Mummy's Favourite (27 page)

The sound of a car pulling up outside brought him out of his daydream and he ran to the window, peering round the edge of the curtain. It was Greg's car, but he couldn't see who was in it. Could it be his beautiful Annabel or her bastard husband? Or both of them together? All he knew was that his heart was pumping wildly now at the thought of being with her or dealing with him. Either way, he was so excited he could barely move. He inched away from the window and crouched down behind the back of the sofa. It wouldn't do for her to see the curtains twitch or any movement in the shadows. He didn't want to scare her off now he was so close.

A single car door slammed and a key turn in the lock. He could hear the blood pumping through his ears so loudly that he could almost imagine that his quarry could hear it too. He squatted on his haunches, holding on to the sofa with one hand and pushing the knife back up his sleeve with the other, daring not to move a muscle for fear of being heard. The front door closed and the residual sound of the traffic disappeared as quickly as it had come. The house was silent and the man held his breath.

Footsteps sounded across the tiled flooring in the kitchen. There was no conversation. He wondered whether the occupant would notice the lager missing from the fridge, the slight spillage, the crushed empty can in the bin. He didn't really want the element of surprise taken away. The footsteps came out of the kitchen and he didn't know where they went, moving across the carpeted hallway. A man walked into the lounge and threw a newspaper down on the sofa. It was the man he hated, Gregory Leigh-Matthews, the bastard who possessed his Annabel.

He twitched with the desire to jump straight out and thrust the knife into the bastard's back, but he waited, holding his breath so that he didn't give his position away.

Greg stretched and eased himself down on the sofa, just a few feet from the man, and picked up the paper. He opened it up so that it was spread wide and looked as though he was about to start reading it when his eyes peered upwards and he focussed on the photo frame. Placing the paper down, he stood, frowning, and walked towards it, glancing around him as he did so. He reached up and turned the frame back around concentrating on getting it positioned absolutely horizontally. The man watched, seething with anger at the sight. How could the bastard spend all his time worrying that the frame was straight when all he should be doing was concentrating on the beautiful woman, in the beautiful dress, with the beautiful smile on their wedding day? He stepped out from behind the sofa and stayed silently watching as Greg stood back to check the photo was not askew. He didn't move, save for the up and down of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled.

‘It's perfectly straight,' he said at last, his voice cold.

Greg started, spinning round to face the man.

‘What the fuck! Who are you?'

He stared hard at Greg but said nothing.

‘What are you doing in my house?' Greg tried to pull himself up to his full height but he could see the fear in his face. ‘Get out!'

‘You get out. It's my house now and Annabel will soon be my wife. You don't want her like I do.'

Greg stood staring at him open-mouthed, obviously trying to make sense of what he'd said.

He took a step towards him, smiling as his foe recoiled against the wall.

‘What do you want?'

‘I want Annabel. She belongs to me. Not you. You never wanted her. You didn't even look at her just then in her beautiful dress. You were more interested in making sure the photo frame was straight. Look at you now. Not the big man like in the photo on your wedding day, are you? You're pathetic. So get out.'

Greg still looked perplexed. ‘Don't tell me to get out of my own house,' he said eventually. ‘You'd better go now before I call the police.'

‘You think that will scare me?' he laughed. ‘I don't think so. I've done time in prison. The police are nothing compared with what I've faced?'

He wasn't frightened in any way. He was in his element.

‘Annabel loves me,' Greg said simply. ‘It's our anniversary today. We're going out for lunch.'

‘She's not going with you now. She's coming with me. I'm going to look after her properly, not like you, going away all the time and leaving her to bring up
your
children on her own. You don't care about her like I do.'

‘How do you know what I…?' Greg stopped mid-sentence. ‘Are you the guy that's been stalking Annabel?'

‘I wouldn't say stalking her. I've been looking out for her in your absence. She loves me.'

