by Franklin, JJ
Published by
EarthTiger
11 Pampas Close,
Stratford-upon-Avon,
England,
CV37 0TN
01789-267245
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.BMLittlewood.com
Copyright © JJ Franklin 2011
JJ Franklin has asserted her right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act of 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
ISBN 978-0-9571935-0-5
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9571935-1-2
Copyright © JJ Franklin 2011
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Without the help of the following people, I doubt that this book would have been completed. A big thank you goes to Gemma Williams, who gave such excellent advice and encouragement and to Maureen Hill, for her editing and help through countless drafts.
Thank you to all my family and friends for being so encouraging and supportive during the long process, especially Janet Williams and Diane Franklin.
Special thanks go Cathy Whittaker and the members of The Stratford Scribes Writing Group, who listened to my early chapters and gave me helpful and constructive comments.
I would also like to thank The Arvon Foundation for the opportunity to work with top writers. They gave excellent tutoring and helped me find the courage to write this book.
The Hilary Johnson Authors’ Advisory Service set me on the right track and helped me to believe in myself.
Thanks go to De Montfort University’s ‘Writing for Television’ MA programme for instilling a sense of professionalism in me.
Last but not least, Robert McKee and his story structure seminars, for inspiring me and for giving me an understanding of how story works.
CHAPTER 1
He chose her from the robed figures waiting in the perfumed atrium. Engrossed in the celebrity gossip magazines, no one noticed the white-suited therapist approach her. No one watched as she followed him obediently to the treatment room.
As he walked behind her down the white corridor, he assessed her figure, congratulating himself that she would be perfect for his purpose.
He held open the door for her to pass into the relaxing oasis, allowing the mingled scents of essential oils to drift out into the corridor.
She turned to appraise him, certain of her well-maintained beauty.
‘I thought it would be a lady therapist?’ she said, her voice rising in a question.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll soon have you relaxed.’ He treated her to a shy smile. ‘Unless of course, you would prefer…?’
She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter.’
He closed the door behind him, and turned to watch as she moved to stand beside the therapy couch.
Taking two steps towards her, he brought up his hands as if to help her remove her robe. Her neck was warm and soft and yielded easily to his hands.
She looked surprised, flung out her arms, her long painted nails clawing at the couch as if it could give her support against his sudden assault. He smiled, relentlessly increasing the pressure, unprepared for how easy it was. Her mouth opened as if to scream but turned instead into an ugly gape through lack of air.
Before real panic could reach her eyes, she was dead. Suffering was not part of his plan.
Releasing his hands, he caught her as she sagged to the floor and lifted her gently onto the couch. When he pulled her robe open, he discovered she was naked beneath. This was good since her firm flesh did not interest him, and having to remove her underwear would just cause delay.
She was his and he was free to make any statement he wanted with her lifeless body. Now she would become the perfect expression of his pain.
He turned away from her and went to the heating panel, where he had hidden everything he needed. From the pile of clothing, he selected the little-girl knickers printed with pictures of a fairy-tale princess. Luckily, obese little girls liked to pretend they were princesses too. He lifted her limp, painted feet and inserted them into the knickers. It was no trouble to tug them up to her waist.
Next, he shook out the pink party dress with its deeper satin sash, and carefully sitting her up, he placed it over her head. Her head slipped onto his chest and, for a moment, he indulged in the great sense of power this gave him. His fingers began to tremble as he straightened the dress and fastened the matching bow in her hair. He was aware that time was of the essence and that he might be discovered at any moment.
Then he stood back to admire his handiwork. She looked perfect, just like a child going to a party. In his excitement, he had forgotten the finishing touches, so he added these, carefully placing each one for maximum effect. Until, completely satisfied, he recorded the scene on his mobile phone.
After quickly changing into his own robe, he folded the borrowed therapist suit and her robe under a towel and left the room, dropping the whole bundle into the full linen trolley at the end of the corridor, before strolling nonchalantly away. Mission accomplished in less than three minutes.
CHAPTER 2
Matt wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and adjusted his tie. It seemed funny sharing his space with anyone, apart from a mate or two staying to celebrate the occasional rugby win. This small flat had been his home for six years, ever since he had made Detective Inspector. It was here he did his best thinking when embroiled in a difficult case.
Now he had a wife. Matt was still amazed at how easy it had been to realise that Eppie was meant to be his life-long companion. If he tried to analyse the attraction in true detective fashion
, he knew he would never be able to work it out. It went beyond cerebral thinking and was something much more primitive and essential.
