A Deadly Compulsion (29 page)

He selected a Barnett ‘A.P.’ System Rhino crossbow, incorporating a loading mechanism that would allow him to arm it one-handed.  With a dozen bolts, or quarrels as ‘Orson’ called the short heavy arrows, of which six could be clipped into the weapon’s curved structure for speedy reloading, he felt almost equipped to face any adversary, although an Uzi or a .44 Magnum would have been his preferred choice of personal weapon for the confrontation that he was convinced was waiting to be played out in the not too distant future.

Back at the cottage that evening, Jim felt more at ease.  He felt confident that he could deal with an attack that could not be a surprise, because he expected it.  He had also decided that he had no intention of making any effort whatsoever to take Parfitt alive.  He would use extreme prejudice on sight of the man.  This was life or death, and he would not hesitate in negating any threat, to ensure that both he and Laura survived to make memories together.

“IT
won’t be for long, Mummy, I promise,” Hugh said, lowering her gently onto the folded blanket in the boot of the doctor’s rover, and placing a pillow under her head before closing the lid.  “Sweet dreams.”

With all the unaccustomed handling and movement, the corpse’s left leg had become detached.  The paper thin dried skin and rotted tendons had parted at the knee as he had carried her along the hall.  But he did not notice the mouldering limb lying on the carpet as he went back for the supplies he had packed.  A part of him would always see her complete and in pristine condition; alive and robust, with no disfigurement or impediment.  His mind had imbued her with eternal youth, and would allow nothing to blemish his perfect image of her.  The lower part of the leg had therefore become completely invisible to him as it fell away from the corpse.

After incarcerating the three nonentities in the cellar and making ready, he had sat for a while on the settee next to his mother, his face slack and without expression as the electrical charges in his brain almost short-circuited, holding him in a state similar to that which an epileptic experiences immediately after suffering a seizure.  Only his eyes moved, jiggling rapidly from side to side.  And as the mental spell broke, he was confused, taking over five minutes to regroup his thoughts and become aware of who and where he was.  It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his two incongruous personalities apart.  Like matter and antimatter they were on a collision course that would prove untenable if and when they met.  He was as unstable as a stick of sweating dynamite, on the verge of disassembling by way of a cerebral meltdown that would result from the pending internal explosion.

“Laura,” he whispered.  “Must deal with the bitch.  She is a betrayer; a modern-day Delilah.”

With the shotgun, a box of cartridges, a hammer, six-inch nails and a selection of the darkest clothing that Dominic had owned all secreted next to his mother in the boot, Hugh locked up the house and drove away.  He now wore a pair of the doctor’s horn-rimmed glasses, with the lenses removed.  And with his now dark hair and swollen, broken nose, he bore little resemblance to the man that the police would be searching for.

Driving past Laura’s cottage at first light, Hugh noted the unmarked Vauxhall Cosworth that was parked almost opposite, up on the berm and in the deep shadow of the low, thick limbs of a mature oak tree.  Behind the partially misted windows of the car, he caught a glimpse of two figures, who he knew would be armed coppers, probably special branch.

The Yank’s Jeep Cherokee was in Laura’s drive, so it was obvious that they were taking no chances, and had prepared for the unexpected.  He would make preparations and return after dark.  He determined that the police presence would prove more help than hindrance.

Eric and Molly Champion had parked their car and caravan in a lay-by on the A166 adjacent to a large picnic area that was set well back from the road amid trees that shielded the tables, benches and vehicles from sight, and dampened the noise of passing traffic.  They had driven up from Birmingham the day before, their plan being to stop off at several spots along the east coast, then cut back inland from Whitby to cross the North York Moors.  They were seasoned caravaners, but liked privacy, and so tended to avoid overcrowded official sites, preferring to stay in quiet, usually deserted locations. They were both fifty-nine years old, and were looking forward to retirement the following year from the social security office jobs that had brought them together thirty years earlier.

