Part 27 (2/2)

He ducked out of the door and was gone, leaving her in the room, idiotically frozen like a statue. Kelvin Burford. Kelvin f.u.c.king Burford Kelvin f.u.c.king Burford. It had been eighteen years since she'd last spoken to him and yet she'd dreamed about him last night, leaning on his broom at the back of the audience, a sly smile on his face. He was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. A scary b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And he knew her b.l.o.o.d.y name And he knew her b.l.o.o.d.y name. All that time she'd thought it was just Goldrab, Kelvin had known it too. She went to the doorway and stood, looking left then right. She was still trying to get her numbed brain to decide which way to go when he reappeared in the hallway.

This time he didn't speak, just stood, filling the doorway. She'd never registered before quite how big he was, in girth and height. His belly in the lumberjack s.h.i.+rt hung over the top of his trousers. He was silhouetted by the sun that came through the back door and shone on to the filthy floor, and in his hand was a knife. One of the hunting knives she'd seen on the metallic strip in the mill building. Now she could see the long scar that started at his ear, went up around the top of his head and looped back down to the nape of his neck. It was square, with neat corners. She knew what that was it was where metal had been inserted to replace his skull.

She glanced over her shoulder, calculating how far it was to the front door and if she could push past him. Then back at the knife. 'Kelvin,' she said, 'there's no need to be holding that now, is there? That's the sort of thing'll get you into a whole lorryload of s.h.i.+t.'

'Zoe,' he said, 'I asked you before. What are you doing in my house?'

She took a breath, turned and bolted into the hallway. She skidded along, taking up the rug with her and hitting the door with all her force. She threw the Yale lock and pulled, expecting the door to fly open. It didn't. The deadbolts were on. She grappled for them, throwing back the barrels, her hands shaking now. Still the door wouldn't budge. It was Chubb-locked. You could see the bolt between the jamb and the strike plate.

She turned. Kelvin stood behind her, blocking the path to the kitchen, his head down, as if in puzzled thought. He was looking at the knife, holding it angled with the blade facing upwards, as if the way the light glanced off it fascinated him. He didn't seem to be in a hurry. She threw herself away from the door and on to the stairs, flew up them, grabbing at the banister to pull herself faster. The french windows in the bedroom they opened on to a small balcony. She got into the room, launched herself at the bed and scrabbled at the latch, but it was painted up and stiff. On the stairs Kelvin took a few heavy steps. Then stopped. As if he was shy or tired or unsure whether or not to follow.

She thumped at the windows with the heel of her hand. They had a stainless-steel lever handle with a keyhole in the back plate, but no key. f.u.c.king locked. What was it with her and locked doors, these days? She looked around frantically for the keys. There was a dilapidated armoire against the far wall, and a bedside cabinet. She wrenched the drawer open. Saw some screws, a phone battery, s.e.x lube. No keys. Kelvin began to walk up the stairs again. His weight made the floorboards on the treads creak. Zoe got off the bed, and positioned herself in the way she'd been taught at police school. Sideways on, knees braced. She took long, slow breaths, trying to picture her centre of gravity sinking lower and lower, getting more and more solid and ready. Then, at the last minute, she lost her nerve. Dropped to her front on the floor and commando-crawled under the bed.

News about Kelvin had filtered through to her over the years how he'd been driving through Basra in a s.n.a.t.c.h Land Rover and an IED planted in a dead dog had detonated, killing everyone in the vehicle except him. So, yes, Iraq that must have been when the photo of the bodies in a pile had been taken. For a while his accident had been all over the local news. Then, six months after his surgery, he'd attacked a teenage girl in Radstock. The story went that the girl had been baiting him calling him Metalhead. He'd lost it and attacked her. He'd pinned her to a wall, got a plastic bag and wrapped it around her face. Later she testified he'd had his hand up her skirt while he was doing it, that he'd e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed into his trousers while he was strangling her. He denied that part of the story. Still, he got banged up for it. The girl's family wanted to sue the army for putting the madness into his head, but it had been thrown out of court.

Zoe had avoided Kelvin as much as she could when he'd been doing maintenance at the club. But in those days relations.h.i.+ps had been formed, odd, handicapped friends.h.i.+ps that limped along sometimes for weeks, sometimes for years. It must be how Kelvin knew David Goldrab. Maybe it was the reason he was working for him now.

