Embellished Deception: A Psychological Suspense Novel (The Crime Files)
Page 1
Embellished Deception
Netta Newbound
Junction Publishing
New Zealand
Copyright © 2014 by Netta Newbound.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
Netta Newbound/Junction Publishing
nettanewbound@hotmail.com
Waihi 3610
NZ
www.nettanewbound.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout & Design ©2013 - BookDesignTemplates.com
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the “Special Sales Department” at the email address above.
Embellished Deception/ Netta Newbound. -- 1st ed
.
Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
To Paul—the love of my life
Prologue
Standing in the bushes, the man had a perfect view of the tiny cottage. He glanced at his watch—almost 8.30am. It wouldn't be long now.
At that moment, the front door opened and Catherine rushed out, her eight-year-old daughter at her heels. Catherine yelled something back into the house, but he couldn't make out the words from his position.
She unlocked the red Honda and climbed into the driver's seat. Her daughter got in beside her. Moments later, her thirteen-year-old son strolled from the house, slammed the door, in typical teenage fashion, and trudged to the car.
When he realised his sister had beaten him to the front seat the boy roared and banged the flat of his hand against the car door.
Once again, Catherine's voice rang out, but he couldn't tell what she said, although he could imagine. In fact, if the little shit had been his son, he would gladly kick him into the middle of next week.
The boy reluctantly got into the back of the car and Catherine eased the car out of the drive.
After a few minutes, the man ventured out.
The cottage wasn't overlooked by the street or any neighbours so he didn't have to worry in that respect, but he kept to the tree-line in any case and clomped around to the back of the house. His boots dragged along with every step.
He found the back door unlocked as expected and stepped inside, closing it behind him.
A radio blared from the kitchen, but other than that the house stood silent. The man took the time to inspect each room. The breakfast dishes were piled up in the sink, and a five pound note and change sat on top of a signed school trip consent form. This bothered him because they may have left the form behind by mistake, which could cause Catherine to double back. He needed to be extra careful.
A fluffy black cat stretched out on the window-ledge and lazily meowed at him.
"Piss off, puss!" He swiped at the cat who jumped to its feet and raced from the room.
The neat and tidy living room had nothing out of place. By the looks of things they didn’t use the room very much, considering the rest of the house had a real lived-in feel.
With tentative steps, he made his way upstairs.
He was pretty certain the house would be empty. He'd been watching Catherine's comings and goings for weeks. However, he wouldn’t presume anything—that was an amateur mistake.
Once he'd checked the three upstairs bedrooms and bathroom, he was able to relax. Catherine wouldn't be back for at least twenty minutes.
In Catherine's bedroom, he rummaged through yesterday's clothing thrown in a heap behind the door. He picked up the lacy red G-string from inside the jeans she'd worn. Dangling it on one finger in front of his face, he smiled, before letting it drop back to the pile at his feet.
His erection stirred, and he ran his nails along its shaft through the fabric of his track pants.
Climbing onto the bed, he glanced around him. On the bedside table, the clock ticked noisily—8.47am. A Martina Cole paperback, The Lady Killers, lay open on the pillow beside him and the spine of another book poked out from underneath the same pillow.
A diary.
As he flicked through the pages, he laughed out loud. “What the—?” He shook his head. “Why would someone write this shit down?” After reading a few more pages, he stuffed the diary back under the pillow. "Blah, blah, blah."
Alerted by the sounds of an engine, followed by the slam of a car door, he jumped to his feet and flew to the window. The red Honda was back on the drive.
Catherine was home.
Quickly scanning the room for any signs of his presence, he stepped onto the landing and into the middle bedroom that belonged to the daughter.
He left the door ajar so he could peer through the gap, and he pulled the balaclava from the top of his head fitting it snugly to his face.
The woollen fabric pressed tightly across his nose, causing him to breathe through his mouth. Damp heat from his breath spread over his face and eyes in a tickling sensation. His breathing sounded noisy to his own ears and he had no way of knowing how loud it actually was, which thrilled him all the more.
The front door banged and he held his breath—delicious anticipation made his erection throb.
After a few minutes, Catherine climbed the stairs humming a tune he didn’t recognise. He got a brief glimpse of her as she passed the door and entered the bathroom.
He heard her switch on the shower, and moments later watched as she crossed the landing to her bedroom and back, stark naked.
