KILL ME GOODBYE Read online

  After the night I’d had I couldn’t wait to see Sarina and tell her all about my adventures, suitably edited and sanitised, of course. I didn’t want to worry her. When I got out of my car I had a sudden urge to inspect the bonnet. It had a massive dent in it which didn’t look good. What if someone else noticed the dent, and worked out that it could have been – must have been – caused by a collision, at speed, with a human body? Quite apart from that issue, my car was missing a windscreen. This was a feature which I feared could attract the attention of the local constabulary.

  Our street had a neighbourhood watch scheme in place. Me and Sarina hadn’t bothered joining. We thought the members were all old busybodies with nothing better to do than spy on the comings and goings on Scales Avenue. What if one of them spied my car and reported it as suspicious? One thing might lead to another, and I could find myself arrested and facing a murder rap and various other charges such as GBH. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  With a good deal of pained tsking I opened the garage door and was relieved to see that Sarina’s car wasn’t in the garage. That meant I could conceal mine, along with the evidence of my crime, in the garage, until such a time as I’d worked out what to do about it. I folded myself back into my car with the sort of ungainly series of movements that an elderly lady crippled with arthritis would make, drove forward into the dark interior, exited the car, left the garage, and secured the roller door and, for possibly the first time in my life, I locked it. Then I looked around for Sarina’s car. As it wasn’t in the garage or on the drive, she had to have parked on the street in front of the house. But her car wasn’t there. It was nowhere in sight. An odd instinctive tremor of apprehension shot up my spine. I dismissed it and went to the front door.

  We lived in a brick-built detached house with two bay windows and a tiled roof. It had a lounge plus a kitchen-diner on the ground floor, and two bedrooms on the first floor, one of which Sarina used as a home office. The house was all mine, bought and fully paid for, thanks to my grandparents. They were wealthy and had given me a lot of money. Something to do with minimising inheritance tax, they’d said. I’d been suitably grateful, whatever their motive.

  I pushed the key into the lock, pleased I hadn’t lost it during the crisis that had engulfed me some hours before, and turned it. The key only moved a quarter turn because the door hadn’t been locked. That rang alarm bells. As I pushed the door open I noticed a couple of indentations near the edge. They looked to me like the sort of marks a sledgehammer would have made if someone had been trying to break in with one. But that explanation was absurd. I refused to believe it had happened, though a worried voice in my head told me something like it must have.

  Stepping over the threshold I entered our hall. It was painted magnolia, and the walls had numbered prints of iconic modern paintings hung on them. It was all Sarina’s doing. I left matters of décor to her. The staircase was ahead of me, and the door to our front room was on my left. The front room was our usual hangout in the evening.

  We maintained a no-shoe policy in our house because of the white Axminster carpets we had in every room, so I took off my shoes and left them by the doormat. The deep-pile of the carpet felt light and spongy beneath my feet as I walked over it in my pop-socks.

  ‘Sarina!’ I called, as loudly and clearly as my busted mouth would allow. ‘I’m home!’

  My jaw ached, reminding me I needed to visit a dentist ASAP to have my teeth checked out. But there would be time to deal with that in the days to come. For now, my priority was seeing Sarina, taking some painkillers, and getting to bed.

  Sarina didn’t reply.

  I could hear the television on in the front room. She’d probably fallen asleep on the sofa while watching it. In her position, I would’ve done the same. In fact, as far as my wife was concerned, I was notorious for falling asleep on the sofa every evening. I took off my suit jacket and looped it over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, then, turning to my left, pushed open the door to the front room.

  We had a fifty-inch HD television bolted to a wall. It was showing a late-night chat show which I didn’t recognise as I don’t usually watch TV in the early hours of the morning. An elaborate beech storage unit ran along the back wall, with a generously-proportioned white-leather corner sofa next to it.

