When the Evil Waits by M Lee (i want to read a book .txt) 📗

That evening, she rang her source in MIT. He could give her little information except that Michael Carsley was in Wythenshawe nick being questioned. Was he the guilty man Claire Trent had hinted at?

If he was, this case could be explosive. She could hear the ker-ching of a till ringing up ever larger numbers.

After a moment’s thought, she planned her line of attack. The interview she had arranged the next morning with Irene Carsley would be the first step. The woman had been reluctant at first but a guaranteed payment of £1000 had convinced her. This money had come out of Molly Wright’s own pocket, something she resented immensely.

‘You have to be in it to win it,’ she said out loud, walking to the kitchen for another bottle of wine.

If Michael Carsley was charged then an interview with the wife would be gold dust for any tabloid. Molly saw the headlines now.

WIFE OF KILLER REVEALS HER LIVING NIGHTMARE by Molly Wright.

MY LIFE OF TERROR: IRENE CARSLEY TELLS THE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH by Molly Wright.

And for the Sun, I SLEPT WITH A KILLER.

If she could get family photos of the Carsleys, particularly of Michael and his son, that would be the icing on the cake.

She opened the bottle and poured herself an extra-large glass. She also needed single pictures of the surviving son, Daniel Carsley. She knew he’d been taken into care, but didn’t know which home he was in.

Never mind, she would find out. She always found out.

Life was finally looking pretty good for Molly Wright. She could ride this story all the way to a columnist gig with one of the tabloids. Or, if it went as well as she thought, a broadsheet might come knocking at her door.

And then it hit her.

A book.

An exposé of the dark heart of a marriage in modern Britain. An evil unleashed on a child. A shocking tale to thrill the quiet suburbs.

It could be her Norman Mailer moment. Or even her Truman Capote In Cold Blood.

She drank the glass of Rioja and poured one more.

This could be good, extremely good.

Chapter 50

Ridpath ended his call with Eve and spent the next three hours watching television. He couldn’t remember which programmes he watched, just that there was a series of flickering pictures in front of him.

The news came on. More Covid horror stories, followed by the local news. There were tighter lockdowns in Oldham and Blackburn, but nothing about David Carsley. The PR people were obviously keeping a lid on the case, but not for long. Once it leaked out Michael Carsley was being questioned regarding the murder of his son, all hell would let loose. Journalists and television cameras would be camping out in front of the police station in Wythenshawe, waiting like hungry vultures for their story.

He wouldn’t put it past them to doorstep the children’s home where they were keeping Daniel. The poor lad would be under immense pressure, having lost his brother and blaming himself, and now hearing his father was the man responsible.

And what about the mother, Irene? Had anybody told her? Hopefully, they wouldn’t know where she lived. Should he ring her?

Another voice answered him.

‘You’re off the case, Ridpath, remember. You’ve been told to go home.’ Polly had returned and was sitting opposite him.

‘What am I supposed to do, Poll? You always said don’t get too emotionally involved.’

‘Well, it’s too late. You are involved whether you like it or not.’

His mobile phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw Emily’s name.

‘Are you going to answer it?’

‘It’s Emily. She’s going to rant and rave, criticising me for giving up the case.’

‘She’d be right, wouldn’t she? Answer your phone.’

Wearily, Ridpath picked up his mobile. ‘Emily, it’s past midnight. What do you want? If you’re going to give me an earful, then don’t bother, I’m too old and too tired.’

‘We’ve got something, Ridpath. I’m in the CCTV suite with Phil Reynolds…’

‘What are you doing there so late?’

She carried on speaking, ignoring his question. ‘We were going through the footage I found from the convenience store ATM. We’ve got pictures of what looks like David Carsley getting into a white car.’

‘What?’ Ridpath sat up straight. ‘It’s him on tape?’

‘Actually on hard disk, but I’m pretty certain it’s him, the clothes and the description match. The CCTV images aren’t great. Phil is trying to clean them up as we speak. There’s one problem, though…’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘The pictures are from one hour earlier. Twelve thirty.’

‘What? What did you say?’

‘The pictures show David Carsley getting into a white car at twelve thirty.’

Chapter 51

Mother was snoring.

He watched her from the corner of the room. The television was still on, the pictures flickering but the sound down.

She liked to watch television before she slept. It soothed her, calmed her, she said.

She never knew the feeling wasn’t coming from the box in the corner but from the Valium he mixed in with her supper, adding a soupçon of diazepam as a little treat.

He enjoyed going out occasionally after work. Mother, of course, never left the house. Being in lockdown meant little to her; life carried on as normal or what passed as normality for her.

There was a new film on at the cinema in Parrs Wood that evening. He liked going to the movies. Sitting there in the dark was like sitting in the cellar when he was young with his imaginary friends. Except now they were up on the screen, not in his head.

He’d taken the tram, sitting in one of the seats, checking out the other passengers while they studiously avoided looking at him.

A young boy had come aboard. At first, he couldn’t believe his luck. The boy was perfect; the big eyes he liked topped by a shock of blond hair. For a second, he imagined combing the hair, parting it so a curl reached down over the forehead, highlighting the eyes. He would wait until the boy alighted then follow him, seizing the right moment to