Frozen (26 page)

‘Have you had any break-ins since you and Rob split up?'

‘Er, no. Nothing like that.'

‘What about over Christmas?'

‘Well, I haven't actually been home yet.' Helen sounded alarmed. ‘But I'm sure David would have phoned me if anything like that had happened.'

‘Would you mind if I phoned him anyway and asked if he'd noticed anything peculiar when he went to feed the cat?' Megan crossed her fingers as she spoke. ‘Have you got a number I could contact him on?'

‘Yes. I'm not sure where he's working today but I can give you his mobile.' Helen recited the number robotically. She sounded as if she was in shock.

‘Look, if he does mention anything, I'll phone you straight back.' Megan had to make sure Helen didn't phone him before she did.

Her hands were trembling as she replaced the receiver. She stared at the number she had scribbled on the back of an envelope. Could he be the killer? He was Franco's boss and Helen Donalsen's boyfriend. Helen had probably told him all about Donalsen's penchant for prostitutes. Enough to frame him for Maria's murder. One thing puzzled her. Why was Helen Donalsen still alive? If Megan was right the woman had been dating a serial killer for at least two months, during which time he had murdered four people. Why spare her?

Helen had told her and Leverton about Donalsen's liaisons with prostitutes. And she would tell others. In a courtroom. That was why the killer had left her alone. She would be the star witness at Donalsen's trial; far more credible than poor Eileen Bunce.

Megan wondered why he had gone to so much trouble for someone as pathetic as Donalsen. Was he settling some old score? Or was he an ex-cop out for revenge on the police, with Donalsen a convenient vehicle?

She picked up the phone and punched out the number Helen had given her. As she heard the double purr of the ringing tone she held her breath.

‘Hi, you're through to Dave Simon.'

‘Oh God!' she said aloud. ‘An answerphone!' She listened to the message and put the phone down. There had been something very strange about his voice. Something familiar.

Megan picked up the phone and rang again. As she listened to the message she felt her stomach tighten and she had an overwhelming urge to throw up. She didn't know why. She put the phone down again and sank into an armchair. Where had she heard that voice before?

She grabbed the phone again and dialled her sister's number. Neil picked it up.

‘Oh Neil,' she said. ‘Listen, I need your help. It's something really serious.'

‘What's the matter, Meg? Have you had an accident? Are you okay?'

‘I'm fine. Look, it's this murder case I've been involved with. I can't explain it all – it'll take too long – but the police have got the wrong man. I think I know who the real killer is. It's someone who works at BTV.'

‘What? Are you sure?'

‘Yes,' Megan insisted. ‘It's the head of security. He's called David Simon. Do you know him?'

There was a silence at the end of the phone.

‘Neil?'

‘I'm sorry, Meg – there's something I should have told you.' His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper.

‘Told me what? What are you talking about?'

‘It's him, Meg. The one you said…' He tailed off.

‘Who?'

‘I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be upset.'

Megan went cold. ‘Do you mean who I think you mean?'

‘He changed his name.' Neil sounded as if he was apologising for him. How typical, Megan thought. Her whole body trembled.

‘Obviously,' she hissed. ‘How long have you known? How long has that bastard been back?'

‘I don't know,' Neil faltered. ‘A year or so, I think. He was in a bad state, Meg. He'd been working abroad and lost his job. He was trying to set up in business and he asked me to help him get a foot in the door at BTV.'

‘And you never thought to tell me? To warn me?' The thought of him getting into her house turned her insides to ice.

‘Warn you?' Neil sounded incredulous. ‘It was fourteen years ago, Meg. I can't believe you think he's…'

‘Rapists don't stop being rapists.' She cut across him. ‘If they get away with it they go on doing it. And some of them turn into killers.' There was silence at the end of the phone. ‘Did he ever tell you why he'd lost his job?'

There was a pause before he answered. ‘He just said he'd been working in Italy and got fed up with it.'

‘Italy?' Megan's heart began to race. ‘Why Italy?'

‘His mother's Italian. He's got relatives there.'

Oh God, she thought. It all made sense. Those Italian police magazines at Franco's house. Is that what he'd become? A policeman? She shuddered at the thought of it.

