'Til Death (DI Steven Marr Book 1) - UK Crime Fiction Whodunnit Thriller (15 page)

‘You’re just like every other loser in this place. I’ve never met Vince and yet I just
know
he could come in here and kill you with his bare hands and there would be nothing you could do about it. You’d probably try and make some witty comment about it, try and turn it into a joke, but then he’d take that smug expression on your face and crush it into blood and bone. Because
that’s
reality. You’re not better than him, you’re not better than those muggers.’

Thomas said nothing for a moment. Marr could practically see his brain working. It might well have been the first time anyone had ever called him on his bullshit. Men like Thomas…it was easy to ignore them. But then, as Marr knew he would, Thomas’s face relaxed into a knowing smile.

‘Well, of course you’re entitled to your opinion, but then you’re a successful Inspector. You’ve probably done more than your own share of brow-beating and bullying to get to where you are. Bit of an alpha male yourself, I suppose.’

‘Be careful, Thomas’ Marr said, again annoyed at himself for being baited. Thomas’ smile grew.

‘Yes, an alpha male. Did your fair share of shagging around when you were younger. Maybe you still are.’

Marr willed his face to not react. But no; too late. Thomas burst out laughing, slapping his hands together.

‘Oh, brilliant. Brilliant. Christ, you’re a drinking problem and a Scottish accent away from being on TV.’

Marr sighed.

‘Thomas, where were you last night between the hours of two and seven PM?’

Thomas was still chuckling as he replied.

‘Here. I was down in IT though, covering for someone. I can do the job and the overtime’s good.’

‘So you’ll have an alibi for that time?’ Marr asked, receiving a shake of the head in reply.

‘No, working alone. It was an on-call shift basically; just in case any of the night staff had any issues. No-one did, though; I ended up watching Netflix all night.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘Depends, I can think of worse ways to earn a living.’

Thomas snorted, amused at himself.

‘I know, I know, that’s not what you meant.’ He continued ‘But I’m afraid it’s true; if you had the authority you could probably get someone to verify that I was actually watching them.’

‘And you didn’t see anybody?’

Thomas thought for a moment.

‘Ah, yes, I did. I saw Jerry, the cleaner. He’s always does the building bottom up; I walked past him on the stairs.’

‘Would Jerry be around today?’

‘Well, he might have gone home by now, but he’ll be in later. HR will have his contact information, though, so calling him won’t be a problem. Can I ask why you’d like to know? Has Anna’s trained chimp ran off with Caroline, thus further proving his excellent suitability for marriage?’

Marr mentally weighed up telling him, but decided there would be little harm in it. There was a pretty good chance that Thomas already knew what he was going to say. Whatever the fuck the cleaner could confirm – a cleaner that Thomas could easily bribe – Marr was almost certain that Caroline Marcus hadn’t killed herself. As a result, he was almost certain that she hadn’t killed Anna, either.

‘Caroline’s dead,’ Marr said. ‘She was found at her home last night.’

Then Marr had an idea.

‘Found murdered.’

Thomas’ eyes widened slightly.

‘You’re sure she was murdered?’ he asked.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, that sounds like there could be a serial killer on the loose. Two deaths in two days, both pretty ambitious young women. That’s how serial killers operate, isn’t it?’

‘Sounds like you’re pretty familiar with them.’

Thomas laughed again. Marr found himself silently fighting the urge to punch him in the jaw.

‘As much as anyone I suppose. I’d be basing my knowledge on the Silence of the Lambs, Se7en and the odd paperback. I suppose they’re probably not like that in real life, are they? Probably all losers who just can’t get laid.’

Thomas wasn’t, it annoyed Marr to admit, wrong. Serial killers…well, he’d heard of one or two cases in America in the last couple of years. But they were rarely Ed Gein. No, multiple killings were Columbine or Norway: frustration. Narcissism. People who wanted to try and re-shape a world that had rejected them.

‘We’re not sure if it’s a serial killer yet,’ he said, ‘we avoid using that tag anyway; people tend to panic. As you say, everyone winds up thinking about Ted Bundy.’

Thomas laughed.

‘Have you seen the Bill Hicks sketch on Ted Bundy?’

Marr nodded, not surprised that Thomas was a Bill Hicks fan, but annoyed all the same. It grated when people like Thomas liked the same things he did. Maybe Thomas was more right about them being similar than Marr would care to admit.

‘Do you know of anyone who would have wanted Caroline dead?’ he asked.

‘Well, I’m assuming that Anna’s caveman probably had something to do with it, didn’t he? I mean, Anna winds up dead. Two days later the girl he was fucking on the side does too.’

Marr decided not to tell Thomas that the murder weapon had turned up in Stanic’s trash earlier that morning.

‘Do you really think Greg was capable of murdering Anna?’ Marr asked.

Thomas shrugged.

‘Of course. All you’d have to do is goad his manliness and he’d lose it. Maybe Caroline told him her ex was bigger downstairs, or better in the sack. Kiss of death to someone like that. You see them all the time: men whose identity comes solely from what women think of him.’

Not untrue, thought Marr, though it didn’t stop him wanting to break Thomas’ nose.

‘Did you want Caroline dead, Thomas?’

Again, that smug smile.

‘Why would I? I won’t pretend we were best friends. I won’t pretend I even really liked her that much. But she was Anna’s friend, so we put up with each other. I’m not going to miss Caroline Marcus, but she wasn’t important enough for me to warrant caring about her. What would be the point of going to jail for someone like that? I’d imagine you’d have to really care about someone to kill them.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Well, you’d know better than I would, wouldn’t you? You’re the detective. Aren’t you meant to instinctively know when there’s a murderer around?’

