Copycat

by Diane Saxon

  She stared down at her soaked clothes and mud streaked legs. They’d be wise not to let her through the door. Defeated, she peered up at the rain filled clouds.

  There was no point carrying on. She was done for the day. Winded. Her legs had turned to spaghetti. The tremble of adrenaline rush weakened her. She dropped her head to study her feet as she brought her breathing back under control. She was an athlete. Strong, capable, intelligent.

  She crouched down, retied her laces and challenged herself to look up into Ercall Wood, opposite the beautiful woodland hotel. There was nothing to fear. Nothing in the darkness to harm her.

  She scanned the treeline, squinting through the light and shade of it to make sure nothing lurked there.

  The pressures of work and the vile stabbing of the young nurse earlier in the week had unnerved everyone, lacing the atmosphere with unrest and whispered fears. She didn’t know the nurse personally, had never worked with her, but she’d recognised the photograph in the newspaper. She knew the ex-boyfriend, Ray Horrobin, a porter at the hospital. He’d always been so pleasant. The newspapers suggested it was him. The police remained quiet. The gossips stirred up trouble.

  Disgusted with herself, she shrugged off the shroud of persistent evil. She shook out her limbs, keeping them warm while she centred herself. There was nothing in the woods. She’d listened to too much gossip, allowed the fear to filter through into her subconscious. Tiredness had taken a hold and she’d drowned in a shallow lake of her own misgivings. That’s what it was.

  Right.

  She extended her arms above her head and lunged forward to stretch her leg muscles to stop them from becoming cold.

  She shoved aside the sneaking suspicion that insisted she think deeper into matters and straightened, stretching her spine upwards while she reached for the grey clouds above, flexing her fingers, warming her muscles to chase away the chill of drizzle and fear. Perhaps she’d continue her run after all, now she’d calmed down.

  She challenged herself to focus her gaze on Ercall Woods again. She’d allowed tales of the place to spook her. She’d never been comfortable there.

  Hidden beyond her sight was the quarry with its geological site that had scared the pants off her ever since she sneaked off as a teenager to catch a sly cigarette there with her mates. The day the drunken old man had staggered along the path and fallen off the edge, down into the quarry. The blood from his head injury stained the rocks below and she’d scrabbled down to reach him while the rest of her friends ran. Not to find help, but in fear. Fear of retribution, fear of blame.

  She risked running past the quarry, but she’d never returned. Not inside the woods.

  She scanned the woodland, knowing she’d see nothing.

  A black shadow exploded from between the trees heading straight for her, then dodged away. Heart pounding wildly, Carla dropped her arms to her sides, curled her hands into tight fists ready to face her demon. Her stomach contracted in a sharp spasm and she took a quick step back, her gaze concentrated on the shadows beyond the single track road in search of further movement.

  A black Labrador dashed through the thicket to burst the heart from her chest into a million fragments before it settled into uneasy hitches as the dog raced along the winding path opposite.

  A sharp recall whistle had the dog spinning a one-eighty degree turn and zipping off in the opposite direction without so much as an acknowledgement to the woman she’d almost given a heart attack to. As the Labrador headed into the dense woodland, Carla closed her eyes and muttered a silent prayer to whoever the hell was responsible for the continued bombardment of her emotions. She was a mess.

  She pressed her hand against her leaden chest and tipped her head back, little puffs of hysterical laughter coming from her lips. God, she was an idiot. Frightened to death not by her own shadow, but that of a black Labrador.

  She sucked in deep breaths.

  Heart still beating way too fast for someone not actually going into cardiac arrest, Carla placed her hands on her hips and blew out a relieved chuckle. She’d never been a coward, she wasn’t about to become one now. It was all a figment of her overactive imagination. It had to stop.

  ‘Carla!’

  She flung her head back at the hoarse, whispered voice. Spun on her heel to search the car park virtually empty of cars.

  No imagined shadow had the ability to whisper her name.

  No dark visage knew her name.

  She shifted her weight forward onto her toes.

