The Killer Inside

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Caroline Green 2019

Caroline Green asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Sim Greenaway © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images, Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008287245

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2010 ISBN: 9780008287252

Version: 2019-07-29

Dedication

Dedicated to The Sibs: Helenanne Hansen and Charlie Green

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Summer 2019

Summer/Autumn 2018: Elliott

Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Elliott

Elliott

Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Elliott

Elliott

Elliott

Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Spring 2003: Liam

Autumn 2018: Elliott

Irene

Summer 2003: Liam

Autumn 2018: Elliott

Irene

Elliott

Elliott

Elliott

Elliott

Winter 2018: Elliott

Autumn 2003: Liam

Summer 2019: Elliott

Autumn 2003: Liam

Summer 2019: Irene

Elliott

Elliott

Summer 2019: Liam

Elliott

Elliott

Spring 2021: Irene

Elliott

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cass Green

About the Publisher

SUMMER 2019

There are three people alive inside the whitewashed family home at one pm on this sunny afternoon in late July. And because not much happens on this quiet road in this quiet seaside town, the first gunshot could perhaps be mistaken for a misfiring exhaust.

But at this time of the afternoon, there is only a young man walking an elderly West Highland terrier on the road and he is lost in the music pumping through high-end, noise-cancelling headphones. Oblivious to the shriek of the seagulls and the rhythmic smash of surf against rock, he doesn’t hear the sharp retort of the gun or the screaming in its aftermath either.

By the time the second shot comes – at 1.34 pm – he is long gone. The only witness to the violence is a seagull perched on the back wall, which tumbles into the air in outrage at the sound.

It is less than a minute later when the gun fires for the third time.

SUMMER/AUTUMN 2018

ELLIOTT

That festival was a big deal in our part of the world.

Just up the road from the seaside town we called home, the End of the Summer event was usually a low-key, family-run affair with a number of acts you’ve probably never heard of.

But this year was very different. For some complicated reason involving a favour by Dave Grohl, The Foo Fighters – one of the biggest bands in the world – were headlining. The band is the mutual favourite of me and my wife Anya and as soon as I heard about it, I knew we had to be there.

Tickets went on sale at nine am on a day in June, when my Year Five class was doing guided reading, followed by maths. I told them they were going to watch Planet Earth as a treat for being good (not true – they had been little bastards the day before) while I endlessly pressed redial on my phone with one hand, the other attempting to access ever-crashing ticket websites on the school computer. When it got to ten am I had to stop briefly to let the class out to play, before racing to the staffroom to continue.

When I got the automated message telling me, with totally unwarranted cheerfulness, that, ‘Due to exceptional demand, tickets to the End of the Summer festival are now sold out,’ I said, ‘Bollocks,’ loud enough and with sufficient heat that some of the older guard in the staffroom gave me pinched looks.

But then, the weekend before the event, a miracle occurred.

My friend at work, Zoe, knew someone roadying, and she was able to get her hands on two extra tickets; one for me, and one for Anya.

We were ecstatic. It was the very last weekend before the schools were back and it felt like a perfect way to end the summer.

And anyway, Anya needed cheering up.

We’d only been ‘trying’ as they say (such a weird expression because actually, we were quite good at it) for six months or so. But each time her period arrived, she became more dejected and withdrawn. The last time she’d claimed she ‘had a real feeling’ even though she was only overdue by a day or two. She made me laugh by saying things like, ‘Will you still fancy me when I am big with child?’

Maybe the humour was a disguise for how high her hopes had been raised.

On the day of the festival, we woke up to mizzling, nasty rain in the air and a low-slung sky. Anya was quiet that morning. I tried to chivvy her with some lame jokes, but she just smiled weakly and it was somehow worse than rolled eyes. When I asked what was wrong, she said she had a bit of a headache and I decided not to press.

Clad in wellies and waterproof coats, we arrived at the festival in a downpour. Our feet were sucked into claggy, viscous mud straight away and we were sweating inside our jackets.

I took the decision that the best way to fight off the vagaries of the weather was to drink as much as possible.

By late afternoon, I didn’t mind the mud.

And finally, at six, the sun came out.

We’d seen a weird kind of emo rock band and a folk-punk duo I like, plus some comedy in one of the tents. The main event was still to come.

I made my way back to Anya with two more wobbly pints of cider in my hands that I’d had to queue painfully long for. Her head was turned away from me and, as I reached her and said, ‘Hey,’ she seemed to startle.

