Bentley had expected at least some resistance from Curtis. He knew he was softer than a freshly harvested cowpat, but he had to have some spunk inside him. He walked to the door and peered inside.
Shona was till in situ on the bed. Naked, battered, and bloody, one eye fixed on the doorway as if expecting help to arrive at any minute. No surprises there. No miracle recoveries. But Curtis was another matter altogether. He was lying on the floor with the knife sticking out of his bony chest. Bainbridge was kneeling beside him, checking his pulse. The other copper hovered around the bed like an expectant father awaiting the delivery of a child.
‘Is he dead?’ Jim asked.
Bainbridge stood. He told his colleague to radio for an ambulance and inform HQ they had a double murder on their hands. He then looked at Jim, eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about this, do you?’
‘He was alive when I got back from Abbasi’s. I just locked him in the room with her.’
‘So, let’s get this right – you go to the shops and come home to find your girlfriend murdered and lying in a pool of blood on the bed. Then you lock the assailant in the room with her and call us. Meanwhile, Mr Pollock stabs himself in the chest and commits suicide. Does any of that sound suspicious to you, Mr Bentley?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘James Bentley, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘Bollocks. I ain’t done nothing. I swear on my life.’
‘You could get change out of a five pence piece for your life, Jim. Now turn around.’
Bentley’s thoughts hopped from hope to despair and back again in a matter of seconds. The evidence would show, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Curtis Pollock was responsible for the rape and murder of Shona, before turning the knife on himself. Why? Because, for the first time in his life, James Michael Bentley was telling the truth to an arresting officer.
As Bainbridge handcuffed him and marched him into the front room, Bentley cursed all the gods in all the heavens for his predicament. If only he could remember what had happened on the evening that Jodie Willis had walked past him on the bench. Where he’d gone for the two or three hours before he’d picked up Shona from Didcot. Now Curtis and Shona were dead, and all because he’d lost a few hours of his life to drugs and alcohol.
Sirens wailed in the distance. ‘You’re making a huge mistake. I’m telling the truth.’
‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, have you?’ Bainbridge said.
‘I mean, why the fuck would I kill ’em and then call the filth? It makes no sense.’
‘From my experience, Mr Bentley, very little does.’
For once, Jim was in agreement.
Chapter Thirty
Mathew didn’t stay in the cave for long. The screeching bats were, for want of a better word, sending him batshit. He was surprised to find himself sitting in the lounge at Bluebell Cottage. His mother was talking to a young female PC.
Sonia smiled. ‘Welcome back.’
‘How long was I gone for?’
‘Best part of an hour. How are you feeling?
‘Tired.’
The policewoman asked him if he wanted a glass of water.
‘I just want to go back to Granddad’s.’
‘Your mother tells me you think Jim Bentley threw the rock at the window.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you think that?’
Mathew shrugged. ‘Just do.’
The policewoman stood. ‘Okay. I’ll go and have a chat with Mr Bentley and see what he has to say for himself.’
‘He killed Jodie Willis, too,’ Mathew said. ‘Killed her and tried to get me to take the blame for it.’
‘I think it’s best to leave all that up to the police,’ Sonia said. ‘They’re well aware of what Bentley’s like.’
The policewoman nodded. ‘Don’t worry about Mr Bentley. He’s been on our radar for quite a while now. If you think of anything else, give us a call.’
Sonia showed the policewoman out, then returned to the lounge. ‘Ready to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember being in the fugue?’
He wanted to tell her about the cave. The bats. The orb. The words written on the wall. But it sounded bonkers. ‘No.’
‘Maybe we ought to take you back to the doctor and see about changing your medication.’
‘I’m fine,’ Mathew lied. ‘I don’t want any more pills.’
‘Perhaps he might be able to adjust the dose.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
They drove back to Heritage Road in silence. There was nothing left to say.
***
Mathew sat in the lounge with his grandparents while his mother and Gareth attended a meeting with the loss adjustor. He didn’t know what one of those was, apart from it had something to do with the insurance claim on the Book Café. He nibbled on a corned beef sandwich, trying to forget the message on the rock.
‘People are nothing short of wicked,’ his nan said. ‘Setting fire to property and throwing rocks at windows. Bloody cowards!’
‘That’s a fact,’ Bernard Halsey agreed. ‘Wouldn’t say boo to a goose if you were to come face to face with them.’
Mathew wasn’t sure what geese had to do with it, but his nan was right about cowards. Or, more specifically, Jim Bentley. It was incredible how that excuse for a man could cause so much trouble.
The local news came on the TV. Mathew watched the presenter announce the arrest of a local man on suspicion of a double murder.
‘The man has been taken to Oxford Central Police Station for questioning. DCI Mike Atkinson, of Thames Valley Police, today issued the following statement.’
The camera panned in on a man standing at the bottom of some steps outside the police station. His lips were compressed into a thin line as he squinted into the bright morning sunshine.
‘We have today arrested a man on suspicion of a double murder in Feelham. He is currently helping us with our enquiries, and we will update you when we have any further news.’
‘Can you give us any details of the victims?’ a reporter asked.
‘We are still liaising with the families of the deceased and awaiting formal identifications.’
‘Male or female?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say at this juncture.’
‘Was the man arrested at the scene?’
‘Again, I can’t give specific details.’
‘Has this got anything to do with the Jodie Willis murder?’ another reporter asked, barging his way closer to the front of the ensemble.
‘It’s too early to say. I can’t give you anything else. Thank you.’ He turned and walked back up the steps without looking back.
‘That was DCI Mike Atkinson,’ the newsreader said. ‘Moving on to other news…’
‘Bloody hell!’ Pam said. ‘A double murder.’
‘What on earth’s happening?’ Bernard said. ‘First that poor little girl, now this.’