Mummy's Favourite (31 page)

She was enjoying herself now. Throwing the car round the corner, she quickly caught up with them. She could see the blue lights on the marked cars just a short way ahead of them.

‘Charlie, go careful. I want to live to see him caught.' Hunter was smiling this time though. Pulling out his radio, he pressed the transmit button.

‘Be ready to put in a hard stop when you get the chance.'

*

Bradley Conroy picked up the larger of the two knives that he'd slipped into the door pocket and pointed it towards her. He was angry and confused. This wasn't supposed to happen.

‘If I'm going down, we're both going down.'

The car lurched to the left. He could see blue lights ahead of him now too. He mounted the kerb and shot through a wooden gate into a park area, watching as shards of wood burst across his path. The car pitched to the left again as the metal of the wheel dug down into the soft grass. He yanked the wheel to the right, but nothing happened, looking up just as a huge tree loomed up in view. The sound of glass and metal exploded all around him. Tiny, sharp fragments were flying into his face from the smashed windscreen, hitting his cheeks and forehead. He could feel the blood springing up, trickling into his eyes. The steering wheel had shunted forward towards his chest, the airbag cushioning the impact slightly, but his feet and legs were squashed into a space that was far too small for them. Pain ricocheted up and down his spine and body and the side of his head crunched against the door window.

Everything was happening in slow motion now. He could see a wall of smoke and steam in front of him, seeping into the body of the car through the smashed windscreen. Annabel was crying loudly. Oh God, she was in pain. He could see blood all over her face too. The airbag on the passenger seat had activated, pushing her back against the seat. It was smoking but had deflated enough for her to squirm slightly towards the door. She was reaching towards the handle. He couldn't let her go. He wanted her so much.

The larger knife had spun off from him during the crash. He reached down for the other one, but all he got was a handful of glass which cut into his palm. The passenger door was opening now and he could see the back of Annabel's head as she kicked the door fully open and launched herself forward out of the car, her hands still bound. He reached out and tried to take hold of her clothing, but he lost his grip as she pulled away. She was slipping through his fingers, literally. She was all he could think of.

‘Don't go Annabel,' he screamed through the noise. ‘I love you.'

She was rolling away from the car now, trying to stand. He had to stop her. Punching desperately at the door, he managed to force it open enough for him to squeeze out from between the seat and the steering wheel. His whole body was screaming out in agony. He could barely stand and he could feel the blood flowing down his cheeks and neck from the glass wounds. Reaching down, he managed to locate the knife and pulled it out into the open, holding it up in his right hand as he struggled to get to Annabel who had stopped moving and was now lying immobile on the grass on the other side of the car. Maybe if he could get to her, he could force the cops to pull back, take her away with him.

He staggered a few steps forward, his arms raised to try to get his balance. The blue lights and noise were preventing him from thinking. He heard a shout but didn't recognize the word that was being said.

Two tiny wires shot towards him. He was just aware of them through his peripheral vision as they hit him on the chest and leg. A pain like nothing he had experienced before shot through him and his legs buckled as his whole body tensed and went into spasm. He hit the grass and lay unable to move, his arms and legs twitching. He had no control of his body and as the agony gradually subsided he felt a warm sensation around his groin and realized with horror that he'd pissed himself. He heard more shouting and saw several burly men running towards him. The knife was lying nearby, out of his reach, and he automatically reached towards it. Pain shot through him again as 50,000 volts of electricity were released for a second time. He screamed out in agony as his body arched with the shock. He saw the knife being picked up, as he lay helpless on the grass, all his energy spent.

He was doing what he was told now. There was no point in fighting. He'd lost against the Old Bill and he'd lost Annabel. As he felt the metal of the handcuffs tighten round his wrists, he started to cry and he didn't stop sobbing until eventually he was hauled up into an ambulance to be taken to hospital.

It hadn't been hard to get this one. In fact it had been far too easy.

