Want You Dead (7 page)

On the screen she watched a helicopter circling above the building. A reporter standing in the road, mike in her hand and surrounded by strobing blue lights, was shouting to the camera that the blaze, which had begun in the kitchen, was now out of control.

Red drained her glass, refilled it, and although she was making an effort to quit smoking to please Karl, she lit her third cigarette of the evening.

Then her doorbell rang.

Please God, be Karl!

She ran over to the intercom and stared at the tiny black-and-white video screen. And her heart sank. She saw two uniformed police officers.

She pressed the
speak
button. ‘Hello?’

‘Ms Red Westwood?’ The female officer spoke. ‘This is Sergeant Nelson and PC Spofford from Sussex Police. I’m sorry to trouble you so late. Is it possible to have a word?’

Red’s heart was pounding. Constable Spofford had been to see her on many of the occasions she’d called the police when Bryce was being violent to her, and she had met Sergeant Nelson before, too.

It was 10.30 p.m. Her nerves had been shot to hell after being with Bryce. Some months ago, at the suggestion of her friend, Raquel, who had read about the charity in the
Argus
, she had turned for guidance to the Sanctuary Scheme. On the day she had finally plucked up the courage to throw Bryce out, they had arranged the securing of the front door and windows, and the installation of a spyhole in the door. They had recommended she make a formal report to the police and press charges, but she hadn’t wanted to do that and risk angering Bryce further.

Despite these precautions, she had still been concerned, which was why she had moved to temporary accommodation in this flat, in the hope that he would not be able to find her.

She walked out into the hall, past her expensive Specialized road bike, which she kept inside her flat after having had the previous one stolen. She had a second bike for getting around town, which she referred to as her
shit bike
, padlocked down in the hallway. If that one got stolen, it wouldn’t matter too much.

‘Come on up.’ She pressed the buzzer, peered through the spyhole, because she could never be totally sure who might be out on the landing, then removed the safety chain, turned the key in the two deadlocks and opened the reinforced front door.

The stairwell light came on. She heard footsteps. Moments later she saw the familiar uniformed figure of Rob Spofford, his tall, trim frame almost dwarfing the petite figure of uniformed Sergeant Karen Nelson following behind him. She had wavy fair hair that bounced down as she took off her hat, and despite a composed demeanour she had a distinct presence of authority about her, Red thought, that no one sensible would want to mess with.

Her colleague had a friendly face beneath close-cropped dark hair that made him look much younger than his twenty-nine years, and gave him the air of a listener. And boy, Red thought, had he listened! On the frequent visits he had paid her, responding to her 999 calls, and then checking up on her during the days and weeks that followed to ensure she was okay, she had talked and he had listened and offered his wisdom. She liked him enormously, and he seemed wise beyond his years.

Red invited them in and closed the door behind them, then looked at them anxiously. ‘What’s . . . what’s happened?’

‘We need to ask you a few questions, Ms Westwood,’ Sergeant Nelson said.

‘Yes, of course. Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee, a glass of wine?’

The sergeant shook her head. ‘No, thank you. But perhaps we could sit down.’

Red led them through to the sitting room, grabbed the remote and muted the television. ‘Terrible, that fire,’ she said.

‘My wife’s favourite restaurant,’ Constable Spofford said. ‘Not that we can afford to go there, except on very special occasions.’

The three of them stared at the silent images for some moments after they had sat down. ‘It’s nice to see you, Rob – Constable – Spofford,’ Red said, wondering if it was inappropriate to use his first name in front of his superior.

‘Been a few months,’ he said. ‘All’s quiet?’

‘Yes. Maybe Bryce has moved away – or hopefully found someone new.’

‘Good, I’m glad to hear it.’ He looked a tad uneasy.

‘Ms Westwood,’ Sergeant Nelson said, ‘records we’ve obtained from the O2 phone company indicate you’ve made numerous calls to one particular number during the past twenty-four hours.’ She gave her the number. ‘Is that correct?’

Red nodded hesitantly, suddenly feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. ‘Why . . . why are you asking?’

