Hurt (The Hurt Series) (7 page)

She was willing to bet there was not a man in the club who did not find Tanya anything less than stunning. But such beauty was prone to attract the obsessive type, spawning a stalker, whose desire often spilled over into violence when their advances were shunned one too many times.

Had Tanya unwittingly attracted such a fan?

A
fan who also favoured homeless junkies and dogs?

‘Shit.’

She dropped the biro and rubbed her hot eyes. Glanced down at the blank page in her notebook, on which, by now, should have at least one scribble of inspiration.

Brainstorming sessions were a useful and effective tool, which had paved the way down many a neglected route to a result. Sometimes these solitary sessions could last for minutes, sometimes hours. Mason’s predecessor had found them infuriating, claiming to have felt left out of the loop whenever she’d lock herself away. Mason, however, had a “whatever it takes” attitude, and had never questioned her sessions or disturbed her during them.

She eyed the blank page with disdain. Disturbances were a no go during these sessions, as was trying to focus when you had other things on your mind.

Things such as Dodd’s release on Tuesday.

She pressed play and watched Tanya shiver from the cold. ‘You’ll catch your death, sweetie,’ she whispered.

It was time to go home.

Chapter
Fifteen

A half an hour drive, home was far enough from the city that even on a cloudy night you could see the stars above the woods that encircled the 10 acres of converted farmland.

For those unfamiliar to the secluded, leafy neighbourhood, such were the long driveways and the thick foliage adorning the vast front gardens of the dozen fortunate residents, the area may appear uninhabited. As a writer, this illusion, and the rural isolation the area provided, had appealed to Ray greatly.

As a woman, the rustic charm of the 3000 square foot 18
^th
century barn conversion with its genuine oak beams, real fireplace and Aga oven had appealed to her just as much. And four years later, she still relished returning home every night to the house’s cosy ambience.

Crawling up the long graveled drive, Jessop parked her Astra behind Ray’s black, 1968 Mustang GT. Purchased with his first big pay check when his second novel topped the best seller list, he’d made no excuse for his love for the car Steve McQueen had immortalised racing around San Francisco in the movie Bullitt.

The car was the only materialistic trophy she had known Ray to ever buy with his vast earnings. To her, that said more about the man than anything, and she loved him even more for it.

The front door opened directly into the living room. Stepping in, she was immediately warmed by the crackling fire and the smell of food wafting from the kitchen. Dumping her bag on the tanned leather corner sofa and kicking off her defective boots, she padded to the kitchen from where could be heard the clatter of dishes and a rock song she’d heard a thousand times before but could still not name the artist.

‘Hey, you…’ Wearing a black denim shirt, jeans, and flip-flops on bare feet, Ray appeared in the kitchen doorway, tea-towel draped over his shoulder. In his hands were a couple of glasses of wine; one white, one red. ‘All the bad guys tucked in for the night?’

‘Bloody hope so.’

He planted a well-needed kiss on her forehead and handed her the glass of white. She took a grateful sip, watched Ray sip his glass of red. ‘How is it?’

With an intense look of concentration on his face, Ray sloshed the drink around his mouth before swallowing. ‘Plummy and ripe, with earthy undertones and a hint of chocolate and blackberry.’

Jessop summoned a weary smile. ‘Yeah, so says the label.’

Ray’s face twisted into an expression of hurt.

‘So, what’s it really taste like?’

Ray shrugged. ‘Wine, I guess.’

Since a friend had bought Ray an apparently expensive and sought after bottle of Pinot Noir for his fiftieth birthday last year, he had decided to become a wine connoisseur. Problem was, years of drinking bourbon and smoking cigarettes had left him with a less than discernible palate. Nevertheless, because he considered it the kind of thing he should be doing at his time of life, he’d persevered, buying bottles of the stuff to stock the wine racks he had erected in the garage. However, the bottles never remained there long, each finding their way to the kitchen table of a night to be savoured by his imaginary palate.

Jessop sipped her wine, her head already feeling lighter than it had when she’d walked in.

‘Hungry?’ Ray asked.

Such
were the demands of her job, rarely did she eat lunch. Usually she was ravenous by now, yet today’s events had quashed any appetite she’d worked up.

