Screaming Yellow

by Rachel Green

  SCREAMING YELLOW

  Laverstone Chronicles, Book 1

  RACHEL GREEN

  LYRICAL PRESS

  http://lyricalpress.com/

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

  For the holder of my own tattooed sigil, DK

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to DK and Luisa for living with a writer, Nerine and the staff of Lyrical Press for all the help, and to the players in the UK Leather and BDSM scene for letting me watch and play.

  Prologue

  The rope went taut, followed by a frantic drumming of leather against the old oak banisters, a kicking and jerking of legs until one shoe, a sensible brown slip-on with a decorative buckle, slipped from a stockinged foot to drop twenty feet to the carpet below.

  Above, the legs shuddered and were still. A line of urine ran down, soaked up by the coarse nylon but copious enough to drip onto the Persian runner on the ground floor. Fingers that once held a flute in the Wiltshire Women’s Symphony Orchestra before arthritis took its toll fell limp and lifeless, the wedding band that hadn’t budged in forty years slipping off and following the shoe, though it hit the floor on its edge, bouncing and rolling silently away.

  Grace Peters would look better in her coffin. Hanging from a rope around an open beam in the loft was not how she’d have wanted to be remembered. Her tongue protruded from yellow teeth and her eyes were red from burst blood vessels. Hanging was an uncommon means of suicide for women, but was still in the top five.

  She swayed slightly in the breeze from the open kitchen window. Grace had been a recluse for the three years since her husband’s death and there were few visitors to the three-story house on Wightwick Drive. At least in winter decomposition was slowed: there would be little change in her appearance before she was discovered.

  Downstairs Mitsy, Grace’s tabby cat, sniffed at the fallen drops and looked up, just the tip of its tail twitching.

  Chapter 1

  Susan Pargeter winced as a fourteen-gauge needle sank into her skin then again when it poked out an inch farther along. It was a shallow wound–she could see the ridge of metal under the flesh, the last in a long line of parallel needles down the top of both breasts from her collarbones to her areolas.

  “Keep still.”

  Robert’s voice was commanding, a tone expecting absolute compliance. His fingers slipped another sterile needle through, perfectly parallel with the rest. “There.” He dropped the plastic cap into a yellow sharps bin. “A pretty ladder for an angel to climb.”

  He ran his finger down each set of ridges in turn, causing Susan’s heart to flutter. Her pelvis flooded with warmth.

  The overhead lights went out as Robert set up his digital camera. Her blissful expression would not appear in any photograph, just the needles taken from the perspective of a surreal landscape. She would have the honor of appearing, albeit anonymously, in his latest collection of fetish photography.

  Lights flashed as he took several photographs from different camera positions, changing the direction of the floods when he felt a new angle warranted it. His voice softened as he stroked her cheek. “Do you need water?”

  When she shook her head, he straightened an arm, cleaning it with an alcohol wipe. He inserted a sterile hypodermic, finding the vein with the assuredness of many years of practice and drew out a few fluid ounces of blood.

  “The ancients thought this was the life essence.” He removed the syringe and pressed a wad of cotton wool onto the spot, securing it with a plaster and tucking it out of sight of the camera lens. “Many still do. God forbade His creation to drink of it lest they become as demons.” He set his cameras on automatic shutter and poured the blood over her breasts, the splashing accompanied by the twelve frames per second shutter clicks.

  As both cameras beeped to indicate full memory cards, Robert threw a towel over Susan’s stomach to catch the drips. “All done. I’m proud of you. You took it without a murmur. Not even a single call of ‘yellow.’”

  She smiled, watching him withdraw each needle and drop it into the sharps bin. “It might have spoiled your design if I’d asked you to stop. Besides, it was very relaxing.”

  “Good.” Robert smiled and leaned forward to brush her lips with his own. “Come to my room later.”

  “I will. Thank you, sir.” Susan stood and held out her arms as Robert drew a silk dressing gown over her naked body. The marks where the needles had been were a series of raised scarlet ridges that would be gone by morning. Beads of blood from the deeper needles were already scabbing over.

