Authors: JJ Franklin
Urge to Kill (1) (5 page)
‘Good. Sam, have another go at these three. Fluff, could you see if we are likely to get any sense out of Katie yet.’
Matt was impressed as always with his team. True these first queries were probably nothing and would be put down to a combination of nerves and rumour, but it showed that their antennae were in full working order.
Matt didn’t have much time for conjecture as the pathologist, Slim, caught up with him. Slim always had a sad look on his face. Matt used to think it was in deference to all the victims he had to examine, but at one Christmas party Slim turned up with his wife and elder daughter, all of whom had that same hangdog look, which sent everyone scurrying for another drink.
‘I’d say that the cause of death was manual compression of the vagal nerves.’ Matt looked blank, and Slim added, ‘The jugular vein together with the carotid arteries. Stops the heart. Loss of consciousness would have occurred very quickly.’
‘Time?’
‘Not long ago. I’d say nine a.m. the very earliest.’
‘Any sign of sexual activity?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Tell you for certain later. But I can say that he dressed her in that odd way post mortem.’
‘He?’
‘Well, it would take some strength to apply that much pressure. Could be a woman, but more likely you’re looking for a man.’
At least it was a blessing that she died quickly. Matt found the worst murder cases, aside from those of children, were when the victim had been tortured before death, like Gracie, who was always there in his memory, prompting him not to let anyone else down.
Gracie was only sixteen. She was a bright spark of a girl with many friends, looking forward to the future, until the monster he should have stopped took her life.
Matt was one of the first to see her. She looked at peace but her naked body, carelessly tossed in a ditch, told him all he needed to know of what her last hours had been like. She had fought hard for her life and lost out to Fraser, the pervert who had simply used her for his own pleasure.
A
fter Matt had left, Eppie took her breakfast from the warming oven to discover she had lost her appetite. She was starting to realise that she and Matt knew nothing about each other. Dad had always loved a good, hearty breakfast—said that was how a sailor should start the day—good ballast if the seas were rough.
And she had known immediately that Matt hadn’t even thought about her working. However, if he expected her to stay cooped up in this tiny dismal flat with nothing to do, then he didn’t know her very well.
Eppie wiped down the dark granite worktops and all the cold stainless steel, thinking that even the morning sun couldn’t bring any warmth into this kitchen. She knew it was unfashionable but to Eppie, a kitchen should be a warm, inviting place, the hub of a house, like Grandma’s warm, cosy kitchen with its promise of treats still hot from the oven. Matt’s tiny kitchen did not delight her at all.
Finishing in the kitchen, Eppie walked around the flat wondering what she could change in this male space with its neat order and dull masculine colours. Even the trophies crowded onto the mantelpiece left no room for as much as a photo. For her, it needed something to liven it up, and she had the urge to rush out and buy some multi-coloured cushions and scatter them carelessly about.
For the first time since her marriage, Eppie felt a sense of loss for the lifestyle she had given up. Working with Dad had brought her a new challenge every day. Pete Featherstone was a famous yachtsman, so most people had heard of him. Eppie’s job had been to smooth the way, deal with officials and clear the way for Dad and the Mary Lee to berth to take on essential supplies and sometimes much-needed repairs.
Meeting Matt was as sudden as it was inconvenient. One moment she was cursing the inconsiderate man who blocked the way to her car, and in the next, as he smiled, she fell in love.
Dad had given his blessing, and it was obvious that he liked Matt.
‘I can’t leave you in the lurch, Dad.’
‘Rubbish. One more trip and I’m done. Matt has saved me having to pay someone to take you off my hands.’
‘Dad!’ Eppie laughed while attacking him with a washing up sponge.
Just six weeks later, she and Matt were married in a short but lovely ceremony at Braebeck Grange, a stately home that made a killing in arranging marriages. Wanting Eppie to have the best, Dad had paid for everything. Nothing had been left out.
Well, except for the absence of Mother who said she couldn’t leave her latest husband during the social season in Argentina. Not that Eppie counted this as much of a loss, and it was compensated for by the welcome sight of Mo and Amy, two old schoolmates from college.
