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I pick up my phone and flick to the media section. I turn the screen and show him the evidence I took from his house. ‘I have phones with photographs and videos on them, letters you wrote and proof of your name changes.’
Paul’s arms and neck have tensed. He tries to hide it with a shrug of his shoulders, but he’s as stiff as a board.
‘So you stole from my house?’ he asks.
‘They’re your words, not mine.’
‘None of what you think you have can be used as evidence because it’s all stolen material.’
‘It’ll be enough to get the police’s attention. Different wives, identical deaths, name changes, new identities ...’
‘So what? I like to mix things up a little and change my name every now and again. It’s perfectly legal. And the letters ... well, I’m an old romantic. And why would the police be interested, when each inquest ruled those deaths as accidental?’
‘There were toxicology reports for each victim, I assume?’ I ask. Paul nods. ‘But there’d have been no reason for the pathologist to have screened their blood for psychoactives, would there?’ I flick to another image on my phone, a close-up of Paul’s half-empty packets of Omixinol tablets. ‘I’ve looked them up. The compounds used to create this particular medication can stay in the system of a dead body for up to five years. And because you buried those women, they can be exhumed and tested.’
From the corner of my eye, I watch as he very slowly curls his fingertips into his palms. I’m getting to him.
‘That’s assuming the police put to one side your criminal record and your own change of identity to con Gwen, and listen to you.’
‘Is that a risk you’re willing to take? For the sake of an estate that was never supposed to be yours?’
He takes several longer gulps from his bottle before he speaks again. ‘Let’s say I was to give you what you wanted. How do I know that you won’t give this so-called evidence to the police anyway, out of spite or some misguided loyalty to dear departed Gwenny?’
‘You don’t, so you’ll have to trust me.’
‘Ha!’ he laughs and looks around us as if waiting for the agreement of an audience. ‘Did you hear that, ladies and gentlemen? Connie the con-woman is suggesting I trust her.’
‘You don’t have a choice.’
‘We all have choices. And I’m about to give you one.’ He peels the label off his bottle of Budweiser and I half expect an old Sheryl Crow song to appear on the jukebox. ‘Why don’t we work together?’
Pardon me?Now this I did not predict. ‘You and me?’ I ask, incredulously.
‘Why not?’
I lean across the table. ‘Because you’re a killer!’ I whisper. ‘Why the hell would I want anything to do with you?’
Paul moves towards me, but I don’t back away. We are barely inches apart. ‘You have spent your life conning people,’ he says. ‘If we pool our experience, we could do better than we are. Especially you. Look at you, Rachel. You’re an almost middle-aged spinster living in a rented house without a penny to your name. You’re facing eviction and relying on food banks to feed yourself. How much shit needs to hit the fan before you pull the plug?’
I open my mouth to protest, but there’s little point. I shouldn’t be surprised he knows so much about me. I’m not the only one who does my homework.
‘Don’t cut your nose off to spite your face,’ he continues. ‘Think about it.’
‘I don’t need to,’ I reply, but I can’t deny there’s a very small part of the old me that is tempted. I hate myself for even wanting to consider it.
We remain in a silent stalemate until, eventually, Paul shows his hand. He sits back in his chair, raises his bottle and clinks it against my glass. It cracks but doesn’t break.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you what you want. I’ll be in touch.’
‘One last question,’ I ask. ‘Why is your mum alive when all the others are dead?’
He purses his lips ever so slightly. If I’m not mistaken, I’ve hit a raw nerve.
He rests his hands on the table, and scans the rest of the pub, careful not to be overheard. ‘Have you ever heard of a phenomenon called reawakening?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘Look it up, it’s an interesting read. After years of being non-communicative and trapped in their own worlds, some dementia patients suddenly spring back to life and start talking again. Scientists reckon they tap into neural reserves for one last, brief moment of connection, and they usually die very soon after.’
