The Ladykiller

  Picking up a tea towel, he soaked it in cold water and placed it on Elaine’s forehead. Then, holding the back of her neck tightly as she tried to push him away, he brought the sopping wet cloth down over her nose and mouth and pushed with all his might.

  Elaine breathed in and felt the tiny droplets of water enter her nasal canal and burn as she breathed them inside. She tried to move her head and felt the vice-like grip of George’s hand on the back of her neck.

  She began to struggle as she realised through her drink-fuddled brain just what was going on.

  George held the tea towel over her face, enjoying her panic, enjoying the pain and terror he was creating. This would teach her.

  In her struggle Elaine knocked the mug rack by the sink flying on to the floor. The smashing mugs bounced and shattered, making a tremendous noise as the flying shards reached every corner of the kitchen.

  George pushed her head down and under the rushing cold tap. The freezing water took the little breath she had left away. With one final surge of strength Elaine tried to bring her head up and felt the deadening pain as she came into contact with the stainless steel tap.

  George heard the dull clang, and watched as red blood rapidly began to stain her orange hair. He felt her body relax as she lost consciousness, and held her for a few seconds. Then he slowly lowered her on to the floor, letting the tea towel drop from his hand into the sink.

  Elaine lay on the floor amid the broken mugs. Her carefully applied make-up was streaked across her face. Mascara had come away from her lashes in lumps and now peppered the skin around her nose and cheeks. The deep red blood was running from the wound on her head and on to the pristine tiles into little red rivers that broke up and formed tiny map-like inlets.

  George stared at her. Her orange hair was in wild disarray and her dress was soaked through. Her eyelids were flickering and when they opened he could see that she was unaware of what exactly had happened.

  She closed her eyes again and groaned loudly. It was the groan that triggered him into action.

  Going behind her, he lifted her bodily by linking his arms under her arms and across her enormous breasts, and dragged her through the chaos of broken mugs through to the lounge where he laid her on the carpet. Dragging one of the lace chair protectors off, he folded it up and placed it under her head to protect the carpet from the blood.

  Then, rushing out to the kitchen, he got the first-aid box from under the sink and tenderly dressed the cut. He was gratified to see it was only a flesh wound; the blood made it look more serious than it was.

  He worked quietly and quickly. When he had finished, he placed a cushion under her head and slipped off her sopping dress. Then he covered her with a blanket, warm from the airing cupboard. Satisfied that he had done all he could, he went and started on the kitchen.

  Sweeping up the broken mugs, the broom spread bloody water around the kitchen like an abstract painting. The different shades mesmerised George as he worked. When he finally washed the floor clean he was sorry to see it go: he liked the patterns it made and the colours it created and the smell of it - the richly scented smell of fresh blood.

  He went back in to Elaine and held her pudgy hand. He had nearly blown it, he knew that. If he’d killed Elaine, that would have been the end of him. She groaned again and opened her eyes. She had been unconscious for over an hour.

  ‘Wha-What happened, George?’ Her voice was still groggy with drink.

  He smiled at her gently.

  ‘I think you had too much to drink, my dear. You had an accident.’

  Elaine stared at him with her compelling green eyes for a few seconds and George went cold. It was as if the whole night’s events were written in them for all to see. Then she closed them tightly.

  If she remembered what had taken place she didn’t say so. George was even more worried. Supposing she did? What then?

  ‘Shall I make you a nice hot drink?’

  Elaine nodded painfully, her hand going up to her bandaged head.

  He got up from the floor and went to the kitchen, his eyes boring into every corner to make sure he had picked up every bit of evidence.

  While he was gone, Elaine lay passively on the floor. Then, unannounced, a fat tear pushed its way from underneath her eyelid.

  George had tried to kill her. She remembered it all. He must know about Hector.

  When he came back with the steaming tea, she was crying loudly, her ample shoulders heaving once more.

  Putting the tea on the table, he pulled her into his arms.

  She knew.

  ‘I’m sorry, Elaine, I am so very sorry for what I did. I thought you had a boyfriend or something. I realise that’s ridiculous. Forgive me for a moment of madness and jealousy.’

  Elaine sniffed loudly, gratified in a way that George could be jealous, but not at all sure she liked the ‘ridiculous’ bit.

  He did not know for certain about Hector yet he had physically attacked her. He had hurt her.

  She would have to be very careful in the future.

  George watched her face and knew everything she was thinking. It was like watching a television screen. Thank God he hadn’t killed her. For the Grantley Ripper to be caught like that!

  But one thing he was sure of: he would have to play this one very carefully. Elaine was not going to forget this in a hurry.

  She felt the change in George and shuddered. He was like before. When they had had the trouble. Only this time it was all her fault.

  She closed her eyes. Poor George.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was Monday morning and George brought Elaine breakfast in bed. She felt and looked dreadful. Her head had swollen where it had hit the tap and the scab that had formed had dried on to the surrounding hair, making it impossible for her even to touch her head lightly. Once the effect of the drink had worn off she was left with a violent headache and George’s solicitous manner was not helping.

  He got on her nerves.

