The Sound Of Crying

by Nigel Cooper

  ‘And this is the bedroom,’ he said, nudging the door open but, being a gentleman, he didn’t step inside.

  ‘Wow, that’s a big bed for one person,’ I joked.

  ‘Ha, well, hopefully not for ever.’

  The food Peter had prepared was wonderful: Beef wellington with a selection of honey-roasted vegetables and button mushrooms. He’d obviously put in a lot of time and effort, even with the presentation side, which was perfection. He even pushed the boat out with the desert, homemade baked Alaska, and it was perfect, then a little later a tasteful cheeseboard.

  ‘Well, I’m absolutely stuffed, but in the best possible way. That was really delicious, Peter. You’ve obviously put in a lot of effort, I really appreciate it.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome, the pleasure was all mine.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a little more wine though,’ I said, putting the glass to my mouth to swallow the last mouthful.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, pouring me some more, ‘say when.’

  I let him fill it right to the top, and then I took a mouthful. His face lit up with delight at this. I mean, he’d obviously figured that I was not going to be in any fit state to drive 38 miles back up to Bedford (at least Bedford is where Peter thought I lived as I’d lied to him regarding that little detail) and I think he also suspected that I was not about to take a taxi that far either; he was right. The fact remained that I needed to stay here the night, I needed to figure out a way of getting my hands on the two keys to his safes – from what I could gather, they were on the same keyring as his house keys that he’d left on the kitchen work surface – and getting his rifle and ammunition and getting out of the house and away unnoticed. I really was starting to feel bad about this, what I was doing to Peter, using him like this. Why couldn’t he have been a horrible bastard that tells sexist jokes, belches out loud in a lady’s presence and hates dogs and children, that would have made this much easier. I was desperate to find something, anything, that I didn’t like about Peter, a moral in the wrong place perhaps, but there was nothing. Why couldn’t gentlemen like this come along when you really were looking for a deep meaningful and lasting relationship?

  The way I figured it, I had two choices; I could either play the long game and wait until he offered me a spare set of house keys, which probably wouldn’t be that long, or I could get some more wine in him and wait until he was fast asleep – which would inevitably mean sleeping with him. Patient as I was, I didn’t want to play the long game. So, I’d make sure I got a few more glasses of red down me to numb the effects of what would inevitably come later in the bedroom. Not that it was going to be a horrible experience, I was confident that having sex with Peter would be incredible, but I also knew that my emotions would come into play and who knows what that would mean. If I planned on drinking enough to try and numb my feelings and emotions, but not so much that I can’t drive home in the early hours. I’d also encourage Peter to have a few more glasses too as I wanted him to be out like a light.

  ‘It would appear that I’m leaving you behind,’ I said, gesturing to my wine glass as I took another sip. With this, Peter gulped the last of his glass and poured himself another.

  My agenda, the numbness I was feeling because of the loss of my children and the guilt from going behind my husband’s back aside, my evening with Peter was very pleasant and the more time I spent with him the more mixed up and confused my emotions became; especially after four glasses of red wine, which seemed to be having the opposite effect to what I’d hoped.

  I loved my husband, but I also hated him at the same time. I can’t understand why he doesn’t feel the same way that I do. He just wants to put everything behind him and move forward, whereas I just can’t do that. I don’t know, maybe it’s a biological thing; perhaps men handle these things differently to women. The thing is, since John and I found out about Edward and Jamie, that they’d been murdered, I’ve seen a different side to my husband, and I guess he’s seen a different side to me too. After we buried our boys, John and I argued and rowed a lot, often quite heated as I tried to get him to understand me. Something just happened to us, our marriage was suddenly under a lot of strain, we both changed and, if I’m honest with myself, I don’t even know if John and I can have any sort of marriage now. Perhaps it was our children that glued us all together; perhaps our relationship is beyond repair. I’m not just trying to convince myself either, for the inevitable act that is about to ensue with Peter and I in his bedroom. In hindsight, my relationship with John could well have been coming to an end anyway.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a spare toothbrush,’ he said, handing me a fresh towel and showing me where things were in his bathroom. ‘I didn’t want to be as presumptuous as to buy one for you.’