‘I need you to find out where he is,' she said. ‘I know he's not at home and he's not answering his mobile. I want you to phone BTV and pretend you need to get hold of him urgently. Ask if he's got a bleep or something.'

‘Well, I suppose I could…' He sounded flustered.

‘Listen, Neil.' She fought to stop herself from shouting down the phone. ‘You wouldn't believe me last time. Don't take a chance on being wrong again. Someone's life could be at stake. Do you really want that on your conscience?'

‘Okay, okay. Give me a couple of minutes to cook up an excuse, though.'

‘Phone me back on my mobile if you get anything. And tell Ceri I'm on my way back.'

Megan raced upstairs. The images of that long-ago night flashed in front of her eyes. Her hands shaking, she threw the few things she had brought with her into a holdall. She grabbed the bag and made for the stairs. She would phone Leverton from the car and if he refused to listen she would drive straight to police headquarters and barge into his office if she had to.

Halfway down the stairs, she heard the click of the latch on the back door. Instinctively she froze. The door had been locked.

‘Megan! Where are you?' The voice had broken free from her nightmares. Clear in the silence of the cottage she recognised it instantly. Fourteen years on, that voice was still unmistakeable. She heard heavy footsteps crossing the flagstones in the kitchen. Her mobile was on the kitchen table. The footsteps came nearer. If she ran for the door he would see her.

Grasping the banister for support, she turned and inched back up the stairs, her legs like jelly. She crept along the landing to the bathroom, sliding the bolt across as silently as she could. Then she turned on the shower. He would hear it, of course, and come upstairs, but she could pretend not to hear him and it would give her time to think.

She sank to the floor and sat there, hugging her knees. She'd have to try to keep him talking. How could she get out of here? Whatever she did, she must not show her fear.

‘Megan? You in there?' She jumped. Despite the noise of the shower she could hear him quite clearly. He must be standing right outside the door.

‘Is that you, Gareth?' she called out. ‘You're back early! Were they out?' It was a long shot, but if she could get him to believe her brother was staying at the cottage it might put him off.

‘Nice try, Megan. Always were a smart bitch, weren't you?' His voice sent a chill up her spine. ‘You're all alone, aren't you? All alone.'

There was a thud as he pushed his body against the door, trying to force it open. She glanced at the bathroom window. As a child she had been able to slither out of it onto the flat roof beneath.

‘Who is it?' she shouted, trying to stall him while she fiddled with the catch at the side of the window. ‘I'm not dressed. Hang on a minute and I'll open the door.'

The window was stiff, but she managed to force it open. Jumping onto the sill, she thrust her right leg through, her foot searching for the flat roof. As soon as she felt it against the sole of her shoe she realised there was no hope. Her hips were wedged in the window.

The door rattled. The screws holding the bolt shuddered with the impact. She was going to have to face him out. Pulling the clasp from her hair, she soaked it quickly under the shower, then wrapped a towel turban-style around her head. Before turning off the water, she opened the airing cupboard, searching frantically for anything that might serve as a weapon.

She spotted a packet of razor blades and ripped it open. She tucked one into the pocket of her jeans, another inside the turban. Then she took a deep breath and slid back the bolt.

That face. She wanted to cry, scream, lash out. ‘Dave!' She struggled to control her voice. ‘How did you get in?'

He was taller than she remembered, and thinner in the face. Standing inches away from her, he stared at her through half-closed eyes, weighing her up. She wondered if he could hear her heart thumping.

‘I was just about to make some tea. Would you like a cup?' She felt like a character in some absurd farce. He could have no idea that she knew he was the killer, but he would be expecting her to be as shocked, angry and frightened as she'd been all those years ago. Acting relaxed might confuse him enough to allow her downstairs.

She made for the landing. He let her take a few steps before reaching out and grabbing her by the arm. ‘Oh, I can't let a Doctor of Psychology make tea for
me,'
he mocked. ‘You're not half as clever as everyone thinks, are you, Megan? Never mind, I've brought you something.'

