DEAD Heat: A killer's mind unravels Read online

  “The only what?” Jennifer coaxed.

  Marsha’s eyes met Jennifer’s for the first time. “Isn’t it obvious? Look at me, Jen. I’m black. I was the only black in the school.”.

  Jennifer squeezed her friend’s hand. “You’re not black”. She felt stupid for saying it.

  “Perhaps not. But it’s obvious one of my parents is, isn’t it? And, to them – so-called ‘friends’ – I was as close to black as they’d ever seen”. Tears ran down her cheeks, as bitter as her memories. “What’re we like?” she sniffed. “The pair of us. We’ve done nothing but cry these last few weeks”.

  “That doesn’t matter, Marsh. I’m here for you. You know that”.

  Marsha nodded. “So that’s how it started. Every day they’d haul me down to the garden. Drag me behind the bushes. Poke at me and prod me. ‘Inspect’ me. Laugh at me ‘cos I had brown nipples. Brought the boys ‘round to stare at them. But it was the names that were the worst. Horrible names. They didn’t just call me, though. They attacked me through my parents. The brats were no more than eleven but they called my dad a monkey shagger. It was awful, Jen. You wouldn’t understand”.

  Jen could only nod. She felt helpless. “Is that when it began? The alopecia?”

  “Yes”. Marsha’s sob was like that of a wounded animal. “Yes, it was”.

  “That’s not all, either, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jennifer gently rotated Marsha’s hand in her own. “This”, she said, her eyes never leaving Marsha’s. “The self-harm”.

  A nod.

  “Oh Marsha. My poor Marsha”. They clung to each other, limpets against a crashing tide.

  “I’m fine now, though, Jen. I really am. When I turned fourteen, my parents moved back to Hastings. And they got me my first Debbie. It made all the difference to my life, it really did”.

  “Debbie? A puppy?”

  Marsha laughed. “No: ‘Debbie’.” She looked towards the window. Specifically, to the radiator beneath it. Atop the radiator, alongside her clothes, sat a blonde wig.

  “Debbie Harry. Got three of ‘em now. You’re honoured. No-one – and I mean no-one – I don’t love ever sees me without her”.

  “Yeah. Three Debbie’s and a Jenny. You’ll be fine”. Jennifer smiled warmly. “We’ve got each other now. For always.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE PRESENT DAY

  The First Officer brought Royal Dutch Airlines flight KLM691 down to earth with all the finesse of a Mike Tyson flower arrangement.

  By the time the BOEING 777 finally settled, its occupants filled the air with hoots of relief, nervous laughter, and spontaneous applause. Many still had their fingers firmly clamped around their seat restraints.

  Most, but not all.

  The passenger in Row M remained tranquil. She may have just experienced the sensation of hitchhiking aboard a pebble skimmed across a lake, but thoughts of those once close to her had transported her to a better place. She was calmer now than at any stage of the eight-hour flight.

  All she had to do, she reminded herself, was remember that Jennifer North was now Joanne Du Nord.

  Given her state of mind, she feared it might be a tough ask. More difficult than enduring the sleep-deprivation of the previous two nights. Harder, even, than seeing her waist length red hair roughly hacked off in the bathroom of a deserted motorway service station somewhere off the A1(M).

  And, certainly, much more difficult than murdering her husband.

  As the blue-liveried aircraft waited for clearance to approach the terminal building at Toronto’s Pearson International airport, Jennifer closed her eyes and tried to exorcise the events of the last, frantic forty-eight hours.

  **

  Life had passed in a blur since she’d first devised the elaborate ploy to dispense with her philandering louse of a husband. Cheating on her with her own sister, of all people. He had it coming to him. She had no reason to feel bad about it.

  There were other reasons for her to be guilt free, too. Principally, she thought, she hadn’t done it. Not really, she hadn’t. She’d left that to a hired hand. Sure, it was her money that paid him - well, it was her husband Stephen’s own money to be more accurate - but it was the Welshman’s hand that had been on the blade.

