The Murder House (8 page)

‘No,' I snapped. ‘You promised we were done when I told you about …' I waved a hand, reluctant, even now, to say aloud what I'd done.

‘I lied,' he shrugged, just as he had on the train. ‘And you're not in a position to barter. I'm the one with the dirt on you, not the other way around.'

‘You'd be in trouble, too, if I told anyone what
you'd
done,' I retorted.

He gave a low, nasty chuckle. ‘Wrong. All I did was find a file on a train and photograph a few bits of it. You're the one who left confidential notes lying around, then lied and schemed to cover it up. And you can't come clean with your colleagues now, can you?'

I really hated him at that moment. I stared down at him, wondering what it would feel like to crash my knuckles into that gloating smile. I imagined it would probably hurt – me more than him. Nevertheless, my hands bunched into fists as he continued to grin.

We both knew he had me cornered and that he was going to drag me down even deeper. I can't say how much I wished I'd never taken that damned file, or fallen asleep on the train, or let James get the better of me in the first place. I should have stormed along to his carriage and arrested him for theft. That would've wiped the smile off the smug bastard's face. But it was too late, and I was stuck in the mess I'd created.

‘I'm representing Billy Yorke in court soon,' he said. ‘He has links to some very powerful people who want to see the matter dropped.'

‘What powerful people?' I demanded. ‘Noble?'

‘It doesn't matter who. Suffice to say that his arrest is interfering with important business.'

I was repelled. ‘What about Yorke's victims? The old lady who's still in hospital with her brains bashed out?'

‘Don't be so melodramatic,' he said disdainfully. ‘And don't play the pillar of morality with me either. We both know what you're like.'

His words cut deep because they were true. I'd allowed myself to be corrupted, and now I was no better than Yorke and Noble, who also used underhand means to escape justice.

‘I can't help you,' I said in a choked voice. ‘I—'

‘You have to,' he interrupted. ‘Don't you know what happens to police officers in prison?' He shuddered. ‘Best not dwell on it, really. And you
will
go down if I tell my story. I may even say you accepted money, just to make it more convincing. Everyone knows that you – unlike virtually every other officer in the country – prefer time off to overtime. Then they'll know why: why work overtime when you have money pouring in from elsewhere?'

‘You can't prove that.' My voice was unsteady. I'd told him about that particular preference when we'd had our date two years before. He'd remembered it, just to use against me.

‘I don't need to prove it.' His expression was so smug that it hurt just to look at him. ‘The accusation alone will shatter your little world, and my photos of the Noble folder will raise some serious doubts. Now, I've got a lot to do and I can't waste any more time arguing.' He tossed a couple of sheets of paper at me. ‘Put those in Yorke's file.'

They fluttered on to the sofa, and I stared down at them. They were standard statement forms, on which someone charged with a crime tells his own story. Usually, the prisoner dictates what he wants to say, and his words are then signed by him and witnessed by a police officer. This is then entered into his file, where it will be copied and sent to the CPS, the courts and the defence lawyers.

This was Yorke's statement, and was apparently a confession to the burglaries in the Westbury area. It was signed by him, and witnessed by Oakley. I gazed at James in confusion. Yorke hadn't confessed! James saw my bemusement and gave an irritable sigh.

‘You're turning into a real plod, Helen. Do try to think for yourself. It's a fake, woman. And you are going to put it in Yorke's file and remove the original.'

I blinked. ‘You want me to put a statement in your client's file where he confesses to his crimes, and remove the one where he says he's innocent?'

‘Yes.' James started to speak slowly and patronizingly. ‘You put the false statement in the file. The file goes to CPS. CPS notices that things don't add up. CPS summons the investigating officers. The officers' pocketbooks and interview recordings show a different story to the statement. I point out that Yorke claims he pleaded innocent. Do you understand now?'

I did. The false confession, which boasted a poor imitation of Yorke's own signature for good measure, would see Oakley accused of fabricating evidence. It would throw the whole case into question, and CPS would drop it before it ever reached court.

