A Deadly Compulsion

by Michael Kerr

  Hugh had slipped silently from the trees, knelt next to the car and listened to the conversation. As he pulled the door open and skewered the nearest copper, he put his hand under the dying man’s jacket and removed the handgun, chambering a round and aiming the pistol at the other bewildered looking man’s face.

  “Hands on the dash, now, or you get to join your buddy in the big police station in the sky,” Hugh said, his voice calm, low and ice-cold with menace.

  Vic did as he was told.

  “Good man,” Hugh said. “I want call signs and procedures. Then we do a test call, and if you’ve lied to me, I’ll kill you. If you behave, I’ll lock you in the boot and you live to fight another day. First, take your weapon out, thumb and finger only, and toss it in the back.”

  Vic slowly removed the pistol from its holster and dropped it over his shoulder onto the rear seat.

  Hugh grinned. “So far, so good. Now, make the test call.”

  The call checked out and, at gunpoint, Vic pulled the boot release and got out of the car, walking slowly to the rear and climbing into it as ordered. As he struggled to find a measure of comfort in the cramped space, Hugh clubbed him over the head several times with the gun’s butt, only stopping when he was sure that the copper was unconscious or dead. He then pulled the lid down and gently pressed it until the catch clicked into place.

  Sitting in the driving seat next to the corpse, which looked like someone asleep, with its head lolling forward, Hugh withdrew the knife from its head, wiped the blade clean on the body’s trousers and waited until eleven o’clock to make the hourly test call. He then left the car, armed with the Glock, the knife and the mobile phone-sized two-way radio, and walked across the country road, whistling nonchalantly as he opened the gate, to make his way up the path to the front door. He rapped on it four times, and then paused before tapping twice more, exactly as the copper had told him to.

  There were developments on the evening news. Laura and Jim stared at the screen, hanging on to every word as an outside broadcast from the village of Skelby showed the exterior of a floodlit house among the trees. The report verified that Jim had been right in believing that Hugh was doubtless still somewhere in Yorkshire.

  A doctor, his wife and a postman had been discovered alive in the cellar of the house. They had been found by another doctor, who had become suspicious when his colleague’s wife had phoned to say that due to serious illness in the family, the GP would not be at work for several days. Paula Armstrong had said that her husband’s father had suffered a stroke which, considering he had been dead for over two years, was highly unlikely to say the least. Dr Jeremy Farnsworth had, after a great deal of contemplation, been unable to let the matter rest. He could not entertain the possibility of Paula or Dom lying to him. And it was even more inconceivable that they could under any circumstances have mistakenly attributed the reason for Dom’s absence to the poor health of a deceased parent.

  Jeremy had knocked at both front and back doors. There was no answer, and only as he walked back to his car did he hear the muted shouting from inside the house. Without hesitation he had broken a window to gain access.

  It was thought – due to Parfitt asking for an A-Z of London – that the wanted man may already be down south. Dr Armstrong’s Rover had been found abandoned in a lay-by on a road in East Yorkshire, but it was not known what vehicle had been stolen as a replacement. No other details were being released by the police, and the Armstrongs and the postman were being kept incommunicado.

  “Looks like he has gone down The Smoke,” Laura said when the programme moved on to race riots in a West Yorkshire city, and forest fires much farther afield near Los Angeles, that were claiming houses of the rich and famous.

  “He’s gone nowhere, Laura,” Jim said. “He won’t move on till he’s finished up here. You’re his main concern at the moment. Everything else is secondary. He’ll be totally fixated on venting his hate for you and me. He’s driven by a need to punish us for exposing him for what he is.”

  “And all we can do is sit and wait,” Laura stated. “He has the advantage.”

  “No, we have the advantage. We know his agenda. We just have to wait him out and be prepared to finish it without any hesitation.”

  “You mean kill him in cold blood?” Laura said, her expression showing the inner conflict that she felt.

  “Sometimes our worst nightmares are outstripped by reality, Laura. Don’t think of Parfitt as a person. He’s more dangerous than a rogue elephant. If you think for a second that he deserves any compassion, then your life is on the line.”

