Deadly Obsession, Page 2

  She felt nauseous. It was almost rape: a cerebral assault of her life. He had not just been inside her home; the bastard had comprehensively invaded her privacy.

  “You’re sick,” she said.

  “No, Chrissie. I just take what I want. I even took a pair of your panties from the wicker laundry basket in your bedroom; a thong to be exact. Didn’t you miss it?”

  She hung up. A minute passed. The phone rang again. She started to cry, but picked up.

  “You ever cut me off again, and someone you care for will have a fatal accident. It’s not just your own safety that’s at stake. Apologise to me for being so rude.”

  “I...I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Accepted. What else are you wearing, apart from the T-shirt?”

  “Nothing.”

  His breathing quickened. “Throw the bedclothes back and open your legs, Chrissie.”

  She did not comply. It wasn’t as if he was in the room with her.

  “We’re going to have fun, sweetheart,” he said, using his left hand to unfasten his belt, undo his jeans and push them down to below his knees. He was wearing her black, satin thong, and eased the front of it back to release his rock hard member. “Now do what comes naturally, baby, and talk dirty to me,” he said. I want you to float both of our boats.”

  No, she thought. It had to end, and now. This is my home. He has no right to invade it with his slick, compulsive voice, which now makes my flesh creep. If she didn’t summon up the strength to make a stand and stop being a victim, then she would never be rid of him. She pulled the T-shirt down, stretching it over her knees. How long had this been going on? Almost a month. The first call had been at the end of October. And it was now the twenty-fifth of November. She recalled the rainy Sunday afternoon when he had surreptitiously entered her life, to modify it in a way she could not have imagined in her wildest dreams, or nightmares.

  She had thought it would be her mother phoning. The conversation replayed for the umpteenth time in her mind:

  “Hello.”

  “Hi there. This is Jerry Aken. Am I speaking to Ms C. Adams?”

  “Uh, yes. Who―?”

  “Sorry, I should have said, I’m the marketing manager for GUS Home Shopping, calling from our head office in Manchester.”

  “I think you’ve got a wrong number Mr Aken,” she said, immediately realising that he couldn’t have. He knew her name.

  “You have an account with us, Ms Adams, and have ordered several items from the Kays catalogue.”

  She relaxed a little. “That’s right. But why are you calling? My account’s clear. Is this a telephone sales pitch?”

  “No, Ms Adams. The computer selects valued customers at random, and then we make follow-up calls to ascertain across-the-board levels of satisfaction with our products, and the service, choice, quality and prices we offer. It’s the best way to evaluate our overall effectiveness in the market. As an incentive to answering a few questions in regard to your last order, you will be sent a voucher to the value of thirty pounds as a thank you for being a participant in the survey.”

  It sounded harmless. And who would say no to thirty pounds?

  “Okay, Mr Aken, fire away.”

  “Jerry, please. May I call you Christine?”

  “Sure.” Although she wasn’t. It felt a little strange to be on first name terms with some desk bound pen pusher up North. But where was the harm?

  “Well, Christine, I see your last order was for a pack of two Kangol long-sleeved tops, a pair of sling back shoes, and a...a bra and er, a matching thong.”

  She settled back on the settee, feet tucked up under her, and smiled. The guy was embarrassed at having to discuss underwear. She could hear it in his voice. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was blushing. Should she make him squirm a little? He was probably a young, single man who might find it difficult to broach certain subjects.

  “That’s right, Jerry. I returned the tops, they were a bit clingy. The quality was fine, but they emphasised my bust too much. It’s large.”

  “And the shoes?”

  He was avoiding being drawn in. She was surprised to find that she liked the mildly titillating sensation of being a little risqué. It was just innocent fun.

  “The shoes are fine. I think they’re stylish, well made, and hopefully they’ll prove hard wearing.”

  “And the, er, underwear. Were you satisfied with it?”