  In truth, she remembered, it was no-one’s money. The killer hadn’t been paid yet. Which was why Oliver Stonebank sat three rows behind Jennifer, his steely gaze on her just as it had been for the entire flight.

  It had been nigh on three a.m. when Jennifer had settled into the passenger seat of Stonebank’s Ford Fiesta outside the Northumbria Mansion House Hotel in north-east England. She was flushed with triumph at her plan coming together. It had seemed madness to have Stephen executed in public when she’d first thought of it. As it turned out, it was a masterstroke.

  Fronting the killing up as part of a dramatic Murder Mystery weekend package she’d arranged to deliver to the hotel meant no-one was surprised to see slaughter, gore and mayhem. All part of the act, the guests had thought, which meant she and Stonebank were given time to flee the scene before anyone realised anything was amiss.

  At Wetherby Services on route to Manchester airport, Stonebank accompanied her into a deserted bathroom cubicle and, with the same knife he’d used to slit the throat of her husband, he sawed through her locks. From a carry-on bag, Jennifer withdrew a nondescript black wig and slipped it over her raggy hair. She changed into sweatshirt and jeans. The eye-catching outfit she’d worn during the performance was dispensed into a clothes recycling skip in the car park.

  Boarding the first EasyJet flight of the day to Amsterdam under a false passport in the name of Jane West, she and Stonebank – also travelling under an alias – undertook the first part of their convoluted escape. She hadn’t told him the ultimate destination – she wasn’t that foolish – but had revealed enough to gain his confidence. He was sufficiently assured that their path was to be an intricate one. One that would offset immediate attempts by the authorities to trace them.

  She was surprised and relieved they had entered the Netherlands with ease. Britain’s exit from the E.U had not yet prompted strict border controls and she and Stonebank were just two of many travellers arriving at Schiphol. There’d been no second looks from immigration officials, no Interpol presence, nothing out of the ordinary at all.

  Stonebank had been impressed, not to say astounded, that Jennifer had the foresight to purchase tickets separately for each leg of their journey. Far less conspicuous – and harder to track – than using straight flight transfers.

  They’d hopped onto a coach into the City centre and were sat outside a pavement brasserie sharing croissants and coffee in the shadow of Dam Square’s National Memorial statue when the inevitable happened: Stonebank’s insistence to learn their ultimate destination.

  “Now look here”, he’d said, the second word coming out as ‘hee-urr’. “We’re in this together. We need to work as a team. I don’t try to hide the fact I need you to lead me to North’s money. Of course I do. You’re the only one who knows where it is.” He paused; looked Jennifer in the eye. Without blinking, he carried on. “But do you really think you can pull this off all by yourself? You’re a little girl lost. The authorities will eat you for breakfast, they will”.

  He took a long drag on his cigarette, drawing smoke deep into his lungs. When he exhaled, smoke came from his nostrils like dragon’s breath. “You need me at least as much as I need you. So, tell me where we’re headed”.

  “You have to be bloody-well joking. If I tell you that, I won’t see you for dust. In fact, I probably won’t see you at all. Because I’ll be floating face down in that canal there”.

  “Never thought of that. Thanks for giving me the idea. I’ll bear it in mind, I will”. His eyes, sharp as a dagger, penetrated Jennifer’s soul. She shifted uneasily in her chair. “But”, Stonebank continued, “whether you like it or not, you’ll get nowhere on your own. Trust me, you’ll leave a tr
ail a novice boy scout could follow”.

  The memorial’s phallic shadow cut between them. Pigeons stumbled around their feet like beggars, seeking out their crumbs of comfort. Jennifer took a sip of coffee and thought for a moment.

  Finally, she reached a decision. “Ok. Here’s what we do. I’ll tell you the next stage of our journey but no more. You come up with the best way to manage it. Deal?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Jennifer shook her head. She raised a finger to her wig, concerned it had come out of place.

  Stonebank buried the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray. He stretched his hand across the table. She took it as if she were the Queen. “Then it’s a deal”, he said. “So: where next?”

  Jennifer reached into her handbag. Produced two tickets. Slid them over the table.

