Читать книгу Dead Wrong - Noelle Holten - Страница 14

Bill Raven watched himself again on the television and smiled. I’m fucking famous. He deserved all this attention. He was dominating the television channels, and had reporters harassing the prison on a daily basis to speak with him.

Finally.

He looked at the cheap watch he had been sent by an admirer. People were sending him things regularly, they adored him. It was almost time for his medication, to keep the voices away.

Ha! The voices …

Coming off heroin in prison was hard – it wasn’t the plan, but it had to be done. Heroin, pretty much any drug, was available to him, but it countered the effects of the pills and that just wouldn’t do.

The prison psychologist wouldn’t sign him off medication supervision until Bill could demonstrate that he would stay clean. He had to prove that he would take the prescription and, truth be told, the meds calmed him down. Complete sobriety often led to him getting aggressive, and that wouldn’t do either. They couldn’t see that side of him yet. Plus, he had to stem the voices, right? The ones that made him do bad things …

Yeah, that’s what happened. He smiled to himself.

The guard came and unlocked his door. Raven smirked as the man kept his distance. He could use their fear … one day. But for now, he needed to collect his tablets before he could have a shower. He was excited. He had a big day ahead. The police would be visiting him to go over everything he remembered from his original confession. He had been waiting for this. He would tell them as much as he could, not everything of course. He had some business of his own to take care of first.

He imagined the day he would be released. With his old flat not available to him, his solicitor had said he would probably be placed in temporary accommodation while they sorted out his personal matters. When Raven was in his mid-twenties, his grandmother had sold the large home he had grown up in as she couldn’t afford the upkeep. He had fond memories of that place. He sighed. She had bought herself a more manageable property and, before any of this inconvenience, she had passed away leaving him the small bungalow in Doxley, a rural village just outside of Stafford. But there was paperwork and other matters to be dealt with before he could move in. With the money she had left him, he was going to buy himself a little van and set up his own business – a gardener, maybe. He liked working with his hands. He had a lot of plans and was looking forward to getting started. He rubbed his palms together.

When he had first been arrested, Bill had felt strangely euphoric. Fame at last! No more being the brunt of jokes, bossed about – he was the man, and everyone wanted to know his story.

Telling the police he was responsible for murdering Lorraine, Yvonne, and Zoe made him feel powerful. The look on their faces as he described what he had done. Raven licked his lips.

Being charged. Oh, they all thought they were so clever. Poor, poor Maggie. He wondered how she felt now as she watched her career falling down a black hole. He wished he could have seen her face when she first learned about his appeal.

And finally, being convicted. Seeing the look of distress on the jury’s faces as the verdict was read out. He took a deep, satisfying breath. Closed his eyes and tried desperately to recapture that feeling again.

With his appeal in place, he had access to all the paperwork that had ultimately led to his conviction. The trial hadn’t been long because he had pleaded guilty. Three women had been presumed dead and a few small bits of forensics had backed up his confession. A hair here, a droplet of blood there …

Bill did know all three women. He had met them, sold drugs to them, partied with them. Witnesses had placed him with – or in the vicinity of – all three women at some point prior to their disappearance. He’d made sure of that.

Snippets of events flashed through his brain at lightning speed.

Blood. There was blood everywhere. It covered the floor like a velvety red carpet. Dripping down the walls – slowly. He had been hypnotized by it all.

Then there were the receipts that had been recovered by the police. So clever and probably the most damning of all because he had no explanation for why he had them. Well none that he was prepared to share. Bill had been seen on CCTV purchasing a hack saw, plastic sheeting, a roll of large black bin bags and a six pack of duct tape. The receipts for all items were found in a pair of jeans he had stuffed in the back of his closet. Maybe he was going to help a friend fix his roof?

The police hounded him in interview. Interrogated him until he was so exhausted, he just admitted it all – or that’s what his solicitor now claimed had happened. Bill had been off his face and did struggle to really remember everything. That much was true. The police had a nice scenario: he had kidnapped the women, cut up and disposed of their bodies in unknown locations and then confessed because of his overwhelming guilt. That worked, and it saved him from getting caught out in his lies, though he was too clever for that really. He confessed to killing the women because he already knew they were missing … and would never be found. They may as well have been dead. But were there more? There could be more.

Bill’s psychosis was a godsend and he had his heroin and crack cocaine use to thank for that. The periodic psychotic breaks had been detailed in keywork sessions at the drug and alcohol agency he attended over the years. Not long before he confessed to the police, he had stopped taking his anti-psychotics and begun self-medicating with whatever drug he could get his hands on. He had needed to block out reality and live his fantasies. It had been too long.

The meds ruined his thoughts – he couldn’t wait to be free of them, so he could see, feel and taste the fear. The thrills were what made him feel alive.