  She pushed the envelope a little. The call was becoming a nice aside to the slight boredom of a grey afternoon on her lonesome. And she was feeling a little tingly. After breaking up with her boyfriend, Kyle, in late August, she had been celibate. Not by choice, but circumstance. And the fact was, she missed sex.

  “The bra is very comfortable, Jerry. I’m wearing it now,” she lied. “It lifts, separates, and feels nice against my skin.”

  “Well, good, I...I think that does it, Christine.”

  She felt a stab of disappointment. She wanted to prolong the obvious chagrin that the guy was enduring.

  “I’m not too sure about the thong, though,” she said.

  The line was silent for long seconds. “If it doesn’t fit, then just return it.”

  “Oh it fits, Jerry. I’m just finding it difficult to get used to. It feels a little strange wearing such a skimpy thing. Having that narrow thong between my bum cheeks is slightly uncomfortable. And the material is almost see-through.”

  “Are you purposely trying to raise my temperature, among other things, Christine?” he said.

  She giggled. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. It’s the first time that a man has phoned to ask me about my underwear.”

  “I’m glad I called. You’re fun to talk with. This is the most enjoyable telephone conversation I’ve ever had.”

  “How old are you, Jerry?”

  “Nineteen. And I’m not really the marketing manager. I’ve only been with the company for three months.”

  God! He was little more than a boy. Still a callow youth. “Are you by yourself?” she said.

  “Y...yes.”

  “And I’ve made you all hot and bothered, right?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I feel the same. Why don’t we both relieve the tension?”

  “You mean―”

  “You know exactly what I mean. I’m touching myself, Jerry. Why don’t you do the same? Undo your trousers and...”

  What in God’s name had possessed her? She had even told him to call again if the need arose. It was after the fourth episode that she tried to cool it. He had started to become more obscene, taking it to a level that had begun to frighten her. It wasn’t fun anymore. He even suggested that they meet. A little fantasy on the phone was one thing, but she didn’t want to get up close and personal with him. That was when he started to threaten her, and told her that he lived less than five miles away. He described her; knew that she was a research chemist at Zygol Laboratories in Hendon, and swore that if she ended the relationship, then he would start making house calls. When she said she would go to the police, he laughed, reminding her that she had come on to him. He convinced her that the police would not be able to trace him. That had been when he had begun hinting that he might even be a copper.

  “You’ve gone quiet on me again,” he said, jolting her attention back to the here and now. “Dirty phone calls work best if both parties get with the programme, Chrissie. Are you stretching those shapely legs open wide for me?”

  Steeling herself, Christine let the hatred for him bubble up and strengthen her resolve. “No, you depraved piece of shit. It’s over. Find some other stupid bitch to feed your sick fantasies. You’ve worn out your welcome, you sad pervert. I’m sick of you, your demands, and the threats. Move on, don’t contact me again, and let’s call it quits.”

  He knew that she meant it. It was time to be done with her. He already had another frustrated mark hooked and ready to reel in. And Christine had been fast approaching her use-by date. Now was as good a time as any
to go the extra mile, to bring their association to the conclusion he had planned on from the very first time he’d set eyes on her.

  “Talk me through it one more time, Chrissie, and I’ll never call you again. That’s a promise. You got something out of it at first, didn’t you? You started this, and enjoyed it. Am I right?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “For old times sake, angel,” he continued. “Bring me off with a few harmless lies. Tell me that you’re touching yourself, almost coming at the thought of me jacking off.”

  “And then I’ll be rid of you?” she said.

  “Yes. You have my word. Tonight will be the last you’ll ever hear from me.”

  She closed her eyes and said the things that she knew would aid his barrelled fist to find release. Heard his heavy breathing, and waited for the sudden gasp of fulfilment.

  It was an anticlimax. Even as she urged him on, he disconnected. What was that all about? Could it really be over? Had all his threats been no more than bluff?

