A Deadly Compulsion

by Michael Kerr

  “I won’t be long, Mummy,” he said, and led Paula up the stairs into the bedroom, pushed her onto the bed and used more tape to secure her by the neck to the brass bed head. He then sat next to her and stroked her pallid and creased cheek with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to gag you, Paula,” he said. “So please be quiet and patient. What happens over the next couple of days will largely depend on you and your behaviour. If you comply with everything I ask of you, you won’t die.”

  After showering, then shaving with the doctor’s electric razor, he returned to the bedroom and rifled through the wardrobes, finding a clean shirt, slacks, socks, and a pair of brogues that were only slightly oversize. Once dressed, he cut Paula free and removed all her bonds, allowing her to visit the bathroom, but staying outside the door to listen as she cried, threw-up, then resumed crying.

  Paula could have climbed out of the window, dropped down on to the flat roof of the garage and escaped, but knew that Dominic and the young postman would pay for her actions. She also briefly considered concealing a pair of hairdressing scissors about her person, but knew that she lacked the resolve needed to attempt to kill him. If she tried and failed, then he would almost certainly murder them all. After composing herself, but still feeling more afraid than she had ever been in her life, she walked back out on to the landing, to see her captor turn from where he was sitting at the top of the stairs.

  “Now listen up, Paula,” Hugh said, managing a small smile, even though the act exacerbated the throbbing pain in his nose. “I need you to behave and act normally, and see to it that any callers to the house or on the phone don’t think anything is wrong here. You’ll want to run or give me away if you can, but that would be a very bad idea. If you want your hubby to make it through this in one piece, just do exactly as you’re told.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want. Just please don’t hurt us.”

  Hugh stared at her with solemn-eyed sincerity. “I’ve got nothing against you folks. I just need to keep my head down for a day or two. That means it’s in your best interest to make sure that nobody figures out where I am. I promise that you won’t come to any harm, if you help me,” he said, reaching out, taking her hand and leading her down the stairs.

  For three days, Hugh watched news bulletins, taking little pleasure from the initial and premature reports of his death, and not in the least surprised when the forensic teams – after sifting through the ashes – determined that his remains were not among them. He allowed Paula to take food and drink down to the cellar at regular intervals, while he waited at the top of the stairs with the shotgun aimed at her back, in case one of the men went for broke and tried to escape. Each night he used Paula for relief, having no need to take her by force, as she passively endured his demands in the hope that her compliance would gain favour. After sex, Hugh made her take three strong sleeping pills, and taped her wrist to his, before dozing fitfully as he fine-tuned both his short and long term plans.

  He had fled the farm with nothing. His false ID and money were lost to him, and he would now have to initially live dangerously until he could assume a new identity. Each evening, under cover of darkness, he had Paula drive her husband’s Rover to cash points as far afield as Thirsk and Harrogate, where he would sit in the car while she made withdrawals from ATMs. Added to the money that had been in the house, he amassed a total of over two thousand pounds.

  Paula rated an Oscar, he thought. She had phoned the surgery on the second morning and told Dr Jeremy Farnsworth – the senior partner of the practise – that Dominic had left for Cambridge, where his ageing father had been rushed into hospital and was in a critical condition following a massive stroke. She said that she would keep the surgery updated on the situation, but did not think Dom would be back on duty for several days. She had also conducted a lengthy telephone conversation with her daughter, Caroline, who rang at least twice a week, and came home once a month for a long weekend.

  Paula thanked God that Caroline had only visited the previous week, and that she had not been at the house when the rapist and killer had made their home his temporary hideout. The thought of him subjecting Caroline to all that she had been through was too much of a nightmare to contemplate. She had chitchatted with Caroline, told her that her dad was on an emergency call-out, and managed not to sound anything other than her normal and cheerful self. She finally hung up, and then started shaking uncontrollably, more with a deep sense of relief than from any other emotion.