Up at six a.m., Molly had put the kettle on to boil for tea, before stepping outside on to the dew-laden grass at the side of the caravan.  She stretched and yawned, enjoying the fresh and invigorating morning air.  A sudden movement caught her eye, directing her gaze to a man who emerged from the bushes and walked across to the vehicle that was parked up behind them.  Molly grinned.  It was obvious that the guy had been for a leak, or maybe to take a dump, due to there being no toilets in the lay-by, and the fact that he was zipping up his trousers.  The man gave her a quick glance; looked a little embarrassed, as if knowing what she was thinking. Another few seconds and in his cab, and the lorry’s engine roared into life.  Molly watched as the large eighteen-wheeler passed by her, to rumble out on to the road, heading west.

There was only one other vehicle in sight, a green Rover parked about thirty yards in front of them.  It crossed her mind that it was probably a sales rep that had stopped for a couple of hours’ kip during the night, and no doubt slept for longer than planned.

The whistling summoned her back on board.  She moved quickly for a big woman, stepping up into the caravan and turning the steaming kettle off before it woke Eric up.  She put tea bags into the brightly coloured Garfield pot, and filled it with the boiling water, before turning the portable radio on for a fix of easy listening, courtesy of Radio Two.

Sitting at the small dinette table, Molly looked ahead to the day that she and Eric could leave Birmingham permanently, to perhaps set up home somewhere in North Yorkshire.  They had lived in the same semi in Smethwick throughout their marriage, but both preferred the countryside; hence the forays into it at every opportunity.  There was nowt so queer as folk, Molly thought.  Their next door neighbours, Colin and Joan Miller, had accompanied them for a long weekend to the Welsh borders the previous summer, and had both been on the verge of having panic attacks.  They viewed anything other than the comforting, overpopulated brick and concrete habitat that they had spent their entire lives in as unsettling and in some way threatening.  The great outdoors was obviously not everyone’s cup of tea.  Funny how wide open spaces could in some way disconcert townies.

With her back to the door, Molly looked out through the opposite window.  She smiled at the sight of two grey squirrels.  The cute rodents scoured the tops of the picnic tables and investigated a waste bin, looking for scraps left by the previous day’s visitors.  This, as usual, was a world away from the stress of city life, with its frenetic pace and attendant noise and pollution.  Molly was positive that without these tranquil breaks, the pressure of their jobs – dealing with men and women that demanded benefit in the form of money, and who became angry or distraught if they did not qualify for payment – would overwhelm them.

As Molly thought to take Eric a cup of tea, something clamped her mouth from behind and dragged her up onto the balls of her feet.

“Listen to me very, very carefully,” Hugh whispered in her ear, showing her the knife that he held in his other hand, before pressing the edge of its cold, keen blade against her cheek, with the point almost piercing the fleshy pouch under her right eye.  “If you follow my instructions precisely you will not be harmed.  Do you understand?”

Molly could not move or respond.  Her heart trip-hammered and a ringing sounded in her ears as her high blood pressure rose to signal a dangerous artery-bulging level. She felt as if a geyser of hot liquid had surged into her brain, compressing it, incapacitating her, suspending her on the brink of unconsciousness.  She was at once sweating yet shivering, held in rigid mortification and a brittle spasm of fear.

“Do you understand?” Hugh said for the second time.

Molly somehow found the will to give a slight nod of her head.

“Good girl. I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. And when I do, I want you to tell me your name, and who else is on board.  Keep in mind that it’s very important that you don’t lie to me or call out.  If you scream, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

The pressure of the hand eased, allowing a gap through which she could smell her own warm, mint-scented breath, rebounding from the cool palm.

“My n...name is...is M...Molly.  There’s just Eric...my husband and me,” she said in a library whisper.  “He’s still in bed,” she added.

Eric’s low, evenly modulated snoring stopped abruptly in a loud snort as Molly – under instruction – shook his sheet-covered foot.  His eyes snapped open in surprise, and he grunted; a slow smile dying on his face even as it formed, on seeing the figure standing behind his wife, holding a knife against her throat.

“Good morning, Eric,” Hugh said to the thin, balding man, who reared up into a sitting position and stared at him as though he was Freddy Kruger.  “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to interrupt your vacation for a while.  I don’t intend to harm you or Molly, but I need you to understand that if you cause me any inconvenience whatsoever, then I
will
kill you both.  Do I make myself clear?”

