“Strip” she ordered him looking at him disdainfully, “bloody strip you filthy little pervert, or I swear I’ll tell your father and he'll beat it out of you.” Feeling hot shame, helplessly he peeled off his clothes, first the shirt, then his trousers, and then finally his pants and socks until eventually he stood naked and vulnerable there in front of her.
Grabbing his hair again she yanked him down to the tub which was by now half full with freezing cold water.
“No, no-” he started to protest but she silenced him.
“This is what happens to perverts,” she said, thrusting his face violently into the freezing cold water, forcing his head under for what could have been only a few seconds but to him felt like hours.
Gasping as she finally released him, he came up for air coughing and spluttering violently. Her voice greeted him harshly as he struggled to catch his breath.
“That's what you get for writing all those filthy disgusting things, I'll wash it out of you, you bloody little deviant, do you hear me?” she screamed, plunging him face first in to the ice cold bath again, the water flooding his mouth and nose.
She had dunked him a total of twelve times that night, he knew because he had counted each one in his head, and each time she had submerged him under it had seemed like an eternity as the icy cold water invaded his senses. He had always known she disliked him but by the final time he emerged from the water, he came up for air with hatred firmly in his heart Hatred for her but also something more, a deep burning hatred within himself, a shame seared deeply into his naïve adolescent mind. A feeling that made him hunger for revenge, made him hungry to cleanse himself of the shame he felt.
He was filthy like she said, and they had made him filthy, it was their fault for making him want them. He must stop them from tempting him but how? At the time it hadn’t been clear to him, the answer hadn’t yet presented itself, the incident had occurred before Sally of course. Still, even then, his nascent mind had known that he had to stop them somehow, punish them for making him think that way. Why should they have the power to do that to him, to make him feel ashamed like that, to make him suffer the way he had?
He wouldn't fall again, he would resist them he swore to himself, as he knelt over the bathtub shivering and naked, the water from his hair running down in to his red rimmed eyes, his lungs full of freezing cold water from the repeated submerging.
And he had resisted, had done as she'd said, had been good, until Sally had come along. Then he'd allowed himself to be tempted, he’d allowed himself to be tricked, in the hope that it might all be alright. He had let himself dare to imagine that it would work out somehow, that he could have a happy ending after all. How stupid he had been, how naive.
“Not you. No one could ever love you. Filthy little pervert.”
The blonde turned yet again, into the little road that lead directly to her own, and he picked up the pace, his footsteps quickening as he closed the gap between them. She continued to make her way down the road unaware, the black ankle strap shoes that encased her shapely feet inhibiting her speed somewhat.
The blood pounded hard in his ears as he neared her. He was almost behind her. The rage rising inside him seem to scream uncontrollably, and his heart knocked against his chest with each beat, feeling too big for his rib cage all of a sudden. She was so close he could almost smell her hair, a faint aroma of the apple shampoo he’d seen in her bathroom wafting behind her.
“You have to end this, you have to stop this.” His mother's voice, he had to silence her somehow.
Closing the final six feet between them easily, he reached out, grabbing her tightly from behind, her terrified shriek piercing the night air. Muffling it quickly, he clamped his gloved hand over her mouth, pulling her into an alleyway that stood between two semi-detached houses.
Bending his head to hers he took a deep breath, smelling her apple scented hair deeply, his right hand on the knife handle in his pocket. A hard blow between his legs winded him suddenly, as she kicked out behind her with her stiletto heel, the movement catching him sharply. He fell to his knees surprised and in pain, releasing her momentarily in an effort to steady himself, as she stumbled forward on to her hands.
Reaching out he tried to grab her leg as she scrabbled around on the floor trying to right herself, missing her ankle by inches. Scrambling to her feet madly, one shoe hanging off by its straps, the other still on, she ran through the alleyway, screaming into the night. Forcing himself to his feet he started after her, he had to catch her, silence her before he was discovered, he couldn’t let her get away.
