by Franklin, JJ
By the time she had made the strong tea Fluff liked and brought it through, Fluff had slowed down on the biscuits. Eppie wondered how to bring up her ideas. She watched as Fluff took a great gulp of the tea.
‘That’s better. Thanks.’
‘You haven’t got any nearer to catching him?’
‘No. And I should still be out there damn it.’
‘Oh.’ Eppie realised that Fluff would still be with the team, with Matt, if it wasn’t for her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault. Matt will work better knowing you have something to eat. He’s worried I’m starving you to death.’
Eppie felt like a traitor for joking with Matt that she was living on bread and water.
‘Thought I’d pick up a curry. Is that OK with you?’
Although she liked most hot spicy foods, curry wasn’t one of Eppie’s favourites but she was grateful for the offer. ‘Yes, that would be great. Let me give you some money.’
‘No need. Oh, and if you write out a grocery list for tomorrow, I’ll try and pick up some stuff.’
‘You think I’m going to be here for a while?’
‘No way of knowing. We’re all working flat out to catch the bastard. If he thinks he is on a roll and can’t be stopped, that’s when we stand a chance.’
She held out her list. ‘I was going through everyone who came to the desk on those few days I worked with Sandi. Do you want…’
Fluff took the notebook with some reluctance. Eppie felt she didn’t really want to be bothered.
‘I’ve made a note of anything suspicious.’
‘Great.’
Eppie watched as Fluff put the notebook beside her on the sofa while she drained the mug of tea.
‘Another?’ Eppie asked, somewhat disappointed that Fluff hadn’t even glanced at her list.
‘I’ll just nip out to the takeaway first.’
Eppie had the feeling that if she looked at the list at all it would just be to humour her.
At least the curry was good and Fluff had remembered to pick up some milk and bread. Plus Matt called and it was good to hear his voice, although he sounded tired.
‘Hi, Love. How’s the prison? I did make your warder promise to feed you.’
‘I appreciate that and it was great. A nice change from biscuits and stale bread.’
‘Hey, don’t knock it. Fluff might put you in solitary.’
‘She’s in the shower. Matt it’s lonely here. And I miss you.’
‘I know, Love. Miss you too but hopefully it won’t be for long. I’ll get you something to read—haven’t forgotten.’
‘Matt, I’ve started a list of all the people who came to the reception desk.’
‘Great. Show it to Fluff. Sorry, have to go. Love you.’
Eppie only had a second to add that she loved him too and Matt was gone.
The notebook lay where Fluff had tossed it. No one was interested.
CHAPTER 50
The house had a stillness over it as he let himself in. For a moment, he couldn’t make out what was wrong, then he realised there was no cheerful bustle of Mrs Sinclair, no welcoming offer to put the kettle on, or singing in the kitchen.
Mother was sitting in the living room, her wheelchair facing the door, hands folded in her lap. There was something serene and accepting about her. Clive sensed immediately that she knew. How, it didn’t matter. He was aware that her cold eyes followed him as he moved to sit opposite her. She waited until he sat. Her voice was calm.
‘Why, Clive? Why?’
He had always imagined this moment. All those mornings as he helped her out of bed, the evenings as they sat across from each other when he made her listen to the boring details of his day. He had enjoyed the control he had over her these last couple of years. But the last two years had never made up for what she had denied him as an infant. He doubted anything could. Clive used to imagine himself explaining how bereft, shut out, he had felt.
But now, well, it didn’t seem to matter. She didn’t matter any longer. He was no longer striving for her love or attention.
‘Surely you know?’
‘No. I want you to explain, Clive.’
‘And I can’t be bothered.’
‘You owe me that at least.’
‘Owe you? Oh no. I owe you nothing. Nothing at all, Mother.’ The last word was bitter on his tongue, and he spat it at her. She recoiled slightly before rallying.
‘Then indulge me.’
He looked at her sitting there, regal and calm. She must be aware of what he was capable of. Of what was to come. Suddenly he wanted, needed to tell her. She should know after all the cause lay with her.