‘Maybe a nibble. What we having?’

‘Chinese surprise. Make up for the breakfast you missed.’

‘What’s the surprise?’

Ray grinned with pride, ushered her into the kitchen, his domain, where he was as creative with food as he was with words. ‘I ordered in!’

She surveyed the many silver foil cartons laid out on the table. Such was Ray’s love of cooking and the distance they lived from the city, ordering in was a rare treat. She only hoped the taste of the food would awaken her appetite so as not to waste the feast.

Pulling up a chair, she asked. ‘Chloe in?’

‘Nah.’ Ray took a seat, tied his hair into a ponytail as was his tradition before dinner. ‘Rocking out down the Anvil.’

‘With Jed?’

‘Reckon so. Although I’m beginning to think he’s a figment of that big imagination of hers.’

Jessop nodded, forked some rice onto her plate. Chloe had been dating Jed, a fellow art student, for nearly three months now. Apparently, their relationship was not serious enough yet to warrant an introduction. In other words, Chloe was either ashamed of her boyfriend with the incredible wild, blonde hair, or ashamed of her mum with the not so incredible curly, black hair. Such was the angst of the hormonal teenager.

‘How’s the first draft coming along?’ she asked.

‘Good. Rowdy’s really up against it this time.’

Rob “Rowdy” Bowman was Ray’s fictional alter-ego, a fading rock star with a heart of gold turned wise-cracking, heat-packing vigilante after his family was brutally slain by the mob. She’d read one of the series but struggled to expand her mind enough to excuse the ease in which Rowdy went around killing without getting locked-up. This always amused Ray, who had been criticised in the past for his flippancy to authentic criminal procedure. ‘You want injustice and misery,’ he’d argue, ‘read the newspaper. You want justice and a goodtime, read my books.’ She saw the logic, and no more so than on days like today when a murderer could appear and disappear in the middle of a housing estate on a Sunday morning without one person seeing him and leaving no trace of his existence.

Between a mouthful of prawn toast, Ray asked, ‘What about you? Productive day fighting the good fight?’

Jessop shook her head, chewed on some rice, knowing to swallow it would be a challenge.

‘You okay, honey? You look miles away.’

She was. She was still in little Keisha’s bedroom surrounded by Tanya’s blood. Still under that bridge staring at George Armitage’s exposed throat. Still in that rancid squat, recoiling from Spartan’s mutilated remains.

And still behind that sofa praying the girl’s screaming would stop.

‘You mind if I skip dinner?’

Ray placed his fork down. Fixed her with sincere eyes. ‘You eaten anything today?’

‘Grabbed a sandwich,’ she lied.

‘Something troubling you besides work?’

Yes, but she couldn’t tell him. ‘No. Just want this week over.’

Ray considered this, his eyes still searching hers.

Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, she said, ‘I think I might take a bath. Maybe have some toast after.’ She made a move to get up.

‘Catherine?’

She
stopped, caught once again in Ray’s prying stare.

‘Any doubts about Saturday, and we talk them through sooner rather than later, okay?’

A lump rose in her throat. The only thing in her life she
didn’t
have doubts about was marrying Ray on Saturday. ‘Trust me,’ she said, mustering the warmest smile she could, ‘I have no doubts.’

Ray relaxed.

‘You want me to save you the water?’ she asked.

The twinkle returned to the muddy grey eyes she loved so much as he picked up the fork and grinned at the feast before him. ‘Nah. You take your time, honey. I got China to conquer.’

She took Ray’s advice, wallowing in the hot, soapy bubbles until the water cooled and her fingertips shrivelled. Lying on her bed, dressed only in a towelling robe, she wished she could click her prune-like fingertips and skip forward to next Sunday. Then she wouldn’t have to lie to her then husband about what was on her mind. Because by then it would be over, and she’d be as far from this city and Vincent Dodd as she could be.

Of course, that was if she made it past Tuesday, All Hallows’ Eve, when she would have to confront a real demon.

Chapter
Sixteen

Monday, October 30
^th

‘Mum! Door!’

The girl with the auburn hair did not find her big sister hidden behind the sofa.

