His stare is hard, and I know he doesn’t believe me as he probes further, “I want you to think very carefully, Miss Fable. We could be dealing with someone who thinks you’ve written their story. Are any of your support group, as you call them, male?”
“No, all female. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know without delay, but I don’t think there’s any merit in going down that route,” I assure him. “Surely, it’s more likely it’s someone I don’t know, and they’ve just got a fixation on me?”
He shrugs. “It could be, and I’d be inclined to think that way if he’s addressed the notes to Dexie Sanders. But it’s your name he uses, Miss Fable, not your pen name. That suggests the stalker’s got something against you personally.”
He seems to be glaring at me as if he thinks I’m hiding something. Which I am, but I’m not going to share. It’s not something I talk about; I’ve never told anyone. Saying it out loud would bring it all back. Would negate the years I’ve spent almost successfully convincing myself I’ve moved on. And anyway, it all happened so long ago; there’s no way there could be a connection. Lifting my eyes, I notice Jon watching me carefully; as if he’s able to read my private thoughts.
“Have you had any hate mail previously? Anything that you thought was suspicious?” Coulton continues.
Grateful that he’s now on a different tack, I turn my full attention back to the detective, and I think carefully, “No. Snail mail doesn’t come here; anything would go straight to the publishers or my agent. And then they forward anything I need to deal with on to me. But there hasn’t been anything at all of any concern. They certainly haven’t told me about anything out of the ordinary.” I narrow my eyes, remembering, “I did receive a couple of emails direct, from people who wrote and commented they didn’t like a particular scene or thought I’d got something wrong.”
Coulton sits up straighter. “Have you kept those communications?”
I nod, “I’m dreadful at deleting anything so yes, any emails will be on my laptop.”
“Can you dig anything out that might now seem suspicious in the light of recent events?”
I can do that. “No problem.” I agree.
His disdainful expression makes it clear he thinks I know more than I’m letting on, or as if I’ve brought it all on myself. But what am I expected to do? Change the way I write my books which millions of fans enjoy just because of a fucking nutcase who doesn’t happen to like them? What’s happened to freedom of speech in this country?
I don’t need to feel guilty! Instead, I find myself growing angry; my facial muscles tighten, and my cheeks start to flame. Jon coughs as if to clear his throat. It has the effect of breaking the tension.
“And our suggestion?” He glances at Coulton as if to prompt him.
“Ah, yes. As the stalker has got up close and personal by breaking in here, we’ve been discussing moving you to a safe place until we’ve got a better handle on what’s going on here.”
I sit up straight; I’m not at all happy with that proposal. Which is perverse; earlier I wanted to run and never come back. But my anger has got the better of me, and I don’t want to be chased out of my home. So I protest, “I’ve already told you I’ve nowhere to go, and I can’t afford to stay indefinitely at a hotel. I might be safe if I leave here, but what happens when I come back?” If they hadn’t picked up on it before, my tone would leave them in no doubt I’m getting annoyed. “You’ve just installed a state of the art security system, Jon,” I address him directly; “You’ve offered to stay with me. Surely it’s better to wait this out now and try and catch this fucking nut?”
Jon narrows his eyes at me, as if I’ve said something he objects to, but then he raises his eyebrows and looks at Coulton. They appear to have an unspoken conversation and then Jon speaks “She’s right. It’s the best way to draw him out.” He comes over and squeezes my shoulder. “If Mia’s up taking the risk of staying here, I’ll ensure she’s got twenty-four-hour protection.”
Coulton’s jaw tightens as though he’s clenching his teeth, perhaps trying to stop inappropriate words emerging. I gather he’s not particularly happy leaving it to Grade A Security, but has nothing he can offer instead; the police can’t provide one to one support in the same way. We thrash out the pros and cons for a while longer, but I remain adamant my stalker’s not going to drive me out of my home, and in the end, the detective grudgingly agrees it might be the quickest way to bring the case to a swift conclusion. With the cameras all set up, if the stalker does come here again there’s a good chance they’ll be able to catch him, or at least, have some footage to help identify who he is.
When Coulton and his colleagues finally leave, it’s not long before Jon follows, needing to go back to his place to collect the necessities sufficient for a couple of nights away from home. This morning, he hadn’t expected events to take the turn they had and hadn’t come prepared to stay. But before leaving, he reassures me the security guys are still installing the alarms, and will be around at least until he returns. As he zooms off on his motorbike, some of my tension leaves me, my relief showing the extent of the strange effect he has on me. Causing me to wonder just who exactly is the greatest threat to my life; Jon Tharpe or the stalker.
Chapter 7
Jon
Five years ago
I took the flight to Dubai, and then the connecting flight to Amahad, not sure exactly what my new job would entail. While providing close protection, my job would be to shadow the sheikh wherever he was to go. I quickly found the palace in Al Qur’ah, the capital city, was opulent, shamelessly displaying its wealth and heritage. But Sheikh Nijad, himself, seemed down to earth and more European in his outlook than I expected, speaking English like a native and, even in this Muslim country, having a fully stocked bar in his room; the contents of which he didn’t hesitate to share. Nevertheless, the otherwise archaic customs of this small Arabic state didn’t hold much appeal, and I was pleased to find we’d be spending most of our time in Europe, and that he only paid the occasional obligatory visits to his home and family.