James began to tidy up while I read the statement, taking his glass to the kitchen and rinsing it under the tap. I finished and leant against the mantelpiece, hands still in my pockets.

‘Take them,' he ordered, nodding at the papers. ‘Put them in the file tomorrow.'

‘But it will be locked away,' I protested. ‘How am I supposed to get at it?'

‘Not my problem. And remember that Yorke is relying on you, and he doesn't like being disappointed. We know where you live, so I'm sure we can trust you.'

I felt tears well up. James had me wrapped so tightly in his coils of deceit that I would never escape! He'd be back for another favour after this one, and then another. I'd spend my whole life working to free criminals. And when I was caught I wouldn't be able to tell anyone why I'd done it, because James and his vengeful clients would be waiting. My life was ruined! And all because I'd fallen asleep on a train.

He flicked me a disdainful sneer as he busied himself about the room, straightening cushions and wiping a few drops of whisky off the table. He was so confident that I'd do as he ordered that he wasn't even bothering to persuade me further. I can't tell you how much I hated him then.

He leaned down to pick up a stray piece of fluff from the carpet, and that's when it happened. I don't remember exactly how. One moment I was standing by the mantelpiece looking at his bent head with all the hatred I could muster, and the next he was twitching and juddering on the floor and I had one of those heavy purple rocks in my hand.

I
n one single second of blind rage, I'd taken the life of another human being – I'd committed that most vile, filthy and base of all crimes: murder. And the worst thing was I couldn't even remember doing it. I just recall standing there with that stone in my hand. Part of me still thinks it was someone else, and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but of course I'm deluding myself. It was me. I am James' killer.

I would have given anything at that point to turn back the clock and make it all turn out differently. I hadn't meant to kill him, of course. I didn't want to kill anyone. I wasn't a murderer, just a normal person, like anyone you pass in the street.

I used to see James all the time in my dreams, shuddering and convulsing on the floor. His handsome face went slack, and a strand of drool eased out of his mouth to pool on the carpet. His eyes blinked for a while, and I'm sure he knew what was happening to him. Sometimes I thought that was terrible, but other times I was glad, as he'd brought it on himself. But these days, I seldom think about him at all. I've done far worse things than dispatching him, and
those
are what play on my conscience.

Anyway, I stood for a long time holding that rock in my hand, watching him twitch. The pathologist said later that James might have lived had he received immediate medical attention, but that he would never have walked or spoken again. ‘Irreparably brain damaged' was what he said. But I think James knew that I was watching him as he lay dying.

Of course, it was sheer, blind terror that kept me rooted to the spot while he blinked and twitched. I'm not sure how long I stared – it might have been a minute, it might have been an hour, although I imagine it was somewhere in between. I was paralysed with horror, and simply couldn't believe that I, shy, gentle Helen Anderson, had just hit someone that hard with a rock.

My next reaction was to put it all right again. I dropped the stone, and grabbed his coat in an attempt to make him sit up. I called his name again and again, although the detached part of my mind – the one that had organized the scarf and raincoat – told me that he was a lost cause. I'd seen enough road accidents to know what a serious head injury looks like, and I knew that although James was not yet dead, it would not be long before he stopped breathing.

Wildly, I started to fumble for my mobile, to call an ambulance, but I'd left it at home. James would have one though. I started to reach for his pockets, but then I stopped.

I sat back on my heels and considered. James had stopped twitching and his eyes were glazed. It was already too late to help him, and phoning for assistance would tell everyone that
I
had knocked his brains out. I would end up in prison.

And it wasn't my fault! James had treated me like some brainless bimbo, not even bothering to watch me as he leaned down to pluck the bit of fluff from the floor. He'd been so certain that I'd do what he ordered that he'd already dismissed me from his mind. I was less important than the lint he'd been picking up.