  He had already pulled his jeans up, left the shed and made his way to the back door. And as she tried to verbally please him, he panted into the phone, inserted the copy of her key in the lock, and gingerly turned it to open the door and enter the dark kitchen. With the mobile close to his mouth, he responded to her dialogue, moved into the hall and climbed the stairs, only ending the call when he reached the landing.

  Had she heard something? Her pulse raced. She strained to listen to the house. She was sure that a board on the landing had creaked, as if under weight. Nothing. Just the building settling. Her fear of knowing he was out there in the night was feeding her imagination. The disembodied voice had become the monster in a child’s wardrobe; the unseen menace that even without substance was no less a threat. And the man who called himself Jerry was real, not a whimsical entity.

  She huddled up at the top of the bed, her back against the headboard. She felt both frightened and vulnerable. It took several minutes to find some measure of equanimity. She used logic to quell her fear. He was an opportunist who inveigled his way into single women’s lives by employing the phone and a well-practised play on words. His technique was to bring out a secret need or longing from those whom were lonely, frustrated, or just up for a thrill.

  Chrissie got up, smoothed her T-shirt down and walked barefoot over the varnished floorboards. She needed to pee, and would then go downstairs and turn on all the lights. Maybe have a coffee and a cigarette. She had to get past this. Truth was, she had brought it on herself. A moment’s weakness and what seemed in the beginning to be a harmless, stimulating game had got out of hand. She had ended up like a weak swimmer venturing out too far from the shore and getting into serious difficulties.

  As she entered the bathroom a blow to the back of her head knocked her forward and down. Even though instantly dazed, she felt and heard her teeth and jaw shatter against the toilet seat.

  “Hi honey, I’m home,” he said, slapping her raised, bare rump with the flat of his hand. And as a red imprint of his palm appeared on the smooth, white flesh, she toppled sideways, gagging on blood.

  She had to somehow absorb the shock and pain, and react. She was dizzy, but still compos mentis, and had no doubt in her mind that he was going to rape and kill her.

  She shook her head to clear it, aware of the bright red droplets flying from her mouth to splatter against the side panel of the bath, sounding like raindrops on glass. On autopilot now, she twisted, flipped on to her back and bent her legs, ready to kick out. And there he was, standing in the doorway with both gloved hands hanging loosely at his sides. His head was cocked slightly to a side in quizzical, attentive dog fashion. It struck her that he bore no resemblance to the ‘Jerry’ she had imagined from his voice on the phone. This was no teenager. His muddy eyes were unblinking and somehow less than human. They were ambiguous, devoid of whatever intention coursed through the brain behind them. His tongue slid out, curled up and darted back and forth over the top lip of a smiling, cruel mouth. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead from lank, dishwater-blonde hair. He made no move towards her, and was out of kicking range.

  “Like what you see, Chrissie?” he said.

  She wanted to answer, to plead with him to go away. To promise him that she would not contact the police; that she would even resume the sex chats on the phone. But her words were little more than unintelligible garble as each movement of her shattered jaw sent excruciating pain through her face.

  He gave her a warm smile and said, “Are you ready to die?”

  “P...pleash...” she managed to say in a mushy whisper.

  “Too late, Chrissie. A few minutes ago you were calling me a depraved piece of shit, and a sad pervert. It’s time to pay the piper. You knew the rules, and broke them, which is a shame because you really know how to get a guy’s rocks off.”

  He took a step forward. She braced herself. Fuck him! She was fit, determined, and was not going to let him intimidate or hurt her anymore. He would wish he’d never targeted her. She focused, visualised shooting her feet out and driving them into his crotch. For the first time in her life she experienced the twisted, black kernel of desire to kill another human being.

  When he moved, his speed and tactics took her by surprise. He turned, presented his rear to her, and just threw himself backwards, down on to her, letting his backside absorb the force of the impact that her jabbing feet generated.

  Her legs crumpled. The wind was knocked out of her, and she fought for breath.

  Giving her no time to regroup, he shifted position, to sit astride her, encircle her slim, soft throat with both hands and press his thumbs deep into the tissue, closing off her windpipe.

