‘Mathew…?’
He ignored the voice. He would get up and put the rock over the entrance in a minute. He just needed to settle his nerves first.
And then, in the partial light cast from beyond the cave, three words painted on the wall opposite caught his attention. Three words which weren’t there the last time he’d visited: Hang the pervert.
The words didn’t scare him half as much as the knowledge that Jim Bentley had breached the cave’s security system and got right inside his head.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After enjoying Shona’s muffled screams, Jim had gone to Abbasi’s to get some cans of beer and a pouch of tobacco. He’d wanted to make sure Abbasi could verify his whereabouts at the time of the murder. Not that he expected any favours from the old goat, but he was a straight-down-the-middle sort of dude, and if Jim was in the shop when he said he was, Abbasi would back him up.
By the time he returned to the flat, via stopping off at the Brooklands Estate to throw a rock through the Hillock’s window, all was quiet and still. Curtis was sitting against the wall, arms draped over his knees, the blood-soaked knife discarded on the filthy carpet next to him. He was staring at the bed as if captivated by the corpse lying on top of it.
Bentley looked at the lifeless body of his ex-girlfriend. Shona was barely recognisable, thanks to the callous actions of Curtis Pollock. The bloodstained bed and her mutilated body served as a timely reminder that you couldn’t trust anyone in this world. He’d taken Curtis in for the night, given him a place to stay, and this was the thanks he got. Who needed enemies when you had friends like Pollock?
Keeping his gun trained on the murderer, Bentley checked the body for any lingering signs of life. Nothing. Not even a fluttering eyelid.
‘Good job, Curtis.’
Curtis didn’t acknowledge him.
‘I’ll make sure you get what’s due,’ Bentley promised, walking out of the room and locking the door behind him. He wanted to punch the air. Dance on the rooftops. Go to church and praise the Lord for letting something go right for a change. Instead, he lurched forward, buried his head in his hands, and sobbed uncontrollably for almost five minutes.
This was none of that sentimental bullshit, either. These tears were siphoned straight from the heart. He had fond memories of Shona. Especially in the early days when she’d been willing to do almost anything for him. Had treated him like a god, kneeling at his altar and answering his every prayer.
As the tears subsided, his mind turned to far more important matters than mourning the loss of poor Shona. He could deal with the grief and the memories later, maybe accompanied by a bottle of whiskey, but for now he needed to make sure his story was as watertight as a submarine.
He went to the bathroom and checked his face in a small mirror fixed to the wall above the sink. His eyes looked red and puffy. Tick. No need to use the old onion and cigarette smoke trick to conjure grief. There were also bags beneath those eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and a life tormented by worry. Tick. He’d been wise enough not to touch the body, and his hands were shaking. Tick. (Although this owed more to drug withdrawal than it did to shock.) He knew his fingerprints would be all over the knife with Curtis’s, but that was only to be expected, considering it was his carving knife. Tick. Curtis had gone into some sort of emotional meltdown. Tick. And Curtis’s sperm would be inside the victim. Tick.
It was an open-and-shut case. The bastard had raped and murdered Shona the minute he’d turned his back. He walked back into the front room, sat on the sofa, and dialled 999. After giving his details to the operator, she passed him to a police call-handler.
‘Could you please confirm your location and the nature of the emergency?’
‘I just told the other woman all that shit. I’m at Flat 32, Saxon’s Way in Feelham. I just got home and found my girlfriend dead. She’s covered in blood and she ain’t breathing or nothing.’
‘Is there anyone else in the property other than yourself and the victim?’
‘Yeah. The bastard who killed her.’
‘Do you know the assailant?’
‘Too fucking right I do. It’s Curtis Pollock.’
‘Where is Mr Pollock now?’
‘I’ve locked him in the bedroom with Shona.’
‘Is Shona the victim?’
No, she’s my blow-up doll. ‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, I’ll send out someone straight away. Have you any idea what Mr Pollock’s state of mind is?’
‘I’d say completely fucked up by the look of him. He’s just sitting there staring at the bed.’
‘Is he armed?’
‘The knife’s still in the bedroom. I didn’t want to touch it.’
‘Okay. The officers will be with you shortly.’
Bentley faked a sob and disconnected the call. It was time to mould himself into the grief-stricken boyfriend and prepare to launch a verbal attack if Curtis so much as dared to hint that killing Shona was his idea.
***
It took two uniformed constables ten minutes to reach the flat. Bentley escorted them into the living room. He recognised one of them as the wanker who’d arrested him for possession six months ago. PC Bainbridge. A complete arsehole who seemed to delight in his role as a jumped-up twat.
‘What’s the guy’s name?’ Bainbridge asked.
‘Curtis Pollock.’
‘How long’s he been in the bedroom?’
‘I dunno. I got home about half an hour ago and found him sitting on the floor. Then I locked him in there.’
‘Was he conscious?’
Bentley nodded. ‘But he seemed as if he was in a trance.’
‘Under the influence of drugs?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Where were you when the alleged attack took place?’
‘I went to Abbasi’s to get some cans.’
‘How long were you gone?’
Bentley shrugged. ‘About twenty minutes.’
The other copper walked to the bedroom and tapped on the door. ‘Curtis? Can you hear me?’
No answer.
The copper knocked louder. Looked at Jim. ‘Are you sure he’s in there?’
No. I must’ve dreamt the whole thing. ‘He was sitting under the window, and the knife was lying on the floor next to him.’
Bainbridge asked Jim for the key, then joined the other copper at the bedroom door.
‘Maybe he went out the window,’ Bainbridge said. ‘Done a runner.’
Bentley laughed. ‘I’d like to see him try. It’s about a thirty-foot drop.’
‘Desperate people do desperate things, Mr Bentley. You of all people should know that.’
‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Does swallowing a bag of cocaine ring any bells?’
Jim chose not to rise to the bait. ‘Whatever.’
Bainbridge thumped on the door. ‘It’s the police, Mr Pollock. Can you hear me?’
Again, no answer.
Bainbridge inserted the key in the lock and twisted it. He glanced at his colleague, nodded, then kicked open the door. ‘Police. Don’t move. Stay right where you are.’