A Deadly Compulsion

by Michael Kerr

  Once or twice a month, Lloyd would patrol the Parkway in his recovery truck. And several times a year he would get lucky, coming across a lone female driver who had broken down at the side of the road. On rare occasions he had picked up a hitchhiker. And twice he had taken foolhardy, solitary female backpackers who’d thought that the mountains were a safe haven, only to pay the ultimate price at Lloyd’s hands.

  His method was simple. He would hit his victims over the head with a wheel brace, dazing them and giving him time to tie-up, gag, and secrete them in a packing crate in the bed of his truck. He would then drive to an isolated off-road spot, remove them from the crate and rape them repeatedly. To cover his actions, he would then replace them in the crate and bury them alive. Almost all of his victims were conscious when interred, to endure a lingering death by suffocation in stygian darkness. Three of the crates had been found; the last exposed by burrowing animals attracted by the smell of corruption. Fibres from the recovery truck’s seat covers, and a partial thumbprint on one of the corpse’s remains had been retrieved, which was enough to prove guilt, if or when they found a suspect. Semen traces had been present, but were too degraded to be of any use. Hair samples, other than the victims, that had been recovered from all the sites were similar, and came from a Caucasian male with predominantly mid-brown hair.

  Jim had compiled a profile, and his conviction that the killer was local to the area, hunted regularly and would strike again, led to a massive undercover operation being mounted, with female agents posing as hitchhikers, backpackers and stranded motorists. Only three weeks later, it proved successful, leading to Lloyd being arrested as he attempted to abduct Special Agent Susan Alvarado, who was parked at a scenic overview at the southern end of the William & Mary tunnel. Lloyd had been about to attack her with the wheel brace, only to find himself staring into the muzzle of a gun and being ordered to drop the weapon or be shot dead. His rampage was over. Tormented and seemingly genuinely relieved to have been stopped, Lloyd immediately admitted to being the Blue Ridge Killer, stating that he had raped and buried at least sixteen women in the region; the last just several hours before his arrest.

  Shania Farnsworth was eight months pregnant, sitting in her Dodge Neon with the hood up, listening to Alan Jackson singing Here in the Real World on the car radio while she waited for assistance. Lloyd had snuck up, pulled her door open and struck her across the head. He was carrying her limp body back to the truck before he noticed her condition and immediately lost interest (and his erection), turned off by her swollen belly. But she had seen his face, stared at him momentarily as he swung the brace, and would no doubt be able to identify him to the police. Even though unused, he had no choice but to bury the pregnant woman. Later that day, still frustrated, his need for release inflamed by the previous failure, he was hunting again. The mental lure of having sex with a bound, struggling stranger was as compelling as the chum of rotting meat, fish and buckets of blood that drew sharks into the wake of a boat. Attacking an armed undercover agent was his first and last mistake.

  Lloyd led the agents through the thick undergrowth. They had parked as near to the burial site as was possible, and were now running pell-mell, feet crunching, crackling over the forest floor. Lloyd, cuffed to an agent, was crying, his remorse overwhelming him, now that it was over and he was in custody; his reign of terror at an end.

  “There,” he had said, stopping in the dappled sunlight that danced through the breeze-blown canopy above the small clearing, to point at its centre with a shaking hand.

  They had dug frantically at the loose earth, using tyre irons, broken lengths of tree branches and even their hands, hoping against hope that the young woman and her unborn child would still be alive; praying that the crate was large enough to hold enough air.

  Reaching the top of the box, scraping it clear, an agent removed a bent nail that had been employed as a fastener through the hasp and, prising back the lid, pulled it up to reveal Shania laying on her back, eyes huge, staring, bulging orbs. Her hands were raised up, clawed, the finger ends bloodied and raw, with the nails broken, some ripped back away from the beds, due to scratching at the rough wood of what had been her coffin. She had a fixed look of pure terror on her sweating, tear-streaked face, and more than that, emptiness, as though she had lost all reason. Jim’s stomach did a back-flip at the sight of the heavily pregnant woman. They were too late. No...they were not. Her hands began to move as she started to scratch at thin air, where the lid had been. She was alive. Had somehow survived the ordeal and would live to have nightmares for the rest of her life.

