Page 46 of The Girl in the Grave
The worry.
The fear.
She shuddered anew at the memory of that night. The crinkle of the thick plastic laid down to protect every available surface from her blood spatter. Now, she knew better than most how much hard work, preparation and clean-up was involved in cutting someone open. It was her job to help loved ones come to terms with the sudden, somewhat inexplicable deaths of their nearest and dearest. She liked to think that because of her the unexpected grief was made slightly more bearable.
What washisexcuse? She’d never asked, and didn’t want to know. But she could never come to terms with why he did it toher. What had she done to make him hate her so much? The sleepless nights where she tossed and turned wondering exactly how he’d come to despise her so much to want to kill her had almost sent her over the edge. She was an educated woman, how had she not realised or seen the warning signs that there was something very wrong with Robert? It had plagued her for years until she’d finally realised that none of it had been her fault. There was no way she could have known about the sick fantasies he harboured inside of his mind. She’d been an emergency doctor, great at piecing people back together but clueless about how deviant minds worked.
She remembered his answers in the many police interviews and again in court, his voice echoing through her mind as she recalled his stark confession: ‘To stake my place in society, to become a collector.’
She’d had no idea what that had even meant until the defence had brought out a dog-eared copy of a John Fowles novel calledThe Collectorstating he wasn’t of sound mind, that he lived in a fantasy world brought about by a story he’d become obsessed with. A book; a bland-seeming item of little significance that had lain around the house; he had multiple copies of it. She’d teased him about it once, she remembered. She’d even seen him reading it in bed. She’d rushed home that night to researchThe Collector, to discover what was so damaging about a work of fiction. Horrified, and puzzled, she learned thatThe Collectorhad been the inspiration for a number of high-profile serial killers. Christ. How many long, sleepless nights she’d struggled to get her head aroundthatone. He’d wanted to kill her because of a story he’d read? He’d planned to kill her for the enjoyment of it. He was a psychopath, the defence had claimed, acting out some long-repressed fantasy owing to uncontrollable desires. He wanted his name to be forever linked to that book, to the collector, nothing more and nothing less.
Fingering the almost-empty bottle, she had an important decision to make: did she finish the wine and read his damn letter, or do what she always did? She crossed to where the envelope was propped on the worktop, staring at her. Snatching hold of it, she opened the drawer, threw the letter inside and slammed the drawer shut. Let it fester with the others. She wasn’t giving him the satisfaction, not even the slightest hint how she felt about his letters. She didn’t want to know whether or not he was sorry:sorry! He could tell her he was sorry every hour for the rest of his life, it wouldn’t change the situation. She’d almost died because he’d wanted to kill her. Sending these stupid letters to her didn’t make her feel any better; he could never give her closure, if that was what he wanted now.
Rinsing out the glass, she left it to drain on the side; she didn’t need to finish the bottle. What would it look like if Josh came back and found her in a drunken stupor on the sofa because she’d received a letter in the post that she hadn’t opened? It might not even be an apology; perhaps she was giving Robert too much credit. It could be a vile outpouring of his obsession. It didn’t matter. Celebrities got hate mail all the time, it didn’t mean they turned into a quivering wreck and never got on with their lives. Robert Hartshorn was her cross to bear; he had been her lover and her best friend until the day he’d decided to kill her, and then he’d become her problem. She placed her hands on her hips, determined now. She was going to make it her mission to put him out of her life for good.
Sixty-Three
Harry Dean looked bewildered, there was no other way to describe it: his collar unbuttoned, tie pushed to one side and his normally well-groomed hair was sticking out where he’d run his fingers through it so many times.
‘I’m sorry, officer.’
‘Josh, please call me Josh.’
‘I’m sorry, Josh, I don’t understand how you think we had anything to do with the girl you found. God rest her soul. I’ve never seen her before in my life.’
Josh looked at Sam, who gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘We have had an anonymous tip that James was well acquainted with Chantel Price, that she’d been here on several occasions and, in fact, we believe that James was one of the last people to see her alive. The last confirmed sighting we have of her on record was that she was being driven away from here in a car with your brother.’
Josh acknowledged Alex as she came around the corner. She took one look at the expression on her dad’s face and every ounce of colour drained from her cheeks. Harry turned to his daughter.
‘Do you know what they’re talking about? They’re saying some dead girl was seen here, leaving with James. By the way, where the hellisJames?’
Alex looked horrified, and Josh realised that they had pushed Harry to the limit.
‘Harry, let’s talk whilst my team does the search. Is James around? We really need to speak to him.’
A voice very similar to Harry’s echoed around the reception.
‘Just what thehellis going on here?’
Harry strode towards his brother, poking him in the chest with his index finger. ‘What have you done this time?’
James shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Josh nodded at the two response officers who were waiting around. ‘If you’d be so kind as to take Mr Dean to the station and get him booked in.’
James squared up to Josh. ‘What are you arresting me for?’
‘I’m not arresting you; I’m giving you the chance to come down and speak to me of your own free will, on a voluntary basis. If you don’t want to do that, then I’ll have no choice but to make it more formal. It’s entirely up to you.’
James turned to Alex and glared at her, but she glared right back.
He shook his head but followed the two officers out to their waiting van. Josh took hold of Harry’s elbow. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk, or would you rather be present whilst the searches are being conducted?’
‘Alex can take them where they need to go, I’d rather talk.’
Josh followed Harry down the corridor to an office, while Sam followed Alex and the search team down to the mortuary.
As Alex opened the door, she turned to face the officers behind her.
