Jayne stayed low as she crossed the field. There was no one around, an area of rural emptiness spoiled by pylons and the noise of motorway traffic.
She slowed as she got closer to the cottage, aware of the thump of her footsteps. She flattened herself against the cottage wall, her back against moss, and the uneven pattern of the stones cold against her palms. The place was crumbling from the roof down, with most of the slates missing. No one could be living here. The windows on the side of the house overlooking the field were protected by wooden boards. The ground around it was more uneven, pocked with small mounds and hollows.
She took some deep breaths before peering around the corner.
Sean’s boat was fifty metres away, in the shadow of a bridge. The engine was quiet. A rope tethered it to the bank. It looked idyllic, peaceful.
She began to move towards the boat, then shrank back. The windows to the cottage on the canal side were open holes, the glass and frames gone years before. If there was anyone inside, they’d see her straightaway. The best way to the boat was along the field side of the house, where the windows were still blocked off.
She ducked down as she moved along the cottage and then took a long curve towards the boat. As she got close, she saw that the curtains were closed. There were no other boats visible. It was a perfect spot to attack someone. Isolated, but with the motorway to drown out any noises.
She pulled out her phone and took a couple of pictures of the boat and cottage before sending them to Dan, watching her screen as the upload bar crawled across. Once they were sent, she knelt down to listen at one of the windows. It was silent inside.
That wasn’t enough of a reassurance.
She looked around before stepping on to the boat. Her chest fluttered with nerves as her weight made it bob on the water. She was tense, ready to run. There was no curtain over the door that led into the cabin, but as she peered in she noticed a broken glass panel. Something had happened there.
She checked the door. It was unlocked.
One last look around and then she went inside.
The interior was dimly lit, with a ramshackle feel that showed it was used for short days out rather than full-time living in. It smelled of bleach, which surprised her because it looked worn and shabby. Two chairs filled the living space, a cheap table behind, the kitchen area cramped. There was a corridor beyond that, tight and narrow that led to a room at the back.
Her instinct told her to keep on looking, that this location was somehow important. The boat was hidden away under a bridge. Sean will be at court but what about Trudy? She hadn’t worked out what to do if she appeared, but Jayne was younger and fitter and fancied her odds in a foot-race across the fields. If there was nothing to see in the boat, the cottage had to be the connection.
She rushed through the boat, worried about getting trapped, her nerves shortening her breath.
Her shoes trod on something sticky. She looked down. Dark red, partly congealed, but unmistakably blood. Large splashes of it along the floor, along with a pooled area where she had stood.
Get out, she told herself and dashed for the door. The fresh air of the canal bank came like a relief.
She sprinted, to get herself out of sight of the cottage entrance. It was possible that someone saw her getting off the boat, but that didn’t mean she had to make her presence obvious. The sight of the blood had turned her stomach, but it meant someone was in danger. She couldn’t back away now.
She crept to the front of the cottage, staying low, listening out for the sound of someone there, ducking below the first window, and inching to the doorway. She couldn’t hear anyone. She peered inside.
The cottage showed some signs of its former life, with remnants of times gone by hanging from the walls. Kitchen cupboards, old electrical cables, peeling wallpaper.
She stopped in the doorway. Further in, there was just darkness. Whoever was in there could be watching her, hidden in one of the rooms, waiting. Her common sense screamed at her to back away, but her desire for answers drove her on.
Jayne wiped her palms on her shirt and stepped inside. She wrinkled her nose. It smelled damp. There was mould at the top of the walls. Her feet crunched on the dirt.
A creature scurried nearby but still she crept forward, her mouth dry, every nerve in her body alive, the sunlight lost.
Then there was a noise.
It was hard to make it out at first. She thought it was just another animal moving but as she got further along the hallway she realised that it wasn’t an animal, but people talking.
Someone was there. She had to keep going, further into the darkness.
Murdoch paced outside the courtroom, her gaze fixed on the external doors and the street beyond.
She’d received a message from DC Richards a few minutes earlier. He had something she needed to see. She was aware that the case was moving apace in the courtroom and if he had evidence Dan needed, it had to arrive soon.
She was cursing softly to herself when she spotted him, jogging towards the courthouse, a small rucksack clutched to his chest. There was a short delay as he was detained at the security barrier but, once through, he raised the rucksack. ‘I’ve got it.’
‘Let’s find a room.’
He was out of breath as they went into one of the small interview rooms, where she’d sat with Sean Martin earlier that day to take his statement.
‘What has he said about New Year’s Eve?’ Richards said.
