Extinction

by Carol Anne Davis

  ‘Should I try to get him to talk about Hannah?’ she’d asked, aware that they were attempting to link him to the recent Weston murder.

  ‘No, just talk about your own bereavement and encourage him to talk about his late wife. Don’t steer the conversation in any particular direction, but take careful note of anything that he says about her death.’

  ‘And if he clams up?’

  ‘Don’t push it. He’s a bright man, so it won’t take much for him to suspect that you’re part of a surveillance team.’

  ‘I’ll be subtle,’ Olivia said. She was aware that her heart was beating faster than usual. This was going to be the most exciting thing that had happened to her in years. Adam Neave was possibly a double killer and she was going to use all of her charm and intellect to reel him in.

  TEN

  He’d rape Olivia a few weeks after she’d had the baby – screwing someone who was pregnant didn’t appeal to him and, in the days after she’d given birth, she’d be all torn up and horribly slack. He’d counselled husbands whose wives were suffering from post-natal depression and some of them had joked that it would have been nice if the surgeon had put in a couple of extra stitches when he was sewing up the vaginal tears.

  He’d use Rohypnol again. Oh, it had led to Kylie’s death but he’d just been unlucky. He’d used it several times before without incident. He’d rape Olivia in her own home so that she woke up in her own bed and would feel comparatively secure, albeit achy. Women often convinced themselves that they had the combination of a hangover and twenty-four-hour flu. Even if they had flashbacks, they rarely went to the police, especially if they’d met the man whilst they were out drinking and invited him back to their place. The drug caused memory problems so how could they prove that it wasn’t consensual sex?

  Olivia would be especially confused, unable to reconcile any vague sexual flashbacks with the kindly counsellor who had helped her throughout her pregnancy. He’d only met up with her for two therapy sessions at the centre so far but she already seemed to have a crush on him, had spent much of the time widening her eyes and slightly parting her legs and laughing too loudly and too long at his jokes. After the drugged rape, she’d think that she was experiencing some illness-induced hallucination or letting out some previously-suppressed fantasy. Freud had believed that most female patients fell in love with their therapists and some therapists even encouraged this, regarding it as an inevitable part of the therapy.

  He was seeing Brandon Petrie at 4.30 p.m. Ten minutes before the teenager was due, Adam opened his study, bedroom and lounge windows. It might just be his imagination but he felt that the house still smelt strange, as if Kylie had left her mark on it. Thank goodness he’d stashed her away in the freezer within an hour of discovering the body; if he’d left her in this overheated house, she’d have rapidly decomposed.

  ‘Brandon – nice to see you again.’

  ‘Yeah?’ the teenager muttered then apparently did a double take and muttered, ‘Nice to see you too, Mr Neave.’

  ‘Adam.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Fake it until you . . .’ he prompted

  ‘Nice to see you, Adam,’ the youth said with a mirthless smile.

  ‘Isn’t it amazing weather, Mrs Petrie?’

  The not so yummy mummies always liked to discuss the weather. It was a safe topic, non-politicised. They couldn’t bear too much reality.

  ‘It is. You know, it’s so long since it rained that we’ve started leaving the sun loungers out overnight.’

  ‘Same here.’

  It suddenly occurred to him that he could take the other deckchair from the garage as long as he didn’t unlock the door when John was around. Why on earth had he considered buying a new one? He couldn’t have been thinking straight.

  He saw that Brandon’s mother was staring at him expectantly, realized that he’d forgotten to politely dismiss her.

  ‘If you could return for him in two hours?’

  ‘That long?’

  Yes – I need the extra money now that I’m constantly replacing my bedding and soft furnishings.

  ‘It’s best. We’re making such good progress that I’d like to increase the momentum. Especially when he has his exams next week.’

  ‘I suppose that I could go to that new cafe in town,’ the woman said doubtfully.

  That was half of the problem, Adam thought – Brandon was an exceptionally bright boy but was stuck with parents who were measuring out their lives in coffee spoons.

