CHAPTER 26
Did they finish all the damson gin? Probably.
Did they drink the two bottles of champagne?
Most certainly. Did they solve the problems of the world?
They solved a murder, and they toasted that fact quite a few times.
So much so that they both fell asleep on the sofas.
Pat was sitting upright, her head lolling backwards, her nose towards the ceiling and her mouth wide open, catching flies.
Dorna was curled up on the cushions like a baby, knees under her chin, her short red hair nestled into the chintz as she shivered quietly without a blanket.
Pat woke with a terrified start and a sharp intake of breath, grabbing her chest in fear as she became aware of his presence. He was in the room, sitting opposite her on the soft cushions of the chintz sofa.
‘Jesus Christ!’ she gasped, leaping up. ‘What the hell are you doing here!’
‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t the shrink detective,’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Bit of a heavy night?’
This Marcus was something far more unsettling than the village alcoholic with sweaty palms. Controlled.
Still. And it was that stillness that got to her.
His eyes gave away nothing; not anger, not fear, not even curiosity.
They were just blank. Pat felt her stomach tighten.
When someone’s expression didn’t line up with what was happening around them, it sent a signal.
But Marcus wasn’t just unreadable. He felt absent, dead behind the eyes.
‘You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Poor old Henry Clayton, jumping to his death. Right place. Right time. Famous suicide spot. The police believed it, why not you?’
Smack, smack, smack. He was hitting the palm of his hand with something.
Pat shot him a terrified glance. It was a hammer.
He was slapping it into his open palm. Her hammer?
From the tool shed next to the cold frame?
What the hell did it matter! He had a hammer, and he looked like he was prepared to use it.
He had form. He’d murdered once before. Why not again?
‘You couldn’t leave it alone, could you, Dr Patricia Phillips?
Oh yes, I know your name, and … oh!’ He feigned surprise, looking around the room.
‘Apparently where you live. Although to be fair, I was hoping for something a bit swankier, bearing in mind all the studying you must have done. All that swotting. Anyway, what’s Henry to you? ’
‘A patient,’ replied Pat defiantly, and then immediately regretted it. Why had she given him anything? Dammit!
‘Oh,’ he said, slowly standing up. ‘So that’s it.
He was your patient. Were you worried about the suicide thing being on your watch?
’ He moved towards her, slapping the hammer into his hand again.
‘Was it guilt? Were you annoyed that his death would be on your record? Ha!’ He made as if to hit her on the side of her head.
Pat flinched and sent up a prayer even though she really didn’t believe in God.
He laughed again, then slowly placed the smooth, flat surface of the hammer against her temple.
It was deathly cold. ‘Tap, tap, tap,’ he whispered.
Pat didn’t move, but she maintained eye contact.
She could smell his breath on her face, and it wasn’t pleasant.
She had read somewhere that if you were being mugged, it was best to distract your attacker.
‘Do you speak French?’ she asked. ‘Parlez-vous francais? A friend of mine has got this app for teaching himself French.’
Marcus’s face twisted in a puzzled look.
‘Going anywhere nice for your holidays?’ she continued. ‘You like Ibiza, don’t you?’
‘Will you shut up, woman!’ he shouted.
Wrong strategy. Think, think!
‘What was Henry to you?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’ Marcus lowered the hammer, just a fraction.
‘Why him?’
‘Why not?’ He glowered. ‘If you’re that much of an easy target, you’re fair game.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense. I thought Derek …’ She didn’t even know what to think any more, let alone say.
‘Do you think Derek is clever enough to do all those things on his own? The money? The love-bombing? The grooming? He doesn’t even know it was me who did it!
He thinks Henry offed himself. Derek’s a pretty twink.
He’s not smart, he’s only good in bed.’ Marcus smiled creepily.
‘He’ll swing any way I tell him. He’s a weak little thing who likes easy money, easy drugs, a nightclub podium and nice cocktails when he can get them.
He hasn’t got two GCSEs to rub together. ’
‘So Derek works for you?’ Pat suggested, attempting to smile. ‘You’re his boss?’ She needed to keep him talking. When he was talking, he wasn’t pummelling her temples with a hammer.
‘Boss!’ He laughed loudly, baring yellowing teeth. ‘Derek is the picador to my matador.’
‘Wow.’ She tried to sound impressed. ‘You’ve murdered other people before? Or was Henry a mistake?’ She so hoped he had been.
‘You really don’t get it, do you? So much for our little village detective!
