Frank surveyed the room as Mrs Harris shooed her yapping dogs in the kitchen. A one bar electric heater did a poor job of heating the damp bungalow. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the dog faeces that patterned the threadbare carpet, and pallid faces glared at him from dusty framed photographs on the wall.
Mrs Harris walked back in, eyed him suspiciously and rifled through the box in his arms.
‘Where would you like me to put it?’ Frank asked, his annoyance growing as the woman poked through the items of tinned food and condiments that caused his arms to ache. He could think of plenty of places to suggest, none of which would meet the approval of Mrs Harris.
‘Where do you think? On the table of course. I’m just making sure everything’s here. I know what you lot are like, coming around pretending to be one of these do-gooders, and next thing you know, half the stuff is missing. I’ve dealt with your kind before.’
Frank seethed as he unpacked the box onto the table, which was already straining under stacks of newspapers, empty cans and dusty old books. Gripping the tin of beans in his hand, he wondered if a dent in Mrs Harris’s head would slow down her moaning. On and on the woman’s voice droned, while she folded her arms and tapped her slippered foot in disgust.
Frank turned to the woman, a hint of menace in his voice. ‘I don’t appreciate you speaking to me in such a manner, Mrs Harris. I certainly do not give up my spare time to be called a thief, and given that you are getting this food for free, I don’t think you are in any position to complain.’
Mrs Harris’s mouth gaped open. Wheezing, she shook her finger in disgust. ‘How dare you! I’ve never been spoken to so rudely in all my life.’ She dropped her hand to rub her chest and gasped for breath, the colour draining from her face. ‘You think you’re something special, coming around here delivering this box of rubbish, well let me tell you …’
Her sentence hung in the air as she gasped for breath. It reminded Frank of a broken accordion he once had; each squeeze emitted a whistling gasp. In ... out ... in ... out, the woman’s chest rose and fell as each breath became more laboured.
Searching her apron pockets, she gestured to Frank. ‘Inhaler, my inhaler.’
Frank picked up a small canister from the fireplace, his face breaking out in a broad grin. ‘Of course, is this it?’ He reached out to the wheezing woman, then pulled it back.
His dark eyes narrowed. ‘But first, tell me Mrs Harris, why are you such a bitch?’
The woman clasped her chest once again, as Frank took another step towards her, backing her up against the arm of the sofa. ‘I mean, look around you. When’s the last time you cleaned this place? So what gives you the right to talk to me in such a manner?’ Frank emitted a chortle, his eyes as cold as flint.
Mrs Harris tried to move backwards, too scared to turn her back on the man in front of her. The sofa behind her blocked her escape, and the strength was rapidly leaving her body as her lungs grew tighter by the second.
‘Do you think you deserve life?’ Frank said, the devious smile spreading across his features. He clamped his hand on her shoulder. There was the look he loved. Terror and confusion. She hadn’t seen this coming. Neither had he, to be honest, but she needed to be taught a lesson. Frank pushed her hard, toppling her large frame over the arm of the sofa, her doughy body scattering cushions and rising clouds of dust. Her arms and legs waved like a cockroach flipped onto its back. But at least cockroaches were of some value to the world. Frank thought of the satisfying cracking sound you get when you step on one. He grabbed a sofa cushion and pushed it onto her face, leaning on it with his knee. She weakly clawed at his sleeves, gasping for breath.
‘What a shame you won’t see Christmas. Never mind, I’ll make sure your dogs won’t go hungry.’ He pulled back the cushion. The blue tinge to her lips suggested death was drawing near. All the while, a poem chanted in Frank’s mind. It was from his treasured poetry book, a final gift from Gloria. ‘No matter what is green today, the Reaper’s scythe will mow away.’
‘Who ... are ... you?’ the woman gasped, spittle gathering in the corners of her mouth as she struggled for air.
A satisfied smile crossed Frank’s face, his eyes boring into his victim’s. ‘Don’t you know? I’m the Grim Reaper.’
