A Senseless Killing (Detective Inspector Benedict Paige Book 6) | Paperback

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Prologue
Today

He knew exactly what to do and where to go. He’d been fully briefed. The man of the house would be out; he went out every Tuesday evening. His daughter would be over to babysit but she always had her boyfriend in; she’d be too distracted to notice.
He slipped on his gloves and inserted the key into the backdoor. It yielded with ease, not a sound escaping to betray his presence. He crept in, his haversack slung over his shoulder. He was told he’d find himself in a boot room. Sure enough, it had a tiled floor and plenty of hooks and racks for hanging coats, hats, scarves and bags. He removed his trainers with the utmost care, as if any sudden movement would awaken the house itself, and found the staircase. Yes, he could hear music and voices coming from a room nearby, a man and a woman having what sounded like an earnest conversation. He spotted the faint thread of light seeping beneath the door. He puffed out his cheeks, his breath hitching in his throat. It only needed for one of them to come out now and he’d be done for.
He crept up the stairs, avoiding the fourth step, as told, the dimness of the house adding to its sinister aura.
Second door on the left. He eased the door open and stepped in. Yes, she was there, lying in her bed, a carved wooden bed frame, her hands on the quilted bedspread. A side lamp cast a feeble, wavering glow, revealing her long, sallow face, etched with deep lines, her lips thin and grey, as if touched by the spectre of death itself.
She was awake, perfectly tranquil. Her eyes fixed on him with an unsettling intensity. If she was surprised to see him, she didn’t show it. He whispered a hello and flashed her an apologetic smile. She didn't respond, but her eyes followed him as he moved through the room. He approached the dresser, its mirror framed with ornate details, a collection of delicate porcelain figurines adorning its surface.
He was told there’d be a tiny key in the small drawer beneath the mirror. Yes, it was there. The key opened the bottom drawer on the right. He slid the drawer open to reveal a trove of jewellery boxes. He didn’t have time to check their contents. Instead, he stuffed them into his haversack.
He had to leave. The old woman was still watching him but still not a sound came from her. He noticed her hand grip the bedspread. He felt an unsettling pity for her, depriving her of her cherished possessions. But still, she wasn’t long for this world. It’s not as if you can take it with you. He relocked the drawer and returned the key to its place. A sudden series of thumps made him jump. He spun around – the woman had a walking stick in her hand and was slamming it against the floor. His heart pounding, he dashed out, closing the bedroom door behind him. He heard the door downstairs open, the clear echo of voices. His heart somersaulted. Footsteps on the stairs. He darted into the nearest room, quickly closing the door behind him. He found himself in a bathroom. He slid the lock closed.
He heard footsteps trotting up the stairs and going into the old woman’s bedroom; he heard the woman, presumably the daughter, asking her if the old woman was alright and something about taking her medicine. Please don’t come to the bathroom, he thought, his skin clammy with sweat. The woman seemed to be taking an age. Everything had gone quiet. What was she doing in there? He urged her to hurry.
Finally, finally, he heard the woman close the bedroom door, wishing her mother a good night, a whispered promise of care. This was it, the moment of reckoning. He held onto his breath, his heart pounding. Luckily, she returned downstairs. Oh, the relief.
The music downstairs was turned up a couple of notches, some dreadful tune by Ed Sheeran.
That was OK, it meant he could slip out of the house unnoticed, like a malevolent shadow retreating into the darkness, leaving behind the unscrupulous remnants of his intrusion, and he'd be several thousand pounds richer, the tainted spoils of his nefarious mission.

Chapter 1: Susan
An hour earlier

Susan couldn’t wait for her father to leave the house. He said he was meeting a friend and wouldn’t be back until late. The implication here was that this was just a friend, a male friend, but Susan suspected it was, in fact, a woman. But she held her tongue; this was not a discussion she wanted right now. She just wanted him to leave so she could get on with her evening, an evening she'd been dreading but had to face up to. Her father had dressed up for his evening out – collar and tie, a dark green jacket she hadn't seen before. He reeked of aftershave. 'You've put in a lot of effort for your friend,' she said. 'Have I met him, your friend? What's his name?'
