crumpled long coat together. In the back of his mind, he knew that the shiver had nothing to do with feeling a sudden chill, but it was still a comfort factor. The dressings had gone from his face, but around his eyes looked as bruised as ever and his nose had set with a slight kink on the bridge. The doctor at the Minor Injuries Unit at Rothbury Community Hospital had offered to reset it, but he told him where to get off.

He walked purposefully down the road to Belmont Motors, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He could see that the office light was still on and that Steve’s vaguely shabby-looking red Porsche 911 Carrera was still on the gravelled bit of waste ground that served as the car park to the side of the forecourt.

As he approached, he met James Falkirk, Steve’s salesman-come-assistant manager-come-dogsbody, and Paul Mason, the particularly greasy grease-monkey coming the other way.

“Alreet, Jimmy?” Paul said casually, talking through the rollie sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Goin’ to see the boss?”

Jimmy sniffed his dribbling nose and merely nodded, lacking the inclination to enter into an inane conversation.

Paul jabbed a grimy thumb towards the office. “Y’nar where to find him.”

Jimmy muttered and walked past them.

“You look like shit, Jimmy,” James jokily called after him. “You get hit by a bus?”

“Get stuffed.”

James rolled his eyes and followed the bandy-legged Paul back to the village. “Freak.”

Jimmy continued up to the office, a single-story wooden semi-permanent portacabin, with cracked and peeling white paintwork. The light was on, but the blinds were drawn on the only window. He paused at the bottom of the two metal-rung steps, shivering ever so slightly. What sort of proposition did Steve have that would pay big bucks? It would solve his money problems, that’s for sure, so did it matter? Did he care? He
needed
a fix so goddamn badly.