Tania Carver - Choked

‘Learned your lesson?’ she shouted. ‘Still want to go fucking around with other women? Have you, Mike? Need reminding who you’re married to?’

‘Yeah,’ he managed to gasp in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve … you’ve made your point an’ I won’t do it again. Let’s … let’s go home … ’

Lisa nodded, pulled her fist back, brought it quickly forward, connecting with his chin. His head went back, blood and spit flew. Jesus Christ, that hurt. Not as much as the last time, though, he noticed. She was getting tired. Her aggression running out like her time.

She stepped back. Head to one side, she studied him.

‘That’s it,’ she said, not turning. ‘I’m done.’

Mike looked up. ‘I’m sorry … Let’s … Get me up an’ we’ll … we’ll say no more about it, yeah?’

Lisa walked away, ignoring him.

The suited man stood up, threw her a towel. ‘Go get yourself cleaned up. We’ll finish off in here.’

Mike Dillman watched her leave the room, puzzled. The man put his magazine on the chair, looked at the beaten man before him. ‘Shouldn’t mess around, should you?’ he said. Not judgementally, just as a matter of fact. ‘Look where it gets you.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mike. ‘Won’t do it again.’ He tried to move his arms. They hurt. He looked at the man, tried to focus through swollen eyelids. ‘You … you let me out now, yeah?

‘Just got the cleaning up to do,’ said the suited man, crossing into the shadows. He gestured. A shadow detached itself from the back wall, stepped forward. Mike’s ruined face managed to register surprise.

And fear.

The shadow moved forward. It was a huge man, hair cropped short, wearing a T-shirt and jeans tucked into boots. His size was impressive, but that wasn’t what had drawn Mike’s attention. It was his skin. He was the colour of smoke, of shadow. He was grey.

‘Who’s … who’s that?’

‘We call him the Golem,’ said the suited man, his voice businesslike. ‘You’ll call him the last person you’ll see on this earth.’

The man’s words registered. Mike began to shake, his earlier pain gone, the need to get away, to live now his only thought. He heard screaming, shouting. Realised it was him. Did it some more.

‘Sorry, mate,’ said the suited man. ‘Out of my hands. She paid for the works. She has a go at you first, then we get rid of you. No point screamin’ either. This place is soundproofed. Take it like a man, eh?’

The Golem advanced. Mike screamed.

The Golem reached out. Then stopped as a ringing sound filled the air.

Oh thank God, thought Mike. Thank God …

The suited man frowned. The Golem reached into his jeans pocket.

‘I have to take this,’ he said, pulling out a phone and looking at the display. He spoke heavily accented English.

He put the phone to his ear, waited. Mike stared at him, mouth open, breath held.

‘Now? … Where? … Fee? … ’ He nodded. ‘Good.’ Pocketed the phone.

‘Don’t want to hurry you, mate,’ said the suited man, ‘but we got another one in at seven.’

‘No trouble,’ said the Golem with his heavy accent. ‘Take seconds.’

‘No,’ said Mike, ‘no, no, no … ’

The Golem reached out, wrapped a huge hand round his neck. Mike stared into his eyes, expecting to see … something. Anything. His life flash before him. He saw nothing. Just empty grey pools.

No, he thought, this isn’t fair. I can’t … no. This isn’t the way my life ends. It can’t be … I’ve—

A quick snap and it was done. Mike Dillman was gone. The Golem straightened up, turned away. ‘You clean up,’ he said as he passed the suited man. ‘He has pissed and shit.’

The Golem disappeared into the shadows. The suited man watched him go. Then he crossed to the centre of the room, began to clean up.

As he reached for the broom, he noticed that his hands were shaking.

A lot.

DS Jessica James checked her notebook once more. Looked up. Back to the notes. This wasn’t right, she thought.

She looked at the house in front of her, expecting it to match up to the one she had pictured in her head. It didn’t. Old, she had thought, but well maintained. Perhaps wooden or clapboard, with charm and character. Idiosyncratic even, but speaking of money and taste. Probably in a stylishly understated manner. Blue and white pottery on the windowsill.

The house before her was nothing like that. It was old, yes, but poorly maintained. The wooden window frames were flaking paint, rotting round the glass. The once white front was now a mottled, mildewed green. The path to the door was broken concrete, weeds sprouting unchecked through the cracks.

Not the kind of house she had expected Stuart Milton to live in.

DCI Franks had phoned her while she was on her way here. She hadn’t minded; in fact she had expected it. Would have done it herself if the positions had been reversed. He wasn’t trying to tell her her job, he had said, and from the tone of his voice she had believed him. He just wanted to check how the investigation was proceeding and see if there was anything he could do to help.

‘Like what?’ she had asked.

There came a noise down the phone. She imagined him puffing out his cheeks and blowing air. This, along with the gruff Welsh roll of his voice, gave her the mental image of a bull. ‘Anything really,’ he had said. ‘Background, stuff you want to run by me, support, you name it.’

‘I already told—’ She stopped herself. Unsure whether Mickey Philips had told his boss that he had come along to help. She suspected Franks knew, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell him, just in case he didn’t. She didn’t want to get Mickey into trouble. ‘I’ve got a team out looking for the missing girl. We’ll be following up any leads. I think we’ve got everything covered,’ she had said. ‘But if I need anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘Appreciate it.’ Franks sounded genuine enough. He paused. For all the gruffness, there was a quality in his voice that she found appealing. Eventually he spoke. ‘Marina, Marina Esposito, she’s gone. Left the hospital. Did you know?’

‘I had heard.’

‘Walked out. We need to find her. She’s in a fragile state of mind.’

‘I can imagine. I’m off to re-interview the eyewitness who was with her. Something he mentioned got me thinking. I’ll see if he can add anything else.’

Stuart Milton’s testimony hadn’t quite rung true. Something niggled and she didn’t know what. When she had run the conversation back in her mind, she could find nothing wrong with it. He had seemed like a perfectly credible witness. He had stopped Marina from re-entering the burning cottage, and had the grazes to prove it. But there was something not right about him. Copper’s intuition, she had thought. The fact that he had disappeared from the car just confirmed it. Or at least deepened her suspicions of him.

‘Good idea, DS James. Keep me posted.’

She said she would, and cut the call.

It was only afterwards that she realised Franks hadn’t pressed her on what Stuart Milton had said. That meant he was either a bad copper, which she doubted, or he already knew. That was more likely. At least she didn’t have to worry about keeping Mickey’s involvement quiet.

Jessie looked round, up and down the terrace. She wouldn’t have said Aldeburgh had any mean streets until she came here. She stepped up to the door, knocked on it. There was a bell, but she doubted it was working.

She waited. Was about to knock again when she heard someone making their way towards the door. Slowly, like they were dragging something.

The door opened. A man stood there. Definitely not Stuart Milton. He wore tracksuit bottoms and carpet slippers. An old fraying vest with ingrained stains; on top of that an open shirt with a faded print. His hair was greasy, and although he wasn’t fat, his frame looked loose and flabby, like his body had lost a lot of weight but hadn’t told his skin.