'Patrick. You’ve met him a couple of times, I think.’
‘Patrick? Scottish guy, big beard.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Didn’t know you were such good friends.’
‘Susan, have you seen my phone? Can you ring it? No, wait, here it is.'
He hadn't mislaid his phone, he was simply trying to change the subject. He patted his pockets. ‘Right, now are you sure you’ll be OK?’
‘Don’t worry. All’s cool.’
‘Main thing is you don’t forget her medicine. I’ve left instructions.’
‘I know, Daddy, I know. You’ve told me a hundred times.’
‘Don’t exaggerate. I’ve told you a million times.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Right, I’ll be off. Any problems with Mum, just give me a ring.’
He kissed her goodbye. ‘Have fun,’ she said.
He hesitated, picking up on her tone. ‘Yeah. Thanks. Don’t wait up.’
At last, Susan had the house to herself. She wondered who her father was really meeting. There was no way he was meeting Patrick. She’d long suspected he was seeing someone. He’d been behaving differently recently, more cheerful, a spring in his step. In some ways, she didn’t blame him; it’d been a long time since he had a ‘proper’ wife. But it didn’t make it right; Mum was still here, still living at home. It wasn’t her fault she was so poorly.
She checked on her mother, knocking on the bedroom door before entering. ‘Hi, Mum, you OK?’
Her mother gazed at her with that faraway look she always had. Her bedspread had slipped to one side, leaving her partially exposed. She rearranged the covers, making her comfortable. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ She patted her mother’s hand. ‘Daddy’s meeting a friend tonight. That’s nice for him, isn’t it? Do you remember him? A Scotsman. Patrick. So, I’ll just be downstairs watching the telly. I’m not going anywhere.’
Her mother showed no sign of response.
Returning downstairs, Susan texted Robbie: Coast clear. Come over now if you can.
The response was immediate: On my way.
She rushed back upstairs to her room, passing her parent’s bedroom. She got changed quickly, swapping her old shirt for something more alluring, tighter around the chest. She brushed her hair and applied a hint of makeup, not too much. She wanted to look nice for her lover but not come across as if she’d put too much effort into how she looked. She applied her favourite perfume, a Christmas present from Robbie.
She was dying for a drink, a nice glass of red wine, but she hadn't touched a drop since she found out. How was Robbie going to take it? The news had come as a shock; they’d always been so careful. She still wasn’t sure what to think of it. It would certainly make things more complicated, especially for Robbie. But, on the whole, she welcomed it. She wasn’t getting any younger. And it would force Robbie’s hand. He was stuck in his loveless marriage but too fearful to actually do something about it. Well, now, one way or the other, he had to. She hadn't seen him for a few days so hadn't had a chance to tell him. Tonight was the night. She wasn’t relishing the prospect. She was a good five years older than her boyfriend; she was heading for thirty-five. She needed to keep this baby.
She heard his knock on the front door. She rushed downstairs, buoyed by the thought of seeing him again. He breezed in, his hair tousled, his face flushed. ‘You look nice,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘So, how long have we got?’
‘Hours and hours.’
‘Fantastic.’ He hugged her. ‘Got any wine on the go?’
‘Sure.’
He fell onto the settee. ‘Bloody hell, what a day.’
‘Anything wrong?’ asked Susan, as she opened the wine.
‘You could say that. Hellish day at work. The shit hit the fan today. Tucker was testing a car and the stupid bastard scraped it against a bollard. You can imagine what the customer said. Aren’t you drinking?’ he asked.
‘No, don’t feel like it.’
‘Really? Bloody hell, never thought I’d hear you say that.’
Susan shouted at her Alexis speaker, asking for the best of Elton John. Robbie proceeded to tell her about his ‘hellish’ day. He worked as a mechanic and Tucker was one of his colleagues. Susan, only half-listening, handed him his wine. Sitting on the settee next to him, she sympathised as he related his tale.
‘Anyway,’ she said once he’d finished his tale of woe. ‘You’re here now.’
‘Yeah.’ He put his wine down. ‘So, you’ve got rid of the old man. How is he?’
