“You’re sure?”
“Be sensible, will you?”
Helen didn’t like her tone but let it go. “Do you have any other boyfriends?”
“No.”
“Sharon—”
“I don’t, okay? I’m not like that. Darren... well, he’s all I’ve got. And I’ve only got him part-time.”
Her bitterness and loneliness shone through clearly now. Though Helen didn’t want to believe her—didn’t want to lose the connection between Naomie and her victims—what she said seemed genuine and made sense. The worlds inhabited by the various victims were all so different.
Helen stared at Sharon, her mind whirring. Then suddenly she said:
“Is there anywhere else Darren goes? You said he had other girlfriends on the go.”
This time Sharon hesitated and Helen knew immediately that she’d hit a nerve.
“I know this isn’t nice, but I need to know. It’s the last thing I’ll ask you.”
“There’s one other girl that I know of. Lives over in St. Denys.”
“What’s her name?”
There was another long pause; then, as Sharon debated how to respond:
“What’s her name, Sharon?”
“Her name is Mandy Blayne.”
113
She had been in the bathroom for over twenty minutes now. Was she having a bath? The lights were all off downstairs and she’d drawn the bathroom curtains, so it seemed a safe assumption. Normally it would be better to wait until she’d definitely gone to bed, but there was no time for that now and this seemed like too good an opportunity to miss.
The hooded figure crossed the street quickly, pushed the side gate open and made its way toward the back of the house. There was no hesitation—the house had been recced a number of times and there was one obvious entry point. The French doors that opened onto the garden were old and flimsy, made of decrepit wood and glass. Mandy liked her gardening and often left the doors open. Today they were closed and locked, but it was still only a couple of moments’ work to put an elbow through one of the panes and release the latch from the other side.
The hooded figure stepped inside and paused. Upstairs, music played on the radio—a cheesy power ballad designed to uplift andinspire—and accompanying it was the distinct sound of someone bathing, water splashing on plastic as Mandy Blayne tried to wash away her mediocrity. If she was clever, Mandy would stay in the bath once she smelled the fire, but even that wouldn’t save her—she would just be cooked alive rather than burned to death.
Having teased open the under-stairs cupboard, the figure bent down to examine the contents. It was depressingly empty—like Mandy’s life—but there were a few wooden garden chairs that would do the job. Dragging them together into a pile, the figure pulled a bottle of paraffin from a side pocket and emptied the whole contents over the wood. No point in caution or finesse now.
The figure retrieved the pack of Marlboro Gold, removed a single cigarette and bound it to the pack with a pink rubber band. Moments later, the matches were out. The match head was soon poised against the rough side of the box, ready for ignition, when suddenly the landline rang out, shrill and loud. Startled, the figure dropped the match and in bending down to retrieve it succeeded in spilling the entire contents of the box onto the floor.
“Shit.”
The phone continued to ring and for a moment the intruder stood stock-still, straining to hear if Mandy would leave the bath to answer it. The volume of the radio was suddenly turned down as the phone rang on. The figure tensed, turning its body in the direction of the back of the house, ready to run if need be. Still the phone rang on—it must have been twenty-five, possibly thirty rings already. Someone was clearly very keen to get hold of Mandy.
Then suddenly the ringing stopped. The figure could hear its own breathing, could feel the blood pounding in its ears. Backing out now was unthinkable—Blayne had it coming to her—but there was no virtue in getting caught either. What would Mandy do now? It felt as if the whole enterprise had come down to this moment. Would Mandymess everything up by coming down the stairs? Or would the stupid whore stay put?
The music rose in volume again and now the figure didn’t hesitate, grabbing at the matches. They were wet and sticky, clinging doggedly to the floor that was now saturated with paraffin. It was hard to get any purchase on them with gloves, so throwing caution to the wind, the figure pulled the gloves off and picked up a match. Even now, though, the match seemed determined to resist, falling to the floor once more from the figure’s unsteady hand.
Now Mandy’s mobile started ringing, urgent and insistent. It was on the hall table not five feet away. Would this finally pique Mandy’s curiosity? There was no point in hanging around to find out, so the figure snatched up the match and dragged it down the side of the box. It flared up impressively, thanks to its soaking in paraffin, and the figure suddenly found itself laughing—with relief as much as joy. Seconds later, the match hit the pile of chairs and instantly they were consumed by flames. This had been an amateur performance, a travesty of all the careful planning and preparation—the Marlboro pack tossed in casually as an afterthought—but the job had finally been done.
RIP, Mandy Blayne.
114
How do you sum up a life?
