Chapters 40-Epilogue

Chapter Forty

Inspector Spall was not a natural TV performer. His already florid face turned a deeper shade of puce in front of the cameras, and sweat seemed to burst out from places he was sure other people didn’t even have pores. But with no sign of Whitehead by eight o’clock on the morning of February 4th, and both Julian Molloy and the commander demanding that someone who knew what they were talking about go out front and make a statement, it fell to the highest ranking officer who wasn’t comatose or AWOL to do his best.

      His best, it fairly swiftly turned out, was not good enough for the pack of hacks which had gathered round the revolving Scotland Yard sign like a flock of scavenging pigeons. The tabloid journalists were pissed off that the police had failed to reveal the connection between the deaths and the anniversaries before, the broadsheet ones were cross that they hadn’t managed to work it out for themselves, and everyone was livid that he refused to confirm that the corpse of the murderer had been taken into the mortuary with a bright pink corkscrew sticking out of its eye.

      ‘Have you any comment to make on the earlier arrest of Lawrence Burstow?’ demanded a rather aggressive woman from the Guardian.

      ‘Mr Burstow has been released without charge,’ stuttered Spall.

      ‘Is it true that he remained the prime suspect until yesterday, and that you only stumbled over the identity of the real murderer by accident?’ yelled the correspondent from GMTV, who was only five foot four and was doing his best to aim his microphone over the heads of the bigger journalists who had pushed in in front of him.

      ‘Look, look,’ said Spall, holding up his hands to attempt to deflect the volley of questions that were now being fired in his direction. ‘The important thing is that the real killer has been apprehended, or rather, er…’ His forehead was glowing like an electric fire. ‘Regardless of any avenues we were pursuing in the past, we can say with absolute certainty that Jacqui O’Riordan was responsible for all nine killings. And now that she is out of the picture, the remaining Fame Factory contestants are definitely safe. Of that I am absolutely certain.’

     

Eighty miles away, on the outskirts of Northampton, Sara Minsky turned around and glanced with distaste at the sweaty fat man on the muted television in the corner of her mother’s immaculate kitchen. Ugh. She flicked it off, and listened for a moment, her head cocked, to see if the sound of the five hundred press-ups she had just executed on the tiled floor had disturbed any of the sleepers upstairs. Satisfied that she was the only one moving in the house, she pulled a cushion pad from one of the stools at the breakfast bar, sat down on top of it and began to count off brisk sit-ups. As she reached 100, she felt the familiar light-headed feeling she was seeking creep over her, and she looked down with satisfaction at her toned stomach and the light covering of hair which was creeping up from the top of her leggings to cover her abdominal muscles. She wasn’t looking too bad. But there was still a lot of work to do.

      200. She thought of the posters which had gone up around the town centre the previous day, promising a ‘live PA from Fame Factory Finalist Sara’ at Speakeasy’s that Saturday. It was a shame they had chosen a photo in which she looked so bloated and hideous. But she still had 36 hours to get herself in shape. If she didn’t eat anything between then and now, and she got in an extra set of reps tonight after her parents and brother had gone to bed, she should be all right. 300. Her mum would understand, just this once. Surely she couldn’t object to her trying to slim down for special occasions?

      400. She paused for a second and looked up at the kitchen ceiling. No, there was nothing, she was imagining things. She was listening out for two sets of noises this morning, since today should be the day that the package she had been waiting for would arrive. That would help, too. If they did come, she could double the dosage for today and tomorrow. It couldn’t do any harm. Maybe even triple it.

      500. She completed the last crunch and rolled up into a standing position without a pause, holding her hands up high above her head and stretching out every muscle in her body. She viewed her elongated reflection in the glass door of the oven. God, look how wide her hips were. Why did none of it ever seem to make any difference?

      A few inches above her outstretched fingers a floorboard creaked. A few seconds later came the unmistakeable sound of a toilet flushing. Minsky quickly crossed to the cupboard and pulled out a packet of cornflakes, spilling a tiny handful into the bottom of a bowl she had laid out ready on the side. She poured half an inch of skimmed milk from the fridge in on top of them, added a spoon and then swilled the mixture around before decanting it into the pedal bin and carefully rearranging a juice carton on top of the mess. This done, she painstakingly washed her fingers of any food that might have rubbed off on them before plonking herself down at the breakfast bar in front of the empty bowl.

      Her mum came in, tying her dressing gown. ‘Morning, love.’ She leant over for a kiss, looking approvingly down at the dirty crockery. ‘There’s a good girl. What you doing up so early?’