Eppie knew this sense of not belonging would pass and refusing to dwell on it, she kicked herself into resolute action. She found what she wanted in one of her, as yet, unpacked suitcases.
She decided it would go on the mantelpiece, but now, as she stood looking at all Matt’s rugby trophies, she hesitated as to where to place it. Having no space of her own brought back vivid memories of staying at Aunt Sandra’s. There, Eppie couldn’t make even a corner of Cousin Natalie’s bedroom her own. But Eppie had no intention of running away this time.
Which one would Matt miss the least she wondered after trying for the fourth time to move the trophies along to accommodate the photo of her smiling and proud Dad. It was taken after a particularly difficult leg of a race, when he and the Mary Lee had been battered and badly damaged by fierce storms.
She remembered how relieved she had been as the Mary Lee limped into port.
‘There’s my girl,’ he said as he jumped ashore to enclose her in a bear hug.
‘Oh, I’m so glad to see you, Dad.’ Eppie was trying to keep the tears from her eyes.
‘Hey, none of that. You should know by now that you can’t get rid of me that easily. Come on, let’s face the music,’ he chided as he led her towards the eager crowd of reporters.
One of the TV crew thrust a brimming pint into his hands, and she’d stepped back to capture the moment as he’d gratefully swallowed it down.
The picture deserved a place in the flat, her flat. Eppie made her decision and, removing the smallest, plainest trophy, she relegated it to the bookcase before realigning the others so that her Dad could grin down at her from the middle of the mantelpiece.
Standing back to admire her work, she felt better and the momentary panic had passed. She could live here, at least for a while, and make it a shared space. When she had a job, they could save towards buying a house.
With a sigh, Eppie returned to the classified section of the local paper and began circling the possibilities. Many of the positions would leave her bored to tears, and she decided the only antidote would be to work with people.
It was then that an advert for a receptionist at Heath Stone Manor Health Spa caught her eye, and she quickly marked this while reaching for the phone.
C
live had fully given into Lisa’s ministrations when the knock came, followed by a brisk order that they all gather as quickly as possible in the café at the end of the corridor.
He moved as bid with the other guests while pulling the white fluffy robe around him and making sure he looked surprised and anxious. A bossy young woman, part of the police team, shepherded everyone towards the health food café with its basket chairs and soft colourful cushions. Clive hesitated at the café entrance and reached out to grasp her hand.
‘Is there a fire?’ he said, making sure he sounded concerned.
‘My DI will explain in a moment, Sir,’ she replied before returning to hurry the rest of the guests along. ‘If you could all find a seat please, the Inspector will be with you shortly. We’ll try not to keep you very long.’ She moved away to direct other guests. ‘There are two seats over here, Madam.’
He sank obediently into the nearest chair and felt his heart rate steadying; the inner glow of satisfaction began to spread through his body. It was an effort to keep a broad smile from his face, but he forced his muscles to obey him and kept the concerned mask in place. Clive looked around to see which of his immediate neighbours it might be best to engage in worried and speculative conversation.
To his left was a grey-haired, anxious looking woman, and he decided she would be the easiest. He didn’t want to put in too much effort, but instead wanted to relive what he had done, savouring the temporary soothing of twenty-nine years of hurt and anger.
He agreed with the grey-haired woman about how awful it all was while thinking secretly that it wasn’t awful but a wonderful kind of poetry. Yes, that is what it was, poetic justice. Clive felt no sorrow for the pseudo victim; no doubt she was set to go through life in a spoilt and cosseted manner, ruining any chance of happiness for the men or boys around her.
‘Don’t worry—It will be alright now that the police are here.’ The old lady laid a caring hand on his arm, and he forced himself back to the present, time enough later to enjoy his endeavours when the immediate danger had passed.
Clive smiled at the old lady. ‘I heard someone say there had been a murder, so I was just so upset at the thought of…you know,’ he stuttered.
