Saving Grace, page 23
Marie is officially on maternity leave and Beryl is out buying supplies, it is perfect.
‘I guess you’ve had your suspicions about Harry for a while, huh?’ I ask, hovering behind the counter to make us a cuppa. I give her the hot-pink mug, a perfect fit for her pink obsession. When she’s not looking, I reach into my pocket and drop the powder in, leftovers from precious Imogen. I take a teaspoon and stir it until the white powder dissolves and there is nothing left but the colour of beige tea.
‘So, can you please show me the photos you have?’ she asks.
I place the hot-pink mug of tea in front of her, the steam rising. She blows the top of it as I wait for her to lift it to her lips.
‘Are you sure you want to see them? They’re quite upsetting. Same thing happened to me; my ex cheated on me.’ My mind flashes to that night when she was with Abercrombie and Fitch but I’ll never know what really happened. What I do know, however, is that’s when she started slipping away.
‘I want to see them,’ she says with conviction.
Her long, slender fingers wrap round the hot-pink mug, hands like my Grace. I wonder if they feel as soft as hers. I can still feel Grace’s hands in mine. On the nights when it was just the two of us in our own world, happy times. The memory stings. It’s a grief I cannot move past because she’s out there somewhere, living on without me.
Was I nothing to you?
‘I’ll just go get the laptop,’ I say.
Just as I go behind the counter, she lifts the mug to her lips and takes a sip.
I’m back in the game.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
JENNIFER MACK
He opens my fridge like he’s in his own home.
‘I’ll never understand the competition between you and Hayley. You were both as bad as the other.’
‘How so?’
‘You complained about her… she complained about you. You both had a fantastic opportunity to work together on the Grace murders, but you got the scent of success and you wanted it all for yourselves.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You know, for a journalist, you really aren’t all that good at putting the pieces together.’ He takes out a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours a glass for himself. ‘Want one?’
For the first time I really don’t. I need to be as clear-headed as possible.
He puts his hands together and rubs them. ‘This will blow that tiny mind of yours.’
‘You don’t really have a dying sister, do you?’
‘You got me!’ A sinister smile spreads across his face.
‘Hayley and I. We went way back. Met in London, she had a bit of a thing for me back in the day… and you know, I gave her what she wanted every now and then.’
I feel sick.
Stupid.
‘I found out you knew her. Don’t think you had this watertight, because you didn’t.’ I bang my palm against the wall for good measure. Then, I pause for a moment and look straight at Pete. ‘The Grace murders? Were you involved with another person?’
He throws his hands up quickly and says, ‘Can’t take credit for that one. Nothing to do with me, or Hayley so far as I know. There really is a crazy lunatic out there.’
‘But you did kill Hayley?’
‘It was a complete accident. Everything happened like I said it did. She came after me in the toilets, but she was incensed about the time we’d spent together. Thought I actually had feelings for you. I wasn’t supposed to sleep with you, but come on, it had to be realistic.’
‘What the fuck was your game? Both of you?’
‘Well, in London, work had dried up, could barely afford my rent. Hayley got in touch, offered me a place to stay, but you know Hayley, everything comes at a price.’
‘Me?’
‘Hey, well done! You’re finally starting to get it.’
‘What was the point of it all?’ My head is whirling.
‘The point being, she wanted to take the story, this would be the making of her career, she had BIG plans, but your bosses entrusted you. So, my role was to come in and steer you away from work, make you fall in love with me. The point is to give information back to her.’
‘You’re fucking crazy.
Why did you kill her?’
‘An accident. She did fall against the toilet and she did crack her head open. It wasn’t intentional, but you understand now I’ve got a big fucking problem on my hands.’
‘Why did you even tell me you killed her? You could have just–’
‘I didn’t know you would go to the police. I thought you were too weak, that you’d protect me. I panicked. I had to come up with something.’
‘The hand… oh my God. Did you send me Hayley’s hand?’
He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. ‘Wasn’t planned, but I thought it would throw the police off the scent, make them believe it was the killer. Pretty clever if you ask me.’
