She sipped delicately, her eyes sparkling in the half-light of the van.
“You’re spoiling me,” she trilled. “I love things like this, so spontaneous and romantic.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Don’t be shy. Drink up, there’s plenty more.”
He saw her reach for the bottle again, out of the corner of his eye. It wouldn’t be long; he’d planned it well. She wouldn’t be able to finish this one—she’d be out cold.
“You’re not having any wine?”
“Better not—I’m driving. But you have what you want.”
“When we get to yours I can cook, if you like. I’m quite good, I really am. I’ll make you one of my signature dishes. You’ll love it.”
“We’ll see.” He stroked her hair as she began to yawn. The cocktail of drugs was working—so they should, he’d used enough of them.
“Whoa…I feel kind of weird, sort of sleepy and numb.”
“You’re probably tired. Look, it’s a good few miles yet. Just lean back in the seat and snooze for a while.”
She nodded, her eyes closed and her head sagged forward.
This was far too easy. He picked up her arm and watched it flop back as he released it. She didn’t even groan—she was completely out of it.
Half an hour or so later he pulled up outside his special place. It was dark and secluded and there was no chance of being seen. He hauled her out and laid her on the ground while he unlocked the door. Then he hauled her from the car and dragged her in. She was inert and heavy, and he was hot and panting by the time he got her to his room. But she was worth it. He was excited beyond measure.
He tore wildly at the clothing on her lower body. Her skirt, tights and finally her knickers were all thrown aside and he bent her legs, spreading them wide. She was slim with shapely thighs and smooth creamy skin. A tidy mound of dark fluff between her legs—perfect.
She didn’t stir.
He was frantic. His fingers flew to his jeans and he fumbled for a moment with the belt and then pulled them off. Kneeling down, he growled like a beast and grasped his penis, thrusting it deep into her. No foreplay, no gentleness. He pounded into her relentlessly, again and again, filled with pure hate.
* * *
Calladine had fallen asleep on his sofa again and woke with a start when he heard the front door open.
“Zoe?” Is that you?”
“Yep, Tom. Sorry I’m late. I know I said I’d be home to eat, but something came up.”
He looked at the clock on the mantle—nearly ten. He’d had no tea. He’d got back from the nick, sat down with a drop of scotch, and that was that.
“Working late?”
“No. I’ve been eating out with Jo. We went to that Italian place in Hopecross. The food’s great and reasonable too. You should try it sometime.”
“You and Jo are spending a lot of time together—you practically work with each other, too.”
“Not a problem. I like Jo.”
Calladine saw that look on her face, the one she had when there was something on her mind. “Want to say something?” he asked.
She paused and looked at her father. “I suppose I should say something. You’ll have to know sooner or later.”
“Know what?
“About Jo—well, about me and Jo.”
“Why, what have you two been up to?” There was something about the way she’d said that, something about the look on her face.
“Jo and I are fond of each other. Tom—we sort of clicked right away. You know how it is.”
Did he? He wasn’t sure what she was getting at. Did she mean
‘click’ in the sort of way he was familiar with—the ‘fancying someone’ sort of way?
“You’re struggling, aren’t you?” She shook her head. “Jo and I are happy to be together. You know…together?” She stood watching him, her hands on her hips. “I was hoping you’d guess, Tom. I’ve tried to give you enough clues. And you call yourself a detective!”
Was she saying what he thought she was saying?
“‘You and your estate agent friend, you’re…?”
“Yes, Tom—gay. I’m gay, we’re gay—a gay couple in fact.
And I’m not going to apologise or explain myself, so don’t make an issue of it. But it doesn’t bother you, does it?”
Did it? Truthfully, Tom Calladine wasn’t sure. He’d have to give it some thought, mull it over for a while. In the meantime he shrugged as casually as he could, rose up off the sofa and kissed her cheek.
“Be happy, love, that’s all I want for you. I’m envious in a way.
Your love life seems pretty simple in comparison to mine. I’m still debating what to do about Monika. Ruth says I should go and see her, apologise for being such an ass, but I don’t think she’ll go for it. Too much water under the bridge.” He sighed.
“Is that what’s been bothering you?” Zoe seemed relieved that he hadn’t reacted negatively to finding out she was gay.
“Not only that. There’s work as well. We’ve got a particularly nasty case on our hands at present, and I suspect it’s only going to get worse.”
“You have to let go sometimes, Tom. Taking up with Monika again sounds like a good idea. It’d get you out and take your mind off things. Is anything else bothering you?”
“My bloody cousin’s giving me grief at work. He’s responsible for killing a witness who was due to testify against him, and he’s had the damn nerve to use me as his alibi.”
“Is he telling the truth? Was he where he says he was? Can you vouch for him?”
“Yes, I can, and that’s the bloody problem.”
“Then he can’t have done it. Or can he?”
“Oh, yes he can; he’s a sneaky bastard. I just have to work out how, that’s all.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
“Are you sure you want to? I thought you liked him. You gave me the impression that you couldn’t wait to get to know him better.”
“I’m not that stupid. I’m a solicitor, Tom. Okay, so I might deal with house conveyancing, but I do know one or two criminal lawyers. After what you said I asked around, and you’re right: he’s a complete and utter bastard, and not someone to meddle with.”
Calladine laughed and handed her a glass. “I’ll drink to that.” He reached for the scotch. “But how could he be at the church and shooting a man at the same time?” He poured her a measure of whiskey.
“Well he couldn’t, could he? He must have done the deed either before the funeral or after,” she replied.
“But he didn’t. A fairly accurate time of death has been established, and that puts him in church—along with his goons.
Even allowing for a short window either way, I still can’t make it work.”
“You’re not thinking hard enough, Tom.”
“I’m thinking so damn hard it put me to sleep.”
“They are sure it was Fallon’s doing?”
“Yep. He was seen dumping the body from a bridge over the M62. Him, his goons and that posh motor he drives.”
“Well isn’t that enough?”
“No. He’ll wriggle out of it. What with my alibi, and somehow managing to prove that whoever saw them on the bridge was short-sighted or something, he’ll walk. He’s recently walked away from one sure bet—the drugs bust central thought they’d got him on.
Not even worth the effort.”
“So we’re back to the original question; how did he do it?”
Zoe disappeared into the kitchen and Calladine heard her putting the kettle on. “Scotch isn’t for me. Do you fancy a cup of tea?”
He shook his head. He’d stick with the scotch.
Zoe put her head around the kitchen door. “Of course there is a way he could have done it. He could have shot the guy and shoved him in the boot of that huge car he drives. The body could have been there all through the service. Have you thought of that?”
No, he hadn’t—and it wasn’t a bad idea. But how to prove it?
Chapter 13