Clive walked slowly around her chair. Her eyes didn’t follow him but flickered, as if wondering what he might be about to do. ‘Very well, Mother, I will explain.’ He sat down again, taking his usual evening position across from her. But this was no cosy chat. He sought for the best way to begin. She sat waiting. ‘I was how old when Lizzie was born?’
She seemed surprised but answered. ‘Sixteen months. Why?’
‘Still a baby then?’
She hesitated. ‘No, not really, although you were still in nappies. It was time for you to start growing up.’
‘To be a man, like father?’
‘Well, yes.’
He could feel the anger rising but fought to control it. He wanted to remain calm and rational. She must understand.
‘A baby still. Thrust from your arms. Not able to understand why you didn’t want me, didn’t love me anymore.’
‘Now you are being melodramatic. And it doesn’t suit you, Clive.’
He could see the scorn in her eyes. ‘Melodramatic am I?’
Clive rose and walked away from her trying to get his memories in order. He had to make her understand how it was for him. He turned back to find her looking at him. She waited with such calm. He admired her courage.
‘You flung me from the nursery into the care of my idiot father who could only think of turning me into a homage to himself. Parading his stupid soldiers and his manly values. As if I cared a jot about protecting the sister who had stolen you away from me.’
She turned her head away in disgust. Clive moved to kneel in front of her, determined now that she should hear everything. She refused to look at him, so he reached forward and grasped her face roughly in his hand, forcing her to look into his eyes. ‘Do you know how much I wanted to kill the vile intruder? Wanted to place my hands around that tiny, pink neck and squeeze, and keep squeezing?’
He brought up his other hand and let both hands move downwards to her scrawny throat to emphasise his point. She seemed to be holding her breath but she was now looking fully at him. ‘Wanted to feel the life slowly leave, the gurgles, cooing, crying and her control stopped forever.’ His hands tightened around her throat.
‘You are mad.’ She brought up her frail hands to push his away.
Clive let his hands fall and knelt there wanting above everything else to put his head in her lap. To have her gently stroke his hair and sing a lullaby. He could stop then and rest. It was as if she sensed his need. She put her hand up to gently touch his head.
‘You always were a needy baby, Clive, crying if I left the room or didn’t hold you.’
Her hand was now a caress and Clive dropped his head to her lap, letting everything go for a moment. A moment was all this could be. He knew that. Then she began to hum softly and he felt the deep, racking sobs begin to course through him. Clive felt her body recoil at his emotion. She moved her hand away as if he was contaminated.
‘Stop it, Clive. You are a grown man now. Where is your self control?’
The familiar words brought him back to his senses, and he raised his head to look at her. The lips were tightly compressed causing all the ugly lines there to deepen. Clive jumped to his feet, ashamed that he had allowed his deepest needs to surface.
‘Control? Oh yes, I have self-control. I learnt that early. It was the only wa
y to get some satisfaction. But it was never enough,’ he said, getting to his feet to stand above her. ‘All the petty things I did could never, never make up for what was taken away from me.’
There was silence for a moment as he sank down into the chair, suddenly exhausted and wanting it to be over. She studied him, as if he were an alien being who had infiltrated her world.
‘Now it is happening all over again.’ He watched as his words hit her like a blow to the face.
‘Oh, my God. Little Emily. You are jealous of a tiny baby.’
Finally she understood. He had to do it now, while he had the strength. Now that she knew why. Clive leaned forward, half standing and half crouching. His face was close to hers, his fingers encircling her skinny neck. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he said, as he watched the life drain from her. She didn’t struggle and it was almost as if she welcomed it.
Afterwards, he carried her to her usual chair by the fire and stood back to gaze down at her. She looked awkward, so he placed a small cushion beside her head, which wanted to loll at an unusual angle. The fire wasn’t lit, so he put her rug around her knees to keep off the draughts. Now she looked comfortable, even if she was asleep forever.
