Deadly Alibi Read online

  He stood in the doorway, like a figure in a nightmare. She swallowed hard, and tried to study him calmly. He was quite tall, and probably slim, although it was difficult to judge his physique beneath his jacket. His face was concealed behind a white mask, but the rest of his head was visible. He was Caucasian, with mousy brown hair beginning to thin on top of his head. There was nothing much to help her convey an image of him to the police when she escaped, but she made a mental note of the little she could see.

  His voice, too, would be hard to describe, as he only spoke in a hoarse whisper. She thought he was deliberately disguising his voice. Perhaps she knew him. She resisted the urge to rush up to him and tear off his mask, afraid that he would react violently. Clearly he didn’t want her to see his face. Once she knew who he was, he might feel compelled to kill her.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she muttered.

  She could feel herself shaking. Aware that this could be the end of everything for her, she cleared her throat and tried to speak to him again. Her voice came out in a feeble rasp.

  ‘Tell me, what do you want?’

  The man took a step towards her. ‘Follow me,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where you’re taking me.’

  He shrugged. ‘Do you really want to stay here? I thought you didn’t like it here.’

  ‘No! No! Wait! Don’t go! I’ll come with you. I just want to know where you’re taking me.’

  He advanced into the room. She backed away from him, staring into the dark eyeholes in the mask.

  ‘What are you so frightened of?’ he asked in his curious whispering voice.

  ‘Who are you?’ she yelled.

  She made a sudden lunge. Her fingers scrabbled under his chin. She knew it was rash, but she couldn’t bear to look at the mask any longer. She needed to see a human face.

  As her fingers grappled with the slippery plastic, she felt a sudden crushing pain in her stomach. Her assailant was breathing heavily, his fist poised to punch her again. With a cry, she staggered backwards and fell on the bed. With one bound, he was beside her, both fists raised.

  ‘Stop! Stop! You’ll kill me!’ she gasped.

  The pain was excruciating.

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ he panted, but he didn’t hit her again.

  As he dropped his arms, she seized her chance. Doing her best to ignore the burning agony in her stomach, she made a dash for the door. Flinging it open, she hurled herself through and slammed it shut.

  Trembling with terror, and retching with pain, she leaned back on the door for support, pushing against it with all her strength. She knew it was futile to try and run, but fear made her reckless. Her only hope of escape was to leave the house before he realised she had moved from the other side of the door. Silently she stepped forwards. Gathering her strength, she launched herself forward. Whimpering with pain, she rushed down the stairs. The front door was ahead of her, at the far end of a narrow hallway. Bent almost double with pain, she stumbled towards it.

  She had nearly reached the door when she felt an arm round her neck, squeezing her throat. With his other hand he grabbed both of her wrists. Her legs shook violently as he shoved her forwards.

  ‘Open the door!’ he whispered.

  He released one of her hands, twisting her other arm behind her back.

  ‘Open it!’

  Overwhelmed by the pain in her stomach, she couldn’t move to reach for the handle. He tightened his grip on her neck.

  ‘Open it!’

  She dared not refuse. Besides, she wanted to leave the house. Once they were outside, there might be other people around and she would be in with a chance of attracting attention. She might even be able to escape. With a burst of hope, she opened the door. They shuffled forwards together, and she heard the door slam shut behind them.

  It was dark outside, except for pools of orange light glowing beneath street lamps. He grabbed hold of her hands once more, and kept her in a tight head lock as they hobbled across a narrow front yard, like some lumbering four-legged creature. He pushed her through an open gate to a car parked outside the house. Dragging her round to the back of the car, he released her hands and opened the boot.

  ‘Get in.’

  With his arm still pressing against her windpipe, she struggled to speak. ‘What?’

  ‘Get in.’

  She glanced around frantically for a weapon to hit him with. There was nothing. Below her she could see his feet. With a faint grunt, she lifted one knee and stamped down on his foot as hard as she could. He gave no sign that he had even noticed her feeble assault. She was in too much pain to move again. All she could manage was a feeble shout for help.

  Moving his hand from her throat and slapping it over her mouth to silence her, he repeated his order. Shocked, she tried to pull away from him, but he clamped his hand more tightly on her mouth, forcing her head backwards. She was afraid he would break her neck.

  Without warning, he kicked the back of her knees. She collapsed. As she lost her footing he manoeuvred her into the boot, pushing her head down so she didn’t knock herself out. She wondered why he cared about hurting her head when the pain in her stomach was crippling her.

  As darkness closed in on her she lay curled on her side, too shocked to cry out. Her knees were pressing so tightly against her chest that it was difficult to breathe. As she tried to control her panic, the floor beneath her vibrated, there was a resounding roar, and the car began to move. Terrified she was going to suffocate, she lay immobile. Even the slightest movement seemed to send a knife slashing into her guts.

