‘That’s the problem when you delegate your child’s upbringing. Hiring nannies, you just play a walk-on role. You see the children before bath time, an hour here and there. Don’t come too close, darling; I’m dressed up for the evening out . . . You child becomes a bunch of statistics: he got an A in Maths, he can play Für Elise on the piano . . . Let’s get him a polo pony so we can mix with the polo set . . .’
David seemed to drift off for a moment, and then came back to the room. ‘Anyway. I take it your questioning of all concerned has been fruitless? My father has made their silence very lucrative. And Linda will take the rap for killing Andrea; I made her promise.’
‘Why would she promise?’
‘I said that if she did, she could have another cat and not have to live in fear of me disposing of it.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ said Erika.
‘I am. She’ll plead insanity; end up in some expensive clinical facility for a few years. My father will probably bung some orderly a few quid to poke her in that aching place between her thighs . . . They might even let her have a cat. She’ll give a little pussy to get a little pussy . . .’ David started to laugh. It was high-pitched, unhinged.
Erika took the opportunity and made a dash for the bedroom door, but David was quicker. He grabbed her, his hands encircled her neck and he slammed her into the bookcase, knocking the air from her lungs. But this time she was ready for him; she brought her arm up and punched him in the nose with the heel of her hand. There was a satisfying crack as the cartilage snapped, and his grip loosened. Erika managed to push him away and made for the door, but he caught her arm just before she was through, and wheeled her back round. She slammed into the desk, and he was on her again. Blood was now gushing down his chin, and a look of pure rage contorted his face. Erika kicked and flailed, all the while gasping and trying to force air back into her winded lungs. She thrashed under his grip but he held on, trying to control her arms, climbing on top of her. He successfully pinned one of her arms down using his knee.
With her free hand, she scrabbled around on the desk and grabbed a smooth paperweight, and smashed it against his ear. He lost grip on her and she managed to scramble from under him, again making for the door, but he recovered quickly, throwing out one of his long legs and tripping her up. She fell, and he loomed over her, his face now a mess of blood, coating his teeth as he gave a manic grin. She fought, scratching and kicking, fighting like an animal to get out from under him, but he pinned her down. Lifting his arm, he punched her in the face: once, twice. When he struck her the third time, Erika felt one of her teeth hit the back of her throat, and then everything went black.
79
‘Sir, DCI Foster switched on her phone half an hour ago. The signal came from the Douglas-Brown house,’ said Peterson. The incident room was now up and running with a full-scale man hunt for David Douglas-Brown.
‘I want a team of officers sent over to the house now. I want a full armed search conducted. Close off a five-mile radius around the house. Put out an arrest warrant on David Douglas-Brown. Circulate his photo.’
‘Sir, we were told by Simon and Diana Douglas-Brown that David had left the country and was attending a stag party in Prague. Passport and Immigration show he’s still here. He never left the country,’ said Crane.
‘I want him found, now. And fast. DCI Foster could be in danger,’ said Marsh. ‘And get Simon Douglas-Brown out of his bloody cell and stick him in an interview room . . .’
‘Of course, you realise all this is inadmissible,’ said Simon, twenty minutes later, when Marsh had outlined Linda’s confession. ‘My solicitor has informed me that you were faxed a statement from Linda’s physician to show that, basically, anything that comes out of her mouth is inadmissible. She’s gaga; always has been. As for David, he changed his plans without telling me; no crime in that. They must have moved the stag party.’
Simon rose from his seat in the interview room. ‘Now, I will be calling Assistant Commissioner Oakley later, where I’ll be recommending that . . .’
‘Shut your mouth, Simon,’ said Marsh.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Simon.
‘Shut your mouth and sit down. You are still detained under caution and I’m not finished with you. Sit. Down.’
Simon looked shocked, and slowly sank back into his chair.
‘Now. An arrest warrant is out for your son, who we believe is responsible for the deaths of five women, including your own daughter.’
Simon was silent.
‘We’ve also discovered that the phone Andrea lost and claimed on insurance was in your name. Andrea lied that it had been stolen and we have the handset as evidence.’ Marsh opened an envelope and dropped the plastic-wrapped cracked handset on the table. ‘So, I see it like this. At best, you’ll be done for insurance fraud. And you know how hard the government has lobbied for this. It could mean prison time, and as well as you being a very unpopular boy in prison, it will no doubt open the floodgates to all kinds of people with grievances towards you. Journalists, politicians. Add into the mix that your own son killed your daughter, and you knowingly told him to skip the country whilst stitching up your other daughter . . .’
‘All right! ALL RIGHT!’ shouted Simon. ‘All right. I’ll tell you . . .’
‘Simon Douglas-Brown, Baron of Hunstanton, I’m arresting you on charges of perverting the course of justice and concealing criminal activity. We also suspect that you used your position of power to influence the outcome of one or more Crown Prosecution trials. Okay. Start talking, and fast,’ said Marsh.
80
David had quickly cleaned himself up in the bathroom, packing his nose with tissue to stop the bleeding. He then grabbed his bag, passport and money, and carried Erika downstairs over his shoulder. He was surprised how heavy she was for someone so scrawny. They emerged into the underground garage, and the lights blinked on. He approached the boot of the car. Inside was the prostitute with the long dark hair he had picked up at Paddington Station.
They’d driven round for a while, he and the prostitute; the girl attempting to make him hard, her hand inside his trousers, but that hadn’t interested him. It had been a busy night, and all his usual places, the parks and lidos, had too much action going on. People walking about; police cars moving slowly past.
He had been forced to bring her home. She had been so excited when he’d driven up to his parents’ house. Checking her face in the small mirror above the passenger seat. As if she hadn’t been hired to fuck; she seemed to think she might be introduced to his parents. He wondered if she’d watched Pretty Woman too many times. He’d laughed when he thought this, and she’d joined in.
Stupid bitch.
Once they were in the underground garage, and they were out of the car, he’d slammed her face into the concrete wall. She never regained consciousness. This had made the moment when she died disappointing.
Still, he now had the ultimate prize. DCI Foster.
When he opened the boot of his car, the dead girl lay on her back. He had checked on her three times since he had strangled her to death, and each time it fascinated him to see how she’d changed: through the rigid wide-eyed stare of rigor mortis, to the tinge of purple on her skin where she looked as if she were sleeping, and now, her sharp cheekbones buried beneath swollen, bloated flesh, making her bruises bloom dark like ink stains. He laughed at her swollen face; she would hate to see how fat she was getting. He heaved Erika’s limp body in beside her, closed the boot, and locked it.
It was still early in the morning when he pulled out of the underground garage and into the cul-de-sac, but he drove carefully for the couple of miles to the M4 junction. Once on the motorway, he was able to join the rush-hour traffic, whipping round the M25 motorway, orbiting the outskirts of London.