  Lloyd Purvis had sunk to his knees and thrown up at being faced with the aftermath of his deed. He had lost an element of his sanity at that moment and had withdrawn into a world of his own, unable to contend with the abhorrence he felt at the sight of what his other victims must have suffered as a result of his sick actions.

  Never to utter another word or communicate again with the world outside his broken mind, Lloyd was now a permanent patient and inmate of the Parkerville Maximum Security Facility for the Criminally Insane in West Virginia.

  The sweet taste of success, and more meaningful, the saving of life was what had made the dark profession of Jim’s choosing worthwhile. He had seen Shania much later; when she sought him out to thank him for his part in saving her and the baby. Jim had wept with her as they embraced and celebrated life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SWEAT was beading his hairline and popping on his back as Jim took the stairs two at a time. He knocked once and entered the office, to find Leo standing at the window, from where he had watched Jim’s hurried approach.

  “Easy, Jim, you’ll have a bloody heart attack. Less haste, more speed,” Leo said, turning and lifting the electric kettle to pour boiling water over granules and brew the instant coffee.

  “I work out, even do half marathons, so I’ll survive,” Jim said, trying unsuccessfully not to sound out of breath.

  “Read that,” Leo said, nodding to a sheet of paper on the desktop.

  Jim lifted the sheet of computer paper and hungrily scanned the tightly packed text.

  “It all fits,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with his parents’ deaths. The farm is where he operates from. It’s where he takes his victims to; his private killing ground, that nobody has any knowledge of. If Laura is still alive, that’s where she’ll be.”

  Leaving the coffee untouched, Jim was up on his feet again, folding and stuffing the piece of paper into a pocket as he made to leave.

  “You need backup on this, Jim, I’ll come with you,” Leo said, knowing that the American would not waste valuable time attempting to convince the police of how grave the situation was, or take the risk that even if they believed him and went in mob-handed, that Laura would have much chance of walking away from the scene in one piece.

  “Thanks, Leo, but no. Unless you’ve got a .45 in your drawer to blow the son of a bitch away with, I’ll handle this on my ownsome.”

  “Sorry, old son, this is York not New York. Best I can do is this,” Leo said, rummaging on a shelf full of everything from civil law books to Dick Francis paperbacks, and finding a local map. He opened it and quickly found the farm, highlighting it with a red circle.

  “Thanks,” Jim said, taking it and heading for the door. “I’ll catch you later.”

  Clem was standing in a menswear shop, idly sorting through a rack of ties, his hands fingering them as his gaze remained fixed through the store window onto the entrance of the Barclays branch on the opposite side of the street, where Hugh had entered several minutes before. He had followed Hugh from the station, parked in the open air car park next to Clifford’s tower and tailed his DS, first to a building society, then a Lloyd’s branch, and now to Barclays. It was obvious that the hospital-then-home story was a crock of shit.

  Ten minutes later, Clem was back in his car, watching Hugh pull out. He followed the black Mondeo as it headed south out of t
he city to pick up the A19. As he drove, Clem phoned the number that Jim had given him, but got no reply.

  Back in town, Jim started the Sierra, pulled away from the kerb, and noticed his mobile phone on the passenger seat where he had left it. “Stupid bastard!” he said aloud, pissed at himself for leaving the phone in plain sight for any would-be thief to be tempted by, and more importantly, annoyed for cutting off his only line of communication for over fifteen minutes. He would have to employ a more professional attitude if he was going to successfully deal with this mess. He needed to calm down, but that was easier said than done when so much was at stake.

  Clem kept a minimum of four vehicles between himself and Hugh, braking and easing back even further when his quarry turned off onto a country road that was bereft of traffic, save for a distant oncoming tractor. He risked losing sight of the other car spasmodically, as bends in the road – which were lined with trees in full leaf of summer – separated them by a distance of more than a third of a mile. Rounding a wooded curve, he was faced with a long, straight stretch of clear road. The Mondeo had vanished. Slowing, Clem continued for maybe five hundred yards before seeing the entrance to the only property that Hugh could have pulled into.

