Dead Sweet: A D.I. Turnbull mystery (5 page)

Tracy Green grew up with her alcoholic mother on the Fern Bridge Estate. Born on Valentine's Day, she was dearly loved by her mother, Karen. Unfortunately for Tracy, however, love was not enough to keep her clothed and fed. Karen was a slave to alcohol and crack; so much so that at least two thirds of her benefit money was squandered on Big Value beer and three rocks before it ever made its way into Karen's purse. Tracy's dinners consisted of Big Value French fries, along with the cardboard like fish fingers which came in packs of fifty at the Big Value store. Her only beverage was water and clothes were stolen from the black bags which were often found lying where people would leave their castoffs meant for the poor and needy in third world countries.

Although Tracy's mum could not lift herself out of the lifestyle she had fallen into, she never shirked on the one thing she could give Tracy for free - love. Tracy had always been clean, her teeth were perfect as free dental care was made good use of and her clothes, although sometimes threadbare; were washed if not ironed. Tracy grew up in a world where people lived for Benefits Day and wanted nothing more from their lives than a roof over their head and a good drink when they could afford it. Karen's ambitions rubbed off on Tracy and when she left school, sans qualifications, at sixteen, Tracy settled into a routine of sleep, Jeremy Kyle, cheap lager and weekly raids on the clothes bank.

After about a year and on a rare night out to the local pub with her mother; the now seventeen year old Tracy Green met the love of her life; Paul Anderson. Paul was the complete antithesis of Tracy, full of ambition to rule the world, make a fortune and become somebody; Paul had already successfully inveigled his way into the world of glamour modelling as a talent scout. On the night he met big busted, green eyed, pouting Tracy, pound signs flashed before his very eyes.

Paul Anderson swept Tracy off her feet, taking her to her very first restaurant that same night and telling her tales of wild parties, designer clothes, luxury goods and hotels. He told Tracy she had a look which would get her far in his world and if she stuck with him, he could make her famous and rich; very,
very
rich.

And so Vixen was born; Vixen worked tirelessly for Paul, travelling long distances to photo shoots and PR events where she would dress in barely there clothes and use her full pouting lips and volcanic breasts to their full advantage. Fluttering long fake lashes at the punters and stunning them into a stupor with the emerald green eyes which promised them more than they could ever imagine possible.

Vixen soon learnt that men were driven by sex. Sex was a physical act which gave humans pleasure for a short time but the promise of sex and the imagining of sex was a much more powerful tool. It lasted longer and cost more. Vixen didn't need to sell her body, just the idea of it. She soon began to make a lot of money as her image became more and more in demand. A short stint on a reality television show called Celebrity Nurses, where Vixen got to show her caring nature whilst giving bed baths and make overs to patients in a London hospital and Vixen's rise to fame was enhanced tenfold. She was now a woman in demand; advertising everything from dishwasher tablets to couture clothing. Endorsing products, writing books, designing for her own swimwear collection; Vixen left behind the seedy world of sex and became a household name, even picking up an award for her contributions to charity and her tireless efforts to help people still languishing in the doldrums of cement housing estates all over England.

Her new television show, 'Vixen's Victories,' would highlight tales of woe from various members of society and show Vixen helping them escape the turmoil of their lives, if only for the length of time the programme aired for.

Vixen's millions did not take her far from home, however; her mother Karen point blank refused to leave the haven of Fern Bridge. No longer on benefits as Vixen supplied Karen with ample money, but still a slave to the drugs and alcohol which had been her life; Karen could not envision herself in a house of larger proportions than her two bedroomed flat and would not entertain even the notion of being too far away from the ersatz safety net her dealers offered her.