  The television news had disclosed the identity of the maniac in their midst. He was, of all things, a policeman; Detective Sergeant Hugh Parfitt, alias the Tacker, who was by all accounts a serial killer and had escaped from a burning barn earlier on the day that he had turned up at their door. The public was warned that he was highly dangerous, and that he should not be approached under any circumstances.

  Commonsense told Paula that when he left, he would not leave them alive to bear witness against him. And yet she could think of no way to prevent what seemed inevitable.

  It was on the fourth evening as dusk fell, that Hugh made ready to leave.

  “I’ve got a few things to do, and then we’ll be on our way,” he said to Paula. “Have you got a road map or an A to Z of London?”

  Paula found him a motoring atlas, and then waited in a state of terror, positive that he would live up to his reputation and slaughter everyone in the house.

  “Make up a couple of flasks of coffee and some sandwiches if you want, Paula,” Hugh said. “I’m going to lock you in the cellar with Dr Dom and Postman Pat. I expect you to try and escape, but be very sure that I’ve left before you do.”

  Paula hesitantly prepared the food and drink, and placed it in a plastic supermarket shopping bag, hoping beyond hope that this was not a sick ploy, and that the madman really was going to keep his word and let them live.

  “My mother and I thank you for your hospitality,” Hugh said as Paula walked stiffly down the cellar steps, expecting to be blasted by the shotgun with every shallow breath that she drew; her whole body tensed, ready for the imagined impact and pain.

  Hugh locked the door, put the 12 gauge on the kitchen table, and then manoeuvred a weighty Welsh dresser up against their only way of escape.

  In the bathroom, he applied a semi-permanent hair colour, of the shade that Paula had used for nearly a decade to dye her greying hair. He then cleaned up all traces of what he had done and pocketed the empty dye bottle. His former fair hair was now a deep chestnut brown, dramatically altering his appearance. He had left the farm naked and on the run, but had swiftly regrouped and now had temporary transport in the form of the doctor’s Rover, and enough money for the time being. He would have to initially live on the edge, until he could assume a new identity. It was time for him and his mother to move on. The Armstrongs’ would no doubt make good their escape, eventually, or be found. And it would hopefully be assumed ‒ as he had asked her for a London A-Z ‒ that he was on his way, if not already in the capital. The last thing they would expect was for him to stay under their noses, and to kill again before disappearing like a ghost.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  TWENTY-four hours after undergoing surgery on his hand, Jim discharged himself from the hospital. He had been dressed and ready to leave when Laura arrived for what she had assumed was to be just another visit.

  “I thought they were keeping you in until at least tomorrow,” Laura said.

  “So did they, but I declined the invitation to stay on. My head’s okay and my hand has more bandaging than a boxer’s. I’m just taking up valuable space, and I’m likely to die from boredom if I stay in here another minute.”

  Outside, after Jim had signed a release form to officially gain his freedom by relieving the hospital of all responsibility and liability, Laura lit a cigarette as they walked towards the Cherokee, which she had picked up for him after returning the rented Sierra to Hertz.

  “Will you stay at the cottage for a while?” Laura asked, hearing
the imploring edge to her voice and feeling embarrassed at what sounded a blatant, almost beseeching request, rather than the offhand enquiry she had meant it to be.

  “I’ve no choice,” Jim replied, smiling mischievously. “I need a full-time nurse, driver, cook and lover...and not necessarily in that order, until my hand heals up. And you know what they say. A volunteer is worth ten pressed men.”

  “You chauvinist pig, Elliott. It’s a good job I love your worthless hide, or I’d leave you at the kerbside and cancel our trip to Arizona.”

  “There is one other reason why I’m going to stay at your place,” Jim said, his smile fading, to be replaced by a worried frown. “Hugh will attempt to kill you.”

  Laura shook her head. “I don’t think so. I doubt he’s within two hundred miles of here. And anyway, the chief’s put a round-the-clock watch on the cottage. Hugh’s too clever to walk into a trap. He’ll have enough on his plate trying to keep one step ahead of us. I doubt he’ll give me another thought.”

