Copycat

by Diane Saxon

  ‘I’m off duty at 1400 hours.’ His lack of respect had Jenna sucking her breath in, he’d not even had the decency to address the rank of the man before him.

  Ice whipped into Taylor’s eyes. ‘Then make it 1330 hours, PC Gardner. What I have to say to you won’t take long. Professional standards may need more of your time, but that’ll be between you and them.’

  Flushed scarlet, Lee Gardner spun around and stalked away through the long hallway.

  Jenna studied the man in the bed and saw the glimmer of cracked open eyelids from beneath his eyelashes as he watched her.

  ‘Good of you to join us, Mr Pearson.’

  He blinked, surprise flickering beneath the exhaustion, enough to confirm she had the right man.

  Jenna pulled the chair closer to the bed and sank onto it. She leaned her elbows on her knees and dangled her hands. ‘Mark. Did you speak with either of the men who just came in?’

  Pearson’s lips stuck together as he tried to answer her.

  Jenna reached out for the glass on his overbed table, topping it up from the small water jug. The straw popped up, but she straightened it and held it close to Pearson’s lips so he could angle in for a drink.

  After several pulls, he flopped back onto the fat hospital pillows, weariness etched in every line on his face. His gaze stayed on her as she waited for him to talk. He opened his mouth, the dark gap where his teeth were missing drew her fascinated gaze as he mumbled. ‘I faked sleep.’

  Unsympathetic, she eyed him. ‘You seem to have a talent for that.’ She glanced at the morphine administrator dangling from the bed so he could no longer reach it. Without retrieving it, she pointed at it. ‘Do you need this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they take it away from you?’

  He slid his gaze over to the window without answering and she threw a glance at Taylor while he rooted in his shirt pocket for his glasses.

  Jenna took hold of the morphine pump and placed it back on Pearson’s bed within reach of his limp hand as a man in scrubs came into the room. ‘Can I help anyone?’ Short and square with thinning hair and a world weary look, he peered around at all three officers in the room and then glanced at his patient.

  Taylor stepped forward, holding out his hand to the doctor. ‘DI Taylor, West Mercia Police.’

  The man took his hand for a perfunctory shake. ‘Doctor Ian Morris.’ He picked up the clipboard with Pearson’s notes to study them.

  DI Taylor bestowed the doctor with an indulgent smile. ‘Would you say our patient is fit for questioning?’

  Doctor Morris raised his head. ‘I can’t see why not. He’s due for discharge this afternoon. All his vitals are registering within the acceptable range.’ He unhooked the morphine line and disengaged it, reaching out to loop it over the metal stand at the side of the bed. He pointed at the canula in the back of his patient’s hand. ‘I’ll get one of the nurses to come and remove this for you.’

  Pearson’s panicked gaze darted from the doctor to Jenna and back again. ‘But I’m in pain. I need—’

  “We’ll get you some paracetamol and codeine. You’ll be fine now.’ The doctor swept over his patient’s objection and looked down at the notes again. ‘He doesn’t have a reason to stay any longer. I can discharge him now if you like.’ He plucked a pen from his top pocket, wrote on the notes, flourished his signature. He turned to address Pearson again. ‘You’ll need the stitches out in ten days.’ He moved across the room, picked vinyl disposable gloves out of a box by the sink. ‘Your local practitioner nurse can do that for you, or you can make an appointment to return here. You’ve a waterproof covering over it, but don’t get it wet, stay out of the shower until the stitches come out.’ He snapped the gloves onto his hands, stretching his short, square fingers into them. ‘You can have a bath if you’re careful.’ He took hold of Pearson’s hand and gently persuaded the canula out. ‘There you go. That’ll save you waiting for a nurse.’ Dr Morris pressed a small white gauze to the exit wound and taped it down before he glanced at his watch and winced. ‘Sorry, got to get a move on. Is there anything you need to ask me?’ He whipped the gloves back off and dumped them in the bin.