With an almost superhuman effort he gave chase, pursuing the small, blonde figure gesticulating her arms about her wildly, as she ran stumbling in panic. Panting, still slightly winded from the kick, he reached out for her again, for such a petite figure she was surprisingly strong. His hand made contact with the soft silk of her hair and he grabbed a fist of it, yanking her backwards as she screamed in pure terror.
He dragged her back into the alleyway as screaming, she struggled frantically, her legs kicking and her hands clawing wildly behind her, trying to loosen his grip on her. He kicked her in hard in the middle of her back causing her to fall forwards again down on to the rough, uneven, hard concrete. Crouching over her, he clamped his hand over her mouth as she lay there shaking and terrified, frightened tears falling slowly to the dirty ground beneath her palms. Bending his head to her ear he brought the knife out of his pocket, pulling her head back and exposing her throat as he rested the glinting blade against it.
“You're mine now,” he whispered, as she shook her head, shutting her eyes, not wanting to see, to acknowledge him.
“Mmmphh,” she screamed into his gloved hand, as he made a tutting sound.
“Might as well stop fighting Caroline,” he whispered, her eyes widening in terror as she realised he knew her name. She wouldn’t have the chance to wonder how he knew that for long.
She screamed into his gloved hand as he opened her throat, the sound heavily muffled by the tight clamp of his grip, as the blood spurted violently. Only then did he take his hand away, still holding her head back by her hair, and she tried to open her mouth to scream again, the blood making a terrible gurgling noise as she gulped like a fish, her mouth forming shapes, though barely any sound escaped it.
Crouching over her, he bent his head to her ear kissing her lobe, as she lay, dying on the rough concrete. A hollow rattling sound escaped her body and she slumped forward, as he held her head up to keep it from falling face first into the blood pooling on the ground.
Gingerly, carefully, he turned her around, standing up to take in his handiwork critically, with almost an artist’s eye, as he bent down once more to arrange her hair. Carefully he fanned it out around her face, the bright blaze of it a contrast to the bloody deep scarlet of her throat.
Pulling a small box out of his pocket, he crouched over her again, and, removing the black leather gloves he wore, pushed them into the pocket of his coat, opening the box and lifting out the little gold chain with latex gloved fingertips. Leaning forward he lifted her head with one hand, in order to enable him to affix the jewellery around her neck. Fastening the catch, the little diamond stone winked at him as it fell against her neck, sinking in to the sticky blood from the open wound at her throat.
“Mine,” he whispered into the night air, the rage within him quieted now, his mother’s voice temporarily banished. Looking over her still form, her golden hair spread out about her, he felt the calm, the longed for sense of peace washing over him, and he took a deep breath into his lunged. He stood there for a while, watching her, breathing the cool night air in deeply as he stood there, before turning away from her and stepping back into the night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - DEACON
Doyle entered the officer’s canteen on Monday lunchtime, just as Deacon had finished paying for his lunch. He would have waved to her but his hands were full, the brown plastic tray he carried containing that day’s lunc
htime meal "special”. The “special” which had been advertised as chicken and mushroom pie, seemed strangely short of both chicken and mushroom, and looked to be mostly pie crust as it sat there stubbornly on his plate.
Placing the tray down on one of the yellow topped plastic canteen tables, he sat himself in a chair. The pie was accompanied by some rather burnt looking chips which didn't look too appetising either; the station cook wasn't exactly renowned for his culinary skills. But his stomach was growling, he hadn't eaten anything for most of the weekend, had slept through much of it after he had gotten back from Doyle’s, and spent the rest miserably thinking about Maria.
Doyle was wearing her blonde hair loose for once, and it framed her face rather becomingly. His mind wandered a little as he looked at her, remembering how her long pale gold waves had curled over her naked shoulders as she straddled his body that night. He cursed himself for being such a cliché, straight from one woman's arms into another. Groaning inwardly, he hoped that Doyle wouldn't assume him to be the total arsehole that he probably was.
