Pauline Rowson - In for the Kill

I turned into the Hare and Hounds public house about half a mile from where Joanne and Jamie lived and ordered myself a non-alcoholic lager. I opened a conversation with the barmaid and, half an hour later I had the information I needed, and was driving back to Portsmouth.

I caught the last ferry to the Island. My mind was teeming with ideas that led nowhere except to more questions that I didn’t have answers for.

My head was throbbing when I stepped onto my houseboat and my chest felt tight with the knowledge that another day had passed that took me closer to my sons’ fate, and I was nowhere nearer the truth.

I flicked on the light and froze. A wave of nausea washed over me. The room swam out of focus for a moment and I closed my eyes praying that what I saw on the floor wasn’t there but was just a product of my overactive imagination.

Slowly I opened my eyes. It was there all right.

It was Westnam. He’d been strangled.

CHAPTER 9

I averted my eyes and tried to catch my breath.

My heart was going like the clappers. God!

First Joe and now Westnam. Who next? I closed my eyes trying to shut out the image of Westnam’s body, but all I could see was the limp bodies of my sons lying before me, so I threw them open again and hastily descended to the kitchen where I poured myself a stiff whisky. I tossed it back and felt the warmth slide down my throat. I took some deep breaths, got myself under control and returned to Westnam.

Rowde was responsible for this, I felt sure of it. And yet Andover could have killed Westnam and planted him here to frame me again, but this time for murder. That made far more sense.

Surely Rowde wouldn’t want me behind bars when he thought he had the chance of getting three million pounds? Though it crossed my mind that Rowde could have killed Westnam as a reminder to me of what he would do to my boys if I didn’t play ball. Well, I was playing, and part of Rowde’s game, I guessed, required me to get rid of the body and erase all trace of it ever being on the houseboat. By killing Westnam, Rowde was implicating me further, building up more ammunition to manipulate me with. Yes, the more I thought about it the more convinced I became that this had Rowde’s signature on it. I told myself that later I would go to the police and tell them the truth; I didn’t have time for that now.

Moving a dead body requires an enormous amount of strength and in my pain-racked state it would require a superhuman effort. But I was strong and fit. Most of all I was desperate. I could do anything; move iron girders with my teeth if I had to in order to save my children. Not being seen was a different matter altogether. Scarlett seemed to have eyes in the back and sides of her head, a skill developed, I guessed, because of her mother’s illness. And as her mother went walk-about at all hours of the day and night I couldn’t be certain that the pair of them would be safely tucked up in bed.

It had started raining heavily. I was glad; it meant fewer people about to witness my activity.

I consulted the tide timetable. The tide was just on the turn so I had no time to lose.

I stripped Westnam, noticing he had no papers on him, and bundled up his clothes. Then I found some lines and my sailing gloves and donning the gloves I tied one rope around Westnam’s naked torso under his armpits and the other around his ankles. My hands were sweating and the perspiration was running down my face and back. I felt sick at what I was doing, but could only tell myself it was for my sons. I had no choice.

The wind was rising all the time, the last thing I wanted. I pulled on my sailing jacket and opened the patio doors. The wind and rain rushed in like Westnam’s avenging spirit; lashing at my face.

I hauled Westnam’s body along the floor, straining my ears for any sounds of life from Scarlett’s houseboat. I thanked God for a dark, moonless night and although I cursed the wind and the rain, it kept all but the foolhardy, or guilty like me, indoors.

My yacht was moored up beneath the steps of the houseboat. Glancing to my right and left I hauled the body up as best I could, stifling my groans and praying that even the ones I couldn’t stifle wouldn’t be heard against the stormy night.

Panting heavily and sweating profusely, I had Westnam almost in my arms leaning against me.

I felt sick at the smell of death. Then, holding tight to the two ropes, I tipped his body over the edge head first. Slowly I let him slide down the edge of the houseboat easing the ropes until his head and upper torso touched the cockpit. My arms were almost pulled out of their sockets as I let down the rope. Then his crumpled, naked body lay in the yacht.

I locked the patio doors, pocketed the key, climbed on board my boat, and let off the lines.

I started the engine, praying that no one would hear it, and turned into the wind. Thankfully as the tide rushed out it helped me.

It was dangerous but I knew the channel well.

And it was deserted, not even the fishermen were foolish enough to go out in this. I wanted to get around the Foreland into Whitecliff Bay before I tossed Westnam overboard. Where he would end up I didn’t know as long as it was away from me and my houseboat.

As I chugged into the tempestuous night I felt sympathy for Westnam. What a bloody awful way to end your life! Andover had ruined Westnam’s life as surely as he had ruined mine. I tried not to think of any relatives grieving for Westnam. I knew from Joe’s reports that his ex wife was living in the States and they’d had no children.

The tide was beginning to push me to port when I wanted to go to starboard. I corrected my course. The waves splashed over the side of the small boat soaking both Westnam and me.

Where he was he couldn’t feel it and I was beyond caring about my own physical condition. My sailing jacket kept most of my body dry but my feet and legs were drenched in salt water, as were my face and hands. I could see one or two lights from the houses on the shore. This was far enough, any further and I’d be able to say hello to the container ships moored up for the night off Bembridge Ledge.

I grabbed Westnam’s body. He was so heavy that I wondered if I’d be able to do it. My body screamed with pain, but with some superhuman effort I dredged up from God alone knew where, I hauled the poor sod over the side of the boat.

The splash his body made almost drowned me, as did the movement of the boat combined with the waves. It would have served me right if it had. I scurried into the cabin, found my spare anchor, and after wrapping Westnam’s clothes around it I threw it in after him. Then I began my journey back. If I had thought going out was bad then returning was hell on earth. The tide wanted to take me back into the Solent.

I wasn’t quite sure how I made it. Luck, God, whoever and whatever, and I was tying up alongside my houseboat, exhausted. I crashed down on the floor of the houseboat and fell asleep. When I awoke it was still dark, but a quick glance at my watch told me it wouldn’t be long until dawn. I was cross with myself. How could I waste time sleeping when my sons’ fate was in Rowde’s hands? I shivered violently and tried to ease myself up. My arms felt as though they weighed more than the Clifton Suspension Bridge and my legs as though all the blood had been drained from them and the bone extracted leaving them wobbly, like one of those puppets in a children’s television programme.

I was shattered but I hadn’t finished yet. I had to scrub this room, then a hot shower, food and onward.

Four hours later I was changed and fed and there was, as far as I could see, no evidence that Westnam alive or dead had ever been here. I knew the drill at prison and that between 10am and 11am the visits booking line would be open. I went out to a call box and asked to book a visit with Ray. I’d forgotten that there was no visiting on Thursdays and Fridays. Blast! I booked to see him Saturday afternoon at 2pm, the earliest possible time. Three days away and too close to Rowde’s deadline! But even though Ray was incarcerated I knew that if I wanted information on Jamie Redman, Joanne Brookes’ partner, then the prisoner network would give it to me.