Eppie wasn’t beautiful, whatever that was; she was unique, the sort of woman anyone would immediately notice when she walked into a room. She didn’t give up; she could, in fact, be downright fierce, as he had found out when they first met.
He had been attracted to her from that moment, even though she had just beaten him to a rare parking place on Jury Street, and what’s more, she had left the tail end of her car sticking out into the oncoming traffic. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to leave it like that?’ he had shouted from his open window.
She had turned in surprise. Matt thought she looked out of place in the medieval market town of Warwick. She certainly wasn’t dressed for a rainy, English summer day, the sort of day that made him want to turn on the central heating. The red cotton top had a Mexican look to it. Plus, she was getting soaked, and the thin material was beginning to cling, allowing her black bra to show through.
The woman turned in surprise. ‘Oh. Sorry, only be a minute,’ she said turning her back and striding off into the newsagent’s shop.
Matt experienced a mixture of annoyance and intrigue. He wasn’t used to being ignored, especially when he was pointing out a matter of public safety. He put on his hazard lights and got out. This woman needed sorting. Taking a walk around her car, he was disgusted to find that she hadn’t even locked it. How stupid could people be?
At least she was true to her word and came out of the shop within a minute, tearing the wrapping from a cheap umbrella. As she flipped it open, she stopped, shocked to see him. ‘Still here?’ she asked, almost poking him in the eye. ‘I’m going now, so you can have this space. You’re blocking traffic there,’ she said, nodding towards his car.
Matt felt the blood rising to his head. How dare she accuse him of causing an obstruction?
‘Excuse me,’ she said, trying to get past Matt to the door of her car.
Matt stood his ground debating with himself whether to get heavy and bring out his warrant card. She had stopped in front of him, a bundle of energy, brown eyes beginning to spark as he stood looking down at her.
‘I want to get into my car, so please move—now.’
She was obviously used to getting her own way, but so was he. ‘Can I point out that your car is parked in a dangerous position?’
‘And who are you? The traffic police?’ she snapped taking a half step forward. ‘Get out of my way.’
Matt had no doubt she would physically try to push him aside if he didn’t move. What an attitude. He admired her for it and suddenly saw how funny it must look, this pint-size woman squaring up to his six-foot-one. A smile crept into his eyes.
She picked up on this immediately. ‘It’s not funny. I have a thousand things to do: get the dry cleaning, pick up Dad and ring the agent. And this bloody rain. I thought it was supposed to be summer here.’ She frowned at him as if she held him personally responsible.
Matt felt his smile widen. ‘I’ll move only if you promise to have dinner with me.’ He felt like an idiot as soon as the words were out. She would think him some kind of pervert. He watched a range of emotions cross her face to end with the faintest echo of his smile. She was beginning to see the funny side too. Matt pressed home his advantage. ‘When you have time, of course.’
‘OK,’ she said, smiling up at him.
It had been as simple as that: dinner the following night in a small bistro in Kenilworth with the food hardly tasted as they laughed together. For now, he was just happy to accept that he was the luckiest man on Earth. Well, except maybe for having McRay as a boss.
He could hear Eppie clanking about in the small kitchen and hoped she wasn’t going to be the sort of wife who felt it her duty to fill him with greasy bacon and eggs in the morning. Matt moved across the small living room, stopping only to remove the bridal garter from one of his rugby trophies.
He came up behind Eppie and slipped his arms around her. She put down the coffee pot and turned into his arms, standing on tiptoes to reach up and kiss him. Matt loved her damp, fresh-from-the-shower smell. Eppie and hot coffee, it couldn’t get much better than this.
Eppie turned away to pour the coffee, hot and strong, reminiscent of the lazy mornings of their honeymoon in Italy. Matt took a sip and watched her as she put some bread in the toaster before reaching into the warming oven to retrieve two steaming plates.
‘The bacon was just about at its use-by date, and there’s no black pudding, but I’ll get organised for tomorrow.’
Matt couldn’t stop his look of disgust as Eppie placed the hot plate in front of him. The sight of bacon, eggs, baked beans, and fried bread brought back memories that made his stomach churn.
‘Oh.’
He saw the disappointment on Eppie’s face and tried to soften the blow.
‘Love the bacon. But the rest…’
‘I’m sorry. I should have asked.’ Eppie picked up his plate and turned back to the oven.