‘He stayed in, watching TV with a bottle of wine.’
‘With Trudy?’
‘So he said.’
Richards smiled and opened the bag, reaching in to pull out a laptop. Murdoch was tapping the table with impatience as it booted up. ‘We’ve no time for drama. Make it quick.’
He pulled a small USB stick from his pocket. ‘I’ve put it all on here.’
He inserted the stick and navigated the laptop until he found the file. A video started to play, dark grainy footage of the rear of a building, the yard lined by razor wire. The canal was beyond the wall, a gleaming dark strip.
‘It’s from a tool hire firm, around a hundred yards from the Hare and Hounds, where Charlotte Crane went missing from.’
Murdoch leaned forward. ‘Sean would reach this place before he got to where Lizzie was found.’
‘Exactly, and look at the time,’ and he tapped the screen where the clock was showing. ‘Twenty minutes past midnight. I called the firm. The clock on the CCTV is accurate.’
Murdoch’s mouth went dry as she watched. The clock seemed to crawl forward as the screen stayed static apart from the flutter of moths caught by the glare of the security lights.
Then she saw it.
Richards pressed the pause button. ‘There, look.’
Murdoch leaned closer to the screen and she grinned. ‘You little bastard, I’ve got you.’
Dan had to remain calm. Sean Martin had his hands held in front of him, his expression serene, unconcerned.
Dan connected his laptop to the Clickshare software used by the court. It allowed him to project whatever was on his laptop on to the large television screens on the walls of the courtroom.
‘Mr Martin, I’m going to play you some CCTV footage. If you’ll look towards one of the screens.’
The CCTV from New Year’s Eve flashed up on to the screen.
He’d put in the disk from the camera showing the pub car park where Lizzie was assaulted. The tension in the courtroom was palpable as everyone watched once more the events that led to Lizzie’s murder. Lizzie and Liam arguing. His punch. Lizzie falling backwards to the floor and people intervening, pushing Liam back and keeping him away. As before, Lizzie got up and rushed from the car park, into the shadows of the buildings close to the canal.
‘Can you see the time on the footage, Mr Martin?’
‘Yes, I can, but I wasn’t there, so what has this to do with me?’
‘I ask the questions, not you,’ Dan snapped. ‘Twelve twenty-three and thirty seconds when Lizzie leaves the car park. Do you agree?’
‘Yes, fine.’
Dan ejected the disk and put in another one, this time the disc showing the canal footage. It was mainly in darkness, apart from the jagged outlines of rooftops and the streetlights from the estate on the other side. He forwarded the footage until he got to the point he wanted.
‘Can you see the time on this footage?’
Sean squinted towards the screen. ‘Twelve twenty-four, it looks like.’
‘In the distance, what do you think that is?’
‘The small light on the water?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know, it’s too hard to tell.’
‘Canal boats use a solo headlight mainly, don’t they, like a large torch, shining ahead just enough to show any hazards?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Is that your boat?’
‘How can anyone tell from that?’
Dan’s cheeks flushed. Sean was hedging his bets, not knowing what else the footage would show. ‘You sounded more certain about where you were a few minutes ago. You stayed in, you said, were sure of it. Now I’m showing you a boat, you’re backing off.’
Sean’s gaze darkened. ‘Is that a question?’
Dan leaned forward, wanting to get closer to him. His teeth were bared when he said, ‘It’s not an ordinary night, is it? It’s one of the most special nights of the year, but now you’re not as sure where you were?’
‘Who can be completely sure?’
‘So, it’s possible that you took your boat out on New Year’s Eve?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You’re not ruling it out though?’
Sean looked to the screen and pursed his lips, but didn’t give an answer.
‘Your evidence now,’ Dan continued, ‘if I’m getting this correctly, is that you’re not sure whether you stayed in with Trudy or not, or whether you went out on your boat or not. Is that right?’
Sean faltered. ‘I was at home, most likely, with Trudy.’
Dan smiled and nodded. ‘Most likely,’ he repeated, and pointed to the screen again. ‘Twelve twenty-five. Notice how the boat has stopped?’
The judge leaned forwards. ‘Save this for a closing address, Mr Grant. I get your point, as well as the fact that we have no evidence that it’s the boat linked to the witness.’
Dan slammed his hand on the desk, making the jurors jolt back in their seats. ‘We do have evidence, from the defendant himself, Peter Box, who’d tracked the boat from the marina. That’s why he was there, waiting.’
The judge’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, Dan knew he’d gone too far, but he didn’t care. He wanted Sean Martin and he wasn’t about to be side-tracked by the judge.
