Kiss Her Goodbye: The most addictive thriller you'll read this year Read online

  24

  DS Beverley Samuels

  The crimson holly berries and acid-yellow flowers of the winter jasmine on the park are a sign that Christmas is coming. I thought it would bother me this year, but now that December is only a couple of weeks away, I know that I’ll be fine. A new year with a fresh start is what I need.

  My mug of hot chocolate steams as I sit outside the café and think about the way we were. I’m just glad that I don’t have to deal with it any more. Tom blamed me for his drinking: blamed everyone, but himself. I worked more, he drank more and in the end there was nothing left of us. As the threads of a spider’s web on the table catches the wind I’m relieved to be free.

  The café owner finishes writing up the specials on a chalkboard and I glance over at the fields where we used to picnic in the long grasses. I take another sip of my drink and hold my hands around the mug to keep warm. The taste of cinnamon reminds me of past Christmases as the faint sound of a Howard Jones song comes through the café door. A part of me wishes I’d never met Tom. I don’t know what love is either, even if I thought I did once.

  ‘We close at the end of the month. Open again in April,’ the woman says, before she goes in.

  I smile back, before finishing the hot chocolate and getting up to leave. Purple lavender will edge the path by the time the café opens again, but for now, dead grey husks hang from the bushes. The stalks of the dogwood make a hedge of oranges and fiery reds, as I instinctively head towards the fields.

  Since Dave told me that I couldn’t work on the Kirsten Green case, I’ve lost all enthusiasm. I came here to relax, but the same thoughts follow me everywhere. Michael Lancaster is on my mind. He doesn’t have a record and his employment history is clean. No previous allegations have been made against him and on paper he looks fine. As I walk through the soggy undergrowth, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. It would be easier if I had.

  I was right about the garage though: Raymond Gary has been reselling write offs. There were false claims for crashes too. The more we looked into it, the more he had going on. At least the inspector got what he wanted, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. He still won’t reopen the Kirsten Green case.

  I head towards the avenue of trees that were so lush and green the last time I came. Today, they are stripped bare, but in a few months the leaves will cover them again. This place is a constant in my shifting life. The sound of the river is on the air and I’m never far from it in this town.

  A group of kids runs over the fields towards the river and their laughter hangs on the breeze after they’ve disappeared behind the bushes. I used to think I would have children with Tom one day, but I’m through thinking about what could have been. The past is unchangeable and it’s time to let it go.

  I think about walking the half-mile up the sandy path to where we found Kirsten, before I change my mind. I’ve done that walk so many times and searched the bracken for signs of a pendant that is never there. I turn back towards the park and wonder if Kirsten Green is one of the things that I need to move on from. I have to do what’s right for me from now on.

  I walk the rest of the way home and my heart sinks when I see Tom slouched on the front door step. I don’t need to smell the alcohol to know that he’s drunk. He gets up when he sees me and staggers towards the rhododendron with glazed eyes. Nothing has changed. He’s even wearing the same Fred Perry shirt and cherry-red Docs he had on the day he left, but he looks gaunt from all the weight he’s lost and I’m glad that this has happened. It’s proof that we can never go back.

  ‘You can’t be here,’ I say.

  The words sound forced, as though I don’t believe them, and I wait to see which version of him has come here today: if he’s about to cry or to rage.

  ‘You look nice. As always.’

  He could always charm me. A dimple indents his cheek as he smiles and the sun catches the flecks of grey in his hair. We used to kiss until my lips were scratched raw by his stubble and I thought I’d never tire of him. Just the sight of him exhausts me now. I’ve kept all the letters he wrote to me in a suitcase under the bed, but they’re just paper gravestones to a dead relationship.

  ‘You need to go.’

  He exhales. ‘You’ve been ignoring me. Why?’

  ‘You know why.’

  He sighs. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  The scar on his cheek from when he fell drunk into the bathroom cabinet is a visible reminder of all the times I want to forget. I’ve missed him too though. As I’m about to take a step towards him, he smiles the kind of smile I’ve seen before: a crooked smile that means he wants to hurt me.

  He won’t remember this tomorrow and there was a time I’d try to reason with him, but there aren’t any excuses left. He’s just a drunk and I can’t change him. I thought I could prove to Mum that she was wrong about him, but I should have left him months before. I was stubborn. I wanted us to settle into Gran’s house and be happy. It’s taken this long to realise I’m happier without him.

  A flock of black starlings scatters and rejoins above the church on the hill. As they twist and shift together across the milky sky I realise that I’ve been a follower too. I used to let Tom decide if it was going to be a good or a bad day and I never broke free. He doesn’t get to choose any more though. It ends now.

  ‘I want my stuff,’ he says.

  ‘You didn’t pick it up. I took it to charity.’

  ‘You’re a shit.’

  I know that it never will be any different, but hope has been cruel. His face hardens as he moves towards me. His anger doesn’t frighten me though, it’s my feelings that do.

  A neighbour glances over as he walks past with his dog. He’s the same one that drove past when Tom fractured his foot trying to kick down the front wall last year, but he doesn’t stop to help. He’s seen it all before.

