Tomek’s interest was piqued once again. He was learning more from this woman than her entire family combined.
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about something other than her murder?’
Rose began fiddling with the tissue between her fingers. ‘You mean you don’t know yet?’
‘You’re going to have to enlighten me.’
‘She was depressed,’ she said, then paused a beat. ‘Now, I know that word gets thrown around a lot, but hers was seasonal. It was really bad during the winters – every winter. Whenever summer and her dream job as a flight attendant was over for the year, she get really down. Like some days, it was a struggle to get her to come in. Some weeks she’d go out drinking all the time, sometimes going to the club on her own, sleeping with a lot of guys. I don’t know what it was or what kick-started it, but she was crying out for help massively, and nobody seemed to do anything about it. None of us were equipped to deal with it, myself included. I hated seeing her do that to herself. The alcohol, the drugs—’
‘Drugs?’
‘Cocaine, weed. Never anything else. But nobody else knew. For some reason, she always told me what she’d taken.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I guess she always saw me as an older sister that she could look up to and trust. I just wish I’d done something to protect her.’
‘You shouldn’t blame yourself.’
‘I guess.’
Tomek leant forward, placing his elbows on his knees and smiling warmly at her. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘A few years,’ Rose answered. ‘Four, maybe five. But Daphne and Roy don’t want to know anything about it. They’re living in denial. It’s got progressively worse as the years have gone by, but this winter, surprisingly, it got much better. She was coming in on time. She was happier. She was her usual self, you know?’
‘Any idea why?’
Rose took a moment before replying. ‘I’ve been thinking about this a lot since she died, and I remember this one time she told me about a guy she’d met on a flight once. Eccentric millionaire-type character who invited her to a special, adult-themed club on the flight. I… I think she went along to it once, but I don’t know if she ever went back. Either way, ever since then it was like she was back to her old ways.’
Tomek felt his pulse quicken.
‘I’m going to need you to tell me everything you can about this man and this adult-themed club.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
By now, my darling angel’s been unconscious for half an hour. The chemicals that must have been given to her by someone else have taken hold of her. Her pulse has quietened, the blood slowing across her body. She looks calm, restful, peaceful. Angelic.
And now it’s time to begin the next phase of the evening.
I’m no surgeon, but I like to think I’ve got a steady hand – steady enough to cause as little damage as possible, anyway. On the floor lies the plastic tube, coiled in circles like a snake. At one end is the needle, sticking out of one end of the tube like a tongue. At the other is a large plastic pouch. I reach for the needle, then roll Angelica’s body over to one side. The movements must be careful, tender, delicate. She is delicate, a statue carved out of marble by God, by the best sculptor in the world. Her body and soul must be treated that way. Nothing can go wrong.
When she is in position, I hold her leg firmly in place, and inject the needle into the back of her knee. The needle enters the skin with ease. A little blood spills, but I catch it with a wipe. And after a few seconds of squeezing the pouch attached to the cable, creating a vacuum, blood begins to flow through it, smooth, steady, graceful. Within an hour, the bag will be filled and her body will have nothing left to survive. I place a hand on her wrist, feeling for the pulse. It’s smooth, steady, like the flow of blood from her leg. She is none the wiser, completely oblivious. I could not imagine doing this if she was awake, or if she had died beforehand. That would not have been right. Instead, it is better for her to pass like this.
I sit beside her, crouched by her stomach, holding onto her hand. I give the bag a few more squeezes now and then to speed the process up, but I’m happy for this to take as long as it takes. I want to be by her side. I need to be by her side, watching over her, protecting her, cleansing the body, taking it in for the final time.
Gradually, as the blood slowly leaves her body, her pulse begins to weaken, the bones on her hips and ribs becoming more prominent. The life is literally being sucked out of her, like the air escaping from an inflatable mattress, and as the last of it is pulled from her, I watch her intently, finger stuck to her wrist, feeling her pulse.
Weaker. Weaker still.
The gap between each beat of her heart grows greater and greater.
Until the rise and fall of her chest becomes flat, almost invisible, but the moment she dies, I can tell. The pulse suddenly stops, the breathing falters, her chest freezes, and then a moment later her body deflates as her soul leaves her body and journeys to the next life.
At last, she is dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Rose Whitaker knew little about the adult club Angelica had told her of. Her sister-in-law had been shy on the details, both before the event and after, and all Rose knew for certain was that it was an invite-only affair, a prestige place for people to gather, presumably for social drinks with perhaps a darker, sordid side to it. Tomek hoped it wasn’t the Southend Seven, a local gentlemen’s club in the heart of Southend, formerly operated and run by the city’s political elite. Now abandoned and closed down, it had once been the home of a small sex-trafficking ring. Tomek’s immediate thoughts had jumped to that conclusion, that Angelica had been swept up in it somehow, but he quickly dismissed it as soon as Rose had confirmed it was somewhere outside Southend, somewhere in the Essex countryside.
