Urge to Kill (1) (8 page)

When they reached Rossini’s delicatessen and bakery, she parked her car next to his in the small parking lot. Inside she seemed delighted and Clive guessed she would be here for a while. He watched her as he ordered some ham for Mother.

‘This is just perfect. I feel like I am still on honeymoon.’

‘Will you be able to find your way home from here?’

‘I think so. I just carry straight on along the main road.’

‘Right. Well, I will leave you to it then. And good luck with your husband.’

She laughed and raised a hand in thanks, too caught up in deciding on what to buy to pay him much attention.

Before getting into his car, Clive made a mental note of her licence plate, and then he drove out of the parking lot and out onto the road, parking several cars away.

After seven long minutes, he watched her come out, loaded with bags and looking rather pleased. Waiting for her to place the bags carefully in the back of the car, Clive wondered what Ben’s favourite foods were, and if he liked to cook.

He had always been glad to leave the cooking to someone else. Mrs Sinclair was a good cook on a fairly plain and simple level who could, if given enough notice, rise to almost gourmet levels for special occasions like Mother’s birthday. It would be lovely to invite Ben to the house, but not with Mother installed. Yet another disadvantage of having her living with him.

Clive wrenched himself out of these daydreams and started the car as Eppie pulled out into the traffic, managing to manoeuvre himself so that there were just two cars between them. For once, he was glad that most cars on the road were silver, like his, as it made it less likely she would spot him.

The small three-storey block of flats, Miranda Court, was on the outskirts of town in a leafy area on the Kenilworth side of Leamington Spa. He guessed the block had been built about twenty years ago.

As Mrs Turrell pulled into the resident’s car park, he wondered what to do next. Should he follow her into the building to see which flat she lived in? If he did, she might see him, and he certainly didn’t want that.

He hesitated as she struggled with the door code and the heavy bags until she entered the lobby, before deciding that discovering which flat she and the Inspector lived in could wait until he had the cover of darkness.

All the information he had gathered today about the DI made him vulnerable and gave Clive the advantage. He felt confident that he could outwit him, even with his smart little team around him.

Time to start planning his next move, one designed to show the DI and that clever little constable who was boss. Still kicking himself for the mistake, Clive vowed he would make the young lady pay. He was beginning to enjoy this intrigue. Maybe he should follow the constable home next. The more he knew about the team the better.

By the time he arrived home, it was too late to fit in Mother’s shopping trip, and he knew she was cross the minute he walked in and heard her sharp, brittle voice telling Mrs Sinclair.

‘No thank you. I do not want a tray on my lap. I will wait for my son, although goodness knows where he has got to. He knows very well he had an arrangement to take me shopping.’

Clive braved the living room making sure that he had a worried, apologetic look on his face, to accusing looks from Mother and Mrs Sinclair, who had her coat on ready to leave. Playing up the ordeal of being on the scene of a murder, not to mention being questioned by the police, he sank into his favourite chair with the air of one at last reaching a safe haven. Once he had their attention, he began to explain himself.

‘I’ve had a very harrowing experience.’

‘Oh dear. What on earth happened Mr Draper?’

‘I can’t even bear thinking about it.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘For goodness sake, Clive, stop shilly-shallying and tell us what happened.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Clive.’ Mother never had an ounce of sympathy. Well, not where he was concerned anyway. She had set her face determinedly against his tears at Father’s hands believing that was the way to raise a man.

‘There was a murder. At the spa.’ He watched as his news hit home. Whatever they were expecting it wasn’t this. Maybe they thought Clive had been involved in a car accident on the way home. But a murder, now that was worthy of even his Mother’s attention and he relished the word.

‘A murder,’ he repeated, enjoying the sound.

‘Oh my goodness.’

Mrs Sinclair dropped into the nearest chair and unbuttoned her coat as shock sent a hot flush soaring upwards, turning her neck and face a beetroot colour. But Clive wasn’t going to let her take the attention from him. Mother was made of sterner stuff and barely glanced in Mrs Sinclair’s direction.

