Urge to Kill (1) (2 page)

‘The bacon was just about at its use-by date, and there’s no black pudding, but I’ll get organised for tomorrow.’

Matt couldn’t stop his look of disgust as Eppie placed the hot plate in front of him. The sight of bacon, eggs, baked beans, and fried bread brought back memories that made his stomach churn.

‘Oh.’

He saw the disappointment on Eppie’s face and tried to soften the blow.

‘Love the bacon. But the rest…’

‘I’m sorry. I should have asked.’ Eppie picked up his plate and turned back to the oven.

Feeling like a heel, Matt jumped up and went to her, slipping his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzling his face into her neck. He felt her relax in his arms as she turned towards him.

He kissed her—a long, deep kiss fusing them together and arousing the passion in both of them. Matt felt for the tie on her robe and eagerly pushed it aside to caress her body.

Afterwards, he reassured himself that everyday things like cooked breakfasts didn’t matter as long as they loved each other.

Matt watched as Eppie put some fresh bread in the toaster before scraping his uneaten breakfast in the bin. ‘It was at scout camp. I won’t tell you what they did. Ever since then…’

‘Must have been pretty dire.’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Anyway, I don’t want my man to become fat and flabby.’ She aimed a playful punch at Matt’s middle, which he dodged with ease, grasping her wrists and pulling her towards him again.

When Matt released her to rescue the burning toast, he was sure she had something on her mind.

‘I thought I’d start looking for a job,’ she said, still with her back towards him.

Matt, in honeymoon mood, had been hoping to keep Eppie all to himself for a little longer. He played for time. ‘No hurry is there? We have no round-the-world yachtsmen here in Warwick.’ Their express courtship had ruled out thinking of long-term plans, other than the urgent need to be together.

‘No, but working for Dad has given me all sorts of skills, like planning, organising, sports injuries, cooking, massage…’

Matt laughed at her eagerness and cut her off midstream. ‘All skills you can use on me.’

‘So you want to keep me locked up and all for yourself?’ Eppie mocked him.

Matt drew her into his arms again. ‘You bet.’

When he left, Matt prayed that the criminals on his patch had been on their best behaviour. All he wanted to do was get back to Eppie. He had felt a bit heartless, leaving her there alone in the flat. Also, he couldn’t wait to take on his old role of tour guide and show her the delights of the area. Except maybe his favourite, Kenilworth Castle, as he would always associate the castle with Jo.

Although in ruins, Kenilworth Castle had always drawn him with its sense of peace, as if the red sandstone walls had infused only the happy memories of those who lived there. Among them all, Matt liked to imagine John of Gaunt riding in on his charger to receive a seductive welcome from his mistress, Katherine Swynford.

After the bombshell of his grandfather’s suspension, Matt had gone there seeking comfort and trying to digest how such a thing could happen to the best village bobby in England. Granddad was Matt’s hero and could do no wrong, so a charge of corruption just couldn’t be true. Matt could make no sense of it then, but he had made enough of his own mistakes since to realise that nothing was ever completely black and white.

CHAPTER 3

L
isa was calling his name as he ambled back to the Atrium. Pleading a call of nature, he apologised for keeping her waiting.

‘No matter, but we had best get started on your massage. Got them packed in back to back this morning.’

He followed her to the therapy room, just three doors down from where his
statement
lay waiting to be discovered, thinking of how Lisa’s morning was going to be delightfully disrupted.

Trying to relax was difficult as he waited for sounds that his efforts had been discovered.

‘You are very tense today, Mr Draper.’

‘Work I’m afraid. Just need your magic fingers.’ He let her rub the essential oils into his back while his mind drifted back to what had sparked his endeavour.

He knew exactly when it had resurfaced, this urge to kill. Margaret, his sister, had placed her new baby in his Mother’s arms, and he watched that old face relax into a rare smile, evoking agonizing memories of Mother with Lizzie.

The child gurgled and flailed its chubby arms in the air, as certain of its inherent power as all females. The unbroken bond between mother, daughter, and granddaughter left him excluded and alone again.