What did happen was that their mother answered the door and let out a sharp scream before the girl heard a terrible thud. What did happen was that her father raced out of his office shouting for his wife and that the man who had knocked on the door shouted at her father before a lot of banging and several more thuds. What did happen was that the girl’s sister came running into the room screaming for mum and then stopped screaming all too suddenly. What did happen was that the girl had held her breath and had bit down on her gums so hard they bled whilst the man did something that sounded strenuous like exercise and made him grunt and make mum cry. What did happen was dad was told to shut the fuck up or the little girl would get her pretty little ginger head blown off. What did happen was that the man made the girl’s sister cry next whilst making those terrible grunting noises and warning dad his wife will get her head blown off if he tried anything. What did happen was her father shouting something about not wanting his wife to live another day seeing what she had seen done to their precious little girl. What did happen were three deafening bangs that made the girl behind the sofa pee in her panties. What did happen was the sound of heavy footsteps running through the house banging doors, and a gruff voice calling out for the little bitch to show herself. What did happen was a lot of bad language followed by the front door slamming and then silence.

What happened next was silence and a curious metallic smell that overpowered the smell of her mum’s chicken dish and made the girl vomit.

Jessop gasped for breath, gagged against the familiar metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Kicking the duvet off her slick skin, she sat up on the side of the bed and ran her fingers over her lips.

In the crack of moonlight through the curtains, she saw the dark smudges on her fingertips. Blood, from where she’d bit down on her gums to stop from screaming. Just as she’d done thirty-six years ago huddled behind the sofa.

‘Christ.’

‘You okay, honey?’ Ray turned over beneath the duvet, stroked a lazy hand against the small of her back.

‘Fine. Just a bad dream.’

‘K.’

She raked a hand through her hair, as damp as her flesh. Slid back under the duvet. Never before had the dream been so lucid, her little sister Penny’s screams so loud.

She knew why. Wondered if tomorrow night, the eve of Dodd’s release, the screams would sound louder.

Her flesh chilled at the thought as she watched the luminous numbers on the alarm clock click past midnight. She blinked away a tear as beside the clock her mobile vibrated and hummed softly. She closed her eyes against the swell of tears. Willed the phone to stop humming and for sleep to deafen her against Penny’s terrified screams.

Chapter
Seventeen

An hour later Jessop was stood in the gravelled car park in Crossfields Park. The west side of the fifty acre park was a flat expanse of grass from which a sharp wind rustled the branches of the trees above and chilled her bones.

He’s killed again, she thought, pulling her coat tight across her chest. Twice within twelve hours. Including Spartan the dog, that was three times in two days.

Not good.

Not good at all.

Carefully noting where she was stepping on the gravel, she walked round the back of Darren Spencer’s 90 plate Peugeot 406 to the side where the killer had struck. She crouched down and pointed the torch at the gravel on which, not an hour ago, stood the man who had disturbed Darren and his girlfriend, Rebecca Forrester, with a knock on the window during their back seat fumble.

According to Rebecca the stranger had appeared from nowhere. On noticing the figure at the window she’d grabbed her vest-top and pulled it back on while her kickboxing boyfriend yelled to the pervert to fuck off. But the figure didn’t. He just stood there, not even looking into the car, which, to Rebecca, negated the idea he was a dogger or a pervert.

She shone the torch at the car’s silver door. Noted a small dent.

Had the killer made this during the struggle?

Against Rebecca’s panicked pleas not to, her riled boyfriend had then wound the window down to issue his final warning to the weirdo interrupting their fun. Darren didn’t have time to fully open the window before the gloved hand shot in the car and grabbed the twenty-one year olds’ messy brown hair.

‘Darren starts shouting and punching at the arm, but whoever’s got him’s fucking strong because by then Darren’s half way out the window. I tried to grab him and pull him back in, but he was kicking wildly and he caught me in the face. But I tried again anyway and managed to wrap my arms around his legs and hold on. I swear, I was so fucking scared because Darren was screaming so loudly and I didn’t know what to do. So I kept pulling and pulling until eventually I thought I’d managed to free him, because suddenly I was falling backward and Darren was falling on top of me. That’s when I felt it, the stickiness all over me. Darren was still kicking and screaming, but not as hard or loud. I managed to push him off me and saw he was holding a black patch on his stomach.’