  ‘I’ve heard that it’s good,’ he lied. It was best that she stayed exactly as she was – after all, if her outlook on life improved so might Brandon’s and he couldn’t afford to lose the weekly fee. At the moment, she fussed around the boy and added to the stress that his ADHD already put him under, so, as a result, he acted out and required further therapy. It was Adam’s task to get him to act superficially better, whilst still being odd enough to require ongoing counselling.

  ‘So, what have you done to earn brownie points this week?’ he asked after Mummy Dearest had gone off to buy a cream tea.

  ‘Tidied my room, said please and thank you to everyone, babysat for my cousin Ethan.’

  ‘Yeah? How old is he?’

  Brandon shrugged, seemed to belatedly notice Adam’s frown and said, ‘Four.’

  ‘And your mum leaves you in sole charge?’

  He could imagine Mrs Petrie still chaperoning Brandon when he was twenty.

  The boy shrugged. ‘Not exactly. I have to take him to the woman next door if he becomes unduly distraught.’

  ‘So, why have they asked you to babysit now?’

  ‘Well, my grandmother used to do it but she died recently.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not. I mean, thank you. His mum goes out a lot and my parents have to shop.’

  ‘So, do you mind looking after him?’

  Another shrug. ‘He doesn’t have a father so I’m in loco parentis.’

  The teen’s vocabulary was excellent for his age – for any age.

  ‘That’s great, Brandon. It really is.’ He decided to level with the kid. ‘Sometimes you have to do really dull stuff at home or school to get kudos but it pays off in the long term. You look after this cousin now and your mum and dad will see you as a balanced person, are much more likely to fund your years at university.’

  ‘A room of my own which I can lock – that’s all I want,’ the youth said, as he said during every session.

  ‘Trust me, you’re getting closer to it all the time.’ He grinned. ‘Listen, I’ll outline scenarios and you tell me what you usually do and what you think that the new you should do.’

  ‘Conceptually? Be polite, listen actively, make good eye contact.’

  ‘Hell, we haven’t even started and you’re sorted!’ Adam said.

  Almost two hours later, he waved the boy and his mother goodbye, sat back and sipped a glass of white wine. This was like taking milk from a baby. With his almost constant movement and bursts of defiance, Brandon had been the hyperactive-impulsive type. He’d also shown an inability to delay gratification, limited social skills and difficulty in sustaining interest in a project, all of which had made him a challenge both at school and at home.

  He, Adam, had recognized that the boy’s medication was actually keeping him awake and agitated throughout the early hours, had suggested to his doctor that they cut his late-afternoon dose to half a tablet. As a result, he now slept through the night. He’d also talked to his mother privately on the phone and suggested that she use a strategy called ‘extinction’ when her son behaved badly, in essence the withdrawal of a reward. Brandon was motivated to retain access to his computer and his PlayStation, pure escapism, so his behaviour had improved.

  Adam smiled to himself as he poured a second glass of Riesling. The boy was going to be one of his biggest success stories and his mother would recommend him to everyone she met.

  Christ, that shrink was easy to deceiv
e – he thought that he was cool and clever but he just came over as arrogant and smarmy. His idiotic parents were paying over the odds to someone who didn’t have a clue. But that suited him, Brandon, just fine: the last thing he wanted was a psychologist who understood him. He wanted to do his own thing and to hell with society’s rules. Oh, he took the shrink’s point that he should pretend to respect his desperately conventional elders and his play-by-the-rules teachers, but he had no intention of living like them.

  ‘Ethan – fucking stop it,’ he said as the four-year-old began to wail.

  Ethan stopped, doubtless remembering the slaps that he’d given him last week for being too noisy. Slaps were a good bet as they faded long before his parents got back from the weekly shopping trip or Ethan’s downbeat mother returned from the pub. She was his aunt, his father’s sister, the black sheep of the dull but respectable family: the others had become accountants and bank tellers but she’d settled for being a single parent and a drunk.