  “But could you really―”

  “Kill him? You’d better believe it. I’d have more qualms over destroying a mad dog.

  His mind is diseased. It might not be his fault. He may not be able to control his actions, but that doesn’t cut him any slack. I know that when it comes to push or shove, and it’s him or us, I won’t be looking to argue the toss with him.”

  Laura got up and headed for the kitchen. Jim rose and followed, as though he was scared to let her out of his sight for even a second. And that was the truth of it. He didn’t underestimate Parfitt. He had learned not to underestimate anyone in life. You had to be aware that each individual possessed unknown potential. Complacency was an enemy, ever ready to pounce on the unwary.

  “You hungry?” Laura asked.

  “Not particularly. A little peckish, maybe. You?”

  “No, but I need to be busy. I’ve got the urge to cook something.”

  “So let’s cook. What have you got in mind?”

  “Just something quick and tasty.”

  “I’ll help. Tell me what to do.”

  With three boned, skinless chicken breasts defrosting in the microwave, Laura gathered together an array of ingredients. Following instructions, Jim peeled and chopped a clove of garlic, then grated the rind off and squeezed the juice from a lemon into a bowl. Laura heated oil in a wok; cut the chicken into roughly 5cm sized cubes and tossed them in a mixture of plain flour with the lemon rind and garlic that Jim had prepared. While she cooked the nuggets until golden, Jim peeled and grated ginger, mixed it with stock and sugar, and passed it to her to add to the chicken for another few minutes. He then blended the lemon juice with an egg yolk, to be stirred with the rest until it thickened into a rich sauce.

  “Wash your hands and open a bottle of wine, while I finish up,” Laura said, testing egg noodles that were simmering in another pan. “It’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”

  As Jim poured out two glasses of Merlot, Laura added parsley and seasoning to the meal and then drained the noodles and served it up.

  Jim sniffed at the air like a Bisto Kid. “That looks and smells delicious,” he said. “I’ve suddenly got an appetite.”

  “Me too,” Laura said as they clinked their glasses together.

  “What do you call it?” Jim asked, preparing to take a mouthful of the steaming dish.

  Laura grinned. “Food. But if you need a name for it, let’s call it lemon chicken surprise.”

  “That sounds like a dessert.”

  “Even more of a surprise that it isn’t, then. Just eat.”

  Twenty minutes later, Jim sighed with contentment. “That was some supper dish,” he said, carrying the plates to the sink.

  “Glad you liked it,” Laura said as she made up a flask of coffee and screwed the lid in place, just seconds before the prearranged knock came at the door. “There’s our goodnight call.”

  Laura realised that she was no longer consumed by fear. Jim was strong and reliable, and his experience of dealing with the type of threat that was facing them was without equal. But the knowledge that Hugh might be nearby and intent on revenge was playing on her mind. He was smart, capable, and had so far managed to kill with impunity and stay ahead of the game. There was no guarantee that good would triumph over evil. That was the stuff of fairy tales.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  WALKING from the kitchen an
d along the short hall to open the door, Laura had a smile on her face to greet one of the graveyard shift cops. Maybe it would be Marty Drury, who was the youngest and by far the more affable of the two. It wasn’t. As she opened the door her smile froze a split-second before she was struck savagely on the shoulder. The blow spun her round, and the flask flew from her hand to crash to the floor and spin away with a sound that might have been loose pebbles being shaken in a seaside bucket.

  With his forearm around her neck, exerting pressure on her throat and cutting off her air supply, Hugh rammed the muzzle of the Glock up against Laura’s temple.

  Jim kicked back the wooden, ladder-backed chair he’d been sitting on and rushed out into the hall, to stop abruptly at the sight of the man holding the gun to Laura’s head, and the almost plum colour of her face, caused by slow asphyxiation.

  “Hi, Jimbo,” Hugh said, kicking the door closed behind him. “I was in the neighbourhood, so I thought I’d just call by and repay you and the boss for all the trouble you went to over the last few days to fuck me up.”

  Jim could hardly recognise Parfitt. His hair was dark; he wore shades, and his nose was badly swollen. “Hugh, listen―”

  “No, Elliott, you listen. Do exactly as I say, or I end it here and now. Go into the lounge and lay face down on the floor, arms together behind your back. You know the drill.”