  ‘Carla.’ This time the voice held a subtle threat.

  Spooked, she took off as fast as her swift feet would go. She raced as fast as possible to escape her demons. Ones she was now convinced weren’t imagined. Soaked to the skin, legs slicked, she ran while her heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming in ragged bursts until she stumbled up the pathway to her house. Terror pushing her onwards, breaking the record for two and half miles.

  Icy fingers trembled as she pushed the key into the lock of her back door and burst into her house. She slammed the door closed behind her, turned the key and shot the bolt across. Weak with relief, she leaned on it, gasping sobs coming from her throat. She slithered down until her backside slapped on the cold, tiled floor, legs too weak to take her weight, and covered her face with shaking hands.

  The sinister whisper of her name echoed through her mind.

  What the hell?

  Who would want to torment her? She pressed her fingers against her forehead as the memory of the voice circled around. Whoever had whispered her name had stayed hidden. Surely if it was someone she knew, they would have made themselves known, stepped out from the bushes or wherever they were hiding.

  Carla got a grip again as she heaved in another breath, searching, probing her memory. There was no one she’d upset. Not a single person she could bring to mind who would be so vindictive.

  The iciness of her tiled floor and rain soaked clothes chilled her to the bone. Stiff, she struggled to her feet and walked like an arthritic patient, one step at a time, until she came to the landing at the top of the stairs.

  She turned her head and sucked in her breath. There. Right there she felt it. The dark gaze. Watching, waiting.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she raced through to her bedroom, slung on thick tracky bottoms and a sweatshirt over the top of her drenched running gear, not pausing long enough to strip them off. She flung open the third drawer down in her chest of drawers and snatched out a uniform, leaving the drawer wide as she grabbed underwear from the smaller top drawer and tucked it all under her arm.

  She snatched up a sleeping Saskia from her bed and raced downstairs with her in her arms. Before the cat had time to react, Carla had her in her cat basket. Her fingers trembled as she grabbed a plastic bag and stuffed her spare clothes inside and then raced for the front door, seizing her handbag from the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and slinging it over her shoulder.

  With the door slammed shut behind her, Carla pressed the remote key for her car and leapt into it the moment it unlocked. She slapped her fingers on the lock button and fired the engine. Before she slammed it into gear, she fished her mobile from her bag and dialled as her Bluetooth connected.

  ‘Mum? Mum? Can I come home?’

  22

  Friday 7 February, 08:15 hours

  Dark pleasure warmed him from the inside out until he gurgled out the laughter lodged in his chest. Priceless.

  The stupid woman had run like a thousand demons chased her. No style, no technique, she’d simply belted downhill, her long legs splaying like Bambi.

  He tipped his head back, rumbled out another laugh of sheer delight.

  The passerby’s dog had been a brilliant touch. He couldn’t have planned it better himself if he’d tried. Carla had almost shit herself. Who’d have known a dog, the useless bastards, could have contributed so perfectly, adding a layer of dark atmospheric fear to her.

  She’d already sensed him. Her wide eyes, filled w
ith suspicion, had cruised around before the dog had launched itself from the bushes.

  His chest still vibrated with a softened chuckle. It was all falling into place.

  The final touch unplanned, he’d wound down the window and whispered her name. She’d not seen him from where he watched in his car. Her attention purely focused on the woods. Even when she’d turned her head to stare at the parked cars, she’d not spotted him.

  He wiped his eyes, laughed again and put the car in gear.

  Patience.

  The key to ultimate pleasure. It was obvious the journey was as enjoyable as the endgame. To watch the fear build, develop it into a living, breathing terror. A terror he’d managed to instil in her so she shot back home as fast as her long legs could carry her, to hide, pathetic and cowardly, in a home that could no longer offer her protection.

  Pleasure fizzled over his skin, warmed his insides. It was so much easier than he could ever have imagined.

  He tipped his head back and rested it on the headrest, closing his eyes for a brief moment, pleasure and pride washing over him as his plan slipped nicely into place. A smile curved his lips and he revelled in the silence of the woodland surrounding him.

