Bubblegum Smoothie (20 page)

It was perfectly silent in Martha’s house. A horror movie cliché, sure, but a damned accurate one at that if this was anything to go by. All I could hear was my own shaky breathing, and my footsteps against the floor.

I didn’t even want to call out Martha’s name for fear of how loud I might sound.

I stepped further into the kitchen. Looked around—looked at the open door of the microwave, the fresh milk and a bowl of cereal on the side. Just like in the conservatory, everything was out of place, out of focus.

I steadied my breathing. Might not like the idea, but I was gonna have to call out to Martha pretty soon.

“M—Martha?”

The sound of my voice amidst the silence was even worse than I could’ve imagined. It was like stepping on eggshells in the middle of a place where many eggshells would be lying around, wherever that mythical place might be.

My voice echoed against the walls of the house.

That was the only response I got.

I turned to the hallway door. Walked towards it, slowly. Either Martha was in her lounge, or more likely she was upstairs, either in the bathroom or in her bedroom.

A part of me hoped to God I’d got this all wrong. That I was so tired, so stressed from the day I’d had so far, that I was imagining things.

I stepped through the hallway door. Peeked into the lounge.

Inside, the television was on, but the volume was low. The curtains were still drawn, so the room, which was gloomy at the best of times, was dark.

I almost walked past the lounge completely when I saw the pool of blood on the cream carpet over by the sofa.

“Martha!”

I threw myself inside the lounge. Jogged over the carpet, heart pounding, head spinning.

I didn’t want to see Martha on her sofa. I prayed she’d got to the killer before he got to her, left him for dead. Or that this was all just an accident and the stain on the carpet wasn’t blood, it was just red wine, or cranberry juice.

When I reached the sofa, my hopes were dashed.

Martha was lying across the sofa. She was in her white dressing gown, and she hadn’t put her makeup on yet, so she looked more Mart than I’d ever seen her.

She was gasping and clutching at her stomach.

“Martha, what… Oh God. Let’s—let’s call someone for you. Let’s call an ambulance.”

I crouched down beside Martha and fumbled for my phone.

Her dressing gown was coated in blood, right over her belly. She was trying to speak, but she was shaking too much to get any words out. Her eyes were wide, and she was staring up at me in fear, pure fear.

“It’s okay,” I said, even though I knew it was anything but. I tapped at my phone. Keyed in 999 to get an ambulance down here right away. “It’s okay.”

I grabbed Martha’s left hand. She struggled, tried to speak some more. Her eyes got even wider.

“It’s okay. I’m here now. I’m…”

As the dialling tone kicked in, I noticed something.

Martha wasn’t looking
at
me with wide, terrified eyes.

She was looking behind me.

That’s when I heard the floorboard creak.

It’s weird what can happen when death stares you in the face. It’s weird how it makes you do things you wouldn’t usually do, things you wouldn’t expect of yourself. And it heightens an awareness inside you. A sixth sense, if you believe in that bullshit.

Even though I couldn’t hear the floorboards creaking anymore, I knew the killer was behind me.

And I knew he was getting closer to me. I could just feel it.

“Emergency Services, which department do you require?”

I waited. Waited, counted time with the beats of my heart.

I felt the killer get closer, heard Martha breathing heavier.

“Ambulance,” I said.

And then I dropped the phone onto the sofa and swung my right leg around.

A part of me expected not to make contact with anything. Or hoped rather than expected, perhaps. I hoped I was paranoid, through my early start or lack of menthol or whatever.

But my food did connect with something.

And it connected hard.

The killer shouted and clutched at his thigh.

I pulled my leg away. Jolted to my feet.

The killer was wearing a black hoodie, but I knew who it was. I recognised him right away. I’d seen him earlier today, in fact.

The plump face. The unreadable brown eyes.

“I was right,” I said.

The killer—the man from the Land Rover I’d pulled over earlier—looked even closer at me. Looked at me with pure hate, pure contempt, which I didn’t think that piggish little face was capable of.

I wanted to ask him everything. Ask him why he was murdering. Ask him what the significance of his victims was. Ask him why the fuck he’d stabbed Martha, and why the hell he’d tried to burn me alive.

But I didn’t get the chance to because he swung at me with a sharp knife.

