HER SISTER'S KILLER an absolutely gripping killer thriller full of twists

by MICHELLE S. SMITH

  “Leave Hancock unless you want to end up in the cemetery.”

  Victoria struck his chin, and he staggered backwards, swearing. At the same time, she heard barking and saw a welcome sight as St. Patrick, floppy jowls flapping almost ludicrously as he ran, tore toward her. The hooded attacker saw him too, scrambled to his feet, and took to his heels. St. Patrick feinted a rush in his direction, barking viciously, then turned back to Victoria, his tongue hanging out and ears waving as wildly as his jowls. Victoria’s legs buckled under her as she realized she was safe, and she sat down, St. Patrick nuzzling her affectionately.

  “Who’s there?” called a familiar voice through the darkness, and Victoria sat up on her haunches, her arm around the dog.

  “John! I’m here. By the pond!”

  “Victoria?”

  John hurried over to them. “You look like you almost drowned,” he exclaimed, pulling her up onto her feet and noting how her sodden shirt stuck to her.

  “You mean, like someone almost drowned me?” Victoria replied. “I was attacked.”

  John looked startled. “Come with me,” he said, glancing around. “I don’t want to have to rescue you a second time if the guy is still out here.”

  “It was your dog that rescued me,” she pointed out, patting St. Patrick’s head. She followed John to a nearby house, a neat square building with a small garden and two cats sitting on the wall.

  “Home,” he said. “Come in.”

  The house was brightly lit, and she closed her eyes in relief as she stepped inside. She was vaguely aware of soft-backed chairs of beige and a large photograph of a smiling young woman on the wall.

  “You okay?” John asked.

  “Yep. Just need to sit for a moment.”

  “Not in those clothes,” he said firmly. “You’ll ruin my furniture. Here, go into my room. There are towels in the en suite bathroom, and grab whatever fits to wear. You can tell me what happened once you’re dry. Shall I walk you home a bit later, or do you want me to phone someone to come fetch you?”

  “Yeah, do you have Janet’s number? Thanks.”

  Victoria came through a few minutes later, wearing an over-long floral dress and wringing water from her hair into a towel.

  John swallowed as he saw the dress and turned away.

  “This suits me better than it does you,” Victoria joked, sitting down. “Do you have a sister?”

  She glanced up at the wall again at the smiling young woman and then back to John.

  “I was married,” he said, sitting down opposite her. “Gina died a few years back. I forgot I still had a few of her things. I thought I’d given them all away when I moved here.”

  Victoria studied the picture of Gina. She could not have been older than in her early twenties. “She looks as though she had such vitality, as though she was smiling at the entire world.”

  “She did,” John said shortly. Victoria wanted to ask what had happened to her, but he forestalled her.

  “Who attacked you?” he asked. “It seems crazy.”

  Victoria described briefly what had happened.

  “I couldn’t see him,” she finished her story. “He wore a hood, and it was dark. All I could tell was that he was a tall man, possibly your height, I’d say, maybe even taller. When he grabbed me and held me under the water, I thought I’d had it, but I don’t think he wanted to kill me. Just scare me.”

  John whistled. “Who would want to do that in tranquil Hancock?”

  She caught his eye and held it for a moment, but before she could answer, she was interrupted by hammering on the window. “Janet already?” exclaimed Victoria.

  John pulled open the door and took a step back in surprise as he saw Steve on the doorstep.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. He folded his arms across his chest.

  “Janet was having car trouble, so she phoned me and asked me to walk across and fetch Vicky. She was nervous to walk after hearing about the attack.”

  Victoria flushed at the sight of Steve, remembering their last meeting.

  He strode up to her, frowning, and lifted his hand to touch her neck lightly where she could feel bruising already from the attack. She noticed the way his shirt strained as his muscles contracted beneath it, and she looked away quickly.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Victoria felt her neck. “Not too bad,” she replied awkwardly.

