Deadly Obsession

by Michael Kerr

  No reply. Eddie pounded again.

  Mike phoned the pub on his mobile. After a while it was answered.

  “Yeah. Who is it?” A sleepy, irritated voice.

  “Mr Cornell?” Mike said.

  “Speakin’.”

  “It’s the police, sir. We’re outside your door, and need to talk to you.”

  “At this time in the fuckin’ mornin’?”

  “Open up and we’ll explain, sir. It’s concerning one of your employees.”

  Dave got out of bed, picked his jeans up off the lid of the wicker laundry basket and pulled them on over his less than clean boxers before going downstairs barefoot.

  Mike saw the glow of a light switched on, and then a curtain being pulled aside at the window next to the door. He took two steps over to it and pressed his warrant card up against the glass. The corner of the curtain dropped back into place, and a couple of seconds later the noise of bolts being taken off the door and a key turning in the lock could be heard.

  “Come in,” Dave said. He was bare-chested, and his skin pimpled in response to contact with the freezing December temperature.

  Mike and Eddie followed him into the bar. There was a smell of stale beer and sweat. The building was Victorian, and the yellow-stained wallpaper and dark panelling looked as though it might be original. Framed sepia photographs on the walls depicted London as it had been at the back end of the nineteenth century; streets teeming with blurred pedestrians, horse drawn carriages, and a few cars.

  Dave went behind the chipped, marble-topped counter and pushed a glass up to the optic of a malt whisky bottle, serving himself a treble measure, and drinking half the smooth Glenfiddich to drive out the cold, before turning to face the two cops.

  “You want anythin’?” he asked them.

  “No thanks,” Mike said. “Would you join us at a table, sir?”

  They gathered around a small, cast iron table with a grey, veined marble top that matched the counter.

  Mike studied the man, who had thinning grey hair and salt and pepper stubble on his slightly jaundiced looking cheeks.

  “So what’s the problem?” Dave said.

  “Was Anita Brewster working here last evening, sir?”

  Dave nodded. He suddenly felt exactly the same as he had when the doctor told him that Mavis had MS. It was like having hunger pains and feeling sick as a parrot at the same time.

  “What’s happened to her?” Dave said in a hardly audible voice.

  “She was attacked at her home, sir,” Eddie said. “There was no sign of a break-in. It may have been someone she knew. What time did she leave here?”

  “How is she? Is she...”

  “Touch and go,” Mike said. “They’re operating on her now. Some sicko cut her tongue out.”

  Dave gagged on the mouthful of malt he had just taken. He sprayed the table with it, and Mike scooted his chair back to avoid being soaked.

  They waited till the man stopped coughing.

  Eddie repeated his question. “So what time did she leave the premises, sir?”

  “It was gone one. Maybe half past.” Dave’s voice was faint, and he was shaking.

  “We need to know who she was...seeing. And the names of any punters she was tight with, or who pestered her a lot,” Mike said.

  “I...I don’t think she was seein’ anybody regularly. And apart from a laugh and a joke, I can’t think of any regulars that went too far, or who she had trouble with.”

  “You married, sir?” Eddie said.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Wife in?”

  “Upstairs, asleep. But what―?”

  “I think we’d better have a word with her,” Eddie said.

  “You can’t. Mavis is bedridden. She’s got MS.”

  Eddie pushed. “Can she still make out, Dave?”

  Dave shot to his feet. “Get out of my pub. You have no right to be so fuckin’ offensive. I’m goin’ to report you both. And for your information, my wife is dyin’.”

  Neither Eddie nor Mike moved.

  “Reason I asked about your love life, is because I can only think of one way you could get scratches like that on your back,” Eddie said. “And they look fresh.”

  “Plus, Anita had been active very recently. We recovered semen,” Mike added. “So one way or another, we’ve got DNA.”

  “Were you screwing her, Davey boy?” Eddie said. “Or did you take her home, rape her, and cut her tongue out?”

