by Michael Kerr
“Time we left,” Matt said to Beth. “Before Mrs Madsen does something really stupid that I’d have to arrest her for.”
“Fuck you both,” Nancy shouted as she pushed herself up, to sit in a very unladylike position with her skirt rucked-up to display pale, quivering thighs and a skimpy pair of black panties.
“Do you feel a little better now?” Beth said as she drove out of the avenue and headed back in the direction of Woodford Wells.
“Not really,” Matt said. “I know that she and Harris must have met and talked about Connolly being a free man, and decided that they needed to do something. Harris was living alone, had been told that his cancer was terminal, and no doubt said that he would deal with it. But I’m sure that Nancy had nothing to do with the other murders, apart from complicity by knowing the identity of The Clown, but not giving him up.”
“I daresay she went into self-preservation mode and just got on with life, finding some consolation in the fact that Connolly was dead and gone. What will you do now?”
“Probably nothing,” Matt said. “With Harris dead, she knows that unless she confesses to her part in it, we can’t prove a damn thing. Let her live out her sad little life with the guilt she probably feels over the innocent victims that her onetime lover murdered.”
Saturday night. It had become de rigueur to celebrate the closing of cases. The venue was always the same; The Kenton Court Hotel on Tottenham Court Road. With the so-called Suicide Killer ‒ Shelley Carmichael ‒ on remand awaiting trial, The Clown case wrapped, and news that the young man, Alfie Smith, was on the mend, the team had a good excuse to party.
Apart from Grizzly Adams, who was at some seminar in Madrid at the taxpayers’ expense, the whole team was present. Matt started the ball rolling by making a toast to Nat Farley, the now deceased pathologist who would be sorely missed.
Tom thanked Matt and the team for clearing the cases, saying, “I expect nothing less than a hundred percent success. But I’m always a happy man when we get it.”
That was shop talk out of the way. The rest of the evening was spent drinking and eating the assortment of finger food that Ron Quinn had laid on.
By midnight everyone but Matt and Beth had left. They were staying over, because both of them were well over the limit, so driving home was out of the question. They sat at a table near the bar and chatted to Ron. He told them that he was seriously considering selling up and moving back to the West Country, to run a little pub on the coast near Lyme Regis.
“We’ll be sorry if you do,” Beth said as the big man poured the three of them another large brandy each from the bottle he had brought to the table.
Matt nodded in agreement. “Make sure that you have at least one guest room,” he said. “We’ll make a point of pestering you at least a couple of times a year.”
Matt withdrew a little, to think of how nothing ever stayed the same. Life was a series of good and bad events that just rolled unmercifully by. You had to grab the fine times and wring as much pleasure out of them as you could, because the future was like an unread book, full of surprises waiting to unfold with every page.
# # # # #
About The Author
I write the type of original, action-packed, violent crime thrillers that I know I would enjoy reading if they were written by such authors as: Lee Child, David Baldacci, Simon Kernick, Harlan Coben, Michael Billingham and their ilk.
Over twenty years in the Prison Service proved great research into the minds of criminals, and especially into the dark world that serial killers - of who I have met quite a few - frequent.
I live in a cottage a mile from the nearest main road in the Yorkshire Wolds, enjoy photography, the wildlife, and of course creating new characters to place in dilemmas that my mind dreams up.
What makes a good read? Believable protagonists that you care about, set in a story that stirs all of your emotions.
If you like your crime fiction fast-paced, then I believe that the books I have already uploaded on Amazon/Kindle will keep you turning the pages.
Connect With Michael Kerr and discover other great titles.
Web
www.michaelkerr.org
Michael Kerr’s official site
Facebook
https://www.facebook.com/MichaelKerrAuthor
Kindle Store
http://www.michaelkerr.org/amazon
Also By Michael Kerr
DI Matt Barnes Series
A REASON TO KILL
LETHAL INTENT
A NEED TO KILL
CHOSEN TO KILL
The Joe Logan Series
AFTERMATH
ATONEMENT
ABSOLUTION
ALLEGIANCE
Other Crime Thrillers
DEADLY REPRISAL
DEADLY REQUITAL
BLACK ROCK BAY
A HUNGER WITHIN
THE SNAKE PIT
A DEADLY STATE OF MIND
TAKEN BY FORCE
DARK NEEDS AND EVIL DEEDS
(Free sample chapters at end of this book)
Science Fiction / Horror
WAITING
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE STRANGE KIND
RE-EMERGENCE
Children’s Fiction
Adventures in Otherworld
PART ONE – THE CHALICE OF HOPE
PART TWO – THE FAIRY CROWN
Dark Needs and Evil Deeds (Sample)
PROLOGUE
IT was done. She was shaking uncontrollably, and her heart jack hammered against her ribcage. An amalgamation of perspiration and chlorinated water soaked her body from head to toe.
Staggering away from the pool, Paula slumped into a chair, took deep rasping breaths and tried to find some composure. She felt sick to the stomach, her muscles had turned to jelly, and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. Christ! Murder was by no means an easy act to commit. Certainly not the ‘up close and hands-on’ taking of your husband’s life.