  Tom closes one eye. ‘Open the door. I want my stuff.’

  The car is on the drive and I know that he’ll stand in front of it and block the road if I try to drive off, so I walk away. He doesn’t get to hurt me any more.

  ‘Oy,’ he shouts from behind me and I start to run. It’s instinctual. I run down the road towards Kirsten Green’s house and keep going until I leave him behind. I continue onwards, down through the woods until I reach the sandy path by the river to the place where we found Kirsten.

  I check if he’s behind me, but there are only the tangled branches of the trees along the empty path. I stand at the edge of the bank as the current rages towards the leisure centre, twisting around the rocks and boulders below me. I imagine Kirsten stepping into that freezing water to numb her pain and, in that second, I can understand why she would. I can hardly breathe, because it feels as if it could be the truth.

  I watch the river for long enough for my hands to feel sore with the cold. The current snakes along the surface of the brown water in hypnotic ripples and the river’s untold secrets lie hidden below.

  The wind starts to pick up and I walk along the river path through the industrial estate. When I get to the red phone box on the corner, I go in and dial Nick’s number, holding my breath from the stink of piss. He answers straight away and I insert ten pence from my pocket.

  ‘Four two nine five?’

  ‘Will you pick me up?’

  As I say the words I immediately feel foolish for ringing.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Tom’s turned up at mine.’

  ‘You OK?’

  I almost put the phone down again. Asking for help feels wrong. It’s not what I do.

  ‘I just want to check he’s gone.’

  There’s a pause for a second before he answers. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On Battersea Road.’

  ‘I’m coming now.’

  I’m so tired of doing it all on my own and yet I wish I’d just kept walking. He’s here in minutes and when his Capri pulls up, he leans over and opens the door for me.

  ‘You all right?’ he asks.


  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Is he drunk?’

  I look him over. He knows. I knew it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get in.’

  As I sit next to him, he throws his cigarette out of the window. Some of the ash comes back in and settles on the steering wheel.

  ‘Come to mine if you want’

  He notices my frown and adds, ‘The couch is yours. Just say the word.’

  I pause for a second and remember when I stayed at his house last year. I shouldn’t have done it and it feels like a lifetime ago. He wanted me to leave Tom then, but I wouldn’t. I was stubborn. It should never have happened.

  ‘It’s fine. Sorry, I shouldn’t have rung you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  As we drive up the road I’m grateful he’s here and regret the call at the same time. He parks outside the house without me having to tell him which one it is, and I expect to see Tom outside, but there’s no sign of him. Nick gets out without a thought.

  ‘I’ll check around the back,’ he says. ‘You stay there.’

  I shut my eyes as he goes through the side gate. As Nick looks around the outside of the house, I know that he won’t find anything. Tom’s gone. I just hope that he didn’t go down to the river in the state he was, but I tell myself to stop. I’m done worrying and I’m not responsible for him any more.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, when he gets back to the car. He comes to the front door and walks in after me without being invited. As his eyes skim the photograph of my mum and sister on the wall it feels odd to have him here. I wonder if there are any photos of me in their house or if I’ve been erased as Dad was. Mum was wrong to do it. My sister was too young to make up her own mind about him. Mum did it to punish him.

  ‘Does this happen a lot?’

  ‘Not seen him for weeks.’

  Nick pauses and turns to look at me. ‘You’re OK though?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  I’m not all right, but I’m going to be. I glance at the electric-blue shirt he’s wearing and press my lips together.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You look like John Taylor’s wardrobe threw up on you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m meeting someone.’

  There isn’t any strength left in me to tell him to leave and he walks into the living room.

  ‘Do you want me to make you a brew or something? A beer?’ he asks, as though I need to be looked after.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Is this what you’re really into?’ He bends down to read names of the records on the shelf. ‘Never heard of any of this stuff.’

  ‘That’s because it’s decent.’

  As he runs his fingers along the cardboard spines of the vinyl, I realise that since I threw Tom out I’ve hardly played anything, I’ve not been living, I’ve just been existing.

  He wipes his mouth with his fingers and turns to face me. ‘I didn’t go to the inspector, you know.’

  I sigh.

  ‘The Reynolds spoke to Steve and he did,’ he continues. ‘It was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I don’t even want to think about it.’

  There’s silence for a minute, before he runs his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Did you see the scratch on my car?’

  ‘No. Big?’ I can’t help smile as I say it, but he loves that Capri more than any woman.

  ‘Massive. I reckon it was Paula. We split up.’ He shrugs.

  ‘You know how to pick ’em.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’re a pair together.’

  He takes a step closer. The thought of him laughing about this at the station makes my stomach clench.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone about this, will you?’ I ask.

  ‘What’s to tell?’

  I want to believe that he’ll keep it to himself. A year ago I wouldn’t have doubted it.

  ‘I can’t be doing with any of the sympathy bullshit.’

  ‘Christ, no. You wouldn’t want anyone being nice to you. That would be unthinkable.’