Eric’s mouth dropped open, his lower jaw instantly weighted with stupefaction.  He was speechless, unable to readily comprehend the scenario at the foot of the bed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hugh said.  “Here’s what we’re going to do...”

A little later, Hugh went for the Rover.  Parked it almost bumper to bumper with Eric and Molly’s Citroen and transferred his mother and other effects to the caravan, before properly inspecting his new temporary home.  The twenty-two-foot long Gazelle Road King had a large dinette-come-living area, partitioned off rear bedroom, and a generous sized bathroom complete with shower.  The furnishings and fittings were in immaculate condition, which indicated that the caravan was almost new.  After carrying out a meticulous search of the vehicle, he found a further five hundred pounds in cash to add to his kitty, and a pair of Ray-Ban metal wrap, steel-grey framed shades that were a vast improvement on the doctor’s glasses, which he binned.

Later, having feasted on bacon and eggs and enjoyed two cups of tea from the smiling Garfield pot, he set off for a day at the coast.  The abandoned Rover would soon be just one of many vehicles parked at the picnic site, raising no suspicion until at least late evening.  Even when found, it would give up no worthwhile clues as to his whereabouts, as by then he would be many miles from the area.

Horizontal stripes of light seeped through the louvered doors, allowing Eric and Molly to look into each other’s eyes.  They were sitting face to face in the dim, cramped confines of the stuffy, narrow, built-in wardrobe.  Their wrists were taped behind their backs; legs overlapping, taped together, joining them.  Their mouths were also taped, to stifle any ill-advised temptation to cry out for help.

Later that morning, sitting on a cliff top a couple of miles north of Scarborough and looking out to sea, where the smudge of an oil tanker ploughed a slow path across the horizon, Hugh grinned with boyish glee.  When night fell he would cause mayhem, get even with Laura – who had fucked up his career and his life – and give the far too clever FBI dropout a display that would probably tear his mind apart.  He would then head south, settle down with his mother (his one true love) and keep a low profile as he adopted a new way of life and a respectable front.  He would refrain from killing for a while; suppress the urges that built up like the magma under a volcano.  And when he did resume, there would be no further games or interaction with the plods.  Bodies would not be found in future.  He would take only strays and runaways with no fixed addresses or reasons to be missed; flotsam that society overlooked and turned its back on.  The killing would be a public service; pest control, clearing the streets of scrounging, scumbag no-hopers, who were of no discernible use to themselves or anyone else.  Everything was looking decidedly brighter.  He felt invincible.  It was as if the world revolved purely to serve his needs and desires; a table of plenty; hors-doeuvres to be sampled at his leisure.

MARTY
Drury snapped the mag back into his Glock 17 and returned the weapon to the shoulder holster under his left armpit.  The interior of the car was illuminated with a brief flare of light as he then proceeded to light a cigarette, before turning to Vic Buchanan, who was already dozing only ten minutes after they had relieved the two-till-ten shift.

The handover had been a gruff verbal report from Herbie Parnell, to the effect that the female copper and her boyfriend were inside the house and had no plans to leave the cottage again till morning.

“For fuck’s sake, wake up, Vic,” Marty said.

“I am awake.  I was just resting my eyes.”

“Yeah, yeah, and I’m the jolly green giant.  If you think I’m going to check in every hour while you get your ugly sleep, then you’re wrong.”

“Christ, chill out, Marty.  We’re babysitting a split-arse DI and a bloody Yank, not guarding a fucking royal.  Parfitt isn’t going to show.  He’ll have done a runner and be keeping his head down.  He knows that every bobby on the beat between Lands End and John O’Groats will be looking for him, hoping to get a bloody medal or promotion for being the one to collar him.  The sooner they catch the bastard or blow him away the better, and we can get back to something less boring than sat out in the fucking sticks, freezing our balls off.”

“It’s pigging red hot, you dummy,” Marty said, opening his window almost all the way, flicking the half-smoked cigarette out, to watch as the red end sparked briefly in the darkness.

“What time do we do an external check of the house and then get coffee off the tart?” Vic said.

“Eleven.  After we’ve radioed in,” Marty replied, tweaking up the volume on the car radio a notch, to pierce the silence of the night.

