by Carol Smith
“Leave it to me, old boy,” he said, relishing a drama. “And give me a number where I can call you back.”
It couldn’t possibly be as dangerous as Duncan was suggesting but he’d check it out anyhow. The vet seemed a sane enough fellow, even if he was overendowed with whatever it took to pull all these birds, and it surely wasn’t like him to panic. Oliver could easily detour to Ladbroke Grove on his way to the motorway and still be in Henley in time for lunch. Besides, it gave him the perfect excuse to look Beth up again, which could only be a bonus. Oliver had got over his rage at being dumped but still burned with a residual craving for her. Whistling with pleasant anticipation, he locked up the house and backed the Mercedes out of the driveway. It shouldn’t take much more than ten minutes to reach Beth’s house on a Sunday. With luck, she’d invite him in for a drink.
• • •
Beth peered at the crabapple jelly, which seemed to be thickening nicely. Soon she could strain it and then it would be safe to leave it for an hour so they could take their drinks out into the garden. In the meantime, she wanted to hang on in here in the hope that Duncan would call back.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said, moving to the sink to wash the stickiness off her fingers. “He was about to tell me something frightfully urgent and then the phone went dead.”
“Did he hang up?”
“Shouldn’t think so. Why would he? No, they’ve been having electric storms over there which are probably affecting the lines. Never mind.”
She wiped her hands on a cloth and turned with a bright smile to welcome Sally properly, but the cast-iron pan caught her squarely on the forehead and felled her with one blow.
• • •
Wright’s Lane and Campden Hill were a cinch, scarcely any traffic at all, and even the lights were in Oliver’s favor as, Wagner blaring on the stereo, he streaked toward Ladbroke Grove. Only when he hit Holland Park Avenue did everything come to a halt and he found himself in a queue of traffic, moving at snail’s pace and apparently going nowhere. What the hell? He flicked across to Capital Radio and caught the middle of the traffic news.
The Notting Hill Carnival, of course; only one of the major calendar events of the year, stupid of him to forget. With the Valkyrie no longer obliterating extraneous sounds, Oliver became aware of the surrounding reggae beat from a hundred ghetto-blasters turned to full volume, rising all around him like a vast swarm of locusts about to wage war. He groaned. He glanced at the carphone, wondering whether he ought to call Duncan, but decided that was daft. What could Duncan do but worry, and there’d doubtless be a break in the traffic soon. If necessary, he could always walk the last bit but he was wearing a new pair of hand-stitched suede shoes and didn’t entirely relish facing that hill in this heat.
You’re getting soft, my boy—but it wasn’t really a joke. He was certain the vet was overreacting but he’d given his word and wasn’t about to let him down; it was now a question of honor. He’d wait another ten minutes or so and then, if it still didn’t clear, he’d think again. Ought he to call Beth? He was about to dial her number when good sense prevailed. The sole reason Duncan had involved him in the first place was because of the ill-timed arrival of Sally before he’d had a chance to warn her. Rather than risk alerting Beth and forcing her into a potentially dangerous confrontation, he’d rung off and phoned Oliver instead. What Beth didn’t know wouldn’t worry her. But it was vital Oliver get there in time to protect her against God knows what.
Oliver didn’t know much detail, there simply hadn’t been time, but the little he had heard had stunned him. Sally Brown, with her sexy body and pleasing smile, was apparently a psychopath, a convicted murderer who had already killed at least four times—almost certainly more than that—and was capable of doing so again without hesitation once she found her cover had been blown. It seemed incredible but Duncan had assured him the evidence was irrefutable.
Furthermore, she’d been alone with Catherine the night she died and could easily have got to Georgy’s house ahead of her and lain in wait, having filched the spare key from the kitchen on an earlier visit. After all, Sally’s trademark was that she was everyone’s friend, and in both cases it turned out she had also had strong motivation.
Catherine had witnessed the sterilization in Sydney, though Sally was not to know the poor soul had been practically off the wall at the time, distracted by her own personal problems, and had very probably blanked out the whole episode. While Georgy had been fleetingly at the courthouse when Sally was sentenced—but, again, what do you remember when you are only five years old?
