A Hunger Within

by Michael Kerr

  “But she didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Anne Stark did not queer...excuse the unintentional pun, Paula’s job.”

  “Well, no. Although she may have been going to. Or may have thought she could win Paula back. Do you think that Stark had anything to do with Paula’s death?”

  “I don’t rule out any possibility at this time.”

  “I’m sorry if I acted like a diva, Inspector. I realise that you are trying to bring Paula’s killer to justice. It just hadn’t crossed my mind that someone who knew her might be responsible. I thought that some maniac was shooting people at random.”

  “And that might be the case, Ms. Lennox. You will appreciate that we have to consider every possibility.”

  “Could be Lennox,” Eddie said as they walked across the car park.

  “Or one of the canteen ladies who took exception to Paula calling the food crap,” Ryan said.

  “I don’t think being facetious suits you, boss.”

  “You’re right, Eddie. But how I see it is, Anne Stark was in love with Paula. She is also a control freak, and couldn’t handle rejection. The motive was jealousy. Jayne Lennox only worships the ground that her own two feet walk on, so I want you to write up a report on Stark that will make Lizzie Borden look like Shirley Temple.”

  “Shirley who?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Eddie grinned. “So in essence, you want her to appear to be the spurned older woman, who was deeply in love with a girl who cheated on her. With a history of being vindictive and using her position to ruin careers, Anne Stark, obsessed and inconsolable, physically assaulted and threatened Paula to no effect, shortly before she was murdered.”

  “Yeah, and that’s the truth of it, Eddie. It makes her a bona fide suspect, and gives us cause to take a closer look at her.”

  “You think it will lead us to Tyler, boss.”

  “I doubt it. But I want her confession. She can tell us how she contacted him, and by what means and where she made payment.”

  “How do you reckon some citizen with no apparent criminal connections hires a bloody hitman? There’s no branch of Murder Incorporated listed in the phone book.”

  Ryan stopped. A light clicked on in his head. “Through the bloody ‘net. Maybe he doesn’t just seek out lonely women as potential victims. He could also tout for contractors on a website.”

  “And where would the likes of Anne Stark know which search engine to use to find him?”

  “I don’t know, Eddie, yet. I do know we need access to her work and home computers, though.”

  “It could be simpler than that, boss. She might just know someone who put her in touch with Tyler.”

  “There are a lot of might’s, ifs and maybes. We’ll dig until we strike oil.”

  Anne made a cup of tea and went about her business as usual. The visit from the police had been expected. They would be interviewing everyone who had known Paula and the other victims. Just routine. They would never find any proof of her having arranged for the ungrateful, two-timing little slut’s murder. Paula shouldn’t have mind-fucked her. They had been good together, in and out of bed. But the girl had been researching more than guests for Jayne Lennox.

  She threw the cup at the wall, unmindful that it shattered and sprayed hot tea everywhere. Just the thought of Paula allowing that overrated, no-talent bimbo to run her hands and mouth over her body, was enough to trigger a black rage. Little Miss Kinky Kay had deserved all she got. She had pleaded with Paula; told her how much she loved her, and almost grovelled. But the tight-arsed little tramp had left her for Lennox. Told her that she wanted someone younger, who was more into the sadomasochistic sex that turned her on. Anne had suffered being manacled, flagellated with a bamboo cane that had left her buttocks striped with bruises, and even endured a very mild electrical current put through the crocodile clips that Paula would clamp to her nipples. And what thanks had she got for allowing herself to be humiliated, and even urinated on?

  Everything has a price. Paula had paid for her infidelity. Life moved on with debts paid. Anne’s new secretary was now the challenge of the day. She was small, slender, had a sweet face, lovely full and pouty lips, and a timid, subservient nature. They had already broken the ice with a passionate session behind the locked door of Anne’s office. The future looked rosy.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  He ripped up the newspaper into almost confetti-sized pieces, kicked Gimp away from him and went to the sink to scrub off the black print that now covered his hands.