In the meantime, following the meeting with Rose, Tomek had sent Oscar and a team of scenes of crime officers and uniformed constables to search for the invite inside Angelica’s flat. It was a printed document, Rose had said, no larger than A5, with Angelica’s name on it in a cursive, handwritten font, the date of the event and the organiser’s contact details on the reverse. Now they had a brief description of what they were looking for, it was hoped that they might find something that had previously been overlooked in the original search of Angelica’s flat. Despite the detailed description, however, and despite the number of people looking for it, Oscar and the team had been unsuccessful, and after a six-hour search which had taken them close to the early hours of the morning, they had called it a day. It was nowhere to be found.
Tomek had lain awake throughout the night, turning thoughts over in his mind. Thoughts of the case, and of the argument with Abigail. It had been more than twenty-four hours since their bust-up and he hadn’t heard from her. Not a text, not a phone call. She hadn’t even sent him a funny meme or video on WhatsApp, which in today’s world was sacrilegious for some. He had run through the argument several times in his head, playing it through in different scenarios, imagining how it might have gone differently if he’d shouted louder or responded with certain comebacks (hindsight was a wonderful thing in those situations), and by the end of it, he’d decided he had nothing to apologise for. Sure, he’d overreacted, shouted in her face, had a go at her. But she’d pushed him over the edge, overstepped the mark and crossed the boundary. Not to mention she’d insulted his integrity and called into question his capabilities in his role. His first time managing an investigation, and she’d belittled him. Added to the earlier grilling he’d received from Victoria and Nick, for a brief moment, he’d questioned whether he was capable of the task, whether he had what was required.
He continued to wrestle with his thoughts, his crippling, debilitating sense of doubt, the same that Angelica had felt at the end of each season (“Why won’t they keep me on?”, “Am I good enough to stay the whole year?”, “Will they accept me back?”) the following morning as he entered Whitaker’s Jewellers. Rose had called him before nine o’clock, just as he was on his way to work, notifying him that she’d found the invitation in one of Angelica’s jackets that she’d left in the staff room. Tomek had been more than happy to turn round and pop over to inspect.
The front of the shop was entirely floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing rows of delicate and ornate diamond and gemstone jewels sitting neatly on soft velvet displays. Rings, necklaces, earrings. Some of the prettiest and most intricate designs Tomek had ever seen. And if he thought the exterior was spectacular, he was in for a shock when he entered. As soon as he stepped through the door, he got a sense that this was a safe space, a welcoming place for people – confused boyfriends and husbands who were well out of their depth – to come looking for engagement rings or generous gifts without the threat of some commission-hungry zombie pressuring them into a purchase. This was Rose’s lifeblood, and he sensed she would know when to toe the line and when to step just over it.
The middle of the shop was dominated by a large glass display case. In it, dozens of earrings of varying shapes, sizes and carats dangled from stylish branches, surrounded by a bed of leaves and twigs. To his right, running along the wall, was a similar display case, except it had been littered with sand and various seashells and stones picked up from along the beach. To his left was a large wooden scale-model sailing yacht called The Rose that sat in the centre of the display. Necklaces and bracelets, including their charms and price tickets, hung from the masts and other parts of the boat. At the back of the shop, sitting behind a cash desk, was Rose. She climbed out of her seat and rounded the desk.
‘Each display’s a representation of Leigh-on-Sea and beyond,’ she said, making her way towards the display on Tomek’s right. ‘Our lovely little fishing history,’ she continued. ‘An homage to the fish and oysters that are farmed there. The diamonds and gems in this one are yellow to represent the sand.’ She joined him in the centre of the room, moving slowly, elegantly, almost seductively. ‘This one represents Belfairs, one of my favourite woods. Sometimes Johnny and I would go for walks round there in the summer.’ She pointed to the emeralds, and after her moment of reflection was over, she moved to the sailing yacht. ‘Johnny bought me this when I first opened the shop. Said it was a good luck charm. Shame it wasn’t a real one. That would’ve been nice. Still, next best thing, I guess.’
‘It’s the gesture that counts,’ Tomek replied. ‘Though I think you’re missing one…’
‘One what?’
‘A display.’
‘Oh?’
‘Where’s the mud? You can’t have a display dedicated to Leigh and not have one that contains a shit load of mud.’
The corners of her lips rose. ‘You read my mind,’ she said, as she pointed to a corner of the wall to Tomek’s right. He hadn’t noticed it, but hidden behind a concrete pillar was another display case, smaller, with brown paint on the base and wooden poles protruding from it.