  Time drifted by as his muscles relaxed, bit by bit, and he floated through the labyrinth of plans dominating his mind. Plans far superior to those instigated by McCambridge. The finesse came from him. He wasn’t about to get caught, he was too intelligent to allow it.

  Contentment took a hold.

  He rolled his head to one side and checked his watch. Work beckoned. He snapped out a grin. No hardship there, he loved his work.

  23

  Saturday 8 February, 08:15 hours

  Fog pressed thick and heavy over Malinsgate Police Station, with a light mizzle to soak through to the bones. The shallow basin of Telford town centre sucked it in so it couldn’t escape. Ten minutes’ drive out and Jenna knew the fog would lift and brilliant February sunshine would break through, pushing it back, but it wouldn’t disperse around the station until after midday. The pea-souper blanketed the brick and glass building with its own moat, throwing the depths of it into dark misery.

  Jenna dragged a hand through her hair as she studied the screen in front of her. Forensics still worked on the evidence they’d obtained from Marcia Davies’ house. The post-mortem had revealed nothing they hadn’t already surmised from Jim’s initial observations, apart from the lovely nurse had a mild dose of the clap, which was probably why she was taking penicillin.

  Mason ambled in, the blue of his eyes darkened to navy in the electric lighting.

  ‘Where’s the kiddo?’

  Jenna kicked up a smile as he handed her the weak, grey dishwater that passed as the station coffee, direct from a portable machine in the corner. ‘He’s on lates today. Swapped with someone. I can’t remember why.’

  ‘Eh. It’s Saturday. What the hell else would a twenty-one year old have to do on a Saturday night?’ Sarcasm laced his words as Mason slumped in the chair opposite and leaned forward, his chin resting on his hand. ‘We got anything new?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not so far, but we can do a round-up. There are a few follow-ups on the house-to-house calls, but nobody seems to have heard anything – no screams, nothing.’

  Jenna glanced at her watch and grabbed a file as she came to her feet, leaving the thin, brown watery stuff to go cold in its plastic cup.

  Mason leapt to his feet. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To see a…’ She consulted her notes. ‘Bob Mills.’

  ‘Who is Bob Mills, and should I know about him?’

  Jenna smiled as she grabbed her coat from the rack in the corner and held open the office door to let Mason precede her. ‘Bob Mills is the treasurer of the Mervyn Lucas Charity. Set up to fund children with leukaemia to have an experience of a lifetime, whatever their dream is. Mervyn Lucas was a grandfather whose grandson, also named Mervyn, died of leukaemia at the age of four, having never really lived.’

  Voice solemn, Mason ducked his head. ‘A good cause.’

  They bypassed the lift and took the door to the stairwell. ‘A very good one. Which has run smoothly for the past two decades.’

  ‘I sense a “but” coming on.’

  ‘But the president of the association has asked us to look into the slow, insidious disappearance of approximately £24,000 over an eleven month period.’

  ‘Eleven months. Sounds pretty precise to me.’

  As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Mason turned right and leaned through the service counter to snatch a key fob for one of the police vehicles off the rack.

  ‘Don’t you dare take those, DC Ellis, without signing them out.’ The authoritative voice rolled out from the tiny woman most police officers tried to avoid. Della Prince, a woman to be scared of, with her fierce bleached white hair which stood in hard, almost lacquered, two inch spikes all over her head. Her crimson lipstick bled into deep smoker’s lines surrounding her mouth and black eyeliner circled her eyes, thick and dark, to make the ice blue of them glare out at everyone as though she was permanently pissed off with the world. Which she was.

  Jenna hid a smile behind her hand as she sauntered away.

  The only person capable of making Mason stutter, Della slammed her hands on her hips and pushed her chin out, tipping her head a long way back to glare up at him.

  ‘I… I… I wouldn’t dream of it.’ He drew the authority sheet towards him through the hatch and patted his jacket pocket, searching for a pen.

