Stop Dead (3 page)

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Well, don’t look so worried. It’s not a problem. I’ll get the sat nav out.’

His teeth gleamed in the shadows as he grinned at her. She turned her head and saw peeling paintwork on a garage door before he flicked the headlights off. Darkness closed in on her.

Leaning across to unlatch the glove compartment, he let his hand drop onto her knee. At the same time, he slapped his other hand over her mouth while his fingers crawled beneath the fabric of her skirt, clawing at her thigh.

‘Don’t make a sound,’ he hissed, his breath hot on her cheek.

The man’s cheek felt rough against hers as his wet lips nuzzled her neck. She tried to reach for the door handle but terror sapped her energy, and she lay immobile. For so many years she had believed herself safe. Now he had returned and the nightmare was closing in on her once more. This time he was going to kill her. She closed her eyes and tried to block out the sour taste in her mouth, and the smell of his sweat. The hard ridges of the car seat rubbed painfully against her back.

It was soon over.

In the driver’s seat once more, he made a wisecrack about getting lost on his way to finding the sat nav. He threw his head back and laughed at his pathetic joke.

‘Right then, time to get the sat nav out. Come on,’ he added impatiently when she didn’t react, ‘I want to get home tonight.’

Slowly she sat up, blinking in the darkness, trying not to think about what had happened. A small light came on inside the glove compartment when she opened it, and she leaned forward to reach inside. The sat nav felt impossibly light, but then her fingers closed on a stout metal torch.

She was still whimpering softly when she scrambled from the car. Her ankle twisted awkwardly as she fell out onto the tarmac, scraping her knees. Without stopping to examine her injuries, she snatched her bags from the car and hobbled away, shaking with sobs. Her only thought was to get home as quickly as possible. Once out of sight of the car, she stopped and rummaged in her bag for her mirror; she looked no worse than many other women staggering about on the streets of London at night. With a quick glance along the empty street, she pulled off her coat. Rolling it into a tight wad, she rammed it into her bag so no one else could see the stains. It made her feel sick to look at it.

Every time a car zoomed past she cringed in case he was coming after her and turned her head away, trying to keep out of sight. Then she marched on doggedly, muttering to herself. ‘Keep going, you’ll be fine once you get home.’ At last she found her way back. The pavement was empty apart from a couple of youths hanging around outside the station, smoking. They threw her a bored glance as she scurried past. The small parade of shops beside the station were all shut, and there were only a few cars on the main road as she turned into the side street where she lived. It was an effort of will to walk the last few yards, but at last the door closed behind her. Shaking, she crossed the dark hallway and sank to her knees at the bottom of the stairs.

It seemed to take her hours to climb the stairs and stagger along the landing. As if in a dream she looked around her bedroom, irrationally surprised to see that nothing had changed. Without stopping to remove her jacket or shoes, she grabbed a black bin liner and hurried to the bathroom. Ripping off her clothes, she stuffed them in the bag, together with her coat and shoes. Everything was contaminated. She tied the top of the bag tightly so his smell couldn’t escape, before stepping into the shower. Her skin turned mottled purple under the flow of water which began to run lukewarm, then hot. Steam swirled around her as she scrubbed every inch of her flesh until she felt hot and raw.

In the misty mirror she was surprised to see her face hadn’t changed. She tied her wet hair back in a ponytail, pushing her fringe off her face and scowling at a dripping strand that slipped out, falling to her shoulders. The flesh above her top lip felt tender when she touched it but she couldn’t see any bruises where his teeth had pressed against her. Her ordeal was over, but she would never report the outrage. She couldn’t bear to think about what had happened, let alone talk about it.

‘You survived,’ she told herself with desperate satisfaction. She was home. She was safe. He couldn’t touch her again. It was over. No one else knew what had happened. Once she had disposed of the black bin liner there would be nothing left to link her to the events of that evening. No one else would ever know. The incident existed only in her head. If she could erase all thoughts of it, she knew the memory would disappear like a horrible dream. Slowly her shock gave way to a growing feeling of exhilaration as she studied herself in the mirror. Having survived this ordeal, she could survive anything.