  ‘Hungry,’ Ethan said, threatening to cry again.

  ‘Here, have some crisps.’ There were fish fingers in the freezer but he couldn’t be bothered putting on the grill, was immersed in his guitar playing. Anyway, his folks would be back with laden carrier bags within the hour and the little brat could choose something from one of them. ‘Fake it until you make it, kid – it’ll stand you in good stead in the long term,’ he said to the little boy, echoing Adam’s words.

  Did the man really think that his pathetic homilies were going to infiltrate his, Brandon’s, sophisticated psyche? There was one born every minute as his recently-deceased grandmother used to say.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Are you sure, Mum?’

  As soon as he said the words out loud, Nicholas Neave realized how ridiculous they sounded. Of course she was sure – she’d just returned from an hour-long conversation with the consultant. It was ovarian cancer and it had spread so widely that it was inoperable.

  ‘I’m sure, son. You know how I’ve been below par?’

  Nicholas nodded and took Jill’s hand. How often had they sat here on his parents’ couch, enjoying hot drinks and snacks and exchanging anecdotes? It must have been so hard for her to summon them here today to break the news.

  He heard his wife clear her throat. ‘I thought that the doctor said it was just IBS?’

  ‘They thought that for a few months when my stomach puffed up but the new diet didn’t help and I was taking so many painkillers that I passed out in the supermarket and further tests showed that I was anaemic. Then I blacked out again and they did a scan . . .’

  ‘Isn’t there anything they can do?’

  Nicholas looked helplessly at his dad, only to see that the older man was crying silently. He’d only once seen him weep like that, after his daughter-in-law Helen’s unexpected death.

  ‘Just give me painkillers to keep me comfortable,’ his mother said. ‘Hey, I’ve had a good life and made it to seventy. Nobody lives forever, son.’

  Seventy’s not old nowadays, Nicholas thought dazedly. He looked at his three-year-old son, Tim, playing with a big plastic truck on the floor. How many more times would he see his grandmother before she became too ill for juvenile visitors? Would he even remember her when he grew up?

  ‘Mum, Dad, I’m so sorry,’ he said, hating the inadequacy of the word. He’d thought that his parents would have at least another fifteen years together as they’d always been so energetic and healthy. They’d only retired last year from running a florist’s, with all of the early-morning trips to market and hectic Saturdays which that entailed.

  ‘We haven’t been able to get hold of your brother yet,’ his mother said sadly.

  Good. He bit back the word. Mum loved Adam, her chosen son, whatever his faults and was always reaching out to him, but the sonofabitch only got in touch when he wanted favours or cash. They’d recommended him to a few of their less-balanced customers when they owned the florists so he’d been angry when they sold up.

  ‘Maybe you could speak to him for me? Explain that I don’t have long left.’

  Nicholas fought back tears. He’d march his adopted brother round here in person if necessary. He’d even pay him if that was what it took.

  ‘I’ll talk to him, Mum. Promise. You know how busy he gets.’

  Busy screwing hookers, probably. He’d seen him hanging around the rougher parts of the town where it was easiest to score sex or drugs. Much as he despised the man, he’d phone him as soon as he got home and would underline the fact that this was an emergency.

  He forced himself to dial as soon as he got back. The phone rang and rang and he was expecting it to go to answerphone when his brother eventually said a breathless, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Adam? It’s Nicholas. You know how Mum’s had all these symptoms? Well, she saw the specialist today and it’s not good news.’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘It’s ovarian cancer and it’s terminal.’

  The other man’s voice didn’t miss a beat. ‘How long has she got?’

  ‘They haven’t told her yet. She goes back next week to find out about timescales and palliative care.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Visit her. Pretend that you care. Make her last weeks as happy as possible.’

  A slight pause. ‘You know that I’ve never gone the happy families route.’