  The flaking letters on a blistered wooden sign that hung askew from a large stone gatepost were hardly legible, but could still be deciphered, and read: Westwood Manor Farm. He could not see a farmhouse or outbuildings through the trees, brambles and thick foliage that screened any dwelling from sight of the road, so drove on, parking in a wide break behind high hedging a hundred yards farther along the little used highway. Taking his mobile, Clem made his way back towards the farm entrance, and once inside the gateway he slipped under cover of bushes that hid him from both the drive and the road and tried Jim’s number again.

  “Yeah,” Jim said, answering as he drove south through Fulford.

  “It’s Clem. Hugh is out at a place called Westwood Manor Farm, near Escrick.”

  “I know where it is,” Jim said. “I’m heading there, now.”

  “I’m on the property, watching the driveway.”

  “Good. I should be there in a few minutes. Don’t do anything, Clem. Just wait for me. We’ll go in together.”

  “Okay, Jim. I’ll get back to you if he leaves.”

  Jim pressed END, dropped the phone back onto the passenger seat and put his foot down to accelerate, overtaking other traffic with an almost reckless disregard for his or their safety. He was so stressed that he thought he may have developed an instant ulcer. His stomach was on fire and felt how he imagined it would if digestive acids were burning through its lining. Every second might count if he was to save Laura. Parfitt was now in the house with her, and the knowledge of what he had done to other women filled Jim’s thoughts, creating uninvited, loathsome images of Laura suffering the same fate. He drove on, faster still, frustrated and hardly able to contain the overwhelming tension that was tearing at his emotions.

  Laura was sitting on the bed hugging her knees against the cold. She was wide awake and trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her jaw, which was a reminder of the punch that had rendered her unconscious. As Trish had before her, Laura was planning how to disable or even kill Hugh, to save her from whatever he intended to do. She could not allow herself to believe for a second that he would keep his word and let her live. The cellar was no more than a holding pen; a death cell from which he would at some time take her from, to execute. She could not expect a last minute phone call to reprieve her, or to be found and rescued. That was for the movies. If she was to survive, then it would be as a direct result of her own actions. Her first thought was to simply wedge the cellar door and prevent his entry. Shit! Outwards! The fucking door opens outwards, you dumb bitch. Get with the programme. She looked around her, searched for anything that she could use or adapt as a weapon, but there seemed to be nothing. Diversion, not attack, was the only action she could think of that might give her a chance to escape. She needed to get away from him, not confront him physically. Hugh was strong and fit, and obviously deranged. She could not overpower him, and so the only feasible way to turn the tables was to employ a diversionary tactic; something that would stop him dead in his tracks for a second or two, and give her a half chance to make a getaway. With her bladder pounding, she went across to the bucket he had left in the corner and squatted over it. The acrid fumes from the three inches of blue chemical disinfectant he had poured into it was sharp in her nose and stung her eyes, as it was agitated by the stream of her urine.

  It was then, still hunkered over the strong-smelling mixture, that she formulated a plan. She took the water ewer from the coffee table, drank half the contents, then emptied the rest into the sink and refilled the jug with the concoction in the bucket, placing the cocktail on the floor between the table and the bed. When Hugh next came down the steps, she intended to throw the liquid into his face, to momentarily blind him, giving herself the precious instant needed to duck past him, to not only escape the cellar, but also to lock him in it. She had no doubt that when she made her move, Hugh’s natural reaction would be to put his hands up to his face and simultaneously draw backwards. She would have one roll of the dice, and fate would decide how they fell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  LEO went over to the window and pushed down the dust-covered slats of the Venetian blind so that he could watch the tall American run along the pavement, threading and jostling his way through pedestrians, almost knocking a woman to the ground in his eagerness to get back to the car and head off into what was without doubt going to be a deadly situation.

