Extinction

by Carol Anne Davis

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Carol Anne Davis

  SHROUDED

  SAFE AS HOUSES

  NOISE ABATEMENT

  KISS IT AWAY

  ELECTRIC AVENUE

  SOB STORY

  EXTINCTION

  Carol Anne Davis

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2011

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2011 by Carol Anne Davis.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Davis, Carol Anne.

  Extinction.

  1. Psychotherapists–Fiction. 2. Widows–Fiction.

  3. Suspense fiction.

  I. Title

  823.9′2-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-133-0 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-013-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-511-4 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being

  described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this

  publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons

  is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Ian

  1957 – 2009

  ONE

  He’d kill her today, before she had time to mention him to anyone else. That way they’d never be linked together. She’d be his second victim and no one had ever proved that he’d murdered the first.

  He smiled at her encouragingly. ‘This drop-in centre closes at midday, but I feel that you need more time. My office is only a ten-minute walk away so we could continue the session there.’ Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly.

  ‘Is there a charge?’

  Only when I plunge in hard. ‘No charge for the client – the charity pays my fees.’

  ‘That would be brilliant.’

  It certainly would. She was thirtyish, with long blonde hair and equally long legs, a living Barbie doll. He liked the pretty ones as they were used to men doing them favours and paying them compliments. The look on their faces when he forced himself on them was priceless as they went, in seconds, from ice queen to distressed maiden, as Red Riding Hood met the Big Bad Wolf.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother going to the police,’ he always said afterwards as they lay there sobbing or shaking silently. ‘I mean, it’s your word against mine that it wasn’t consensual. And you were showing everything in that tight top and short skirt, and just how much did you have to drink?’

  He enjoyed watching the dawning realization in their eyes as they admitted to themselves that he looked good, a well-spoken and immaculately dressed man, and that they looked cheap and available. That was why he’d chosen them in the nightclub, of course, because they were the type of girls who wouldn’t impress the constabulary, would look like whores if it ever went to court.

  Not that he merely planned to rape this one – no, he wanted to rape and kill. It had been a year since his last murder and the urge had built and built. He’d killed, that first time, in a cold-blooded rage, wanting to punish his wife as she had plans to leave him. He’d seen it as a way of starting over cleanly, without the need to go through a career-damaging and potentially expensive divorce. But the rush that he’d felt as he watched her fall to her death was better than cocaine or Ecstasy or even doing-it-with-a-virgin sex. He wanted to kill again, only much more slowly, more up close and personal. He wanted to feel them struggle, hear them plead, eventually watch the light go out of their eyes.

  It was imperative that he didn’t leave a trail now, nothing to link him with – what was her name? – Hannah. She’d called in here on impulse, having seen the Bereavement Drop-In Centre sign, so hadn’t had a chance to mention the place to anyone else.

  ‘Here’s my card,’ he said. ‘If you come to the side door, it leads straight to my study. I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes or so.’

  ‘Shall I just walk with you?’

  Hell, no. He could just imagine a lookalike playing him on the Crimewatch reconstruction. Ironically, he looked a bit like a forty-year-old Ted Bundy, albeit slightly less smug.

  ‘No, I have to lock up here and, to be honest’ – he rarely was – ‘I’m supposed to put new clients on a waiting list.’

  ‘That’s what happened when I phoned my doctor – he said that it would be five months until I could see a counsellor one-to-one.’

  ‘We’re very overstretched,’ he said, sounding apologetic. ‘But sometimes I bend the rules when someone is clearly distressed.’

  The blonde nodded. ‘It’s just that she was more like my best friend than a sister and with us having lost our mum last year . . .’

  ‘A double bereavement. I understand.’ He’d done his best by reading all of the counselling books but it was like looking through a glass darkly: he never could understand other’s emotions. But he knew that bereavement counsellors attracted vulnerable people, which is why he’d taken the training course and started reeling new victims in.

  ‘Plus it’s only been ten days,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all so very raw. Well, I promise that I can give you lots of time.’ He wasn’t kidding. She had three orifices that he wanted to explore.

  ‘No one expected her to die so soon.’

  ‘It’s a challenge when you have no time to prepare. Well, I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,’ he said again, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He wanted her to fuck off before the other counsellor that he was working with today at the drop-in centre entered this particular room and realized that he was no longer alone.

  ‘Adam – I’m locking up in five.’

  Talk of the devil. He tensed as his colleague, Beth, popped her head round the door. She grimaced apologetically. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realize that you were with someone.’

  Getting up quickly, he strode to the door, murmured, ‘She was upset, wanted to see someone on a one-to-one basis so I brought her in here for additional privacy.’

  ‘No problem,’ Beth said in a stage whisper. ‘My regulars have left so I was about to shut up shop.’