He put his free hand into his pocket. ‘Think of it as a belated Christmas present,' he said, dangling the gold chain with its shamrock pendant in front of her eyes. ‘Go on, put it on!'

Megan took the necklace, trying to stop her fingers from trembling as she undid the catch. Tina Jackson's necklace. As the gold chain touched her throat a surge of nausea made her chest heave.

In a sudden movement he jerked her chin up. His eyes boring into hers. ‘I've waited a long time for this.'

‘What are you talking about?' She tried to keep her terror from her voice. She strained her ears for the sound of her mobile. Why hadn't Neil rung back? Had Dave seen the phone and switched it off? What would Neil do if he couldn't get hold of her?

‘Do you know what I'm going to do with you? Do you?' His fingers dug into her jaw. ‘What we did before, that was kid's stuff.' He slid something from his pocket. Handcuffs. Her mouth went dry. He dangled them in front of her, waiting for some kind of reaction. She stared straight back at him.

‘I know you framed Donalsen.' She blurted the words out, desperate to stall him.

‘Poor old Rob.' He swung the handcuffs back and forth like a hypnotist. ‘Still, serves him right, really. What can you expect if you go round screwing tarts?'

‘I thought that's what you did?' Her eyes narrowed. ‘Was Natalie Bailey the first or did you do that sort of thing when you were in the Italian police? Was that why they got rid of you?'

A tensing of the muscles in his face betrayed his surprise, but he quickly struck back. ‘You're all tarts. That Tina was gagging for it. Bet you are too. How long since you had a good shag? That husband of yours has knocked up a nice little piece, hasn't he? I've seen her waddling round BTV. What happened? Weren't you giving it to him often enough? Too busy chasing murderers and rapists?'

‘I've got to hand it to you.' She nodded. ‘Donalsen fitted that profile perfectly. You fooled me and the police, the way you set him up to take the rap. How much did you have to pay that tart Eileen? Bet she'd have done it for nothing, you know – they all hate Donalsen's guts anyway.'

She paused for a second. A deep line had appeared between his eyebrows. ‘Thing is though,' she said, ‘it's no fun when nobody knows it's you, is it? You couldn't even have a good laugh about it with Franco because you'd already killed him. Well, if you've come here to kill me too, you're wasting valuable time.'

The flash of confusion on his face was enough to tell Megan what she needed to know. ‘Oh! Don't tell me you've slipped up? Were you really so cocky that you left his body in that boot all over Christmas? How long were you going to wait before you got rid of it? New Year's resolution, was it? “Must ditch Franco before the weather turns and he starts to stink”?'

He grabbed her wrists with one hand and pinioned her against the wall of the landing. ‘Has that bitch been talking to you?'

‘If you mean Helen Donalsen, yes, she has.' Megan tried to keep her voice steady, confident. He needed to know what she knew, and until she told him he could not kill her. ‘I'm surprised at you. Why didn't you kill her the first time you screwed her? Wanted to prolong the agony, did you, because she was a copper's wife?'

The sky beyond the landing window was heavy with storm clouds. In the dwindling light his eyes were like holes in the snow. ‘You're bluffing. That bitch knows nothing. Nothing!' He screamed out the word and it rang in her ears.

‘Oh, but she does. You should have stuck to the stupid ones. She told me about Rob Donalsen's wedding ring. Was Franco supposed to leave it near Maria's body? Really dropped you in it, there, didn't he?' She watched his face. ‘Thought you'd fooled them, coming back to the UK and changing your name. Cops aren't known for their communication skills, especially across international boundaries – and if they've got no record of your DNA, well, you're laughing, aren't you? Unless, of course, someone starts cramping your style.'

Megan could feel the sweat from his hand running down her arm. ‘Did you know Franco took a photo of Maria Fellowes after you'd killed her? He sent it to that black newsreader at BTV.'

She watched his face. A red flush was spreading from his neck to his cheeks. ‘No. I don't suppose you did. I reckon he saw you playing games with the cops and thought he'd go in for a spot of it himself. If you'd known, you'd never have left him to dump the body, because you might have guessed he'd leave it somewhere stupid like the car park at work. Did you know they found her feet in his garden shed?'