  She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Thank you.”

  Robert smiled. “Away with you.” He gave her bottom a gentle pat. “I have work to do. I’ve got to download all those pretty pictures I’ve just taken and work on them.”

  Susan nodded and turned, skimming up a five-pack of the sterile needles and slipping them into the deep pocket of her robe.

  The door closed softly behind her.

  Chapter 2

  The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the leaded glass in its eighteenth-century fanlight. Jennifer winced, remembering the time it fell out and they’d had to find two hundred pounds to have it repaired before the bishop visited. Simon had been forced to ask the people at the manor for help and they’d been crowing about it ever since.

  She logged her status to “global away” and pushed her executive chair from the computer. She stood and padded to the study door, her bare feet sinking into the antique Persian carpet. “Simon?” she called. “Is that you?”

  Her brother stood in the hallway shrugging off his overcoat and dripping water all over the runner. His face was an angry red as he pulled his arm out of the sleeve, heedless of the cotton turned inside out in the process. “Who else would it be?” he asked, a little too harshly for Jennifer’s liking. “I live here, don’t I?”

  Jennifer drew herself to her full five feet, eight inches and flicked her long hair out of the way. “I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me, Simon Brande. I may only be your sister but I think I deserve a little more respect than that. More than the carpet, at any rate. Look! You’re dripping everywhere!” She tutted and swept forward to take the coat from him. “Here, let me. How many times have I asked you to take your coat and shoes off in the porch?”

  She opened the cloakroom door and pulled out a coat hanger, pursing her lips as she thrust an arm into the wet sleeve to pull it out again. She hung the coat in the downstairs cloakroom where the tiled floor was easily mopped. “Honestly, anyone would think I was a harridan when really I’m just concerned for your well-being.”

  Simon’s shoulders sagged and his face relaxed. “Of course you are, Jennifer. I’m sorry.” He stepped toward her and offered a peck on the cheek. “I’ve had a rotten day.”

  “Oh?” Jennifer looked down. “So have your shoes by the look of it. What have you been walking in?”

  Simon looked down and grimaced. “I parked too close to the rose bed. I must have stepped in the mud.”

  “Oh, Simon! You’ve probably crushed the aubrietia I planted yesterday. I wish you’d be just a little more careful. Take your shoes off before you tread it through the house.”

  “Sorry.” Simon used the toe of one shoe to lever his foot halfway out of the other, then swapped feet, leaving him in just his socks.

  Jennifer took two sheets out of the property section of the newspaper and laid them next to the front door, Simon’s shoes on top. She passed him his slippers. “What happened to give you such a horrid day?”

  “I don’t know if I should say.” Simon worried his feet into the slippers, picked up his battered old briefcase and carried it into the living room. “I don’t wa
nt you spreading it all over the bloody internet as soon as my back’s turned.” He poured himself a scotch and drank it in one swallow.

  “I don’t know why you’d say that.” Jennifer took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her. “I never say anything you don’t want me to.”

  “Ha!” Simon poured himself a second drink and sat. “Like that time I found Mrs. Westman and the verger going at it like hammer and tongs in the belfry? ‘I won’t tell a soul’ you said, but the following Sunday there was a lynch mob outside the church doors.”

  “I’m sure that was nothing to do with me.” Jennifer picked up a Homes and Garden and began flicking through it. “I didn’t tell anyone other than Marge.”

  “Yes, exactly. Marge at the grocer’s. I’m surprised the bishop didn’t turn up to re-sanctify the church.” He sighed and leaned back against the horsehair stuffing. “Well, it’s not as if you wouldn’t find out soon anyway. Grace Peters is dead. I’ve just had to identify her body.”

  “Oh, that was you, was it?” Jennifer turned away to reach for a glass.

  “What do you mean, ‘that was me?’” Simon stared at her. “Do you mean to say you already knew about it?”

