Urge to Kill (1) (33 page)

It would take someone with intelligence. She started thinking of possible suspects she had encountered and, after searching in her bag for her notebook, she turned on the bedside light and began writing them down. By the time she had finished, the light was starting to slide into the room past the edge of the curtain. She had six possibilities. None of them stood out as the murdering kind, but that was the point, really.

There was Ken, who came in after work every day. Sandi said he was training for the London Marathon, so surely he had other things on his mind. Ross and Stuart came in Saturday morning to tone up for their game with the local football club. The team had won their away match Saturday, so they must have been busy celebrating their win over in Kettering, so that let them out.

That left an older man whose name she didn’t know, that nice Clive who came in on Friday about his mother, and a dark-haired man of about thirty, who only wanted to speak to Sandi. Could he be the one? Should she tell Matt or ring the sergeant who had interviewed her. Where was the card he had given her? She found the card tucked in beside a damp tissue and put it on the bedside table. There were sounds of Jane moving about the flat, and Eppie wondered if she should discuss these suspicions with her.

However, by the time she had slipped on her robe and moved into the hallway, she heard a click as the front door shut. Jane had left a note on the kitchen table, reminding her to help herself to anything she needed and saying that she didn’t know when she would be home. Half-heartedly, Eppie made herself a cup of instant coffee. She would return to her list after she had had a shower.

Jane had opened the curtains in the living room, and the sunlight was streaming in. Eppie edged as close as she dared and looked out as she drank her coffee. Across the road, the sun was catching the spire of St Nicholas Church. Matt had told her there used to be an abbey next to the church, and she could just make out a portion of ruined wall.

Kenilworth Castle was one of the places she had always wanted to visit. She had read in the local paper that the Castle had opened an Elizabethan Garden, recreating the one built by Robert Dudley to impress Queen Elizabeth I. Promising herself that she and Matt would see the garden next summer in all its glory, she went for her shower.

It was well past lunchtime when Eppie had refined her list of suspects for the tenth time, writing down everything she could remember, no matter how small, so that each suspect now filled two pages. Well, except Mr Squires who she couldn’t imagine being able to tie his own shoelaces, never mind murdering anyone. At least it had given her something to do, something that might help solve the case before anyone else became a victim.

She had been pouring over her list for too long, so standing and stretching, she enjoyed the warmth of the sun pouring into the room. She longed to go for a walk in the fresh air. How long would she have to stay cooped up like this? She had even finished her book, and the flat contained little reading matter to interest her. Matt had promised to send a couple of books via Fluff, but she couldn’t really hold him to that as he would be busy.

Instead she decided to get lunch, and this was an adventure in itself. Although Fluff had the perfect kitchen, her interest in cooking was no match for it. Besides the nearly full tin of biscuits, Fluff’s staple diet, there were two slices of dry bread, no milk, and some out-of-date eggs, a squashy banana, and an apple. Eppie tried the cupboards that yielded only two tins of soup, several tins of corn, an obvious favourite, but little else.

Not feeling imaginative, Eppie settled on the soup, with toast and an apple to follow. She wanted to get back to her list of suspects. She would have loved to stock the kitchen with food, but that was out of the question. There would be no chance of preparing a meal for when Fluff came home, which was a pity, since she would have enjoyed working in that kitchen.

With lunch out of the way, Eppie returned to her list, visualising each of her suspects in turn and trying to imagine them committing cold-blooded murder. No one stood out, so she began enlarging on their actions, writing down what each of them had said or done until she started to get a headache. Feeling the need to move, she was doing some stretching exercises when Fluff came in.

She looked tired and, throwing her small shoulder bag on the couch, had disappeared into the kitchen with nothing more than a grunt, returning with the open biscuit tin from which she was selecting all the jammy dodgers, munching as if she hadn’t eaten all day.

Eppie thought it was the wrong time to mention her list.

‘Bad day?’

Fluff nodded and sank down on the sofa, kicking her shoes off with a sigh.

‘Fancy a brew?’

Spitting out small biscuits crumbs, she answered. ‘Please.’

By the time she had made the strong tea Fluff liked and brought it through, Fluff had slowed down on the biscuits. Eppie wondered how to bring up her ideas. She watched as Fluff took a great gulp of the tea.