  ‘She’s just going.’

  He shut the door on Beth, turned back to Hannah.

  ‘Honestly, these clock watchers!’

  She nodded sadly. ‘I thought that there would be better services for the bereaved.’

  ‘It’s patchy, depends on where you live.’ He opened the door again, looked tellingly at her.

  ‘See you in a few minutes,’ she said, smiling tiredly and walked out into the spring showers. He was pleased to see that there were no observers in the vicinity. He exhaled hard then went in search of Beth.

  ‘She’s young to be widowed,’ Beth said.

  ‘She’s not widowed – she lost her mother.’ He wouldn’t mention the sister, didn’t want her to remain in the counsellor’s memory.

  ‘Do you think she’ll come back?’

  ‘Mmm? Doubt it. She said something about being here on holiday. To be honest, she might just have wanted to shelter f
rom the rain.’

  ‘Oh, is it on again? It never stops these days.’

  That suited him fine. People kept their heads down in the rain or hid under oversized umbrellas. Hannah hadn’t been carrying a brolly, unless she had a telescopic version in her shoulder bag, but she was wearing a mac and had raised the hood as she left the hall.

  He spent the next few minutes turning on the charm, wanting to get Beth in his corner. If she liked him, she’d be less suspicious of his behaviour and would praise his conduct if the police ever came sniffing round. Life was a gamble at the best of times and he’d always been a heavy-betting man.

  ‘So, how are you spending your afternoon?’ she asked.

  With a helpless victim, he thought and felt his penis twitch. ‘Oh, you know, working.’

  ‘Your private counselling work – is that also bereavement based?’

  ‘No, it’s everything – hyperactive children, adults who are clinically depressed or bipolar.’ The latter was on the increase as more and more people self-diagnosed.

  ‘And you?’ He pretended that he cared.

  ‘Oh, I’m going back to the hospital, running the canteen.’

  She seemed too bright and alternative for a management position but he’d find out about her later – for now, the beautiful Hannah was waiting for him, waiting for death.

  She was there when he arrived home. Good. He felt almost surprised that it was this easy. Some killers spent weeks following their prey, learning their daily and nightly routines, but she had delivered herself straight to his door.

  ‘Nice place,’ she said, appraising the whitewashed side wall and adjacent garden.

  ‘My wife chose it.’ If she thought that the little woman was at home, she’d be off her guard.

  ‘Mum had a bungalow just like this.’

  ‘You’ll find that everything brings back memories at first,’ he murmured, inserting his key in the lock.

  ‘I’m home,’ he shouted, hoping that they had the house to themselves. His lodger, John, was normally at work in the gym in the early afternoons – but, even if he was home, he knew better than to disturb a therapy session. ‘My study is through here,’ he added, leading her to the back of the house, furthest away from listening ears.

  ‘Is your wife a counsellor too?’

  ‘She is.’ She genuinely had been. It was surprising how screwed up most psychologists and counsellors were, often going into the therapeutic field with some vague hope of curing themselves.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like she’s in.’ Hannah followed him to his office, took off her mac and hung it on the clothes peg behind the door.

  ‘She sometimes does outreach work.’ She was definitely out of reach all right, though he doubted that people did anything from beyond the grave.

  His newest client sat down on the chair opposite his desk but he indicated the long armless settee which was parallel to the wall.

  ‘You’ll be more comfortable there.’

  ‘The psychiatrist’s couch!’ she laughed.

  It was more like the rapist’s bed – though the two words, put together, made therapist – but he was indifferent to semantics. He exhaled as she got up and crossed to the settee, lay down.

  Gotcha. He covertly took the handcuffs from between the encyclopaedias on the bookcase, walked over and swiftly straddled her, pushing her wrists together in front of her and cuffing them.

  ‘What the . . .?’

  He was pleased that she was able to talk. Some of his rape victims went mute with fear at this stage which took a lot of the fun out of it. He wanted them to shout or plead for clemency as it made him feel more alive, more powerful. A couple – true optimists – had even prayed.

  ‘We’re just going to have a little fun,’ he said as he locked his study door and pocketed the key. He wouldn’t tell her yet that she was going to die – he’d save that for later. For the moment, he’d let her assume that he only wanted sex.

  ‘I won’t tell,’ she said, and he saw her start to shake.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Of course, even if you did, the police would believe that it was consensual, given that you came to my house despite the fact that we’d only just met.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She was reasonably smart, this one. In other circumstances, he might have enjoyed a longer conversation with her. There would still have had to be a pay-off, however – a hot date, a job opportunity or money for him somewhere down the line.

  ‘I’m going to cut your blouse off now.’ He watched her trembling increase then hurried to his desk drawer, returning with the scissors. He was pleased that she hadn’t made a run for the window and made some futile attempt to break the glass. She was a realist, then, would be easier to manage. She hadn’t watched any of these unlikely Hollywood movies where the good girl always got away.