  Della stretched out an arm, her lips twisted with derision as she offered him her pen. ‘Of course you would.’

  Satisfied Mason could deal with the administrator on his own, Jenna turned just as Chief Crown Prosecutor Adrian Hall stepped through the glass front door of the police station.

  Her heart slammed against her ribcage and then floundered around. It had only been a couple of months since she’d last seen him in the flesh. She’d almost forgotten how good-looking he was. The instant pull of attraction she had every intention of ignoring.

  His bright, wide smile crinkled his cheeks into deep laughter lines and his eyes warmed to melted toffee.

  ‘Jenna.’ The mellow whisky of his voice poured over her as he reached out both hands to encompass her free one. ‘It’s been too long.’

  Unable to escape, Jenna kept her fingers soft in his, neither returning the handshake nor withdrawing from it, as though he meant nothing to her. Which he didn’t. Couldn’t. She didn’t play around with married men.

  She swallowed hard, kept her gaze flat, determined, unwavering as she met his. Keenly aware that she needed to keep her attraction to him to herself. ‘Adrian. It has been a while. I thought you were in London.’

  ‘I am. I was, but I was needed here. If I’d known you were on duty, I would have brought coffee.’ His voice dropped to intimate. ‘You didn’t reply to my last text.’

  Heat flooded her cheeks, guilt sweeping over her. She’d not replied to it after Mason caught her red-handed.

  Aware of Mason bumping up beside her, Jenna slipped her fingers from Adrian’s.

  The two men exchanged firm handshakes as Jenna took a moment to compose herself.

  Mason leaned in. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’

  Adrian’s dark brows dipped over a flash of confusion before he turned his attention to Mason. ‘I’ve a meeting with your Chief Superintendent Gregg about the Frank Bartwell case. I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned it.’

  Jenna jiggled her shoulders, she’d spoken with Gregg about the case recently, tied up a few loose ends and submitted all her paperwork. She hadn’t quite expected the Chief Crown Prosecutor to pitch up on the doorstep of Malinsgate police station. ‘I guess unless he needs us specifically to answer questions, he has all the files.’ She looked past him through the door into the dense white fog, desperate to escape. Her pulse skipping over the resolve to keep him at a distance. ‘Guess we better go.’ She dredged up a fast smile and slipped a
round him to open the door and step outside. ‘See you around.’ She drew in a deep breath of fresh air as she strode over the short bridge and into the car park beyond.

  Mason bustled into the passenger seat of the vehicle as she punched the ignition and slammed her foot on the accelerator. She whipped the seat belt around her and secured it with a positive click.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Mason asked.

  Jenna checked the mirror, flung a glance over her shoulder and skewed the police vehicle out of the parking space, bouncing it over the speed ramp so Mason grunted. Which reminded her, she needed to follow up on who’d taken to parking the car in the bays the wrong way around. When she got chance.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  She pulled out onto the main thoroughfare around Telford town centre, jaw tight as she floored the accelerator straight up to the speed limit, flinging the car around the wide right hand bend and zipping it along the straight.

  Aware of Mason’s intense stare, she kept her eyes on the road. ‘You were a little short with the Chief Crown Prosecutor. I know he’s a wanker,’ he tempted a smile from her, ‘but there was definitely a cold-shoulder moment.’

  Jenna’s mobile beeped. She spared it a quick glance and then looked back at the road as she negotiated around the interchange and took the Queensway towards Oakengates and Ketley, putting her foot down so Mason jerked back in his seat. It had damn all to do with Mason if she met up with Adrian for a coffee. Damn all to do with anyone.

  Mason shuffled around and leaned closer so she could see him in her peripheral vision while she drove. ‘Did the married man make a pass at you?’

  ‘No.’ Too quick to answer, a ball of heat rushed up her neck into her face.

  ‘So, he didn’t make a pass at you?’ He gave a childish nudge of her shoulder as she indicated to come off the dual carriageway. ‘Did you want him to make a pass at you?’