  After his attack - and it was an attack, she told herself - she did not really want anything to do with him. She needed time alone to think it all through.

  ‘I made you some eggs and bacon, Elaine, with a couple of lightly grilled tomatoes.’ George’s voice was once more meek and mild. ‘I poached the eggs for you because of your diet.’ He placed the tray across her knees and smiled at her shyly.

  Elaine glanced at the food on the plate, anything rather than look into his face.

  ‘I think you’ll feel better after a couple of days off work, don’t you?’

  She picked up a fork and began to push the food around the plate, the livid blue of the willow pattern a focal point in her need to ignore George.

  He hesitated for a few seconds, waiting for an answer. ‘Well . . . I’ll leave you to enjoy your breakfast then. I rang your manager and told him you had a bug. See you tonight. I’ll cook you a lovely dinner.’

  Please go, George, she thought.

  He went and she felt a moment’s lifting of her spirits as she heard the front door close.

  Close, not slam, because George slamming a door would be like the Pope joining the Chippendales.

  But he had attacked her.

  She pushed the laden tray to the other side of the bed. George was capable of violence. He had attacked that poor girl on the train that time. The doctor had said that he was full of unhappiness and bitterness due to his childhood and his overbearing mother. That Elaine’s condition and the impending birth had put a strain on him that had caused him to act out of character.

  Why had she felt that it was all her fault?

  Why had she stayed with him, stood by him?

  Because she hadn’t known what else to do, that’s why. ‘For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health.’ Why hadn’t it had anything about in prison or out of it in the ceremony?

  Her head was aching. She closed her eyes and saw Hector. Good old Hector who had told her that he loved her. Hector who laughed all the time and want
ed to have fun. Nothing more or less, just fun.

  She smiled to herself slightly. And what fun they had had. She couldn’t give Hector up! Hector was her life support. Her passport to a happier land.

  She lay back against the pillows and surveyed her bedroom. It needed decorating. The whole house did. Years before George had been a handy DIY merchant. They had spent hours looking at paint charts and choosing colour schemes and papers. But that was before his trouble, as they referred to it - when it was ever referred to at all.

  George had come out of prison a changed man. Never a gregarious person, he had nonetheless been a cheerful type once. But he had returned to her a sullen and unhappy individual, with a meekness that bordered on humility. Except she sometimes thought it was all a front. All he had been able to do was his gardening. It was as if the inside of the house was meaningless now, and that only the shell was to be maintained in any way.

  She sometimes thought that was just like George himself. He had an outer shell that he wore day in and day out, but inside he was empty.

  Empty and frightened.

  When the murders had started in Grantley she had been inclined to think it was him, but she knew it couldn’t be. George would never make a competent murderer. Everything he did just fell apart.

  No, George was just a poor fool. But his outburst had proved to her that he did feel something. That he still looked on her as his wife.

  The worst part of all the trouble that time had been the knowledge that he had been to a pornographic cinema. That, for some reason, had seemed worse to Elaine than the attack on the young girl.

  A single fat tear careered from the corner of her right eye and snaked down her rounded cheek until she tasted the hot saltiness on her tongue.

  Why had it all gone wrong? Where was the young girl who had waited so eagerly for her baby to arrive? When did she become a ridiculous middle-aged woman sneaking around to meet another man?

  When, in God’s name, would all this end?

  Kate left her house at seven in the morning. It was foggy, the air laden with the smell of early spring. As she unlocked her car, she felt a man’s presence and turned abruptly to face him. She thought it was Dan. Her mind had been so full of him all night, she had hardly slept. It was thinking about him and the lack of sleep that had driven her from home so early. She could not face Lizzy just yet.

  She turned to look into the big moon face of Willy. She was startled, holding her hands to her chest instinctively.

  ‘I’m sorry to scare you, I just wanted a word. I won’t keep you long.’

  He took Kate’s arm and walked her along the road to Patrick’s Rolls Royce. He opened the back and she sat inside. All her instincts told her not to be frightened, but she could not totally allay her fears. Willy started up the car and it rolled away noiselessly from the kerb. He put down the connecting window and began to speak.

  ‘I know a little place where we can have a bit of breakfast if you like.’

  Kate nodded to him, aware he was watching her in the mirror. ‘A coffee would be nice, thanks, Willy.’

  They drove in silence to a small transport cafe on the A13. He parked the Rolls where he could watch it from the window and took her inside. It was empty except for two women and one lone lorry driver, who gave Kate the once over as she sat down and Willy bought two coffees. Happier now she was within sight of people, she gradually relaxed. She lit a cigarette and sipped her coffee.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about last night, Kate. Can I call you Kate?’

  She nodded. ‘What about last night?’

  ‘Well, after we dropped you off, Pat was really down. I think he knew he had made a mistake, letting you see what was going to happen, but you must understand him, Kate - Patrick had your best interests at heart. He was trying to save your job and your relationship with him. He has a bit of sway with the big boys, as you probably guessed. Once that pra—I mean, once your ex-husband gives them the news he was just trying to stir up hag, they’ll close the case there and then, and it will never be referred to again.’

  Kate sipped her coffee and lit another cigarette from the butt of the previous one.