      ‘You know I don’t like lying in.’ At the sound of footsteps on the gravel drive, Sara skipped over to the door and caught the bundle of envelopes as they slithered through the letterbox. A handwritten jiffy-bag was on top. She checked that her mother was occupied with the kettle and toaster before sliding a finger under the flap. A plastic bottle nestled inside, its colourful label bearing the name, SLIM-EZE. There was a handwritten note, too. Sara – hope you’re well – this is the stuff I was telling you about – got to go away for a while but I’ll see you soon. Jacqui xxx.

      ‘What’s that you got?’ her mum asked.

      ‘Nothing.’ She scrunched the envelope closed. ‘Just a tape of some songs that producer guy wanted me to listen to.’

      Joyce Minsky almost quivered with pride. ‘Oh, my little pop princess. We’ll have a listen after breakfast, yeah?’

      ‘OK.’ Sara headed around the far side of the kitchen island from her mother and made for the door. ‘I’ve just got to pop to the loo.’

      ‘You leave that door open!’ her mum called after her.

      ‘I’m hardly gonna sick up cornflakes, am I?’ came the cry back, but there was no corresponding click of the lock. Satisfied, her mother padded over to the mat, picked up the copy of the Daily Mail that was lying there and smoothed out the front page on the breakfast bar.

      ‘Sara!’ she called after just a few seconds. The kettle boiled and the toast clicked up unnoticed. ‘Sara!’ she yelled a little louder, waddling towards the toilet in her furry teddy-bear slippers. ‘Sara, have you seen this? It says they’ve caught the killer, only it wasn’t a bloke, it was… oh, my God! Sara! Are you all right, Sara? Brian, you get down here! Sara! Oh, my God, Sara what have you done?’

 

Two hours and 13 minutes after Sara Minsky, the last victim of the Rock’n’Roll Killer, was pronounced dead on arrival at Northampton General Hospital, in another NHS trust far away, inspector Mike Braithwaite regained consciousness.

      The first things he saw were the faces of all the significant women in his life. Olivia was peering down at him from a few inches away, watching with fascination the bubbles of snot which were forming on the oxygen tubes that ran into his nostrils. Cassie was sitting behind her, absent-mindedly rubbing the finger where her wedding ring used to be. And Whitehead stood beaming at the end of the bed.

      ‘Oh, God, here we go; now you’re all going to gang up on me,’ he said, his words thankfully obscured by the plastic mouthpiece that had been preventing him from swallowing his tongue for the last 24 hours. And with that, he slipped back into a deep, healthy and altogether more restful sleep.

 

Epilogue

 

The very last of the midsummer daylight was still visible through the open windows of the sitting room when Huw Edwards commenced his sonorous introduction to the last item in the bulletin. ‘The police officer who disarmed and killed the serial murderer known as the Rock’n’Roll Killer in a daring battle on board an out-of-control aeroplane earlier this year, was today presented with a special award for his bravery.’

      ‘Oh, we don’t have to watch it again, do we?’ said Braithwaite, burying his head in his hands.

      ‘All right, all right, I’ll switch over,’ said Cassie, flicking the remote control. ‘I’m videoing all the news bulletins for Livvy, anyway. It’s the only way I could get her to go to bed.’

      ‘She’s so excited,’ said Whitehead, dumping three mugs of tea on the coffee table in front of them. ‘It’s not every day you get to see your dad get a medal.’

      ‘Thank Christ for that,’ muttered the hero in question, wincing as he leaned forward to help himself to another chocolate biscuit. ‘What?’ he said, as a neatly plucked pair of eyebrows were raised in his direction. ‘I deserve it. You heard what Michael Winner said about me.’

      ‘Yes,’ sighed Whitehead, settling into an armchair and holding her hand out to receive the packet. ‘It’s a shame it had to be him doing the presentation, isn’t it?’

      ‘Well, I thought he was nice,’ said Cassie, who was determined not to let anything spoil her memory of the day. ‘Much nicer than I expected him to be, anyway.’

      ‘I thought he did a good job of describing what happened,’ conceded Whitehead. ‘I don’t suppose any of it jogged your memory, did it?’

      Braithwaite shook his head and ran his finger along the deep scar that ran across his forehead. ‘I remember driving up to the airfield, and then that’s it. To be honest, I doubt it was quite as impressive as he made it sound.’ He bit into his biscuit and glanced up apologetically as a shower of crumbs burst all over Whitehead’s sofa. ‘Sorry.’

