Kill Me Again (47 page)

When the car drew up in front of the house, Maggie wanted to hide. She didn’t want to talk to Tom Douglas or his inspector, and for them to come all the way out to north Manchester again it had to be serious. But she couldn’t refuse to see them.

The children were in the sitting room. Lily had persuaded Josh to play with her toy hospital, and while he was maintaining the air of martyr it sounded as if he was actually enjoying it.

Maggie waited for the doorbell and walked slowly towards the door.

The two police officers had sober expressions.

‘May we come in, please, Mrs Taylor?’ Becky Robinson asked.

Maggie was flustered. She had sent flowers to the inspector and written her a thank you letter, but looking at the woman’s pale face she still felt a huge burden of guilt. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘Shouldn’t you still be in bed?’

Becky shook her head. ‘I’m fine. But thank you for asking.’

Maggie showed them into the kitchen, away from the children. She thought about taking them into the study, but the room still felt too much like Duncan’s space, and she didn’t want them getting a sense of the man she had been married to for the past ten years.

Maggie looked at Tom Douglas. He was too attractive to be a policeman, at least such a high ranking one. It was an irrelevant thought, but she was starting to like irrelevant thoughts. They stopped her thinking about other things – the thoughts that bombarded her brain and her memory every waking moment. She liked the fact that Tom’s dark blond hair was just a bit messy and slightly too long. She admired the look of capability and confidence he exuded. Like a safe port in a storm. Sadly, not a port that she could sail into to lick her wounds.

They all took seats.

‘Mrs Taylor, I don’t know if this will come as a shock to you or not, but we’re here to tell you that we’ve found your husband.’

72

Finally the police had gone. Maggie had no idea whether her reactions had been the right ones or not, but she had been frantically trying to work out what had gone wrong. She knew she must have looked confused, but then maybe that’s what they would expect of somebody in her position.

She sat down at the kitchen table and rested her head in her hands. Her conversation with the police had confirmed that the press had made the link between Duncan and Michael Alexander, and his involvement in past crimes would inevitably come to light. So now Maggie had to face the thought that they might have to move away, even change their names, although Taylor was a common enough surname.

The police knew everything now, or almost everything.

They hadn’t known that Michael and Duncan were one and the same when they interviewed her after the abduction, but they seemed to have accepted that if she had told the police what she knew, she was destined to be the next victim.

One thing they would never know about was the sickening moment when Maggie had been forced to accept that Duncan was the Teetotaller. As Becky had told her what they knew about the Suffolk killings, Maggie had been hit by a clear recollection of arriving home from work unexpectedly in the early afternoon about six months ago, when they were still living in Suffolk. Duncan had come in a few minutes later, sodden from head to foot. She had found him stripping off in the utility room, pushing his clothes into the washing machine. She had seen the shocked look on his face when he had seen her, but she had laughed at him.
Laughed
. He had told her that a bus had gone through a huge puddle and drenched him. She never doubted him for one single moment.

Nor would they ever know what had really happened on Pomona Island.

It was only as she stood with Duncan on the quayside, looking down into the black water as he told her of his terror when he was left to drown as a child – terror that he had then inflicted on others – that she had known for certain what she had to do.

Duncan had planned his disappearance so well.

‘We can do this, Mags,’ he had said, grasping the tops of her arms and bending his knees slightly so that he could look directly into her eyes.

It was a good plan. With a few modifications of her own, it was the perfect plan.

As she had run into the wilderness of Pomona – just as Duncan had suggested – and placed a call to the chief inspector, her terror was real. But it was no longer fear of Duncan; it was fear of being found out. When the call had ended she had run back to the edge of the water and stood there, alone, waiting for the lights of a car. Her whole body had been shaking, trembling, shivering – not only with fear, but with the icy cold of wet clothes. Horror at what she had done gripped her in a vice, and she felt sure she wasn’t going to be able to pretend that somebody was trying to kill her and jump screaming into that icy water.

Not for a second time.

Duncan had already gone, but not through the wilderness of Pomona to his freedom. Before putting his escape plan into action, he had pulled Maggie into his arms to kiss her goodbye, and she had, for those few seconds, been filled with the certainty that she was doing the right thing – for all those women, but most of all for her children. She had wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned back to look into his eyes, her hands moving to the sides of his neck. She had loved those eyes so much, and now they looked back at her in the way she remembered well. He trusted her. He believed in her love for him. But now she could see beyond those eyes to the person beneath.

It had taken every ounce of her emotional strength to tear her gaze away from his. She had arched her body into his and spread her fingers as if to run them through his hair. Waiting until he moved his head towards her and was slightly off balance, she had jerked her body back, closing her fingers and grabbing fistfuls of his hair, swinging herself into the black water, dragging him with her.

Duncan had clung to her jacket, but she had kept hold of his hair – a trick she had learned from Samil – and pulled him with her into the centre of the river, swimming on her back, her legs kicking out in a lifesaving stroke. As she swam, she was almost paralysed with doubt. Duncan lifted his head out of the water and spluttered words she couldn’t decipher – didn’t want to hear. And then when she was as far away from either bank as she could get, where
the swollen river merged into the canal, she lifted her legs as close to her chest as she could, placed her feet on his shoulders and pushed him away from her with all her strength. She had screamed – screamed to release the huge ball of emotion that had built inside her, screamed out her love for another man, the man she had believed he was.