Was that the kind of man I wanted to sacrifice my freedom for? I could imagine what the press would make of it – young, bright lawyer brutally slain by a plain woman; a brilliant professional, universally liked, killed by a dark horse that everyone would say was a little strange, now that they thought about it. I stared at the still form in front of me and made my decision.

I can't begin to describe how much courage it took to turn my back on James. My heart was thudding so badly that I thought it might explode. It hurt, too. No one can know that fear is physically painful – not unless they've been seriously afraid. I don't mean the kind of fear from riding a roller coaster. I mean a deeper, more primal emotion. The kind that our ancestors probably felt when they were stalked through dark forests by beasts with sharp teeth, or that men experienced in the trenches in the First World War. My fear made every nerve tingle in agony, and turned my stomach to acid. A blackness filled my senses and threatened to overwhelm me. It was too enormous a feeling to express with tears, or even a scream.

Walking like a marionette, I forced myself along the corridor to the front door. It seemed as long as the Blackwall Tunnel, although it was only a few feet. Each step was a nightmare, my feet coming down hard on the floor and sending jarring pains through my body. When I reached the door, I stared at the lock for a long time before reaching out to open it.

Fortunately, the part of my brain that wanted me to survive was working, even if the rest of me was barely functional. My hand dropped. Fingerprints. My life would be over if I left fingerprints. And DNA. It's pretty difficult to commit murder these days and get away with it.

I forced myself back to the lounge and looked around. The only thing I could think of that I'd touched was James, when I'd tried to rouse him. I'd kept my hands in my pockets the rest of the time, probably in a subconscious desire not to touch anything in that seedy little house. The fact that I'd worn a plastic coat would help, as it wasn't going to leave tell-tale fibres, while the scarf would have stopped any hairs from falling out for FSS to find.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember what I'd learned on the course I'd attended on forensics. DNA profiling meant that any blood, saliva or sexual fluids left at the crime scene could be matched to my own unique genetic makeup. Well, I wasn't bleeding, and I hadn't accepted a drink, so my saliva wasn't going to be anywhere. And I certainly hadn't had sex. I'd cried, though. Could DNA be isolated from a teardrop? I couldn't remember.

I stood by the mantelpiece again and scrubbed with my foot to eradicate any evidence that a tear might have fallen near the body – if indeed one had. My shoes were Crocs, made of hard plastic. It was unlikely that any fibres from the carpet had been caught on them, but I would get rid of them anyway, just to be sure. So, there were no fingerprints and no DNA. Moreover, James wasn't bleeding either – my blow hadn't broken the skin – so nothing could have splattered on me. I was safe there, too.

I don't know if James was dead when I left. I didn't want to see him taking his last breath, and was afraid to look in case I did. I remember a blackbird once flying into my kitchen window. It lay on its side, each breath an agonizing effort. I watched for perhaps ten minutes, breath after heaving breath, slower and slower, until it didn't take another. The leg that had been rigid relaxed, and its eyes closed. The memory had stayed with me for a long time, and I didn't want it replaced by James doing the same thing.

I turned off the lights, covering my hand with the sleeve of my coat to do so. Then I forced myself to wait fifteen whole minutes before leaving, just in case neighbours saw the lights going off and the door opening immediately afterwards. It wouldn't be a particularly suspicious occurrence, I know, but I didn't want to take any chances that I might be seen. Those fifteen minutes were the longest in my life.

After the first couple had ticked past, I started to panic. What if someone arrived and caught me with the body? But it was late – after ten – so it was unlikely that anyone would come now. Then I thought: what if James had told Yorke that he was meeting a policewoman named Helen Anderson, who would plant evidence to free him because he could control her?

I felt near tears again, and forced them away – I had to concentrate. What I did tonight would determine the rest of my life – and perhaps even whether I lived at all, if Yorke's friends were involved. I considered the last question rationally and concluded that James
wouldn't
have told Yorke my name: a bent copper would be a valuable commodity in his line of work, and he wouldn't want to share such a prize. He'd keep me for himself, so that I'd always be there to foul the cases he wanted to win.