  “You’re wrong, Laura. Stop using logic. He’s lost it. He’ll want revenge. And in his unsound mind, it’s you who’s caused his life to nose-dive. He won’t be able to let it lie. You should move out of the cottage until he’s safely behind bars, or permanently if he doesn’t get lifted.”

  “If you’re right, then he’d find me wherever I moved to. He’s a detective, remember?”

  “Okay. So we wait for him, and when he makes his move we’d better be ready for it, or we’re history. He’s a crazy sonofabitch, but slick as snake-oil.”

  That first night back at the cottage, they talked of hardly anything but Hugh, his victims, the sad loss of Leo, and the events that appeared to have warped Hugh’s mind, creating a monster within him that he had obviously been able to hide and control for many years; an undetectable part of his character, that he unleashed when the irresistible urges bubbled up and demanded to be nurtured and pacified.

  “I have no doubt that he had an incestuous relationship with his mother,” Jim said. “One that she most likely instigated and encouraged from when he was a young boy. He was in love with her on a multilevel basis. He would have been devastated when she started an affair with another man, and couldn’t accept it or get his mind round it. We’ll never know whether he tampered with the car and caused the crash that killed her, but I think it’s a safe bet that he did. Digging her up and preserving her was a denial of his loss. He needed her so much that he just couldn’t let go.”

  “But all the killings and mutilations, Jim. Why did he do it?” Laura said, pouring them both large brandies, as once again she reflected on the countless hours’ that she had spent with a man who she had considered to be a caring friend, as well as an honest, decent colleague.

  “I’d say he never forgave his mother. So to punish her, he transferred her personality to living girls who bore a superficial likeness to how she’d looked in life. He could then vent his anger and frustration on her: kill her over and over again at will, and make her suffer endlessly for what he chose to think of as her sins.”

  “Christ, it’s so obscene and ghoulish. I can’t believe that I never saw a glimpse of that side of him. How could he hide it?”

  “A lot of sicko’s are ingenious, Laura. They can blend with their surroundings, and can project whatever emotions or part of their overall personality is required to maintain the illusion of normality. The side of Hugh that he allowed you to see was real. He probably loved his job, and gave the caring side of his nature full rein. The ability to keep his dark side hidden is a mechanism that many serial killers are capable of controlling. A percentage of them are even married with a family. They can be good fathers and husbands; trusted and respected members of the community. I found that it’s usually the people closest to them that are most shocked when they are eventually caught. They defended them all the way to the booby hatch, prison or lethal injection chamber in most instances.”

  “Enough,” Laura said. “I want to put it out of my mind for a while. Let’s go to bed, wedge the door, and see if your injuries have affected you in any other department.”

  “It’s my hand that’s damaged. All the important parts are in perfect working order.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Laura said, picking up their empty glasses and taking them through to the kitchen, then checking the new window locks for the third time, and ensuring that the front and back doors were locked and dead bolted.

  They lay naked, a single cotton sheet covering them to their waists. The summer night was humid, and they were both coated in a fine sheen of perspiration. They kissed slowly, lips parted, tongues teasing, probing.

  “God, I needed that,” Laura gasped a few minutes later. “You were right; the important bits are in perfect working order.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Jim said, reaching behind her to caress her buttocks as she leant forward to kiss his lips.

  Climbing off him, Laura headed for the bathroom, and he raised himself up on his elbows to admire her shapely form as she walked out on to the landing.

  “Are you tired?” Jim shouted, after listening to the splashing in the toilet bowl, and acknowledging that every action, however commonplace, was in Laura a special and sensual event.

  “Not really. Why, are you still feeling randy?”

  “No, I’m famished. Let’s have some cheese and biscuits, and open a bottle of cabernet.”

  They talked until almost dawn, but skirted around the subject of their future together, as though broaching it would somehow spoil what had been a perfect evening. Both of them were scared to be specific as to what they envisaged or hoped for from the relationship, though each wanted to be with the other, greedy to make up for the time that they had spent apart.