  Stunned, Pearson gave a vague shake of his head. As his eyes dulled with pain, he turned his gaze on Jenna. The strong desire to laugh at the way he’d been railroaded by the overworked doctor had her grinning as she shot him a fast wink.

  Dr Morris jotted notes down and then slipped the clipboard back into its cradle. ‘He’s good to go.’

  Mason closed the door behind him and approached the bed as DI Taylor made himself comfortable in the green, high back chair, making it fart again as he settled into it.

  Jenna and Mason stood either side of the bed. While Jenna let Mason take the lead, he pinned Pearson with a hard, flat look.

  ‘Mark? Mark Pearson?’

  He grunted.

  ‘I’m sorry, could you confirm that you’re Mark Pearson?’

  ‘Yessss.’

  Good. With that confirmation, Mason continued. ‘Mark, can you tell me what happened on the night of Tuesday, 11 February?’

  Mark rolled his head from side to side on the crisp white pillow. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  ‘What were you doing at 45 Alexandra Terrace?

  A hard edge crept into Pearson’s expression. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay. Mark, did you know the resident of 45 Alexandra Terrace?’

  He blinked several times, his gaze sliding to glance out of the window. His voice when it came was filled with weary resignation as though he already knew they had him. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  ‘I’m sure the doctor never mentioned anything about amnesia.’ Mason’s sarcasm appeared to have no effect on Pearson. ‘Something bad happened at 45 Alexandra Terrace that put you in this hospital bed.’ He waved his hand over the bed. ‘Can you tell me anything about it?’

  Mark stared at the ceiling and gave a soft roll of his head again. ‘Nothing.’

  Jenna wanted him to look at Mason, to connect, just for a glimmer of… she didn’t know. Something. Remorse, shame, fear, regret. Anything except this hollowness.

  Mason leaned in to try and catch his attention. ‘You mentioned there was another one?’

  Pearson’s breath caught in his throat, but he remained silent.

  ‘What did you mean?’ Mason pressed.

  A rusty chuckle came from deep within Pearson’s chest, but he still never took his gaze from the ceiling and never replied.

  The urgency of the situation elevated Mason’s voice above the laughter. ‘Mark, have you hurt someone else?’

  The gurgle rumbled out, louder.

  ‘Is there another body you’d like to tell us about?’

  The laughter reeled off Pearson until it turned into a hawking cough that whipped the breath from him and left tears rolling down his face.

  Aware Mason would get no further with his line of questioning, Jenna pursed her lips as she swiped up the plastic jug on the side table and filled Pearson’s cup with water before she handed it to him.

  ‘Mark, how did you lose your front teeth?’

  The cough lodged in his throat as he stiffened. Jenna took instant advantage of a way in.

  ‘Did someone get the better of you?’

  He rolled his head so he could look straight at her, a glint of anger in his swollen-closed eyes.

  She leaned in, bringing her face closer to his. ‘Did she fight back? Mark, did you get far more than you bargained for when you entered 45 Alexandra Terrace?’

  His bloodshot eyes flashed with fury.

  ‘You weren’t expecting her to be there, were you? She took you by surprise.’ She waved her hand over the top of the bed. ‘You never expected to have the living daylights beaten out of you by a woman.’

  Pearson reared up in bed, his swollen face puce as he spat out, ‘Fuck you, bitch! It wasn’t me who died.’

  Jenna whipped her head back to avoid contact w
ith him and snapped out between bared teeth. ‘Detective Sergeant bitch.’ She shot him a sharp smile. He’d supplied her with precisely the information she needed for an arrest. ‘Mark Pearson, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’

  They had a whole day ahead of them to question him and confirmation from the doctor that he was fit for discharge.

  She glanced at the time, not bad for a morning’s work.

  44

  Thursday 13 February, 14:45 hrs

  He narrowed his eyes and peered through the thicket into the clearing to grab a better view. This would be fun. Not just the act, but the whole package.

  There wasn’t another person in the world who knew.

  They all thought they were safe.