  “Any idea who might have done it?” There was a formality in his tone that told Victoria he hadn’t forgotten their argument.

  “Presumably Becky’s murderer?” she replied. “Isn’t that logical?”

  “Or someone you are investigating who has a secret of their own,” offered John.

  “How would you know?” Steve said.

  John held Steve’s gaze silently for a tense moment and then smiled. “I suppose because we all have secrets,” he said, more to Victoria than to Steve.

  Victoria glanced again at the picture of Gina. “Even you?” she asked.

  He followed her gaze and nodded. “Even me.”

  Chapter 20

  Claire Timms stared at the deep purple markings on Victoria’s throat. “You look like you’ve been strangled,” she exclaimed.

  Victoria, who was with her mom doing her shopping at Hancock Market after work, stopped to adjust the scarf that had slipped from her neck. “I just about was,” she said ruefully, picking out rhubarb for her mother and passing it to her. “I can barely swallow.”

  Vera prodded the rhubarb with a judgmental finger.

  “These ones are too short,” Vera said, passing the crimson rhubarb back to Victoria without bothering to look at her. Victoria put it back, trying not to lose her temper. “Becky always chose longer rhubarb.”

  “My mom told me you had been attacked,” said Claire. “I couldn’t believe it. We were at Norway Pond earlier that day.”

  “Pity your mom wasn’t still there when the guy went for me.”

  A shy cough interrupted them, and Victoria turned to see Joe behind her.

  “I overheard you. W-was the attacker the same as y-your sister’s killer, do you think?” he asked, his stutter worsening as he saw Claire.

  “Surely it must be?” Claire said. She stared at him. “Why even ask that?”

  Joe turned the same color as the rhubarb. “Different modus operandi,” he suggested. “Rebecca was killed. From what John told me, your assailant had no intention of actually taking your life.”

  “Won’t you get me some honey, Victoria?” her mother interrupted. “Make sure it’s not too big.” Victoria hurried off to get the honey and brought it to her mother.

  She sighed. “Not this small.” She dismissed the bottle. “I prefer a bigger size. It lasts longer.”

  “No problem.” Victoria grinned and immediately passed her the bigger bottle that she had been holding in her other hand. For once, Vera was left without a word to say and banged the bottle into the basket on her lap.

  “I often walk on my own in the evenings, especially if it is hot,” said Claire. “But now I’m too scared.”

  “You need a friend to walk with you,” said Victoria, and when silence followed, she trod on Joe’s toe. Joe took a deep breath.

  “Several fascinating species of owl come out after dark . . .” he muttered, trailing off at the end of his sentence as he realized he was losing his thread. “That is, I don’t know if you— if either of you are interested in them. O-owls, I mean.”

  “Not particularly,” said Claire, looking puzzled as she tried to follow his train of thought.

  He flashed Victoria a nervous smile and ploughed on. “I-I rather enjoy watching them myself. If that is, if you feel unsafe in any way, you could let me know . . .” He took another breath.

  “Just give me a shout, and I’ll hold your hand,” a confident voice interrupted him, and Claire looked up to see Steve smiling disarmingly at her.

  “Hi.” Claire blushed, her big eyes widening, not quite able to believe he was
offering her his protection.

  “Steve,” muttered Victoria awkwardly, glancing at her mother, but Vera didn’t even acknowledge him.

  “Hey, Victoria,” he said as though he had only just noticed her and turned back to Claire. Victoria clenched her hand on the wheelchair handles. Did Steve honestly think such juvenile tactics were going to work? He noticed her tightening hands and grinned. “So just give me a shout if you need me, Claire. You know where I live.”

  “Thank you,” stammered Claire.

  “That’s m-my cue,” said Joe. He smiled a little wistfully at Claire, and something in his face touched her.

  “Hey, thanks for the offer, Joe,” she said, reaching out her hand to his arm. “I guess working for the vet I should probably brush up on my owls.”