Loving her mother and wanting to be around for her when the time would surely come when she was willing to join mainstream society, Vixen chose to live in nearby Twockford. She had invested in a Victorian town house which boasted high ceilings, three floors and a large family of mice which had lived behind the skirting boards for generations. Vixen spent a small fortune ripping the house to pieces and installing all the modern trappings of living in the twenty first century. The house was now home to en suite bathrooms with walk through four man showers, Jacuzzi bath tubs and flat screen televisions ensconced in the high gloss tiles. Her kitchen had a walk-in refrigerator, three ovens and drawers which would never slam shut. Leather and chenille sofas graced the expensively carpeted reception rooms and crystal chandeliers sparkled from every ceiling. Vixen loved her new home and hoped one day she would be able to fill it with the sound of baby's laughing. For now though she remained the property of Paul Anderson, answering his every need both in business and in the bedroom. She knew in reality she had outgrown Paul, but as a stray dog will follow the person who feeds it, Vixen remained loyal to the man who had rescued her from the life she had been living.

Paul insisted that Vixen keep her looks up to date; she was never to be without make up or the pout which had made her fortune. He would encourage her to use Botox and fillers, even though she was now only twenty one. A seemingly casual comment from Paul on how her boobs appeared to be a little saggy would immediately prompt a visit to the plastic surgeon to have the barely visible flaw corrected. Vixen spent hours naked in front of the mirror checking ankles, calves, thighs, cellulite, stomach, tits, arms, neck and face; ensuring that she never looked anything less than perfect. To ensure her public agreed with the way she looked, Vixen would constantly post selfies on public forums, inviting comments and chatting to her fans. When Paul had complained that she spent too much time speaking with the 'common folk', she would hit back with the argument that it was good PR and without the commoners they'd have nothing. This would cause Paul to grudgingly leave Vixen alone, for a short while at least; and she would enjoy hours of fawning adulation from men and woman alike that spent their hard earned money on Vixen's products and revelled in telling their friends how they were friends with her on Facebook.

Recently Vixen had been having some not so desirable contact with a man who's name online was 'Malcolm'. Their chats at first were only fleeting and Malcolm would flatter Vixen in the same way as the rest of her fans. Malcolm had become so regular a conversationalist with Vixen that when he asked her if he could privately message her, she happily gave him her pin number for private messaging.

Since then Malcolm had become far too personal and intimidating for Vixen's liking. He seemed to always know where she had been on any occasion; which at first Vixen had reasoned wasn't too difficult as she was in the public eye and constantly being followed by a barrage of paparazzi waiting for the money shot. Over time, however, Malcolm seemed to know much more personal things about her; times she went to bed or had a bath; what she had had delivered from the supermarket that day; all things which could only have been known if the person had been there. Vixen realised that Malcolm was not only following her online but also in the flesh. Being media savvy and not wanting to be the subject of pity or ridicule, Vixen had told no one other than Paul about her stalker. Paul had advised her to keep Malcolm happy as he was a fan and she had to keep her fans happy. Vixen had attempted to be polite whilst keeping Malcolm at arm's length, but he had taken her politeness as an invitation to become more intimate and had begun to message Vixen constantly; telling her how he wanted to look after her and how she needed to be fed something as her frame was far too skinny. The tone of his conversation became even darker when Malcolm confessed his sexual desires to Vixen; telling her how he dreamt of eating Vixen and violating her with food items.

Vixen was contemplating Malcolm's desires as she watched a documentary on the television about obese women and their feeders. She heard Paul come through her vintage black wood and glass door and called out to him.

"Paul, is that you?" she turned toward the open plan kitchen area. Paul walked in looking very business-like in his Paul Smith suit, hair expertly quaffed and held in place with some substance or other. He threw the keys to his Bentley on the granite work surface and turned his chocolate brown eyes in Vixen's direction.

"Well who else would it be?" he sneered at her. "I'd like to know who else could possibly be turning up at your house at two o'clock on a Saturday afternoon."

"Well obviously no one," Vixen shot back at him. "You don't let me see anybody unless it's for business." Vixen was very aware that it suited Paul to have total control over her life. He was very frightened that she may meet another agent or fall in love with another man, thereby losing his meal ticket in life. Vixen wished he would believe her when she told him that she would always remain loyal to the man who had catapulted her into stardom.

"I've been thinking Paul," she said.

"Cor fuck me, don't do that," Paul chuckled "I don't think the world is ready for you
thinking
Vix."