The plan had been simple enough, as all good plans are. On a sultry mid-July evening, had cajole Wayne into skinny-dipping, after first plying him with a generous quantity of scotch; his favourite tipple. And when he was well under the influence and losing the ability to think clearly or defend himself properly, drown the bastard. What could possibly go wrong?
Boy oh boy, it had almost gone pear-shaped, big time. But all’s well that ends well. Wayne was now at the bottom of the spotlighted pool, laying face up. The last of the silvery, pearl-shaped bubbles had wobbled up from his gaping mouth to burst on the surface, through the crimson cloud that drifted out from the bone-deep gash on his forehead. And the startled expression in his wide, muddy-brown eyes was frozen. He might have been staring in wonderment at the star-spangled heavens far above.
She had waited until he’d started to slur his words, was giggling at nothing in particular, and was almost beyond being able to coordinate his brain and motor functions, before taking him by the hand to lead down the steps at the shallow end. When she pushed him under and held his head beneath the surface, she expected only feeble, token resistance: had not appreciated the strength of his will to live, and how ferociously he would fight to survive, or how someone could sober up in an instant, given the right conditions and incentive to. He had been as slippery as a netted eel, and the water had turned from glassy smooth millpond to frothing, raging sea as he bucked and thrashed and kicked and struggled against her. It was frightening.
For a few seconds – that lasted a small eternity – Paula was convinced that he would escape her clutches, shoot out of the pool and race off screaming for help. She saw a vision of him sprinting down the B road that ran past their property, nude, dripping wet, his skinny legs pumping, feet slapping on the asphalt.
She had panicked somewhat, but quickly regrouped, steered him to the side of the pool, and with his lank, fair hair gripped tightly in her aching fingers, slammed his head into the mosaic-tiled surround with all the force she could muster, to experience an overpowering mix
of relief and enervation as his body went limp and sank.
When able to stand, she went to the pool house, dried off and dressed, then returned to take a final look at her now late husband. It was hard to believe that she was finally rid of the double-crossing toad for good. His shirt was draped over the back of a chair. She took a cigarette from the pack in the breast pocket, and his Zippo from the table. She was shaking so much that it was a challenge to bring the lighter flame and the end of the cigarette together. Somehow she lit it. Dropped down in the chair again, took a deep drag, inhaled, and suffered a coughing fit. She had kicked the habit two years ago, but was now in desperate need of a smoke to calm nerves that were not just frayed, but totally fucking shredded.
Taking another person’s life was no small matter. But she’d had no choice really.
Jesus! She shot to her feet. Wayne was moving. She was sure of it, though commonsense told her that unless he was part fish and had gills, then she must be hallucinating. But he was moving, in the way that kelp would in an ocean current. The jets of warm water that heated the pool were generating enough turbulence to raise and lower his now chalk-white hands off the bottom, and to cause his overlong hair to drift and sway in invisible eddies.
It was time to set the scene and remove anything from it that could possibly incriminate her. There was her empty glass, and of course the butt of the cigarette that would be rich in fresh DNA from her saliva. Apart from that, she need not be too fussy. After all, this was where she lived. Traces of her were all part and parcel of the house and grounds. All that mattered was that her alibi stood up to the most rigorous scrutiny. Being the wife of the deceased, she would automatically be regarded as the prime suspect. She watched all the police and forensic crime shows on TV. Knew just how sneaky they could be, and how sophisticated modern retrieval techniques were.
This had not been an impulsive domestic murder; a heat of the moment act. This had been a premeditated and cold-blooded execution, carefully planned over a lengthy period.
Wayne had held the purse strings. He was the one with the inherited bankroll. His late father had been the managing director of Ingall’s Finance, which was one of the largest loan companies in the UK. The only way she could get her hands on the cash, house, and other substantial assets, was by bringing about Wayne’s demise. Had he not been fooling around with Fiona Marshall, the buxom owner of Happy Trails Riding Centre, and was not planning to divorce her, then he might have lived a long if probably not too happy life. It was his own fault. She felt absolutely no remorse for what she’d done. She had been driven to take drastic action to protect her interests. Not that she professed to be a paragon of virtue. Far from it. She was enjoying a purely sexually motivated fling with a local auctioneer. Needs must be served, and Wayne had not been able to pop her cork for a long time.
It amazed her what a sense of relief she felt at having gone through with what at first had just been a thought; a wish that Wayne was out of the way, permanently. Necessity really was the mother of invention.
With a Michael Bublé CD playing, she drove away from the house; arrived back at the Sussex golf club at just past four a.m. to slip into her room unseen. She showered and lay back on the bed to review the situation.
This three day break with several girlfriends had been crucial to her success. She had hinted to Wayne that she might drive home late on the second evening; to be sure that he would not be otherwise engaged. As far as her friends were concerned, she had opted for an early night after the evening meal, complaining of feeling under the weather. What better alibi could she have? She was a two hour drive away from home. And the pure touch of genius had been in leaving a damning clue on the bottom of the pool with Wayne. The solid gold cufflink was monogrammed CDM, and would be traced back to Charles De Mornay, her lover, who should have been more careful where he put his gavel. Ha! When the randy bachelor was questioned, he would be hard put to account for his whereabouts. He was supposedly serious about her, and when not surreptitiously meeting her, would go to bed alone at his remote farmhouse, after dining at his local hostelry.