My blood feels frozen. ‘So, you happened to be carrying a knife, but you accidentally killed her, have I got that right?’
‘You want to hear the truth about something? Hayley was smarter than you, she fooled you, when it comes to the race, she’s the one in first place. But it is what it is.’
‘Please… just let me go. I will tell the police I was drunk, that you didn’t confess to me… I–’
‘Too late.’
‘But it doesn’t have to be.’ I get up and move toward him.
‘Sit back down.’ His voice has changed. Deeper. Darker.
His gaze travels down my body, stopping right at my breasts. I want to scream, but my voice is lost.
He puts his hand on my shoulder and lets his fingers trail up and down my arm, somewhere from the back of my throat is a piercing cry.
God… please no.
My whole body is overcome by a thunderous tremble.
I spin around and grab the first thing I see, a table lamp and throw it at his head. It has no impact but it’s enough to put distance between us for me to get to the door. I pull the handle, but he’s already behind me, the full weight of his body pinning me. He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls my head back, my neck feels like it’s about to snap.
‘Let me go.’ Hot tears run down my face, my vision is blurred, it’s like I am watching this happen to somebody else. I can’t believe this is happening to me.
He puts his hand over my mouth and with full force I bite into it until a metallic taste hits my tongue. He falls back, which gives me time to open the door. I manage to get out and yell for help, but my voice drifts off into silence. Where are my neighbours? I need somebody to hear me. He grabs me by the ankles and I fall flat on my face, my head knocking onto the concrete.
Then everything goes black.
I can’t move. Everything hurts. Where am I?
The familiar swirly pattern is the first thing I see, and it tells me I am in my bedroom.
My arms are spread out and tied with silk scarves to the bedposts.
‘See what you did to my hand.’ He holds it up, a flash of red stains the white paper towel.
‘What now?’ I say.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies.
A horrible thought creeps into my mind. Nobody will come to look for me.
He leaves the room. I don’t know what he’s planning but I begin to tug at the scarves to loosen the grip but it’s no good, the knots only get tighter the more I try to free myself.
I drift in and out of consciousness. I hear a knocking sound. I dismiss it. Until Pete is at my side whispering into my ear.
‘Expecting anyone?’
‘No,’ I say.
Another knock. Only harder.
He disappears out of the room for a few moments and then rushes back.
‘I’m going to untie you but if you try anything, I’ll fucking kill you.’ He’s holding one of my kitchen knives in his hand.
‘The fucking police are outside. Fuuuuck.’ He paces back and forth, body jittery, like a boxer about to go into the ring. He pulls me into the living room and pushes me onto the sofa, he gets a bottle of wine out of the fridge.
‘Fucking down it. Then lay the bottle on top of you,’ he demands.
‘Jennifer, can you open up? It’s Loretta.’
‘Don’t say a fucking word.’
‘She knows I’m home, she saw us,’ I hiss. A wave of nausea hits me hard and fast, the combination of the head injury and the wine he’s made me drink. I scream, and I keep screaming.
The door bursts open and four uniformed policemen burst through.
Pete goes to run, but they pin him to the ground, forcing his hands behind his back so he cannot move.
Loretta rushes to me, places her arms around my shoulders, and pulls me in close.
‘I saw everything. I saw him hurt you.’ My body falls limply onto hers, I cry out of fear, relief, hurt, and everything in between.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
JENNIFER MACK
Four weeks later
* * *
My head is crystal clear. I haven’t touched a drop of booze since the police arrested Pete. I see how easily my life could have been taken from me. I looked for the truth and found I hadn’t been living a life at all. The dangerous game Hayley and I had played had cost her her life. Luckily, I had Lilith, who has been a pillar of strength for me during these weeks.
‘We all get things wrong,’ she said. But she never apologised for arresting me for Hayley’s murder. However, now there is an invisible respect that flows between us.
I’m back in the office, the newsroom, in the hub of the action. Olivia told me she’d seen Hayley and Pete together; she knew they were planning to ruin my life and that’s why she’d offered to give me an alibi. Of all the people I thought I knew I could trust; I’ve since found friendship in the most unlikely of places. Now my focus is on the Grace murders. There haven’t been any more victims, but that offers little comfort to the victims’ families. It’s my job to navigate this to justice, to bring some closure and hopefully stop the killer striking again.
