Page 50 of The Serial Killer's Sister
‘Well, he must’ve lied to you then. He’s good at that, in case that wasn’t obvious.’
Yasmin’s face falls, a dark cloud drifting across it. She rubs a hand over her belly. There’s no visible bump; I don’t know how far gone she is. I imagine she’s doing it for my benefit – a middle finger up to me; a “look, I’m giving your husband what he wants” action. But, as she turns away from me, goes back to her car and drives off without saying anything more, a niggling feeling bubbles in my gut. If Ross left Yasmin’s to come and see me this morning, it would’ve been no more than a five-minute walk.
I fling my driver side door open, jump in, and without wasting time putting my seatbelt on, pull away from the pump. Out the corner of my eye, I see DI Walker waving madly at me, but I ignore him and drive off the forecourt onto the main road.
Ross didn’t reach the house.
And the only reason that I can think of is that Henry took him.
If I don’t adhere to Henry’s rules and play the game, he’ll kill my husband.
Chapter 36
The satnav isn’t required this time. Having only made this journey a few days ago, it’s all very familiar. DI Walker still doesn’t appear to be behind me; I bet he’s cursing me for speeding off without him – and without paying for my fuel. He’s likely had to go inside the garage and sort it out. It wasn’t actually my intention to do that, I just reacted. I use that garage regularly, they know me – know I’ll go back to pay what I owe. Now that I’ve slowed down, my initial adrenaline spike levelling, I’m sure the detective will catch up. He saw the general direction I was heading, so I imagine he’s not far away.
The dual carriageway seems endless as I weave in and out of the lanes, my mind swerving as much as my car does. The gruesome photos of the murdered women scroll through my mind, but now my imagination has added to the reel. Ross, unconscious, bruised, slumped on the ground, his guts spilling from the gaping hole in his lower abdomen, blood pooled around him. My breath juddersas I gasp for air, tears hot on my cheeks. I blink furiously, trying to rid my mind of this morbid vision. I hope Henry realises that although Ross has betrayed me, hurt me, he doesn’t deserve to be harmed, tortured. I don’t want that. Or maybe that’s the point.
But then, I don’t think Henry is doing this as some kind of punishment and retribution to settle my score for me. He’s not standing up for me, and he hasn’t got my back. This is different. This is his way of showing me what he’s capable of. He’s telling me this is who he became. And that it’s my fault.
As I near Bristol, my phone rings.
‘Stop at the Welcome Break service station and wait for me. You’re too far ahead,’ DI Walker says, his voice clipped. He hangs up before I can agree. I clamp my hands tighter on the wheel and let out a loud groan. A small part of me wants to ignore his instruction because I’m tired of asking ‘how high?’ when someone tells me to jump. I turn the volume up on the radio to drown out my thoughts as I continue driving, the signs whooshing by in a blur.
I wriggle in my seat, my bum numb, and glance at the next sign just in time to see that the Welcome Break is coming up and I need to exit at junction 19. Tension pulls my shoulder muscles so tight they feel as though they’ll snap, and I struggle to maintain the steering wheel position as I go around the large u-shaped road leading to the services. Finally I arrive, park in the closest space to the entrance and sit rubbing my taut neck muscles. Deducing that DI Walker is at least ten, fifteen minutes away, I get out to stretch my legs and use the bathroom. If he gets here quicker, he can wait for me.
A girl, no more than twenty by the look of her, is washing in the sink when I exit the toilet cubicle. She’s wearing ripped jeans, no top – just a grey-looking bra that I suspect was once white. She scoops water with a cupped hand and splashes it under her armpit. As she looks up, our eyes meet in the mirror, and she scowls.
‘What?’ she says, her voice raspy.
‘Are you okay?’ I’m standing a little behind her, and so I move to her side.
She gives me a hostile glance. ‘What’s it to you?’
She is me, seventeen years ago. In a service station similar to this one – it might even be the same one. The lorry driver I’d hitched with dropped me while he was having a comfort break and I took the opportunity to clean up in the bathroom. I remember shivering with cold, using the hot water to bring life to my numb fingers and splashing my skin in an attempt to rid the stale sweat from it.
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘I didn’t realise you got personal service in this place too.’ She’s hiding her pain beneath sarcasm. I can relate to that. It doesn’t deter me, because maybe if someone had asked me the same question all those years ago, I’d have had options.
‘If you don’t want my help, that’s fine. I just thought I’d ask in case no one else does.’ She stops drying herself with the paper towels and turns to face me, her expression softening.
‘Deodorant would be nice,’ she says, her voice small. I smile, and after asking which type, I hurry to the shop and grab roll-on, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, a bottle of water and some snacks, then return to the bathroom.
‘Where are you headed?’ I ask, handing her the carrier. She shrugs, but tears glisten in her eyes and I have to swallow down my own emotion. ‘Has something happened to you?’
‘Bad things happen all the time,’ she says, rummaging in the bag and pulling out the deodorant. ‘That’s life.’ I watch, my heart aching, as she pulls on her jumper and runs her fingers through her hair. I should’ve bought her a brush.
‘Me and my friend thought like that once,’ I say, my mind travelling back to the years at Finley Hall. ‘Bad things can happen, but they’re not your fault. And you don’t have to sit back and allow them to happen.’
The girl’s brow furrows, then she walks towards the door. She stops and turns.
‘Where areyouheaded?’
I smile at her through my tears. ‘A place I won’t be returning from,’ I say. She nods, like she knows.
‘Well, thanks for these,’ she says, holding up the bag. ‘I hope you give whoever it is what they deserve.’ And she leaves.
I think it’ll be the other way around.
