A Deadly Compulsion (24 page)

Jim had moved forward, about to regain his feet, but stopped to track the advancing figure with the barrel of the pistol and squeeze the trigger three times.  The gas-driven pellets found their target.  The first hit Hugh in the neck and the second and third both entered his chest, within an inch of each other, just below his collarbone.  But they did not have the stopping power of bullets, and Hugh kept coming, (seemingly too enraged to feel or react to the pain), lashing out with the knife, its blade cutting through the air no more than a playing card’s thickness from Jim’s face as he snapped his head back to avoid it.  Hugh struck again and sliced into the back of Jim’s hand, severing tendons and causing him to drop the pistol to the floor.  Without hesitation, Jim drove his left fist into Hugh’s face, knocking him backwards into a sitting position, and then gripped the other man’s left wrist to prevent further use of the knife.

Hugh lunged forward and bit down on Jim’s forearm, ripping the flesh from it with a sawing motion of his teeth.

Grimacing, but ignoring the fresh pain, Jim brought his head forward with as much force as he could muster, and heard the crack of his attacker’s nose as it shattered under the impact of his forehead.

If pain has a colour, then Hugh saw it; a blinding flash of bright scarlet that almost matched the gout of blood that sprayed from his nostrils.  He released his grip and screamed, dropping the knife and scrabbling away from Jim, finding his feet and running for the door.

Jim was up and after him half a second later, only a few feet behind, diving for the other man’s legs, before being hit in the temple by the edge of the door as it was thrown back against him.

“Get the bitch!”  Hugh’s mother’s voice screamed as he ran along the landing, flaying the soles of his bare feet as he crunched over the fragments of glass from the photo frame he had inadvertently shot from the wall minutes earlier.  He tripped halfway down the stairs, fell sideways and crashed through the banister, ripping out several of the wooden uprights and breaking the handrail, which split apart with the crack of a tree branch being broken over a knee.

Landing hard, Hugh lay on his side, winded, his whole body pounding with pain from the pellet wounds, his broken nose, feet torn, and now a sharp stabbing pain, which he thought may be broken ribs from the fall.  If the Yank had appeared at the top of the stairs at that moment, then he knew he would have been finished.  But there was only the steady beat of water from the bathroom, and a rumble of thunder from the passing storm.  A few seconds, he thought, and he would go for Laura.  She would be his passport out of this fucking pigs breakfast of a balls-up.

AS
she huddled under the straw, Laura wondered about the man whom she had locked in the cellar.  He had looked familiar, and that bothered her.  His strong features were striking; not good looking, but charismatic, with a quality of lived-in ruggedness that suggested he had earned the deep lines that etched his face like fissures in timeworn rock.  Her thoughts drifted to Hugh and his grotesque double life.  She felt unclean at the closeness she had felt to him, now that she knew he had carried out such horrific acts.

A PI...An ex-cop!
  Laura’s mind had been subconsciously sifting, searching through a mental mugshot book, and had found a match for the middle-aged man in the cellar.  She recalled being introduced to him, soon after taking up her post at York.  He had just handed the police a murderer on a plate, and was being thanked with an official dinner and much backslapping and acclaim from old colleagues, ranging from DCs to Chief Superintendent Cottrell.  She remembered thinking that the ensuing media coverage must have brought a lot of new business to his door.

Leo had been asked to investigate a possibly fraudulent insurance claim.  A woman by the name of Amelia Grant was in line to pick up a million pound payout following the supposedly accidental death of her husband.

Quentin Grant had gone horse riding with his wife, and Amelia, suitably and convincingly distressed, had phoned for an ambulance soon after.  Her story was that Quentin’s horse had bolted after a low-flying jet had passed directly overhead.  She had said that after careering through a wooded area, her husband had been knocked from his mount as a branch struck his face.

Maurice Iveson of M.I. Insurance was not certain, but hopeful that there had been foul play.  The policy had only been taken out six months previously, and he needed to be convinced that the coroner’s verdict of death by misadventure was the correct one.