  Leo couldn’t settle. It was too much to expect him to sit back while a client – who had paid a retainer up front in readies – tried to deal with a suspected serial killer, alone. He did his utmost to resist the urge to get involved, but couldn’t. However good the Yank was, he may need all the help he could get. Turning away from the window, Leo paced the office like a caged bear, on edge, scratching at his scalp, unaware of the dandruff that was dislodged to rain down on to his shoulders. Coming to a decision, he went to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer and withdrew a weapon from under a stack of old files, checked it and pushed it into the side pocket of his jacket. He had only ever used it for target practise, but knew that it had the power to inflict serious injury or even death if ever employed as a last ditch defence at reasonably close quarters. He now wished that he’d offered it to Jim. The Crosman CB40 pistol was a comforting two and a quarter pound of zinc chromate; a gas pistol, almost as reassuring as a real firearm, but without the need of a certificate. It held an eight shot magazine of pointed pellets that would penetrate flesh and muscle with destructive force.

  Leaving the office, Leo walked briskly to the NCP car park across the river, keeping his hand on the gun in his pocket, visualising emptying its load into the killer’s thighs or kneecaps, to take him down and negate any threat that he might pose. Leo had no intention of rolling around on the ground and fighting with a much younger, fitter man. Not at his time of life. He had enough aches and pains without adding to them.

  Jim drove out of the city and turned on to the back road that led to the farm two miles away. As he anticipated being at his intended destination in under two minutes, a muffled explosion startled him. It sounded like a blanket-covered balloon being burst. The steering wheel pulled sharply to the left, almost spraining his wrists as he wrestled to keep the car on the tarmac surface. He slowed, straightened the Sierra and brought it to a stop, half up on the grass verge.

  I don’t fucking believe it! That’s all I need. He stepped out of the car and kicked the bodywork savagely. The front offside tyre was flat to the rim.

  Fifteen minutes crawled by, and with still no sign of Jim and a growing fear that every second could be Laura’s last; Clem decided to approach the farmhouse and play it by ear. After all, he was the cop, Elliott was a civilian.

  Dark clouds had been drifting in from the west and stacking up, and the first coin-sized drops
of rain began to patter through the leaves of trees, forerunners of the imminent storm. Keeping to the side of the driveway, Clem moved quickly, as stealthily as possible, ready to dive into the undergrowth at the slightest untoward sound. A barn and farmhouse came into view. And Hugh’s jet-black Mondeo was parked outside the house’s front door. Clem shivered, as though the car was a hearse. The skin on his arms and belly puckered, and a fleeting sense of intense apprehension ran through his whole being. He bent low, crossed the drive fast, edged along the weather-bleached side of the barn and stopped at the corner to make sure all was clear. Pausing to decide what to do next, he wished that Jim would arrive and save him from having to go it alone.

  The summer storm became torrential. The thunderheads shed their load; the deluge announced by chains of lightning racing across a pumice sky, and sonorous cracks of thunder that split the air in deafening accompaniment. The tapping of raindrops on the corrugated-iron roof of the barn became a solid drumming, the beats inseparable; a single continuous unyielding detonation.

  Clem took a risk and ran, feet squelching on ground that was now pooling mud; clothes immediately soaked and clinging to him, cold and uncomfortable. Reaching the front of the house, he made his way around the building, staying close to the rough, whitewashed walls, dropping down on all fours to pass ground-floor windows unseen. At the rear of the house he took a furtive peek through a window, into what was a large farmhouse kitchen. No one was visible. He grasped the brass knob on the back door, slowly turned it and found it to be unlocked. He then froze and his mind suddenly went blank. He was at a loss as to what to do next. Should he enter the house and carry out an unprovoked attack on a superior officer, because he believed him to be a serial killer? Now that he was at the point of taking some action, the situation seemed ludicrous. He had let the Yank’s fervour ignite him. But now, standing there dripping wet, he found that his conviction had been cooled by both the lashing rain and the absurdity of the premise that his DS was holding Laura Scott hostage, or that Hugh spent his spare time mutilating and murdering teenage girls. He could imagine the scene: entering the house like a drowned rat, confronting Hugh and asking him if he was the Tacker, and inquiring as to whether or not he had the boss trussed up, or perhaps butchered and reposing in a freezer, ready for dumping off at a picnic area, or maybe outside WH Smith, sat with her throat cut and a stack of the Big Issue on her lap.