But Sally was obviously not one to risk taking chances. She had killed endless times already; another murder or two meant nothing to a certified psychopath. And now she knew that Duncan knew and was likely to warn Beth, so Beth was her next obvious target.
Oliver was suddenly glad that Vivienne was safe in Switzerland; he surprised himself with a warm rush of tenderness for the wife he so badly neglected. But saving Beth was what mattered right now. She might be in actual physical danger while he sat here muttering to himself and wasting valuable seconds. The traffic was beginning to move again, but only slowly, so he abandoned the car at the bottom of Ladbroke Grove and sprinted up the hill.
There was music playing and the windows were all open, while the aroma of something delicate and sweet wafted out on the breeze. A typically tranquil Sunday morning in Beth’s quiet enclave. Nostalgia filled Oliver as he slowed down at the wicket gate and wondered whether it had perhaps all been a false alarm. He was going to look one hell of a fool if he rang the bell and found them having lunch. But having come this far he couldn’t see a way round it. Instead of going to the front door in the usual way, he walked cautiously round to the side gate, which he knew was never locked, glad of the expensive suede shoes which were as soft and silent as moccasins, and let himself into the garden.
The kitchen door stood open and Barbara Cook was jazzing up “Sweet Georgia Brown.” One of Beth’s favorite CDs, music to cook by; his too. A feeling of relaxed well-being swept over him at the prospect of seeing her again, with luck alone, with Sally already gone. Maybe this wasn’t such a crazy mission after all. He straightened his tie and stepped into the kitchen without knocking.
Sally sat at the table, an open bottle of wine in front of her and her feet, in dirty scuffed sneakers, planted comfortably on the rail of the Aga. Her denim jacket hung like a dead thing from a hook near the fridge. There was no sign of Beth.
“Hi, Oliver,” said Sally with pleasure, almost as though she’d been expecting him. “Have you come for lunch?”
She was eating a piece of bread and licking something sticky off her hand.
“It’s great stuff,” she said, following his gaze. “Not quite set yet but almost there. I sneaked some while Beth’s back was turned.”
“Where is Beth?” he said suspiciously, looking round.
“Over there,” said Sally placidly, nodding toward the Welsh dresser which was partially eclipsed by the table.
And then he saw Beth’s feet, sticking out from behind the table, shoeless and frighteningly still. For a second he very nearly blew it as he searched for what next to say, but luckily his public school training came to his support and he managed not to act too precipitately. Oliver was used to thinking on his feet; it was one of the main requisites of his job.
“Drink?” asked Sally, unperturbed, indicating the almost full bottle and inviting him to join her at the table. For the first time he really noticed how inscrutable her eyes were; clear and shallow and totally without feeling.
“Terrific,” he said with fake heartiness, at the same time aware of the grim array of professional chef’s knives, right at her elbow where she could easily grab one. “Just what I need on a morning like this.”
She stretched backward to reach the dresser without getting up, in order to grab him a glass, and he stared at the contours of her generous breasts, outlined beneath the thin cotton of her
T-shirt. The T-shirt was even skimpier than usual and rode up to reveal her flat, tanned belly. God, but she was delectable; on any other occasion . . . To his alarmed amazement, Oliver felt a stirring in his groin.
And then he knew exactly what he had to do.
Chapter Fifty-four
“Bottoms up!” said Oliver, leaning forward to clink her glass, all the time managing to edge his chair a little closer. Beth’s feet had not moved at all; he tried hard not to look at them.
“If I may say so, young lady,” he said, loosening his tie, “you are looking particularly fetching this morning in that getup.”
Sally, feet now firmly on the ground, gazed back at him speculatively, the clear, emotionless eyes betraying nothing. She swirled the wine around in her glass and licked a few drops from her upper lip with a languorous tongue. Her skin, without a trace of makeup, cried out to be touched. For months Oliver had harbored lascivious thoughts about her; now was hardly the time to be doing something about it but he knew he had no choice. When he glanced down he saw she had kicked off her shoes, which he took as an encouraging sign.