Him and Doyle went way back, they had been friends for nearly a decade and she'd always been there for him whenever he was frustrated on a case, or whenever he simply needed an ear to sound out. But he hoped he hadn't overstepped the mark this time. Awkwardness at work between his closest colleague was something he really didn’t require, not on top of everything else. Doyle had always had a thing for him he knew, but his mind was so messed up with thoughts of Maria, he really didn't need the added complication right now. Any kind of liaison between them would be a bad idea; his emotions were far too fraught. And besides, it wouldn’t be fair to her. It was all his fault, he should have stopped it, should never have let it get that far.
Doyle, well Doyle was Doyle, and while he had always found her attractive, last night had been about more than that. She always made him feel so comfortable, with her he felt safe, and there had been something peculiarly appealing about that in his hour of need. Had he taken advantage of her though? He hoped not. Watching her as she queued to pay for her food, his mind reached for reasons to try and make sense of what had happened between them, in an attempt to assuage the pang of guilt he felt.
Enjoyable as it had been though, and whatever the reason for it, what had happened between them was certainly a one off. And for both their sakes they should put it out of their mind’s as soon as possible. He needed to speak to her as soon as possible to make sure there wasn't anything awkward between them. He should make it clear that there could be nothing romantic between them. Yes he'd speak to her now, get it over with, and ensure everything was back to normal between them once again.
Maria though was a different matter entirely. When she’d told him she was leaving he’d been genuinely stunned. Though he'd known things hadn't been ideal between them he had simply assumed they would work it out, they always had before.
Not this time though. The look in her dark eyes as she had coolly informed him it was over had told him she was serious. And after ten years together, he knew her well enough to know that she meant it. Mulling over this knowledge morosely, he stared at Doyle, waiting for her to check out and finish paying for the chicken burger and chips she had on her plate, so he could say hi, something, anything to strike up a conversation.
He couldn't imagine life without Maria. Maybe she'd change her mind, want to give it another go? Perhaps after a while she’d realise she’d made a mistake, come back to him. Then she’d call him, beg for him to give her another chance. After all they couldn't just leave it the way they had when he'd stormed out of the house, surely she owed him more than that? It was just like when Zoe left, only this time the hurt was a lot worse. Apart from when he’d learnt that Zoe was taking Brandon with her to New York, he couldn’t ever remember when he’d felt so miserable.
Doyle finished paying and collected her tray of food, as she started to make her way to the nearest free table. She hadn't seen him yet. Standing up he crossed the room, making as if he were going to get a can of coke from the drinks machine positioned by the wall. She looked at him as their paths crossed, and started a little, almost as if she were considering turning around and walking in the other direction, unsure of exactly what to say to him. But seeing the look of concern in his eyes to his relief she gave him a friendly smile.
"How's it going Gaine? You recovered from being taken advantage of the other night?" He grinned sheepishly. He had been a little drunk that night, it wouldn't hurt to let her think that he had been more than a little inebriated, maybe that would help explain what had happened.
"Uh..um…" he murmured, looking down, "I might have been a little worse for wear yeah sorry, hope I didn't act like a complete arse?" He looked into her eyes, trying to discern whether or not she was cross with him. She smiled tightly, shaking her head at him dismissively, her blonde waves bobbing.
"Look, it's totally understandable ok? It's fine.”
“Ahh good then,” he said, feeling relieved, she seemed to be taking this quite well.
“Relieved I’m not going to start demanding that I move my toothbrush in?” She raised an eyebrow at him, and he winced, perhaps he’d seemed a little too palpably glad. Shit what should he say to her now?
“It’s not that I regret what happened…” he fumbled around for the right words, feeling like an idiot, “I didn’t mean that Jen-” She interrupted him.
“Look I get it ok. I was a rebound fuck, you were upset, we had a moment, and you're worried that it might fuck things up. But it's not going to change anything between us so don't worry ok? You’re fine."
He winced at her bluntness. “Cmon it’s not like that?”
“You sure?” she said, looking at him sceptically.