  “We...we had a thing goin’ on. But I wouldn’t hurt Anita. I love her.”

  “You’d better get dressed,” Mike said.

  Dave slumped in the chair. “I can’t leave Mavis here alone,” he said.

  “So phone a friend. Arrange something,” Eddie said. “Because you’re coming with us, Mr. Cornell.”

  “But I haven’t done anythin’.”

  “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Mike said. “Just get a friend or relation to stay with your wife until we clear this up.”

  Mike believed the man. This wasn’t the Mimic. This was just a regular guy with a need that his barmaid was fulfilling. They would take him in and go through the motions, but as far as he was concerned it would be another dead end.

  Dave phoned Mavis’s sister, Maureen. Twenty minutes later she turned up with her husband.

  “What the fuck’s goin’ on, Dave?” Maureen said, looking from her brother-in-law to Mike and Eddie.

  “One of the bar staff was attacked, Mo. They just need to ask me a few questions. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  IT was only mid-afternoon, and yet the murk of dusk was already smothering a watery, pale-salmon sunset. Jack parked and climbed out of the Sierra. The old Ford was overheating, and the offside front wheel was locking up and screeching every time he applied the brakes. He made a decision. He would go and see Charlie Kershaw in the morning. Charlie was a retired copper who ran a small garage in Forest Gate, sold decent second hand motors, and offered police a special discount.

  Entering the flat, Jack went through to the kitchen, flicked on the light and headed for the coffeemaker as the fluorescent tube blinked to life and flooded the room with an even glare. He needed food. Stepped over to the refrigerator, opened the door and just stood for a moment and stared at the extra item that had appeared between a litre container of milk and two cans of lager on the top shelf. He didn’t think, just reacted and drew his gun as he backed up to the door and killed the light.

  He moved from room to room. Satisfied himself that no one else was in the flat. But his bedroom window had been forced. Someone had broken in and entered his private space. He checked the bottom of the laundry basket next to the wardrobe. Lifted up the permanently present pair of old jeans and two crumpled shirts that were clean but covered the few items he thought of as being valuable; his passport, some paperwork, and a gold plated wristwatch that his dad’s mates had bought the old man when he retired. His dad had always been clock watching, wishing his life away, not knowing that he would only enjoy three short weeks of what he thought of as well-earned freedom. The Home Office came out well ahead in the pension stakes. Most screws that put the full whack in didn’t live long enough to get a lot of it back.

  Jack returned to the kitchen, switched the light on again and stood in front of the open fridge door. He didn’t have a clue as to what might be in the white, plastic carrier bag, but knew he would not be pleasantly surprised by its contents. He used a tea towel as a barrier between his hands and the bag. Lifted it out with the care he would have handled a ticking bomb. It was quite heavy. He placed it on the table. Pressed it gently. His fingers sunk into something soft and spongy against the plastic. Opening the top, he peered inside. Christ! There was a circle of purple flesh with gleaming bone at its centre where the head had been attached to the neck. He jerked back and watched as a blood-coated paw slipped out to slap on the tabletop. The rest of Anita Brewster’s cat had turned up. The stalker-come-serial kille
r had been inside his flat, to no doubt leave the decapitated animal’s body as a warning, to show him that nowhere was off limits.

  Foregoing coffee, Jack poured himself a large JB from a freshly purchased bottle, drank it down and let the implications of the email and the cat’s body sink in. The Mimic was treating him as a quarry; graphically bringing it home to him that if he had chosen to, he could have been inside the flat and disabled or killed him when he had entered. He tipped the fat, limp body out onto the table. There was a piece of paper fastened to its tail with a rubber band. He removed and unfolded it to read the smeared and almost illegible message that had almost certainly been written in the cat’s blood: ‘Could’ve been you, Jack. Or even Danny’.