‘That’s better. Thanks.’

‘You haven’t got any nearer to catching him?’

‘No. And I should still be out there damn it.’

‘Oh.’ Eppie realised that Fluff would still be with the team, with Matt, if it wasn’t for her. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not your fault. Matt will work better knowing you have something to eat. He’s worried I’m starving you to death.’

Eppie felt like a traitor for joking with Matt that she was living on bread and water.

‘Thought I’d pick up a curry. Is that OK with you?’

Although she liked most hot spicy foods, curry wasn’t one of Eppie’s favourites but she was grateful for the offer. ‘Yes, that would be great. Let me give you some money.’

‘No need. Oh, and if you write out a grocery list for tomorrow, I’ll try and pick up some stuff.’

‘You think I’m going to be here for a while?’

‘No way of knowing. We’re all working flat out to catch the bastard. If he thinks he is on a roll and can’t be stopped, that’s when we stand a chance.’

She held out her list. ‘I was going through everyone who came to the desk on those few days I worked with Sandi. Do you want…’

Fluff took the notebook with some reluctance. Eppie felt she didn’t really want to be bothered.

‘I’ve made a note of anything suspicious.’

‘Great.’

Eppie watched as Fluff put the notebook beside her on the sofa while she drained the mug of tea.

‘Another?’ Eppie asked, somewhat disappointed that Fluff hadn’t even glanced at her list.

‘I’ll just nip out to the takeaway first.’

Eppie had the feeling that if she looked at the list at all it would just be to humour her.

At least the curry was good and Fluff had remembered to pick up some milk and bread. Plus Matt called and it was good to hear his voice, although he sounded tired.

‘Hi, Love. How’s the prison? I did make your warder promise to feed you.’

‘I appreciate that and it was great. A nice change from biscuits and stale bread.’

‘Hey, don’t knock it. Fluff might put you in solitary.’

‘She’s in the shower. Matt it’s lonely here. And I miss you.’

‘I know, Love. Miss you too but hopefully it won’t be for long. I’ll get you something to read—haven’t forgotten.’

‘Matt, I’ve started a list of all the people who came to the reception desk.’

‘Great. Show it to Fluff. Sorry, have to go. Love you.’

Eppie only had a second to add that she loved him too and Matt was gone.

The notebook lay where Fluff had tossed it. No one was interested.

CHAPTER 50

T
he house had a stillness over it as he let himself in. For a moment, he couldn’t make out what was wrong, then he realised there was no cheerful bustle of Mrs Sinclair, no welcoming offer to put the kettle on, or singing in the kitchen.

Mother was sitting in the living room, her wheelchair facing the door, hands folded in her lap. There was something serene and accepting about her. Clive sensed immediately that she knew. How, it didn’t matter. He was aware that her cold eyes followed him as he moved to sit opposite her. She waited until he sat. Her voice was calm.

‘Why, Clive? Why?’

He had always imagined this moment. All those mornings as he helped her out of bed, the evenings as they sat across from each other when he made her listen to the boring details of his day. He had enjoyed the control he had over her these last couple of years. But the last two years had never made up for what she had denied him as an infant. He doubted anything could. Clive used to imagine himself explaining how bereft, shut out, he had felt.

But now, well, it didn’t seem to matter. She didn’t matter any longer. He was no longer striving for her love or attention.

‘Surely you know?’

‘No. I want you to explain, Clive.’

‘And I can’t be bothered.’

‘You owe me that at least.’

‘Owe you? Oh no. I owe you nothing. Nothing at all, Mother.’ The last word was bitter on his tongue, and he spat it at her. She recoiled slightly before rallying.

‘Then indulge me.’

He looked at her sitting there, regal and calm. She must be aware of what he was capable of. Of what was to come. Suddenly he wanted, needed to tell her. She should know after all the cause lay with her.

Clive walked slowly around her chair. Her eyes didn’t follow him but flickered, as if wondering what he might be about to do. ‘Very well, Mother, I will explain.’ He sat down again, taking his usual evening position across from her. But this was no cosy chat. He sought for the best way to begin. She sat waiting. ‘I was how old when Lizzie was born?’