We clicked immediately; him being an ex-military man himself, and fast found common ground. Living in Europe for most of his time, it was only a matter of days before we were quickly on our way to Paris, his favourite city and where he shared an apartment with his brother, Jasim. It was in that cosmopolitan city that I soon discovered Sheikh Nijad’s lifestyle choices were very close to my own, and being his bodyguard was no chore at all. Especially when it meant I gained membership to some of the more exclusive BDSM clubs in the French capital.
Nijad and I quickly dropped any formalities between us – once you’ve seen a man getting his cock sucked in a kink club it’s hard to stand on ceremony – and we fast became close friends.
Our relationship made my job so much easier; in fact, it hardly seemed like work at all. Gone was the uniform – I dressed to merge into the background – no longer did I have to rise at godawful hours, and also absent was the responsibility for my men, my only duty keeping myself and my client alive. My main weapon was a Glock I carried in my shoulder holster and which I hoped never to have to use in civilian life.
My service training served me well, and however strong my friendship became with Nijad, I remained vigilant, never forgetting I was being paid to keep him safe. On duty, I was always alert, on the lookout for the smallest detail, never wanting to miss anything ever again.
Present day
On my return to Mia’s cottage near Epping, I find the woman herself outside, discussing the security arrangements with Howie. As the guys finish up installing the equipment, passing the new keys to the door and window locks over to Mia, they call out their goodbyes and leave. Collecting my bag from my car, I follow Mia into the house, finding it hard to keep my eyes away from her denim covered arse, the tight material emphasising the enticing sway of her hips as she moves. Reminding myself to keep my mind firmly on the job, I lift my eyes to focus further north and force myself to c
oncentrate on the fact that this woman is in danger, and it’s my responsibility to keep her safe. The thought that there’s someone out there who wants to hurt her slams into me with such force it makes me pause my forward motion. A sudden rage burns inside me, and I know I’ll do everything in my power to protect her. Even if that has to mean, protecting her from myself as well as the stalker. I must be the CPO, not the man.
Moving on into the house, I carry my holdall into the lounge and put it down by the side of the couch. It’s not heavy; I don’t carry a lot with me, the bag only contains a change of clothing and necessary toiletries, no weaponry. The major downside to working in England is that it’s not legal to carry a gun. For the last few years, I’ve worked abroad in countries where the laws are less stringent so here I feel naked without a holster. The strict gun laws in the UK mean there is far less crime involving shooting, but notwithstanding that, while I can’t be armed, there’s nothing to say the person Mia and I could be facing will be so law abiding. I’ll need to be even more on my guard and on my toes. Lucky I’m well able to defend myself, and my clients, with my fists.
Mia offers me food, but time’s getting on, and it’s well into the evening now. Having eaten late afternoon, she’s not hungry herself, so I’m quite happy to settle for the can of lager she offers. My preference is beer, but if that’s all she’s got I’ll take it. I’m not surprised when she pours herself a glass of white wine; it seems to be her preferred tipple. Sighing, seeming tired, she sits down on the sofa, and leans her head back, rolling her shoulders as if to relieve tension there. I take the chair opposite. For a moment there’s an awkward silence, and raising her head back up she throws me a nervous look. Having a man staying in her house is probably new for her, particularly someone she doesn’t know. The way her hands are twisting in her lap suggests she’s not quite sure how this is supposed to go. I know one way I’d like this evening to end, but that’s not going to happen. Winning the struggle to bring myself back to business I give her an update, hoping my matter of fact approach to the conversation will put her at her ease.
“I’ve got Vanessa, head of our investigation team back at the office, going through the comments on the Dexie Sanders’ Facebook page. But, we were wondering, were there any you had to delete?”
My business-like approach seems to settle her. She’s quiet for a moment, her brow creasing as she thinks. “No, if there was an adverse comment I just tried to answer it reasonably. There haven’t been many. Most are about when’s the next book coming out, or discussing the latest one. Or discussions about where I’ve taken the plot. Of course, I deleted some which weren’t relevant to my page, adverts in the main. But there were only a few of those.”
“I’m not sure what we’ll get from your emails, but it’s worth a look tomorrow. And Vanessa will be contacting your publisher and your agent to see whether they’ve had any communications with them that they haven’t told you about.”
Nodding, thoughtfully she dismisses the idea, “Val wouldn’t hide anything from me.” She pauses, and then asks, “How do you know Val? She’s the one who contacted your company for me.”
I smile, “I don’t know her, but my partner, Ben does. I don’t know the details, but apparently, he owes her a favour.” And one of these days I’m going to get to the bottom of exactly what it is. It must be a big one; this case is going to cost us thousands. The security system wasn’t cheap, but on checking with Ben he’s happy to run with it. He had, however, raised a quizzical eyebrow when I told him I was personally taking the case on.
“Oh.” She picks up her wine and sips it. A drop glistens on her lip, and I ache to lick it off.