  ‘Well, that’s admirable, but I kind of wish you had,’ I laughed, stumbling into the bathroom and closing the door behind me.

  I brushed my teeth the best I could using some toothpaste on my finger, which didn’t do a great job of removing any bits of beef from between my teeth, but then I found some wooden toothpicks in his bathroom cabinet. I looked at my face in the mirror as I pushed the pick between my teeth. I saw Helen Kramer, but I didn’t recognise her at all. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by a feeling of intense loneliness, I felt like an empty shell; no children, no loving husband, no supportive friends, even Helen Kramer couldn’t help, she simply wasn’t there. The woman who looked back at me, those eyes, that was Natalie, a woman full of hate and revenge, a woman who was using a kind and gentle man so she can steal from him, a woman who planned to assassinate a human being … but no, he wasn’t a human being, he was pure evil. I noticed my mouth take on a slight snarl as I thought about Stanton and the horrors he’d put my children though. My face took on a whole new expression and I actually scared myself and had to look away, down into the sink.

  It was like I was fading away, and I didn’t want to, I didn’t want to lose who I was but as I continued down this path of hate and destruction it was plain to see that I’d become a very faint shadow of my former self.

  I wanted to be me again, I wanted to feel happiness, warmth and love inside. Maybe it was the wine, maybe not. I looked up at myself in the mirror again and decided that I was going to try and get some of those feelings back, even if momentarily, for one night.

  I went into the bedroom; Peter was sitting on the edge of the bed, partly undressed, just his boxer shorts and his partially unbuttoned shirt. He turned and looked at me as he undid the last button. I’d already unzipped my dress at the back so I moved my shoulders slightly to encourage it to drop to my waist, revealing my bra. I used both my hands to push it further down my hips, wiggling slightly to help it on its way. It fell the floor and I stepped out of it and slowly walked around to Peter and stood right in front of him.

  ‘Make me feel again, make me feel like a woman.’

  * * *

  He gave me what I wanted, exactly what I needed; he took his time and stirred things inside me, evoked emotions and gave me a much-needed physical and emotional release. Eventually, we both fell asleep. The digital clock on Peter’s side told me it was just after 4 a.m. when I stirred. I’m not sure why I woke as, like Peter, I’d had a lot to drink and I was physically and mentally exhausted after our session, perhaps it was just the strange environment, I never sleep well away from home. Peter was snoring ever so lightly; it was quite endearing seeing this strong military man making soft baby-like little snores. There was enough light in the room for me to see quite clearly now that my eyes had adjusted. I crept out of bed and went over to the wardrobe, Peter was facing the other way, but I still kept my eyes on him as I slid the wardrobe door open and looked around the bottom for the safe. It was at the back, partly obscured by some of Peter’s longer coats. Like the safe under the stairs, this one also had a key. I carefully slid the wardrobe door closed then quietly went downstairs to the kitchen, Peter’s keys were right where I’d noticed them earlier. My head didn’t feel too bad
, considering how many glasses of wine I’d had; maybe it was a good quality one, or maybe I was just too focused on what I was doing.