The two police officers glanced at each other in a way that made Red feel extremely uncomfortable. Then the sergeant responded in a bland, impersonal way.

‘The registered owner of this phone is a Dr Karl Murphy. Do you mind if I ask how you know him?’

The flickering images on the television screen were too distracting. Red grabbed the remote and switched the television off. ‘Why? What . . . what’s he done? Has something happened to him?’

‘Can I ask what your relationship with Dr Murphy is?’

Spofford’s phone started ringing. He removed it from his pocket, looked at the display and silenced it, giving his colleague and Red apologetic glances.

‘We’re going out together,’ Red replied. Then she shrugged. ‘He was meant to pick me up at seven o’clock yesterday evening and he never showed up. Why? Has he had an accident?’

‘How long have you been seeing each other?’

She thought for a moment. ‘About six weeks.’

‘Without being too personal, Ms Westwood, how would you describe your relationship with Dr Murphy?’

‘What is all this about?’ Red asked, her nerves making her irritable. She looked at Spofford, but only got a blank expression and uncomfortable body language back from him.

The sergeant stared sympathetically at her and for a moment Red thought she was softening. But then she responded with the distancing, formal tone of a professional copper.

‘I’m afraid you might want to prepare yourself. We’ve found a body, in strange circumstances, that might be Dr Murphy, and we think you might be able to help us.’

‘A body?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

‘What do you mean? He’s dead?’

‘We don’t have formal identification at this stage. But we’re pretty certain it is Dr Murphy.’

‘It’s not him, not Karl,’ Red said emphatically. ‘You’ve got that wrong. What makes you think it could be him?’

‘Did you have any kind of falling out with him?’ the sergeant asked.

Red shook her head resolutely. ‘Absolutely not. Far from it. I thought that we . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

Karen Nelson looked at her expectantly. After some moments she prompted, ‘You thought what?’

Red shook her head. ‘For one brief moment in my life, I thought that Karl might be different from other men, that’s all. Then he stood me up last night.’ She gulped down some wine, picked up her pack of cigarettes and shook one out. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

‘It’s your home,’ DS Nelson said.

‘I love the smell,’ Spofford said. ‘Please go ahead.’

‘Want one?’ She offered him the pack.

‘I’d love one. But no thanks.’

Red lit the cigarette. ‘Please tell me what’s happened? You said you found a body – has Karl had an accident?’

The two police officers exchanged yet another glance. And that glance told Red all she needed to know.

‘Please tell me something, tell me what you know!’ Red pleaded. ‘Has he had an accident? Please tell me at least that!’

‘Can we establish when you last had contact with Dr Murphy?’ Sergeant Nelson replied.

‘The last time I saw him was on Sunday. But we spoke every day – several times a day. I last spoke to him on Tuesday evening. He . . .’ She hesitated. ‘He told me he adored me.’

‘Would you say that Dr Murphy was depressed at all?’

‘Depressed? No! Well, let me qualify that. Yes, he told me he had been very depressed after his wife died. He told me at one point he had felt suicidal because he loved her so much. But he would never commit suicide, he said, because of their children. He couldn’t do that to them.’

‘He talked about suicide?’ the sergeant pressed, and made a note on her pad. ‘What exactly did he say?’

Red shook her head. ‘He didn’t talk about it in a serious way. He said it had gone through his mind – in the immediate aftermath of her death. But he totally dismissed it.’

‘How sure are you of that?’

‘That he couldn’t kill himself? One hundred per cent. He’s a bright guy, very positive. And he lives for his children. They are the world to him.’ She felt engulfed in a dark cloud. ‘Why . . . why are you asking me about suicide?’

‘I don’t want to cause you unnecessary distress, Ms Westwood,’ Karen Nelson said. ‘But the body that has been found that may be Dr Karl Murphy appears to be a suicide victim. We can’t be sure at this stage, but the mobile phone recovered from the scene is the one you have been ringing.’

Red closed her eyes. ‘Oh God no, please no, please don’t let it be Karl.’

Sergeant Nelson raised her hands apologetically. ‘I will give you more information as soon as I can, I promise.’

‘Just to confirm, Red,’ Spofford said. All has been quiet with Bryce Laurent for how long now?’