“Look don’t worry about it I’ll make a mental note to not fuck the guy who’s drunk half a bottle of whiskey because his girlfriend recently dumped him next time, ” she added, her tone bitter.
"Jen" he pleaded, “Jen please.”
“Please what? Can we be friends?” He nodded, and she rolled her eyes.
“Do you usually fuck your friends Gaine?”
“No you know what I mean…” he shook his head tailing off, at a loss as to what to say to that, and she raised her eyebrows at him again.
“Do I?”
“Look Doyle, we’ve got a case to work on, we can’t let this get between us,” he was desperate now, this really wasn’t going to plan at all.
“Oh so it’s back to Doyle now is it?”
“Oh cmon don’t be like that-” she held up a hand to cut him off.
“Just stop speaking about it please, you’re making everything ten times worse than it already is, trust me.” He sighed.
She continued, “look I won’t pretend my feelings aren’t a bit hurt but I know we’ve got a fucking case to work on so let’s just focus on that right now ok.
He nodded, yes, work, that was a good idea, they should focus their attention on the case, that would help things get back to normal. Well as normal as things could get when you were on the trying to find a murderer anyway.
"Any developments with that potential lead you told me about when I was interviewing Adam Jackson the other day?" he asked her, wondering if he should tell her about his dislike of Jackson. Deciding against it he kept silent, she’d seemed to warm to the man, and she might think he was just being jealous.
She nodded briskly her eyes lighting up as she spoke.
"Yeah actually, I'm bringing him in later today for questioning. He's agreed to come in voluntarily, so I'll feel him out, see what I can get out of him." His ears pricked up at that, good, they needed a lead. Maybe this one would be the one that would crack this case wide open. God knows they needed it, what with Beeton breathing down both their bloody necks.
"Good work, keep me posted on that" he replied, pleased.
"Actually I'd like you to sit in on the interview, you can tell me what you think, two heads are better than one and all?" She looked at him hopefully. He tho
ught about her proposal for a split second before nodding.
"Yeah that makes sense, what time's he coming in then?"
"Two-o-clock, I'll send for you when he gets here, you going to be around the station this afternoon then?" she asked him.
"Yeah I'll be around," he replied, "well better get back to my pie before it goes cold" he said, gesturing across the now rapidly filling up canteen to the table where he'd set his tray. "Join me?" he asked her, hesitantly.
She shook her head at that. “Honestly I’d rather be alone right now Gaine.” He nodded sadly.
“See you later then,” he said to her, before turning and making his way back to the table.
Vincent Kemp was a small, neat looking man, about 5ft 8” in height, with sharp, elegant features, and beady, guarded looking, slightly shifty eyes. He knew from the police report Doyle had filed that Kemp was 32, though the dark hollows under his eyes gave the impression that the man was a little older than his years.
Kemp was clad head to toe in black clothing, and the man seemed like he was entirely composed of several shades of monochrome; from his unusual silver grey coloured eyes to his black neat cap of hair, right through to the silver cufflinks he wore at his shirt cuffs. There was not a speck of colour on him to be found anywhere, it was almost as if he were a black and white photograph. Waiting for Doyle to finish setting up the tape recorder, he eyed the man suspiciously as he sat opposite him at the desk in the little windowless interview room.
Kemp seemed restless, but then, people did all kinds of strange things when they were being questioned in relation to a murder enquiry didn’t they? Take Adam Jackson for example. Jackson had been a strange one. The man had seemed pleasant enough but he'd left him with a vaguely disquieting feeling, though he couldn't exactly explain why. And how did he know how old Marilyn Channing had been?
Then again he could have just assumed how old she had been from looking at her picture. He’d do some poking around on Jackson anyway though, see what, if anything, he could unearth. But it wasn't like he had done anything to incriminate himself had he? I mean you couldn’t exactly get a search warrant or go about bringing in people for questioning based on a feeling could you? And it wasn’t like Jackson was really relevant to the investigation any way, not having known either victim. Still he’d see if the man had any prior's, anything in his past that stood out at all.
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