Hell Hath No Fury (6 page)

Hesitantly, Marilyn walked towards her husband, and then crouched down beside him. His dark eyes stared unseeingly. Nervously, she placed a hand on his neck, just below his left ear, to check if there was a pulse. She could feel nothing. There was no rise and fall of his chest. She held her fingers over his gaping mouth to verify if he really had stopped breathing. She could feel nothing. She felt for the pulse at his wrist. Again, nothing.

She tried to gather her wits. Was it too late to try resuscitation? She wasn't even too sure how to go about it. They'd done it at Cubs, but that was before she had started to play an active part there, and she had only a hazy recollection of what was involved.

Perhaps if she rolled him on to his side, in the recovery position, it might help. She could remember the diagrams about that. Grabbing hold of his shoulders she began to move him.

It was then that she saw the blood. It was underneath his body in a dark-red mass that began seeping out over the carpet. Rank, red, glutinous. Bile rose into the back of her throat, and her stomach lurched as she gagged noisily.

For a moment she seethed with anger. Not against whoever had done this shocking thing, but against John for not being able to sort things out for her.

She needed to hear his calm, placating voice, listen to him rationalizing about what procedures must be taken, providing a satisfactory explanation.

Why had this terrible thing happened? To him of all people!

Slowly, the pounding in her temples began to subside only to be replaced by the chilling realization that the murderer could still be in the house.

She knew she must get help, but who should she call? The police?

Why hadn't she thought of that, she wondered guiltily. She should have phoned them the moment she'd opened the sitting room door and found John lying there in that state.

She looked round for something to cover him over with, then hid her face with her hands and gave an anguished moan. She couldn't do it.

The police wouldn't want her to touch him, she reminded herself. It was important to leave him exactly as she'd found him. Even covering him over might destroy valuable evidence.

She shuddered at the thought of what lay ahead once the police were notified. All the questions, the probing into their private lives, curiosity from friends and neighbours, and the shame when it was all reported in the newspapers.

Why, oh why had such a terrible thing happened . . . to John of all people!

T
here seemed to be speed cameras everywhere, even on the stretches of the dual carriageway between Benbury and Dutton.

Maureen Flynn clenched the steering wheel so tightly that her neck and shoulders ached. Her urge to travel in excess of the regulation speed was so great that the calf muscles of her right leg were knotted with the strain of controlling the accelerator pedal so that she kept within the law.

She had made the fifty-mile journey so many times in the last ten days that she knew not only every twist and bend in the road, but every bump as well.

She breathed a sigh of relief as her headlights picked out factories and office buildings that marked the start of the industrial estate, and then a black and white road sign proclaiming she'd reached the outskirts of Dutton.

In ten more minutes she would be home. It would take another ten to unload the car, and after that she would be able to relax in a hot bath and soak away the stress of the past few hours. After that she would have a good stiff drink to celebrate.

She smiled to herself. That was nonsense, and she knew it. She didn't feel in the least bit stressed. She felt exhilarated. She always did when she'd completed an undertaking to her complete satisfaction. She prided herself on her competency, on her thoroughness and attention to every aspect.

Every detail had to be right. One missing bit of the jigsaw and she felt on edge. She would spend days researching or checking one seemingly trivial point in order to make sure that even the minutest detail was absolutely correct. Her work was always flawless, faultless and infallible.

She was a perfectionist. That was why she had decided to go freelance. The marketing company where she'd worked, after she'd qualified in Business Studies, had grown too large and far too commercialized. They seemed more concerned in providing the results the client hoped to receive rather than ensuring the information they gave them was in-depth and completely accurate.

When the client was impressed, Maureen found that her superior, Mark Carling, accepted the accolade; when there were brickbats, she was the one expected to field them.

‘I am quite prepared to accept responsibility when it's the result of an error on my part, but I'm not going to be used as a scapegoat,' she told him angrily.

‘We work as a team so—'

Maureen had seen red. ‘Then as the team leader you should be the one to accept all responsibility; the criticism as well as the praise,' she'd interrupted.

It had been like declaring war. The other members of the staff sided with Mark. They were not directly involved. They simply keyed into a computer whatever information was handed to them. They didn't have to meet any clients. In Maureen's estimation they were human robots in every way.

‘I couldn't believe my ears when you flared up at Mark like that,' Cindy Little, Mark's secretary, commented when they met in the Ladies cloakroom later that day. ‘You're usually so quiet!'

Maureen shrugged. ‘I don't see why I should take the blame for his inefficiency,' she said abruptly.

As Cindy carefully renewed her lipstick their eyes met in the mirror. ‘You're the one who does the research,' she said pointedly.

‘I work from his brief! If Mark doesn't understand what the client wants then he should let me talk to them.'

Cindy shrugged her slim shoulders non-committally but her grey eyes narrowed, and Maureen knew she had said more than she should have done.

Next day, Mark Carling had called her into his office. He didn't ask her to sit down, but kept her standing in front of his desk like an errant junior. Tilting back in his black leather swing chair he stared at her insolently. His small mouth was pursed, as if he was savouring the words he was about to utter like some juicy morsel.

Maureen guessed that Cindy had reported their conversation.

‘I understand you don't approve of my methods. You seem to think you should be the one to meet clients, and be briefed by them direct?'

She said nothing, refusing to be goaded into an argument. Confrontations weren't her style. She watched his plump face darken, his foxy opaque eyes fill with hate.

‘I suppose you think you could do my job better than I can?'

Again she refused to be drawn. There was no point in starting a battle she couldn't win. She'd done her research and knew he was the company chairman's brother-in-law.