Marty was already bored out of his skull.  It was hard to be expectant, keyed-up and ready for action when it was obvious that nothing untoward was going to happen.  Most of his working life was spent waiting, watching and doing fuck all.  Years ago, when still in uniform, he had envied the gung-ho, gun-toting cops in civvies that seemed to have an adventurous life, beset with intrigue and danger.  The truth was, he had been far happier as an overworked PC.  He had just spent the best part of a year as a small cog in an operation to smash a large drug cartel, only to see it all come apart and go down the drain.  It could be soul-destroying work, and did little for the ego.  He was tempted to jack it in and join the firm of an ex-flying squad officer he knew, who had offered him a job in the growing field of personal protection for celebrities, politicians and the like.  He could see himself as a highly paid bodyguard.  He might try to work a medical retirement and give it a go.  At least that way he would then have a pension of sorts coming in, should it not pan out.

The car door opened, and even as Marty began to turn his head, the blade of the knife was driven into his ear, to imbed deeply in brain tissue.

The attack was so fast that Vic thought for a second that his partner had opened the door; was maybe going for a piss. But Marty let out a thin, strangled whine and slumped forward in his seat.  It was only then that Vic saw the figure, dimly lit by the dome light over the rearview mirror.

Hugh had slipped silently from the trees, knelt next to the car and listened to the conversation.  As he pulled the door open and skewered the nearest copper, he put his hand under the dying man’s jacket and removed the handgun, chambering a round and aiming the pistol at the other bewildered looking man’s face.

“Hands on the dash, now, or you get to join your buddy in the big police station in the sky,” Hugh said, his voice calm, low and ice-cold with menace.

Vic did as he was told.

“Good man,” Hugh said.  “I want call signs and procedures.  Then we do a test call, and if you’ve lied to me, I’ll kill you.  If you behave, I’ll lock you in the boot and you live to fight another day.  First, take your weapon out, thumb and finger only, and toss it in the back.”

Vic slowly removed the pistol from its holster and dropped it over his shoulder onto the rear seat.

Hugh grinned.  “So far, so good.  Now, make the test call.”

The call checked out and, at gunpoint, Vic pulled the boot release and got out of the car, walking slowly to the rear and climbing into it as ordered.  As he struggled to find a measure of comfort in the cramped space, Hugh clubbed him over the head several times with the gun’s butt, only stopping when he was sure that the copper was unconscious or dead.  He then pulled the lid down and gently pressed it until the catch clicked into place.

Sitting in the driving seat next to the corpse, which looked like someone asleep, with its head lolling forward, Hugh withdrew the knife from its head, wiped the blade clean on the body’s trousers and waited until eleven o’clock to make the hourly test call. He then left the car, armed with the Glock, the knife and the mobile phone-sized two-way radio, and walked across the country road, whistling nonchalantly as he opened the gate, to make his way up the path to the front door.  He rapped on it four times, and then paused before tapping twice more, exactly as the copper had told him to.

There were developments on the evening news.  Laura and Jim stared at the screen, hanging on to every word as an outside broadcast from the village of Skelby showed the exterior of a floodlit house among the trees.  The report verified that Jim had been right in believing that Hugh was doubtless still somewhere in Yorkshire.

A doctor, his wife and a postman had been discovered alive in the cellar of the house.  They had been found by another doctor, who had become suspicious when his colleague’s wife had phoned to say that due to serious illness in the family, the GP would not be at work for several days.  Paula Armstrong had said that her husband’s father had suffered a stroke which, considering he had been dead for over two years, was highly unlikely to say the least.  Dr Jeremy Farnsworth had, after a great deal of contemplation, been unable to let the matter rest.  He could not entertain the possibility of Paula or Dom lying to him.  And it was even more inconceivable that they could under any circumstances have mistakenly attributed the reason for Dom’s absence to the poor health of a deceased parent.

Jeremy had knocked at both front and back doors.  There was no answer, and only as he walked back to his car did he hear the muted shouting from inside the house.  Without hesitation he had broken a window to gain access.

