No response from Nicola. Had she understood what he was saying? Or was she upset and refusing to communicate? Once more Tony was swamped by guilt.
“I’ll tell Anna she can read late tonight if you like. You can always sleep in tomorrow. I’ll put the cot bed next to you and we can snuggle. Be like old times.”
Tony’s voice caught. Why was he stringing this out when he knew it was better just to go?
Leaning down, he kissed his wife’s brow. He paused, then kissed her again, this time on her lips. They seemed dry, even a bit chapped, so he plucked the lip balm from the bedside table and gently applied it.
“Love you.”
Tony turned and left and thirty seconds later the front door closed gently behind him.
•••
Tony walked round the corner to where he’d parked his unmarked car. It was a dented Vauxhall saloon, the car of choice for traveling salesmen up and down the land. He bleeped it open with the fob. Stooping to open the driver’s door, he caught sight of himself and paused. He was wearing a crumpled business suit, had painted flecks of gray in his hair and had added a pair of executive-type glasses. It was him, but not him. A vision of a man who was lonely, tired and bereft. There was more than a hint of truth in the image, but Tony refused to dwell on that. He had work to do.
Climbing into the car, he fired it up and moved off. It was time to dance with the devil.
43
A TART WITHYOURHEART
Emilia Garanita surveyed the headline with undisguised pleasure. She was particularly pleased with her wordplay, as was her editor, who had splashed it across the front page. Would this be the best-selling edition of theEvening Newsever? She sincerely hoped so. With a bit of luck, it might even be her passport out of regional journalism.
The papers had gone out a couple of hours ago. Clearly word was spreading—her mobile phone hadn’t stopped ringing and her Twitter feed was going ballistic. Nothing sells papers like a serial killer, and Emilia intended to make the most of it. The pieces she’d written last year on Marianne’s killing spree had gained her a reputation locally, but because of Grace’s obstruction on that case, she had got to the story too late. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Emilia swallowed her guilty hope that the killer would not be caught too quickly. She knew it was wrong to think like that, but truth be told, she enjoyed the fact that Grace was being given the runaround, that the killer appeared to strike at will without leaving a trace. And besides, who honestly felt sympathy for the victims? They were typical men—deceitful, mendacious, driven by base desires. There were already signs in the messages posted on the paper’s forum and on Twitter that the wider public felt that these men had got what was coming to them. For centuries prostitutes had been the unheralded victims of male violence; was it such a bad thing that the boot was now on the other foot? “Go, girl,” Emilia said to herself, suppressing a smile.
There was only one blot on the landscape, and that was Emilia’s failure to interview Christopher Reid’s widow, Jessica. She had rung and visited often, but the Family Liaison officer knew Emilia’s tactics well and had seen her off. She had subsequently returned, slipping a financial offer through the door’s mail slot, with a note explaining how the money could be put to good use in the difficult months ahead and offering sympathetic coverage in the paper, but as yet there had been no response and Emilia doubted there would be. Grace would keep her away from public view while the killer was at large. Still, Emilia had overcome bigger challenges than this before. She would just have to be inventive. There was more than one way to skin a cat.
The office was thinning out now. There was little point in Emilia hanging about—the praise and adulation she’d received earlier had died down as her colleagues departed for home. Grabbing her bag and coat, she headed to the lifts. There was a new bar on the waterfront that she’d been meaning to check out for a while and now seemed the perfect time to do exactly that.
She had just left the office when her mobile rang. It was one of her tame PCs—he’d been a source of valuable intel for several months now. As she listened to his breathless report, a broad smile spread across Emilia’s face. Another murder, and this time it involved a familiar face: DC Charlie Brooks. Turning on her heel, Emilia marched straight back into the office.
This story just kept getting better and better.
44
“She’s asleep. You can’t see her.”
Steve was a bad liar, but Helen didn’t contradict him. There was real fury in his eyes and Helen was careful not to provoke him.
“It’s important I talk to her, so can you ask her to call me the minute she wakes up?”
“You don’t let up, do you?” Steve replied, half laughing in his bitterness.
“I have a job to do, Steve. I’m not trying to rile you or disturb Charlie, but I have a job to do and I won’t let personal friendships get in the way.”
“Friendships? That’s a fucking joke. I don’t think you’re capable of friendships.”
“I didn’t come here to argue with you...”
“You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you? As long as you get what you wa—”
“Enough!”
They both turned to see Charlie approaching. She hadn’t been in bed; she’d merely been eavesdropping from the living room, as Helen had suspected all along. Anger flashed across Steve’s face momentarily, in embarrassment at being revealed as a liar. Then he recovered himself and hurried over to Charlie. But she was staring past her husband at Helen.
“You’d better come in.”