He pushed the cushion back onto her face while the dogs yapped in the kitchen. Car headlights lit up the front window and Frank froze, waiting for it to stop. His heart pounded a beat in his chest, which calmed only when the headlights dimmed and the car drove past. Slowly, he released the cushion and rubbed the beads of sweat from his forehead. Let the asthma attack finish the job, it was less messy that way. In the end, she just stopped breathing. It could have been her heart. Judging by the way she was clutching her chest, it was hard to make out. It was a shame he couldn’t take credit for the death of this crabby old bat, but it was just too close to home.
Poor old Mrs Harris, dying from an asthma attack so near Christmas. He smiled, drinking in the scene before leaving the cottage, his lifeless victim splayed on the sofa, her mouth open and eyes bulging in disbelief. Most likely, it was the first time a man had ever taken control over her. The sense of power surged through him.
Whistling, Frank emptied the contents of the box onto the table and walked out the front door, saying loud ‘goodbyes’ for any neighbours who might be listening in.
Frank liked his new lifestyle. For the first time in his life, he felt empowered. He felt a sense of pride at his new title. The Grim Reaper had a certain ring to it.
18 Chapter Eighteen
Soft lighting and mellow music went a little way towards lifting the atmosphere in Jennifer’s home, but it still seemed washed out, as if someone had sucked the life from each room. Night time was the worst, when the cold empty house came alive in a series of creaks and taps. The silent calls had died off for now, but Jennifer still flinched each time her phone rang. She did her best to carry on as normal, sensing her fear would feed whatever presence was trying to frighten her. Being proactive was the only way she knew of dealing with her problems.
She tapped the page with her pen, frowning as she compiled a list of suspects involved in Charlie and Johnny’s deaths. She couldn’t afford to believe their murders were purely down to supernatural events, at least not yet. Joan’s warning echoed in her mind. Someone close to her could not be trusted. Could someone close to her be involved in the murders? Jennifer could count the number of people she trusted on one hand; her sister, Aunt Laura, DI Allison. She started with Will’s name and scribbled it out straight afterwards. Will would never harm her. He was as soft as they came.
It was a blessed relief her father had moved to London, and it certainly wasn’t worth adding his name to the list. His constant begging for money and turning up drunk at the police station may have been a source of embarrassment, but he would never harm her.
Jennifer sipped a glass of Merlot and felt its warmth spread through her. She was about to run a line through James Allison’s name but could not bring herself to do it. There was something about the way he questioned her mental health that bugged her. She added two question marks and moved on to the next line.
Ethan Cole. She added a question mark. ‘Travelled abroad – interest in the occult. Motivation?’ She had not known him long enough to trust him, but she could see a friendship developing between them.
Jennifer yawned and took another sip of wine. She was about to write ‘Steph,’ when she remembered Joan’s warning. Someone close to her could not be trusted. Steph could not be described as close. Her thoughts floated back to her sister Amy; the one constant in her life. Things between them were strained, but there was no way Amy would plot against her. Why couldn’t Joan have been more precise? Jennifer fingered the cross around her neck. She really should give it back. But Joan had been so insistent. She balled up the paper and threw it at the bin. Bouncing against the edge, it hopped onto the carpeted floor. She glugged down the last of the wine and wrapped her dressing gown tightly a
round her before picking up the paper and checking the doors were secure. She thought about brushing her wine-stained teeth, but sleep was close at hand and she did not want to wake her fuddled brain.
Sleep came quickly and nightmares sought to haunt her. The images were disjointed, off kilter. Her memory of the past intermingled with her present, performing the dance of time. Jennifer was three years old again, skipping in her favourite pink dress. She recognised the boathouse, her childhood home. But this year the river had broken its banks and swelled across the path that led to the village. She could smell the rain that had kept them awake the night before, making them feel cosy in their cabin beds. Mummy and Daddy had argued again. Mummy wanted to live in a proper house in the town but Daddy said they didn’t have the money. Jennifer didn’t want to leave. She wanted to see the deer that crept shyly out of the forest to drink at the water’s edge. Today the rushing water travelled with ferocity as it carried broken branches in its path. Jennifer shrieked as the wind whipped her hat, and her little fingers grasped the air as she chased it. Stumbling into the icy water, she gasped as it shocked her skin and filled her mouth. She tried to scream but it thundered in her ears as she fought for breath. Darkness enveloped her as the water filled her lungs with every silent scream. The last thing she saw was her yellow hat bobbing on the water.