  He straddled her, slashed the military-style khaki T-shirt down the front and cut the sleeves off. It was easier than trying to get it over her head when she was cuffed. She was wearing a body-tone coloured bra and he cut the straps and the material between the cups, peeled it from her. The cups were padded so her breasts were smaller than he’d envisaged, a minor disappointment. Still, she’d do.

  He realized that she was staring at the scissors with trepidation, probably assuming that he was going to cut her. But he wasn’t a sadist – or, at least, not so sadistic that he wanted to mutilate anyone. He just liked to do exactly as he pleased and totally take charge. No chocolates, no flowers, no coy kisses, no will-she-won’t-she? No compromise.

  He put the scissors carefully out of her reach, unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them off. She helped a little by lifting her hips, obviously wanted to placate him. He watched her run her tongue across her bottom lip and hardened at the thought of her licking and sucking his cock.

  ‘Now for your panties,’ he said. They, too, were what his mother would have called beige, but which he knew was now called body-tone. Women often wore separates when they were single and kept their matching sets for when they were seeing a lover, which made him wonder if she was in a relationship. Or was she one of those you-never-know women who were always up for casual, spur-of-the-moment sex?

  ‘Nice underwear,’ he murmured as he slid it down her hips, thighs, knees and ankles. He contemplated leaving on her shoes but changed his mind when he noticed her utilitarian cotton ankle socks. No, on second thoughts he’d strip her totally naked. After all, he’d want to bury her whilst she was nude. The longer that it took the police to find and identify her body, the less likely that the trail would lead back to him.

  A noise at the window made him pause, then he realized that it was just next door’s Maine Coon cat, Tilly, thudding onto his outer ledge. He always made a fuss of it as its owners – a middle-aged couple – kept an eye on the house for him whenever he went on holiday, something that he liked to do each time that he had a sizeable gambling win. The back of his property wasn’t directly overlooked but he decided to belatedly shut the Venetian blind for additional safety: it would be just his luck if some child climbed the fence in search of his frisbee or ball.

  ‘There – now we have some privacy!’ he said when he returned to her.

  ‘What shall I call you?’ she asked.

  Ah, that old trick, trying to get to know your rapist in the hope that he would see you as an individual rather than as a victim.

  ‘Just think of me as your nemesis.’

  She looked blank, obviously wasn’t making use of her thesaurus. Call me what you like, he thought, and bent his head to her nearest nipple, teeth grazing slightly as his fingers held the breast’s full weight. He transferred his attention to the other breast, knowing that he could squeeze as hard as he liked or ignore them completely. This wasn’t foreplay. Instead, she belonged to him utterly.

  He felt almost drunk on his new-found authority as he tugged at her pubic hair and she obligingly parted her legs.

  ‘I’m Hannah,’ she said tremulously.

  ‘I know.’ He’d
brought the file that he’d written up about her this morning, would destroy it after her death.

  ‘I never meant to lead you on . . .’

  ‘You didn’t. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Have you done this before?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And do you really have a wife?’

  ‘I did.’ Like this girl, his wife had done too much talking. He wanted action now, wanted it fast and hard. ‘I’ll just fetch the oil,’ he added and felt her quivering increase.

  He was aware of her watching him intently as he crossed back to his desk drawer, took out the bottle of lubricant and box of condoms. Rape victims rarely got wet so it was just as easy to take them up the ass. She put up a token resistance when he tried to flip her over but soon succumbed to his determination and superior strength.

  Afterwards, he felt a momentary rage when he saw her blood on the couch. Damn, why did she have to be a bleeder? Fortunately it was just a light spray, doubtless caused when he withdrew from her backside.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said, and she remained obediently on her stomach, weeping quietly. He unzipped one of the cushion covers and put it under her belly then told her to get onto her back. Now she’d bleed into the cover and he could dispose of it somewhere at the other side of town: he’d read lots of forensic books, knew just how to protect himself.

  He squeezed and caressed her until he grew hard again then told her to lick him, but her heart clearly wasn’t in it. He managed a second, faltering orgasm under her tongue then knew that it was time for her to die. She obviously wasn’t telepathic as she lay back on the couch and wiped her mouth with her handcuffed hands before exhaustedly closing her eyes.

  Bye bye Hannah. He flexed his hands, grabbed for her throat and tightened his grip. Her eyes opened wide and she began to make loud retching sounds and kick wildly. He kept going, tighter and tighter, amazed that such a slender girl had so much fight. She bucked up, twisted from side to side, drummed her feet on the couch and tried to pull her knees up. He kept straddling her and increasing the pressure, every memory of feeling different and unattached and unworthy in his grip.