  Sarina was lying on her side on the sofa, her long black hair covering her face like a veil. She was wearing fitted jeans and a close-fit red T-shirt. No doubt those clothes, however basic, had cost enough to make my eyes water. Her slim body was totally relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Her feet were bare, displaying her manicured toenails.

  ‘Sarina?’

  She didn’t move.

  As I approached, intending to shake her shoulder gently, I noticed through the lush drape of hair that there were dark rings under her eyes, the sort some people get when they haven’t had enough sleep. That wasn’t like Sarina. And what’s more, they were too dark, almost like they were bruised. A chill formed in the pit of my stomach. I began to feel sick, not for the first time that night. When I got close enough, I swept the hair from her face with a gentle movement of my right hand. Then I gasped and took a step back. It wasn’t Sarina I was looking at. It was my little sister, Tara.

  What’s more, she wasn’t sleeping.

  She was dead.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It should have been obvious from the bruises on her neck, as they’d been concealed by her hair. They were a mottled purple colour standing out vividly against her olive skin, and had the pattern fingers might make, if applying brutal pressure for an extended period. I knew from photographic evidence I’d seen during one of my murder trials that these were contusions of the sort you get from being strangled.

  I must’ve stood in front of Tara for five minutes, barely able to take in what I was looking at, how she’d come to be this way. The last time I’d seen her had been a couple of weeks ago, on Saturday. I’d enjoyed a coffee with her in the Arrabello café near the Arndale Centre. She’d been with James, her boyfriend, and had been really happy, her chuckle a delightful symphony to my ears. James must have felt the same way, because he got the sort of soppy look on his face that smitten teenagers often get. I felt happy for them both, particularly for Tara. God alone knew what James would go through when I told him the news. They were recently engaged and had started planning their wedding.

  Something akin to vertigo gripped me. I staggered and dropped to the floor where I sat cross-legged, my mind awash with emotion. Tears erupted from my eyes, my chest heaved, and, with my head in my hands, I sobbed like a small child. I was so lucky I had Sarina. She’d help get me through this awful tragedy. Then it struck me that my parents didn’t know Tara was dead, and someone would have to tell them, probably me. But I wasn’t up to the job. How could I possibly give them the news their daughter had been killed? How would they feel? How would they react? Like me no doubt, but a hundred times worse.

  I couldn’t accept the situation I found myself in, but I had to. The undeniable proof of it was right in front of me. What should I do? Call the police, obviously. But I couldn’t do it while I was so near to Tara. It seemed disrespectful, so I got to my feet and moved a few paces away from her, wiped my eyes, and took my mobile phone from my trouser pocket. Then I saw some yellow things on the floor. I knew exactly what they were, but couldn’t believe my eyes.

  My skin is sensitive to cleaning products. They bring me out in a rash. Consequently, I always kept a pair of rubber gloves under the kitchen sink which I wear to protect my skin when washing up. They were bright yellow. Those two gloves were on the floor beneath the Bohm sofa. There was an obvious inference to be made. Someone had been wearing them while they’d strangled Tara, then taken them off, thrown them to the floor, and booted them out of sight.

  There was a second obvious inference to be made.

  Someone was trying to frame me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The situation
called for a re-think. Was it such a great idea to call the police to the crime-scene when it contained evidence I was the criminal who’d committed the heinous crime? I could picture what would happen. They’d arrive, take one look at those gloves, work out the gloves were mine, and arrest me. They’d find more planted evidence to fit me up with, take me to the local nick and question me, and do their level best to get me to contradict myself during my interrogation. Then I’d be charged and it would go to trial.

  I knew all too well from my work as a barrister that justice in our country is something of a lottery. More often than not the guilty go free, because the burden of proof is set so high. But sometimes it works the other way. Innocent people are wrongfully convicted and banged up in prison. What if there was enough bogus evidence lying around to wrongfully convict me? Should I tamper with the crime scene by removing the gloves before calling the police? It was tempting, but dare I do it? Or would I be removing evidence linking the real killer to the crime?