  Willy sighed. ‘Pat wouldn’t have hurt him, I know that for a fact. Sometimes you have to use a bit of friendly persuasion . . .’

  ‘If that’s friendly persuasion, I’d hate to see you do it to someone you didn’t like!’

  ‘But that’s just it - we only scared him, that’s all. It was Pat seeing him slap you in the car park, it made him mad. Madder than hell. He was just trying to help you, that’s all.’

  Kate sucked on her cigarette and the smoke billowed around her head like a cloud.

  ‘You got to understand Pat. He comes from an area that was poor, and I mean poor. We had nothing. He’s worked his arse off to get what he’s got. He ain’t bothered about people like your old man. They’re nothing to him, nothing at all. He did that last night for you.

  ‘Pat hasn’t put the frighteners on anyone before who wasn’t directly involved in one of his businesses. In our game, someone gets out of order you threaten them with a bit of a slap. It’s the law of the street and you live by it. I mean, it’s not unknown for Old Bill to scare a suspect shitless until he’s put his hand up for something he didn’t commit. Look at them pub bombing blokes and that. The Old Bill beat the crap out of them. Well, with us, we just threaten.’

  God forgive me for lying, he thought.

  Still Kate was silent, and Willy was getting exasperated now.

  ‘He only wanted you to keep your bloody job! He was worried about the way he’d compounded you . . .’

  ‘Compromised, Willy. That’s the word you’re looking for.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that and all then. But you know what I mean, girl, you’re not a silly bird. You know the score. Your old man won’t be any more or any less hurt by what happened to him. He was asking for it. I know it must have seemed a little scary to you, ’cos you’re not used to it, but believe me, Pat wouldn’t have bothered but for you. You and your job. He knows how much it means to you.’

  ‘Can you take me home now, Willy? I have to get my car for work.’

  He nodded and they drove back to Kate’s in silence. The traffic was thick now and she felt the stares of the other motorists wondering who was in the large Rolls Royce. As she stepped out at the bottom of her street, she patted Willy’s arm.

  ‘You’re a good friend to Patrick, you know.’

  ‘I worship that man, Kate. I know the good in him. I think you do too, otherwise I don’t think you’d have got involved with him in the first place. Don’t take what he did last night too much to heart. He loves you, I know he does, and he just wanted to help you. He’s a bit cack-handed in the way he goes about it, that’s all.’

  Coming from Willy this made her smile. A smile she had not thought she had in her at the moment. It was definitely food for thought.

  Willy drove back to Patrick’s with a heavy heart. He had tried. If Pat had known where he had gone, he would kill him stone dead. But he’d had to try.

  Kate and Patrick were good together.

  George sat at work listening to Peter Renshaw’s voice go on and on about the ‘night out’. It was finally decided they would hold it on the Wednesday night, just two days away. George forced himself to smile as Peter regaled him with anecdotes on the leaving dos he had attended in the past. From what George could gather there were about twenty-five people going to his, most of whom he had never spoken to in his life.

  Mrs Denham came into the office.

  ‘May I see you for a moment, Mr Markham, in my office.’

  George followed her and watched Renshaw’s eyebrows rise rudely. George was glad of a respite from Renshaw’s almost frenetic bonhomie. The anecdotes and jokes bored him no end. Once inside the office, Mrs Denham offered George a seat and closed the door behind him.

  He sat down and watched her bustle to her own seat, the beige silk suit she wore whispering against her tights as she
sat down.

  George smiled warily.

  Josephine Denham smiled back. Just as warily. She cleared her throat nervously.

  ‘It’s about your redundancy - I have a note here of the amount you will be receiving.’ She passed a slip of paper across the desk to George and he glanced at it.

  ‘If you would like to leave earlier than stated, we would do everything we can to accommodate you. Jones is leaving at the end of the week . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she looked at his shocked face.

  ‘Twelve thousand pounds? I thought it would be more than this.’

  George’s mind was whirling now. Elaine would go mad. He had told her about twenty or twenty-five thousand, which had softened the blow as far as she was concerned. Twelve thousand pounds. That would do nothing, nothing.

  Josephine Denham watched the confusion on George’s face and felt a moment of sympathy. She had never liked him. Like most of the women in the firm, she had felt uncomfortable around him. Not that he had ever done anything, of course. It was just his way of looking at you. Of staring at you from beneath lowered eyelids. She felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck now as she watched his expression turn from confusion to fury.

  ‘I need more than this! Much more than this.’

  ‘Look, Mr Markham, it’s all worked out on your wages. You’re . . .’

  George interrupted her. ‘I know all that. I work in accounts, remember? It’s just that I thought it would be more! Much more. I need more than that, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you understand, you stupid bitch!’

  Josephine Denham’s eyes widened to their utmost and she stood up with what dignity she could muster.

  ‘I understand that you’re upset, Mr Markham, but talking to me like that won’t help matters. I think it would be better if you went now and we talked it over another day. When you’re feeling . . .’

  George was breathing heavily. Twelve thousand pounds. The words were flying around his head, banging and thumping against his skull. Twelve thousand lousy pounds. It was like a chant.