  I looked at the keys on the bunch and there weren’t many, a couple of Yale keys that looked like they were probably for the house, his car key, and four others, two of which must, I hoped, be for the two safes. I opened the cupboard under the stairs and got down on my haunches to examine the lock, it was a Yale-type. The first key I tried didn’t work, but the second one did. I pulled open the tall safe door and immediately recognised the AX308 rifle bag. I removed it and quietly unzipped it, the rifle was inside, the Schmidt and Bender scope was attached. The AI tactical suppressor was in the side pouch, as too was the bolt action; everything was here. I carefully put it back and locked the safe again, knowing it would only take me a few seconds to unlock it and remove the gun. I went back upstairs; Peter was still snoring lightly and still in the same position. I went back into the wardrobe and, remembering which key was for the downstairs safe, tried one of the other two, the first one I tried worked. I opened the safe and saw several boxes of ammunition and a few other bits and bobs. I reached for one of the familiar looking orange and black boxes with Lapua .308 Win written on the side. It felt heavy, full. I didn’t bother opening the box to confirm, it was obviously full. Although the box contained 20 bullets, I grabbed another box anyway, while glancing at Peter over my shoulder. I didn’t risk making any more noise than necessary so I didn’t close or lock the safe, I simply slid the wardrobe door closed and put the two boxes of Lapua into my handbag, which I’d brought upstairs and put on the floor just inside the bedroom door. As quickly and quietly as I could I put on my knickers and bra and dress, picked up my handbag and quietly made my way downstairs. I put my shoes on then at the last second I opened the safe in the under-the-stairs cupboard and took Peter’s rifle out. I left his bunch of keys on the floor in the hallway and quietly let myself out of his house. Luckily, Peter’s main bedroom was at the back of the house so I didn’t have to worry that the central locking clank on my car would disturb him. I got in and put the rifle bag in the front passenger side – half on the seat, half in the footwall – as I didn’t want to make a noise opening and closing the boot, then pulled the door closed, not slamming it, leaving it partly ajar so as not to make a noise. I started the engine and pulled away, with minimal use of the accelerator pedal. At the end of the street I turned right and immediately pulled up on the left side of the road alongside some tall hedgerows. I got out of the car and moved the rifle bag into the boot, out of sight. I got back in, slammed the door, hit the central locking button to secure myself and the rifle in the car and headed back up to Cambridge. It was 4:20 a.m. and I was almost certainly over the limit after all the wine I’d drunk, though I didn’t feel like I was. With this in mind I’d set the Satnav to avoid motorways and A-roads. I figured there would be less chance of a routine stop check at this time of the morning on windy country roads as most traffic cops hung around on motorways looking for speeding motorists. As I made the 60-mile twisty windy journey from St Albans back up to Cambridge I felt all kinds of emptions erupting inside me: guilt, fear, dread. My hands were physically shaking on the steering wheel. It felt like I’d robbed a bank or something and knowing that I had that sniper rifle and two boxes of ammunition in the boot only intensified my feelings; I was practically running on adrenaline. I felt deep pangs of guilt for what I’d done to Peter, using him like that and stealing from him, when he was such a decent man, a true gentleman who’d given up so much of his time for me, who’d treated me with so much respect, like a lady. He’d been nothing but altruistic and chivalrous in that way that real gentleman do. Oh my god, what had I done? Who am I? What had I become? I had to shake these thoughts from my head. I had to stay focused and think about my children, getting justice for them, avenging their deaths. Regaining focus was easy, all I had to do was think about that evil man, Derek Stanton, picture his face and think about what he did to my beloved boys – I was instantly back on track.

  Chapter 30

  Peter Jackson stirred just after 8:30 a.m. and reached his arm across to touch Natalie, but the bed was empty on her side. He wasn’t aware that she’d snook out of bed and left his house just before dawn and driven home, making the transition from Natalie back to Helen en route. He got up and put his boxer shorts and a t-shirt on and went downstairs, checking the bathroom on his way. He was four steps from the bottom when he noticed his bunch of keys on the floor next to the partially open under-stairs cupboard door. He quickly checked for Natalie in the living room, she wasn’t there, so he went to the last room in the house, the kitchen, she wasn’t there either. Panic started to creep into his slightly hung over head as he went to check the under-the-stairs cupboard, or more to the point, the safe – his rifle had gone. ‘Shit!’

  He grabbed his keys and ran upstairs to check the wardrobe safe too, but when he slid the wardrobe door open he realised that his keys wouldn’t be required, the safe door was ajar and he noticed straight away that two boxes of ammunition were missing.