      She shook her head despairingly. ‘Don’t worry about the furniture. But remember I’ve got to take that uniform back tomorrow morning.’

      Cassie looked across at the unbuttoned jacket, its epaulettes hanging loose. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t get changed when we got in. You’ve been complaining about how uncomfortable it was all day.’

      ‘Yes, all right, all right, ladies,’ he protested. ‘Neither of you are my mother, thank you very much.’

      Whitehead snorted, and turned her attention to the TV. ‘You’ll have to get used to uniforms again,’ she remarked.

      ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Braithwaite. His latest appointment, announced the previous week, had come as a surprise to them all. ‘God knows what they’re going to expect me to wear.’

      ‘Tights, probably,’ chortled Cassie. The two women exchanged glances that were considerably more filthy than the front of Braithwaite’s uniform.

      He thought it was probably safest to change the subject. ‘Oh, speaking of dressing up, you might need to get yourselves new hats. I had a message from Nelson when I switched my phone back on. Apparently, he’s proposed to his girlfriend, and they’re going to get married next summer.’

      Neither their respective divorces, nor the fact that Cassie barely knew the sergeant and had never met his partner, hindered both women from displaying an inordinate amount of pleasure over this news. ‘What brought that on?’ asked Whitehead, after the requisite minute or so of cooing.

      ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he took the fact that every time he so much as looks at another woman she turns out to be a violent transvestite, as a sign that Chantal was The One. Or maybe he’s just old-fashioned.’ Braithwaite flicked the remote control again and let the pair of them get on with picking apart the implications of the sergeant’s engagement. It was probably best if he didn’t get involved.

      ‘I must go to bed,’ said Cassie, twenty minutes of yawning later. ‘Some of us have got work in the morning.’ She aimed a pointed look in the direction of her ex-husband, who still had a fortnight of sick leave left before starting his new assignment.

      ‘You’re not wrong. I’m going to turn in, too,’ said Whitehead, getting up and gathering the cups together.

      ‘Look, thanks again for letting us stay, Claire,’ said Cassie, picking up the biscuits and a couple of tumblers and following her through into the kitchen. ‘It’s really a lifesaver while our new place is being done up. The builders say they’ll definitely be finished by the end of the week.’

      ‘Oh, don’t mention it. It’s not like I don’t have the room, with Alice away. And the company stops me worrying too much about what she’s up to in France, and who she might be up to it with.’

      ‘I’ll be up in a minute!’ called Braithwaite up the stairs.

      ‘OK!’ floated down the answer.

      He sat for a while flicking through the satellite channels. Around Channel 300 he spotted a familiar logo, and paused. ‘… Don’t miss the next instalment of Celebrity Wilderness, when tempers fray during the Stones into Bread task, Stan Collymore faces the bungee jump from the Temple and it all gets too much for Huffty and Tamara Beckwith.’

      ‘No, thank you,’ Braithwaite told the television, and switched off.

      He made his way slowly up the stairs. Five months on, he was still using a stick to walk with, though the only permanent damage to his head had turned out to be a persistent case of amnesia when it came to events on board the aeroplane that day. And to be honest, he wasn’t looking to cure that any time soon. He might not be able to account for exactly how Jacqui O’Riordan’s corpse had ended up being carried from that plane, rather than those of Tim Campbell and Douggie McGovern, but he knew himself rather better than Michael Winner, Claire, or even Cassie. Nice as it was to be regarded as the last action hero, he knew that the movie of his life was less likely to star Bruce Willis than, say, Wincey Willis.

      He reached the top of the stairs. Funny how things turn out, he mused, as he looked at the bedroom doors ahead of him. You wait four years for a good woman and then two come along at once. Not only that, but they turn out to be best friends as well. Even if you have to nearly get yourself killed to make them realise it.

      Still, he was sure he had made the right decision. He limped across to the left hand door, turned the handle, and peered into the darkness of the bedroom at the woman he had committed the rest of his life to.

      Olivia had kicked off the covers and was sleeping on her front, with Big Cat, her faithful sleeping companion since he had placed it in her cot at the hospital eleven and a half long years previously, twisted protectively in the crook of her right arm. He picked up the duvet and tucked it around her body, checking her back with his hand to see that the summer heat was not too much for her. He stooped, brushing away a handful of curls – she really should have been Annie, the girl was robbed – and planted a kiss on her forehead, before tiptoeing unevenly from the room and across the hallway.

      ‘I thought you were never coming to bed,’ said Whitehead.