Looking Good Dead

33

By the time Tom had figured out how to light the barbecue, it was already past the children’s bedtime. And by the time he had finally cooked their sausages and burgers, Jessica was sound asleep and Max was grizzling.

And now he had drunk too much rosé wine, and he had to finalize the quotation for twenty-five Rolex Oyster watches engraved with a logo in a microdot, and email it to Ron Spacks. The DVD distribution giant had confirmed he was dead serious about placing the order, and Tom had promised the quotation would be with him no later than tonight. He had found a legitimate supply source that would give Spacks a bargain, and net him close to £35,000 profit on the contract. Not only a very sweet deal, it would be a massive help to his business – and his life – at this moment.

He stared fondly at Kellie, who was lying in front of the television, watching Jonathan Ross interview a rock star Tom had never heard of. Lady, as usual, was sitting by the front door with her lead in her mouth.

He hauled himself up the stairs, gripping the banister rail for all he was worth, as if he was climbing Everest the hard way.

Tom opened Jessica’s bedroom door. Light from the landing spilled in, throwing shadows around. She was fast asleep, her face turned towards him, arm around her large, soft teddy, breathing in, a steady long and slow rhythmic hiss, then out with a sharp phut.

Something gripped his chest like a vice, and his heart. He stood motionless, as if all time in the universe was frozen. This was his daughter. His child. His creature that he had brought into the world. His little person.

Jessica.

God, he loved her to bits. People said that parents had favourites but he didn’t, he could honestly say that.

He blew Max a kiss, closed the door, and with a heavy heart went into his den to finalize the Ron Spacks figures.

When he had checked, then double-checked the email and sent it, he made his way back downstairs. Jonathan Ross on the television was talking about the size of willies. Kellie was now fast asleep, empty wine glass on the floor, a half-eaten box of Milk Tray on the sofa beside her.

After they had put the kids to sleep, he had told her about the website and the subsequent email, and then the photograph of Janie Stretton in the paper tonight.

They had watched the Ten O’Clock News together, and seen the poor young woman featured along with footage of the police search in Peacehaven, and a plea by a Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of the Brighton CID for anyone with information to step forward.

Kellie had really surprised him. He thought he knew her much better than he apparently did. He had imagined she would put the safety of her family first. Particularly after he told her about the threatening email.

She had taken less than a couple of minutes to make up her mind. ‘Imagine that was Jessica in twenty years time,’ she had said. ‘Imagine we were the parents, desperate for justice to be done. Now imagine, knowing all that, you are a witness, maybe the only witness. Your stepping forward might make the difference between the killer being caught – and being prevented from ever killing again – and destroying the lives of all those related to the victim. Imagine if Jessica was murdered by a killer who could have been stopped if only someone had been brave enough to step forward.’

He went through into the kitchen, took out a bottle of his favourite Bowmore whisky and poured himself several fingers. A few hours ago he had made the decision that he would abide by Kelly’s view.

But then he had been expecting her to tell him that he needed to put the safety of the family first. And if that meant doing nothing, that would be preferable to anything that put them in jeopardy. Instead she was completely adamant he should go to the police, regardless of the consequences.

Sitting on a bar stool, he watched his reflection in the window. He saw a hunched man raise a glass of whisky to his lips and drink; he saw the man set the glass back down.

He saw the total despair in the man’s face.

He drained his whisky, then went back into the living room to wake Kellie up. They had to talk more.

They talked long into the night, then finally, exhausted, Tom tried to sleep. But he was still awake at three o’clock. And at four. Tossing. Turning. Fretting, dry, parched, with a searing headache.

Tonight they were safe. Tonight he did not have to worry about threats. Kellie’s view was that the police would protect them. Tom did not share her confidence.

Dawn was breaking. At five he heard a hiss of tyres, a whine, a clank of bottles. In another hour or so the kids would be stirring, running into their bedroom, jumping into their bed. Saturday. Normally he loved Saturdays, his favourite day of the week.

Kellie told him he could give the information to the police in confidence, and that the police would respect that. How would anyone find out he had been talking to them?

‘Are you OK, hon?’ Kellie spoke suddenly.

‘I’m still awake,’ he said. ‘I haven’t slept a wink.’

‘Nor have I.’

He put out his hand, found hers, squeezed it. She squeezed back. ‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you, too.’ Then after a pause, she asked, ‘Have you made a decision?’

He was silent for some moments. Then he said quietly, ‘Yes.’