Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

stupid accent. If he’d realised she was a foreigner, he wouldn’t have chosen her. Her looks had confused him, tricked him into thinking she was the one. That had always been what let Sirikit down. Her English was good, but she still had a bit of an accent, which grated on him. But more than that, she was dark. He wanted a blonde. He’d always wanted a blonde. Ever since he’d seen Lauren Hutton in American Gigolo when he was barely a teenager, that was what he’d wanted. That was what he’d married, and the replacement would have to be blonde too.
    It was naïve to think that a woman who didn’t already know how to take care of a man could be broken in easily. The Polish bitch had fought him every inch of the way. He’d made it plain to her that, just like in Star Trek, resistance was futile. He’d tried every trick in the book, every technique he could think of before he finally had to concede you couldn’t alter their fundamental nature. This one wouldn’t give in and she wouldn’t give up. In the end, the only satisfaction for him had been the final beating. He’d stripped everything from her that defined her and in the process he had made it clear what she really was – a lump of faceless, useless meat. No use even for sex. He’d washed her clean of any trace of him, made sure nobody else could get any use out of her then kicked her to death.
    At least it had confirmed that there was, as he had suspected, genuine satisfaction to be had from finishing with the ones who let him down. He’d planned it for the very first one but he’d been thwarted. He’d fantasised about doing it, but the reality had outstripped the fantasy. That heady, drunken moment of absolute power when life finally leaked away was the best feeling he’d ever known.
    But still. He was an optimist. He wanted to believe there could be as much delight in the perfect wife as there was in the perfect dealing out of death. And so he’d tried again. But the next one had been no better. He should have known. He’d hoped that the reason she was divorced was that her husband had been a poor excuse for a man, giving her no opportunity to demonstrate what she was capable of.
    It didn’t take long for him to realise she was probably divorced because she was a crap wife. He’d been hopeful when he’d tasted the steak she’d cooked. But the potatoes had been unforgivable. If she’d reached that age without being able to boil a potato properly, there was no hope for her. After that, the sex had been a formality. Even if she’d been the most exciting shag on the planet, it was too late for redemption. Perfection was always going to be out of her reach. All she was good for by that point was killing.
    In spite of that, he was still hopeful. Sirikit had shown him that it was possible to find a woman who could be what he demanded. This latest one was married, that was a start. Just so long as she hadn’t fallen into irreversible bad habits thanks to a weak and indulgent husband. He blamed other men for letting women get away with too much. It was like what they said about dogs. There was no such thing as a bad dog, only a bad master. Well, he was the good master. And this new one would be best in show, he felt it in his heart.
    For now, she had to learn the first lesson. He was master. This time, he’d leave her locked away in the freezer for longer. Then she’d be properly grateful when he eventually let her out. Gratitude went a long way, in his experience. It was the same at work. You gave a little, and because people had such low expectations, you got a lot. It was one of the secrets of his success. Now all he had to do was teach it to the woman in the freezer.

48

    T he reception area of the custody suite was without comfort. It smelled, bizarrely, of stale sausage rolls and rotting fruit. Behind the scarred and untidy counter was a middle-aged man with a tonsure of chestnut stubble and a white shirt that strained over a barrel chest. The custody sergeant had a face like a rumpled Boxer, all creases and jowls. Carol almost expected him to slobber as he looked Bronwen Scott up and down. ‘You’re a bit late tonight, Ms Scott,’ he growled. ‘Will it not wait till morning?’
    ‘The clock’s running, as you well know, Sergeant Fowler. My client’s facing very serious charges and we need to make a start at clearing his name.’
    ‘Funny, he never mentioned having a solicitor. And he never made a phone call after he was