  “Toronto”, he said. “Never been. I’m liking this all-expenses paid trip. You do realise you’re paying, don’t you? None of this comes out of my cut”.

  Jennifer nodded into her handbag. Two passports followed the tickets. She passed them to Stonebank.

  “Darren Banks”, he said, flipping to the ID page. He didn’t question how she’d come across the documents. He wouldn’t tell her if the circumstances were reversed so he didn’t embarrass himself by asking her the question. “And Joanne Du Nord. Oh, I say. Very posh, aren’t we?”

  **

  Within an hour, they were back on a coach to the airport. They sat apart. Stonebank, as always, behind so he could watch every move Jennifer made. She’d donned an austere-looking wig complete with plaited pony tail. She’d scrubbed off all traces of make-up and swapped her contacts for a pair of owlish spectacles. She was now Joanne Du Nord, on route to Toronto.

  Stonebank, for his part, had dumped the crumpled suit he’d been wearing in favour of chinos and polo shirt bought from a market stall outside the coach station. They didn’t fit him but then neither did the suit.

  At the airport, they checked in separately, sat separately in the departure lounge, and boarded the Toronto flight as strangers. Jennifer / Jane / Joanne had been nervous on the flight, fidgeting endlessly. Eight hours was too long for her to think about what she’d done, nowhere to run should anything go wrong. The confines of the aircraft squeezed her like a straight-jacket. She didn’t want to leave her seat in case she drew attention to herself, but nor did she feel safe sat in one place. Stonebank’s eyes boring into her from a few rows behind hadn’t helped her mood.

  The businessman sat next to her had assumed her manner was that of a nervous flyer. Her mousey appearance certainly portrayed the look of a timid spinster. Henrik Schur – the businessman – had taken her hand and she took comfort from it. But when he tried to engage her in conversation, she had played on her shy looks and acted out the role of a social inadequate. That way, she wouldn’t – couldn’t – say anything that might blow her cover.

  To avoid further attempts at conversation, Jennifer peeled the in-flight headphones from their cellophane packaging. Her hand trembled as she struggled to find the armrest plug. Henrik had to guide the jack into the socket for her. She accepted his assistance with a nervous smile and proceeded to download the classical selection in the hope it might help her relax.

  It hadn’t worked, but it did ensure there was no more small-talk with Henrik.

  She remained tuned in throughout the flight, even during the insipid in-flight meal. Only now, after bringing her breathing deliberately under control, did she finally begin to relax behind closed eyelids. Whilst those around her flinched at the perilous landing, Jennifer felt at ease with herself for the first time in weeks.

  She sensed the cabin door open and felt the movement of passengers around her. A serene smile battled its way to her lips. All she had to do, Jennifer reminded herself, was remember she was Joanne Du Nord. Simple.

  She felt a hand on her arm. It was a soft and gentle hold. Still smiling, Jennifer opened her eyes and looked up at the person holding her. She recognised the face. The liquid green eyes. The open smile. They all belonged to a person she knew.

  They belonged to Stephen North. She was looking at the face of her husband.

  Her late husband.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stonebank sat in the aisle seat three rows back from Jennifer. He’d observed her the entire flight save for a fifteen-minute nap. He couldn’t work her out; didn’t understand what drove her to hire him to kill her husband.

  Sure, Stephen was a womaniser, North had admitted as much himself before Stonebank had drawn the knife across his throat. And, although Stephen had denied it, Jennifer told him one of those he’d cheated on her with was her sister. Shameful? Certainly. Grounds for divorce? Yes. A permanent family rift? Probably. Probably all those things and more, but surely not murder.

  And for her to stand there and watch it happen – no, this was one damaged woman. Yet, Stonebank deduced, there was a vulnerability to her, he sensed self-doubt and something more beneath the surface. He wondered how he could turn that to his advantage.

  Stonebank had no intention of sharing the fortune they sought. Not with her. He had no doubt this was a dangerous game. The question on Stonebank’s mind was which one of them was cat and which mouse.