It was thought – due to Parfitt asking for an A-Z of London – that the wanted man may already be down south.  Dr Armstrong’s Rover had been found abandoned in a lay-by on a road in East Yorkshire, but it was not known what vehicle had been stolen as a replacement.  No other details were being released by the police, and the Armstrongs and the postman were being kept incommunicado.

“Looks like he
has
gone down The Smoke,” Laura said when the programme moved on to race riots in a West Yorkshire city, and forest fires much farther afield near Los Angeles, that were claiming houses of the rich and famous.

“He’s gone nowhere, Laura,” Jim said.  “He won’t move on till he’s finished up here.  You’re his main concern at the moment.  Everything else is secondary.  He’ll be totally fixated on venting his hate for you and me.  He’s driven by a need to punish us for exposing him for what he is.”

“And all we can do is sit and wait,” Laura stated.  “He has the advantage.”

“No, we have the advantage.  We know his agenda.  We just have to wait him out and be prepared to finish it without any hesitation.”

“You mean kill him in cold blood?” Laura said, her expression showing the inner conflict that she felt.

“Sometimes our worst nightmares are outstripped by reality, Laura.  Don’t think of Parfitt as a person.  He’s more dangerous than a rogue elephant.  If you think for a second that he deserves any compassion, then your life is on the line.”

“But could you really―”

“Kill him?  You’d better believe it.  I’d have more qualms over destroying a mad dog. 

His mind is diseased.  It might not be his fault.  He may not be able to control his actions, but that doesn’t cut him any slack.  I know that when it comes to push or shove, and it’s him or us, I won’t be looking to argue the toss with him.”

Laura got up and headed for the kitchen.  Jim rose and followed, as though he was scared to let her out of his sight for even a second.  And that was the truth of it.  He didn’t underestimate Parfitt.  He had learned not to underestimate anyone in life.  You had to be aware that each individual possessed unknown potential.  Complacency was an enemy, ever ready to pounce on the unwary.

“You hungry?”  Laura asked.

“Not particularly.  A little peckish, maybe.  You?”

“No, but I need to be busy.  I’ve got the urge to cook something.”

“So let’s cook.  What have you got in mind?”

“Just something quick and tasty.”

“I’ll help.  Tell me what to do.”

With three boned, skinless chicken breasts defrosting in the microwave, Laura gathered together an array of ingredients.  Following instructions, Jim peeled and chopped a clove of garlic, then grated the rind off and squeezed the juice from a lemon into a bowl.  Laura heated oil in a wok; cut the chicken into roughly 5cm sized cubes and tossed them in a mixture of plain flour with the lemon rind and garlic that Jim had prepared.  While she cooked the nuggets until golden, Jim peeled and grated ginger, mixed it with stock and sugar, and passed it to her to add to the chicken for another few minutes.  He then blended the lemon juice with an egg yolk, to be stirred with the rest until it thickened into a rich sauce.

“Wash your hands and open a bottle of wine, while I finish up,” Laura said, testing egg noodles that were simmering in another pan.  “It’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”

As Jim poured out two glasses of Merlot, Laura added parsley and seasoning to the meal and then drained the noodles and served it up.

Jim sniffed at the air like a Bisto Kid.  “That looks and smells delicious,” he said.  “I’ve suddenly got an appetite.”

“Me too,” Laura said as they clinked their glasses together.

“What do you call it?”  Jim asked, preparing to take a mouthful of the steaming dish.

Laura grinned.  “Food.  But if you need a name for it, let’s call it lemon chicken surprise.”

“That sounds like a dessert.”

“Even more of a surprise that it isn’t, then.  Just eat.”

Twenty minutes later, Jim sighed with contentment.  “That was some supper dish,” he said, carrying the plates to the sink.

“Glad you liked it,” Laura said as she made up a flask of coffee and screwed the lid in place, just seconds before the prearranged knock came at the door.  “There’s our goodnight call.”

Laura realised that she was no longer consumed by fear.  Jim was strong and reliable, and his experience of dealing with the type of threat that was facing them was without equal.  But the knowledge that Hugh might be nearby and intent on revenge was playing on her mind.  He was smart, capable, and had so far managed to kill with impunity and stay ahead of the game.  There was no guarantee that good would triumph over evil.  That was the stuff of fairy tales.