  I smile. ‘You’ll miss your date,’ I tell him.

  He pulls his sleeve back and presses a button at the side of his digital watch. ‘Already missed it.’

  We stand next to each other in the semi-darkness and a flicker of something passes between us. He looks at the door and back at me.

  ‘Shall I stay for a bit?’

  ‘I’m fine. I shouldn’t have rung you. I don’t know why I did.’

  I just wish we could go back to the way we used to be before it got ruined.

  ‘Because you needed a mate. You want some advice?’ he asks.

  ‘Not really.’

  He frowns. ‘Well, when you do, just ask.’

  ‘I’ve got some for you though.’ I motion at his shirt and shake my head. ‘This isn’t a good look.’

  Nick gives me a gentle tap and holds the top of my arm. It’s nice and strange at the same time. He moves towards me and tilts his head as though he’s about to kiss me and I take a step back. He looks down, as though he’s embarrassed.

  ‘I should go,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry. I’m…’

  ‘Bev,’ he says, ‘you don’t have to do everything on your own.’

  I gesture at the door. ‘Haven’t you got somewhere better to be?’

  The door closes before I tell him thanks, and I stand in the centre of the room until his car drives away. I’m not even sure what just happened.

  Usually I’d turn off the lights, but tonight I don’t. I keep them on. If Tom comes, I won’t hide. I’m not going to be anyone’s victim any more.

  I put Ceefax on the television and watch the blue numbers click by at the top of the screen. As one page changes to the next, I listen to the drone of the saxophone and don’t read the words. What I had with Tom made me the person that I am and for the first time in months I’m not angry. It’s time to do what’s right for me.

  *

  The following morning, there’s a knock at the door. When I open it, the boy on the doorstep holds out a bunch of pink roses wrapped up in cellophane and tied with an oversized bow.

  ‘Beverley Samuels?’

  The delivery boy smiles as though I should be delighted and I look back blankly. I don’t need to read the card to know that they’re from Tom. The flowers are fresh and vibrant – everything our relationship wasn’t – and I check the road behind him before I take them. There’s a waft of sweetness that makes my stomach turn as I close the door in his face.

  I stand in the hall with them in my hand, before I grab my coat and leave. Tom never bought me flowers before and it annoys me that he’d do it now. As I place them on the passenger seat of the car and reverse out of the drive it crosses my mind to leave them on his mum’s doorstep. I change my mind. He won’t get a reaction from me. He gets nothing.

  It’s early morning and the roads are empty. I drive past the red-bricked mill and up through Stockport’s cobbled streets with thoughts racing. As I pass the brewery, the unicorn flag on the striped red and white tower flickers in the wind and points to where I need to go. I continue uphill, past the dirty, smoke-stained buildings to the cemetery where Moira Timperley is buried.

  I sit in the car and look through the railings at the old weather-beaten graves stretching out in all directions. The cellophane crackles around the flowers in my hand as a single bird sings from one of the many trees. I make my way down the long tarmac path through the graveyard.

  The flowers hang limp in my hand as I read the name that’s chiselled in stone. Behind it, a highly decorated crypt screams importance in the deserted cemetery. Moira Timperley’s grave is simple in comparison: a small block of marble, speckled like a bird’s egg, with just her name on. She can’t be so easily forgotten. It can’t mean nothing.

  Moss has started to grow on top of the turf and I think of the time I saw her roller-skate up the road, holding onto every lamp post: not wanting to scrape her knees, laughing, out of control. I thought she was happy then
and now I wonder if she ever was. None of it was real. All of it was a lie. I picture myself on that doorstep again. I could have taken her hand and walked her away from that house and to safety. I could have helped.

  I can’t do this yet. It’s still too raw. I drop the flowers on a nameless grave where the inscription has been worn away by the weather and walk back down the path.

  I drive towards home with The Specials on the stereo, past dirty concrete flats and kids playing kick-stone on the street, wondering if I can ever put this behind me. A bloke in a donkey jacket sucks on a cigarette as he goes into a betting shop on the corner. I lost a piece of Tom in every betting shop and pub he chose over me and as the man walks through the doors of William Hill I wonder if I will ever move on. I still think about the woman Tom was seeing and wonder if I knew her. It shouldn’t matter now, but it still does. The past wants to pull me under with its dirty fingers and I won’t let it.

  25

  Hayley Reynolds

  When I wake up in the morning, I feel great. I don’t know if it’s that Dad’s coming or because the police haven’t been back again, but the dark circles under my eyes have faded and when I put my hair up in a red scarf I’m almost beautiful. It’s just how I want to look when Dad sees me again.

  My red-spotted dress and white cardigan hangs on the wardrobe door ready to change into as soon as I get home from college and I leave my untouched breakfast on the table; I’m too excited to eat. It’s the last day that I’m going to be here and on the way to college I notice everything: the dew on the leaves, the thick moss on the concrete paving slabs and the shape of the clouds above me. I try to remember it all. I take in every last detail before I leave it all behind.