‘Of course, Mr Grant,’ the judge said, an angry quiver to his voice. ‘I meant evidence to corroborate what he says, as you well know. Move on.’
Dan glared at the judge for a few seconds before he nodded his assent and turned back to Sean. Control yourself, he told himself, but he knew he was losing that struggle.
‘Do you have problems with your memory, Mr Martin?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You were quite certain that you knew Claire Watkins when you gave your evidence before.’
Sean left it a few seconds before answering, thinking about his answers. ‘Yes, of course, it’s not every day that someone who lives nearby goes missing.’
‘And you spoke to her when you passed her in the street. Correct?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘When Peter was there.’
‘That’s how I knew he liked her, because he’d blush and get all nervy. Not that he’d ever have a chance with her, which must have burned away at him.’
‘Your memory of her sounds vivid.’
‘My memory of Peter’s reaction is vivid.’
‘And you knew her by name?’
‘Of course.’
Dan floated a copy of the police notebook across to Francesca, whose eyebrows lifted when she read it. He passed two copies to the usher, who handed one to the judge and the other to Sean.
Dan lifted his own copy in the air. ‘Please read out what it says on there, Mr Martin.’
Sean reached into his jacket pocket for his glasses, and Dan thought he detected a tremble of his fingers as he put them on to his nose. He flushed as his eyes scanned the handwritten entry.
Dan held up the piece of paper for the benefit of those in the public gallery. Even if he didn’t succeed in court, he had to get the press to want to destroy Sean. ‘This is from a police officer who spoke to people in the area following Claire’s disappearance.’
Francesca leaned across and whispered, ‘Are you calling the officer as a witness to confirm this?’
He bent down to hiss back, ‘I got it from your witness, DI Murdoch, who accessed the case file. I can call her, if you insist.’
Francesca waved her hand. ‘Fine.’
Dan turned back to Sean. ‘Would you read it out, please, for the benefit of everyone in the courtroom?’
Sean swallowed. There was a croak to his voice. ‘Sean Martin. Lives on a barge but stays frequently at number 12 Houghton Street. Does not know Claire Watkins but has seen the newspaper reports. Said that he didn’t speak to many people around there and had never met her.’ He looked up. ‘That’s it.’
He put the paper down.
‘Is that what you told the officer?’
‘I don’t know. It was a long time ago.’
‘You seem to be having trouble with your memory today, Mr Martin. I’ll make it easier for you. Is what’s written down there the truth?’
‘It’s not accurate, no.’
‘I asked you about truth, not accuracy. Is it true?’
A pause, and then, ‘No.’
‘You told a lie to the police.’
He shrugged. ‘The officer must have got it wrong.’
‘An officer who has been given the job of speaking to people about Claire Watkins wrote down incorrectly what you told him about Claire Watkins?’
‘I can’t answer for the officer.’
Dan detected a sheen of his sweat on Sean’s forehead. He was rattled but Dan knew he didn’t have enough. All he’d done was give the usual collection of jabs and pokes at a witness. At best for Peter’s case, Sean was inconsistent and potentially untruthful. That didn’t make him a murderer.
His concentration was disturbed by the clatter of the courtroom door, and then the murmurs from the gallery as someone made their way into the well of the court.
Dan was distracted. It was Murdoch, who was whispering into Francesca’s ear before leaning across the desk to pass something along. A USB stick skidded along the desk.
Dan looked down at it, unsure, before turning to Murdoch, who nodded and pointed at it, her eyes wide.
‘Mr Grant?’
When Dan looked up again, the judge was sitting forward, glaring at him.
‘Have you any more questions, Mr Grant?’
He straightened and turned back towards Sean. All he could do was keep going.
Bill put his head back. ‘I need some water.’
Trudy looked towards a bottle on the floor, by the lamp shining directly at him. She picked it up and went over to him. The water fizzed as she opened it. She held it over Bill’s mouth, who opened like a baby bird, desperate for the fluid.
Grinning, Trudy poured it over him, bringing a gargled howl from Bill, who tried to lap at the water as it ran down his face.
Trudy threw the bottle over her shoulder. It made an empty rattle as it hit the floor.
Bill let his head hang for a few seconds, just to control his despair. When he looked up again, his resolve had strengthened. ‘What if Sean is found out at court? You’ll only realise when the police come down the stairs.’
‘That isn’t going to happen. Sean is too clever for that.’
‘He might be looking after himself, selling you out.’