"Ha, ha, very funny; no, seriously Paul, this guy is getting more and more creepy you know."

"Oh not this again," Paul turned to the kitchen unit and put the kettle on. "What has he done now?"

Vixen hauled her heavy chest off the sofa, stretching her back as she walked towards Paul.

"He hasn't actually
done
anything, but he keeps saying really weird things to me." She walked up to Paul and he pulled her into an embrace, resting his chin on her auburn hair.

"He keeps talking about feeding me, saying I'm too thin and he dreams of covering me in chocolate."

Paul laughed, "There's plenty of geezers who dream of that darling."

"Yeah I know that," Vixen agreed, "But this is different somehow, it's just creepy. And I'm sure he's following me."

"Well you should be used to that with all the paps around Vix. It's all part of the job."

"So you don't think it's weird?" she asked him.

"Look, you are Vixen. The big boobed, green eyed love machine." He pushed her away from him and held her at his arms' length. "Look at yourself Vix, you ooze sex appeal. You are every teenage boy and red blooded male's wet dream. You could turn gay men straight for fucks sake."

Vixen blushed at Paul's compliment.

"Of course he's obsessed by you," Paul reassured her. "And you've spent your whole career courting this kind of attention. It's how you got all this." He gestured around the grand kitchen. "All of this," he rubbed his hands over Vixen's breasts. "Got all of this." He said, stroking the kitchen work surface which sparkled under the chandelier.

"Don't you think we should tell the police though?" she asked him.

"Oh for fucks sake Vixen; you wanted this life and you got it. People would kill to be in your position. Stop fucking moaning and don't you dare call the police, we don't need them mugs sniffing around. Now come on you've got a book signing tonight and punters to please. Why don't you invite Malcolm?" Paul laughed again. "Tell him there are free cakes; that should make him happy."

"It's not funny," Vixen sulked. "I really think he's weird."

"The whole fucking world is weird." Paul dismissed her, "Come on, shut up about it and get on with making yourself look gorgeous. This autobiography is gonna make us a small fortune. Now shake what your mamma made ya and get up those stairs."

Vixen relented and made her way to her bedroom. She was going to try and ignore Malcolm and his ministrations but she just couldn't help feeling a dark sense of terror that she may just bump into him in the flesh.

Malcolm printed off the new series of photographs he had taken of Vixen over the last week; captured glimpses of her existence, covertly taken as he hid in the background of her life. Malcolm was in love with Vixen. He felt that he should look after her from the very day he saw her staring at him from the front page of Lads Mag Fortnightly. He had never bought a magazine until that very day when fate had played him the winning hand.

Since seeing Vixen on display, Malcolm had made it his mission in life to watch over her and saw himself as her guardian angel. The internet had made it easy for nobodies like Malcolm to reach out to previously untouchable people. Vixen's love for social media and desire for adulation from her followers had made the transition from passive admirer to active follower very easy. Malcolm would sit for hours on his computer waiting for the green light that heralded Vixen's arrival on the information highway which was the World Wide Web.

Opening one of the many chocolate bars he consumed in a day, Malcolm sat on his bed and dreamed of the day he could administer chocolate to Vixen. She was definitely in need of some chocolate loving in Malcolm's eyes.

"Malcolm, your dinner is ready, come downstairs love," his mother cried. Malcolm swallowed the last part of his bar without chewing it and made his way to the kitchen where his elderly parents carried out their daily ritual of dinner.

"Here he is." Malcolm's mother Deirdre smiled up at him. "I've made your favourite today Malc, sausage and mash."

Malcolm sat at the table in the same chair he had inhabited for the last forty seven years. He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat the plate of four sausages and ample mash which sat before him.

"Fucking greedy pig," Malcom's dad, Trevor, sneered. "Always stuffing your face, why don't you go out and get a job? Pay your own way in this world." Trevor picked up the newspaper in front of him. With his salt and pepper hair, bulbous nose and grey watery eyes, he was an older, slimmer version of his son.