  With every jolt of the car, she prayed for death to release her from her searing pain. Eventually she passed out. When she came to, the car had stopped. She lay perfectly still, waiting. Nothing happened. She tried to turn round, but any movement was agonising.

  Convinced she was going to die, she was determined to do whatever she could to prevent her killer getting away with it. She couldn’t betray his identity to the police, because she had no idea who he was. He had been careful to avoid any contact with her, and had worn gloves whenever she saw him. All she knew was that he was white, and his hair was brown. It wasn’t enough. She could only think of one thing that might help the police. Gathering as much spittle as she could, she drooled on the floor of the boot, turning her head to spit in as many places as she could. Having daubed the interior of the car boot with her DNA, she lay still, gasping with pain.

  At last she closed her eyes and allowed darkness to fill her mind, as she slithered into an ocean of pain.

  32

  Geraldine was already on her way to work on Tuesday morning when she received an urgent message. The search team had discovered the murder weapon on Chris’s property. He had been taken straight to the police station where he was currently awaiting questioning. Before interviewing him again, Geraldine wanted to see for herself where the weapon had been found. She turned her car round and put her foot down.

  ‘Where’s the weapon?’

  It had already been sent off for forensic examination. Excitedly, the constable who had found it described how he had been searching in the shed when he had come across a chisel, the tip of the blade encrusted with what could have been dried blood.

  ‘I could be wrong,’ he added.

  His bright eyes and flushed face were all the confirmation Geraldine needed that the young constable was convinced he had found the murder weapon. As they were talking, the message reached them that the substance on the chisel was indeed human blood. They would shortly know if it matched the victim’s.

  ‘If it’s not hers,’ the constable said, ‘then whose is it?’

  Before she left the premises, Geraldine asked him to show her exactly where he had found the bloody chisel.

  ‘It wasn’t like it was dripping with blood,’ he explained as h
e led the way across the muddy grass to a dilapidated wooden shed at the end of the garden.

  ‘You did well to spot it,’ she replied and his face turned a deeper shade of red.

  It was dark inside the shed. The constable shone his light around to reveal a lawnmower, a few white plastic chairs stacked together, and an assortment of rusting garden tools propped against the sides of the shed. Apart from the lawnmower, everything looked disused. There were no DIY tools to be seen.

  ‘Show me exactly where it was.’

  The constable stepped forward and pointed. ‘Just there, on the floor, between the rake and the spade. You can see a few flecks of dried blood.’

  He shone the torch on the spot. From the doorway the chisel would have been hidden, but anyone stepping inside the shed would have spotted it straight away.

  Walking back to the house, Geraldine looked around the garden. The grass needed cutting and the flower beds were overgrown with shrubs and weeds. It didn’t surprise her that the garden tools looked as though they hadn’t been touched for a while.

  ‘Describe the chisel,’ she said.

  ‘It was – a chisel. About thirty centimetres long, end to end, with a blade about four centimetres in width with a bevelled end, and the handle was black plastic.’ He shrugged. ‘It was a common sort of chisel, I think.’

  Geraldine nodded. ‘Good. Let’s see what forensics have to say about it.’

  By the time she reached the police station the forensic team had already confirmed the blood group matched that of the victim. The width of the chisel blade was consistent with it having been used to inflict Jamie’s fatal head wound. The DNA test result would be back shortly. In the meantime, only one thing was bothering Geraldine as she prepared to question the suspect again. She couldn’t understand how the chisel had escaped notice a week earlier, when the police had searched the premises for a murder weapon.

  ‘Did no one look in the shed?’ she asked Sam. ‘Check it for me.’

  Sam reported back that the shed had been searched the previous week.

  ‘And no one saw the murder weapon then?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘The answer’s in the question. Perhaps it was hidden behind something? We did a more thorough search this time, now we know he did it.’

  Geraldine frowned. The chisel hadn’t been well concealed.

  ‘At that time, there was no evidence to suggest Chris had murdered his wife. Only the fact that he was her husband made him a suspect at all,’ Sam pointed out.

  ‘And the fact that the murder weapon was right there, under our noses,’ Geraldine retorted.

  But she supposed Sam was right. The chisel could have been overlooked the previous Monday.

  ‘But why would he have left it there?’ she added. ‘Wouldn’t you have got rid of it as soon as you could?’

  Sam frowned. ‘He knew we’d already searched the shed…’

  Geraldine raised her eyebrows. ‘Not much of a search,’ she muttered.

  ‘If I was him, I might well leave it somewhere the police had already looked, and were unlikely to look again. He might even have put it there after we’d looked in the shed.’

  Geraldine thought Sam’s last suggestion was probably right.

  Chris looked up miserably as Geraldine entered the interview room. His corpulent lawyer at his side barely acknowledged her presence.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ she said pleasantly, and paused.

  ‘Oh, get on with it, for Christ’s sake,’ Chris burst out.

  He seemed more nervous than on previous occasions. His eyes darted around, flitting past Geraldine and back again, as unsettled as a fly buzzing around a room.