It was bait again, and Marr knew it. He was bored, though, and past caring.

‘It’s like anything else really; it’s a skill, and you can get better at it.’

‘Well, then I wouldn’t want to be the man that tried to fool you.’

Thomas smiled. Marr rolled his eyes, and got up to leave.

‘No, Thomas. I’m sure you wouldn’t.’

Before he left, Marr grabbed the name of the cleaner from HR, although he knew it was a next to useless lead.

By the time he got out to his car, he felt frustrated. He felt like he’d failed. But then, what had he really been hoping for? For Thomas to burst into tears and confess? No; he wasn’t that type. Not because he was mentally tough – Marr had been right about that – but because he was scared. Thomas Coulthard wasn’t a man who’d do well in jail. It bugged Marr, but Thomas had been very right about one thing: pretensions melted away when compared to real, physical violence.

Thomas Coulthard would do everything to ensure that he went nowhere near a prison.

Unfortunately, that only made him more dangerous.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The defence had gone to shit, again.

150 million pounds worth of pure attacking talent, and a defence that you could buy for ten quid and a bag of crisps.

John Markham sighed. It just wasn’t the same without that dour, gum-chewing Scot in charge.

He flicked over and decided to give the test match a go instead; England seemed to be doing OK for once, the partnership between the two batsmen over one hundred.

John leaned back into his favourite armchair, allowing his whole body to relax. It really
did
pay to invest in a good armchair; whatever else life threw at you, you could always retreat to.

Lifting his mug of tea from, he took a sip. Redbush, so no caffeine, but pretty damn tasty all the same. It had been Michelle’s idea; caffeine caused stress, heart attacks and, in the end, more pain.

Anna’s death had hit Michelle harder than it had hit John. It hurt him to admit it, but it was the truth. Though, as ever, Michelle was doing a brilliant job of hiding it. And, of course, John knew that his feelings – or lack of them – were temporary. He was still in that sweet stage of denial: the stage where nothing seemed real, or felt like it was happening to someone else.

John had lost his father eighteen months after Anna was born. Cancer, he’d been told at the time. Testicular. It sounded stupid to rank cancer, but he knew that it was what you ended up doing once it became a part of your life. Stage one lump in your leg? Try stage four in the brain, pal. It was a pretty strange thing to get elitist about, and yet people did.

The strangest thing of it all was that, in a way, there had been some upsides to his dad’s death. It was hard to explain to someone who’d not gone through it; but he’d spoken to people who’d dealt with it and they agreed. It was nice to know that his dad would never grow
really
old. That he’d never become a helpless, lonely man, struggling to walk but unable to drive, baffled and scared by the world.

And then, of course, there was Anna. John’s dad had doted on Anna. The first time he’d held his granddaughter, he’d wept openly in the hospital ward, the tears running down his nose and over that four million pound grin of his.

Because he was no longer here, he’d never be told that his first grand-daughter – his beautiful little girl – was dead. John could imagine the tears, the attempted bravery, the shock. He could
see
his dad’s face twisted with grief.

It wasn’t a nice thing to think about.

On the screen, the batsman – a young left hander brought in to improve the stability of the side – played away from his body, the ball catching the edge of his bat and flying into the hands of the wicket keeper. He walked off, looking dejected.

‘Idiot’ John said.

He heard the front door click open. Michelle, back from her sister’s house in Mersea. John braced himself. It wasn’t that Julie was a bad sister – not too bad, anyway – but she’d always tried to drum it into Michelle that John wasn’t good enough. Julie had lucked out, falling in love with a millionaire. Rather than counting her lucky stars, she’d decided anyone who
wasn’t
a millionaire just wasn’t quite getting the job done.

And John wasn’t a millionaire.

But he did love his wife, and had done a good job raising his daughter and trying to be a good husband. Fortunately, Michelle seemed to agree.

John didn’t like to imagine Julie’s reaction to hearing about Anna. Sympathy, of course. So
much
sympathy.

But then, maybe, the delicate hints that maybe now Michelle wasn’t a mum, she didn’t have to be quite so tied down. She could finally do what she wanted with her life.

And maybe what she wanted wasn’t to be married.

‘Are you alright, love?’ he called out.

‘Fine,’ Michelle replied, ‘Just got back from Julie’s.’

‘That’s nice. Is she OK?’

‘Yes, she was fine. She was perfectly nice about everything.’

Michelle walked in. Her make-up had been freshly done. John guessed it had a treat from that in-house beauty therapist Julie used. The one that her husband paid for.

‘You look lovely. Did Julie get Lianne over?’

Michelle nodded.

‘How’s Martin?’ John asked.

Martin was the millionaire. Good guy actually; if it was possible to know a millionaire and not hate them, Martin was the sort of millionaire you wouldn’t hate. He’d made his money running a construction company, selling up about a year before the downturn. Lucky bastard, for sure, but not an asshole.

‘Oh, he was well enough,’ Michelle replied. ‘Out buying a boat, apparently.’

‘Nice work if you can get it.’

‘Julie tried to ask me if I’d thought about divorce options.’

John wasn’t the type to swear; he thought it was just an indication of a poor vocabulary.

‘Fucking hell’ he replied.

‘I know. Anna was her niece, and still all she cared about was who I’m married to. Christ.’

‘Sorry, love.’

‘Me too, sometimes. You know I love you, don’t you?’

‘I know.’

‘And you know that I’m not sorry I married you.’

‘Shucks.’

‘You know what I mean. I know I get dragged into her bitchiness sometimes, but I
do
love you. I’d rather be married to you than Martin the fucking millionaire any day.’