Duncan hadn’t had a chance.

As she trod water in the centre of the river, Maggie had almost wanted to dive down into the depths to find him, to drag him back to the surface and beg his forgiveness. For a few seconds she even thought of letting go herself, allowing her body to sink to the muddy riverbed. But images of Josh and Lily invaded her mind, and Maggie had swum back to the shore, sobbing, heaving, and dragged herself out of the water.

She had forced herself to run screaming into the wilderness, to make the call to Tom Douglas and then to wait shivering by the side of the water for the police to arrive. Finally, she had seen the headlights, and Act Two had begun as she shouted, fought a shadow that wasn’t there and threw herself back into the water, an irrational fear that Duncan’s hands would rise up to drag her down with him making her weak. He was long gone, but she knew he was there, somewhere below her, sinking slowly as the last pockets of air were expelled.

Now they had found his body.

It would have started to decompose, and the gases would have lifted it out of the mud where it had been hidden. This was sooner than Maggie had expected; she had believed the cold water would keep his body for longer. But now at least he was gone for good.

As the police left, Maggie had felt Tom Douglas’s eyes on her. He knew there was more to it than she was saying, but he didn’t push her.

‘It was a lucky escape, Maggie,’ had been his final words. On the face of it, those words suggested he accepted the story that Duncan was trying to kill her, but they had so many other potential meanings that she didn’t want to consider. On balance, though, she thought he would have understood that there hadn’t been a choice. If Maggie had done as Duncan had asked, his escape plan might have succeeded. He might have killed again, and she couldn’t live with that.

She had no more tears to cry for her husband, and as the phone rang, she automatically reached out to answer it.

‘Maggie Taylor.’

‘Maggie, it’s Frank. How are you coping with everything?’

She could hear noise around him, the sound of happy people chatting, an information system shouting incomprehensible words over loudspeakers. It was good to hear a friendly voice, but Frank was too perceptive, and she was glad he was at the other end of the phone – unable to read her face.

‘I’m fine, Frank, but thank you for asking. Where are you?’

‘I’m at the airport, flying away and leaving everything behind.’

‘I thought you’d left days ago,’ Maggie said, a vague recollection of their conversation in a sandwich shop coming back to her.

‘I did. I went to my conference, but now I’m going further afield and I won’t be back.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked. Not that it mattered much. Frank had been a friend, but she wasn’t going to be staying in Manchester anyway.

‘Oh, somewhere far away. My days of helping people discover who they really are have come to an end. You see, Maggie, I’ve lived vicariously through my clients for many years. First as a student counsellor, more recently as a psychologist. Controlling young minds was always something of a speciality of mine. But now it’s time for me to leave my own mark.’

Maggie didn’t speak. This didn’t sound like Frank.

‘I’m glad you came to Manchester, though, and that I had the chance to get to know you. I’ve wanted Michael back where he belonged for years – and then the opportunity presented itself. Through you.’

Maggie was more confused than ever. What did he mean?

‘Oh, Maggie. Maggie. You still haven’t quite got there, have you? I have to say that Alf Horton becoming one of your clients was a complete bonus – something even I couldn’t have planned. He was one of my better experiments. When he first came to me for treatment he hated his mother, you know. She was a bitch – she made his life hell and I gave him the perfect outlet – told him what he needed to do to hang onto his sanity and how to express his anger against his mother.’

Maggie was silent. This was Frank, but it wasn’t.

‘And Duncan,’ he continued, ‘although he will always be Michael to me, had developed nicely.’

The hairs on Maggie’s arms were standing on end.

‘You’ve done well. Better than I would have anticipated. I had no idea what the endgame would be, but you surpassed my expectations. And now you’re one of us, aren’t you.’

‘What do you mean?’ she whispered, dreading his answer but knowing what it would be.

The almost jokey tone had left his voice. Now it had a hard edge.

‘You’re a killer, Maggie. You voluntarily took another life. In cold blood, unless I’m much mistaken. The question is, did you enjoy it? Have you developed a taste for it?’

He let the silence hang, and Maggie felt her body begin to shake, the tremors making it difficult to hold the phone to her ear.

‘The choice is yours now, Maggie. Remember the words of the poem:

Without another word, he hung up.

Maggie stared sightlessly at the mirror on the wall facing her. She couldn’t focus on her face, and wondered if she ever would again. Would she recognise the person looking back at her. She was a killer, and he knew.

Still shaking she pulled her laptop across from the far side of the kitchen table and typed Frank’s final words into the search engine. A poem came up on the screen, and the first lines took her back to a day just over a week ago. It felt like years.

“
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole…
”

She remembered Frank reciting those lines to her on the night it all began. Was he trying to tell her something even then?

She glanced at the name of the poet. William Ernest Henley.

William
. But William was a common name. It didn’t have to have anything to do with Duncan’s online friend.

Then she saw the title of the poem and she no longer had any doubt.

One word, a word that had haunted her for days, a word she had looked up to find its meaning: unconquered, invincible. A word that she knew represented the man who had manipulated them all, the puppeteer.

The poem was called
Invictus
.