  Geraldine adopted a conversational tone to begin her questioning. ‘Did you do much DIY around the house?’

  Chris glanced at his lawyer who sat, eyes half closed, giving no sign that he was listening to the interview. As before, Geraldine was certain he was paying close attention.

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘I don’t understand what it is you want to know.’

  ‘Did you do any DIY in the house? Putting up shelves? That kind of thing. Any woodwork?’

  Chris gave a nervous laugh. ‘No. I’m not what you might call handy. I wasn’t one for DIY. I barely know how to wire a plug. But I don’t see what that’s got to do with my wife’s death.’

  For answer, Geraldine put an evidence bag on the table.

  Chris stared at it. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I think you know very well what it is. It’s your chisel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We found it in your shed.’ She leaned forward, enunciating her words very slowly. ‘It has your wife’s blood on it.’ She sat back again, and turned to speak to the lawyer. ‘The width of the blade is consistent with its having been used to inflict the fatal blow. We’re looking at the murder weapon.’

  She turned back to Chris who was staring at the chisel in horror.

  ‘I never owned a chisel in my life,’ he mumbled.

  The lawyer frowned. ‘I’d like to speak to my client.’

  Geraldine smiled at him. ‘I’m sure you would. You two must want to discuss his confession. A crime of passion, I expect? But murder nonetheless, with a chisel bought especially for the purpose. Because you weren’t one for DIY, were you, Chris?’

  33

  Gazing around the small whitewashed cell with its cold metal toilet he shivered, wondering if he was looking at his future. He tried to imagine what it would be like to spend a long time in a confined space, day after day, year after year, never going out to the pub or a football match, never again walking along the street on a sunny day, or feeling the touch of another human being on his skin. He didn’t know if prisoners were allowed the occasional beer while they were serving their sentence.

  In here everything was unfamiliar, but even at home nothing had been the same without Jamie. They had been married for five years and had lived together for three years before that. Eight years was a long time to be with someone else. Throughout their time together, not a day had gone by without them seeing one another, not a night had passed when they hadn’t slept in the same bed. He stared disconsolately at the scratchy blanket on his narrow bunk. Jamie had insisted on pink sheets and a duvet decorated with a sprinkling of tiny pink flowers. It wouldn’t have been his choice, but he hadn’t minded. It was only bed linen.

  ‘Choose whatever you want,’ he’d told her.

  But nothing he did had ever seemed to please her. Her constant misery had ruined his life. With her, he had never been allowed to feel happy. Even with her death she was taking away his freedom. He tried to forgive her. None of this had been her fault. But it hadn’t been his fault either.

  Louise’s betrayal was more difficult to forgive. He tried not to dwell on it. Thinking about her made him so angry, he wanted to slap her. She could so easily have saved him. After all the love he had shown her, she had abandoned him in order to keep their affair secret.

  ‘Let me speak to her,’ he had pleaded with the police. ‘I’ll make her see that she has to tell you the truth.’

  But no one listened to him, because no one cared. In their eyes he was a murderer. It was difficult to control the slow anger burning inside him. One day he was afraid it would erupt. And he was going to a place that specialised in punishing violent behaviour.

  Somewhere far off a voice was yelling obscenities. Another poor sod in a police cell. He sighed, remembering the sound of his wife’s voice. Doing his best to block out the shouting, he lay down on the hard bunk and stared at a compass stencilled on the ceiling, wondering what it was for. After a while he closed his eyes, trying to recall the last time he had seen his wife alive. He remembered how violently she had struggled, and his frantic efforts to restrain her. He had never wanted to hurt her.

  As long as he live
d, he would never understand how their relationship had gone so terribly wrong. He had done his best to love her. It wasn’t for want of trying that he hadn’t made her happy. Looking back over the years they had spent together, fighting and making up, and, inevitably, fighting again, he couldn’t remember a time when she had ever seemed content. He had never accepted that he was responsible for her suffering. But maybe it had been his fault after all.

  Strictly speaking, they ought never to have been matched by an online dating agency. He had mistakenly added twenty years to his age. Anyone checking his details should have spotted the error straight away, but the site had let it pass. He’d noticed it as soon as his profile went online, but he hadn’t thought it mattered. At twenty-three, and painfully inexperienced with women, he hadn’t really expected to hear from anyone. When an attractive thirty-year-old woman had responded, he had almost not dared to reply. He had been astonished when, if anything, she had seemed amused when he had confessed his blunder, laughingly calling him her toy boy.

  To begin with the nickname had irked him, but he had been too shy to complain. After a while he had no longer cared, because he had fallen in love with her. For a while nothing she did could upset him. He couldn’t imagine ever taking offence at anything she said.

  By the time he had realised how badly he had misjudged her, they were too deeply involved for him to extricate himself. Although he knew there was something unhealthy about their relationship, he couldn’t bring himself to leave her. Instead, he had asked her to marry him. It had been a crazy impulse.