Melanie chuckled slightly, rubbing her rugby-player ear.
“I have,” she said. “I’ve left him five times. He tracks me down, don’t he? Them restraining orders do nothing. Last time I ran, I hid at my mate’s house but Richie’d put this tracking software on my phone. He broke in and beat the shit out of me—and my mate, too. She pressed charges but he scared her out of coming to court because Richie knew she was dealing on the side and… well, everything was dropped. Anyone who tries to help me is putting themselves right in danger. Richie would kill them, and me too.”
“That’s a very sad story,” I said. “I hope it all ends for you soon.”
Mel didn’t noticeme following her home. Nor did she spot Tony and me a week later. We saw her and her gentleman head to their local the following Friday. Mel in a dress shorter than her eyelashes, tottering on narrow heels; him in a muscle top, revealing an enormous chest and bulging neck that was home to a Union Jack and several Chinese symbols.
The couple followed a fairly regular routine and I soon knew who’d be where, and when. Their Asda shopping arrived every Sunday and the driver left it in their porch. It was too easy for me to slip an extra bag in among the next delivery: three bottles of fine wine (cork tops of course), some king prawns and two large steaks.
That evening, I knocked on their door, holding Tony’s lead in my hand. As I’d planned, they were enjoying my gifts—without knowing they were from me, obviously—and as Mel swayed against the doorjamb, I could see her boyfriend slumped in a chair at the kitchen table. I told her that Tonywas missing and I was searching people’s gardens for him. Mel let me in without question, walking me through the small home to the back door. I searched the garden thoroughly and by the time I let myself back inside, Mel was nodding off on the sofa.
I ensured the boyfriend was well and truly unconscious before I slipped on my rain coat and a pair of his fake Nike trainers that were by the door.
Then I beat Mel to death with my gloved hands.
It took a lot longer than one might expect! And considerable strength and stamina. I’d placed an Asda reusable bag over her head to minimize blood splatter, but removed it afterward so that I could fully admire my artwork.
When it was done, I took one of the chap’s muscle T-shirts from the laundry basket, soaked it in Mel’s blood and then put it in the washing machine—the logical next step for a really stupid murderer. Where should we dispose of our clothing? I really hope you remember. I smudged blood under his fingernails and around his neckline. I even rubbed a little inside his nostrils; I thought this was a particularly adroit move as the brute might shower before the police arrived. Then I stuffed the reusable bag in his coat pocket. I doubted the forensics team would look too far beyond these efforts, given the likely long paper trail of police reports following phone calls from concerned neighbors. There were probably hospital records of injuries the boyfriend had inflicted on Mel over the years, too. If I was really lucky, the restraining order would be the final nail in his coffin. Everyone knows restraining orders are of no use when the woman is alive, but their evidential value would serve me well.
Finally, I picked up the dog lead, ready to leave, and took a moment to admire my masterpiece. I’ve debated whether or not to include this next detail in my book. I know it could go against me in later life and my advice is to never remove anything from the crime scene. But…
Mel’s face was, for the most part, obliterated. However, her lovely little blackened ears were still intact. Her diamond earrings twinkled through the congealing blood, which was turning a stunning deep scarlet. Blood that’s partially dry takes on a delicious hue; it’s the most moving colorin the world. I’ve written to Dulux several times but they’re unable to match it. What a feature wall it would make.
I digress.
I wanted to remember Mel. Not as she was, but as I’d made her. So, I took her earrings as a small souvenir. I keep them in a drawer with Betty’s rings and other precious things. Sometimes, when there’s a long stretch of normal life to power through, I put one of them in my pocket and it gets me through a dull day. I figured the police would assume the boyfriend had stolen the earrings, either after killing her or at some point earlier. Witnesses could come forward to say that he thought the diamonds were valuable and should be sold. Heck, it might even harm his defense, as such calculating thoughts about selling diamonds would surely convince a jury that he didn’t kill Mel in the heat of the moment. Glorious. As I type this, I am reaching down occasionally and caressing all that’s left of little Mel.