Then without a backwards glance, he left. He had to prepare for his next statement.
CHAPTER 51
The kitchen felt cold and empty with no Mrs Sinclair concocting those tempting dinner smells. Had Mother confided in her? He doubted it. Mother wouldn’t like to wash her dirty linen in public, especially not this brand of dirty linen. A son who was a serial killer went against her concept of a proper family. If he was ever caught, it would reflect badly on her, and Clive laughed at how the newspapers would lay his misdemeanours at her door, saying he had a bad upbringing. After all it was always the parents fault wasn’t it?
The more he thought about it, the more he began to realise he might enjoy the role of a troubled soul. There would be a kindly psychiatrist who would listen carefully to his every word. He would take notes and look very serious. He would be fascinated as to what prompted Clive to kill. Everyone would be intrigued, and he could tell them, even write a book about his life. That would be worth something. Not that he would be allowed the profits, but maybe he could give them to Ben. He would always remember Clive then.
Thinking of Ben made him realise that he wanted to be free to enjoy his love, be with him, share everything, not locked away. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to get caught.
Now was the time. Clive should tell him, let him share the excitement, the sense of power. Together, they would be able to carry on forever. After each murder they would make violent, passionate love.
Clive needed to be with Ben right now.
Ben was laughing and breathless as he answered the phone and Clive could hear music in the background along with several other voices.
‘Ben Holbrook’s wedding services.’
More laughter from the chorus behind him that threw Clive into a turmoil of doubt and confusion. ‘Hello, Ben. I was hoping we could meet up?’
‘Clive. Great to hear from you. But, well, I’m a bit tied up tonight. It’s Pete and Jazz’s stag do. And as big chief organiser, I’ve got to stay around to insist they all have a great time.’
‘Oh.’ Clive couldn’t keep disappointment out of his voice at the thought of Ben giving his time and attention to anyone else.
‘Hey, why don’t you come and join us? I’m sure Pete and Jazz won’t mind and, anyway, they won’t notice, given the amount of tequilas they are soaking up.’
Clive didn’t want to share Ben with anyone.
‘We’re at Henry’s. Do you know it?’
‘No.’
‘Go past The Brown Horse, and Henry’s is in a little side street to the right.’
There was an explosion of noise from behind Ben. It didn’t sound like the sort of place Clive wanted to be.
‘Must go, Buff is climbing on the bar.’
With a click, he was gone leaving Clive undecided about what to do. If he wanted to be with Ben, he would have to suffer his drunken friends. A stag night—Pete and Jazz? Of course, he had forgotten that homosexuals could now go through a civil ceremony. Ben and he could be legally married. Everyone would then know Ben was his. Even Mother. Clive would ask him tonight.
Excited by the prospect, he set about making up a tray for Mother, who would have to be content with soup and toast. She didn’t seem interested when he took it in to her, and he giggled as he remembered that he had made her go to sleep. Clive didn’t have to try any longer to gain her love. She was asleep. He had the power to do that.
He placed the tray on the table beside her and stood looking down at her small and scrawny body, dwarfed by the high backed chair. She seemed to have shrunk into it. Clive bent to straighten the rug over her knees, pausing as he patted it into place over her lap.
‘I could sit here now, Mother, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me, no sharp words, no nasty push onto the floor. But I don’t want to.’ She took no notice.
‘I am getting married, Mother. And no, it is not nosey, interfering Anne.’ He felt the laughter bubbling up inside him at the memory of the muddy leaves piling up against Anne’s sharp little nose. ‘I will bring Ben here and he will hold me, as you never did.’
He had triumphed over them all; he was the powerful one. Closing the door behind him, he let the laughter loose to drift around the hallway and disappear up the stairs.
It was easy to find Henry’s, since the noise was shooting out across the small alleyway. Clive went towards the flashing neon sign and past the bored doorman who nodded and held open the door for him. A mass of gyrating bodies, lit by occasional vivid flashes of red and green, was all he could see. Everyone seemed to be moving in unison to what sounded like a tribal drum.