‘So who was murdered?’

‘I heard someone say it was a young girl. She was in one of the treatment rooms, practically next door to me.’

‘But I thought you were going to the gym?’

Too late, he realised that his pride had outstripped the need for caution. His dear Mother was always as sharp as a tack.

‘Lisa was just giving that pulled muscle a quick massage.’ Mother accepted the lie although she took a second more than necessary before her eyes left his face.

‘Margery—get a glass of wine for Clive. And have one yourself—you look like you need it.’

Clive cursed himself for embellishing the story and kept everything factual as he described how they were herded into the café, ordered about and questioned by Inspector Turrell.

By the time he had finished, they were feeling suitably sorry for him, and Mrs Sinclair had poured him a glass of his favourite red wine. Now, as they finished clucking over him, he wanted to be on his own. He was sure his exploits of today would receive attention from both the local and national press, and he couldn’t wait to see his publicity.

Pretending concern for keeping her so late, and thanking her profusely for staying with Mother, he hurried Mrs Sinclair to the door. It was a relief when the door closed behind her. Clive headed straight into the kitchen, calling to Mother on the way.

‘Won’t be long now, Mother.’ Mother said something in reply but by then he was halfway down the flagged hallway and into the modern, black and white kitchen. Ignoring the steaming casserole, he turned to the small television, thankful he had purchased it to keep Mrs Sinclair happy.

He was delighted to find the murder mentioned on both the local news and the national news. The rush of power and excitement reminded him of the time he won the cup for unarmed combat. He had enjoyed seeing all those nondescript faces looking up at him and clapping. Soon, the whole nation would come to realise how important, how powerful he was. No one would beat him now.

One young reporter was inclined to be lurid and called it ‘The Baby Doll’ murder, which he didn’t like. Nor did he like the solid reassuring tones of the local police superintendent who vowed that his force was doing everything they could to catch whoever committed this heinous crime and, while the public should continue to take normal precautions, there was no need to panic. His rather pompous tone made Clive determined to prove him wrong, and he began to plan his next statement.

He knew that it would be prudent to place his next message in a different location, but he wanted to throw down a personal challenge to DI Turrell. The Inspector would look such a fool when another murder took place right under his nose, where no one would expect it, back at the health spa.

Clive began to think of ways he could undermine the Inspector. Maybe he would start by sending him a small token, and, thanks to the new Mrs Turrell, he could send it straight to their home. It made him smile, as he imagined how this would worry and distract the DI from the case.

Looking forward to the DI’s downfall, he reviewed his plans as he carried the meal through to the dining room. Mother annoyingly wanted to keep talking about his experience.

‘Did you say the Inspector’s name was Turrell?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘That was the man who was responsible for getting little Gracie killed. You remember—Joan Harrison’s granddaughter.’

She had his attention back. He remembered it now. Inspector Turrell had arrested the wrong man, leaving the real murderer to kill again. ‘Yes, I do remember. Let’s hope he does better on this case.’

‘He should have been disciplined.’

Clive half-heartedly agreed with her while wondering how this past mistake had affected the Inspector. Either it would make him more determined to solve a case, or he would become over anxious and miss vital evidence. Not that Clive intended to leave any for him. There was little chance that he would be caught.

As Mother chatted on, he allowed his mind to run through the plans for his next statement. He knew where to place it as, having often walked around the grounds of Heath Stone Spa, he had come upon the perfect spot.

It was a wooden contraption with two seats facing each other, which swung back and forth depending on the input from whoever was seated there. Although rather a shame that the occupant wouldn’t be in a position to start the swing, once he had placed her there, he could give a little push just to start it off.

The swing was situated at the end of a small pond, which had been widened out from a small stream. There was a little wooden bridge, more for show than need, which led to the putting green and the smoker’s tent.