In danger of letting his jealousy show, Clive walked to the large bay windows and pretended an interest in the tree surgeon attending to next door’s overgrown oak, grateful that all those years at St. Stephen’s had taught him self control.

Then, with his hatred concealed, he felt able to join Mother and Margaret for a cup of tea and endure their conversation about what Margaret could expect, based on what she had been like as an infant.

‘She really is the most beautiful baby in the world.’ Mother put her cup down and peered again into the carrycot while Margaret preened as if she had just painted the Mona Lisa.

Little Emily interrupted their tea, screwing up her face, and preparing to let the world know who was boss.

‘If only she would sleep through the night.’

‘She will, just give her time. I used to stroke your head, like this.’ Mother reached into the cot and began gently stroking Emily’s head.
‘Rock a bye baby in the tree tops.’

Clive felt himself squirming as she sang the forgotten lullaby, while Emily, knowing she now had control, was quietening.

Had Mother ever smiled at him in that way? Had she ever loved him?

He blamed Elizabeth or Lizzie, as she now preferred, for after she arrived, although just a toddler himself, he had no chance of holding Mother’s attention and, instead, was expected to give way to the new screaming bundle of pink. When he had tried to scramble onto Mummy’s lap, she had spoken sharply and pushed him to the floor.

‘Go away and play Clive. You are a big boy now, not a baby.’

He wasn’t allowed to have a cuddle or a song; those things were for the new sister, while he was expected to become like his father, a thought which horrified him, even then, despite inheriting his tall, straight military frame.

When Clive’s anger had exploded, and he had thrown his ball at the puking thing, enthroned in its lace basket, he had been promptly removed to his father’s unfamiliar, musty study.

Father’s booming voice, from somewhere high above him, filled the whole room, releasing showers of dust from the books and making him tremble.

‘What have you got to say for yourself, Clive?’

He didn’t have the words to scream that he just wanted some love and a cuddle from Mummy. But Mummy now only sang to and loved the new one.

Father sat down, bringing his face nearer, but Clive daren’t look at him. He reached out and put his hands on Clive’s shoulders, drawing him closer so that he could smell his tobacco breath on his face.

‘This won’t do. You have a new sister now. Time for you to grow up. Become Daddy’s little man.’

Clive kept looking down at his shoes, not knowing what to say. His favourite word of the moment was
‘No,’
but he didn’t think saying it with a stamp of his foot would gain release.

‘Your job now is to help me look after your sisters. You would like that wouldn’t you?’

‘No.’ It had stumbled out and Clive waited in dread silence for the reaction. Suddenly, he found himself lifted up. The impulse was to struggle and cry for Mummy but he was too scared.

‘Well, Clive, one day you will become a soldier like Daddy and just like these little fellows.’

He shifted Clive to one side and opened a glass door to take out a small model soldier.

‘Here, you can hold him.’

He forced the brightly coloured little fellow into Clive’s chubby hand. Clive looked down at it in disgust and threw it to the floor. Then he was lowered, crying, even before the sharp blow hit him across the back of the legs.

That dark, claustrophobic study haunted him, as did the model soldiers, arrayed in their battalions behind the glass-fronted cabinet. Although they were his father’s pride and joy, they did not fascinate Clive. He wanted to jump up and down on them, see their silly uniforms and weapons broken to pieces and trampled into the carpet, but he never dared.

Instead, he made a pact to do the opposite of what his father wanted, even though he kept trying, in his brusque, inadequate way, to turn Clive into a worthy miniature of himself.

Abandoned to the strange alien world beyond the nursery, Clive quickly learnt that it was best to hide his real feelings and began to encourage the people around him into believing that he was conforming to their plans.

By the time he was eight, Clive was an expert at playing the game. On the surface, he gave what was required of him while at the same time gaining satisfaction from the small, malicious tricks he played on his sisters. He had perfected his look of innocence and concern so that nothing could touch him. This stood him in good stead when, later that year, he was sent away to St Stephen’s to learn how to become like his father.