I close my eyes for a second, as if blocking her from my sight will help me get my shit together and remember just why I’m here. If I’m right, what I’m going to ask next is going to hurt her, but there’s no way to avoid it, not if I want to get the information which might save her life. Somehow I have to approach the question that’s been going around my head since the talk we had in the pub, however much I wish the seed had never been planted. Was it really only a few hours ago? Already it seems a lifetime away. I take a moment to prepare myself mentally and to find the right tone of voice. If the answer is as I expect, I’ll need to school my features carefully not to reflect my rage.
I lean forward, looking straight into her lovely eyes. My gut churns as I dread hearing the answer. If there’s ever been a time in my life that I wanted to be wrong, that time is now.
“Mia,” I start my voice as gentle as I can make it. “I need to ask you something.” When she looks up and puts down her glass, showing I have her full attention, I continue, “Have you ever been raped?”
I’ve caught her completely unawares. Her hand goes over her mouth but isn’t successful in smothering that giveaway gasp. As she starts to shake violently, her reaction confirms what I suspected even while I was hoping to God it wasn’t true. I can’t help myself, in one swift move I’m sitting beside her, putting my arm around her, trying to pull her close. She tenses, fighting me, but I’m insistent, not allowing her to break loose, and gradually she stops struggling, and instead leans against me, giving into my touch, accepting my support. I’m boiling inside, but she needs comfort from me, not an outburst of anger. Although it’s definitely not in my job description or any close protection manual, I place a kiss on the top of her head, and for a second, all I can think about is her scent as it fills my nostrils, her hair tickling my nose.
“I’m so sorry, Mia.” I’m apologising in advance for the line of questioning her response has opened up. “What Coulton was getting at, is whether someone thinks you’re basing your writing on an actual sexual experience, and that’s the reason they believe you owe them.” I take a deep breath before I continue. I’m surmising here, but I reckon I’m going to be right on target, “Mia was your only sexual experience your rape?” I hug her to me, and again my lips nuzzle her hair. “I know it’s the last thing you want to do, but you do need to tell me everything, it may have a bearing on the threats now, and I have to be armed with any and all pertinent information if I’m going to be able to protect you.”
She shivers, even though the house is warm. I touch her hand and find it cold to touch. Reaching up, I grasp her chin gently and turn her head to face me only to see silent tears running down her face. My gut churns, I want to kill whoever did this to her, slowly and very, very painfully. “Tell me,” I ask again, gently, but firmly, keeping my inner reactions on a tight rein, not letting them show.
Shaking her head, she starts to speak, her voice so quiet it’s hard to hear her. “I can’t believe there’s any connection. It happened seven years ago; it’s something I don’t talk about, or even want to remember. I’ve never told anyone before. Ever.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, keeping my voice soft and low, but also commanding. “But there might be a link.” I hate doing this do her, but it’s important she shares everything with me; otherwise I’ll be working in the dark.
“I don’t know how it would help. I didn’t know them, never knew their names. But I heard their voices. I’m certain I’ve never come across them again; I’d know. I’m sure.”
Fuck! There was more than one? My jaw tightens, and my teeth grind together. Steeling myself, so I don’t give away the growing anger inside me, I force my fists to loosen and take her hand, rubbing my fingers across the back in a gesture of support.
“Definitely not the man who was stalking you?”
Another shudder, “I don’t think so, but then, he, blue hoodie, only said a few words in the café.”
If one of her rapists had been her age when it happened, in the intervening seven years a young man’s voice may have deepened. I’ll leave that for now, but I can’t rule out the possibility that her stalker and one of her abusers are one and the same. My arm still around her, I encourage her to go on, “Tell me what happened to you, Mia.”
I watch as she swallows a few times, realising how difficult it i
s for her to speak about her ordeal, especially if it’s true she’s never talked about it before. I give her a little time to get her thoughts together, and when she starts telling me the details, I can do nothing but admire the strength she manages to summon up and put into her voice. Now she’s decided to disclose the circumstances, it all comes tumbling out.
“It was seven years ago when I was just seventeen. I went to a party; my mother didn’t want me to go.” She pauses, and just before I need to prompt her, she carries on, “I must have been given something, Rohypnol I suppose? Next thing I knew I woke up tied, blindfolded and gagged in some sort of building. There were two of them. They both raped me. I didn’t know them.” Her voice trails off.
I want to swear, to rant and rave. I want to know who they are as they’re both fucking dead men; they just don’t know it yet. No, killing’s too good for them. I’ll castrate them, cut off their cocks and force them down their fucking throats. I swallow down my anger, trying to keep my voice calmer than the thoughts raging through my head as I sense there’s worse to come. She’s trembling in my arms, the memories so painful; I wish I could do something to take them away. But there’s more she’s not telling me. So I encourage her, “And then?” Though it’s a battle to keep my voice composed my apparent easy acceptance without criticism seems to ground her.
She continues in a flat voice. “I was there two nights. Then they dropped me back near where the party was. Literally, threw me out of a van. Luckily it was also close to home.”
Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2) Page 8