Thinking he would never find Ben in this throng, he took a tentative step forward, just as the DJ slowed the pace. Most of the bodies moved to collapse into seats, and then he saw him and wished he hadn’t.
Ben had his arm around a skinny youth who was leading him off the dance floor. Clive felt his heart tighten, as he watched the youth turn to kiss him on the mouth. Ben didn’t appear to return the kiss but it was hard to tell. Clive took a step back just as Ben turned to see him. Before Clive could move Ben was at his side.
‘Now this is great. I need someone sane. You’ll be able to help me with this mad lot.’
He leant forward for a kiss, but Clive’s face must have told him and he held back.
‘Hey, you’re not worried about Pete are you? He’s getting married to Jazz, so there is no need. Come and meet them all. Mind you, they’re not at their best.’
He took Clive’s arm and led him through the few dancers smooching around the floor.
Although there were only four of them, they were generating most of the noise in the room. Clive was embarrassed to be part of the group. One was climbing onto a chair, glass in hand, and he guessed he must be Buff.
‘Toast—that’s it. To…to…’
The others were shouting at him to get down as he tottered. Ben moved towards him and Buff flung himself forward, arms tightly around Ben’s neck.
‘You’re…the best…my Benny best…’
The others picked up the chant. ‘My Benny best…Benny best,’ as they crowded around to enclose Ben in a group hug.
Clive stood alone watching them, jealousy burning a hole in his heart, until he felt he would choke if he didn’t get some air.
Out in the alley, the air was cold, but he knew it wouldn’t cool how he felt inside. Ben’s so-called friends, drunken and lewd, how could he bear to be with them?
Clive had to prove himself, show Ben that he was all-powerful; then he would want to be with Clive instead. Tomorrow’s murder would go exactly as planned and that would impress Ben.
But what if he added something special, just for Ben. What if he laid the inspector’s woman at his feet as a trophy, just like ancient warriors threw down the heads of their enemies
at the feet of a queen. He knew just where she was hidden and could find a way past their silly security measures.
By the time he reached home, his plan was almost fully formed with just a few minor details to be worked out. He had just checked on Mother, who hadn’t moved at all, when the doorbell rang.
‘So who’s the scaredy cat then?’
Clive couldn’t hide the shock of seeing Ben standing there, but as he strode past him into the hallway, he was overcome with pleasure. ‘Just not my scene, sorry.’
‘Not mine either, but someone has to be the dedicated driver.’
‘Have they finished?’
‘Some chance. I’ve just dropped them at Gabriel’s—they stay open till the last man standing. Pick them up later. They’re too drunk to get into much trouble now. Except chucking up of course, and I’d rather not be there for that stage.’
‘Can you stay for a drink? Oh, sorry. It could be tea or coffee.’
‘Coffee would be great. Thanks. In here?’
Ben was about to push open the door to the living room. Should Clive let him see how clever he was in putting Mother to sleep, in stopping her interference in his life? But no, he wanted the whole package in place first, so he could present it to Ben as a magnificent token of his love.
‘No. Shush. Mother is sleeping.’ He managed to stop the giggle in his throat and turned it into a cough.
‘In there?’
‘More comfortable. For her legs, she says.’ Clive moved down the hallway and encouraged Ben to follow him to the kitchen.
‘Maybe we should check on the old lady. I’d like to meet her?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘She gets a bit crabby if she doesn’t have her sleep. I’ve just made sure she is comfortable.’ And sleeping forever, he wanted to add. But he could tell him that tomorrow.
Clive wanted Ben to stay, wanted to experience the loving once more. Yet he knew Ben must be persuaded, honoured. Once he realised how clever and powerful Clive was, he would only want him, not his idiot drunken friends.
He wanted to touch him, to slide his hands over those powerful shoulders, down to his hips. But if Ben loved him now, he would be lost, unable to concentrate on what must be done to capture and prepare the trophies he must lay at his feet.