St Stephen’s was Father’s old school, and many of the alumni had become distinguished military men. It highlighted activities such as self-defence and martial arts. To Clive’s surprise, he excelled in these, mainly, he was sure, because he didn’t like being hurt, and so had to be better than his opponents.

Father seemed pleased with Clive’s progress and started calling him ‘my good man’ which left him feeling as if he had gained entrance, by default, into some strange male club.

As he continued to excel in martial arts, father took it as a sign that he would continue the family tradition of military service. However, Clive knew Father was going to be disappointed.

When the time came, he took great delight in informing Father of his intentions. Although he took the news like the soldier he was, Clive saw the bitter disappointment etched on his face and enjoyed the moment, regarding it as payback for all the hours forced to spend in his study.

This family of females had never needed him, although, of course, they had made the right noises at the appropriate times such as graduation, birthdays, and Christmas. It wasn’t until two years ago, after his father’s death, that they realised his usefulness. Mother was frail and couldn’t stay on her own.

Before she had become pregnant, Margaret went abroad to exciting places like China and Peru with her husband and didn’t want to give up that freedom to care for Mother, while Lizzie was doing yet another degree and couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be tied down.

When the invitation to dinner came, Clive soon realised what they had in mind. He had his own house with plenty of room for dear Mother. At first, he was appalled at the thought of this cold, grey haired, elderly stranger called Mother sharing his smart minimalist house, even if, as was pointed out to him, it was near the surgery and across from the park. To Clive she was his mother in name only, having closed her heart to him all those years ago.

Slowly, he began to see some of the advantages. Mother couldn’t walk very far and, even with the help of a housekeeper during the day, she would be reliant on him for everything. He could control everything she did, just as she had once controlled him. He began to look forward to her stay.

Mother had settled in well and seemed to enjoy living with Clive. His sisters congratulated him on how well he cared for her. He was sure they were afraid that he would give up and land them with the opportunity. For once in his life, he had Mother’s exclusive attention, and he made the most of it, sitting her down to dinner opposite him and making her listen to every detail of his day at work. Well, not every detail, as his thoughts and feelings about Ben were as yet undefined and too delicate, only suitable for when he was alone and daydreaming.

Overall, Clive relished his control, which he mooted as in Mother’s best interests of course. She didn’t go out if he was busy because it was too cold or raining, or that visit to a friend had to be put off because there were a lot of viruses about. Margaret and Lizzie began to praise Clive as some kind of saint, and he accepted this as his payment to keep the status quo.

Then Emily, Margaret’s daughter, arrived, to take away his power. Clive watched as Mother became obsessed with the creature. Every conversation was about Emily, so the details of Clive’s day became unimportant, easily dismissed by the latest gurgle from dear Emily.

Now at last, Clive was taking his revenge. Soon the world would understand his pain, his anger. He gave himself up to Lisa’s nimble fingers, knowing he could do nothing until his endeavour surfaced.

CHAPTER 4

M
att pushed open the door to CID, a surprised look already etched on his face knowing that the lads would have prepared some sort of welcome back.

He hadn’t quite expected the efforts the team had made and, as a hail of confetti hit him full in the face, thrown with great vigour by Sam of course, he caught sight of the huge banner spread from one side of the office to the other.
“DI Turrell—Booked at Last,”
it proclaimed.

Matt sighed at the pathetic attempt at humour. He was more than happy to be ‘booked’ to the delectable Eppie. In fact, he still couldn’t quite believe his luck in attracting the most wonderful woman in the world, just when he had begun thinking maybe he would end up as one of those sad middle-aged men married to the job.

Sam stood on a desk shaking the rest of the multi coloured bits of paper purposefully over Matt’s head. The grey serviceable carpet squares were covered, and as he moved forward through the congratulatory pats on the back, Matt wondered what McRay would say.

Detective Chief Inspector McRay had always been a grumpy sort of man, but since his wife had left him, and who could blame her, he had turned into even more of a growling bear who spent most of the day locked in the lair of his office. The door to the lair flew open.