  It was not merely because Emily had survived being stabbed that was making him so furious. What enraged him more than that was the fact that he had been duped by some nonentity who had caused him to flee like a bird put to flight.

  It was reported that a disabled neighbour who had been skulking about in the middle of the night, had looked through a gap in the curtains at – for him – a very inopportune moment. The creep had knocked on the window, and had had the wits to announce himself as the police.

  Andy had been made to look a fool by a no-brainer who had been an inept forklift truck driver. It left a bad taste in his mouth. He would not let it be. The man, one Harold Palmer, and Emily, would have to be taken care of. But not now. He knew that the woman would be under protection. He would let a few weeks tick by. They and the police would soon believe Emily to be safe; would assume, wrongly, that her attacker would have no reason to wish her further harm. They had no way of knowing that he considered it unfinished business. For now, he would alleviate the pent-up anger and frustration by settling another pressing score.

  First, he had to move out of the maisonette. It was time to shed the persona of Mark Collins. The prison photo, reproduced in the newspapers, looked enough like him to cause alarm. Maybe one of his neighbours would contact the police and report that a single man living in the avenue reminded him of the ex-con they were trying to locate.

  He placed a single cardboard box into the boot of the newly stolen Rover. In it was all he needed. He would just drive away and not return. He would take possession of a flat he owned at Snaresbrook, in the name of Toby Carlson. Maybe grow his hair long, wear hazel-brown contact lenses, and purport to be a sound mixer for a music company.

  Waiting until the steel-grey October sky darkened, he locked up the house and left by the internal door to the garage. Used the remote to open the door, and drove away, into a new phase of his life.

  The dark saloon eased away from the kerb and followed, keeping well back. The driver had been given specific instructions: to kill Tyler.

  Terry Walsh was eager to carry out the hit, but would proceed with extreme caution. He disliked Tyler intensely, but also respected the man’s capabilities. Having served time with him, he knew that Tyler was extremely dangerous, and that he had a nose for trouble, to the point of being paranoid.

  Savino had used Tyler’s propensity for violence in prison to keep other cons in line, and put business the man’s way after he was released. But Tony the Torch always kept tight control over his business affairs. Now that he had fed Tyler’s true identity to the filth, the hitman was a liability. Should he be caught, then he might admit to taking care of Cattrall for Tony. Plus, Savino had never forgiven Tyler for threatening to harm Gina, his daughter.

  Terry had been released a few weeks after Tyler. Had kept him under loose surveillance, and reported back to Tony when he changed his identity to Mark Collins and changed address.

  Terry was not to know that Tyler was now running, shedding another identity to protect himself against discovery.

  The flat was one of six in the large, detached Georgian house. Andy put the central heating on to air it, and the hot water for a shower, and made himself coffee. He felt the tension lift. He was invisible again. Had become someone else.

  After showering, and dressing in dark clothing, he left the flat and headed for an address he had planned on visiting for a long time. He was going to kill again. He carried
the Spyderco knife and a Smith & Wesson nine millimetre pistol complete with silencer, that he had bought from Ernie Myers, an ex-con who he had done business with before. The handgun was not a second-hand weapon that Ernie was selling on, but a brand new piece, not yet bloodied. Andy looked forward to using it profitably for a long time.

  Leaving a newly stolen Peugeot in a car park at the rear of a busy Cantonese restaurant, he walked the half mile to Kirton Lane.

  The Rectory was a grim, stone built house set in approximately half an acre, with. five-foot-high walls that did not present a defence to his attack.

  He looked up and down the lane. There was no one in sight, and so he reached up, gripped the overhanging edging, scaled the lichen-covered barrier in seconds, and dropped down into the evergreen foliage that grew in profusion.

  This was to be one of the most rewarding killings he had ever carried out. It was personal. She had made a short period of his life hell, and he had had to grit his teeth, clench his arse cheeks, and put up with it. Now, he was going to pay her back with interest. He heard himself giggling. Had to take a few deep breaths to find some composure.