‘You’re shaking,’ I said, noticing her hand as she took the plastic glass from me. ‘Are you cold?’

She gulped a long mouthful. Her eyes when they met mine were oddly bright. She seemed to be crackling with energy in a way that happened sometimes. It was very sexy.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said and turned to look at the stage. This was clearly a lie.

‘Hey,’ I said again, placing my hand on her slim arm, which was covered in goose bumps. ‘Did something happen?’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘People are dickheads, that’s all. Some bloke knocked into me and wasn’t very sorry.’

‘Where is he?’ I said, turning to look at the thickening crowd.

‘Gone,’ she said and gave me a wonderful smile that seemed to come from nowhere. ‘Let’s forget it, okay?’

‘Okay, if you’re sure.’ I took a swig of my pint.

I allowed myself to relax and soak up the buzz of the crowd. Soft evening light bathed us. The nearest group of people included a small girl whose face was painted like Spiderman, and a man in shorts with an Oasis T-shirt that seemed to have come from younger, slimmer times straining over his belly. He was bellowing about seeing Oasis at ‘Glasto’ to a small, middle-aged woman with a long-suffering expression.

Anya took a sip of her pint and did a little turn to survey the crowd. She was wearing what she called her ‘festival dress’, a long, hippyish affair with thin straps and a brown hem of mud, her waterproof coat tied around her waist. I didn’t resist the urge to kiss her freckled shoulder and she gave me a quick, warm smile.

There was a palpable thrum of excited energy in the crowd. The thing we’d all been waiting for was happening any moment now.

I heard someone call my name and turned to see Zoe squeezing her way towards us through the knots of people, grinning.

Zoe was almost six feet tall with her afro and, even though I had repeatedly told Anya that I hadn’t really noticed, you’d have to be insane not to recognize that she was kind of gorgeous. She wore thick-framed glasses that would have made anyone else look like Morrissey on a bad day, but highlighted her big, brown eyes, and she always had on brightly coloured lipstick. She could be stern when needed but the kids adored her; she had even won over some of the racist old parents round here.

The fact that she stood out at all was one of the downsides of living in this small, seaside town. I was born and raised in the crowded, multi-cultural heart of London and, well … it was an adjustment. I’d been asked more than once here – with a note of suspicion – if I was an Arab, because of my dark colouring and beard.

This place had its downsides, which sometimes made me want to run screaming back to the city, but it was also beautiful, cheap enough, and, therefore, home.

Zoe was my best friend at work – and, by default, probably in the town – but I sensed a tightening in Anya’s expression whenever her name came up. So, I tried not to talk about her too much. That Anya could ever be a bit territorial and jealous was, frankly, something I still found flattering.

Anyway, Zoe was looking great at the festival, in some sort of orange catsuit thing with a thick yellow scarf around the front of her hair. She pulled me into a hug and I could sense Anya tensing next to me.

‘Everything okay?’ Zoe said, turning to Anya.

She gave her an odd sort of look, but I didn’t think anything of it then.

Anya’s smile was tight. ‘Yeah, brilliant,’ she said. ‘And we’re so grateful for the tickets, aren’t we, Ell?’ But she reached for my fingers at the same time and it felt like she was making a point.

Zoe didn’t seem to notice anyway. She began to tell me a story about one of the mothers saying her son didn’t have any time to do an after-school club any more because ‘one of his tutors’ was changing days.

‘One of them?’ she said now. ‘He’s ten years old!’

Our school didn’t have too many pushy parents, but a slow gentrification process was happening in the town, which meant a new demographic of parent. We didn’t have any Octavias or Gullivers. Yet. Kept things interesting, anyway. I listened to the story and laughed at the right bits but was acutely conscious of Anya standing silently next to me the whole time.

After a few moments a tall woman with a shaved head and Cleopatra-like eyes came over, clutching two bottles of beer, one of which she thrust at Zoe.

‘Oh cheers,’ said Zoe. ‘This is Tabitha. Tab … Elliott, my partner in crime at school. And his wife Anya.’ We all nodded our hellos.

‘By the way,’ said Zoe, turning to me again. ‘You still okay to get started on the Charney Point visit? It has to be done quickly because they’re closing for a major refurb in October.’

This was a trip for Year Five to go to a Viking museum that was about ten miles down the coast. I’d logged it onto the school calendar and needed to remember to fill out all the risk assessment stuff. I made a mental note.