Red thought for some moments. ‘Since we split up,’ she said.

‘Okay, good.’ He made a note in his book. ‘You’ve heard nothing at all? Not seen him anywhere?’

‘Nothing, not a call, and I haven’t seen him – well, I thought I might have seen him outside my office this morning, but I’m not sure. You were very helpful in bringing all that to an end, and I really appreciate it.’

‘You thought you saw him this morning? Despite the exclusion order? He’s not allowed within half a mile of you. Did you report it?’

‘No,’ Red said gloomily. ‘I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure. I might have imagined it. I went out and couldn’t see any sign of him.’ She shrugged.

The two officers stood up and Red showed them to the door. ‘I think you have the wrong person,’ she said. ‘Karl and I were talking about, you know, the future. He wouldn’t have committed suicide, believe me, please believe me. You have the wrong person.’

‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I have any more news,’ Karen Nelson said.

PC Spofford gave her a sympathetic but helpless smile as he followed his colleague out. Red did not respond. She felt numb. She closed and locked the door carefully. Inside she was a mess of jelly.

18

Thursday evening, 24 October

Van
the man
was playing ‘Someone Like You’ on the stereo, and he was watching two different shows, both muted, on his twin fifty-five-inch Samsung screens. On one was the news, and on the other was all the television he needed, most of the time – except tonight.

Red loved this song. They had danced to it on their second date.
Someone like you!
he had whispered into her ear, and kissed her on the cheek. Then they’d kissed on the lips and they’d danced the entire song out, in a Brighton nightclub, without their lips ever parting.

He watched her return to her living room after seeing the cops out, pour a large glass of white wine, and light another cigarette.

Tut, tut, you are smoking too much, baby. But don’t worry, smoke on! It’s not going to kill you. Something else is going to get you long before those thin white sticks with the filter tips.

He watched her pick up the remote and turn up the volume on the news, but the fire at the Cuba Libre was no longer showing. Now it was the Prime Minister, in some factory that made soup, wearing a silly-looking protective hat and protective gloves, nodding approvingly as he supped from a large spoon.

Red was crying.

Bryce was crying too. He was staring at his laptop screen, looking through all the emails and texts she had sent him back in those early days when they had been so much in love.

You’re incredible! I miss you so much, my darling Bryce. I can’t wait to see you tonight XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

God, my darling Bryce, what have you done to me? Every second without you is pure torture. I crave you.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Did I tell you that you are the most amazing, incredible, smart, beautiful man I ever met in my life. I want you so badly. Just get over here as quickly as you can. I’m naked inside my clothes and waiting for you. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

You stupid girl
, he thought, sniffing and dabbing his eyes.
You stupid, stupid girl. Remember that time we went to see
Othello
at the Old Vic in London? Remember that line?
Like the base Indian who threw a pearl away, richer than all his tribe?

Remember?

19

Two years earlier

Red had chosen her dress carefully, with the help of her best friend, Raquel Evans, who had accompanied her, for several hours that June morning, on a trek around Brighton’s fashion shops. She’d finally settled on a simple black A-line dress from a boutique in Dukes Lane that both the assistant and Raquel, who was also a redhead, told her looked stunning – without being overtly sexy.

Black always suited her, and she had followed the Maître D’ confidently across the floor of Brighton’s elegant Cuba Libre restaurant, beneath the huge rotating bamboo ceiling fans, to a table in the corner.

Mr Laurent, he apologized, had not yet arrived. But as she reached the table she saw, to her surprise, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and a red rose lying on the plate in front of the chair to which she was guided.

Would madame like a drink while she waited?

‘I’m fine,’ she had said, although in truth she was a bag of nerves and could have done with a seriously large cocktail.

She did not have to wait long. Within a few minutes, an apparition strode towards her. He was tall, with short black gelled hair, and looked like a young George Clooney. He wore a beautiful black linen jacket over a white open-neck shirt, expensive-looking jeans and dark-coloured loafers, and he had the most confident smile she had ever seen – with flawless white teeth. He was even better looking in the flesh than in his photograph.