It was late on a Thursday when a typed letter arrived on my desk addressed to me.
I didn’t think much of it at first. Until I opened it and realised who it was from.
Print me!
You don’t know my name, but you know who I am.
You give me all sorts of labels: psychopath, evil, sociopath, murderer, serial killer. I like the last one best, it kind of gives me an edge, don’t you think?
But I am who you seek. The Grace Murderer. You must know by now that there are those who are born this way, and those who become this way. I was born to the devil. A mother who allowed her boyfriend to touch my eleven-year-old body in a way that no child should ever be touched. Evil lived in my home. I can’t help who I am, what I do. I need it the way a writer needs to write, a painter needs to paint. I have the wisdom to hide who I am, because I enjoy shocking society, but as much as you call me ‘the Devil’ I also play God, I get to decide who lives and who dies, and if you piss me off, you die. There is no power greater than being the hands that drain life away. Control, that’s what it is. I was foolish once, I tried to play normal, be part of something called ‘love’ until she left. With no way to trace her. So, what did I do once my control was taken? I went to the next best thing. I went to the women who mirror her. I loved Grace. But Grace broke me. This bloodshed is because of her, she has blood on her hands, she’s the reason for the pain and suffering caused. But she has given me something I rather enjoy, my new little hobby, getting away with murder. 😉
* * *
A chill runs down my spine. I hold the piece of paper in my hand and stare at the words of a killer. I drop the paper down on my desk, knowing I shouldn’t handle it too much. I’ll be calling Lilith and handing this in as evidence. Jacob’s door is closed, I see him through the glass, on the phone, and cross the office as fast as I can. He waves me away, but I take the phone out of his hand and end the call.
‘What the–’
‘The killer! They sent another letter.’
‘Fuck.’
Jacob gets up from his chair and follows me to my desk. I pick up the letter, hold it at the edges and Jacob reads it.
‘Reminds me of the Jack the Ripper letters.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ I say, a little irritated that Jacob is comparing this to something from over a century ago.
‘Bloody sinister.’
‘Jacob, we’ve got work to do. I’m gonna call Lilith and get this to print.’
I go back to my desk and call her. There’s a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that the killer is much closer than we all think.
The clock is ticking.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
THEN
Faux Grace’s head rests on her hands. She’s out cold. I lug her body into the store cupboard. She’s light, so it isn’t hard to move her. I lay her body on the floor, surrounded by tins of baked beans and tomato soup. Beryl advertises her winter warming soup as home-made; we all have our secrets. I let my fingers map her face. I used to do this with my Grace when I told her I knew her features better than I knew my own. Sometimes, at night when I’m alone in bed, I close my eyes and imagine her next to me. I use my own hand to touch the top of my thigh like she used to do and pretend it’s her. Sometimes I whisper into the dark, tell her I love her. Sometimes I scream into the pillow, asking her why she hurt me? How could she leave me alone like this? Physically gone but not forgotten. I tried everything I could think of to find her, but she left, not a trace of her to be found. None of her friends know where she is, or so they claim. And when I told them I was her girlfriend they looked at me, stunned, and said, ‘Grace wasn’t gay, much less in a relationship.’
The phone rings. Faux Grace doesn’t stir. I quickly answer it.
Beryl is out of breath, her words tumbling out in broken sentences.
‘Marie is in labour. There’s complications. Lock up the café. We’ll close for now.’
I cannot believe my luck!
I wish Beryl luck and almost skip back to the store cupboard. When I go to open the door there’s a weight behind it. It won’t budge.
I hear a snuffle. Fuck! She’s awake.
This shouldn’t happen. I used half the dose I used on Imogen; a full one was enough to kill her, half should absolutely be enough to knock her out for a spell.
‘Open the door,’ I gently say. ‘You passed out when you saw the photos of Harry.’