I edged out of the way. I felt a sharpness across my right cheek, and tumbled back beside the sofa.

I clutched at my face, realised it’d been sliced.

But I had worse things to worry about.

The killer was standing over me. Blood was dripping from his knife. Beside me, I could hear the questioning voice of the Emergency Services secretary. Figured I needed her for a different kind of emergency now.

I waited. Waited for the killer to stab me. Waited for him to finish me off, just like he’d finished Martha…

No. Martha isn’t dead yet. Don’t give up on her.

The killer took a step towards me. Raised his knife.

And then he stopped.

He stepped away and he lowered his knife.

“Where the fuck are you—”

“I’m giving you a choice, Blake Dent,” he said. Great. Nutter knew my name. “You can follow me out of this house and your
it
friend here will die, or you can stay here and call an ambulance and let me get on with my work. I’ll be finished soon, and we never have to cross paths again.”

I squinted. Tried to understand what this nutter was offering, and why he was bargaining with me.

“What do you… what do you want?” I asked.

The killer smiled. Put his knife into his pocket.

“The answers are written already, Blake Dent. You’re just not looking in the right places. Goodbye.”

He ran through the hall door.

I shot to my feet when I heard the front door swing open and slam. I ran to the window, looked over at the Land Rover, clocked the registration: PR53 UVH. Gotcha.

I got ready to chase the killer when I heard Martha splutter and groan some more.

I turned around. Looked at her lying there, bleeding out on the sofa.

And then I heard the Land Rover door slam. Heard the engine start up.

I sighed. Walked over to Martha. Rested a hand on her forehead.

“You’re gonna be alright. I promise.”

I lifted the phone and redialled 999. Tasted blood, realised it was coming from the gash on my face.

“Emergency Services, which department please?”

“An ambulance,” I said, as the Land Rover disappeared from sight. “Fast.”

THIRTY-FIVE

“You soft shit. I can’t believe you didn’t chase after him, hun.”

I sat beside Martha’s hospital bed. Considering she’d been stabbed earlier today, she was in surprisingly good spirits. She was crunching away on an apple even though she was nil by mouth, and she was glugging back water. Couldn’t blame her really. It was boiling in this hospital—when wasn’t it boiling?

“Nice scar you’ll have there anyway. Kind of like something a Batman villain might have.”

I rubbed the plaster that covered the knife wound on my right cheek. “Cheers. The Batman supervillain look was definitely a look I was going for when that lunatic swung a knife at me.”

“Look on the bright side,” Martha said, crunching even further on the apple. I cringed a little whenever she did, the thought of any food unappealing after today’s events. “You didn’t get stabbed in the belly.”

“That is a bright side,” I said. “You’re right. I should be grateful before I go to sleep at night that I haven’t been stabbed in the belly.”

Martha tutted. “Anyway, I could’ve reached the phone. You should’ve gone running after that lunatic.”

“Martha, please keep on making me feel guilty for saving your frigging life. I really appreciate that.”

“Oh, ‘saved your life,’ boo-hoo.” She mocked my voice and leaned back on her pillow. “I’d have made it. I might not be a man anymore, but I’m still tough.”

“There’s tough and there’s stab wounds and blood loss.”

“It’s only a scratch.”

“Did someone say pork scratching?”

The voice made my stomach sink. I forced myself to smile, then turned around to the centre of the hospital ward.

“Hello, Lenny,” I said.

Lenny was wearing a creased blue shirt, black trousers and a belt that had a lion’s head for a buckle. He was holding a pack of sugar-coated almonds and smiling at Martha like she was a dog who’d been cheeky and pinched some human food.

“How’s Patient Zero?” he asked. He chuckled away when he said this, looked around the ward at the other people in their beds, who didn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile. “Ah heck, whatever. Here you go.”

Martha took the sugar-coated almonds. “Almonds. Very traditional.”

“Exactly what I thought, Marrion. Exactly what I thought. So how’s the old belly piercing, huh?” He brought a finger down towards Martha’s belly. For a split second, I thought he might be so stupid as to press it, but luckily he stopped just above it and grinned.

“I, er… Yeah. It’s alright, Lenny. Thanks.”

“Good, right. Anyway, enough of the sob stories—I’ve got info for you both. Good info. Not great info, not bad info, just good info.”