Once she had stepped into the shower, the man crept out from behind the door. Trying his best to lift his feet without any sound, he made his way back into Catherine's bedroom.
He stood to the side of the door, his back pres
sed against the wardrobe. The blood surging through his veins pumped in his ears.
The shower turned off and he held his breath again.
Catherine walked into the room. Head bent, she rubbed her hair with a pink towel. A white towel was wrapped around her body. She stood right in front of him. The coconut scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils and stirred his senses even more.
She glanced up and her eyes bulged as she saw him. She froze momentarily then she threw the pink towel at him, screamed and leapt for the door. But she didn’t get far.
The man ripped the remaining towel from her and shoved her backwards onto the bed—delighting in the way her hands tried to cover her modesty as absolute terror filled her eyes. Her mouth opened wide as though screaming, but no sound came out.
That wouldn't do—he needed the sound—the louder, the better.
The man worked quickly and efficiently while holding her down. He pulled a large plastic tie from his pocket, and bound her hands to the corner of the headboard.
Her legs kicked like a wild thing and her body twisted and thrashed about, yet still no sound escaped her.
He caressed her small pink-tipped breasts, gently at first, increasing the pressure bit by bit. He pinched and pulled at her nipples. She whimpered so he did it again, harder this time. But she soon regained control of herself and no more sound came out.
He needed her screams and knew by the defiance in her eyes that she had no intention of giving them to him. The fucking newspaper had informed everyone that he got off on their terror and advised future victims to stay silent and not fight.
Well, he would show her.
He climbed on top of the struggling woman and produced a hunting knife from his pocket. With a swift movement, the blade appeared and she let out several squeals. His hard-on bounced.
He sat back. All his weight pressed down on her knees causing further cries to add to his excitement. He pulled the front of his pants down and freed the huge throbbing beast within, which caused a further gasp and warbled cry.
He dug in his pocket once again and produced a condom. Then he made a display of tearing open the packet, and with slow, deliberate strokes, he unravelled the condom along the shaft of his penis. He shoved her legs apart with his own and delighted at the terror in her eyes once again.
With the first thrust came a blood-curdling scream, which almost caused him to shoot his load there and then.
But then she forced her lips closed in a tight line as though wearing an invisible gag.
He upped the force behind his thrusts, each one rougher and deeper than the last, but still she refused to make a sound. He could feel himself going limp.
He wouldn't let the bitch beat him.
Remembering the knife still in his hand, he pressed it to her throat and she couldn't hold back her terror any longer.
The screams were music to his ears. The more she screamed the harder and faster he thrust himself into her, the knife now forgotten as he finished with a long and noisy groan.
Only then did he notice the blood.
"Fuck!" He jumped off the bloody mess. He tore off the condom and straightened his clothes out, checking for any obvious blood. After tying the condom, he placed it in his pocket. Then, he cut the plastic tie and added that and the knife to the same pocket.
In his excitement, he'd gone too far with the knife and a gaping wound pumped blood out at an alarming rate.
Catherine, now unconscious, made a strange gurgling sound. Her head lolled at an unnatural angle and the colour had drained from her face.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck!" He scanned the area for any incriminating evidence.
Before he left, he closed her legs and covered her with a blanket.
She repulsed him now, which always happened afterwards.
Chapter 1
The rain pelted down.
Already soaked through to the skin, I couldn't get any wetter if I tried, and the cold caused my joints to stiffen. Every step took a huge effort, especially now my best sandals oozed with mud. It squished between my toes.
Tears mingled with the raindrops as they hit my face. At least this downpour allowed me to cry freely without anybody noticing. The weather mirrored how I felt inside—utterly miserable. Not that anybody would notice. I hadn't seen another living soul in ages.
My useless mobile phone tinkled in my pocket and I snatched it out in the vain hope of a signal. Low battery flashed across the screen. I wasn't too surprised—normally the only signal would be in the centre of the village, and even then it was hit and miss.
I hadn’t bothered to check the forecast before I left home this morning, but why would I? It had been sunny in Manchester. And even if I'd been aware of the impending downpour, it wouldn't have mattered—I had the car.
Then, not two miles from my parents’ house, several warning lights lit up the dash and the car started to bunny hop along the road. It came to a complete standstill with a lot of hissing and steam pouring from the engine. Stranded on a quiet country lane in the middle of a downpour, I sat, hoping somebody might come by. Finally, I'd decided to walk.