“Mind if I remove my jacket? It’s a trifle warm in here,” he said. This wasn’t his usual style but it had to be done; for all he knew, Beth’s life might depend upon it. As it was, he was anguished to be playing out this macabre charade while she lay there on the floor, possibly dying or even dead, but Duncan had impressed on him just how dangerous Sally was and until he could move her out of range of those deadly knives, it was a game he was going to have to follow through. In response, Sally leaned across and silently undid the top two buttons of his shirt, all the while holding his gaze with that strange half-smile he had always found so arousing.
He gulped his wine, reminding himself that he needed to keep a clear head, at the same time anxious not to raise her suspicions. Softly, softly . . . He leaned across still farther and kissed her squarely on the mouth, feeling her lips part willingly and her tongue caress his own. She reached inside his open shirt and slid her hand caressingly over his chest. He put down his glass and pulled her urgently onto his lap. He kissed her again, feeling like a traitor and hoping Beth couldn’t see.
“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable,” he murmured into her honeyed hair. Silently Sally took him by the hand and led him out of the kitchen, ignoring Beth’s inert body, still lying motionless on the floor. Oliver sneaked a look at her and saw that her eyes were closed and her face was deathly pale, with a great angry swelling on one temple. More than anything he wanted to drop to his knees and cradle that beloved head in his arms, but he resisted. With a supreme effort of will, he averted his eyes and followed Sally from the room.
She was heading toward the sitting room with its voluminous sofa but Oliver needed to get her as far from Beth as possible.
“No,” he said, halting her. “Let’s go upstairs. On a day like this, why hurry? We’ve all the time in the world. I’ve waited this long to get you into the sack, might as well do it in style. But first, let me see to Beth. She looks quite dreadful; I must check that she’s all right.”
“She’ll keep,” said Sally, with her strange, luminous smile. “She’s not going anywhere, at least for the time being.”
“What exactly happened?” Oliver’s mouth was so dry he could scarcely get the words out but it was vital not to betray to this crazy person that he was anything less than cool.
“Oh, she got in the way of a saucepan,” said Sally, nonchalantly. “She’s not about to disturb us, if that’s what’s on your mind. I hit her as hard as I could. She’ll probably be out for hours.”
“So why not finish her off while you were at it?” Thin ice, but he needed to assess the measure of warpedness of this creature’s mind.
“Are you crazy?” She turned to look at him, her fine fair eyebrows raised in disbelief. “And miss the best part of all? The whole damned point of it?”
“You’ve lost me.”
She looked at him with scorn.
“The kid,” she said. “I’m waiting for the kid to get home. She’s already got everything else I ever wanted, smug bitch. Before she dies I need to see her suffer. That’s only fair, don’t you think, after all I’ve had to go through? They took away my childhood, now I’m going to do the same for Imogen.”
Absolutely loony. Sally smiled at Oliver seraphically, looking so wholesome he could eat her. But this was not the moment to be challenging her. If it weren’t for Beth, lying there so helpless, he might try rushing her now, but as it was, the risk was too great. Even though Oliver had done his bit as a soldier years ago, this killer was a professional. He’d heard what she’d done to Georgy and wasn’t about to take any chances. He might have greater strength but he couldn’t be sure he’d win if he tried to take her now, not sure enough to risk Beth’s life. Strategy was what was needed and that took time. Precious time while Beth’s life could be slipping away.
Sally ran her sinuous tongue along her succulent upper lip and smiled that beguiling smile which never quite reached her eyes.
“Hang on,” she said, slipping past him back to the kitchen. He willed himself not to follow, tried to look casual—just a slightly pissed, randy man hoping for a quick lay—feeling the sweat gathering on his back and a pulse beating wildly in his neck. A moment’s silence, then he heard the gentle thud as she closed the fridge door and she was back, beaming, bearing another bottle in one hand with both their glasses and, for some reason, her denim jacket.