  “Good career move,” agreed Joe hastily, a twinkle lighting his eyes behind the thick glasses, and Claire found herself smiling back. He put up his hands as if to adjust his glasses then lowered them instead to fidget with his phone. “I think I h-have your number. I’ll give you a call, Claire. Sometime when you’re free. No rush.” He raised his hand in his usual jerky way to say goodbye, but Victoria noticed the smallest swagger in his movements and hid a grin at Steve’s fury.

  “Beaten at your own game, Detective McCade,” she murmured, as Claire also headed off to finish her shopping.

  “You think so?” he asked, touching her cheek lightly. He was so close to her that the scent of his aftershave clung to her, drawing her closer.

  “I’m still waiting for my apology from you,” he said, his eyes catching hers, leaving her feeling as though they were the only two in the building. She opened her mouth to reply, and at the same moment, her mother cleared her throat.

  “I still haven’t got my rhubarb,” she complained.

  Steve grimaced, and Vera smiled gently at him, her eyes lingering maliciously for a second longer than necessary as she savored his disappointment.

  Vera’s words brought Victoria back to earth, and she recalled Steve’s tactics to try to make her jealous of Claire. She turned away from him to pick out the rhubarb and straightened.

  “Keep waiting,” she advised him. She passed the rhubarb to her mother and released the wheelchair brakes so they could go. “See you at the station, Detective McCade.”

  Chapter 21

  “Listen, Victoria, I wonder if I could have a word with you privately?”

  Victoria, who had been sitting taking a lunch break on the common, put down her sandwich in surprise.

  “Hello, Mr Jenkins,” she replied. He smiled at her, a calculating smile, intended to charm and placate, she suspected. She watched him warily.

  “Call me Maurice.”

  “Maurice, then. Did you attend the concert the other night?” she asked, nodding toward the bandstand.

  “No, no, I was meeting with our lawyer about the hospital case. May I join you?”

  “Would you not rather talk to me at the station? I’m on my lunch,” said Victoria pointedly.

  “This can’t wait. And I prefer speaking to you in private. It’s a confidential matter.” He smiled again, showing carefully whitened teeth. He was a big man, probably Steve’s size, Victoria reckoned, but heavier. Although he had a slight paunch when he was relaxing, he would still, to most people, appear an attractive man, a prosperous, middle-aged man. Victoria, though, thought he reminded her of a wolf.

  She glanced at her watch. “What is it, Maurice?”

  He sidled a little closer, and she immediately stiffened.

  “It’s about my son,” Maurice confided. “I don’t quite know how to say this, but Gavin is not well.”

  Victoria shifted away from Maurice until she could breathe again and looked at him directly. “He seemed fine the other day when I saw him at the police station.”

  “Police — dammit,” Maurice swore softly. “So Megan was right.” He glanced quickly at Victoria, and his face assumed a softened expression. “We thought our boy might have done something silly.”

  He fidgeted with his cuff as though buying time to plot his next move. “Gavin has what is called an inferiority complex,” he said. “I was born naturally talented at sport and at academics and was always popular at school. Gavin is none of those things.”

  “I have no idea about his sporting ability or his popularity, but he seemed pretty sharp to me,” Victoria replied.

  Maurice gave her a sorrowful grin. “His only talent, I’m afraid, is in telling lies,” he said. “At that he is particularly adept.”

  “Why would he do that?” Victoria demanded.

  Maurice shrugged. “Jealousy,” he replied. “Simply put, my son is viciously, irremediably jealous of me. He somehow feels that rather than trying to reach the success that I achieved, if he can prevaricate and spread stories about me to his friends, he can boost his self-esteem.”

  “I assume you’re concerned about what he told me and want me to believe it was all lies,” said Victoria. “But I’m hardly one of Gavin’s friends.”

  “So he did talk to you about me.” Maurice’s face darkened. “What did he say?” he demanded, switching off the charm and introducing a menacing note into his voice.