T
aunted by the perfume that lingered on his sheets, Guy fretted for a while, unable to sleep. Finally he punched the pillow where she had been lying and sprang out of bed. Pulling on pants and a sweatshirt he went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. With a sudden expletive he took a beer from the fridge and wandered into his cramped living room where he flopped down on a chair and swigged from the bottle, irritated by the clutter that surrounded him. Everything reminded him of Amy. It was easy for her to criticise his mess. She had no idea how difficult it was to keep the place tidy with so little space. He threw his head back and gulped the last of the cold beer. One thing was for sure, he couldn’t carry on like this. He had been seeing Amy for over three months but despite her repeated assurances that things were going to be different, nothing changed. He was sick of being pushed around. Enough was enough. If Amy was too scared to confront her husband, he would do it himself. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by anyone, least of all some geezer old enough to be his grandfather.

He finished another beer and chucked the bottle at the overflowing bin. He watched it roll slowly across the floor and come to rest against the wall. It troubled him that Amy claimed to feel so intimidated by her husband. She didn’t strike him as a woman who could easily be dominated. He wondered if it was an excuse to cover up misgivings about abandoning her marriage. It was a lot to give up. He had seen where she lived; lavish wasn’t the word. Compared to his crummy little room, her house was a palace. He glanced peevishly around and scowled. He wouldn’t blame her for being reluctant to leave her stunning mansion for his pokey little flat. Then again, she might bring a pile of dosh with her. He pictured moving into a neat little house, just the two of them, together every night. Her lifestyle wouldn’t be luxurious like it was now, but he would make her happy, which was more than could be said for her lousy husband. With her money, they could live very comfortably on what Guy earned. If she wanted more, he would willingly put in as much overtime as it took to keep her happy.

That was how they had met, when he was working on her conservatory. He had noticed her on the first day. After that he had watched and waited, hoping for an opportunity to talk to her alone. It was just a fantasy, something to think about while he was working, but he soon discovered she was looking for an opportunity to approach him. That was where it had all begun. He’d met her husband too. A tall miserable looking git who strutted about like he was something special, just because he owned a big house near Hampstead Heath. The thought of that arrogant bastard putting his hands on Amy made Guy feel physically sick. He closed his eyes and pictured his rival’s pale angular face. He bit his lip and thumped the arm of his frayed armchair, grinning at the thought of giving Amy’s husband a bloody nose, and a black eye into the bargain. But what was the point of punching a chair? It didn’t make him feel any better.

And what if Amy was right – what if her husband would kill him if he found out about the affair? For now Guy had the advantage. He knew Patrick Henshaw’s identity, knew where he lived and worked. Amy thought Guy hadn’t taken any notice of her suggestion to get rid of her husband. She didn’t know that he’d waited on the pavement opposite the swanky restaurant Patrick Henshaw owned in Soho, watching and thinking. Perhaps she was right and the time had come to act, while they were ahead. The thought made him shiver with fear and excitement. He gulped down the dregs of his beer. With her husband out of the way, nothing would stand between him and Amy. She would be a seriously wealthy widow. There would be no need for her to move out of her big house. Guy could simply move in with her, after a decent interval so as to avoid arousing suspicion. She’d be able to keep her dog. Whatever she wanted. They might even get married. He glanced around his untidy room and smiled.

He fetched another beer and sat down, speculating. He knew he was slightly drunk, fabricating an unattainable fantasy, but he couldn’t stop himself. It did no harm to dream. The point was to get rid of Amy’s husband. But how could he possibly do that? He had to come up with a plan. Amy was a clever woman. She had told him where to find her husband.

‘He’s usually had a few to drink by the time he leaves the restaurant.’

‘But what if someone sees?’

His question had been rewarded with a tender kiss.

‘There’s an alleyway runs along the side of the restaurant that isn’t lit. You just have to be ready when he leaves. I’d do it myself, if I didn’t think he’d overpower me too easily. But if I had the strength, it would be almost too easy …’

He knocked back his beer and went to the kitchen for another one, cold and refreshing. Sitting down again he imagined how it would feel to save Amy from her tyrannical husband. It was his duty as a decent man, to protect her. When his head hurt from all the thinking, he staggered back to bed. Alone – but not for much longer, because he made up his mind he was going to do it. Soon. He would move into the big house and Amy would be his whenever he wanted her. He would devote the rest of his life to making her happy.