‘What do you mean she loves you? She doesn't love you! She hates you. She's frightened of you. She loves me.'

The bastard was mocking him. His anger surged. The blade of the knife up his sleeve burnt against his skin. He pulled it out. It felt good grasped in the palm of his hand; it gave him power. He was right. The bastard was wrong and yet he could only hear those last few words.

‘She won't love you like this,' he screamed, lunging forward and aiming the razor-sharp metal at the bastard's face. The point made contact, slicing deep into his cheek. Gregory Leigh-Matthews froze, putting his hands up to stop the attack, but the knife slashed at his hands and wrists. He dropped his guard, powerless to respond. Blood spurted out as the man lunged again and again, slicing at his face and neck until the bastard was unrecognizable. He slumped to the floor, his blood soaking into the carpet, bright red and frothy. He tried to speak but his words were lost in the gurgle of more blood filling his throat. He coughed and a red stream sprang from his mouth, out on to the carpet spreading out slowly; the patch getting larger and larger. His expression was pure fear. His eyes focussed momentarily; then they grew glassy and still.

He wiped the blade of the knife on the shoulder of his dead foe and threaded it back up his sleeve. Annabel would be his now. There was no one to prevent her coming to him and he knew without doubt she would be happy about it.

As if on cue, her red BMW pulled up on the driveway. He watched from behind the curtains as she climbed out from the driver's seat, her lithe body, long legs and short skirt an open invitation. She really was sexy and he longed to touch her. He moved away from the window towards the door of the lounge. It wouldn't do for her to be scared at the sight of her husband, although she might also be glad to see his handiwork. Not yet though; only when he was ready to show her. He pulled the door shut and slipped into the kitchen just as he heard the key turn in the lock.

The door opened and she entered.

‘Greg I'm home,' she called, peering up the stairs. ‘Are you nearly ready to go? Or have you got a surprise for me upstairs?' She waited for an answer but none came. He tried to forgive her for her words. She had no choice, so she'd had to make the best of it. He was looking forward to showing her his surprise, laid out in the lounge. Then she would be happy! She ran lightly up the stairs, calling out Greg's name but all was silent. After a minute or so she walked back down the stairs.

He could hear her getting nearer.

‘Greg?' her voice this time was low and questioning.

He couldn't wait any longer. She was so close. He stepped out from the kitchen.

‘Greg's not here. He's gone.'

She jumped backwards, her eyes wide with fear.

‘Who are you? What do you want?'

‘I want you.' His reply was simple and clear. He said what he'd been thinking for a long time. He stepped towards her waiting for her to fall into his arms. She shrunk away from him against the wall, throwing her arms up in front of her to hold him off. He was taken aback, shocked even, but then he suddenly realized why she had responded like she had. She must be frightened that her husband would see them together.

He moved back again, giving her space, and tried to look friendly.

‘Don't worry. You don't have to worry about Greg finding out.' He was keeping it nice and personal for her, so she wasn't afraid. He reached towards the lounge door and threw it open. ‘Look, Greg's gone. He won't bother us anymore.'

She turned her head towards the open door and screamed, loud and long, clasping her hands to her mouth so that the scream was muffled.

‘Oh my God, Oh my God. What have you done to him?'

Lurching forward, she ran the few steps to her husband's body and threw herself down next to him.

‘Greg, Greg. Talk to me.'

Her hands were against his bloodied face now, trying to rouse him. She stroked his hair but he didn't respond.

‘Quick, Call an ambulance.' She pulled a phone from her pocket and started to dial 999 but he stepped forward, twisting it from her hands. Why was she doing this? He didn't like it. He put the phone in his pocket and stood watching her, his frown deepening.

‘What have you done to him? I said “Call an ambulance”. She was crying and her voice was accusatory. He didn't like how she was speaking to him.

It's too late. He's dead. I've got rid of him so that we can be together. He won't bother us now.' He paused, watching to see if the words had taken effect. ‘You should be pleased?'