  Helen’s clothes and handbag were not where she’d put them the night before, she’d definitely left and, by the looks of it, she’d left with his rifle and forty rounds of ammunition. Suddenly he was awake, very awake, be it a little hung over. He grabbed his mobile and called her.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Natalie, it’s Peter, what’s going on?’

  ‘Peter, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I don’t understand, why did you leave, why did you take my rifle?’

  ‘I need it, Peter, I can’t explain why, all I can do is apologise to you for what I’ve done. You’re a decent man, Peter, and I don’t feel good about using you the way I have and I want you to know that under a different set of circumstances things could have been quite different between us.’

  ‘Natalie, I don’t understand, please, tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t, I’m sorry, but I just can’t. I’ve said too much already, I only answered your call because I felt terrible for what I’d done and wanted to apologise to you. I desperately need you to understand why I did what I did, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Please, Peter, I need you to know that I was developing feelings for you, I really was, but there’s something I need to do that’s more important right now. I’m sorry, Peter, but after this call I’m going to destroy this phone and sim card, you’ll never be able to contact me again. I’m so sorry, Peter.’

  ‘Natalie, wait, please. I need you to tell me what you’re going to do.’

  ‘You’ll see it on the news soon enough. Goodbye, Peter,’ she said, and hung up.

  ‘Natalie, Natalie,’ he said, but she’d gone.

  * * *

  The police got to work pretty damn fast after they’d received Peter Jackson’s phone call reporting his stolen sniper rifle and two boxes of ammunition, and especially as she’d told Peter that he’d ‘see it on the news’ soon enough, something she regretted the moment the words left her lips. The police had taken the basic particulars from Mr Jackson over the phone: the details of the rifle, serial number, the missing ammunition, the woman’s description and name. He only knew her as Natalie from Bedford, she’d never told him her family name or her exact address and he’d had no reason to ask at that stage of their relationship. The fact that Peter was an ex Para and sniper who now trains snipers for a living and the fact that he’d been training this Natalie woman was of grave concern to the police.

  The police had sent a couple of detectives from the local constabulary to interview Mr Jackson in more detail, in the meantime, they had got busy tracing the mobile number that Peter had called Natalie on just thirty minutes earlier. It didn’t take them long to track down the physical location of the mobile when Peter had called her. An O2 mast on the edge of Stourbridge Common just on the northeast edge of the city of Cambridge, close to Chesterton, had transmitted the call to its final destination, Natalie’s mobile. According to the police mobile tech expe
rt the mast at Stourbridge Common could have a range of anything up to five miles. So, in a nutshell all the police had to go on was the fact that this woman was somewhere within a five mile radius of that mobile phone mast at the time she received the call from Peter that morning. However, after checking some of the other numbers that had been called from her mobile the police tech team found that most of them had bounced off that very same mast, which would suggest that she lived in that area and was most possibly making these calls from her house.

  * * *

  As the woman who’d stolen Peter Jackson’s sniper rifle appeared to live somewhere on the northeast side of the city of Cambridge, Hertfordshire constabulary had sent all the details of the woman and the stolen rifle and ammo through to Hinchingbrooke FHQ Major Crime Unit to give them the heads up. It wasn’t long before DS Rhodes got wind of it. He mentally registered the details and asked himself the question, ‘Could this be Helen Kramer?’ and allowed the seed to germinate while he got on the phone to get an update from Stanton’s stakeout team.

  ‘Dempsey,’ said a male voice with an American accent.

  ‘DS Rhodes here, can you give me an update on Stanton’s movements?’

  ‘Of course, well, I can only tell you what his daytime movements are. If you want to know what he gets up to during the night you’ll have to speak to the graveyard shift.

  ‘Right now I want to know what his movements are during the day.’

  ‘Well, it’s all pretty boring really; he doesn’t go out much. He has two newspapers delivered each morning. He’s been shopping a few times and browsed around the market in the center of town, stuff like that, nothing out of the ordinary. Oh, and he has lunch in the park every day.’