Trinny away. Downstairs. So he didn’t understand why she was still pestering him. She wasn’t the girl he was looking for because she was too dirty. She knew. He’d told her.
You did tell me. You called me a slut. And after you called me a slut you screwed me. How does that work?
He couldn’t explain. It was too complicated.
Complicated?
Yes. Complicated. Trinny wouldn’t be able to understand. Nobody understood. Nobody knew about being mad but him.
Yes Harry, you are mad. Not to mention bad and sad. You can’t go around—
Harry couldn’t stand the wittering any longer so he reached out and pressed the button on the clock radio next to his bed and Trinny’s voice vanished beneath the local station’s jingle. Top of the hour and the news. The usual regional mediocrity had been abandoned and the headline spewed out a tale of rape, violence and murder. The police had found a body of a woman down on Wembury beach.
He turned off the radio. Fast. Not good. Not good at all.
Carmel, Harry! Carmel is back! Yuk! I bet she doesn’t look so pretty now.
Trinny sounded excited. Hysterical. But could it really be Carmel? Nausea began to rise within him like dirty water overflowing from a blocked toilet. He fought back the urge to vomit.
Carmel. You didn’t get her, did you? She is lost forever now. Decayed.
He ignored Trinny and wondered if the story signified something. Carmel back from the dead. Telling him he was on the right track, but also reminding him that Trinny didn’t compare to her. Couldn’t be the one.
Harry, what do you mean?
He’d kept her because he hoped she would change. She had been fun at first. Cute, lovely, bubbly. But now she went on yapping and nagging. And she was dirty. Very dirty. He had slapped her a couple of times, but it hadn’t made any difference. The simplest thing would be a clean break. Splitting up would be for the best. For both of them.
Harry! You bastard! I am your girl. Me. Not Carmel. She is dead. Rotting. Mitchell killed her. Remember?
Mitchell.
Harry didn’t like to hear that name. Not after what Mitchell had done to Carmel.
Mitchell was your friend!
Mitchell had once been his friend, true, although Harry didn’t really know what a friend was supposed to be like and he didn’t want to ask Mitchell straight out in case he had got it all wrong. Still, Mitchell had been good to him. Kind. He had told him to stop taking the pills.
Bad idea, Harry. Those pills kept you normal, didn’t they? Stopped you from seeing things?
Trinny’s tone of voice was mocking, but she was right. The pills kept him cocooned in his own little world. Snug. The pills stopped the voices too. Like the doctor said they would. But the clever doctor smiled with too many teeth and had an arrogant manner along with a flash car and a pretty secretary who wore a skirt just short enough so when she bent over you could see the tops of her stockings. Harry liked the skirt even as he despised the man.
Who is the dirty one now, Harry?
It was always the same way with women. When they dressed like dolls with flesh poking out his eyes went wandering. Still, no harm done, he only took a little peek, a brief gaze at something forbidden.
There are things beyond looking, Harry. That is the problem.
Yes. A problem. One he blamed Mitchell for. Mitchell was out of control. Saturday nights. Drunk girls getting into trouble. Party time. Harry was disgusted with himself for playing Mitchell’s games, but then disgust was becoming a habit now.
No, Harry? Why is that?
Mitchell let him touch the girls. Harry didn’t want to at first. Later on he couldn’t stop.
And then?
And then Mitchell went and killed Carmel which meant Harry didn’t have any friends anymore.
Harry thought about Carmel. He hadn’t liked her dying, hadn’t liked it at all. Seeing the blood spoiling the girl’s pretty hair made him angry. Pretty things should not be spoilt. They should be kept. Forever.
Like me!
No. Not like Trinny at all. He wouldn’t keep Trinny forever. He needed to get shot of her and soon. Maybe even tonight. They would drive somewhere together and on the way he would tell her in the nicest possible manner. If he let her down gently perhaps she would forgive him. You had to be cruel to be kind, didn’t you? A sad way to end their time together, but Trinny wasn’t right. And anyway only yesterday he noticed she was no longer beautiful. Some of her skin had gone a bit saggy. That happened when you got older, but even so Harry didn’t think he could make allowances. Not now. Not when there were others waiting their turn.
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Monday 25th October. 8.30 am
Davies had been right about Hardin’s reaction, and the shit hit the fan first thing Monday morning. Savage had just grabbed a cup of coffee and taken it to the Major Crimes suite when it all kicked off.
The double doors crashed open and Detective Superintendent Conrad Hardin entered the room as if leading a drugs raid. Although unarmed and lacking a battering ram, his entrance could not have been more dramatic. With the muscles and build of a heavyweight street-fighter he had the language and temper to match. His face burned bright red and he looked as if he would explode as he barrelled onwards, pushing past anybody foolish enough not to move out of his way.
‘Rosina Salgado Olivárez,’ his voice boomed out, the delivery of the words sounding official, like a vicar performing a wedding ceremony or a judge addressing a guilty prisoner. The noise level in the room dropped to zero and Hardin marched forward holding a large sheet of paper in his hands. Savage hoped he would save his anger for the briefing of senior officers, scheduled to take place later that morning. Her hope was misplaced.
‘What sort of fucking piss-taking amateur outfit are we running here?’ Hardin sneered and slammed the piece of paper against one of the whiteboards, holding it up for everyone to see.
‘A source emailed me the afternoon special the Herald are printing. An eight-page pull-out with the headline “Sex Crime City: Now It’s Murder”.’
Hardin looked around the room, his eyes picking out each individual, one by one. Savage drew breath, bracing herself for the next onslaught.
‘This morning I’ve had the ACC on to me. He in turn has had the mayor, both city MPs, the university Vice Chancellor, some worm from the Foreign Office and, of course, the Chief Constable on the phone. To say he’s not happy would be the bloody understatement of the year.