The rain eased off a little and I spotted the first cluster of buildings on the outskirts of the village. Not far now, just over the next bump in the road.
The dark clouds reminded me of that moment right before dusk when everything has a strange stillness, but it was early afternoon.
As I rounded the corner to the village, I was relieved to see smoke billowing from the chimney of my parents’ cottage. I picked up a bit of speed, knowing everything would be all right soon.
The village was strangely deserted. Normally the Major, an old army man who owned the large white house on the corner, would be sitting on his porch watching the world go by, but his green rocking chair sat empty. Obviously the weather kept everyone holed up indoors.
I crossed the road and stayed on the path of the village green. The road bordered the large grassy area, and the stone buildings stood in an oval around the outside. Even in this weather the place looked beautifully quaint.
Our cottage stood on the far side of the oval, almost slap bang in the middle of the row. At the bottom of the village, the Major's house faced the village police station. Directly opposite our cottage was the only pub and restaurant which also doubled as the village hotel. The village hall stood beside that, where most of the local functions took place. Lots of cottages were dotted in-between. At the top of the oval were the shops, a small supermarket, a chemist, a butcher and a fish and chip shop. If you needed anything more, the next village, Kirkby Mayor, was around ten minutes' drive away.
I ached to see my mum. Longed for her to pull me into her arms and make everything better, the way she always did.
What would I tell her? Not the truth, of that I was certain. She and Dad wouldn’t understand. They were old school—married forever and with barely a cross word between them.
My frozen fingers struggled with the gate latch, but I finally managed it. Then there she was, standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
A fresh bout of tears filled my eyes. "Oh, Mum," I cried, hurrying towards her.
"What the hell do you want?" she snapped, turning away and vanishing back through the front door of the cottage where I’d taken my first breath twenty-seven years ago.
I froze, dumbstruck. My mum would never speak to anybody like that, but especially not me—her only child.
Thoughts raced through my head. I'd expected her to be overjoyed at my visit—although unexpected, it was long overdue.
I kicked off my sandals at the door then, taking tentative steps, I followed her inside. Hedging my way into the kitchen, I found her chopping carrots on the draining board. Her slim shoulders were stooped and her neatly styled, shoulder length fair hair bounced at each cut of the knife.
She flinched as she noticed me and scowled.
"Mum?" I whispered.
"What?”
"Is something wrong? Are you all right?"
I shuffled on uncertain feet, my heart raced and my stomach twisted in knots.
"Why wouldn't I be all right, Geraldine? I'm not the one turning up on the doorstep out of the blue without so much as a by-your-leave."
"I—I'm sorry. I thought you'd ..."
"You thought? You thought? I'll tell you something for nothing, lady, your trouble is you don't think." She reached for the dishcloth and threw it at me. "Now wipe that mud off my nice clean floor, or else."
I caught the cloth and bent to clean the mess my dirty feet had made. In my confusion, I hadn’t even thought about tracking mud into my mother’s immaculate home.
Thoughts raced through my mind. I wondered where my dad was—maybe he could shed some light onto why my mother seemed so angry.
She continued chopping the carrots.
I approached the sink and swilled the cloth under the tap.
"Where's Dad?" I asked, desperate for some kind of explanation as to this hostile and unusual behaviour from my normally warm and caring mother.
"Out." She put the carrots into a pan and filled it with water before placing it on the stove.
"Are you angry with me, Mum?" I ventured.
She shrugged.
I didn't know what to do or which way to turn. It never occurred to me, when I packed my bags and left home this morning, that I wouldn't be welcome to stay here.
Relief flooded through me as I heard the front door open, keys being dropped onto the hall table, and Dad whistling.
"Only me, love. Here is your prescription and–" He stopped mid-sentence as he saw me standing in the kitchen. "Geri—oh what a lovely surprise, isn't it Gracie—a lovely surprise." He dropped his bags on the floor and turned to face me, his arms outstretched. "Let me get a good look at you, lass." He grasped my shoulders and looked me up and down before pulling me into a bear hug. The familiar scent of his musk aftershave mixed with cigar smoke brought tears to my eyes.
"Oh, Dad." Uncontrollable sobs escaped me.
"Hey, hey, lass—dry those eyes, come on. Tell your ol' dad what's wrong." He pulled me into his shoulder and patted my back.