The smoker’s tent was a popular place as Clive had found after wandering in there by accident one day. He hadn’t stayed long, as the six ardent smokers, although at first eager to claim him as one of their own, were just as eager to close ranks on the outsider without a cigarette in his mouth, and who seemed in no hurry to light up.

Before he strolled away, he noticed the several statuesque vases filled with colourful flowers at intervals around the tent, placed there no doubt to give an illusion of health and beauty to those who were so intent on destroying themselves. Similar vases were dotted around the health spa, and although they looked like expensive ceramic creations, he had found on investigation that they had a small hollow centre. A perfect hiding place for his props.

His next problem would be to find a suitable subject and then to get her into the appointed position. Clive could hardly carry her out through the main entrance in full view of everybody, nor could he walk out chatting with her, as that would take him straight to the top of the suspect list.

The added problem was that most guests only stayed a few days, with the odd exception, like Mrs Potterton who, according to the waiter, came for two months every year and sat regally alone in the dining room at her chosen and favourite table. She was too old to fit in with his plans, and Clive laughed at the ludicrous thought of her in one of his party dresses.

This left him with two options: it would either have to be a staff member, or he would have to bring the girl in from the outside. He ruled out the latter, as that would be too fraught with problems, which could lead to discovery. A staff member it had to be then and in this mostly female culture, there was an abundance to choose from. His own masseuse, Lisa, was young and pretty, but maybe just a little too plump for the purpose, and her demise would put him under suspicion.

Of course, the new Mrs Turrell almost fitted the bill but her somewhat elfin looks did not quite suit his plans. Plus, she would be more use to him alive as a pathway to her husband. He decided he could afford to keep the options open, for the moment.

Mother twittered on but he was only half listening.

‘Clive. Are you listening to me?’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Don’t lie, Clive, it is unbecoming of a gentleman. I was asking if you would have to be a witness.’

‘I wouldn’t think so. There were a lot of other people about.’

‘Yes, but the police would recognise an intelligent man. One who would notice anything amiss. And I shall expect you to do your civic duty if called upon, Clive.’

He almost laughed aloud and part of him wanted to tell her that her dutiful son was a murderer. How would her social niceties deal with that? No, maybe one day, when she was dying perhaps, he would take his time and enjoy it. Not today, he had too much to do. Today he pacified her because he needed her to play a role in his next outing. ‘Of course, Mother,’ he acquiesced to her demand.

The deed would have to be done under the hours of darkness, leaving him with a problem, since on the odd occasion, like this morning when he had taken a day owing to him, his sessions at the spa were fitted in straight after work on the nights when Mrs Sinclair could stay that bit longer with Mother. Sometimes, he went there on Saturday mornings, but for this task, darkness was going to be his biggest ally.

Although the autumn nights were now drawing in, he would need to dispatch his next victim later in the evening when it was fully dark and when most of the guests would be happy to stay cosy and warm indoors, and out of his way.

Clive would need a legitimate reason to be at the health spa during the evening. Last year he had tried to persuade Mother that the occasional massage might help the blood flow in her legs, in the vain hope that it might stop her constant grumbling in the mornings.

Although she hadn’t taken to the idea then, he decided to revise the theme again. If he disguised it as a treat for her to have dinner in the restaurant, where the new French chef was attracting rave reviews, she might be persuaded to talk to a masseuse during the evening. This would leave him with about fifteen minutes, more than enough time to do his work.

With this in mind, he decided to call into the club later in the week to book Mother an appointment to talk to the masseuse and to arrange for them to have dinner there. Saturday would probably be best; that would give him time to persuade Mother that he had her best interests at heart.

His choice of victim he would leave until later.

CHAPTER 13

S
he was used to preparing meals for her dad, but Eppie wanted this one to be special. It must convey everything she wanted to say to Matt. She knew there would be times when his job would have to come first, and she accepted this, since she loved him. In return, she hoped he would be able to listen to her concerns. She suspected that he might hold some old fashioned ideas about marriage. That is, if he had thought about it at all.