‘Safe in my hands, Miss,’ I said with a little salute. Zoe grinned and then our attention was diverted by a change in energy in the crowd. The background music abruptly stopped.

I always love that moment when the band is just about to come on. The anticipation reaches a kind of critical mass. You can feel the wave of energy that’s gathering force before it crashes down over you, drenching you in euphoria.

There was a loud roar as the lights at the side of the stage began to strobe the crowd, even though it wasn’t yet dark.

Anya squeezed my hand and whispered, ‘I didn’t know.’ She was grinning wildly now, happier than I had seen her all day.

When she saw my look of bafflement, she nodded at Zoe and Tabitha, whose fingers were entwined.

I stared.

‘I didn’t either.’

Zoe saw us looking over at her.

‘There’s only so much diversity Beverley Park Primary School can take, isn’t there?’ she shouted with a grin.

I laughed, but it was forced. Surely, I wasn’t someone Zoe felt she had to hide anything from? I was her mate. But had she actively kept it from me, though? Had I ever bothered to ask about a boyfriend or a girlfriend, even though Anya repeatedly tried to pump me for this sort of information? Well …

My thoughts were interrupted by a thunder of cries from the crowd, so loud I felt them thrumming through my feet, and the band bounced onto the stage.

Dave Grohl shouted, ‘Are we fuckin’ ready?’ and everyone went wild.

A few songs in and my throat was aching from shouting and singing along. Forests of arms in exultant Vs waved before us and I couldn’t control the daft grin on my face. I glanced at Anya and saw she was trying to crane her neck to get a better view. The group in front of us were all unusually tall.

I nudged her and pointed to my shoulders, waggling an eyebrow suggestively.

She shook her head and laughed, mouthing, ‘No way.’

I got down onto my haunches and patted my shoulders again.

‘Come on!’ I yelled. ‘I can take it!’

Anya was giggling now, eyes gleaming.

‘I’ll break your neck!’ she shouted. I turned and gave her a hurt look.

‘Are you casting aspersions on my manliness?’

Chortling almost helplessly, she hitched up her long skirt and carefully wound one leg over my shoulder, then the other, holding onto my head as she wobbled into position.

In truth, she was an awful lot heavier than I’d expected her to be at this unfamiliar angle. Plus, I realized that I was actually quite drunk. But I was a determined man. As I struggled to my feet, Anya sliding around on top of me, I felt a warning twinge of pain in my lower back and a burst of masculine pride all at the same time.

The band began to play the opening chords of ‘Everlong’.

Despite the pain increasing by the second in my back, warm, sweet contentment spread through all my synapses. Anya’s hands were in the air, my fingers clasped around her slim ankles. My mind was fuzzy from cider, but I knew somehow this would be one of those moments I wouldn’t forget. I even pictured myself doing this with a child one day; carrying a little boy or girl on my shoulders and pointing out planes, dogs, cars …

We’d be the sort of parents who still went to gigs, too.

I don’t really know what happened next. It felt as though she shifted and I slightly lost my balance. For a heart-lurching few moments I thought we were both going to smash face down into the people in front.

She shouted above the music, ‘Down! Let me down!’

I crumpled awkwardly to my knees and Anya climbed off my shoulders so abruptly she almost wrenched my head off.

‘What happened?’ I said, rubbing my neck. It came out more angrily than I’d intended, but I was in pain.

‘You almost dropped me, that’s what happened,’ she said. Her eyes looked huge, stricken, in her ashen face. Then she said, ‘I want to go home.’

For a moment all I could do was stare at her. Anya was usually the last person dancing when they turned the lights off. I’d literally never heard her say anything like that before. I didn’t know what to do with it.

‘I mean it, Ell,’ she said and that was when I saw her eyes were brimming over with tears.

‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

‘I don’t feel well.’ She swiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand. ‘There’s something going around at work. Maybe it’s that. Or maybe it was that kimchi earlier. I should have had the burger, like you did.’

The thought of leaving before the end of this much-anticipated gig made resentment burn like acid in my guts. I wanted to say, ‘I’m not going anywhere. You do what you want,’ like a disappointed little kid. The words were right there, about to spill out. Then I saw how sickly and green she looked. What kind of person would that make me? Especially as I had almost caused her to break her neck.

I pulled her into my arms and could feel her trembling.

‘Okay,’ I said, and began to lead her through the crowd.

It took us for ever to get through the press of sweaty, beaming faces that turned to frowns as we pushed past. The air smelled of sun cream, beer, and sweat, with the odd sweet waft of weed.