There was carrot juice on offer and he realised he was thirsty, not that this small cup of weak and boring juice was ever going to satisfy either his physical thirst or his growing appetite to kill again.
The woman detective had started writing down names, and Clive began preparing what he would say. He had to let them know he was only a day guest, and that he needed to get home before Mother’s carer left. This should put him at the top of their list for release once they knew where they could find him.
Later, as Clive stood in Reception with the other day guests waiting for permission to leave, he berated himself for being so stupid. That young woman detective was no fool and had spotted his error straight away. He had mentioned the word
murder
.
As soon as he had said it, he knew it was a mistake. Clive watched as she put a star next to his name and told him briskly to wait. Eventually, the detective sergeant re-interviewed him. He had been brisk and business like.
‘Mr Draper.’
‘Yes, Officer.’
‘Detective Sergeant Withers. Would you just run through how you first became aware of the incident?’
Interesting official line—
the Incident.
For a moment, he wanted to reach across the table and scream the truth into the man’s stupid face. There was a dead girl lying in that room and he had killed her. Instead, Clive took a breath and pretended to think.
‘I was with Lisa. There was a scream. Lisa went to the door and I heard someone, a man, say everything was under control. Then Lisa came back and started to massage me again. She said something about someone trying it on and how it was always Katie that seemed to get the men like that.’ He shook his head as if disgusted at the thought of such men.
‘When interviewed by DC Meadows, you stated…’ the Sergeant paused to read his notes. ‘
I feel very upset at the thought that someone has been murdered.’
He looked up at him, waiting for an explanation. Clive gave him a puzzled look, forcing him to continue.
‘What made you believe that someone had been murdered, Mr Draper?’
‘Oh,’ Clive nodded as if suddenly understanding his problem. ‘The elderly lady next to me was getting very upset and I was trying to calm her down. She kept saying it must be a murder as soon as the yellow tape went up.’ He gave the Sergeant a smile. ‘She probably watches too much TV, just like my Mother. I’m so sorry, Detective, if I have caused a problem. I’m afraid I just repeated what she, everyone, was saying.’
His explanation seemed to satisfy the Sergeant. Clive doubted if the old dear would say different if they asked her, as the murmurings had begun among the guests detained in the café as soon as the crime scene tape had been put in place. It forced him to realise just how very careful he would have to be. This was no game, but a battle of wits with the police.
This little team, although not Scotland Yard, were well led by DI Turrell. Clive decided he didn’t like this tall detective who walked with such easy, purposeful strides. He looked like a sportsman of some sort as he moved and held himself in a way that suggested he was always ready for action. Or maybe it was that sense of easy authority in the way he directed his staff or the obvious esteem in which they held him. There was the sense of a well-ordered team of which the DI was an easy and natural leader.
There was something about the DI that reminded him of Philip Spencer-Blake, the head boy who had tried to give Clive a hard time at school. But he had managed to get his own back. He smiled at the thought of Spencer-Blake’s disgrace after he had been caught with a small amount of banned substance. True, the Spencer-Blakes had managed to pull enough strings to avoid the disgrace of dear Philip being expelled, but he had been thoroughly pleased with the results of his actions after the arrogant lad had lost his cherished position.
Clive was aware that this authoritative DI Turrell was his enemy, and therefore, it was vital that he became fully aware of how the man worked. History had been one of his favourite subjects at St Stephen’s, and he remembered Mr Thompson stressing, during an exploration of World War Two, that often the difference between winning and losing was to know your enemy. Clive intended to win.
U
sually, when Matt was on a case, everything else had to take a back seat, but what of Eppie? Even now, as the team began to work methodically through the rest of the guests, he found himself thinking of her and wondering what she was doing.
Tonight’s cosy dinner would be out for sure, and he realised that he had better warn her in case she was planning to go to any trouble for their first dinner together in the flat.
As she answered, Matt was a little surprised from the background hubbub that Eppie seemed to be in the middle of a noisy crowd. He wanted to ask where she was, but pulled himself back hoping that she would tell him without him having to pry. He took refuge in the fact that he was busy and had to keep it brief.