"Leave him alone Trevor," Deirdre admonished him. "He's trying to get a job, aren't you love?" she patted Malcolm on the shoulders. "It's not easy when you're Malc's age, and it's not his fault he couldn't work in the Bookies anymore; is it love?"

"Well. All he does is come in and go out, come in and got out; he barely speaks, never brings any money in and gets on my fucking nerves." Trevor complained.

"Oh that's so typical of you. Kick a man while he's down. That's your son, you should be more sympathetic." Deirdre tut tutted as she manoeuvred around her kitchen.

"When I was a young man, I would never just sit around like he does," Trevor complained, "I'd be out and about and I wouldn't give up."

"Well he's not you."

Malcolm ate in silence as his parents played their verbal tennis match. He hated living at home with his parents again. When he had been much younger, he had left home to live with a girl called Jenny. She hadn't been the most beautiful of girls and had been a large woman with a bosom of epic proportions. When Jenny rode Malcolm during sex her breasts would rest on his face and almost suffocate him; he loved the weight and feel of them and often encouraged Jenny to eat more so her breasts would grow even bigger. Jenny had seemed happy enough with Malcolm for a few years, but suddenly changed when she began to diet and save for a breast reduction. Her confidence grew and she no longer needed Malcolm in her life. If he was honest Malcolm was relieved when Jenny announced she'd been having an affair with a work colleague. Her now surgically reduced bosom had become nowhere near big enough for Malcolm's taste and he had no longer enjoyed the infrequent, un-suffocating sex they rarely partook in.

The only downside to the end of their relationship was Malcolm could no longer afford the rent on the tiny bedsit they had occupied. Working in a Bookmakers involved long hours for very little pay and when gambling was so readily available to him, Malcolm had found it hard to resist placing his own bets every payday. Very rarely he would have a win but more often than not, the bills would not get paid. And so Malcolm found himself back at home and the subject of his parents' daily toing and froing of insults and accusations.

Depression snaked its way into Malcolm's psyche and it wasn't much longer before he was sacked from the job he had stopped turning up for. Life had been pretty grim since then; constantly sneered at and derided by his father and yet fawned and fussed over by his mother. His parents were definitely a game of two halves and Malcolm couldn't wait until the whistle called time on both their lives.

Vixen and girls like her were the only thing that held Malcolm's interest now. He longed for a new pair of pendulous breasts to smother his face and take his breath away. He was convinced it would only be a matter of time before Vixen gave into Malcolm's ministrations and let him even further into her life. It didn't matter that he was old and fat; she was desperate for it, all the magazines told him just that.

Malcolm finished his dinner and began to leave the table.

"You look lovely in your suit Malcolm," Deirdre's smile shone at him. "Where are you going now love?"

"Out to look for a job." Malcolm informed her.

"At 5 o'clock in the evening?" his dad asked him incredulously.

"Chef," Malcolm mumbled before collecting his large holdall from the corridor.

"And what the fuck is in that bag you take with you everywhere?" Trevor asked.

"Just stuff."

"Stuff, ha, full of sweets I bet." Trevor sneered once more. "Never known any real man to eat as many sweets as you; you're like a fucking child."

"Stop it Trevor." Deirdre intervened.

"Shut up." He shot back at her. "Go and have a beer in the pub like a real man instead of sucking lollies like a poof." Trevor laughed. "Thinks he's fucking Kojak."

"Trevor," Deirdre shrieked. Malcolm quickly left before he had to listen to any more taunts from his father. His actual mission tonight was to go to High Street and sit on his favourite bench outside Bar Three. It was a hot night and there would be a guaranteed smorgasbord of women with their tits hanging out for the entire world to see. It was better than the cinema; free and he could bring his own snacks. Malcolm knew Vixen was away on a book signing this evening but he intended to catch up with her late on that day when she was due home. With any luck she would forget to close her curtains again and undress in front of her bedroom window, providing Malcolm with his own private peep-show. Yes a full belly of sausages and a possibility of viewing jostling big tits was definitely keeping Malcolm happy this evening; he wondered whether anyone would let him play with them today.