When we got to the gates I turned to her, to make one last bid.

‘Are you absolutely sure about this?’ I said.

‘I need to go home,’ she said, and with that she threw up all over my shoes.

Twenty minutes later, we were in an Uber. Anya had barely said a word since being sick. I’d hurriedly offered her water and called the cab, then she’d sat on the side of the road with her head in her hands until it arrived.

Inside the car, she leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. My happy drunkenness was quickly morphing into a flat, depressed feeling.

I gazed out of the window as the car got onto the brief stretch of dual carriageway, but, before we were able to reach any kind of speed, we hit a traffic jam. I sighed and sat back in my seat. The air was filled with the desperate wail of an ambulance then the blue lights of a police car flashed past us in the burgeoning dusk.

The sight tapped into a deep, unhappy place inside me, a place where memories too painful to share were kept. I looked across at my sleepy wife, as if she were a talisman against these feelings. To my surprise, her eyes were open, and she was staring right at me. It was unnerving; like she knew what I had been thinking about.

Picture a little girl waking up in her bedroom with primrose walls on the morning of her tenth birthday.

She still has her toy Simba in her arms, even though she pretends she doesn’t cuddle him at night. It had been a babyish present, but she secretly loves him. In fact, she loves everything about The Lion King, which is why, when her mother suggested it as a theme for the party, she couldn’t hide the excitement. Some of her friends might think it’s a bit silly when you are in Year Five but she doesn’t really care.

She bounds downstairs and sucks in her breath when she sees the transformation happening in the den. Balloons in every shade of green are hanging in cascades along one wall and a huge, painted sticker says ‘HAKUNA MATATA’, over a table that already groans with food.

A woman with a white apron on bustles past her and places a tray of sausage rolls on the table, next to a bowl of animal-shaped chocolate biscuits. The table is covered in some sort of matting stuff so it looks like it is wearing a grass skirt.

There are cupcakes with swirly green icing shaped like leaves, and some have orange snakes curled up on the top, complete with tiny forked tongues. She reaches out a finger and touches one of the tongues to find it is made from thin liquorice strips. Resisting the temptation to eat one, she turns away, not wanting to spoil its perfection. Sometimes, she thinks, the Before is better than the actual event. Sometimes she thinks about this so much that she cries because holidays and Christmas and parties are hardly ever as good as she hopes they’ll be.

The food has been talked about a lot before the party because Lottie from school is bringing her brother with her and he has something wrong with him. They have to be really careful with the food, which doesn’t seem fair when it is her party.

Still, she won’t let that spoil it. It’s going to be the best party ever.

It’s not her fault that everything goes so badly wrong.

ELLIOTT

We had a restless night. Anya tossed and turned, and the room felt stiflingly hot. I finally dropped into a deep sleep sometime in the early morning and woke at ten to the sound of gentle rain against the window and a grey sky.

Anya was already up, her side of the bed cold.

My head was throbbing, but I forced myself to pull on running gear. Much as my body and mind resisted it, it seemed as though exercise might help and, anyway, I deserved the punishment. Yawning, I walked through to the kitchen. I was expecting to see her reading the papers on her iPad, her favourite mug steaming next to her. But now I noticed there were none of the usual weekend smells; toast cooked until almost black the way she liked it, and strong coffee that she made as though it was an art form. I wouldn’t have been that bothered if we had instant, was the God’s honest truth. But I guessed I was finally getting used to the good stuff.

The kitchen felt gloomy and I snapped on the main lights. There was a note on the table.

Ell,

I’ve gone over to Mum and Dad’s for the day. I’m still feeling a bit shit and I think I need some of my mum’s TLC. We both know what a terrible patient I am.

Not sure what time I’m back.

X

I didn’t see why she had to go over to Julia and Patrick’s because she was feeling ill. It seemed a bit selfish too, especially as Patrick hadn’t been in the best of health since his heart attack the year before. It was true that she wasn’t a good patient; whoever invented the term ‘man flu’ clearly hadn’t met my wife. But I would have been perfectly happy to make her tea and deliver dry toast, or whatever you’re meant to do, when needed. And if I was being really honest, Julia was more of the ‘pull yourself together’ school of middle-class woman than your cuddly supplier of chicken soup.

The truth was that Anya had form for doing this. Every now and then she would have a couple of days of being a little withdrawn when she would gravitate towards her mum and dad, instead of me. Yes, I know that sounds hurtful, and it was, a little.