  The emotions that assailed him were overpowering. If he hadn’t held on to the back of a chair, he would most likely have collapsed to his knees. His legs actually shook, and a sense of mind-crushing panic kept him pinned in place. His heart was racing, and he broke out in a cold sweat. The depraved bastard was exerting his power of domination and control, manipulating events and plainly informing Jack that should he choose to, he could inflict any act on whoever he selected.

  Experiencing vulnerability he had never experienced before in his life, Jack was almost overcome by a sense of total helplessness. His own life being at risk went with the job. That was an accepted part of the deal. But his son being in the firing line of a ruthless maniac was like having your worst nightmare chase you out of sleep, to become a reality.

  Almost in a daze, he rang the Yard; spoke to Ken, and then to Mike. Made all the arrangements for his flat to be treated as a secondary crime scene, and then phoned Lisa and said to her: “He broke in and left the cat’s body in my fridge, with a note telling me that it could have been me or Danny.”

  “Oh, God. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s probably just trying to put the frighteners on me.”

  “You know exactly what atrocities he’s capable of committing, Ryder. Chances are he only wants to intimidate you. But he’s gone out of his way to find out where you live, and about your past, so treat it very seriously. If he gets it into his head to hurt you, then it’s Danny he’ll target for maximum effect.”

  “Why do you think he’s fixated on me, Lisa? Why not Ken? It was Ken who made the press release, and who was spokesman in front of the TV cameras.”

  “It was mentioned that a SCS DI was effectively in charge of the case. He’s done his homework. How he got your name isn’t the issue. Danny’s safety is.”

  Jack knew what he had to do.

  “I’ll make arrangements to get Danny out of harm’s way, then get back to you,” he said.

  “Watch your back. He may have attacked Anita and sent the email to draw you out. He could be sitting in a car fifty yards away from your flat, and he’ll know that your overriding concern will be your son.”

  “Thanks, Lisa. I’ll call soon.” he said and ended the call.

  Mike and Eddie showed up before the crime scene officers. They both read the note, and studied the remains of the cat with morbid fascination.

  “Eddie, wait here for the techies,” Jack said. “Mike, I need you to cover me. I want to get to my ex’s without wondering if I’m being followed. If he does tail me, we can take him down.”

  Thirty minutes later Jack parked outside his old home, and Mike cruised the area.

  Sharon answered the door. Frowned, but asked him in. She still recognised his body language and could see that he was upset. He was worried. Something was wrong.

  “Daddy, Daddy!” Danny shouted, running down the hallway, to be swept up in Jack’s arms.

  “Hi, big guy,” Jack said, hugging his son and kissing him on the cheek.

  “S’not Sunday, Daddy. Have you come back to stay with us? Where are we going tomorrow?”

  Jack somehow slid around the questions without giving any real answers.

  After a few minutes, Danny went upstairs to look for a drawing he’d done at school and wanted Jack to see.

  “What’s wrong, Jack? Why are you here?” Sharon said.

  “Have you read in the papers, or seen anything on TV about a killer they’ve dubbed the Mimic?”

  Sharon nodded. “What has that got to do with why you’re here?”

  “He knows I’m in charge of the case.”

  “So?”

  “He might get it into his sick head to make a move against me, or―”

  “Damn you! Tell me the truth, Jack. All of it.”

  “He tried to kill another woman, and he cut her cat’s head off. When I got home the cat’s body was in the fridge with a note attached to it. He implied that it could have been me...or Danny.”

  Abject fear and rage amalgamated in Sharon’s mind. She was about to erupt when Danny ran down the stairs holding out a large piece of blue paper with a drawing on it that he’d done using coloured crayons.

  “Look Daddy, it’s a T-rex.”

  Sharon and Jack somehow suspended proceedings, forced smiles, and tried to appear calm.

  “That’s great,” Jack said, studying his son’s misshapen interpretation of a large red Barney the Dinosaur kind of creature. It looked like a cuddly toy, apart from the jaws full of dagger-shaped teeth. Two legs stuck out of its mouth. “Who’s the poor guy getting eaten?”

  “Mr Campbell, the headmaster,” Danny said and grinned. “He’s wrinkly and has big teeth.”

