At my flat it took a while to get in, with all the locks and that. I showed them the photocopies of the newspapers, and the back-up copy of Accounts on my laptop. They took me into the kitchen. I was shivering even though it was so close. I could never get warm anymore. The woman poured me a glass of water but it tasted filthy.
There were more voices in the living room and a little hubbub of excitement in the interchange. At last, I thought, they were taking me seriously.
The Wolf came into my kitchen.
I knocked over my water in panic, scrambled to my feet, screaming, “That’s him, that’s the man, it’s his diary.”
Someone grabbed my arms and pinned them behind me. Someone else tried to calm me down.
The Wolf raised his eyebrows and lifted his hand. He held a small plastic bag, inside was a syringe.
“Not very well hidden,” his voice was soft.
“That’s not mine,” I yelled. “I am not a junkie.” I turned to the woman holding me. “Check my arms. I’ve never taken anything like that.”
“You slipped up, last time,” The Wolf said. “Kate Cruickshank. We found the mark.” He held up the bag again. Gave a wolfish grin. “Rebecca Colne, I am arresting you for the murder of Kate Cruickshank on...”
I didn’t hear the end of the caution. The room spun then dimmed. I passed out.
They gave me four life sentences. They tried me for four murders. The third one, she was Alison Devlin. She was two months pregnant.
The Metrolink had been closed the day I claimed to have seen the man leave the laptop and get off at Mosley Street: a system failure. When I told them the truth about the airport, they raised questions about my delay. Why wait so long? If I honestly thought this was information about a series of murders, why wait at all? I’d stolen the machine, I told them, I was frightened that I’d be prosecuted, I wanted to make sure it was true. None of my excuses made any difference. My change of story made them even more convinced I was responsible. And when I repeatedly claimed that the man who owned the laptop was one of the officers investigating me, they clearly thought me deranged.
They seized my own computer and found all the other files. All the internet junk I’d copied: methods of murder. My defence counsel argued about the dates, demonstrating that I’d downloaded stuff long after the first three murders, but I could see the jury turning against me. Looking at me sideways. I was told not to make accusations about The Wolf, it wouldn’t help my case. They linked me to Fiona Neeson. We’d been members at the same gym. It was news to me.
The clincher was the DNA evidence. A hair of mine at the scene of Kate Cruickshank’s death. It didn’t matter that I’d never been there. Someone had — with a hair of mine, or dropped it into the forensics lab. That coupled with the syringe ‘recovered’ from my flat.
Juries love forensics, ask anyone. Never mind about logic or witnesses or other evidence — a bit of sexy science has them frothing at the mouth. Clamouring for conviction.
Like quicksand the more I struggled for the truth the deeper I sank. Till I was swallowing mud day after day in the courtroom. The weight of it crushing my lungs.
A stream of acquaintances and people I barely knew were wheeled out to attest to my controlling, cold and dubious character. The prosecution harped on about my lonely and dysfunctional upbringing, my isolation, my prior mental health problems. They held up my severe weight loss, my Prozac use, my insomnia as evidence of a guilty conscience. And my stunt at the police station as a cry for help. They never had a motive. How could they? I was a psychopath, I had a personality disorder — no motive required.
After the conviction, much was made of my lack of remorse and even more of the word murderess. The female of the species and all that.
They’ve turned down my application for an appeal. No new evidence. And no hope of being considered for parole until I admit my guilt.
Maybe I’m safer in here. The bars, the locks, the cameras. If they let me out he’d be waiting, wouldn’t he? Lips slightly parted, hair slicked back, those lupine teeth. Waiting to get me once and for all. The sting of the syringe as he inserts the needle. The dull ache as he presses the plunger, forcing the air into a vein. The seconds left as the bubble speeds around my bloodstream. Zipping along as if in a flume. An embolism. Fizzing through my heart and on into my lung — tangling with my blood vessels. Making me gasp, claw for air. A jig of death. Stopping everything. Blowing me away.
The Message
Margaret Murphy
Rules of the game:
One, find your spot.
Two, stake your claim.
Three, warn off all comers.
Four, wait.
Vincent Connolly is keeping dixie on the corner of Roscoe Street and Mount Pleasant. Roscoe Street isn’t much more than an alley; you’d have a job squeezing a car down — which means he can watch without fear of being disturbed. He’s halfway between The Antrim and Aachen hotels, keeping an eye on both at once. They’re busy, because of the official opening of the second Mersey tunnel tomorrow; the queen’s going to make a speech, thousands are expected to turn out — and the city centre hotels are filling up fast. It’s the biggest thing the city has seen since The Beatles’ concert at The Empire on their triumphal return from America in 1964. That was seven years ago, when Vincent was only four years old — too young to remember much, except it was November and freezing, and he was wearing short trousers, so his knees felt like two hard lumps of stone. They stood at the traffic lights in Rodney Street, him holding his dad’s hand, waiting for the four most famous Liverpudlians to drive past. As the limo slowed to turn the corner, Paul McCartney noticed him and waved. Vincent had got a lot of mileage out of that one little wave. He decided then that he would be rich and famous, like Paul McCartney, and ride in a big limo with his own chauffeur.
Now it’s 1971, Vincent is eleven, The Beatles broke up a year ago, T-Rex is the band to watch, and Vincent’s new hero is Evil Knievel. For months, he’s had his eye on a Raleigh Chopper in the window of Quinn’s in Edge Lane. It’s bright orange, it does wheelies, and it’s the most beautiful thing Vincent has ever seen.
He doesn’t mind working for it. He’s never had a newspaper round, or a Saturday job, but he is a grafter. October, he can be found outside the pubs in town, collecting a Penny for the Guy. From Bonfire Night to New Year, he’ll team up with a couple of mates, going door-to-door, carol singing. Summertime, he’ll scour the streets for pop bottles, turning them in for the thrupenny deposit — one-and-a-half pence in new money. Saturdays, in the football season, he’ll take himself off to the city’s north end to mind cars in the streets around Goodison Park — practically the dark side of the moon, as far as his mates are concerned, but Vincent’s entrepreneurial spirit tells him if you want something bad enough, you’ve got to where the action is.
He lacks the muscle to claim the prime spots — he’s got the scars to prove it — so, for now, he’s happy enough working the margins.
The Antrim is the bigger of the two hotels, and he angles himself so he’s got a good view. A half hour passes, three lots of tourists arrive — all of them, disappointingly, by taxi. He settles to a game of single ollies in the gutter for a bit, practising long shots with his best marble, just to keep his eye in. It’s a warm, sunny June evening, so he doesn’t really mind.
Another fifteen minutes, and the traffic heading out of town is lighter; Wednesday, some of the shops close half day. By six, Mount Pleasant is mostly quiet. A bus wheezes up the hill, a few cars pass, left and right, but you can count the minutes by them, now. Things won’t pick up again until after tea-time, when the pubs start to fill up. By six-thirty, he’s thinking of heading back for his own tea, when he sees a car stop outside the Aachen, off to his right.