Trudy’s eyes flared. She crossed to the other side of the cellar and retrieved the knife from where she’d put it, lying within reach on one of the stone steps. When she returned to Bill, she was angry, going straight for him.
She slashed wildly with the knife, cutting a deep gash across Bill’s chest and then back across his cheek. Blood gushed down his face and spread quickly across his shirt, soaking it red.
The pain was immense, white hot, burning.
Bill put his head back and screamed.
Dan turned off the Clickshare software that transmitted his laptop screen to the courtroom televisions. He fumbled with the USB stick as he inserted it into his laptop.
‘Mr Grant?’ It was the judge, querying the pause in questions.
Dan ignored him as video footage began to play. Murdoch was engaged in a hissed conversation with Francesca before she scribbled a note on a scrap of paper and slid it across the desk to Dan.
He read.
When he looked across, Francesca was scowling but Murdoch was nodding, imploring him to look.
He navigated to where the files on the USB stick were located and clicked play on the first one.
He was conscious of the jury waiting for him, curious about a possible late development, but he wasn’t going to be rushed.
A grainy image filled his screen. He noted the date along the top of the screen, 1 January, along with the time. The footage started just before midnight.
He scrolled through, the image never changing except for the bugs and moths caught by the lights close to the camera, until he got to the right time.
‘Mr Grant, what’s the delay?’ the judge insisted.
Dan allowed the video to carry on playing, visible only to him, as he turned back to Sean Martin.
‘Do you know Michael Crane?’
There was a flicker of recognition, a widening of his eyes, before he settled into his practised stance. ‘Yes, I do know him. One of my critics.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens. Despite the verdict, some people never let go.’
Dan could tell from the slight tremble to his voice that Sean’s nonchalance was faked. He didn’t know what was coming.
‘Do you know that Michael’s wife, Charlotte Crane, went missing at around the time that Lizzie Barnsley was killed?’
Sean pursed his lips and delayed his answer, trying to think ahead. ‘I’d heard of a missing person named Charlotte Crane. I hadn’t made a connection until I saw Michael Crane’s article about the search for his wife. Quite critical of the police, I remember, but I don’t know the details. Why would I?’
‘Charlotte was last seen in the Hare and Hounds public house in Highford just after midnight. Were you in the area?’
‘Define area.’
‘Were you sailing along the same stretch of canal as the Hare and Hounds?’
‘I’ve told you, I was at home.’
Dan’s laptop screen distracted him. He leaned down to look. There was a boat moving slowly along the canal.
Dan jabbed at the pause button and saw it. He wanted to punch the air and had to suppress his triumphant grin, but instead he asked, ‘What’s the name of your boat, Mr Martin?’
‘Somewhere Quiet. Why?’
Dan straightened. ‘You abducted her, didn’t you?’
He laughed. ‘Nonsense.’
‘You abducted her and murdered her, as an act of revenge against her husband?’
Sean looked around the courtroom, his hands out. ‘How can he be allowed to say this?’
‘Mr Grant, you better have some evidence for this,’ the judge warned.
Dan scrolled the footage back before pressing the Clickshare button. His laptop screen filled the televisions once more.
All eyes went to the footage.
‘Look at the time and date, Mr Martin,’ Dan said. ‘Do you see? It says the first of January, twelve twenty a.m.’
Sean glared at the television screen but said nothing.
‘This is close to the Hare and Hounds, just further along the canal.’
‘And?’
‘Keep watching.’
The courtroom was silent as the footage played, and then there was a gasp from the public gallery as a boat cruised into view.
Dan pressed the pause button, freezing the image on the screen.
The boat was static now. Even in the graininess of the footage, the name was visible, painted on the side of the boat. Somewhere Quiet.
‘Are you still sure you stayed in?’
Sean didn’t respond.
Dan clicked off the footage. He snarled when he said, ‘You abducted Charlotte Crane. That is why you were cruising the canals around midnight on New Year’s Eve, to meet her, to take her and kill her, wasn’t it? Admit it!’
As Sean’s hand went to the edge of the witness box and gripped it tightly, Dan knew that he had him.
Jayne shrank back, terrified.
The scream had come from somewhere below. Stairs went to an upper floor, the bannister rails broken and jagged. Faint strains of light leaked from the bottom of a doorway under the stairs. It must lead to a cellar.
She took out her phone fumbling with it, and sent a message to Dan. She dropped her phone as she tried to put it away, and it clattered along the floor.
Jayne cursed and stayed still. For a moment everything was quiet, apart from gasps of pain coming from below her. Then she heard footsteps coming upstairs.