  “Where do we go from here?” Jim said, heart in mouth as he turned the conversation to what felt like an almost taboo area that was fraught with emotional pitfalls; deep traps with sharpened stakes, waiting for him to fall on to and be speared. “Is this just another quick fling? Or do we stir in a little commitment for flavouring and make a meal of it?”

  “I love you, Jim, and I want to be with you. I intend to quit the force, but it’s daunting. I can’t just sit back and wait for you to come home every evening. I wouldn’t make a good stay-at-home-do-the-housework kind of wife.”

  “You could join the firm. PR isn’t brain surgery or rocket science, but it’s a step up from dealing with all that’s rotten in society, and it pays better.”

  “It’s not just about money, Jim. Don’t you miss being with the FBI? Be honest.”

  “I miss certain aspects of it. But that’s only natural. Overall, I miss it like a bad tooth. Life moves on, and change is part of the process. Even if you stay a cop, retirement will start tapping on your shoulder. All of a sudden you’ll be in your fifties and the big six-O will be looming. Come the day, you’d still have to make a fresh start and find a point to it all, but with less time left to do it.”

  “Christ, Jim, that’s a gloomy outlook.”

  “It’s the truth, honey. If you’re thinking of quitting, then you’ve already realised that you don’t need another twenty years of swimming against the tide. You’ve got to start looking forward. Your career might have helped you to become the person you are today, but you don’t owe it a damn thing. You need to believe that, and walk away from it.”

  “If what you say is true, how come so many ex-cops and even FBI profilers stay on the fringes? A lot go into crime consultancy, or write books about it, or end up in security or private investigation.”

  “They can’t let go, so they stay connected from a distance. But for every former agent like John Douglas, who uses his experience to write best-sellers, there are scores like me, who go into non-related second careers. I admit that law enforcement gets into your blood. It’s like a drug, and can be just as dangerous for your health as snorting coke, popping pills or mainlining. With me, it became a mission to get inside a monster’s head and think my way int
o his mind; to understand what rang his bell, and then home in on him. But there are healthier and better ways to live each day. You just have to set new and more fulfilling goals, and find something to fill the gap...the part of your nature that thrived on a certain aspect of being involved in evil, till you’re past the cold turkey stage and the sun comes up brighter and warmer than ever.”

  “I can’t even stop smoking, Jim.”

  “That’s because you don’t want to enough. You can see the benefits, but your heart isn’t in it. You may never stop. It takes more than willpower, or the toll on your health. It takes desire.”

  “You’re right, and I know it. When we get across the pond and start Elliott’s Golden West Tour, I’ll get some distance and perspective, and work it out. What really did it for you, Jim? Was there a defining moment?”

  “No, nothing like a sudden revelation. It was a build up, like tartar. People that I cared about were killed, and I nearly bought it myself. I started to wake up feeling bad every day, and knew that I was losing the plot. I remember sitting up all night and watching the sun come up over D.C. one morning. It was fall, and the gold and copper of the trees was also on the grass in drifts of leaves that were as bright and alluring as an open chest of pirate’s treasure trove. There was a film of mist clinging to the surface of the Potomac, and a skein of geese flying above it in formation. It was a beautiful and peaceful moment, and I suddenly got to thinking that you only get to be part of this gift called life for a limited amount of time. Each day is a one off, never to be got back experience. I cottoned-on then, at that moment, to the fact that this isn’t a rehearsal; it’s a one act play. I was down in the grounds of an empty coffee cup; couldn’t get any lower. I just knew as I sat and looked out of my apartment window at the beginning of a new day that I was at the end of a book, and had to close it and start another. I’d reached a point where I knew that if I’d kept on going as I was, I would’ve been overwhelmed and gone under and probably ended up in some rubber room, doped up on Thorazine for the duration. I don’t mind admitting that I’d reached a wall I didn’t want to climb over.”