  Her body was stiff and numb. The pain and fear paralysed her. Her eyeballs were bulging, and she imagined they would pop out of their sockets. A gathering swarm of what seemed like flies buzzed and expanded in her brain; a black cloud that negated all thought. Her very last conscious perception was of a single drop of sweat. It seemed to float down from the tip of his nose: a liquid pearl. She did not feel it collide with her cornea, to disunite into a rising corona of globules. Her eyes were frozen open and unseeing.

  He did not loosen his grip for at least two minutes. When he leaned back and flexed his aching fingers, Chrissie was gone. All that lay beneath him was the body she had inhabited; her brain now a tabula rasa― an erased tablet with no sentience.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SLEEP eluded Jack. He tossed and turned, wrestled with the bedclothes and kept glancing at the ruby display of the alarm clock. Got up at five-thirty a.m. It was cold and so he pulled on a terry towelling robe that he’d had for many years. It was like an old friend; a birthday gift from his ex, Sharon. The now faded garment had shared the greater part of his marriage, and was four years older than his son, Danny. It was in some way comforting to still possess. It offered a totally false sense of continuity.

  He took a leak and then went through to the kitchen to switch on the central heating and the coffeemaker. His mental guard was down, allowing recent events to conspire and threaten to overwhelm him. It had not always been in his nature to be maudlin, and so the effect was even more distressing. All the bad shit seemed to amalgamate and crash down on his shoulders with a weight he could hardly bear. With the exception of his job, every facet of his life was a total fucking mess. He’d thrown away his marriage by just neglecting it, taking it for granted, not realising that it was beyond salvaging until it was too late to do a damn thing about it. All the warning shots had been fired across his bows. Sharon had tried to make it work, but he’d been too blind to see the writing on the wall. She’d eventually fallen out of love with him, and walked. Or to be more precise, he had packed and moved out at her request. Because of Danny they had maintained a civilised if perfunctory relationship. He saw his son a couple of times a month: took him to: the zoo, to a park, to the Natural History Museum, on the London Eye, up the Shard, or to see a movie. It wasn’t ideal, but better than nothing.
He had forfeited the right to be a full-time father. If he’d done things differently...Yeah, and if shit was sugar, everything would be sweet. You had to get on with what was, not how you wished it to be. He’d once said that his work was what he did, not who he was. But he’d been lying to himself. He was a murder cop. On one level he was engaged in what he treated as a personal crusade. A part of him was like some fictional superhero hunting down the worst elements of society; those that committed the ultimate crime. Sad. He was obsessed, like some kind of revenger exacting retribution for the dead. There had to be more to life, but he was like a hamster on a wheel, and didn’t seem to have the sense to stop running and jump off it.

  The last couple of months should have been a wake-up call. His mother had been ill for a while before being diagnosed as suffering from terminal cancer. She had faded fast. From being a vigorous and attractive fifty-seven year old she had aged twenty years in a matter of weeks, to end up a five stone bag of bones, looking desperately out from sunken eyes at a world she was speedily departing. His dad had died a year to the day before his mother: The circle of life in full swing.

  Harry Ryder had retired from the Prison Service with a full pension, only to suffer a massive and fatal heart attack three weeks later. Jack remembered that his dad had wished his life away, eager to be out from under the yoke of what he thought of as little more than servitude. He never got to enjoy the future he’d planned for: taking long winter holidays in the sun with Saga, trying to shave a couple of strokes off his handicap at the local golf club, and generally winding down.

  Jack poured the fresh coffee, lit a cigarette and tried to make sense of it all. He couldn’t. Maybe the art was to not try to; just put one foot in front of the other and take it a step at a time. He was thirty-six, a detective, and had plenty of live cases to concentrate on. Whatever else happened along in life, he would do what he always did, take it on board and deal with it. Sitting at a table and moping was not his style. He determined to see more of Danny, and to try to be more supportive of his sister. His life had been littered with many good intentions that he’d been remiss in seeing through.