  “Why don’t you go and put that back in your bedroom and then watch TV while I talk to Daddy?” Sharon said.

  “Okay,” Danny said and headed for the stairs.

  With great difficulty, Sharon kept her voice low. “Your job is like a fucking cancer, Jack. It spreads out and envelops everything it can reach and corrupt. What are you going to do? Because believe me, if anything happens to my son because of you, I’ll―”

  “You need to pack some things, now. It isn’t safe for you to be here,” Jack interrupted, not about to let her get into full flow.

  “We’ll go to my mum’s. But―”

  “No, Sharon. You can’t go anywhere that can be traced. This guy is a stalker. He knows how to find people. If one person knows where you are, then you’re at risk.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Just pack some warm clothes and toiletries. I’ll drive you both out of town, and then we’ll switch you to Mike Hewson’s car. He’ll take you up north, to Leeds, York or somewhere. You can book into a hotel under a false name. Then call and give me details. I’ll send you cash. Don’t use plastic or cheques. It could lead him to you.”

  “This is insane, Jack.”

  “No. It’s the man we’re after that is insane. I’m sorry this is happening, but you need to believe that he would murder you and Danny just to hurt me.”

  “How long would we have to stay away? It’s December now. We have arrangements for Christmas.”

  “Fuck Christmas, Sharon. This is life or death we’re talking about. Didn’t you hear what I said? He just cut a young woman’s tongue out, and decapitated her cat. Do you want to meet up with this animal?”

  There was no anger left in her. It had shrivelled up under the gravitas of Jack’s words.

  “So let’s do it,” Jack said.

  Half an hour later, with Mike following at a distance, Jack drove towards the MI. He stopped several times and used side roads, until he and Mike were absolutely positive that no one was following. He even used a couple of ATM’s, withdrawing the maximum on his two cards to give to Sharon to pay for a hotel and tide her over for a while.

  Danny was happy. He thought of it as an adventure, like a surprise holiday.

  “Call me when you get wherever Sharon decides on going,” Jack said to Mike as his ex and son climbed into the back of the sergeant’s unmarked Mondeo.

  After watching the tail lights until the car had joined the fast-moving traffic on the motorway and was no longer distinguishable, Jack set off back toward the city. He phoned Lisa, told
her that Sharon and Danny were safe, and arranged to be at the cottage later, barring a break in the case.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  HAVING coppers on the payroll was the best insurance money could buy. The phone call that Randy Gant made to his solicitor, Marcus Green, resulted in Lloyd Benson being given a contract within a couple of hours’ of Randy being arrested.

  Lloyd was asked to treat the hit as a matter of urgency. He was freelance, but a lot of his work came from Randy, and he would not prosper if the golden egg-laying goose got sent down for life.

  He was now in the expansive grounds of the Shelby Clinic, which was situated off a private road near the village of Essendon. He had scouted the area and left the Rover he had stolen in a lay-by. Two other cars were already parked there, but he had been advised that the only police presence was inside the clinic. The stand of trees between the west perimeter wall of the clinic’s grounds and the lay-by was narrow, with well-trodden paths running through it. He had passed within a few feet of a couple making out against a tree. They were too preoccupied to hear his light, careful approach, until a twig snapped beneath his foot and they quickly ceased coupling and frantically rearranged their clothing and took off. He grinned and carried on. They would have thought he was a peeping Tom, or the police. They couldn’t have been more wrong.

  The hit was not going to be one of his neater jobs. Anyone who got in his way would have to be eliminated. Without time to plan, his usual level of finesse would be lacking.

  Keeping to deep shadow, Lloyd scaled the wall and darted from tree to tree until he was less than ten yards from the ivy-clad building, which he supposed might have been a minor stately home in bygone days.

  He listened and looked in every direction. The night was still. He walked around to the rear of the clinic, found a darkened window that some errant staff member had left slightly open, and was inside a murky storeroom within seconds.