  Another issue also concerned me. What if it came out that I was home fresh after killing a young man in the Northern Quarter? That would add significantly to my woes. The general consensus is that if you kill once, you can kill again. So by having killed the gangbanger, I’d appear to be capable of killing others too, including my own sister. That sort of logic could seal my fate during my trial, if it came to a trial.

  I put my mobile phone back in my pocket, my heart pounding in my chest like a rock band’s snare drum. I needed to consider my options. What had those gangbangers been after? Was it connected to Tara’s death? Where was Sarina? Had someone taken her? Or had she run away from the violent thug who’d killed Tara?

  A siren wail in the street informed me that a call to the police wouldn’t be necessary. The police already knew about the murder at 4 Scales Avenue, Chorlton. Parting the curtains, I saw two squad cars pulling up right outside my house. Someone had stitched me up like a kipper and was serving me on a plate. For a moment I considered making a run for it, but quickly realised there was no point. There was nowhere to run to. The back garden was surrounded by an impossibly high wooden fence that I’d have no chance of vaulting over. Even if I managed to negotiate that formidable obstacle, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to run, my legs felt too sore to take severe demands. So there was nothing for it, other than to wait for the inevitable.

  The inevitable came in the form of a loud knock at the door, even though we had a doorbell with a Winchester Chime. Padding into the hall to answer it, I noticed the security chain was broken. Half of the chain was dangling impotently from the catch on the door, and the remaining half from the component which attached to the door jamb. In an instant I put two-and-two together and worked out what must have happened. Someone had rung the doorbell and Tara had answered, opening the door a fraction with the security chain on. Whoever was outside had then swung a sledgehammer at the door and bust it open, snapping the security chain in the process.

  I opened the door. Four burly policemen in plainclothes were standing on the gravel path looking at me. One of them was slightly ahead of the other three. He was Afro-Caribbean in origin and his colleagues were white. He was about forty years old, with short black hair greying at the temples, a lean face, and lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth, giving his face a grim expression. It reminded me of a photo of a pike I’d seen once, taken as it was about to eat a much smaller fish. He was wearing a navy-blue mac over a grey suit with black shoes. He took in the scar on my cheek. The expression on his lean face never changed as he did so. It remained uncompromisingly grim. Reaching into a pocket he produced a warrant-card, which he held unnecessarily close to my eyes.

  ‘Ms Finnegan?’ he said.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Hammer. These are Detective Constables Trapp, Bates, and Shackleton.’ The men behind him nodded. ‘We’ve had reports of a serious incident at this house. May we come in?’

  Resistance was futile. If I refused them entry they’d come in anyway, citing the need to sort out a domestic, if it came up in court that they’d entered without a warrant.

  I moved to the side and backwards, so as not to obstruct the door opening, and the men filed through. They took up position in the hall, with Hammer and Trapp in front of me, glaring, as if challenging me to try to leave. Bates and Shackleton fumbled with bags they were carrying and removed white protective clothing from them, which they proceeded to put on.

  ‘Your reports about a disturbance are right,’ I said, then hesitated, unable to say out loud what had happened to Tara. Forcing myself to continue, I added: ‘There’s a dead woman in the front room. She’s . . . she’s my sister.’ Hammer’s mouth tightened. ‘And something else,’ I continued. ‘My wife is missing. I’m worried something might have happened to her.’

  Hammer gave me a hard stare.

  ‘When did you last see your wife?’

  ‘Yesterday at 7 a.m. before I went to work. And I spoke to her on my mobile at 10.30 p.m. last night.’

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘So you last spoke to her approximately five hours ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What makes you think she’s disappeared?’

  ‘She said she’d be at home waiting for me. She isn’t here.’

  ‘We’ll look into it, Ms Finnegan.’

  ‘About my sister. Whoever did it, that is, killed her, that same person probably abducted my wife. Or my wife ran away to escape him. Either way, you need to find her.’