And then all was quiet. She was not in the water anymore.
A firm hand reached through the darkness and Jennifer allowed it to pull her into the light. A radiant Charlie Taylor stood in front of her with no evidence of the sorrows of the past. He was not cloaked in angel wings. Instead he wore corduroy trousers cupped at the knees and a plaid shirt that bestowed a comfortable familiarity from Jennifer’s school days. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said in a soft voice, ‘I’ve been trying to get your attention for some time now.’
A calmness surrounded Jennifer as she watched a toddler playing in the light, gentle hands giving her the most beautiful flowers she had ever seen.
‘Is that me?’ Jennifer said, pointing to the giggling child.
‘Yes, it is a facet of you.’
Jennifer glanced around. Her surroundings were blurred, the only clear focus being the little girl happily playing and Charlie standing in front of her.
‘Am I dead?’
‘No, you’re sleeping. I have a message for you.’ Charlie rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘You must be strong. I need you to know that no matter what happens, you’re not alone.’
‘Oh Charlie, I do feel alone. There’s so much I don’t understand and nothing makes any sense.’
A trace of sadness crossed Charlie’s face. ‘A dark energy is invading your senses. It is very powerful and full of hatred.’
‘Please, can’t you tell me any more?’
‘Look in your past for the answers, they will come.’
The light dimmed as the teacher began to fade. ‘I’m sorry. What seems like seconds on this side can be hours on yours. Be strong Jenny, look to your past.’
A strong pull dragged Jennifer down deeper, back to herself. A child’s heartbeat, fluttering in the darkness, a revival. Sirens screaming, hands pushing on her chest as she expelled water. Her mother Elizabeth clasping her little hand, praying for her life. ‘Please save my baby,’ Elizabeth cried, over and over. But all the while the darkness gripped her, pulling her down. Twisting to escape the gnarled fingers around her throat, Jennifer reached out for her mother’s face. A voice snarled, ‘You belong to me.’
‘No!’ Jennifer screamed and gritted her teeth in pain as fingernails dug into the back of her neck. She lashed out and the porcelain bedside lamp smashed to the wooden floor, destroying any remnants of sleep. Disorientated, she drew back her damp hair and traced the back of her neck with her fingers. ‘Ouch.’ She drew her lips over her teeth, slowly climbing out of bed. Her mirrored reflection revealed beads of blood from three scratches drawn over the back of her neck. ‘Shit,’ she winced. ‘I must have done it in my sleep.’ Fragments of her dream seeped into her mind. Stepping carefully through the black shards of the broken lamp, she grabbed the notepad beside her bed and scribbled her dream, writing until there was nothing left. Morning light streamed through her curtains. With shaking hands, she picked up the phone. It was time to speak to the only real mother she had known.
‘Aunt Laura, it’s me. Sorry to call so early. Can I come over to visit?’
‘Of course dear, is everything all right?’
‘Yes … I think so. I just need to talk to you about Mum if that’s OK. I’m on a late shift so I can stay for a couple of hours.’
‘Lovely. I’ll make some scones.’
Jennifer sat on the bed for some time, trying to comprehend her dream. Had Charlie Taylor really communicated with her or was it her subconscious trying to make sense of it all? When she was young, Father Kelly had told her to suppress all psychic contact, block it out. But what if he was wrong? What if she could control her unwanted gift and use it to her advantage? The scratches on her neck reminded her it was time to step up her search for answers.
Rendham was a picture postcard village, with fetes in the summer, and Christmas markets in the winter. Living in such a location came with a hefty price tag, but luckily for her Aunt Laura, she did not have to worry about that. The gravel drive scrunched under Jennifer’s feet as she walked up to the entrance to the large five-bedroom bungalow. She glanced at the rope swing, still hanging from the huge oak tree in the front garden. She could almost hear Amy yelling at her to push her higher, her little face scrunched up in determination as she flung her head back and stretched out her legs in an attempt to reach the sky.
Laura embraced Jennifer in a hug as soon she opened the door. She was the total opposite of her sister Elizabeth, with no sign of her delicate features. A sturdy woman, Laura’s light ash blonde hair complimented the thick linens she wore, and each hug from Auntie Laura was accompanied by hefty slaps on the back.