Paula had done her homework and knew Charles’ habits. That she had found the cufflink on the thickly-carpeted floor of her Mercedes, was fortuitous. All she had to do now was wait to be contacted. It would in all probability be Maria, the maid, who would initially discover the human flotsam in the pool. The belle from Barcelona would turn up for work at eight a.m. on the dot. And after failing to find Wayne, would see that the kitchen door was open, and follow the red brick path – not the yellow brick road – down between the rhododendrons to where Wayne would be totally unconcerned at being viewed stark naked by the ‘help’.
She began to giggle like a schoolgirl who has put something extremely nasty in a teacher’s desk drawer. Knew that when Maria found Wayne, the dusky maid would have hysterics. Might even faint, fall in the pool and drown. That would be a puzzler for the police; a nude house owner, his fully-clothed maid, and Charlie the Gavel’s cufflink. What would they make of that scenario?
By the time she finished the morning round of golf, Paula was beginning to become concerned. Why had she not been contacted? Maria knew where she was, and so did Bert Lampton, the pensioner who tended to the gardens with his son, Neville, who was not the sharpest knife in the rack, putting it kindly. Surely, even if Maria had not turned up for work, then the Lamptons’ would have discovered the body. Maybe even fished it out and tried resuscitation. What a thought. Neville stood six-eight, was built like the Incredible Hulk, and didn’t know his own vast strength. If he attempted artificial respiration, he would snap ribs. Not that Wayne would care or complain.
No need to panic. It would still work. The police pathologist would be able to determine how long he had been dead. It might even be better if she was to make the gruesome discovery herself. She would dive in the pool, drag him to the steps, and heave him up onto the non slip surround. Her subsequent demeanour would be suitably distraught, when she phoned the emergency services, knowing that all calls were recorded.
Arriving home at six p.m., tense and very puzzled, Paula parked the car in the drive and let herself into the house. Called out to Maria, but was met by silence. Walking through to the kitchen, she found a note from Maria pinned under a Disney magnet on the fridge door, printed in the same broken English that the maid spoke:
Mrs Eengal,
I work til five then go home. I not know where Mr Eengal is. The door ees open when I get heer. I call you tonight. I a leetle wurrid.
Maria
Paula ran to the pool. Squinted through reflected sunlight that danced on the surface. No body. Where the hell was he? Baffled, she made her way back to the house. How could a fucking corpse vanish? As she re-entered the kitchen, the phone rang. She snatched the receiver from the cradle.
“Yes?”
“At last. I thought you’d never get home. You must be a little perplexed, darling.”
It was Charles. She said, “What on earth do you mean, Charlie?”
“That you are missing one drowned husband. Correct?”
Paula said nothing. A fuse in her brain seemed to fizz and blow. She needed a few seconds to reset the circuit breaker.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“I...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then I should report what I know to the police.”
“What do you think that you know?”
“Everything, precious.”
“What do you want?”
“Half of the fortune you will come into, if you manage to get away with murdering Wayne.”
“How―?”
“I came by last night, like a lovelorn schoolboy, to ask you to leave him. I was just in time to see you do the deed. After you beat a hasty retreat, I removed the body and my cufflink from the pool. I also watched a very interesting CCTV video.”
“Uh?”
“You spend so much time gadding off to the golf club, shopping, and seeing me, Paula, that you o
bviously didn’t know that Wayne had a couple of extra cameras installed; one to cover the garage area, and another pointing directly towards the pool. I have every grisly second on a time-coded tape.”
Paula took deep breaths. She felt a ball of lead form in her stomach. Maybe he was bluffing, but she didn’t think so.
“Where―?”
“Don’t worry yourself as to Wayne’s whereabouts, darling. He will never be found. Just report him missing, and act as if you care. We both know what a good little actress you are. When the dust eventually settles, we shall be able to agree to a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Better to come out of this with half of something, than to end up with nothing at all. Don’t you think?”
“I thought you and I―”
“Please, Paula, don’t insult my intelligence. You had me eating out of your hand, and might have continued to, if I hadn’t seen you toss my cufflink into the pool, to set the scene and make me the scapegoat. You thought that you had me all lined up to be the fall guy. You’d have been content to see me go to prison for life.”
“Let’s meet, Charlie. We need to talk this through.”
“Not a chance, Paula. Call the police. And you need to know that if anything untoward happens to me, then the tape and an explanatory letter will be delivered to them.”
He hung up. There was nothing she could do but play with the cards she’d got. A cold wire invaded her thoughts. Another plan. Come the time, she would make Charlie boy tell her where the incriminating evidence was, and then kill him.
Lighting a cigarette, Paula poured herself a large scotch, added a couple of ice cubes and drank half of it. When she felt more in control, and having rehearsed what she would say, she phoned the local police station.