She scrambled across the floor to retrieve her phone. She could escape, make an emergency call, just keep on running.
But she didn’t know who was down there. She couldn’t just run away. Someone was in agony. Running wasn’t an option.
There was a room ahead to the left, at the back of the property, the light blocked off by the wooden boards she’d seen from the outside.
She bolted in there, trying to keep her footsteps silent, and found the darkest corner, on the same wall as the door but away from where the light came through in narrow beams. She crouched behind the door. She didn’t want any light to catch the brightness of her shirt. At least her suit was dark.
A door opened. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Then silence.
Jayne held her breath and closed her eyes.
The seconds dragged as she waited for someone to come into the room she was in, her ears straining for any hint that she was being approached.
The bare floorboards creaked. Jayne didn’t think she could hold her breath any longer. She was about to let it out when the floorboards creaked again. Whoever it was had retreated. They didn’t go back down the stairs.
She put her head back and closed her eyes, let her heartbeat slow down. She stood up and went to the doorway, flattening herself against a wall. She expected it to be a trick, that someone would surprise her.
Jayne trembled as she realised she had no choice but to look.
There was no one there. Just the sunlight outside.
She went to the door the person – Trudy? – had come from. It was old and heavy with a bolt on one side; it had been left closed but unlocked. It was from there that the scream had come. Whoever had screamed, she was sure it hadn’t been Trudy.
As she opened it, she saw a strong glow coming from below.
She stepped inside and started down the stairs, closing the door softly behind her.
Somebody was sobbing down there. As she descended, she saw an old-fashioned coal cellar, undeveloped, a bare brick-walled square. The dust tickled her nostrils.
She was hesitant, aware that her legs were coming into view as she went down, but she was too far gone now to back out. There was a large lamp shining a violent light and, as her view of the cellar unfolded, she gasped, jumping down the last few steps.
It was Bill. Tied to a chair, his head hanging down, blood caked on his shirt and face.
She ran over to him, lifted his head, gave a small cry as she saw his injuries. ‘Bill, it’s Jayne. I’m going to get you out.’ Bill gave a weak nod as Jayne went to the back of the chair. She tugged at the knots. The rope had been looped round Bill’s ankles and wrists and threaded through the chair legs so that he was trussed up, unable to move any limb for fear of straining his joints too far.
‘Hurry,’ Bill said. His voice was hoarse, barely audible. ‘Gone to wash hands, that’s all, my blood on her.’
The knot was tight, but easier as the rope was thick, like a tow-rope. She found the end and tried to trace it back, pushing at it, her fingers clawing at the loops.
Footsteps above them. Trudy was coming back.
The rope slackened as she worked at the knot. Bill sighed as the strain on his muscles lessened.
The door creaked above. Bill shrugged off the rope but then shook his head. Not yet. He resumed his position on the chair, his arms pulled backwards, his feet too, his teeth gritted. Jayne realised that he was setting a trap.
Jayne pulled out her phone and took a picture of Bill, the brightness of the lamp stopping the flash from going off, before she scrambled to the space behind it, pressed against the bricks that supported the stairs, taking advantage of whatever shadows there were.
She pressed send and shoved her phone into her pocket, not wanting the glow of the screen to give her away.
Trudy’s steps were slow and deliberate as she came back down the stairs.
Jayne saw her knife first. Light glinted from the blade. She tensed, getting ready for whatever Bill had planned.
Trudy walked over to Bill and stood in front of him, the knife by her side. ‘One more word and I’ll kill you, and you can join the rest.’
Bill nodded, weak and meek. Trudy knelt in front of him, using the butt of the knife blade to lift his forehead.
‘Not so clever anymore, are you?’
Then she stopped. Her gaze moved. She’d spotted something. Jayne followed her gaze and saw what it was: the bunched-up rope on the floor.
Jayne shouted, making Trudy turn off-balance. Bill moved on the chair and swung with the rope, the bundle catching Trudy on the side of the head and knocking her to the floor, her knife tumbling from her hand.
Bill stumbled from the chair and headed for the stairs. Jayne was just behind him, but he was slow. Wincing, hobbling, his legs stiff from being tied up all night. Jayne pushed him forwards, ‘Go, go’, aware only of Trudy’s scream of rage and the promise of daylight at the top.
Dan’s laptop pinged with a message from Jayne. He clicked off the link that connected his screen to the televisions and stared at it.
She’d sent two pictures. Sean’s boat, and a cottage. It looked familiar but he couldn’t place it. He remembered her message from before and how the cottage appeared in Sean’s book.
