‘Worse. Much fucking worse.’
They stopped off at Waitrose so Curtis could buy some cans. Jim treated himself to a scotch egg to fill a grumbling hole in his belly. He could feel people staring at him as if he had no right to be in their nice clean supermarket buying stuff from their nice clean shelves. Fuck ’em. He had nothing to be ashamed of. His money was as good as theirs. All right, he could do with a shower and a change of clothes, and maybe his eyes were sore from a lack of sleep, but that didn’t give them any right to look at him as if he was a turd on toast.
As they passed through the checkout and headed towards the exit, a tall security guard in a black jumper and matching trousers asked Bentley what was in his carrier bag.
‘Cans. Why?’
‘Have you paid for them?’
‘I bought them in Abbasi’s.’
‘Would you please open the bag, sir.’
‘I just told you, I didn’t buy ’em here.’
‘Then you won’t mind showing me, will you?’
Jim pointed at a man in a business suit. ‘What about him? You gonna check his bag? Or don’t you bother with the posh nobs?’
‘It’s got nothing to do with that. Just let me check your bag, and you can be on your way.’
Jim turned around and addressed the businessman. ‘Bet you live on the Brooklands Estate, don’t you? Nice posh house, fancy fucking car in the drive, yeah?’
The man ignored him and carried on loading his shopping into a trolley.
‘Think you’re better than me, do you?’
Showing no signs of acknowledging Bentley, the man paid for his goods.
‘Hillock’s from the Brooklands Estate. Funny that, considering they all think their shit don’t stink.’
‘If you don’t open the bag,’ the guard said, ‘I’ll have to escort you to the office.’
‘Just show him, Jim,’ Curtis said. ‘Then we can go to the river.’
‘Mathew Hillock murdered Jodie Willis,’ Bentley shouted, his voice rising several octaves. ‘And he lives on the Brooklands Estate. The retard is one of you. One of the posh people. How d’ya like that, eh?’
Several people stared as Jim continued his rant for another thirty seconds. He concluded by pointing in the vague direction of the checkouts. ‘Not so fucking perfect now, are ya?’
‘Do you want me to call the police?’ the guard asked. ‘It’s up to you.’
At the sound of the word “police”, something tripped in Jim’s brain. ‘All right. All right. I’ll show you.’ He opened the bag, fished out the receipt, and handed it to the guard.
After studying the contents of the bag and matching them to the receipt, he told Jim to leave.
‘Ain’t you gonna say sorry?’
‘I’m just doing my job, sir.’
Bentley snorted. ‘That’s what the guards used to say in the concentration camps.’
Curtis grabbed Jim’s arm. ‘Come on. Let’s go. We don’t want no trouble.’
‘I’d listen to your friend, if I were you,’ the guard agreed.
Bentley saluted. ‘Okay, sir. Right away, sir. Quick march!’ He strode out of the shop, arms swinging by his sides, bag thumping against his hip.
When they reached the river, Bentley’s head was pounding. Maybe it was the heat. Or drug withdrawal. Or an overbearing urge to kill Mathew Hillock. Probably all three. And you could throw Shona into that mix if you really wanted to know what was boiling his pot.
They walked along the narrow path towards the weir. It was more private on this side of the water. No campsite and swimming pool. Just a few folk fishing, and the occasional dog walker.
They sat on a bench opposite the old boathouse and drank their cans in silence for a while, just gazing at the water, lost in their own private thoughts. Then Bentley asked Curtis if he’d ever done anything terrible.
‘Like what?’
‘I dunno. Hurt someone. Ran over a cat on your pushbike.’
‘I ain’t got a pushbike. I used to have a scooter, but I totalled it one night riding around the industrial site when I was pissed as a pudding.’
Jim laughed for the first time in what felt like forever. ‘How many pissed puddings do you know?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind. So, have you ever done anything really bad?’
‘I robbed my old lady once. Nicked her rent money to buy some weed. And stole our Johnny’s iPad and swapped it with Davey Harper for a joint and six cans of Tennent’s Super.’
‘Proper little gangster, ain’t you?’
Curtis necked the rest of his can in one go and tossed it into the river. ‘Not really. I just do daft stuff sometimes.’
‘How would you like to earn two hundred quid?’
‘Me?’
‘No, that fucking duck over there!’
‘You serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you later if you’re interested?’
‘Too right.’
‘If you do a good job, I’ll pay you five hundred for a second job.’
Curtis popped the tab on another can. ‘Sounds good to me.’
Jim touched his tin to Curtis’s. ‘To the future.’
‘To the future.’
Within an hour, they were both asleep in a field backing onto the river, Jim Bentley’s plan to murder his girlfriend temporarily forgotten.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ten days after Jodie had been found in the Hillocks’ shed, Alison and her mother sat in the front room with DS Palmer and DC Halliwell. Every day seemed to bring fresh torment. The police had confirmed that Jodie had been manually strangled and sexually assaulted. Alison tried hard not to imagine the violation of her daughter’s body. How alone and terrified Jodie must have felt being at the mercy of that monster. She should have been there to protect her daughter. Keep her safe. Not send her on errands because she couldn’t be bothered to go herself. She’d failed as a mother, and she would never forgive herself for that.
The only blessing, if you could call it that, was at least the press were no longer camped on the doorstep. They’d got their stupid stories, written their sensationalist headlines, and gone on their merry way. Back to their families, safe in the knowledge that it wasn’t their daughter lying dead on a mortuary slab. They could move on to the next big story. Forget about Alison and Jodie until the killer was caught. Then begin the process all over again.
‘Whoever did this thoroughly cleansed Jodie,’ Palmer said. ‘There wasn’t a single trace of any other human DNA on her body.’
Christine stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. ‘I thought you’d arrested Mathew Hillock?’
‘We did. But we haven’t got enough evidence to charge him.’
‘How much evidence do you need? He was in the bloody shed with her.’
‘I know, but we’ve found no physical evidence to suggest he’s responsible.’
Christine shook her head. ‘Jesus Christ! I don’t bloody well believe this. How else do you think Jodie ended up in his shed?’