  Hammer nodded to Trapp. Trapp took out a notebook and pen. Before long Trapp had filled a couple of pages with notes, all of them prejudicial to my interests, no doubt. I was feeling desperately out of sorts. The knowledge that the body of my sister was just beyond the closed door next to me was doing my head in. I was close to fainting. Plus my mouth felt suddenly dry.

  ‘I need a glass of water,’ I said.

  Turning around, I opened the door to the kitchen-diner at the back of the house, and strode in. It was a large L-shaped space which had been made larger by an extension running the full width of our home. The kitchen units were high white gloss with brushed steel handles. The island feature in the middle incorporated an elaborate range cooker and enough worktop space for our kettle and toaster. The cupboard containing the tea bags was right next to the door. I opened it and froze. What made me freeze was a small brown bottle in the cupboard, adjacent to the ceramic jar we kept our tea bags in. That bottle contained my sleeping pills. They were a dirty little secret I usually kept hidden in the bathroom. By some devious means my sleeping pills had migrated from the bathroom to the kitchen.

  In a fraction of a second my head played out a scene I hadn’t asked it to. It was like watching a movie. An unknown person offered Tara a drink and laced it with my sleeping pills. Then, while Tara was feeling groggy, the unknown person put on my rubber gloves and strangled her.

  If the unknown person was on top of their game, they’d have worn surgical gloves before putting on my rubber gloves. He would’ve put Vaseline on them to ensure they slipped easily inside my own gloves. The only DNA to be found inside my rubber gloves would be mine, and mine alone, unadulterated by anyone else’s. Ergo, it could only have been me who strangled Tara, as far as the police were concerned.

  Conclusion: I’d have to somehow scoop up those pills and hide them before they found their way into an evidence bag. I began to wish I’d followed my instincts and spirited away the gloves.

  ‘Something wrong, Ms Finnegan?’ Hammer said.

  He managed to say my name in a tone of voice that made it sound like an insult.

  ‘No,’ I said, wondering how I could get hold of the pills and dispose of them. He grabbed my arm.

  ‘I think you better forget the water for now, Ms Finnegan. There might be vital evidence in here. That bottle of pills, for instance.’

  He pulled me gently back into the hall just as Bates and Shackleton, fu
lly suited-up, disappeared into the front room.

  ‘Boss!’ Shackleton shouted. ‘You better see this!’

  Hammer nodded to Trapp. It was a policeman’s code I understood all too well: make sure she doesn’t get away. Not that I could have got away if I’d have wanted. Trapp was bigger and burlier than me, and probably fitter.

  Hammer put on a pair of white overshoes and a facemask and disappeared into the front room, where he spent several minutes with his colleagues, discussing matters in hushed tones. Eventually, he emerged and stood too close to me for my liking, intruding upon my personal space. It made me feel distinctly ill at ease. What he said made me feel physically sick.

  ‘Josephine Finnegan, you are under arrest on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Depressing as this development was, it wasn’t altogether surprising.

  ‘All right,’ I said with a bravado I didn’t remotely feel. ‘Do your worst.’

  ‘You’ll have to accompany me and DS Trapp to the station.’ He turned to leave.

  Trapp, a blond-haired thirty-year-old who looked as if he could have been a rugby league player, nodded gravely. He gripped my right upper arm in an unfeasibly large and powerful hand and propelled me towards the door.

  The air outside was colder than I remembered and as I was only wearing a shirt on my upper body I started shivering immediately, and wished I’d thought to ask if I could put on a jacket. One look at Trapp’s forbidding features told me it was too late to make any such request, so I allowed myself to be manoeuvred, in silence, to the back of their car, a dark blue BMW five series. Hammer held the door open and Trapp pushed me inside, one hand on top of my head. At least they didn’t cuff me. Hammer sat beside me as Trapp got in the front and started the car. A few seconds later I found myself once again driving through the deserted streets of Manchester, only this time I was on my way to the custody suite.