She rolled on to her side, breathing hard, frantically looking around for something she could use to defend herself. Under the bed were the things you'd expect from a single man living on his own dust b.a.l.l.s, a pair of underpants, a pile of men's magazines. And bundled up in a ball next to the magazines, a few inches from Zoe's head, a woman's pink fleece.

She froze, staring at it, her heart thudding. A pink fleece.

It was the one Lorne Wood had been wearing the night she'd been murdered.

28.

It was a strange thing, to have lost all sense of who you were and of what was right or wrong. Crouched in the damp-smelling woods, surrounded by the silence of the trees, one thought kept coming back to Sally, and that was how very much she envied Millie. Millie of all people. Millie who could find herself needing money and, instead of agonizing, just borrow it from the first person who offered. Millie who could drop in and out of a person's life and not think twice about it. She envied the simplicity of a teenager's mind when you knew why you were doing what you were doing and could still follow the strand of reasoning back to its start point. When your motivations, goals and morals rested neat, uncrumpled and well s.p.a.ced in your head. Before they began to knot together, lose their individual colour and become just a fat woolly ball.

She sc.r.a.ped at the earth beneath the tree with her bare fingers, burrowing through last year's leaves, warm and flaky, getting dirt under her nails. The court she'd summoned in her head had weighed Kelvin against Sally as David Goldrab's killer and had found there was no contest. Kelvin Burford had a record of violence; he'd worked for David, and had severe mental problems. Of course he had killed David. Of course it couldn't have been the politely spoken, downtrodden housekeeper, with the nice accent and the teenage daughter in private school. And any way. There was evidence to prove it.

She found what she was searching for and sat back on her heels, resting it on her lap. The tin. She lifted it and blew off the earth. The few oddments inside rattled. David's teeth. His ring. She opened the lid and stared at them. Steve had called from the departures lounge at Sea-Tac. He'd finished the meeting, caught four hours' sleep in the hotel, then gone back to the airport and brought his flight back to England forward. It was going to Heathrow and was leaving Seattle in four hours. It would be early tomorrow morning before he was home. She'd told him about the lipstick at Kelvin's house, how it must have been him who'd left the message on her seat.

'But I told you. I can deal with it on my own. You didn't need to cut it short.'

'I know you can, but you don't have to. There are things you're going to have to do that I don't want you to do alone.'

'Things?'

'Sally, you and I have already done things neither of us ever thought we could. And it's not stopping now. We have to go on to the end of the road.'

We have to go on to the end of the road ... ...

She knew what he meant. There were places at the gamekeeper's cottage she could leave the teeth. She could bury them, or wait until Kelvin was out and get into the house. Hide them somewhere careful. A place he wouldn't think to look, but a place the police would. And while she was there she could search the parts of the house she hadn't been able to earlier check there really were no photos of her and Steve in the parking s.p.a.ce. It was what Zoe would do, something clever like this. Zoe would do it, she would survive.

She got to her feet, put the lid back on the tin, slid it inside her jacket, and felt for her car keys. If she didn't do it now, she never would. She walked up the lane to the car, fast, her head down. Opened the door, threw the tin on to the pa.s.senger seat and swung inside. She started the engine and reversed up the drive, the familiar petrolly fumes coming in through the rattly back windows.

29.

The boards outside creaked. Kelvin was walking leisurely along the landing, sauntering as if he was out in a park on a sunny day. He went to the front bedroom first. Zoe heard him throwing the boxes around. He was humming to himself. He had all the time in the world.

She grabbed the fleece, dragged it across the floorboards towards her and patted the pockets. Pulled out a mobile phone. Looked at it, her pulse racing. A white iPhone. It was Lorne's. She put her head back, her heart thudding like a jack-hammer. She'd been right. Right. Those arguments she'd had with Ben and Deborah, that Lorne's killer wasn't a teenager, she'd been right she'd been right. And she'd been right right to circle Goldrab and the p.o.r.n industry Lorne had met Kelvin through either Goldrab or the nightclubs. There couldn't be any other way a girl like her would have a connection to a man like Kelvin. G.o.d, Lorne, I'm sorry, she thought. For a while I lost sight of you. But you were there all along. I just never expected it to happen like this. to circle Goldrab and the p.o.r.n industry Lorne had met Kelvin through either Goldrab or the nightclubs. There couldn't be any other way a girl like her would have a connection to a man like Kelvin. G.o.d, Lorne, I'm sorry, she thought. For a while I lost sight of you. But you were there all along. I just never expected it to happen like this.