I nodded. “Elaborate.”

“The registration you gave me. Well, we didn’t have much trouble identifying the vehicle.”

“And?”

“Stolen plates,” Lenny said. “Belonged to a Miss Anna Riley who lives down in Somerset. Checked with the local police there—all southern, they are. Funny accents. Anyway, Miss Riley reported these plates stolen two weeks ago.”

“Which means the killer’s had his killing spree planned.”

Lenny nodded. “Anyway. I have some more info for you too. A morsel of info of the ‘surprise!’ kind. Witness down at the old nature park saw a chap walking down to the lake swarmed by flies. Says he was wearing a black hoodie, black trousers. Struggling awfully hard with a heavy bag, too.”

So the killer was definitely at Brockon Fell. People had seen him there.

“But that doesn’t tell us anything,” I said. “We knew he was there. And I told you what this guy looked like. He sliced my cheek, for heaven’s—”

“It tells us he’s getting more and more complacent,” Martha cut in.

Lenny clapped his hands together. Woke up a poor old woman in the bed opposite. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. You and me, Marrion, detective minds at work. Detective intercourse, that’s what I like to call it.”

“Please never, ever call anything detective intercourse again,” Martha said.

“Right. Sure. Whatever. But Martha here is right—your scratchy friend is getting less cautious. He’s showing himself in public, making stupid moves.”

I mulled it over, more surprised at Lenny getting Martha’s name right for once than anything. “So what do you think? This is some intentional move on his part?”

Lenny laughed. “I just think he’s more of a dumbass than we thought.”

“Logical,” I muttered. Trust Lenny to jump to the most obvious conclusion.

I didn’t want to provoke Lenny too much, though. I hadn’t got round yet to telling Martha the cut of money was dropping to £250,000 between us. Figured it probably wasn’t the best idea to stun a stab victim with information like that. Tearing Martha’s stitches, that wasn’t top of my to-do list, that was for sure.

“How’s the DNA testing coming along?”

“The what?”

“The testing,” I repeated. “Martha’s house. Have you found any DNA from the killer?”

Lenny narrowed his eyes. “Oh, er… oh yeah. Yeah we did. Found a hair sample on the lounge floor.”

“And you’re only telling me this now because…?”

“Well, I thought it might be one of your hairs at first. Or one of Martin’s old locks, you know.” He smiled at Martha. She didn’t smile back. “But anyway, turns out this hair is jet black. Which rules you out.”

“Har har,” I said.

Lenny chuckled to himself. “I mean the possibilities are endless, but we’re checking it out. Should have word from the DNA labs in about a week or two.”

“A week or two?” Martha and I both said at the same time.

Lenny covered his ears. “Jesus, it’s like surround sound in here. Like the Exorcist voice, something like that. But yeah. A week or two. The DNA guys, they work on their own schedule. Nothing I can do about it.”

I felt myself bubbling over with just about every emotion possible. “How about telling them there’s a frigging serial killer on the loose? Maybe then they might switch their priorities.”

Lenny shrugged. Grabbed a sugar-coated almond from Martha’s packet. “The budget cuts,” he said, swilling the almond around his mouth.

“Right. The budget cuts.”

“Always the budget cuts,” Martha said.

Lenny wiped his hands against his creased shirt. “Yeah. Right. Listen, I’ve gotta shoot. Game of nine-hole organised with McDone. Great chap, McDone. You should meet him some time. Good friend. Good friend.”

“You go and enjoy your golf. You’ll be missed.”

“Right,” Lenny said. He nodded at Martha—his equivalent to an emotional “get well soon”—then at me.

Lenny walking away and my stress levels dropping simultaneously correlated.

“Oh, by the way, Blake.”

Stress levels rising again. “Yes, Lenny?”

“We’re cool, aren’t we? About the money. Because I wouldn’t want friends like us not to be cool.”

I glared at Lenny. Tensed up inside.

“What about the money?” Martha asked.

Fuck. Nice one, Lenny. Nice one.

“Oh, I er…” Lenny brushed his shirt again. “Erm, Blake owes me money.”

Good save. Very good save, for a dumbass.

“Right,” I said. “I’ll pay you back, don’t you worry.”