Leo had quickly ascertained that the grieving widow was screwing a guy twelve years her junior, and that the stud in question was Ralph Jameson, an ex-con with previous for GBH, burglary, and an acquittal on an attempted murder charge.  It transpired – after much foot-slogging – that on the day of Quentin’s fatal ‘accident’, Jameson had been in a village pub, not far from the Grants’ house.  The landlord recognised him from a photo that Leo was touting around, and also remembered that Jameson had stayed in the bar for over two hours that afternoon.  He recalled that the man appeared agitated and ill at ease, continually looking nervously at his wristwatch and fidgeting with a mobile phone.  After receiving a call that lasted all of ten seconds, he had rushed out to his car and driven off at high speed.  The date could not be confused. The day that Grant had died was also the landlord’s wedding anniversary.  It put Jameson a two minute drive away from the road adjacent to the wood were Quentin and Amelia were riding.  The line from Hamlet came to mind, when Marcellus had said to Horatio that something was rotten in the state of Denmark.

Leo had called to see Amelia.  Told her that he knew that she – aided by her boyfriend – had conspired to murder her husband and make it look like an accident, to get hold of the insurance money.  He also told her that Jameson had spilled his guts to a mutual friend, and that he had proof of their relationship and of lover boy’s presence in the area on the fateful day.  The clincher was when Leo said, erroneously, that as a freelance investigator, with gambling debts and the tax man on his back, he would forego reporting what he knew to the police, and even give her a letter implicating him in the cover-up, for a one-off payment of fifty thousand pounds.  To his surprise, the cold-hearted bitch not only agreed to the deal, but offered to substantially increase the amount that he had asked for, if he would get rid of Ralph Jameson permanently for her.  He said he would contact her the next day, when he would expect half the cash up front.  Leo then went straight to the police with a tape he had made of the damning conversation.  The police carried out their own investigation, and Amelia and Ralph were both arrested and charged, to be subsequently tried and convicted of Quentin Grant’s murder.

It emerged that just prior to leaving the stables that day, Amelia had phoned Jameson at the pub, confirmed the route that they would be taking, and then led her husband to his death.  Ralph had leapt out from the side of the bridle path, dragged Grant from his horse, and struck him a single blow across the forehead with a stout tree branch, killing him instantly.

In court, they had tried to lay the blame off on each other, but only dug themselves in deeper with a jury that unanimously returned a verdict of guilty as charged.

The thought of going back into the farmhouse made Laura physically shake with fear.  But she couldn’t leave...Taylor ‒ no, not Taylor, Talbot, Leo Talbot was his name ‒ at the mercy of Hugh. There was no way she could just sit it out, knowing that when Hugh went down and found him, he would undoubtedly kill him.  There was no choice, she had to go back and set him free, or his death would forever be on her already guilt-ridden conscience.

Pushing her way out of the straw, Laura immediately began to shiver violently, her wet night-shirt clinging to her, and pieces of dull-yellow chaff sticking to her from head to toe.  She lurched across the barn, past a concrete block with a large metal ring set into its top, then reaching the doors, looked out into the rain, expecting to see Hugh, but didn’t and was both relieved and thankful that there was no sign of him.  She trudged back across the muddy yard, retracing her steps to the rear of the house, feeling vulnerable, scared and weak, and knowing that if she paused for even a second, then she would lose her nerve and run blindly, as far as her legs would carry her in any direction that took her away from Hugh Parfitt.  At that moment, collapsing in a ditch a mile away with her lungs almost bursting and her chilled body scratched and torn by thorns and branches, seemed far more appealing than the thought of going back into the waiting arms of a homicidal maniac.