His footsteps stopped in the doorway. She tried the phone but the battery was dead, so she pushed it into the fleece pocket. She could see his blue Hunters in the doorway. Usually she'd be wearing a police radio, but she'd left it in the car. Stealthily she reached into her pocket for her own phone. The wellingtons came across the floor. Before she could even check the phone for a signal, Kelvin Burford crouched and his hands appeared, grabbing her ankles. She scrambled for the slats under the bed, dropping the phone in her haste. It skimmed across the floor, spinning, hitting the skirting-board. Kelvin braced one foot on the bed base to get leverage and pulled at her feet. She held on tight to the slats. He tugged again, and this time her grip weakened. The nail on her index finger tore away. She let go and he dragged her out, across the floor on her stomach, her T-s.h.i.+rt riding up.

He dropped her legs with a clatter. Instantly she slammed both hands on the floor, bunny-hopped to her feet and rounded on him, both hands out, her mouth open in a snarl. He stood against the wall, blinking at her, his hands half raised, as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or not.

'f.u.c.ker.' She threw her hands at him, flapping them like birds. He reached up to keep them from his eyes, and she took the chance to bring her foot into his groin. She made contact, felt him begin to double over. He fell heavily against her, almost knocking her off balance, but she danced out of his way. He staggered a few steps forward, his head down as if he was going to ram the fireplace. She turned and clasped her hands together in a fist above his head, brought them down hard. She was aiming for the back of his neck but she got a point between his shoulder blades. He roared with pain, twisting and flailing with one hand to grab her leg. She wasn't expecting that you broke the first rule: never wait to see the effect of the punch, just get in there with the second you broke the first rule: never wait to see the effect of the punch, just get in there with the second. He got her behind the knee and pulled so fast that she lost her balance and went down on her back with a thud.

He dropped to his knees next to her, his expression almost bored, as if this was too tiring, too wearying to be bothered with, and punched her hard in the face. Her head was thrown sideways with the force. Something flew out of her nose. Then he got a handful of her hair and lifted her head off the floor there was the tiny pop-popping pop-popping noise of a hundred hair follicles being yanked out raised his fist and hit her again. noise of a hundred hair follicles being yanked out raised his fist and hit her again.

He dropped her head to the floor again and she lay there, panting thickly, staring through bleary eyes at a place about ten inches from her face where a spatter of blood had appeared on the bottom of the door. There was a noise a wah-wah sound, as if someone in the room was squeezing out the air. The light coming through the french windows seemed suddenly greasy and unsteady, as if it was being manipulated. She tried to lift a hand to her face, but it wouldn't obey. It rose a short way then fell, like a piece of dead meat, and lay near her face as if it didn't belong to her. Kelvin was moving around the room, breathing hard. His weight on the floorboards tested the joists under her as if the floor was bending slightly wherever he went. She thought about Lorne's face. The blood and the bruising. There was a tube of tennis b.a.l.l.s in the next bedroom. How many gamekeepers played tennis, for Christ's sake? How could she have been so f.u.c.king stupid stupid?

Kelvin grunted. He got his hands under her armpits and lifted her on to the bed. She lay on her side, breathing rapidly, still unable to move. There was a pool of blood on the floor where her head had just been, bright red, like the ink from the luminous pens they used in the office. A clump of hair too, with something white attached to it. Her skin, she realized.

'I'm going to tie you up now. OK?'

She tried to move her legs. They wouldn't budge. They just hung down over the edge of the bed, no life, no feeling. She understood what was going to happen now.

'Come over here.'

He pushed her a little further onto the bed. She was s.h.i.+vering, cold and hot at the same time. Where his hands touched her they felt like warm muscle meeting gla.s.s.

'That's it,' he said. 'Now here.'

He lifted her numb legs and placed them on the sheets. She could see the veins in the whites of his eyes. An unhealthy yellowish film over the sclera. He smelt of woodsmoke and engine oil and dirty clothes. Zoe recalled the lines of blood running down Lorne's cheeks. Her skin had split. Really split split. 'It'sh OK,' she slurred.

He looked her in the eye, puzzled. 'What?'

'It'sh OK. You can do it to me.'

Kelvin kept his eyes on her, not expecting this. There was a white line on his lips, either from dried skin or toothpaste or spittle, she couldn't be sure. If she died now Ben would see the marks everyone would know she'd put up some resistance. You were supposed to fight, weren't you? Fight for your honour. Except there were times that to win the war you had to lose the battle.

'It'sh what I want.'

He lowered his chin and looked at her steadily.

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