Six weeks later she'd left the marketing company where she'd worked for almost ten years, and then she'd set up on her own as a freelance researcher.

She thought back over some of the more intricate research projects she handled since she'd been working solo, comparing her reaction when each of them had ended with her present mood.

She'd always felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction whenever a client complimented her on her efficiency. This time she had the dual role of being both the client and the operator, and she felt more than mere satisfaction – she felt tremendous gratification.

The days and nights of careful planning had paid off, as she had intended it should do. Meticulous attention to detail was the key to successful research. Now it was proving to be equally effective when applied to materialistic matters, she thought smugly.

The moment she'd read Philip Harmer's letter, and realized why he'd withdrawn his proposal of marriage, she'd resolved to be revenged. And not just against him, but also against those who had been initially responsible.

She had used the same methods as if she had been working for a client. It was the only way to keep her emotions under control.

Until she'd met Philip Harmer she had always kept her relationship with her clients on a strictly business basis. He had been the one exception. And look where that had landed her, she thought resentfully. By letting her emotions intrude she'd become vulnerable. By allowing herself to fall in love with him she'd suffered heartbreak and humiliation. And she'd also lost a valuable client.

Even worse, by making a pilgrimage to Benbury she'd resurrected ghosts from her past!

This time, though, she intended to lay every one of those ghosts. Permanently! They'd never trouble her again, she was determined to make quite sure of that.

The tension she'd felt while driving eased once she was home. After garaging her Escort she carried the black leather grip, which held the equipment she'd taken with her to Benbury, indoors.

That would be her first job, Maureen decided. Checking to make sure she hadn't left anything behind, and then sorting and storing away anything she would need for future use and, of course, disposing of the rest.

She'd always prided herself on her efficient filing methods. It was an essential part of her stock in trade to allocate a new file to each new undertaking and give it an identifying code name and number.

Then she collated and subdivided the information she collected until she had built up a complete background picture. Only then did she enter all the details into her computer where she would sift and sort, check and double-check, set up comparison tables and pie-charts before printing out a comprehensive dossier.

Each undertaking required different methods as well as patience, thoroughness, and painstaking attention to detail and logic. In some ways it was like puzzling out a complex jigsaw. Months of hard concentrated research could amount to nothing because of a single elusive piece.

In the same way, of course, an obscure fact could be the key that spelled success. A seemingly fruitless task could suddenly gel; it could be the crowning touch and signal another satisfied client.

Mostly, because she worked at home, her clients had no idea of the gruelling struggles needed to unravel the problem they set her. She preferred it that way. She had her own methods and disliked having to listen to other people's opinions or concede to their methods.

Philip Harmer had been the exception. His mind was as analytical as her own, and he was able to think laterally, the same as she often did. His responses had been like an extension of her own mind.

It was too late now, of course, but she bitterly regretted not keeping her own counsel even with him. What on earth had induced her to let down her reserve after so many years of silence?

If only she had stopped to think instead of letting her heart rule her head. How could she have forgotten her mother's anguish about what people would think if they ever found out that she had been raped?

Her mother had even refused to let her see a doctor because she had been afraid he might report what had happened to the police. She couldn't face the public shame.

Her father had been as adamant as her mother. ‘Think what it would mean if this got out!' he railed. ‘Who would believe your story once people knew you'd gone to a public house drinking with a bunch of boys!'

She tried to defend herself. ‘You don't understand,' she protested. ‘We were all so excited at passing. Only six of us out of a class of thirty!'

‘Six?'

‘That's right. Me and five boys.'

‘You told us there were four . . . that four boys raped you.'

‘One of the boys was sick when we came out of the pub . . . The others left him behind.'

‘He shouldn't have been in the pub drinking in the first place . . . none of you should.'

‘We wanted to do something crazy . . . to celebrate . . .'

‘You did that all right!' her father interrupted bitterly.

They'd talked and argued that night until her brain was in a spin, trying to decide the best way to hush matters up.

Her feelings had been ignored completely, she thought resentfully. The important factor in her parent's eyes was that the school year had ended. She wouldn't be going back to school, so she need never see anything of the boys who had perpetrated this appalling crime, or any of her other classmates, ever again.

Apart from the boys involved, and her father was quite sure they would say nothing, no one else knew what had happened. If they were discreet the terrible incident need never become public knowledge, her parents insisted.

‘You won't be staying in Benbury,' her father had said firmly.

‘You mean I can go to university and study History!'

‘Oh, no! That's out of the question after what has happened. You will have to settle for something more practical, like a business course.'

‘Why? I've always dreamed of going to university. You always said I could if I got the right grades.'

‘You could have done. But not now, not after what's happened,' her father intervened. He turned to his wife. ‘Tell her can't you! Explain why it is pointless to make plans like that,' he said irritably.

Her mother looked uncomfortable. ‘It's because of what happened, Maureen. You see, you might be pregnant.'

The shock quelled her ready arguments. It was only much later that she realized how ridiculous it had been to let them take a decision of that kind in the heat of the moment. On the very night she had been raped!

Three months later, when she should have been settling into university, she was both relieved and bitterly aware that they had all worried unnecessarily.

Once they knew she wasn't pregnant her parents' relief was tempered by concern that people might find out what had happened. They made her promise never to talk about the rape ever again, not even to them, and certainly not to anyone outside the family.

And she hadn't. Not until Philip Harmer had been so insistent on knowing all about her past. Then it had come rushing out like wine from an uncorked bottle, gurgling, and spilling, and staining.