Robbie hadn't met her father but he was asking as if they were familiar with each other. She was not prepared to tell him that she suspected her father was meeting another woman. Instead, she answered banally.
‘And how’s your mum?’
‘I ought to go check on her. Daddy’s worried. He doesn’t trust me.’
‘What could go wrong? She spends all her life asleep anyway.’
That hurt. Robbie had no right to speak of her like that. She hadn't always been like this, ravaged by this cruel disease; she’d once been a happy, confident, lovely woman. But Robbie hadn't known her then. To him, she was just an old woman who had no choice but to spend most of her life in bed.
‘I’ve missed you.’ He put his arm around her. She nestled into him. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘Oh yes? In what way?’
‘Naked.’
‘Oh, Robbie, stop it.’
‘So, er…’ He brushed his lips across her cheek. ‘We’ve got plenty of time then?’ His hand crept up towards her breasts.
‘Robbie.’ She knew he’d want sex, they usually ended up in bed, but not this time. ‘We need to speak first.’
‘Speak about what? We can talk later.’ He kissed her again. ‘I’ve missed you, baby.’
She pulled away from him.
‘Hey? What’s up?’
She stood. ‘Look, we don’t have to have sex every time you come around.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Why not?’
‘We can just…’
‘What? What do you want to do?’
‘I don’t know. We can talk, watch telly.’
‘God.’
‘What?’
‘That’s so dull. That’s what I do with Margot. So, what do you want to talk about? What’s been happening on the news?’
‘How is Margot?’
‘I don’t want to talk about her.’
‘No. You never do.’ And this, thought Susan, was the problem. They had no one in common. None of their respective friends knew the other existed. Theirs was a relationship in the vacuum and once you took away the sex, it didn’t leave much.
‘Come on, Susie, sit down. You know you want to.’
‘No, Robbie, I don’t. Not tonight.’
‘I don’t want to watch the bloody TV.’
‘We’ll talk then.’
‘Christ.’ Robbie drank his wine.
‘Actually, there is something…’
The loud thud on the ceiling took them both by surprise.
‘What the hell was that?’ asked Robbie, his eyes staring upwards.
‘Oh God, I’d better go and check.’ Susan ran upstairs. That was one loud thud. Maybe Mum had fallen out of bed. It had happened before. Christ, let her be OK. She barged into the bedroom. ‘Mum? Mum, are you OK?’
Her mother was in bed, wide awake, sitting up, but she seemed alright. ‘Did you fall out of bed, Mum?’
‘They were here,’ she said in her shaky voice. Her eyes were wide with fright.
‘Who? Who was here?’
She pointed towards the window. ‘They were here.’
‘Who, Mum?’ She clearly looked agitated. Something or someone had spooked her. She checked the window behind the curtains. They were locked. ‘There we are,’ she said, returning to her mother’s bed. ‘The window’s locked. You must be imagining things, Mum.’
Suddenly, reaching over, her mother gripped her daughter’s arm with both her hands with surprising strength. ‘Don’t leave me, Susie. Don’t leave me.’
‘It’s OK, Mum. It’s OK.’ She sat on the side of the bed, holding her mother’s hand. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Just a bad dream.’ Yes, that was all it was, a dream.
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I won’t leave you.’
Susan looked at the time on her mother’s digital clock. Ten thirty. She sat there, on her mother’s bed, holding her hand, conscious that Robbie was in the living room, waiting for her. The minutes ticked by, the red numbers flipping over. Her mother was drifting off, her breathing slower and deeper, but as soon as Susan tried to move, Mum’s grip on her hand tightened. She wondered what her mother had meant. Had it just been a dream? Of course, what other explanation was there? Several more minutes passed. And as she sat there, holding her mother’s hand, waiting for her to fall asleep, the cruel realisation seeped into her – Robbie didn’t love her, he didn’t see a future with her. To him, their relationship was just about sex. Nothing more than that.
Her mother’s hand slipped away. She was asleep now. Susan was about to kiss her mother goodnight when her mobile pinged. A text from Robbie: Sorry gotta go. Something’s come up. See u soon.
Well, that just confirmed it. The bastard.