In a tragic turn of events, I really did lose Tony. It happened not long after Melanie’s boyfriend, Richie, was convicted of her murder. On finding his little body cold and stiff one morning, I bought a small wicker basket from Home Bargains, dug a large hole beneath an oak in a park and carved his name into the tree trunk. I couldn’t stop crying. I probably should have had counseling, but for obvious reasons I had to suffer alone. I never returned to that town again.
What I did do, however, was research the location of women’s shelters in towns and cities I wanted to visit. I’d realized that a predator already existing in a victim’s life made it far easier for me to avoid any kind of in-depth investigation. In reality, it’s always the husband “what dunnit,” so why not turn that to my advantage? I repeated this winning formula several more times. Thanks to me, a not insignificant number of domestic abusers are now wallowing in prisons around the United Kingdom.
That’s more than any police officer can honestly say.
Chapter Eleven
Sam and Taylor head north-west along the M4. She reads as he drives, comparing the case file to Denver’s chapter about Melanie and Richie. She keeps her notebook open on the center console and occasionally scribbles in it.
Sam’s phone vibrates in her pocket, and she cancels the call from Dr. Thomson. She’d had to email him earlier that morning to cancel her already rescheduled session. She’s done her best to explain that the prison they’re traveling to has limited availability for visiting slots owing to an already stretched prisoner-to-guard ratio, coupled with the fact that many of the meeting rooms have been repurposed as cells for the burgeoning incarcerated population. What choice did she have? Still, she’d rather not talk to him directly, if she can avoid it.
By now, Sam is fairly certain that Denver is a murderer and that he tortured and killed Betty. Perhaps a woman called Melanie, too. But no matter how hard she tries, she still sees no clear link to Charlotte. She believes that the presence of Denver’s book at Charlotte’s murder, plus the similarities to Sarah’s murder, aremore suggestive of a copycat, which means that she’s hunting a killer, but it might not bethekiller—the man who murdered Charlotte, the man she is determined to catch. Denver strongly advises against repeating MOs, and leaving his own book at a murder that he himself committed seems a bridge too far. She’s even contemplated the possibility that, owing to his explicitly stated craving for notoriety, Denver could have somehow persuaded another killer to plant his how-to guide at Charlotte’s murder scene in the hope of sending the book viral.
She takes a sip of coffee from her travel mug and focuses on her task. Sam knows right from page one of the ten in Richie Scott’s case file that he’s a monster. Melanie’s neighbors and family called the police no fewer than thirteen times. Some action had been taken; a Domestic Violence Protection Order was granted by the magistrate’s court, although Melanie herself was too afraid to testify, even with a screen around the witness box. Sam knows all too well that most victims of domestic violence are simply petrified of voicing what’s happened to them.We need to do so much more to protect these women, she thinks. She looks at Melanie’s photograph. She has high cheekbones and big doe eyes. A primary school teacher who volunteered at her local food bank and went wild-swimming at weekends. Details that Denver didn’t bother to find out, preferring to lean into a stereotype instead.
Sam pulls out a hospital report detailing facial injuries Melanie sustained after Richie Scott pinned her down and piled spaghetti Bolognese on to her face. The brute had sat on her small body as their dog ate its dinner off his girlfriend. Mel needed ten stitches that time, to her cheeks and the tip of her nose.
“Were your dad and DCI Blakelaw in the same police cohort?” Taylor asks.
Sam nods. “They were both recruited to the Met at the same time. In the eighties, it was all about gun crime and they worked as part of an operation to get weapons off the streets. Dad lovedguns—collected pistols from the wars—so when he got the offer of joining the gun squad, he moved the family to London.”
“How about your mum? What did she do?”
“She struggled. Even though she wasn’t close to her parents and didn’t have tons of friends, the move to London isolated her completely. She only had me, and I was in school all day.”
“Oh.”
“Then one day, when I was nearly ten, not long after we moved to our place in Clapham, I found Mum at the bottom of the stairs. Her death was ruled accidental…” She trails off, caught off guard by how open she’s being with him. Past Sam would never have let someone in like this. She smiles, pleased to have found at least one element of Present Sam that’s an improvement.
Taylor turns to her, his face filled with concern, she gives him a shrug and then returns her eyes to the page. “Was your mum’s death ever investigated?” he asks a little warily.