’ he laughed. ‘Derek was supposed to meet him at the lighthouse under my instructions. He’d managed to get the passwords and ID for the bank accounts, but we needed the username for the trading account.
He couldn’t do it, wasn’t good enough at it.
He was busy with that needy woman, Fiona.
She’s got pots of money, way more than Henry.
I knew as soon as I moved to Westlinke that she’d be an easy one to get.
We’d picked up her and her desperate husband at the Hotel du Cocktail. ’
‘So that’s why you moved here. Did you run out of people to scam in London?’
‘I like the beach. And yes, village life seems to make people stupider. You’re all the opposite of street smart.’
‘But why stay after killing Henry?’
‘Why not? It was ruled as a suicide, remember? And I have unfinished business.’
‘Right. So Mal and Fi are your Plan B.’
‘Once I’ve tidied up Plan A.’
‘Tidied?’ Pat raised her voice just as Marcus raised the hammer. ‘Did you always intend to kill Henry, then?’
‘I’d met Henry a couple of times with Derek, after they started dating.
I pretended to be Derek’s best friend. Derek was getting attached, you see, he’s a softie!
He didn’t want to take all Henry’s money, not really.
Poor Derek, falling in love with his victim.
He kept making mistakes, getting too emotional, trying to steal investors’ information off Henry’s phone, changing his mind and breaking up with him.
He got sloppy. I had to step in. It was such a perfect set-up, you see.
I just had to go to the bar in Soho where the two of them always went together, and there he was!
Poor little Henry. Heartbroken and lonely, desperate for attention.
It was almost easy. I convinced him to give it another go with Derek. ’
‘How?’ Pat’s lower lip trembled. She clenched her jaw. Don’t show any weakness, she told herself.
‘He thought we were friends! That I was giving him good advice. The poor lad. Does it even matter? He still came to Westlinke for a romantic weekend, didn’t he?
And Derek, so silly, he thought he could still make it work.
But he felt guilty about it all. I thought he might come clean to Henry, and I couldn’t let that happen. ’
‘So Derek …?’
‘What is your obsession with Derek! Did he have his way with you too? I didn’t think you’d be his type!
’ Marcus laughed again. ‘Derek had nothing to do with it. I made it so it looked like I ran into Henry when he arrived in Westlinke. I told him we’d go for a detour before Derek arrived.
I took him for a walk near Birling Gap, told him I’d take a photo of him.
I just needed to take the phone and run.
But Henry got suspicious and wouldn’t give it to me.
He was seeing a lawyer and was paranoid. So we went back to the lighthouse.’
‘And that was where you did it.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Yes, just behind it. It’s too steep even for tourists, I knew it would be quiet.’
‘How …?’
‘How did I kill him? I hit him on the head with a rock. Just like I’m going to hit you with this hammer.’
Pat’s blood ran even colder than she’d thought possible.
‘But he hadn’t got his bloody phone on him, only his room key, so I took that and kicked him over the edge.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘I thought I’d write a suicide note for him for good measure. I might do one for you too, Dr Pat.’ Madness flashed in his eyes. ‘What would you like me to say in it?’
‘PRICHARD!’ Pat yelled.
And suddenly, as if out of nowhere, Prichard leapt out of the cat’s bed and over the chintz sofa, roaring like a tiger and pouncing on top of Marcus, wrestling him to the ground.
‘What the hell!’ shouted Marcus as they rolled around on the Axminster carpet.
‘Careful!’ shouted Pat. ‘He’s got a hammer!’
‘Ouch!’ screamed Prichard as Marcus hit him in the ribs.
‘Watch out, old man!’ shouted Marcus.
‘I’m not bloody old!’ Prichard grabbed his neck and attempted to throttle him.
Marcus yelped at the top of his voice as Dave launched himself across the sitting room and sank his teeth into his leg.
In a flurry of fur and claws, the cat went in for another deep wound.
Pat took the opportunity to step on Marcus’s wrist and grab the hammer.
Such was the pain, and the anger, and the shot of adrenaline, that Marcus arched his spine in roaring agony and managed to throw Prichard off with renewed determination and vigour.
‘GET OUT OF MY WAY!’ he screamed, running for the kitchen to escape through the back door, the cat still attached to his leg.
But Pat was there, blocking his path.
‘Move!’ he barked.
‘No!’ She stood her ground.
He shoved her hard against the fridge. ‘Piss off, you old bag!’ he snarled.