‘What the fuck — ?’ he starts to say, his animal eyes glaring violently at me.
I raise the pistol and point it at his head.
His eyes widen.
I step closer, placing the barrel of the pistol between his eyes. ‘If you say another word,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll kill you. Nod your head if you understand.’
Trembling now, he nods his head.
‘Move back inside,’ I tell him.
He steps back into the hallway, his eyes fixed fearfully on the gun. I walk him inside and close the front door behind me.
‘Turn round,’ I tell him.
‘Whu — ?’ he starts to say.
I flick my wrist, rapping the pistol barrel against his skull. It’s not a hard blow, but it’s hard enough to hurt him.
‘Turn round,’ I repeat.
He turns round.
I put the gun to the back of his head.
‘What’s your name?’ I say. ‘If you lie to me, I’ll pull the trigger.’
‘Viner…’ he mutters. ‘Anton Viner.’
‘Is there anyone else in the house?’
‘No.’
Keeping the gun pressed to his head, I reach up and tug at the bandage on his head. It comes off easily. On the left side of his head, about three inches above his ear, there’s a freshly scabbed wound. It’s ragged and raw, the blood-brown crust edged with the pink of new flesh … and there’s no doubt that it was caused by a bite. I can see toothmarks, the shape of a mouth … the shape of Stacy’s mouth.
My head goes black for a moment … and I’m nothing. A speck of nothing floating in a void. My legs buckle … I’m falling, floating, drowning …
No.
I open my eyes, steady myself.
I wipe a tear from my eye.
And when I speak, my voice doesn’t belong to me. It’s the voice of a man with no life, no emotion. A voice of death.
‘Sit down,’ it says.
Viner hesitates for a moment, then clumsily lowers himself to the floor. I stand above him, looking down … down … down …
‘Listen to me, Anton Viner,’ the dead voice says. ‘And don’t make a fucking sound until I tell you to speak. Nod your head if you understand.’
He nods.
I wipe another tear from my face and carry on. ‘Two weeks ago, a young woman was raped and murdered in the bedroom of her own home. One week ago, an anonymous businessman offered a?50,000 reward for information leading to the killer’s arrest. And that’s why I’m here, Anton Viner. Because I believe that you’re the killer, and I want that?50,000.’ I pause for a moment, hating myself for doing this, but knowing that I have to do it to completely satisfy myself. ‘The only problem is …’ I continue, ‘I’m not supposed to do it like this. I’m not supposed to force my way into your house and point a gun at your head, and if the police were to find out, I’d be in a shitload of trouble. Especially if it turned out that you weren’t the murderer after all. That would cause me all kinds of problems. So, you see, what I need from you is proof that you did kill her. Because then I can just take you in and collect my money, and no one has to know that I forced my way in and pointed a gun at your head. And even if you tell the police that’s what I did, they’re not going to give a fuck. But if you’re not the killer, if you can’t prove to me that you killed her … well, as I said, that would leave me with the problem of knowing what to do with you. And I’m afraid, if that was the case, my only answer would be to shoot you in the head. Now, do you understand what I’ve just told you? Speak.’
‘Yeah … yes …’ he mumbles. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. So, have I got the right man, or do I have to kill you?’ I lean down and hold the pistol to the top of his head. ‘You’ve got three seconds to answer me. One … two …’
‘Yes!’ he sobs, his shoulders heaving. ‘Fuck don’t … please don’t kill me … yes, fuck, yes … it was me, I did her — ’
I push the gun barrel into his skull. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Please! It’s true … I can prove it — ’
‘How?’
‘Clothes … her clothes, I’ve still got them …’
‘Where?’
‘Upstairs …’
‘Get up,’ I say, kicking him viciously in the small of his back.
He clambers awkwardly to his feet. ‘Please don’t — ’
‘Shut up. Just show me the clothes.’
I follow him up the stairs and watch as he opens an airing cupboard on the landing. As he leans inside, I don’t take my eyes off him for a second, keeping the gun on him all the time, just in case he’s up to something … but he’s too far gone to even think of trying anything. Sobbing, shaking, gasping for breath … he fumbles around inside the cupboard and pulls out a carrier bag, and I know before I look what I’m going to see.
‘There,’ he says, opening the bag and showing me what’s inside. ‘See … they’re hers.’
Of course they’re hers … they’re Stacy’s clothes. All scrunched up and browned with blood. They’re the clothes she wore that day — a pale-pink vest, a white blouse, jeans, her underwear. Ripped, torn, bloodied … savaged.
A rage wells up inside me now, and I’m jamming the pistol into Viner’s head, pushing him down to the floor, and there’s some kind of animal noise coming out of me, a noise that wants for blood and bone and pain and despair, and all I want to do is kill him right now …
Right now …
My arm tenses, my finger moves on the trigger …
And I stop.
Not now.
I kick him in the ribs … once, twice … again … kicking so hard that his ribs crack audibly and his body jerks across the floor. He moans.
‘Get up,’ I tell him.
‘I can’t — ’
I kick him again. He struggles to his knees, moaning and sobbing and holding his chest, and I’m just about to kick him again when he grits his teeth and straightens up and finally gets to his feet.
‘Put the carrier bag back where you got it from,’ I tell him.
He does what he’s told.
I walk him at gunpoint down the stairs.
I walk him out of the house and down the street — not caring any more if there’s anyone around — and when we get to my car I give him my gloves and tell him to put them on. He puts them on. I tell him to get in the driving seat. He gets in. I get in the passenger seat and tell him to drive.
‘Where to?’ he says.
‘Just start the car and drive.’
Twenty minutes later we’re driving through the outskirts of a quiet suburb called Hey’s Weir, three miles east of town. It’s a sterile terrain of anonymous low buildings, industrial wasteland, and — somewhat incongruously — an 18-hole golf course. Beyond the golf course lie the rolling lawns and well-tended gardens of the crematorium.