He turned back to Sean Martin. ‘Where is your boat now?’
Sean’s eyes widened. He stammered when he said, ‘I don’t know exactly.’ He looked around the courtroom as if hoping he’d find the answer somewhere, but all he had were the gazes of everyone in the courtroom fixed on him.
‘Is there anywhere you liked to cruise to, so you could spend time together?’
‘We cruised all over the place.’
‘What about a place you put in your book, in the section set aside for photographs?’
Sean didn’t answer, so Dan made the picture of the cottage fill his screen and turned on the Clickshare software again, bringing the television screens to life once more.
‘What about this place?’
Sean swayed as he looked at the television screen. His tongue went to his lip, nervous and edgy, and he looked to the door, as if calculating whether he could make a run for it.
‘Mr Martin? Do you recognise it?’
When he still didn’t answer, Dan navigated to the other picture and made it fill the screen. ‘That’s the boat, isn’t it?’
Sean nodded.
‘It’s by that cottage. Have you been there before?’
He coughed. ‘Yes, a few times.’ His voice had developed a tremble, almost a stammer. ‘It’s just somewhere on the canal, somewhere secluded.’
‘If I ask the police to go there now, will they find anything?’
He shook his head.
‘If I ask Detective Inspector Murdoch to leave the courtroom now and send officers to that location, while you’re still here, unable to use your phone and without any other way of getting a message out, will those officers find any trace of you or Trudy?’
His breathing had quickened. ‘It’s just a place, somewhere to go.’
The peace of the courtroom was broken by Murdoch rushing through the door, her phone in her hand. She’d got Dan’s hint.
But then something else struck him. Jayne was there, and she was alone.
Jayne ran quickly up the stairs, past Bill, who was going too slow. She stopped and grabbed his arm, tried to pull him the rest of the way. He stumbled, groaning in pain.
Downstairs, they heard a thump as Trudy got to her feet, screeching in anger.
‘Come on, come on!’
They tumbled through the door and into the hallway as the sound of Trudy running up the stars echoed in the cellar. Jayne turned and threw herself against the door, hoping to slam home the bolt, but Trudy pushed on the other side. Jayne screamed at Bill to help her, but he was on the floor, holding on to his leg. Before he could join her, Jayne was thrown backwards as Trudy charged through.
Trudy was enraged, her knife held outwards, growling. Bill scuttled backwards. ‘Get away, get away!’
Trudy’s focus was entirely on Bill, who was scrambling backwards into the room at the back of the house, where Jayne had hidden not long before.
Trudy grabbed the ruins of Bill’s shirt and pulled him up off the floor. She held the knife against his throat, ready to slash. ‘You bastard!’
That made Jayne move.
She ran forwards.
Trudy turned towards her, surprised, pulling the knife away from Bill’s neck. Jayne grabbed the doorframe and swung, kicking out with both feet. She caught Trudy in the ribs with a satisfying crack. Trudy went to the ground, yelling in pain.
Bill crawled towards the doorway, getting ready to run, but Trudy reached out and grabbed his shirt again. She yanked him backwards before advancing towards Jayne, her knife held out.
Jayne wasn’t going to leave Bill behind. She backed up against the nearest wall, her arms out.
Bill pushed himself to his feet and went to the wall opposite. Jayne moved as if she was about to rush across the room to join him, but Bill shook his head.
Jayne understood. Stay apart. Make two targets. Divide her attention.
Bill put his head back against the wall, panting hard. ‘Give up, Trudy. It’s the end.’
Trudy lashed out with the knife. ‘I won’t be separated from Sean. Not again.’
Bill dodged it and moved along the wall as Jayne spoke up, shifting Trudy’s attention at the crucial moment.
‘Can’t you see that it’s all over?’ Jayne said.
‘Bullshit.’
Trudy wanted to attack, Jayne could tell from the tension in her body, but didn’t want to make herself a target.
‘Why haven’t you killed Bill?’ Jayne was backing towards the door as she spoke. ‘You’re a killer. So why is he still alive?’
Trudy was looking more hesitant, turning all the time, the knife held outwards.
Jayne kept on backing up, making Trudy move with her, distracting her, getting her ever closer to the doorway. ‘Dan Grant knows where I am. However it goes, you’re finished. All you can do is get the best deal.’
Trudy was looking back towards Bill and then again at Jayne, trying to track two targets who were getting further apart.
‘It was all Sean, we know that,’ Jayne said. ‘All you did was fail to stop him, got swept along by him.’