Feeling like a heel, Matt jumped up and went to her, slipping his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzling his face into her neck. He felt her relax in his arms as she turned towards him.
He kissed her—a long, deep kiss fusing them together and arousing the passion in both of them. Matt felt for the tie on her robe and eagerly pushed it aside to caress her body.
Afterwards, he reassured himself that everyday things like cooked breakfasts didn’t matter as long as they loved each other.
Matt watched as Eppie put some fresh bread in the toaster before scraping his uneaten breakfast in the bin. ‘It was at scout camp. I won’t tell you what they did. Ever since then…’
‘Must have been pretty dire.’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Anyway, I don’t want my man to become fat and flabby.’ She aimed a playful punch at Matt’s middle, which he dodged with ease, grasping her wrists and pulling her towards him again.
When Matt released her to rescue the burning toast, he was sure she had something on her mind.
‘I thought I’d start looking for a job,’ she said, still with her back towards him.
Matt, in honeymoon mood, had been hoping to keep Eppie all to himself for a little longer. He played for time. ‘No hurry is there? We have no round-the-world yachtsmen here in Warwick.’ Their express courtship had ruled out thinking of long-term plans, other than the urgent need to be together.
‘No, but working for Dad has given me all sorts of skills, like planning, organising, sports injuries, cooking, massage…’
Matt laughed at her eagerness and cut her off midstream. ‘All skills you can use on me.’
‘So you want to keep me locked up and all for yourself?’ Eppie mocked him.
Matt drew her into his arms again. ‘You bet.’
When he left, Matt prayed that the criminals on his patch had been on their best behaviour. All he wanted to do was get back to Eppie. He had felt a bit heartless, leaving her there alone in the flat. Also, he couldn’t wait to take on his old role of tour guide and show her the delights of the area. Except maybe his favourite, Kenilworth Castle, as he would always associate the castle with Jo.
Although in ruins, Kenilworth Castle had always drawn him with its sense of peace, as if the red sandstone walls had infused only the happy memories of those who lived there. Among them all, Matt liked to imagine John of Gaunt riding in on his charger to receive a seductive welcome from his mistress, Katherine Swynford.
After the bombshell of his grandfather’s suspension, Matt had gone there seeking comfort and trying to digest how such a thing could happen to the best village bobby in England. Granddad was Matt’s hero and could do no wrong, so a charge of corruption just couldn’t be true. Matt could make no sense of it then, but he had made enough of his own mistakes since to realise that nothing was ever completely black and white.
CHAPTER 3
Lisa was calling his name as he amble
d back to the Atrium. Pleading a call of nature, he apologised for keeping her waiting.
‘No matter, but we had best get started on your massage. Got them packed in back to back this morning.’
He followed her to the therapy room, just three doors down from where his statement lay waiting to be discovered, thinking of how Lisa’s morning was going to be delightfully disrupted.
Trying to relax was difficult as he waited for sounds that his efforts had been discovered.
‘You are very tense today, Mr Draper.’
‘Work I’m afraid. Just need your magic fingers.’ He let her rub the essential oils into his back while his mind drifted back to what had sparked his endeavour.
He knew exactly when it had resurfaced, this urge to kill. Margaret, his sister, had placed her new baby in his Mother’s arms, and he watched that old face relax into a rare smile, evoking agonizing memories of Mother with Lizzie.
The child gurgled and flailed its chubby arms in the air, as certain of its inherent power as all females. The unbroken bond between mother, daughter, and granddaughter left him excluded and alone again.
In danger of letting his jealousy show, Clive walked to the large bay windows and pretended an interest in the tree surgeon attending to next door’s overgrown oak, grateful that all those years at St. Stephen’s had taught him self control.
Then, with his hatred concealed, he felt able to join Mother and Margaret for a cup of tea and endure their conversation about what Margaret could expect, based on what she had been like as an infant.
‘She really is the most beautiful baby in the world.’ Mother put her cup down and peered again into the carrycot while Margaret preened as if she had just painted the Mona Lisa.
Little Emily interrupted their tea, screwing up her face, and preparing to let the world know who was boss.
‘If only she would sleep through the night.’
‘She will, just give her time. I used to stroke your head, like this.’ Mother reached into the cot and began gently stroking Emily’s head. ‘Rock a bye baby in the tree tops.’
Clive felt himself squirming as she sang the forgotten lullaby, while Emily, knowing she now had control, was quietening.
Had Mother ever smiled at him in that way? Had she ever loved him?