‘Spot on,’ said Maggie. ‘What he felt for you, for Duncan – it was all about him and getting what he wanted. Duncan spoilt him rotten, so Nick latched onto him – had a warped obsession with him, aye. But is that really attachment?’
Lulu hesitated. But Maggie needed to hear this. ‘Karla thinks he could represent a particularly dangerous subtype of psychopath, because of the attachment thing. The combination of complete self-centredness and deep emotion . . .’
Maggie suddenly turned away from Lulu, gripping the strap of her shoulder bag, and Lulu reached out to her; took her into her arms. For a moment, Maggie was stiff in Lulu’s embrace, and then she slumped against her.
‘You’ve carried so much,’ said Lulu quietly. ‘You’ve been so strong.’
Maggie soon recovered herself, pulling away and adjusting the front of her jacket. ‘Aye, well, I’ve had to be.’
‘He’s going to prison. Probably for the rest of his life. For multiple counts of murder. He can’t hurt any of us now.’
Maggie looked at her. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Lulu. Wherever he is, even if they lock him up in maximum security and throw away the key, none of us will ever be safe while that man is alive.’
Epilogue
Nick - July 2020
It was a good photograph of Lulu, who looked a million dollars even in that simple white shift dress. A good photograph, and a recent one, judging by the size of the baby sitting on her lap. Christopher Duncan Tidwell, she’d called him, without any consultation whatsoever, although this was his fucking son.
She’d gone back to her maiden name.
He’d found that out at the trial.
But this was his son.
He had the photo pinned to the cork board above his bed, and, in the fifteen minutes before lights out, he had got into the habit of lying here looking at it and running things over in his head.
But the time for planning was past.
He reached up to touch her lovely face.
‘See you soon, Lu.’
His son was a fine-looking baby, sturdy and confident, beaming gummily at the camera, which would have been wielded, he supposed, by one of Lulu’s Neanderthal family. The two of them were sitting out on the verandah at Braemar Station with a scruffy small dog at Lulu’s feet, and although they were in the shade, the boy had a little sunhat on and the light beyond the verandah was fierce, even though this would be their winter.
Lulu didn’t do social media any more, but no one could stay off the internet entirely. One of her many aunties – Auntie Win, a big, loud, ugly woman he remembered all too well from the wedding – had posted the photo on Instagram with the comment, My gorgeous niece and great-nephew, Christopher Duncan!
Christopher Duncan Tidwell was a loser’s name.
Christopher, for God’s sake!
He just didn’t get why Lulu had done it. Why she’d betrayed him like that. Perjured herself, even, to put him away.
The bitch.
The absolute bitch.
But she could wait. First, there was the little matter of Maggie. Or rather, Isla.
The best punishment he could think of for Maggie, for Lulu, was to lose their children. Just like he’d lost his entire fucking family.
See how they liked it!
He’d got hold of Dad and Maggie’s new names right after Lulu had dropped her bombshell, had told him his family were alive and well and staying at a place called Rose Cottage. He’d contacted the agency responsible for letting the place, pretending to be the homeowner, whose name was all over the internet because the silly bastard blogged about what a holiday let guru he was. Nick had made out that he wanted to check the names of the people currently in the cottage as someone had emailed him purporting to be the guests, but he had his doubts.
And it had been child’s play to trace Teresa and Isla Black. While he’d still been on remand, he’d employed a private investigator, a dodgy old guy recommended by a fellow inmate, to find out all about them. It seemed that Isla had left university and was back on the smallholding with Maggie. They had started a joint venture supplying local restaurants with baked goods and organic produce.
Too, too easy.
So.
Do away with Isla.
Then off to Australia. Get his son. Take him to the Bahamas. Nick had secreted a few million in an account there, more than enough to fund a lifetime of ease for himself and his boy. He’d rename him. What, he hadn’t decided yet. But not a loser’s name like Christopher. Something strong but not naff. A traditional name. Maybe Alexander. Or he could go with the Scottish tradition of using a surname as a first name. He liked Kerr.
They couldn’t be Clyde, of course.
LC, the guy in the cell next door who’d become Nick’s fixer, just below Nick himself in the D Wing hierarchy, had contacts on the outside who would set him up with a new identity. He would try to keep the name Nick, but he wasn’t wedded to it.
He looked at his watch.
Five minutes to lights out.
He shut his eyes. Best to get some kip while he could.
It was going to be a crazy twenty-four hours.
The key turned in the lock of the cell door, and LC’s low, growly voice said in the dark, ‘Let’s go.’
How LC had got the keys to his own cell door and to Nick’s, Nick didn’t know or care. He pulled the holdall from under his bed, which he’d packed surreptitiously, bit by bit, throughout the day. As instructed, he was wearing dark clothing, even down to a pair of black trainers he’d swapped with another guy last week for cigarettes.
‘We’ve got five minutes,’ LC hissed. ‘Keep close.’
Nick followed him out onto the walkway around what they called – ironically, surely – the atrium, as if it were a feature in a snazzy hotel. For a musclebound guy, LC moved fast, whipping round the corner and down the stairs and through a door that led to a long, dimly lit corridor.
They met no one.
The screws were lazy fat bastards at the best of times, but he imagined that LC had ensured they weren’t intercepted by throwing around some of the ten grand Nick had transferred to his bank account.