Trudy laughed. ‘Credit me with some invention.’
Jayne had reached the stairs. She stopped when she felt the sharp jab of a wayward stair spindle in her back. Trudy was edging towards her. As Jayne moved back, the rail made a loud crack as it bent out even further.
This was the moment. She had to get it right. Trudy was focused on her, not on Bill. Jayne would engage her in a fight and give Bill the chance to get away or at least to get into open space. He was an old man, wheezing hard. He needed a head start.
Jayne twirled round and grabbed the spindle. She moved quickly, twisting it until it cracked in her hand. It snapped away from the rail and she held it like a baseball bat.
The spindle was old wood, heavy but dried out, with two twisted nails sticking from the end.
She swung it towards Trudy a couple of times, hoping to make her back up, but Trudy kept on coming.
Bill ran across the room, stumbling and limping, and through the doorway. It was enough to distract Trudy, making her turn. Jayne swung the spindle hard. She missed but Trudy stepped backwards. Jayne took another swing as Bill barged his way into the hallway. The spindle crashed against the doorframe.
Trudy swung out with the knife, slashing at Bill, but just caught air. She started after him, her eyes wild, enraged.
Jayne swung the spindle again, and heard it connect with satisfaction. Trudy dropped to the floor, screaming, one of the nails embedded in her cheek.
Jayne turned and ran after Bill, who was waiting for her in the doorway, leaning over and sucking in air.
‘Come on,’ Jayne shouted. ‘My car.’
They both ran along the front of the cottage. They had no plan other than getting away. All they had to do was reach the car.
Footsteps behind, angry shouts.
‘I can’t do it,’ Bill cried.
Jayne stopped, and waved her arm in encouragement. ‘Come on, come on.’
‘No, you go ahead.’
‘Bill!’
‘I’m an old man. I can’t run. You go.’
Jayne went to him and grabbed his arm. ‘I’m not leaving you.’
Bill struggled on, but as they went round the side of the house, he slid on some loose turf and thudded to the ground.
Jayne stopped, went to grab him again, but faltered as she looked down.
Bill had dislodged a strip of turf, as if it had just been dug out and re-laid, loose soil underneath. It wasn’t the grass that drew her attention though, but what lay underneath.
It was skin, grey and pale, with short tufts of hair peering through the thin layer of soil. As she looked in horror, she realised that the strip of turf was around six feet long, slightly raised, as if freshly dug out. She looked around and saw that the undulating ground around her was different from how she’d first seen it, that it wasn’t the natural dips of old farmland but that the bumps and hollows were all the same size.
Graves.
The photographs from the book came back to her. Sean and Trudy posing on grass by the canal, picnicking on a mound, happy and carefree. This was where they buried the bodies. The book really was a taunt.
She brushed away the soil, then put her hand over her mouth, worried that she was going to vomit. ‘It’s Pat Molloy.’
She didn’t have time to say anything more.
Trudy appeared, running, but surprised to see Jayne and Bill still there.
Bill scrambled backwards, but Trudy was on him.
She grabbed Bill’s hair and pulled it back. She held the knife against his neck.
‘Don’t run or I’ll kill him.’ Trudy was still dazed, blinking hard, blood running down her cheek.
‘This is where you killed Pat. And what about the rest?’ Jayne gestured to the other mounds. ‘How many more will we find?’ When Trudy didn’t answer, she said, ‘It’s over. You’re going away for a long time. Accept it. Don’t make it worse.’
Bill shook his head, wincing as the knife dug into his skin. His body sagged, and there were tears in his eyes when he said, ‘Jayne, just go.’
There was another sound. Sirens. Blue lights flashed somewhere in the distance. Trudy looked over and realised what was happening. She pulled Bill’s head back, her hand trembling on the knife, her teeth bared in a snarl.
Jayne put her hands out, pleading, ‘No, no, no. Stop. Give yourself up.’
Tears ran down Trudy’s cheeks before she slashed with the knife, cutting deep into Bill’s throat, blood flicking from the blade as she raised it high.
Jayne screamed. ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’
Bill’s eyes bulged, then he coughed. Blood spewed out of the wound.
Trudy grimaced and plunged the knife in deeper this time, just under Bill’s ear.
Bill’s eyes clouded and then went out of focus. His body slumped in Trudy’s grip, who finally let go and stood straight. She kicked Bill, who fell forward, blood arcing as he went, landing with a thump on Pat Molloy’s partially uncovered corpse.