‘Jenny dear, it must be six months since you’ve come to visit,’ she said, squeezing her into a vice like grip.
‘I know, sorry. You know how work is,’ Jennifer said, catching her breath.
‘Yes I do. Now come in from the cold and I’ll put the kettle on.’
Portraits of Laura’s beloved thoroughbreds lined the walls of the mahogany-panelled hall. Jennifer was grateful that the horses took up so much of her aunt’s life; it kept her from becoming too involved in hers. She breathed in the smell of freshly baked scones in the large country kitchen, and the whistling kettle on the Aga transported her back to the days of Amy’s flour stained face as Aunt Laura helped her bake jam roly poly’s for tea. Jennifer, on the other hand, had spent most of her free time in the tree house at the bottom of the garden. Laura had learned that the best way to gain Jennifer’s trust was to leave her be, until step by step she would return to the fold like a feral cat cautiously slinking inside for food and warmth.
She took a seat at the dining table, her eyes falling on the old brown leather photo album before her.
Aunt Laura set a generous tray of scones on the table, along with homemade strawberry jam and a pot of clotted cream. ‘You’ve gotten far too thin my lady, so tuck in. You can have a look through your parent’s photo album if you like, I dug it out for you.’
Jennifer’s stomach growled at the sight of the food, and she polished off a scone as Laura filled her in on the local gossip. As the conversation died, Laura turned her eyes to the untouched photo album and spoke softly, just as she had when Jennifer was a child. ‘You know darling, you can’t avoid it forever.’
Jennifer’s chest rose as she sighed heavily, pulling it towards her. The pages made a crackling noise as she gently pulled them apart. A young couple stared back at her, smiling at the camera in mid embrace.
‘I’m so glad we managed to save these photos. Your father looks so handsome, don’t you think?’ Laura said.
Jennifer balked at the mention of her father, her face conveying her disgust.
‘Jenny. I‘ve know you find your father’s name distasteful, but I think it’s about time you knew the truth. Now, are you going to listen to me or do I need to put this away?’
Jennifer gave Laura a sidelong glance, thrown by the sharpness of her voice. ‘I’m willing to listen.’
‘Well, perhaps I can start by giving the skeletons in your cupboards a good airing, then you can tell me what your father did that was so wrong.’
Jennifer nodded.
‘I loved your mother, but she was very hard to please. It didn’t help that our parents spoilt her rotten. Mum always called Elizabeth their “precious gift”. They didn’t think they could have any more after me, you see. She was their favourite by a mile.’
Jennifer raised an eyebrow, ‘I’m sure that wasn’t the case.’
‘Oh, it was, they made it quite obvious,’ Laura said. ‘That’s why they gave her the boathouse. It was only meant as a holiday home to keep her near, but it became a permanent fixture when she met your father. I remember the first time Elizabeth brought him back for dinner. He was so handsome and very nervous.’
Laura stared with an unfocused gaze as she recalled the memories. ‘Lewis wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house, so we’d both sneak outside for a cigarette after dinner. After Elizabeth joined the police, things became strained between them; she kept nagging at him to progress his career.’
‘If my mother was so awful, why did Dad marry her?’
‘You know why. She was pregnant with you. Lewis loved her, and it seemed the right thing to do. I tried to tell her to go easy on him, but she accused me of being jealous. After they had your sister, Elizabeth spent more and more time at work while your father took on most of the childcare.’
‘No, this is wrong,’ Jennifer said, clenching her hands. ‘You’re talking like Dad was some kind of saint. Mum had to work because he couldn’t hold down a job.’
‘Let me finish. Lewis told me his sergeant had it in for him from the start. He criticised his paperwork and set him up to fail at everything. One day he called Lewis in for overtime, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Lewis had been drinking and his sergeant reported him the minute he smelt his breath. It wasn’t uncommon for officers to have a drink on duty back then, but rather than have a quiet word, his sergeant took it all the way. Lewis got the sack. He was really cut up about it.’
Don't Turn Around: A dark, thrilling, page-turner of a crime novel (Detective Jennifer Knight Crime Thriller Series Book 1) Page 14