  They’d prearranged to let most of the other passengers disembark first. Stonebank had reminded Jennifer that customs officials are far more likely to stop those getting off a flight early than those at the end of the line. He remained seated as others filed past. The passenger alongside him at the window seat wanted out. Stonebank didn’t move. He watched Jennifer obeying instructions; eyes closed, sitting still.

  Then he saw the man in the suit next to her stand up. The man touched her arm. Jennifer’s eyes snapped open. Stonebank saw the smile vanish from her face; watched as she blinked nervously three times in quick succession. He heard her stifle a shriek. He shot from his seat.

  “I’m so sorry”, he heard the man – Henrik – say. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to say goodbye and have a safe onward journey”.

  Jennifer swallowed hard. Blinked again. She opened her mouth to speak but the words came out as a croak. “Oh. Thank you. It’s ok. It is. I was just, sleeping. That’s it: I was sleeping”. She coughed to clear her throat. Her voice came out stronger. “Thank you. Thanks for your company”. She smiled timidly.

  Henrik shuffled down the aisle and Stonebank held himself back to allow Jennifer out. “What the hell was all that about?”, he hissed between gritted teeth. “We can’t do anything that’ll draw attention to ourselves. I’ve told you we’ve got to be anonymous. Blend into the background. That doesn’t include screaming like a banshee on hot coals”.

  Jennifer was defiant. “You heard what I said. I was asleep. Got a bit of a fright, that’s all. It won’t happen again”.

  How could she tell him she’d just seen Henrik Schur morph into Stephen North and vice-versa? He’d think she was mad.

  **

  They exchanged coded conversation during the transfer to an airport hotel. Coded, but enough to ensure they reached an uneasy truce. In the short time it took to reach their hotel, they became the business partners their cover story portrayed. In truth, they both knew they really were business partners, of sorts.

  Jennifer remained nervous. Toronto offered Stonebank the first real opportunity to badger her with questions. She knew he’d grasp it. He’d be sure to try to eke out as much information as he could about the whereabouts of Stephen’s collateral.

  Their next flight wasn’t until the following day but she’d stay on her guard. Beneath his bumbling exterior lay a keen and calculating mind. Reveal too much to him and he’d beat her to the holy grail. All of it; not just the portion she’d promised him.

  At the hotel, Jennifer had refused to countenance a double room so, much to her relief and even more her surprise, Stonebank booked two singles. Cash only, of course. In desperate need of a shower, Jennifer had luxuriated in the spray of the power shower for twenty minutes. She eme
rged pink as a new born, wrapped a towel around herself and vowed to get some much-needed sleep.

  Until she saw Stonebank stretched out on the bed.

  He clicked his tongue against the top of his mouth twice. “Well, well. Don’t we scrub up well?” Seeing the scowl on her face, Stonebank held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m only saying’”.

  “Get the hell out of my room, you creep”.

  “Now that’s not very nice. We’re in this together. Better if we do it as friends”. He shuffled to one side of the bed. “Here”, he said. “Get yourself some rest”. He patted the empty space alongside him.

  “I’d rather get in bed with a Nile crocodile than with you”. She pulled the towel tighter around her. “Get back to your room”.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something? This IS my room. I paid for both. I only did it ‘cos we’re not travelling as a couple, are we? It would look odd if Joanne Du Nord and Darren Banks arrived separately but booked one room, wouldn’t it? But don’t worry. Everything’s above board. I’ll be on the chair. Right by the door, see. Just so you don’t get any ideas about sneaking away without me”.

  Jennifer began to protest but knew she’d get nowhere. Instead she returned to the bathroom and dressed.

  Stonebank feigned disappointment, pulled a chair against the door, grabbed a sheet from the top of the wardrobe and settled in for another long night.

  **

  Jennifer managed to fall asleep two hours before she woke. Sleep hadn’t come easily. Apart from the traumatic events of the last twenty-four hours replaying over and over again in her head, Stonebank had slept with one eye open, which creeped her out. She didn’t know when or whether he was watching her. But fall asleep she had, and now the smell of cheap coffee had roused her.