  Keeping to the wall, he made his way around to the side of the large garden. There was no moon, and he cast no shadow as he sprinted across the lawn in a crouch. It took him less than a minute to find the paint-encrusted telephone wires that snaked down the wall and vanished into the wood frame of an arched window. He slipped the blade of his knife behind the wires and cut through them.

  The house was in darkness. He stuck a cross of duct tape over a pane in one of the kitchen windows, used a glass cutter to cut around the tape, and then tapped and pulled the circle of glass free, to reach inside and unlatch the window. He could see no blinking red light betraying an alarm system. He listened. Nothing untoward. He clambered over the window ledge and onto the sill. Shuffled over the sink unit and eased himself down to the floor.

  It was the onset of a low whining that drew his eyes to a corner. The dog was sitting up on a quilted blanket. It was an old, fat mongrel. It began to wag its tail.

  “Good boy,” he whispered, and went over to it and ruffled its floppy ears.

  Barbara Coombes woke up with a weight on her chest.

  “Dermot,” she said to her husband, who was snoring loudly. “Move your arm.”

  The weight remained. She reached out from beneath the duvet to push it aside, and felt a warm wetness. Her senses reeled as Dermot’s snoring became a strangled wheeze. What was wrong with him?

  As she pushed herself up into a sitting position, the weight seemed to roll down her stomach, to lodge between her legs as she scrabbled for the switch of the bedside lamp.

  With the bright yellow glow came a sight that she could not readily take in. She sat spellbound and felt her heart racing, thudding, paining her chest.

  A figure with a stocking over his head was sitting on the bed next to Dermot. And her husband was now face down and making a liquid, gargling sound, the way he did so annoyingly every night when he used mouthwash. He began to shake, and his right hand clawed at the now saturated pillow.

  Barbara wanted to scream, but could do nothing but sit rock-still, gulping like a fish out of water. Time seemed to stop. All she could do was watch the horror unfold. A sudden finger-thick tendril of blood looped out from Dermot’s neck and splashed her face. She turned away, only to be met by Scruffy’s staring eyes. The dog was not on top of the bed, between her thighs...Only its head.

  She sucked in a great whooping breath, felt the scream form, but was stopped from releasing it by a hand that covered her nose and mouth and pushed her back down.

  The seconds passed. Her head began to pound due to lack of oxygen, and black dots danced like a cloud of midges in front of her eyes. Her feet drummed silently on the mattress, and Scruffy’s head rolled off her, to fall onto the carpet with a soft thud.

  Barbara came to in the bath. She was gagged, and her arms were bound behind her. Sitting on the edge of the old, claw-footed and recently re-enamelled bath was the masked man. He wore blood-spattered latex gloves, and held a knife that had what looked to be saw teeth along its blade.

  God in heaven...NOOO! She knew who it was. The egg yolk-yellow eyes belonged to an ex-inmate who had been part of her caseload.

  “I see you recognise me, Barbara,” he said, reaching up and pulling the stocking off. “Now let me explain why I’m here, and why I cut your hubby’s throat.”

  Her head spun. She thought she was going to pass out again. Wanted to, but didn’t. He was going to kill her, and that knowledge caused anguish that she had never known existed. She had lost both her parents and other relatives, and been able to acknowledge that it was the natural order of things. Now, even the slaying of her husband and Scruffy was pushed to one side. She was concentrated solely on her own desperate plight. The dread was not something she could properly face. Panic was urging her to take flight or fight, and she could do neither.

  “You need to know from the start that when I leave, you will have suffered terrible pain, and be dead. What you did not know when I had to report to you like an errant schoolboy was, that I do not forgive people who treat me badly. I need to redress any wrong that I adjudge to have been done. You used your position to control and belittle me, Barbara. Now it’s my turn to humiliate, hurt, and then kill you.”

  She shook her head back and forth. Her eyes bulged, and she began to shake and urinate. Her sanity was on the edge of meltdown. Her brain was trying to find a way to escape.