  Jim obeyed. He walked woodenly into the middle of the room, knelt down and slowly lowered himself to stretch out on the carpet. Within seconds he felt the bite of a plastic restraining strap as his wrists were pinioned together. He then grunted in pain and surprise as Hugh brought the gun’s barrel down hard on his bandaged hand, which blossomed with blood as the stitches burst and the surgeon’s work was undone.

  Hugh had been holding Laura face down next to Jim, his knee in her back. He side-swiped her twice with the gun, hard enough to daze her, and then reached into a pocket for a reel of duct tape and proceeded to tape her hands behind her before, as almost an afterthought, he also used it to bind Jim’s ankles together. Once satisfied that neither posed a threat, he hauled them to their feet, one at a time, and pushed them onto the settee.

  Sitting on the chair opposite the two people he most hated in the world, Hugh placed the Glock he had purloined from the copper he had killed on the top of the coffee table. He smiled broadly, enjoying the fact that he was in complete control of the situation.

  “This is cosy,” Hugh said, removing the police radio and his knife, hypodermic, a phial of fluid, hammer, and two six-inch nails from his pockets, to set them down neatly before him on the tabletop. “Just the three of us, and plenty of time for me to demonstrate my skills. You’re going to experience suffering that you can’t properly imagine, Laura.”

  He remained unmoving for a few minutes, savouring the moment, and then sighed, got up and went into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of French brandy and one balloon glass. Settling down again, he opened the bottle and poured himself a large measure. God, he felt up for it. This was too good to rush. He swirled the brandy around the glass and inhaled the bouquet before sipping the golden liquid; the mellow spirit startling his taste buds before being swallowed to hit his stomach with spreading warmth. He was relaxed and totally at ease. Only now mattered. There was no past or future in his mind to dilute the moment. He was eager to start in on what would be his most memorable act. No enemy can be greater than one who has been a trusted friend. Laura had turned on him; a Judas. Her treachery would now be repaid in full. He had given her respect, loyalty and a certain amount of devotion, and she had been ready to throw him to the wolves; had been the leader of the pack.

  “Now, are you sitting comfortably? No, of course not, but I’ll begin anyway,” Hugh said, grinning at his prisoners. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and have decided to skin you alive, Laura. It isn’t original, I know. It’s an art that has been practised throughout history, and no doubt more expertly than I will be able do it justice. But I’m prepared to give it a go if you are.

  “And you, loverboy,” he sneered at Jim. “You get to watch the whole show from a front row seat. Worse, you get to live to remember that if you hadn’t been so fucking clever, this wouldn’t be happening. You’ll probably crack up after this is over; maybe top yourself, because you’ve got no grit, Elliott. You can only handle being on the winning team. When things go wrong, you fold like a wimp.”

  “Where’s that hideous prune you call Mummy, Hugh?” Jim said, his whole body tensed, ready to kick out if he could goad the other man into attacking him. “Doesn’t mummy’s little boy want her sitting here to watch him being naughty? Or has she finally fallen apart with all the exercise she’s had of late?”

  Hugh’s left eye began to blink rapidly, and his mouth worked soundlessly, but he didn’t make a move from his chair, just glowered at Jim.

  “Well, motherfucker?” Jim pushed, wanting a response; needing to unsettle Parfitt and modify the situation, desperate to change the course of events that loomed horrifyingly in front of him. “Can you only go up against defenceless women? Not got the bottle to deal with someone your own size, head on, huh?”

  Hugh took deep breaths, and found composure. “It isn’t going to work, Elliott. Your FBI mind games aren’t going to get you or Laura out of this,” he said, lifting the syringe, drawing a small amount of morphine into it – which he had taken from the doctor’s house – and quickly leaning forward, to plunge the needle into Laura’s thigh.

  Jim lurched forward off the settee, to do no more than fall across the coffee table and roll on to the floor beyond it, helpless.

  Hugh jumped up and drove his foot into Jim’s ribs, twice, then kicked him a third time in the side of the head, sending him sprawling on his back, to be enveloped by a dark veil that negated all interest in the proceedings.