She seemed surprised but answered. ‘Sixteen months. Why?’

‘Still a baby then?’

She hesitated. ‘No, not really, although you were still in nappies. It was time for you to start growing up.’

‘To be a man, like father?’

‘Well, yes.’

He could feel the anger rising but fought to control it. He wanted to remain calm and rational. She must understand.

‘A baby still. Thrust from your arms. Not able to understand why you didn’t want me, didn’t love me anymore.’

‘Now you are being melodramatic. And it doesn’t suit you, Clive.’

He could see the scorn in her eyes. ‘Melodramatic am I?’

Clive rose and walked away from her trying to get his memories in order. He had to make her understand how it was for him. He turned back to find her looking at him. She waited with such calm. He admired her courage.

‘You flung me from the nursery into the care of my idiot father who could only think of turning me into a homage to himself. Parading his stupid soldiers and his manly values. As if I cared a jot about protecting the sister who had stolen you away from me.’

She turned her head away in disgust. Clive moved to kneel in front of her, determined now that she should hear everything. She refused to look at him, so he reached forward and grasped her face roughly in his hand, forcing her to look into his eyes. ‘Do you know how much I wanted to kill the vile intruder? Wanted to place my hands around that tiny, pink neck and squeeze, and keep squeezing?’

He brought up his other hand and let both hands move downwards to her scrawny throat to emphasise his point. She seemed to be holding her breath but she was now looking fully at him. ‘Wanted to feel the life slowly leave, the gurgles, cooing, crying and her control stopped forever.’ His hands tightened around her throat.

‘You are mad.’ She brought up her frail hands to push his away.

Clive let his hands fall and knelt there wanting above everything else to put his head in her lap. To have her gently stroke his hair and sing a lullaby. He could stop then and rest. It was as if she sensed his need. She put her hand up to gently touch his head.

‘You always were a needy baby, Clive, crying if I left the room or didn’t hold you.’

Her hand was now a caress and Clive dropped his head to her lap, letting everything go for a moment. A moment was all this could be. He knew that. Then she began to hum softly and he felt the deep, racking sobs begin to course through him. Clive felt her body recoil at his emotion. She moved her hand away as if he was contaminated.

‘Stop it, Clive. You are a grown man now. Where is your self control?’

The familiar words brought him back to his senses, and he raised his head to look at her. The lips were tightly compressed causing all the ugly lines there to deepen. Clive jumped to his feet, ashamed that he had allowed his deepest needs to surface.

‘Control? Oh yes, I have self-control. I learnt that early. It was the only way to get some satisfaction. But it was never enough,’ he said, getting to his feet to stand above her. ‘All the petty things I did could never, never make up for what was taken away from me.’

There was silence for a moment as he sank down into the chair, suddenly exhausted and wanting it to be over. She studied him, as if he were an alien being who had infiltrated her world.

‘Now it is happening all over again.’ He watched as his words hit her like a blow to the face.

‘Oh, my God. Little Emily. You are jealous of a tiny baby.’

Finally she understood. He had to do it now, while he had the strength. Now that she knew why. Clive leaned forward, half standing and half crouching. His face was close to hers, his fingers encircling her skinny neck. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he said, as he watched the life drain from her. She didn’t struggle and it was almost as if she welcomed it.

Afterwards, he carried her to her usual chair by the fire and stood back to gaze down at her. She looked awkward, so he placed a small cushion beside her head, which wanted to loll at an unusual angle. The fire wasn’t lit, so he put her rug around her knees to keep off the draughts. Now she looked comfortable, even if she was asleep forever.

Then without a backwards glance, he left. He had to prepare for his next statement.

CHAPTER 51

T
he kitchen felt cold and empty with no Mrs Sinclair concocting those tempting dinner smells. Had Mother confided in her? He doubted it. Mother wouldn’t like to wash her dirty linen in public, especially not this brand of dirty linen. A son who was a serial killer went against her concept of a proper family. If he was ever caught, it would reflect badly on her, and Clive laughed at how the newspapers would lay his misdemeanours at her door, saying he had a bad upbringing. After all it was always the parents fault wasn’t it?