  A quiver of fear ran down Victoria’s back. She shivered. Something made her feel that Maurice could be dangerous. “What do you think he said?” she countered.

  “He told you about Rebecca, didn’t he?” snapped Maurice.

  “Maybe,” Victoria said. “Want to tell me your side of the story?”

  Maurice recovered his grip on himself and breathed out slowly. She noticed his hand was a little sweaty as he adjusted his tie. “I’m a one-woman man,” he said, twisting the solid platinum ring on his wedding finger. “Megan is my world.”

  Victoria maintained a cynical silence.

  “Being successful, I sometimes attract unwanted attention from other women,” he said carefully. “Even much younger women.”

  Victoria supposed his tone was meant to be one of regret, but to her it sounded more like pride. “That must be difficult for you,” she said drily.

  “Exactly,” he replied, glancing quickly at her.

  Victoria pre-empted what was coming next, trying to control her temper. “And when,” she asked, “did you first notice that my sister, a beautiful, innocent, dedicated nurse with more than enough male attention from guys her own age, had fallen under your spell?”

  “I can understand your disbelief,” Maurice said. He gave a little laugh. “I was taken aback myself.” He sighed. “I made the mistake of being a gentleman,” he said. “I was too courteous when I should have been blunt. I thought I had made myself clear, but your sister clearly mistook my politeness for encouragement.”

  “And I assume you have proof of her behavior?” asked Victoria. “Phone records perhaps? Like we have for Rebecca?”

  Maurice paled for a moment. “She was too clever for that,” he said. “She knew her job might be at risk if my wife caught her out. But she wrote me letters, which I burned,” he added quickly. “And pestered me continuously when I visited my mother-in-law on my own.”

  “And you couldn’t take your wife along?”

  “It wasn’t always convenient. Or she sometimes had other commitments.”

  “Why not just tell Megan then? I imagine most wives would find it fairly easy to shift their own commitments when their husband’s commitment was under attack?”

  He shook his head. “I should have,” he said. “But she was already under so much pressure worrying about her mother that I didn’t want to burden her further.”

  “And then she found out?”

  Maurice winced. “That was the worst of it. My son told her. His version of the story. Completely inaccurate and libelous, but that didn’t bother him.” Genuine anger made his voice unsteady. “I explained repeatedly what had actually happened. I was finally able to convince Megan.”

  “But Gavin maintains you were to blame?”

  “Exactly. It gives him a thrill, th
e belief that he has power over me, and the ability to bring me down. I took him to the best psychologist around, who confirmed he is untrustworthy. Yet still he tries to hurt me. His own father. All to boost himself and to get attention.” He placed his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

  Victoria looked at him. “Why not just give him the attention he craves?” she suggested.

  * * *

  Norway Pond. Victoria forced herself to the water’s edge. Steve had been there with her, the day after the attack, and possible evidence had been collected by a crime scene investigator, but something had driven her to go back after work today, although she made sure it was well before sunset.

  She sat at the water’s edge, the skin on the back of her neck prickling as she forced herself to relax and concentrate. Which direction exactly had the attacker come from? The high-pitched call of a tree swallow made her jump to her feet, her throat constricting. It’s just a bird. That’s all. Just breathe. In. Out. In. It’s light still. You’re safe here today. Do you understand? Keep breathing.

  She heard a rustle of leaves, and instinctively, she found herself looking for something to use to defend herself. Sand to throw in the attacker’s eyes, a stone she could use as a weapon . . . Think, Victoria. Don’t freeze. Not like you did when you were young. This is not your father.

  She closed her eyes, trying to block out the images that came rushing at her.

  “Vicky!”

  She heard it again, louder.

  “Vicky! It’s me.”

  She heard snuffling and panting and opened her eyes in relief to see John with St. Patrick.

  “Quite a coincidence. You seem to appear whenever I’m around here,” she said. She swallowed, trying to get rid of the dryness in her mouth and throat.