  McCambridge. His psychopathic tendencies would ruin him. It would drive him insane to think he’d lost control and Pearson wasn’t the only copycat.

  Pearson. McCambridge should never have indoctrinated him. He was a poor choice. He was a convicted rapist, not an executioner.

  The police. It would send them into a frenzy. The mere thought that there was another one out there.

  Pleased with himself, his smile spread until it stretched across his cheeks.

  He’d make this his last. This was pure pride. Carla couldn’t be allowed to get away with it. She couldn’t beat him.

  One more and he was done.

  He could walk away. The control was all his.

  He checked his watch. It was all a matter of patience.

  He glanced up and she was there. A creature of habit.

  He’d known. Of course he had. He read people. Observed them. Defining their characteristics to get to know them.

  With a superior smile, he watched. He’d known she couldn’t resist returning – revisiting the place where fear had beaten her. And she wasn’t one to be beaten easily.

  He tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth. He’d enjoy beating her, breaking her spirit before he broke her body. His grin turned evil.

  She’d probably pissed her pants.

  Pitiful woman.

  But she’d come back as he knew she would. Spine of steel, or so she believed.

  He indulged in a silent chuckle, his chest chugging as he held the noise in. Spine of steel indeed. That’s what she’d posted on Facebook. Naïve of her. As though she didn’t realise he’d be watching and waiting. She’d posted it, out there for all the world to see. Her challenge to him.

  Stupid, stupid woman.

  She’d left him with no other option when she issued that provocation.

  Excitement surged through him, stuttering in his chest, and he swallowed the laughter bubbling in his lungs until it burned. He clasped his hands against his flat stomach as a flood of heat seared his skin.

  She was here.

  He had her.

  He ignored his racing heartbeat as she halted at the end of the road and jogged on the spot to keep her muscles from stiffening in the damp of the miserable morning.

  All he needed to do was step into her path as she came by. He practised his surprised look, his recognition from the one coffee date they’d had. Tilted his head to one side. Smiled. Fancy seeing you here. It’s been a while. Shall we do coffee?

  He slipped his gloves from his pocket, slid them over his fingers, enjoying the snap across his wrists, ensuring a snug fit. He tempered his breathing, pulled it in through stressed nostrils and out again past pursed lips, while he indulged himself in the sizzle and spark of power as he waited.

  She turned, her long ponytail whipped in the wind as she ran towards him. It swayed from side to side with her building rhythm. A perfect pendulum, bright auburn even in the dull light. A beacon. Good enough for him to use as a weapon against her.

  He’d wrap his hand around it, give it a good, hard yank. Not hard enough to snap her neck, but sharp enough to stun her. A blow to send her reeling while her eyes turned desperate.

  He grinned, stepped forward.

  ‘Hey, Carla.’

  He staggered back, frozen, scenting the air like a wild animal as a small pearlescent white mini pulled up beside the runner, its engine noise drowning out his voice so Carla turned without hearing him.

  Fear clutched his chest. Fuck it. He needed to be more careful. He’d not even heard the car. He’d been too preoccupied, too tied up in his own excitement to notice its approach.

  Not until it was too late.

  Almost too late.

  He didn’t need that kind of slip-up in his life.

  He shrank back, allowing the thicket to swallow him. He bowed his head, raised his hands and dug his fingers deep into his scalp until his eyes watered. Why? Why did she have such luck? Twice now she’d escaped him.

  Anger churned low in his belly. Unable to kill it off entirely, he settled for restraining it. Patience. She was his. She’d not escape him a third time.

  45

  Thursday 13 February, 16:00 hours

  Carla wiped the sweat from her brow as she accepted the lift and laid her head back against the headrest, relief pulsing through her veins. Spine of steel. Spine of steel. What a load of nonsense.

  She could barely catch her breath and she’d laughed. Laughed with her colleague who’d picked her up.

  Janice.

  Janice was such a lovely lady. Quiet, unassuming.

  Carla huffed again while she glanced behind her out of the window.

  No one.

  There was no one there.