It was late but he was too edgy to feel tired. With a burst of energy, he jumped out of bed, pulled on his trainers and went outside. In contrast to the warmth of the day, the night air felt chilly, perfect for an invigorating run. With no particular route in mind he ran in a wide circuit of quiet streets, his feet pounding a rhythm on the pavement. He ran along minor streets parallel to Holloway Road, avoiding the main thoroughfare where police cars tended to cruise, likely to stop and harass a young man running along the street at such a late hour. An occasional car sped past but he kept to side streets which were mostly deserted at that time of night. The run didn’t tire him out. On the contrary, by the time he arrived home he felt more wired than before. It was nearly one o’clock and he had to be up early in the morning. His head ached with a tightness in his temples above his ears. He lay down in bed, still worrying about what to do about Amy’s husband, wishing she was there with him.

T
here was a fair amount of traffic when Geraldine returned home on Sunday evening. At least it was moving. The major routes into London were always busy, whatever the time. Even though it was past midnight, the queue of cars crawled past a section of the motorway that was closed for resurfacing. In no hurry to get home, she didn’t mind sitting in the car with no decisions to make, no evidence to consider, no need even to think as she travelled along in limbo, helpless to do anything about her situation. By the time she arrived home it was past midnight. Turning off Upper Street she drove past elegant white and brick terraced houses and turned left into Waterloo Gardens, where high wrought iron gates closed soundlessly behind her. In the quiet of her street, it was hard to believe she was living in the centre of London. Much as she had enjoyed her excursion to Kent, she was pleased to be home.

Tired from her journey, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the bedroom. The flat had been painted in pastel colours, easy to live with, although bland and impersonal. She had been considering redecorating, starting with the pale green bedroom which reminded her of a hotel room. In pyjamas and dressing gown, she went to the kitchen where a half-drunk bottle of Chianti stood on the table, waiting to be finished. It was a nice wine, but she hesitated only for a second before putting the kettle on and making a mug of tea.

It had been good to catch up with Ian. He had helped her out of several dangerous situations in the past, saving her life more than once. Seeing him again made her realise how much she missed working with him, but London was not just a positive career move, it was an exciting place to live.

After she finished her tea, she didn’t feel tired. Perched on the side of her bed, she took a small photograph from her bedside drawer. It was framed under protective glass to prevent it from fading with exposure to daylight. She gazed wistfully at what could have been a photograph of herself as a teenager – if the picture hadn’t been taken before she was born. Her own black eyes and dark hair stared up at her. Only a crooked nose ruined the otherwise perfect features of the mother who had given Geraldine up for adoption at birth. She had been adopted by a prosperous family, fulfilling Milly Blake’s wish to help her daughter by giving her up. Not only had Geraldine enjoyed a comfortable upbringing, she had grown up in happy ignorance of the circumstances of her birth, until her adoptive mother died. The agency that had arranged her adoption was unable to put her in touch with Milly Blake, who had flatly refused any contact with the daughter she had given away. Geraldine couldn’t suppress her desire to meet her birth mother in the hope that she would change her mind about refusing contact if they met, face to face. With a sigh, she replaced the photograph in the drawer. Although she was determined to find her mother, she wasn’t ready to deal with the pain of further rejection.

She overslept and arrived at work late on Monday morning. Mentally prepared to deal with a stack of paperwork to clear up from her previous case, she was surprised to find all the lights were on in her office. The bin had been moved from beside her chair. A man sitting at the other desk in the room looked up as she came in and rose to his feet, smiling. He was broad shouldered, with muscular arms. Light brown hair cut short along his temples grew longer on top of his head where it was brushed straight back from his wide round forehead so that it stuck up in a slightly comical way. Above a large blob of a nose his left eye was more widely open than the right one, as though he was caught in the act of winking, which gave him a good natured appearance.