She'd trusted him and it had made him laugh. She had even walked to the woodland with him and her young son, totally oblivious to any danger, laughing and playing around. They'd chatted as they'd walked, speaking about her aspirations, her career, her family. She'd even been talking about how naughty her youngest son was being and how she could cheerfully wring his neck. They'd just dropped him off, the naughty one, at her gran's, and now they had her other son, the good one, the perfect child who could do no wrong, the one who was being taken out for the day as a special treat for being so good.

It had been he who had suggested it. Her good son deserved her undivided attention. She obviously loved him the most because he wasn't naughty; he did what she said, whatever she asked, without question. And she had agreed to do it, even though she was busy at work; a few hours off to spend time with her precious son.

It had been priceless when he'd unsheathed his knife. She clearly had not understood what was going on; had even laughed and told him to stop messing around. But he wasn't messing around. He never messed around. He was fucking serious. Deadly fucking serious.

She still hadn't understood though, even when he'd told her to put her arms behind her back. Little Dean wasn't sure what was happening either; his face was a mix of excitement and confusion. He obviously thought it was a game, until the moment his mother had been grabbed round the neck, pushed up against a tree and held at knifepoint, the blade pressing into her jugular. How it had pulsed under the pressure of his arm. How he loved the sight of it, squeezing up against the tender skin, throbbing sweetly. Dean's little face had grown more and more alarmed. She'd wriggled then, breaking the stranglehold slightly, and screamed at Dean to run and he'd done what he'd been told. The boy always did what he was told; and at that moment he'd panicked slightly, unable to let go of the mother for fear of losing her, but then he'd called out to the boy.

‘Dean, you can't leave your mummy now. Dean, she needs you.'

And Dean had faltered then because he couldn't leave her; because she was his perfect mother, the mum that he adored, who favoured him over all others. Wasn't she? The bitch! The fucking bitch!

So he'd watched as Dean ran behind a tree and out of sight inside a small copse, but he could see behind the copse to the clear grass beyond and it was easy to watch if the boy tried to slip away, but he wouldn't because he couldn't leave her. He didn't have it in him to leave his mum. It had only taken a few minutes to bind her arms tightly behind her back, tie a gag around her mouth so she couldn't scream out again and throw her down into the newest pit. And now he was back out hunting. Fuck, it was exhilarating stuff. He could see where the boy was hiding. He slipped around the trees so that he came up behind the small copse and watched Dean as he laid shaking in the grass and fallen foliage; watching, just watching. The young boy was tearful, craning his neck towards the area where his mother had disappeared, obviously not knowing what to do next. He was rooted to the spot, yet clearly desperate to leave.

He would be easy to catch, lying on his belly as he was; stranded like a baby seal at the approach of a polar bear, ensnared with barely a whimper. And so he was moving slowly now on the grass area behind the trees and it was so exciting, thrilling even, creeping ever so slowly up behind his prey. Just as he took the final few steps, Dean spun round and saw him, but it was too late. He pounced, holding him down while the boy tried to wriggle and squirm from underneath, pinning him down by the neck.

‘Keep still, you little bastard, or I'll kill you.'

He was enjoying himself now, watching as Dean's eyes widened, further and further, and the whites bulged and tiny blood vessels burst. He was enjoying this too much. So he pressed a little harder against the soft skin, watching from just a few inches above as the boy's lips started to turn blue. Maybe he should have done this before, rather than with a knife. Skin to skin, feeling the last moments of his victim's life slipping away as the pulse weakened, instead of watching their blood drain.

Both ways were good though. Both ways were fucking good.

But now his bare strength was killing the boy and he liked it. It was him that had the power, not his knife, not tablets or alcohol; it was his decision to give life or take it away. He had the control literally in his hands. It was just what he had wanted. He released his grip, staring as the redness came back into Dean's lips and he choked out loud, gulping in huge mouthfuls of air.

