But it still doesn’t explain why.
Right now, I don’t need to know why. I can find out from her. I need answers, and I’m going to demand that those answers come from her. I know I need to tread carefully here, though. If she can kill a grown woman, she’d have a good old go at me, too. Particularly if she’s been planning this for a while. She might be lying in wait for me, ready to bash me round the head with a cricket bat when I walk through the door. I doubt it, but I know I need to be careful now. Too careful, though, and I could arouse suspicion. I can’t go pussyfooting around and making it obvious that I know she’s a cold-blooded killer. Jess might be many things, but she’s not stupid.
I think it’s a suspicion that has been in the back of my mind for a while, now I think about it. Something’s been not quite right about her from the start. And what surprises me the most is that I seem to have this instinctive knowledge of how to handle the situation. Maybe it’s the male instinct to fight for your life and protect what you love and cherish. Or perhaps I’ve just been watching too many films.
I feel my heart start to beat in my chest as I get closer to the campsite. My legs feel like jelly as I walk through the main gate, and I have to tell myself to stop being so silly. I need to stay calm. Stay vigilant but don’t let her suspect a thing. Thinking about it logically, I’m fairly sure she doesn’t want to kill me. She would’ve done so by now, otherwise. She’s had plenty of opportunities. She killed the dog, though, I tell myself. That should’ve been a sign in itself.
As I get closer to the caravan, I notice the door is ajar. Not by much – it’s closed, but not shut. I swallow heavily and step carefully towards it, pulling it open with my finger as I peer inside, half expecting to see that cricket bat swinging towards my head.
‘Jess?’ I call out, pleasantly surprised at how confident my voice sounds.
I make my way up the three steps into the caravan and look to my right, towards the bedroom. The door’s closed, but it’s then that I notice the broken plate on the floor. It looks like it’s been swiped from the work surface and landed here.
I look into the dining area and see Jess lying on the floor, her face and arms covered in cuts and bruises, the blood having trickled down her face and onto the floor. She’s not moving.
My first instinct is to check whether or not she’s still alive. She doesn’t look it to me. I throw myself to my knees amongst the broken glass and crockery and start to shake her.
‘Jess? Jess, answer me!’
I put the side of my face to her nostrils.
I can’t feel her breathing. There’s nothing at all.
I take her arm in my hand and feel for the pulse on her wrist. She’s still warm. I count two seconds. Three. Five. Ten.
It’s no use. There’s nothing. Not even the faintest flutter of a pulse.
She’s dead.
31
In an instant, I realise what this means. Jess wasn’t the killer. Not only that, but the real killer has caught up with us and killed her. He knows where we are. He knows where I am. He could be watching right now.
I head over to the bedroom door and listen carefully. I can’t hear anything, but I can’t take the risk. I go back to the kitchen area and grab the largest knife I can find. I notice another knife on the counter, blood congealing on its blade as it pools on the surface of the worktop. Jesus Christ. He’s stabbed her, too.
I try not to look too closely, don’t want to have to look at Jess’s lifeless body. All I feel is guilt. Guilt that I ever suspected her. Guilt that I left her, gave the killer the opportunity. I should’ve known that when push came to shove Jess wouldn’t be able to handle this on her own. She needed me as much as I needed her, and I failed her.
I think back to that night at Pendleton House, the night the switch flipped and I tried to protect Teddy Tomlin the only way I knew how. But then I knew what I was fighting against. Mr Duggan was there, a visible, physical presence. Now, my nemesis is far more elusive.
I go back to the bedroom door, listen again for a moment, then step back and kick the sole of my foot into it as hard as I can. The door flies open and slaps against the wall, and then there’s silence. I step inside, knife poised and ready, but there’s no-one there.
Thank God.
I delve into the holdall and take out the cash I withdrew in Herne Bay. Then I find Jess’s coat and take out the Swiss francs. This is all the money we have, but I’m not going to sit around and count it. Whoever killed Lisa and Jess knows exactly where I am.
I stuff all of the cash into the holdall, grab a few clothes and pieces I find lying around, zip up the holdall and walk down the steps out of the caravan. I check no-one is stood waiting for me, close the door behind me and head for the car.
I don’t have a clue where I am, so I can’t risk trying to get around on public transport. I know I’ll need to ditch the car as quickly as I can because they’ll be looking for it, but I reckon I can make good ground to a nearby city before trying the trains. Either way, I just have to keep moving.
There’s still plenty of fuel left in the car. This thing seems to go on forever, and we filled up not long before arriving here. I know home is north-west, so I need to head south and east. The car starts perfectly first time and I drive as calmly as I can towards the exit from the campsite. I know we turned in from the right when we arrived, so I indicate left and turn out.
None of this road looks familiar, which is perfect. I’m confident I’m heading in the right direction. When I see the signs for the main motorway, I allow myself a small feeling of relief.
In just over an hour I’m crossing the border into Liechtenstein. I only know how long it’s been because I distinctly remember the time I left the campsite – 13.44 – and the clock in the car now says 14.53. That time seems to have passed like the blink of an eye. I think my brain is starting to shut down completely, almost as some sort of defence mechanism. I can barely remember anything of the drive.
What I can’t quite comprehend is the fact that I’m now completely alone. With Lisa dead, and the prospect of the combined police forces of Europe out to track me down, the only person I was able to confide in or have trust in was this beautiful, intriguing stranger. Even if I’d known her for twenty years she’d still be a stranger. That’s the kind of person she was.
Was.
I can’t get over how much that word hurts. And what’s worse is the guilt I feel at ever having suspected her, even fleetingly.
What’s fair to say, though, is that, amongst this utter confusion, I now know one thing for certain. There’s only one constant to connect Lisa and Jess’s murders. The killer didn’t want to get rid of Lisa because of anything she’d done. He’s after me.
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