  She pressed her hands against her hot face as the mini zipped along the lane, coming out at Wellington centre in no time. Not time enough to control herself. Not time enough for her to not beg to stay in the car.

  God, oh, god.

  Her whole being quaked hard enough to rip her apart from the inside. She’d sensed him. Felt his presence.

  She swiped at the thin sheen of sweat on her cheeks with the back of her hand and then ran trembling fingers through her hair.

  ‘You okay?’

  With the best will in the world, Carla could do nothing other than nod at Janice. Perhaps she should hug her, kiss her, thank her on bended knee, but it was too much to ask. Too much to admit she’d been shit-scared.

  ‘Here will do nicely, thanks, Janice.’

  She let out a pained groan as the car drew alongside the pavement and Janice’s concerned stare whispered over her.

  ‘I’m okay. No worries.’ At the doe eyes, compelled to reassure her, she could do nothing but blurt out, ‘Really, I’ve had a bit of a tough time lately. But I’m okay.’

  She scrabbled for the door handle, desperate not to have to explain. Grateful for Janice’s help, she wanted nothing more than to escape. Run back to the safehouse and disappear.

  She burst from the car, glanced over her shoulder at the shocked woman who’d saved her without even knowing. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like me to take you home?’

  Home? God, no. Home was the last place she needed to be. Home was where evil lurked, waiting to kill her.

  She should have known better. Known he’d be waiting.

  She should never have gone running in the same place. The evilness of it pervaded the soul, touched her as no other. Just as he’d touched her with his sinister stare, stroked it over her as he hid somewhere beyond her vision. But she’d felt him. Revulsion skittered over her flesh, raising goose bumps as her sweat turned cold.

  In her mother’s house, she clung onto the bathroom sink while nausea ripped through her and tears tracked down her cheeks, gathering at the edge of her lips as she hiccoughed out her pain.

  The silky touch of Saskia winding her way around Carla’s legs had her drawing in her breath and holding it. If she couldn’t control herself, she was in trouble. Her mum was working until late. Decisions had to be made. She needed to think. She needed a plan.

  She scooped Saskia up into her arms and took comfort from snuffling into the thick black pelt while Saskia rumbled her contentment against Carla’s neck, transferring he
r calmness. The warmth of the cat soaked through to defrost Carla’s icy fingers as she massaged them through her fur.

  Her breathing slowed, her pulse rate lowered.

  She wandered into her bedroom to sit on the bed and snuggle the cat, stroking Saskia as she circled around on Carla’s knees, sharp claws flexing into her skin, and then flopped onto her back so Carla could rub her stomach. She wasn’t falling for that. Saskia would tempt her and then grab her with her talons and rip little strips from her flesh the moment she touched her belly.

  With the bedroom light off, Carla stared out of the window as thick, black clouds rolled in and darkened the day prematurely to night.

  A delicate shiver pebbled her skin with goose bumps.

  If she phoned her mum, she’d only panic her. There was no sense in that. There was nothing she could do for her. Her mum couldn’t rush home from work simply because Carla imagined someone watching her.

  She curled her fingers in Saskia’s fur while she chewed the inside of her cheek.

  Only it wasn’t her imagination.

  The police would think she was stupid if she reported it to them. Paranoid. Every woman in Shropshire would be on high alert, cluttering up the phone lines. It would sound so lame. I think I’m being watched, convinced of it. Yes, I’ve only felt this way since the nurse was murdered – Marcia, yes, that’s the one. In fact, that’s exactly the time I started to sense a presence. With my extrasensory perception.

  Ridiculous!

  Carla jiggled Saskia on her lap as she lifted her up to dig in her back pocket for her phone.

  From the information she’d caught on the news, another woman had been killed. A third, but the police hadn’t released much data about it, and it sounded more like a domestic as both a male and a female had been rushed to hospital.

  As Saskia gave up her attempt to entice Carla to tickle her stomach, she rolled onto her side and Carla bowed forward to put her face against the cat’s shoulder, sucking in all the comfort she could from her feline friend’s closeness.