“No sense in stinting ourselves,” she said practically, leading the way up to Beth’s bedroom.
• • •
By the time he had stepped out of his pants, she was naked and spread out on the familiar brass bedstead, legs wide open, inviting him in. Now it really was macabre, a parody of everything he had shared with Beth. Her eyes never left his face as he undid his cuff links and finished the buttons on his shirt, all the while praying for power to perform, scared of what might happen if the horror of the situation robbed him of his usual prowess.
He need not have worried. Her breasts were even more delectable uncovered and he sank his face between them, covering her skin with kisses and kneading his fingers into their silken softness with an ecstasy he tried hard not to feel. Danger made it all that much more piquant. She writhed beneath him and when he moved his fingers to her vulva, he found she was already wet.
Before he went any further, he really needed another drink. This was not a scene he had ever played before and he doubted he could do it absolutely sober. She had left the bottle on the table, on the far side of the bed, and he reached across to grab it, vaguely wondering if it would serve as a weapon. Which was when he spotted the bone handle, stuck down the side of the mattress, close by her hand; Beth’s expensive sushi knife, the deadliest of the collection. No wonder she had gone back for her jacket; all the time she had been one jump ahead.
Crafty little bitch. He longed to smack her across the face and finish her off now, yet reason still told him to hold back. He wasn’t out of danger yet; one false move and they’d both be for it. He and Beth reduced to tabloid headlines—just another crime passionel between an adulterous man and his faithless mistress—while Sally once again walked free. Downstairs the telephone began to ring but Oliver had more pressing matters on his mind.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered urgently, writhing beneath his weight as Oliver kissed her deeply as if he could bite off her tongue and swallow it, driving his knee between her legs in a savage parody of rape. She liked that, he could tell. Her breath came in short, excited gasps and he was aware of the agitated knocking of her heart. So that was her game; that was what she was after. He twisted one nipple roughly between his fingers and felt the involuntary intake of breath as he hurt her and gained control.
“You like that, don’t you, you sick little bitch!” he muttered roughly, grabbing her pubic hair in his hand and twisting it hard until she squealed.
“Tell me!” he ordered, almost shouting now. “Tell me you like i
t and what you want me to do to you.”
He bit hard into her breast and jerked once more at her pubic hair. Then, moving his hand to the hair on her head, he swung her roughly from side to side, like a terrier with a rat, and slapped her sharply on either cheek. She screamed.
“I like it! I like it!”
“And what do you want me to do to you?”
“Fuck me, fuck me. Dear God, FUCK ME!”
They could probably hear her in the street by now; just as well the Carnival was in full swing. Oliver kept his eye on that deadly knife, waiting for the right moment to grab it, scared that in their writhings, as his own strength ebbed, she would finally get the upper hand and win. It was like the mating dance of a black widow spider who destroys the male after he has serviced her.
“You know what I’m going to do to you next?” he whispered. Sally’s breasts were now a mass of purple bruises and his own shoulders and upper arms had not gone unscarred. Downstairs nothing stirred and his fear for Beth had reached nightmare proportions, but this was a battle he dared not quit, not while there was still strength in her.
“Mm,” said Sally dreamily, from beneath her tangle of hair. She lay on her front, with her arms above her head. If he pounced now he could probably overpower her but he needed to be more certain if he was going to save Beth.
He put his lips closer to her ear. “I’m going to beat you,” he hissed, feeling a shiver of anticipation run right through her. “And then I’m going to fuck you senseless. But first I’m going to tie you up.”
The drawer in which Beth kept her tights was slightly ajar so he edged himself toward it, anxious not to alert her, and selected at random two strong pairs, sufficient to secure her wrists. Running his tongue down the curve of her spine and patting her on the bottom to keep her in the mood, he bound each wrist to the bars of the bedstead while she just lay there and let him, without the ghost of a struggle.
Only then, when he had examined the knots and was certain she could not break free, did he slowly exhale his pent-up breath and head for the door.