Leo tried the door, but it was solid, unyielding, hurting his shoulder as he ineffectively threw his weight against it several times.  He went back down the steps; eyes still burning, vision blurry.  The female DI had been inventive and quick as a fox.  He admired the adeptness with which she had escaped; could appreciate that she had not expected anyone but her captor to enter the cellar.  He now wished he had called out before going down into what had proved to be the lioness’s den.  Absently reaching for his cigarettes, he lit one and took a deep drag, squinting around the small room to familiarise himself with his surroundings.  It took him only a few seconds to realise that there was no other way out, nowhere to hide, and nothing that would serve as an effective weapon.  He almost choked on lungs full of smoke as the sudden, deep, resonant blast of what could only be a shotgun, echoed above him.  There was no way he could be optimistic.  The probability was that Jim Elliott had just come across Parfitt, and not survived the encounter.  Now, if he was to get out of the house alive, he would have to rely on his own wits and a whole lot of luck.  He couldn’t help but think that his future had all the hallmarks of proving to be a bleak and very short-lived one.

Impending danger was a catalyst for inspiration.  If he could not escape or arm himself, then he would have to defend himself as ably as possible and ride it out on a wing and a prayer.  Sweeping the books and magazines off the top of the coffee table, he lifted it, noticing that one of the legs was missing.  Climbing the steps, this time holding the table in front of himself as a shield, he rested the bottom edge of it on the top step and waited, ready to slam the heavy piece of furniture into the door as the bolts were drawn back, to hopefully gain advantage over the killer cop.

Jim fought against the racing tide of blackness that swept over his consciousness, but succumbed.  The effect of the blow to his skull drew him down into a dark pit, to briefly curtail all interest in the situation.

He came to confused, uncertain for a few seconds as to where he was or what had happened to him.  And then the events prior to being struck by the door flooded back.  He tried to climb to his feet too quickly, only to fall, with his head spinning, pounding.  He could taste the blood that had run down the side of his face and into his mouth from a deep gash above his ear.  With supreme effort, he got up, but could not stay upright and fell back. Reaching out, he grasped a handful of the bedspread, jerking it, inadvertently pulling the bewigged husk of Jennifer Parfitt over the edge, for it to fall on top of him, the withered legs astride his hips, gnarled, long-nailed fingers on his chest, and face up against his with its puckered, stapled mouth resting against his lips.

Jim cried out and pushed the grotesque, dried-up body away, horror-struck as both of the staring blue eyes popped from their dark, musty sockets, to bounce off his face and roll across the floorboards into the shadows.  He struggled to his knees, made it to his feet, but had to sit on the edge of the bed as a grey mist swirled in his mind, almost overwhelming him and holding him in a state of languid torpor.  Taking deep breaths, he steadied himself and waited until his head cleared.  When able, he assessed the situation.

The pain from his head, back and hand, helped to concentrate his mind.  He looked down at the twisted bundle of skin and bone that had been Hugh’s mother, realising that his profile on the case had been as close as he had ever got to think his way into the mind of a serial killer.  The mentally ill young man had obviously exhumed her, refusing to let death stand between them.  Jim surmised that Hugh’s widowed mother had provoked him beyond endurance.  It wasn’t a stretch to imagine that they had been involved in an incestuous relationship, and that when she had found a new lover, Hugh had engineered the car accident that had killed her and the man who she had been with.  Being unable to kill her again, he had found look-alikes to punish in her place.  Jim knew that there would be periods when Hugh would be oblivious to reality, living in a state of delusion.  Given time, his ability to differentiate between the two worlds that he inhabited would degenerate, and he would collapse into a state of complete insanity.

Having seen the look in Hugh Parfitt’s eyes, Jim fully perceived the depth of madness that lurked behind them in his warped and disassembling psyche.

LEO
leaned back against the whitewashed wall at the top of the shadow-filled stairwell. He was as prepared as he could be, and although nervous, actually felt confident.  There was no way that Parfitt would be expecting a sixteen-stone man to plough into him as he opened the door.  And as Laura had proved earlier, the element of surprise was a powerful foe to contend with.

