Captives

THIRTY-SIX

Before he switched off the engine he glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

12.36 A.M.

Frank Gregson swung himself out of the Escort and slammed the door, fumbling in his pocket for his front door key. He finally found it and let himself in, careful not to drop the thick manila file he had cradled under one arm. As he moved through the house he switched on lights, finally ending up in the sitting room. There he dropped the file onto the coffee table, crossed to the drinks cabinet, took out a bottle of Teacher's and poured himself a large measure. As he stood drinking the fiery liquid he heard movement from above him, soft padding footfalls on the stairs.

He sighed and finished his drink, filling the glass again.

'I couldn't wait up any longer.'

The voice came from behind him as Julie moved into the room. He didn't bother to turn; he knew where she was. He heard the creak of springs as she perched on the edge of the armchair.

'You could have phoned,' she said. 'I was worried.'

'If anything had happened to me you'd have heard about it soon enough.'

'I'd cooked you some dinner; I had to throw it out.'

'My loss is the dustbin's gain,' he said, finally turning to face her.

She wore just a short housecoat. He knew she was naked beneath it.

Naked, like Paula Wilson had been on that slab.

'Do you want me to get you something?' she asked, curling her legs under her.

'I'll manage with this,' he said, raising the glass. He crossed to his seat and sat down, gazing at the file before him. 'Sorry I disturbed you,' he added, as an afterthought.

'I wasn't asleep. I was waiting for you to get in,' she told him.

He smiled thinly.

'Well, something came up at the office, dear,' he said acidly, taking a sip of his drink. 'That's why I'm late.'

'If you mean that girl, I saw it on the news.'

'Yes, I do mean that girl. Paula Wilson, aged twenty-three.' He raised the glass in salute. 'Rest in peace.'

'They said the man who killed her committed suicide.'

Gregson nodded.

'Went out in a blaze of glory, you could say,' he added.

'Do you want to talk about it?' she asked.

He shook his head and chuckled softly.

'We tried talking about it last time, if you remember rightly. It wasn't a raging success, was it?' he said flatly.

'Frank, don't start.'

'Well, what exactly do you want to know? What details interest you about this case?'

She pulled her housecoat tightly around her and met his gaze.

'Do you want to know how many times he stabbed her? Or how many pieces of rubbish he'd shoved inside her?'

'What do you mean?'

'He stuffed pieces of rubbish between her legs. Inside her vagina. He filled her cunt with garbage.' Gregson hissed the last sentence through clenched teeth. Julie swallowed hard and lowered her head slightly.

'Have you any idea who he was?' she said finally.

Gregson shrugged, got to his feet and poured himself another drink. He turned and looked at his wife for a moment before returning to his seat.

'Strangely enough I have,' he said. 'The only problem is, it doesn't make sense. My theory holds water about as well as a fucking colander.'

She looked at him questioningly, relieved at least that he was talking to her.

'The MO he used matches one of a murderer we put away eighteen months ago,' said Gregson.

'I'm not with you, Frank,' she said.

'No, you're not, are you?' he said cryptically. 'You're not with me.' He downed a large measure of the whisky. 'Perhaps it's better that you're not. I told you before that it isn't your problem.'

'And I told you that it was,' she snapped. 'You think I enjoy seeing you like this? Wrapped up in yourself, punishing yourself? There's no need for it, Frank. Not when I'm here, you don't have to keep your problems or your thoughts to yourself. I want to help. I'm worried about you.' Her tone softened slightly. 'It's you I want to help because it's you I love. Please don't shut me out, Frank.'

'You want to be a part of my world?' he asked sardonically. 'And everything in it?'

'Yes.'

He opened the file and pulled out one of the photos of Paula Wilson, holding it up for Julie to see, ensuring she had a good view of the knife wounds and the pulped face.

'Say hello to reality,' he said.

Julie glanced at the picture and lowered her head again.

'You wanted to look, then look,' he snapped, throwing the photo towards her. It floated to the floor. 'Perhaps you like this one better.' He flicked a picture of Bryce's burned body in her direction. 'How many more do you want to see?' He picked up the file and dumped it on the table in front of her, standing over her challengingly. 'Go on, look at them. Look at the fucking photos.'

He knelt down beside her and pulled another from the file, holding it up against her face as she tried to pull away from him.

Paula Wilson just before the autopsy.

'Look at it,' he shouted.

Bryce after they found him on the building site.

'Come on, I want to know what you think.'

She finally shook loose of his grip and struggled to her feet.

'I think you're crazy,' she said, fighting back the tears. 'I think this job is dragging you down and you don't even know it. Either that or you don't even care.'

'It isn't a nine-to-five job, Julie. You don't clock in and out. At least you don't clock your mind in and out,' he said. 'You carry it with you every fucking hour of the day and night. I carry those images and those sounds and smells in my mind, all the time.'

He took another gulp of whisky, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Julie bent down and picked up one of the photos. She held it for a moment then dropped it in front of her husband.

When she spoke, her voice was low, strained.

'I'll leave you alone with your work,' she said.