I try to push the door open, but she tries to push her weight against it, but can’t, she’s too weak, too fucking weak.
The reality of it all is I am being pushed away, again.
I cannot let this happen.
I will not let this happen.
It takes all my strength, but I make it through the door. She falls backwards, the tins of canned soup falling from the shelves on top of her. I throw my body onto her, my hands reaching for her neck. I finally take hold and I squeeze so hard that she’s gasping for air. She kicks hard, writhes. The fight turns down a notch, her body no longer resists, but I don’t let go until I see the life drain from her face.
As night draws in, I have a decision to make. Take her apart or let her go in one piece?
I don’t think I want to carve up her body; she’s too pretty to ruin, too much like my Grace. But I do have to get rid of her. I sit with the body for a couple of hours and talk to her, like I am talking to Grace, my Grace. I tell her how much I miss her, the life we could have had, the reason why she’s dead, which is, to put it bluntly, completely her fault. If she hadn’t left, this would have never happened. She drove me to it.
I go to the kitchen, take an apple from the fruit bowl, and peel its skin with a sharp knife. I return, look down at her body. I go back to her, play with her earrings, swirls of blue shades, too big for her narrow face. The blue matches her eyes, I can see why she picked them. I gently remove them and decide to keep them as a souvenir. I lean down and kiss her on the forehead, as I do, the glint of the knife catches my eye.
‘What can I do to make you really mine?’ I ask her.
I try to imagine what my Grace would say. I try hard to hear her velvet voice.
It’s nice, being here like this, just the two of us, the fear of her running away eradicated by my own actions, control. There is nothing better. Nothing could be sweeter except having my Grace with me, but I’ve come to realise sometimes we have to take second best.
I lay next to her. Just like I used to do with my Grace.
I allow my body to merge into hers. Like we are one.
I kiss her again, this time on her ice-cold lips, a strange sensation, like kissing a statue, but I let my mouth linger there anyway. Watching her feels intimate, the quiet knowing that I am the only person who was with her during the last hours of her life and the last hours after her death.
‘Have you thought about it?’ I whisper. ‘Come on, tell me. What can I do to make you mine?’
Tattoo me. Make me yours.
‘That’s what you want!’
I flip the body over, lift up her pink jumper and expose her back, I take the knife with its remnant of apple peel and wipe it gently against her jeans, then above her bra strap I gently push the blade of the knife into her skin.
G R A C E N U M B E R 1
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
JENNIFER MACK
I awake to darkness filling my bedroom. Pitch black, not a flicker of light. Fear sets in, every shadow, every sound shifts my mind into overdrive. This cruel trick of the mind has been present since I started working on the Grace murders and it set in fully when Hayley broke in. Since Pete and thoughts of what could have happened if it wasn’t for Loretta’s interference, I often wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t been there. I tap my phone to check the time: 02:46. I close my eyes, but sleep does not return. The violation of all these encounters has not left me. I’ve made the decision to sell, I’ve installed one of those doorbell cameras, which is both a blessing and a curse because it alerts me to every passer-by, but without it I am too exposed, too vulnerable. The killer’s letter will go to print tomorrow and I am (somewhat) prepared for the backlash I will receive from the victims’ families, from the public. I’ve given the killer a voice and some might view that as twisting the knife – there are some who will doubt the authenticity of the letter, but the criminal team think it is the killer. In the past couple of weeks, I have picked up my interest in serial killers again, the hows, the whats, and the whys of it all. I imagine what it would be like to sit opposite a killer, to hear how they view the world. I’ve not admitted this to anybody, but on some level, I get it. I’m not suggesting for one moment I could bring myself to carry out the act itself, but when I think about Hayley I have come to a bitter truth. I’m not sad she’s dead, I’m not sad she was murdered. But I am sad for me, for the underhanded tactics she used to triumph over me, for the way she and Pete conspired against me, how my life could have been spent in prison. It blew up in their faces. Do I feel bad one of them is six feet under and the other will be behind bars? No. But I’ll never tell anybody that. Not many of us are guilty of the act of murder, but how many of us are guilty of thinking it?