‘Pleased?' her tone was incredulous. ‘That you've killed my husband!' She glared up at him and then buried her face against Greg's chest, sobbing.

He stood and watched her, not understanding what was happening. He loved her. He loved her so much he'd killed for her. She needed to start appreciating what he'd done.

*

Her husband's body was unnaturally still. Normally when she rested her ear against his chest she could hear the rhythmic beat of his heart, pumping loud and strong. Normally her head would rise and fall with the movement of his rib-cage and she would see the muscles in his abdomen flex and tighten, with the extra pressure required to lift the weight of her body. Normally he would hold her close, as if he never wanted to let her go.

Now though his chest was motionless, his arms limp, his heart unmoving. She knew he was dead. And she also knew she was trapped in a room, with his killer.

She glanced at the man through her fingers. She'd seen him before and his voice was familiar. He was staring down at her, his face stern. She needed time to think, to work out what he wanted with her. He was obviously mad, to have done what he had, but he was calmer now. Her training was starting to kick in. She had to keep him talking. She had to keep him sweet. She had to survive for the sake of her children. But first she needed an answer.

‘You're the man who attacked me the other evening, aren't you?'

‘I was trying to speak to you.' He sounded almost apologetic.

‘You jumped out at me in dark clothes and a face mask?'

‘I thought you would recognize me.'

She stared at him. She did recognise him. She just hadn't really had time to realize that she knew him. His voice had been familiar then and it was familiar now and now she remembered his face too, but she couldn't quite place where from.

‘You acted for me years ago,' he started to explain. ‘You didn't get me off but I know you did what you could. You told me that. I knew you did your best and that you were upset to see me convicted. I don't blame you for it. It wasn't your fault. It was the policeman lying in court. He set me up. Who would they believe? Him or me? I didn't stand a chance. But you were there for me when it mattered. You believed me. You were the only one. You still are the only one.'

He tailed off and then she remembered. It was those last words; the way that he said them. He'd said them to her then, the last time that they had spoken in the cells at the court before he was taken away. He'd told her then that she was the only one and that he would always remember her. She'd ignored it. Lots of cons said similar. They were desperate, clutching on to anyone or anything that seemed to be on their side before they were taken away to be locked up for years.

He'd said the same words the other night when he'd jumped out on her. She'd remembered the words and the voice then too, but what was his name and what was his crime? And how many years ago was it? How long must he have been harbouring these feelings; thinking about them, feeding on them, allowing them to grow and fester until he was able to act on them. How long?

She looked back down at her dead husband. Greg had not been involved in any of this. He was the innocent victim, even more so than she was. He had never met the man, never spoken to him and yet the man had murdered him for no other reason than he existed as a barrier between him and his delusions.

‘Do you remember me?' the man seemed desperate.

She did remember him but not his name.

‘Yes I do remember you,' she suddenly knew instinctively that she had to be careful. ‘I remember you well. I spoke to you in your cell before you got taken away. I did do what I could for you.'

The man seemed to relax. He smiled. ‘I knew you did. If it hadn't been for that lying policeman planting the sweet wrapper with my DNA all over it at the crime scene you would have got me off.'

And now she remembered the case. It had been a particularly nasty stranger rape. The suspect had climbed into the woman's ground-floor flat through an insecure bathroom window and raped her in her bed at knifepoint. It turned out that she worked at the local authority housing department and had helped him with a housing application some months before. He had obviously fixated on her afterwards and stalked her for some time. The suspect had been arrested as one of several known rapists on the Sexual Offenders register living in the nearby vicinity. A Twix wrapper that the suspect had torn open with his mouth and which was found later during the two-day forensic examination of the crime scene appeared to verify that he was indeed the correct suspect. The man had insisted, however, that he had been picked upon simply because he was known and that the Twix wrapper had really been found at his home address when he was arrested and planted by the police officer afterwards at the crime scene.