  “Of course.” Jennifer smiled and poured herself a gin. “Margaret told me. She works on the emergency ward at the hospital and dispatched the ambulance.”

  Simon threw his hands in the air. “I should have guessed you’d already have all the gossip. You and your webcam cronies. I bet if I wanted to know Sergeant Davies’s cock size you’d be able to tell me.”

  “Don’t be so crude.” Jennifer smacked his arm lightly as she sat. “What did she die of?”

  Simon rubbed his eyes, the third finger of each hand digging into the corners to wipe away the grit. “Suicide. They found her hanging from a beam, the rope through the trap door to the loft. The poor soul. I shall say a prayer for her.”

  “Nonsense.” Jennifer put the glass down on the coffee table, careful to use a coaster to avoid leaving a ring. “She took a long drop because couldn’t take the guilt anymore.”

  Simon sat forward in his seat, frowning. “What guilt? What are you on about?”

  “Henry, her husband. Everybody knows she killed him for the insurance.”

  Simon shook his head, unable to stop a bark of laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jennifer. Everybody knows that was an accident. The inquest cleared her of any complicity as I’ve told you before. I’d know if it was anything else, wouldn’t I?” He stood, leaving his glass on the wooden surface.

  Jennifer moved it onto a coaster, her face pinched in irritation, then turned away to stare at the painting of Jesus baring his heart on the wall. “She wouldn’t have confessed a murder to you, would she? How many times has that happened? I bet that even when you had the parish of St. John’s Wood you never got a ‘Bless me Father, I’ve strangled my husband and made it look like an accident.’”

  Simon scowled. “Of course not, and Henry’s death was an accident as well you know. Besides, if she was such a cold-blooded killer, she’d hardly be likely to commit suicide, would she?” He pulled off his white collar and unbuttoned his shirt.

  “Just because she didn’t confess doesn’t mean that she wasn’t wracked with guilt.” Jennifer was unfazed by the double negatives. “What about all those sleeping pills she took? She couldn’t sleep for the guilt eating her up inside.”

  “She didn’t take sleeping tablets.” Simon shook his head. “Really, Jennifer. Where do you get all these ideas?”

  “Was there a suicide note?”

  “Why would there be?” Simon stood. “She was obviously very depressed.”

  “What makes you so sure there wasn’t?” Jennifer held out a hand and Simon pulled her to her feet. “Have you seen the crime scene?”

  “Of course not. I haven’t been to her house, only the hospital. The police called me there to identify her.”

  “Why you?” Jennifer led the way into the kitchen and took the oven gloves off the hook. “Who found her?”

  “The police. Susan Pargeter dropped in to see her and when she didn’t get a reply she called the police. My name was in her wallet on the ‘in case of accident’ card. The Lord knows why.”

  Jennifer smiled. “She liked you. You were the only person in fifty miles who didn’t think she’d murdered her husband.”

  “That’s because she didn’t. It’s a moot point, anyway. Whatever she did or didn’t do in her life is between her and God now. That smells good.” He nodded toward the lasagna Jennifer was pulling out of the oven. “I’m famished.”

  “It’s a bit overdone,” she said. “It’s gone crispy on the top. I had the oven set to ‘flames of Hell’ for the first forty minutes.”

  “Now who’s being disrespectful?” Simon smiled. “Shall I put the plates out?”

  “Please.” Jennifer carried the dish to the small table. “Have we got any of that pinot blanc left? It’d go well with this.”

  Simon put the plates on the work surface and checked the wine rack. “We have, yes.” He took the bottle out and ferreted in the cutlery drawer. “Where’s the corkscrew?”

  Jennifer blushed. “It’s probably next to the computer. I’ll go and get it.” She trotted back to the study, pulling off the oven gloves.

  “Straight back, mind.” Simon rattled the cutlery. “No chatting to your friends. I don’t want this conversation spread all over Laverstone.”