  Laura felt drunk, and not from the wine. She tried to speak, but her tongue felt too big for her mouth, and the words that she tried to form just sounded like a toddler’s gibberish.

  Hugh’s cheeks dimpled in a smirk. He began to cut her clothes from her, and she could only watch, numb, her body unresponsive as the effects of the narcotic paralysed her. He cut the tape from her wrists, and she tried to lash out to defend herself and fight for her life, but her arms hung limp and unresponsive at her sides. She was powerless; completely at his mercy.

  Hugh chose the wall opposite the spiral staircase, removing a framed photo of Laura and her late daughter from it, to hurl across the room, where it shattered against the kitchen door. He then examined the feature of the upright oak posts that protruded from the plaster and ran from floor to ceiling, four feet apart. Lifting Laura, he carried her to the wall, and pinning her between the rough plaster and his own body, facing him, he raised her right arm up above her head to the side as high as he could, with the back of her hand against the dark wood.

  A white-hot stab of pain blazed through Laura’s hand and raced along her arm to her shoulder. And as she cried out in agony, her other hand came alive with the same crippling forks of excruciating fire.

  Hugh moved back away from her, and Laura’s body sagged, causing more pain as her spiked hands took her full weight. She somehow managed to lift her head and look up to her left, to see the rivulet of blood running from her palm, and to stare in disbelief at the two inches of gleaming nail that protruded from her flesh. The bastard had crucified her to the wall beams. A vision of Christ on the cross materialised in her mind. Her spirit gave way, snapping under the burden of fear. She didn’t want to die, but if this was her time to, then she wanted it to be over with quickly, but knew that Hugh had other plans; knew that the real suffering had not yet begun.

  Jim came to his senses in a sitting position, his back up against the cold metal staircase. He tried to move, but his neck was taped to one of the cast-iron uprights. Before him, Laura was hanging, naked, with blood dripping down her arms from where nails affixed her hands to the vertical wall beams.

  “I got things set up whil
e you were having forty winks, Jimbo,” Hugh said conversationally, appearing in front of Laura, his recharged glass of brandy in his right hand, and a wicked looking knife with a thin, six-inch-long blade in his left. “Now, what I intend to do is make a Y-cut, but not too deep, because this isn’t an autopsy. I’ll just be peeling her like a tomato. And every time she passes out, we’ll take five and wait for her to come round. I don’t want her to miss a thing. In fact I think I’ll work from her neck to her thighs, and try to flense her torso like a jacket. Then I can slip it on and wear a part of her while she’s still alive. I may have to give her another shot of morphine when I start in on the head. Removing her face and scalp might just smart a little. Can you imagine what will be left, writhing on the wall, Jim? It’ll be like some butchered thing out of a horror movie, but we’ll both know who it is, won’t we?”

  “You fucking sick bastard!” Jim cried out, tears filling his eyes to mist his vision as his stomach cramped with leaden fear, frustration, and anger at his helplessness to do anything but watch.

  “There’s no need to be insulting, Jimbo,” Hugh said, a theatrical expression of hurt on his face. “You’ve dealt with enough serial killers over the years to know that we’re driven, without the ability to show any empathy. We feed off suffering, thrive on domination, and really get off on having control over others. Christ, I’m only following a blueprint. It’s a genetic thing. Look at nature; hunters and prey. What I do is as natural to me as fox hunting is to the well-heeled minority of dickheads that try to justify their actions as being necessary culling. Blood sport always has its critics. But I don’t attempt to justify anything. I just need to do it. I’m like a furnace that needs stoking.”

  “You’ll get caught, Parfitt. Sooner or later they’ll hunt you down and―”

  “And what, Yank? This isn’t the good old U S of A. There’s no death penalty here, so even in the unlikely event that I did get caught, I’d be put in some shit-hole for the criminally insane. Big deal. But I don’t intend for that to happen. I’m going to vanish when I’ve finished up here and start a new life. And you’ll know that I’m out there somewhere, laughing at you. But enough banter. Let’s get down to it, shall we?”