  “The mutt’s head was inspirational, don’t you think?” Andy said as he reached down and flipped her over on to her stomach. “He was a piss-poor guard dog. I was in two minds whether to let him live or not. Then I remembered that movie, The Godfather. It was a Mafia thing. They put the head of a horse on a guy’s bed, as a warning. I thought it was neat. Funny how some things stick. I’ve always wanted to do something similar, and now I have. I can cross it off my wish list of ‘things to do before I die’.”

  * * *

  Terry parked on the road near the end of the lane and waited. He became increasingly edgy as first an hour, then another passed. What the hell was Tyler playing at? He was up to no good for sure, to have left his car and walked here. He was a killer, not a burglar, so it figured that someone was going to have a bad last night. But two hours! Maybe he was visiting some bird and not working. No sweat. The guy was a psycho who enjoyed offing people. Well he was going to get his, as soon as he left the house.

  Terry let go of the sawn-off shotgun and wiped his sweating palms on his jeans. There would be no heroics with Tyler. Just wait for him to walk back up the lane, and let him have both barrels through the open window without even getting out of the car.

  It was thirty minutes later when Andy sauntered along the lane. He was humming absently, and found it difficult to contain the sheer bliss and sense of well-being. He was bubbling like a glass of champagne. Barbara had been magnificent. She had responded so animatedly to the knife. By the time her life shuddered to a stop, he had been having what he could only describe as multiple orgasms in his brain. Near the end, he had uncovered her mouth to hear her. Muted grunts and the whistling from her nostrils was music to his ears. She was, by that stage in the proceedings, unable to vent her agony with loud screams, but the sounds she did make gladdened his heart.

  After setting the scene, he rinsed the blood off his gloved hands and left the house. Tonight had in some way been a Rubicon. He had used the cold rage harboured for so long against the woman to satiate an appetite for cruelty that he had not thus far fully appreciated as being the mainspring of his endeavours. He had now crossed a boundary, and would in future gorge himself on inflicting merciless and protracted brutality on his chosen prey.

  The bathroom had been replete with her fear; an intangible emotion that, as lesser animals were able to, he could tap into and perceive. The pressure waves of her terror had rippled out, ricocheting off the walls for him to absorb and be captivated by. The
y had fed a hunger within him.

  The parked car was either broken down, or its occupant was waiting for someone.

  Its presence was disconcerting. He did not falter in his stride, but felt a tension building as he approached the vehicle.

  Terry pressed the button and the window slid smoothly down into the door frame. He raised the sawn-off, and in that second, Andy ducked down and vanished from view.

  Terry was blown sideways under the impact of the four bullets that punched neat holes through the door and drove him into the passenger seat. He did not immediately realise that he had been shot, until messages of pain overlaid the initial shock.

  Wrenching the door open, Andy saw that the shotgun was in the foot well, and got in next to the driver, who he now recognised. “You fucked-up, Terry,” he said. “Who sent you, Savino?”

  Terry felt a white-hot burning in his stomach, that overshadowed the pain in his shoulder and thigh. He had been gut shot. He took shallow breaths and wondered if he was dying.

  “Answer me, Terry,” Andy said, poking the end of the silencer into the centre of a patch of blood that was spreading across the front of the other man’s light-coloured sweater. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll put you out of your misery.”

  Terry cried out against the agony. “Y…Yes, it was Savino,” he stammered.

  “Why?”

  “Because he grassed you to the filth. They know you capped Cattrall for him. He didn’t want you alive to talk to them.”

  “So he sent a fucking muppet like you to try and take me out,” Andy said by way of an observation. “How did you find me?”

  “I...I...Shit, this hurts! I got released soon after you. I knew you were on parole, so just kept tabs on you for Savino.”

  “Who else knows my current whereabouts?”

  “No one, I swear. I followed you from the house in Muswell Hill to Snaresbrook. Then waited and tailed you out here. Please, g…get me help, Tyler,” Terry begged.