The boy started to cry. It took him by surprise; his mother was made of sterner stuff. But Dean was crying like a baby and he wouldn't, or couldn't, stop; sobbing and choking and coughing and sniffing. It was beginning to irritate him.

‘Where's my mum? What have you done with her?'

‘I'm just about to show you.'

He pulled the boy up and dragged him across to where the pit was, binding him tightly before opening the trapdoor and throwing him down next to his mother. The boy squirmed against her, squeezing himself into her body as close as he could.

‘Aah, how sweet, you're with your mummy again. I don't think you're going to be much help though, do you, Dean?'

He emphasized the last question, his voice mocking. The woman glared at him with angry, accusing eyes.

‘And I don't think you're going to be much help to Dean either. Mummy and Mummy's favourite are going to die right here, together.' He laughed. ‘Well actually, not together. I didn't tell you what I was going to do, did I?'

She glared at him again, her brows pulled down into a deep, angry frown. It made him want to laugh.

‘Ooh, come now, you look cross. Got a bit of attitude, have you? Well you won't have soon, when I slowly squeeze the last drop of breath from little Dean's body, while you watch, unable to stop me; unable to save your precious, precious favourite son.'

He pulled the knife out from up his sleeve and ran his finger slowly along the sharp, serrated edge. ‘Or shall I slit his throat, like I did to the others? So that you can lie there next to him and feel his warm blood seeping all around you; so that you can wait for it to go cold, just like his body will, and you won't be able to do anything to warm him back up again. And you'll have to lie there while the insects come and feed on him and they'll grow fat on his stinking remains while slowly, very slowly, you die of hunger.'

She was still glaring at him, her anger almost palpable. He was enjoying himself now as he spoke with her. She was like his own mother, strong and angry and in control of her own emotions. He was looking forward to gradually breaking her and it would start later when she wouldn't be able to collect her naughty son from his gran. He would feel abandoned and she would know that he was on his own with just an old woman to look after him. And he wouldn't be able to do a thing to help himself, but at least he wouldn't be victimized by a mother who only doted on one son, just like his own mother had.

‘So, what's it to be then? Maybe I should let you choose how little Dean here dies. Strangled or bled to death? Hmm now that's an idea. Yes, I think this time you can choose. Or maybe you might prefer another way? Tie a bag around his head so you can watch his eyes pop, feed him tablets until he falls asleep forever, watch while I remove parts of his body bit by bit, his ears, fingers, tongue, and he bleeds out. There are so many ways to choose.' He spoke slowly and precisely, enunciating every word, feeling himself getting aroused more and more at the thought.

He checked his watch. Dammit, he needed to go, but he couldn't wait to come back. The game was getting better each time.

‘Think about how you want him to die then. Think carefully because it is your choice and if you don't want to choose, then I will pick the slowest, cruellest way, just to punish you further. You will choose the way that I will murder your favourite boy.'

Closing the trapdoor, he plunged them into darkness, pulling some branches over the top to cover every little chink of light. He still had to sort out Dana and Gemma, but he didn't have time today. Maybe he would kill Gemma later tonight or tomorrow so he could get the process started. He wanted time with these two.

He walked away, a smile flickering on his lips.

Yes, he had picked well with these new ones. He would enjoy playing with them very much.

St Pancras railway station stood tall against the brightness of the midday sun, its Victorian architecture magnificent in all its faded glory. It now boasted high-speed links to Europe via the Channel Tunnel as well as routes to the North and South-east of England from fifteen platforms.

Charlie waited on the concourse. She'd wanted to pay the Eastern European lady from
Crimewatch
a visit since her encounter with the beggar woman on Friday night, but with so much happening she'd barely had enough time to make a phone call, never mind travel up to York herself. Luckily, Olga Kaplinski had been willing to travel to her.

It was good to have the DI keeping you thoroughly involved in the investigation, particularly with the pace that things were changing, but this time she really wanted to be able to follow up her own hunch. She had an itch, which needed to be scratched!