Jayne stood there in shock not able to believe what she’d seen. Then she lost all reason. She ran at Trudy, aiming for her ribs again, just hoping to make it hurt.
Trudy looked up, surprised, and was thrown off-balance as Jayne crashed into her. They went to the ground together, the knife knocked from Trudy’s hand, Jayne on top. She punched Trudy, her fist connecting with her cheekbone, the hard smack satisfying. Two more punches as Trudy thrashed, and with the next one she groaned and stopped struggling.
Jayne rushed to Bill. ‘Come on, stay alive,’ but he didn’t move. She looked down and saw how much blood was on the ground, and the glassiness of Bill’s eyes. He was dead.
Trudy lay on the ground, curled in a foetal position and whimpered. Jayne’s anger erupted. She kicked her hard, her foot crunching into Trudy’s cheek.
Trudy’s head snapped backwards. She went limp, only her hoarse breaths letting Jayne know that she was still alive.
The sirens got louder.
Jayne hung her head and took in gulps of air, tears streaming down her cheeks. There was the sound of heavy footsteps running over the field. She didn’t look up as the police officers went to Trudy.
Dan leaned forward, one hand on the table, more snarl to his voice. ‘That’s all the cottage is to you, Mr Martin? Are you sure?’
Sean nodded but didn’t respond.
A message pinged on his laptop. He turned off the Clickshare software, and the televisions went blank again. He opened the message, and the courtroom swam in front of him. He clenched his fist and fought the urge to run at Sean Martin and pummel him.
Take some deep breaths, he told himself, stay calm. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, his vision was clear, focused.
‘Do you know Bill Maude?’
Sean shook his head and tried to shrug a reply, feigning disinterest, but he looked like he knew what was coming next.
‘Is that an answer?’
Sean swallowed, his eyes darting around the room until he said, ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Would a picture help, to see if you recognise him?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Dan filled his laptop with the photograph of Bill, bloodied and scarred. He jabbed the Clickshare button and clenched his jaw as the picture filled the television screen in the courtroom.
Sean moaned and swayed in the box. There were gasps from the public gallery. Francesca muttered, ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘This picture has just been taken by my investigator,’ Dan said, a tremble to his voice now, but it was anger, not fear. ‘At the cottage where your boat is moored.’
Sean looked down and took deep breaths.
Dan banged the desk, making everyone jump. ‘You killed them, Sean Martin.’
‘No, no, no.’
‘You killed them all. Annie Yates. Sharon Coates. Claire Watkins. Charlotte Crane. Your own stepdaughter. And there were more.’
Sean shook his head violently. ‘You don’t understand.’
Dan was leaning forward, his thighs jammed against the desk, trying to get as close as he could. ‘You’re a murderer. A fraud and a killer.’
Sean looked around the courtroom, his mouth open, and let out a moan.
Dan slammed his fist on the table. ‘Did you kill my boss? Did you, dammit? Talk.’
‘Mr Grant, calm down.’ It was the judge.
‘Where is he, Sean?’
‘Mr Grant!’
‘Talk!’ Dan wasn’t paying any attention to the judge. ‘All these women. Pat Molloy. Bill Maude. Your stepdaughter, the one you’ve lied about to the press.’ Another thump of the desk. ‘Where is he? Where’s Pat Molloy?’
Sean looked as if he was about to faint, but instead he bolted from the witness box, heading for the door by the public gallery. Someone screamed. The court assistant pressed a buzzer that would bring the security guards.
They weren’t needed.
As Sean passed the public gallery, Lizzie Barnsley’s father leaped forward and stuck his arm out, connecting with Sean’s jaw and sending him crashing to the floor.
There were more shouts and screams. The doors banged as the security guards rushed through. The judge disappeared along his corridor.
Dan jumped out from behind his table and rushed to where Sean was being restrained on the floor. He gripped him by his lapel and snarled in his face, ‘They’d better both be safe, or I’m coming after you.’
Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
Dan shrugged it off, his anger boiling over. There were shouts from the public gallery, women screaming. Someone was banging on the glass dock.
He was pulled back again. ‘Leave it, Dan. Don’t make it bad for yourself.’ The smell of cigarettes and the huskiness to her voice told him that it was Murdoch.
He turned to her.
‘You did well, Dan. The police will be there soon. You did well.’
Dan looked down at Sean Martin, who had his face turned towards the floor, sobs escaping.
It was over.
Dan sagged onto the bench seat just in front of the dock. He put his head in his hands and sucked deep breaths in.
He looked back. Peter was smiling.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘You got him. Thank you.’