In a strange way, Leo felt more alive at that moment than he had done in years. The present danger had given rise to a chemical reaction within him that he thought had dried up, crystallised and blown away long ago; no longer within him to trigger the tightness he now felt cramping his stomach, or initiate the false sense of regained youth that seemed to permeate though his muscles with a warm, burning sensation of tense readiness, obviously due to an adrenaline rush.

It was almost five years since Leo’s wife had died.  Soon afterwards he had taken early retirement from the force.  Sheila had been his rock; the foundation upon which he had built his life.  She had brought order to chaos, and had always been there for him, supportive and yet independent; his true love and best friend.

It had been septicaemia that had so suddenly and unexpectedly taken Sheila from him. She had undergone relatively minor surgery; a knee replacement, and should have been out of hospital in forty-eight hours, but instead, had died, drugged to ease the pain, robbing him of even a chance to tell her how very much he loved her, and say good-bye.

He had entered the dark and desperate world of grief; a bitter place that left him languishing in accursed resentment of life and the cruel lottery that it had proved itself to be.  Turning his back on the faith he had shared with Sheila, he disclaimed the concept of a higher, all-seeing power, choosing to perceive existence analogously with the wild order of nature, where only the fittest survive at the expense of the weak, infirm and aged, which they decimate with impunity, until in turn they become victim of the same age-old and endless process.  The struggle for life over death seemed a hollow, meaningless and empty pursuance to Leo.  Bad enough to be born only to die; but to be aware of the inevitability of such an ephemeral reality was, to him, an extortionate price to pay for the supposed higher intellect that a freak of evolution had bestowed upon his species.  As the composer Hector Berlioz had said― ‘Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils’.

For six weeks after Sheila’s death, Leo had for the most part sat alone and disconsolate in the small bungalow that had been home for the duration of their marriage.  He had felt himself fading away, as a growing emptiness replaced the spark of life that was bleeding unseen from his mind and body.  He contemplated suicide, but chose to live, on his own terms; a solitary existence.  He eventually regrouped, handed in his papers and left the force, to almost immediately open the agency, so that he would have a reason to climb out of bed each morning and face another day.  With time, the involvement with hapless or troubled clients proved a distraction from his own despondency, allowing him to function on a level that became at least tolerable.

The bungalow had become a neglected, dust-layered mausoleum that he frequented less and less.  Most nights, he slept on the sofa in the small room next to his office, visiting the house only once or twice a week, to try and feel closer to Sheila, causing himself renewed pain as he opened wardrobes and drawers, to touch and look at the clothes, jewellery and other personal effects that she had worn or used or enjoyed possessing.  They gave him no solace, and yet he could not bring himself to bag up the material residue of her life in bin-liners and dispose of it piecemeal to Oxfam or the tip.  That was a final undertaking that he had postponed and shirked away from, as he had with his beloved wife’s ashes, which still reposed in a rosewood casket atop her piano in the lounge, where they had spent so much of their life together. Sheila had loved Whitby, and the sea, which she had viewed as an eternal living entity encompassing and reflecting all human moods, from composed tranquillity to mindless rage.  Its tides and flow never ceased to fascinate her, and the lunar forces that affected it were a mystery which both enthralled and excited her.  Leo had intended to scatter the cremated dust, that was her mortal remains, over the cliffs that they had walked along hand in hand so many times in the past; to release her into the bracing salt air that she had so enjoyed and been invigorated by.  They had spoken of buying a stone-built, sea-facing cottage in the area when he retired, but that dream never came to pass.

Now, standing on the cellar steps, he determined to fulfil what was the duty of the living.  If he survived this day, he would clean and clear the house, then – on what would have been Sheila’s fifty-sixth birthday in two weeks time – make the trip to Whitby and metaphorically free her from all earthly constraint.  He now felt ready to let go; believed that she was with him, watching over him, and waiting for him along the road a ways.

Laura re-entered the kitchen, paused to listen, but heard no sound.  She took a towel from the rail behind the door to wipe the rain and straw from her face and hands, before walking out into the short hall and stopping in front of the metal door, dropping the towel to the floor as she reached it, to stand, her hand on the top bolt, fearful that Hugh would suddenly appear and once more incarcerate her below ground, or just stab or shoot her to death where she stood.