  ‘Oh, I’m well aware of that, but she’s asking for you and—’

  There was a click and he realized that the phone call had come to an abrupt and unsatisfactory end.

  TWELVE

  ‘Awoman has gone missing in nearby Bristol and the police there are convinced that she’s met with foul play.’ Detective Superintendent Winston studied the missing persons report and had to admit that there were similarities with Hannah’s death. Both women had led blameless lives – Kylie worked in a clothing store during the day and spent most evenings with her disabled parents. She’d disappeared during a rare night out with friends. Her mother thought that she’d come home and then had a change of heart: they’d heard the outer door open and close, then a car start up. Neither parent had heard from the young woman since.

  But the man that they suspected of Hannah’s murder was a controlled and intelligent individual, so it was unlikely that he’d have killed again so quickly, assuming that Kylie was actually dead rather than merely being held someplace against her will, like an outhouse or basement. All that they could be sure of was that she hadn’t left voluntarily; she’d been happy with her life and was really looking forward to her sister’s impending wedding. Moreover, her modest bank account hadn’t been touched.

  Could their suspect – if only they had the funds to mount twenty-four-hour surveillance – be keeping her as a sex slave? The police psychologist had said that this was highly unlikely, that he’d tire quickly of one body, would prefer new flesh. So it might well be that one man had murdered Hannah and that a different man was keeping Kylie in his basement or some outbuilding which was off the beaten track. In other words, they couldn’t afford to zero in exclusively on one individual, the Detective Superintendent told himself as he reviewed the latest intelligence. They had to keep an open mind.

  THIRTEEN

  His lips were on her clitoris and he was licking her so sweetly that she couldn’t keep still, was inwardly begging him to continue. She had her hands entwined in his lovely, thick dark hair, wordlessly encouraging him as she pushed her pubis against his tongue, as the ripples built and spread . . .

  Olivia came long and hard and woke up to find her sex was pulsating. She slid down an exploratory finger, found that she was hot and wet. She’d orgasmed in her sleep, a first for her. It wouldn’t have been a problem if she hadn’t been dreaming that she was in bed with Adam Neave.

  A part snore, part whistle brought her more fully back to the present and she turned on her side to look at Marc, her husband. She’d been fourteen when he first asked her out, and he’d been a whole year older. He�
�d seemed mature and exotic in those days, particularly given his Anglo-French heritage.

  They’d married three years after they first met, in defiance of both sets of parents. Then, life had been full of possibilities – foreign holidays and new hobbies and, they’d hoped, eventually a child. But Marc had tired of travelling, lost interest in his squash club and seemed to blame her for their failure to conceive, though tests had shown that both of them were fertile and no one could explain exactly why their frequent sex sessions had never resulted in a pregnancy. Gradually, they’d made love less and less and Marc had also lost interest in socializing. Nowadays, he was content to stay at home and watch Sky Sports in the evenings whilst she still wanted to have fun.

  ‘Marc, can you lie on your side?’ She poked and shoved at him with increasing irritation until he moved, but the nocturnal noises continued. Had he been playing with his cousin’s dog? She was sure that he was allergic to the beast and ended up with nasal congestion as a result.

  ‘You in a bad mood again?’ he muttered, his shoulders hunched.

  ‘No, just a bit tired with all this extra travelling.’ Until recently she’d both lived and worked in Dorchester but now she was commuting to Weston-super-Mare, Adam’s locale.

  Hug me, she thought, but Marc remained turned away from her. Make love to me – I’m already open and wet. She turned and slid her hands around his waist and was about to move them down towards his groin, but her efforts were met by yet another snore.

  How had he become so old, so tired all the time? In the early years of their marriage, they had gone out frequently, even if it was just to friends’ houses. Then these same friends had started to have babies and the shared pizza nights had come to an end. They’d still socialized as a couple, though, getting joint gym membership and also attending karate classes. But Marc had become increasingly involved in an engineering project at work so she’d started exercising alone.