  “As if I would,” Jennifer called, stealing a glance at her contacts list. Margaret was still online as well as Catherine from The Larches. She couldn’t wait for dinner to be over so she could log back on. She returned to the kitchen and gave the corkscrew to Simon. “Shall I be Mother Superior?”

  “That got old the first time you said it.” Simon opened the wine, holding the bottle between his knees for leverage. “I wish you’d give it a rest.”

  “Why should I when it needles you so?” Jennifer laughed and patted his arm. “How will the bishop react to a suicide in your parish?”

  “He’ll give me one of his hard stares and a lecture on the saving of souls.” Simon broke into a grin. “I just hope she left something to the Church in her will, else he’ll probably demote me to St. Jude’s.”

  “That’s Anglican, though.”

  Simon laughed. “My point exactly.” He carried the plates and cutlery through while Jennifer took a loaf of garlic bread out of the oven and sliced it up. She arranged it in a bowl and went through to find Simon already dishing up two generous portions of lasagna. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the bowl. “Don’t let me have too much of that,” he said. “My parishioners would never forgive me.”

  “Nonsense.” Jennifer put three of the twelve slices on his plate. “Garlic is good for you.”

  “Not when it’s swimming in butter it’s not.” Simon held out his hand and Jennifer took it while he said grace. As soon as she repeated his “Amen” Simon bit into one of the pieces and chewed, a line of grease speckling his upper lip.

  “What did she look like then?”

  “Who?”

  “Grace Peters.”

  Simon gestured with the piece of bread. “You know what she looked like. Sixties, gray hair in a bun, all her own teeth.”

  “No, silly.” Jennifer picked up her knife and fork. “What did she look like when you saw her? Was her neck broken? Bulging eyes from the blood pressure? What?”

  Simon picked at the lasagna with his fork. “She looked…pale,” he said at last. “Look, do we have to talk about this? How was your day?”

  “Fine. Same as always.” Jennifer knew her brother well enough to know when not to push a subject. “The bookshop in Dark Passage was having a sale. I bought you a nineteenth-century bible for your collection.”

  “Thank you.” Simon smiled, though she suspected it was more for the change of subject than the gift. “I hope it’s not like the last one you got there.”

  “With all the ‘Gods’ replaced with ‘G-dash-d?’” J
ennifer laughed. “It was an American bible. They’ve decided naming God is disrespectful.”

  “A Jewish tradition, I think you’ll find.” Simon pointed at her with his fork. “If God hadn’t wanted us to say His name He wouldn’t have given us vowels.”

  Jennifer laughed and the rest of the course was eaten to small talk. She finished long before her brother, who had a second portion, and waited patiently for him to finish his plate. She cleared up and brought out the second course. “Pudding?”

  “Lovely.” He opened his arms to allow easier access to the table. She put a dish in front of him and a can of pressurized cream on the table then returned to the kitchen for her own.

  Simon squirted cream over the top of his pudding and picked up his spoon. It was a simple affair of apricot yoghurt poured over sliced banana. “I’m sorry.” He pushed the dish away and rose. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Jennifer looked up. “Don’t you want that?”

  “No, thanks. After identifying corpses, this looks like chunks of dead flesh over empty eyes.” Simon clenched his lips as if she’d try to force him to eat it. “I’m not in a pudding mood.” He rubbed his forehead and cheek with one hand, brushing away the lock of hair that fell into his eyes. “Do you want coffee?”

  Jennifer was torn between wanting to talk more about the suicide and wanting to get back onto the computer. She looked at her brother’s face. He looked tired. It was worth the sacrifice of another hour offline to encourage him to go to bed early, for then she’d have all night online if she wanted.

  “Yes, please,” she said. “Make it a sweet one, though.”

  “Coming right up.” Simon picked up his pudding dish and carried it into the kitchen.

  Jennifer watched through the serving hatch as he switched the kettle on and emptied the yoghurt and banana into the bin. He stood there while the kettle boiled.

  Jennifer finished her pudding and followed him into the kitchen. “Then send it to them.”