Easing the bolt back, Laura subsequently squatted to release the second, sucking breath through clenched teeth as it scraped noisily, metal on metal, worse than fingernails raking a slate blackboard.

Leo smashed the tabletop into the door as he heard the bottom bolt slip free from its bracket.  He lunged forward, eager to take advantage and negate the threat of the man who he believed was about to enter the cellar.

Laura staggered back on her heels as the door knocked her off balance.  She fell to the floor winded, then looked up to see the detective glaring wide-eyed over the top of the table he was holding.

“Laura?”  Leo said, frowning, surprised.

“Y...yes,” she replied, her voice a gruff whisper.

“The other woman?”

“I’ve not seen her.”

“OK,  Let’s get the hell out of here,” Leo said, throwing his makeshift shield aside to crash end over end down the cellar steps as he reached down with his hand outstretched to pull the bedraggled looking woman to her feet.

Standing, Laura turned and ran, back outside, heading for the barn with Leo following.  Once inside it, her intention was to hide in the deep straw again, but Leo put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her in mid stride.

“Up there,” he said, pointing to a wide wooden ladder that was fixed to the timber wall and led up to an open hatch that gave access to a loft that ran the entire length of one side of the building, twenty feet above their heads.

Laura went first, as Leo watched the doors, sure that a shotgun wielding maniac would appear, intent on blowing them both to kingdom come.  He waited until Laura was two thirds of the way up, then climbed after her, his wet, leather-soled shoes slipping on the smooth rungs as he moved too quickly, feeling vulnerable with his back to the entrance.  Looking up, he momentarily stopped, his sore eyes forgotten as they fixed on the sensual sight of Laura’s buttocks and the wedge of hair and tantalising glimpse of pink flesh among dark curls, which redirected his attention away from possible danger.  Blood rushed to his face with the embarrassment and shame that he felt for not averting his eyes from her lush nether regions, which were visible under the nightdress she wore.

They nestled into the stale, old straw, both trying to suppress sneezes initiated by the bone-dry particles that had been disturbed and were floating in the air around them, to be seen as a spiralling cloud of motes in the pale shaft of light that pierced the skylight in the roof and formed a grey column, illuminating the block of concrete below it.

“What are you doing here?”  Laura asked Leo as they sat with their backs against the wall at the rear of the loft.

“I came with Jim Elliott,” he said.

The skin on Laura’s neck and scalp prickled.  She again heard the gunshots blasting through her mind, now more significant, knowing that Jim must have been the target, and by his absence, convinced that he had been killed as he tried to rescue her.

“I’m so sorry,” Leo said, reading her expression.  “Parfitt must have got the drop on him.  The bastard had a shotgun. I heard it go off.”

“It was fired twice before you came,” Laura said woodenly, her eyes brimming with tears as she sank into a well of grief that was bottomless and soul destroying.

Leo said, “There was another copper here.  He followed Parfitt out to the farm, and he’s missing as well.”

“But what if Jim is still alive?” Laura whispered, not believing it could be true, but grasping at the remote strand of hope she needed to give her the will to function.  “He may just be wounded and need help.”

Leo shook his head.  “That’s wishful thinking, Laura.  What do you want to do?  Go back in there and get blown away?”

“I came back for you.  I have to go back for Jim.  I have to know that I tried.  Can’t you see that?”

“No.  My phone is in the glove compartment of my car.  Let’s try and get to the main road and call for help.”

Laura shook her head.  “That’s as risky as going into the house.  We could be caught out in the open.  He’ll expect me to run, not to go back.  He’s probably outside now, searching for me.”

Leo sighed.  He could see that her mind was made up.  Shit!  He had no choice but to accompany her, even though he thought it would probably turn out to be the most stupid decision he had ever made. With no further discussion he went to the ladder and began to climb down.