His Secrets - Episode 1

by Gl Corbin

  When she was older, she'd realised the job wasn’t as exciting as she had imagined it would be. Nevertheless, it was all she had ever wanted to do. Once her father had realised she was determined to join him, he had relented, and set about teaching her the ropes. Although Chris had become involved with every aspect of the business, her father had always been front stage. To the clients, her father was the business. Neither Chris nor her father had realised what a fundamental mistake that would turn out to be. When her father had died, the clients had drifted away. It had been frustrating to lose work which she was more than capable of doing. As the months had gone by, and more and more clients had taken their business elsewhere, she had been forced to take whatever work she could get. The type of work she was now doing wasn’t particularly interesting, and it certainly didn’t pay as well.

  “Yes dear,” Mrs Jeremies said. “It's you I want. Didn’t you do most of the work on my husband’s case?”

  It was true. Chris had done the lion’s share of the work on the Jeremies case, but she hadn’t expected anyone except her father to realise it. It seemed Mrs Jeremies was more observant than most.

  “Yes. Yes I did.”

  “Good. Well that’s settled.”

  *********

  “First, I need you to promise that no one will know I have engaged your services.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Especially not my husband. I have my own bank account. I will pay you out of that.”

  “Okay.” It was beginning to make more sense. Chris guessed that Mrs Jeremies must suspect her husband of being unfaithful. Presumably she wanted Chris to find out if her suspicions were correct.

  “Have you seen the paper today?” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs Jeremies took the local paper out of her bag, and laid it on the desk.

  “I've only seen the headlines,” Chris said.

  “Here, read this.”

  The body of a young woman had been discovered by a man walking his dog. The young woman, who had yet to be formally identified, was believed to be Katherine Simmons - a twenty one year old trainee solicitor who had been missing for two days.

  Chris laid the paper down.

  “She is the fourth,” Mrs Jeremies said.

  “Fourth?”

  “The fourth young professional female to be murdered.”

  “The report doesn't make any mention of that.”

  “Neither do the police. They haven't linked the cases. I've done my best to convince them that they are all the work of the same man”

  “And?”

  “They didn't want to know. They're adamant there isn't a link. They said the MO in each case is totally different, and that there's no reason to think that the murders have been carried out by the same man.”

  “What makes you think they have?”

  “The police are looking at the wrong thing. They are focussed on how the murder was committed - they should be looking at who the victim was. The murderer is picking out young professional women. A doctor, an accountant, a dentist and now a solicitor.”

  “Do you mind me asking, Mrs Jeremies? What is your interest in the case?”

  “The trainee doctor...” Mrs Jeremies fought back a tear. “...was my niece. My sister’s daughter - Rose. That was twelve months ago now.”

  “Do the police have any leads?”

  “Nothing. They keep making noises, but I’m not even sure they have any people still on Rose's case.”

  “Why isn't your sister here with you?”

  “This has destroyed her. She can barely function, and spends most of her time in bed. I can't bear to see her like that – I have to do something. Besides, I loved my niece like a daughter. I don't have any children of my own.”

  “Why don’t you want your husband to know you have come to see me?”

  “He and my sister have never got along. She tried to persuade me not to marry him - he has never forgiven her for that. She was right of course. Damn fool that I was - I didn’t listen.”

  “I'm not sure if I will be able to help.”

  “Please. You're my last hope. If it's the money...”

  “It's not the money. I just don't want to build up your hopes.”

  “Right now, I have none. Anything you can do is better than that. Will you help?”

  *********

  Chris tried Bradley's phone, but it went to voice mail.

  “It's Chris - call me.”

  She flicked through the file which Mrs Jeremies had left with her. Chris had said she wouldn't give a definite yes or no until she'd had the chance to study it. The file comprised mainly of newspaper cuttings, but also included a number of letters and emails which documented her correspondence with the police. It didn't take Chris long to realise that the police didn't think there was any merit in Mrs Jeremies's theory. Their responses, although polite and professional, made that quite clear.

  It was one O' clock. No word yet from Bradley. She brushed sandwich crumbs from the press cutting of the first murder, which had taken place almost two years ago. Sandra Francis, a recently qualified dentist, had been suffocated in her own apartment. The police were reported as saying it was possible she had known her attacker as there had been no sign of forced entry. Chris noted that there had been no evidence of sexual activity.

  The office door flew open, crashing against the wall. A red faced man was standing in the doorway. It took Chris a split second to realise it was Alan Drake.

  “I want the photos.”

  “Which photos?”

  “Don't try to be smart with me you little bitch. Hand them over or I'll smash this place up, and then I'll smash you up.”

  “Are you threatening me Mr Drake?”

  He walked across the room, and leaned on her desk, so his face was only inches from hers.

  “Give me the fucking photos!”

  Sue Anderson must be really desperate to want to kiss this man who had such bad breath.

  “I can't do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you aren't my client.”

  “My wife wants the photos.”

  “Then all she has to do is ask.”

  “If you don't give me those fucking photos, I'll...”

  Chris pushed her chair back on its castors. Before he had a chance to react, she had grabbed his head, and slammed it onto the desk. Blood spattered across the wooden surface as his nose split open. While he was still stunned, she hopped around the desk, grabbed his arms, and forced them up his back.

  “You've broke my nose!” He whimpered.

  “Get up.” Chris applied pressure to his arms, forcing him to stand. After frogmarching him across the room, she put her foot on his huge backside, and shoved him out of the door.

  “I'll get you for this!” He was trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

  Chris slammed the door closed, and listened until she was satisfied he had left.

  Her father had insisted she learn self-defence from a young age. She had been the only girl at the boxing club when she was eight. In her teens, she had taken up kick boxing, and had progressed to a black belt. She hadn't attended a class for some time, but like riding a bike, it wasn't something you forgot.

  *********

  “Tomorrow?”

  Bradley had just dropped the bombshell that he had to leave in the morning.

  “I'm sorry. Next time, I should be able to stay longer.”

  Chris knew what she had signed up for. He had warned her from the outset that his job took him out of the country for up to nine months each year. It shouldn't bother her, and most of the time it didn't. Her previous relationships had in part failed because she hated the obligations which came with being a couple. She enjoyed her own space and her own company. The compromises which couples were expected to make for one another had proven too much for her. Were she and Bradley a couple? She supposed they must be – she hadn't been with another man since they'd met.

  Bradley wasn't on
e of those men who spent all of his time talking shop. He barely mentioned his work. Chris knew he worked for a defence contractor, and that he spent most of his time in the Middle East – that was as much as she knew.

  “Next time? When will that be?”

  Bradley shrugged.

  They were in 'Ashes', their favourite restaurant. Bradley hadn't returned her call until almost five O' clock; because he'd been busy arranging meetings for the following week. He had expected to have a week with Chris, but a last minute change of plan meant he would be leaving in the morning. He had booked the table by way of an apology.

  “How was your day?” Bradley said.

  “Usual.” Chris never talked about her work. When she'd first told him that she was a P.I., he had been quite taken aback. At first, he hadn't been sure if she was being serious or not. Chris had always insisted the job wasn't dangerous, so he would have been shocked if he had known about her encounter with Alan Drake.

  “Chris, I'm really sorry that I have to leave so soon.” Bradley put his hand on hers.

  She shrugged. She knew she should say it didn't matter, but she couldn't bring herself to lie.

  “Let me make it up to you. What do you want to do after the meal? A club? Or a show? We could try for some tickets. We can go wherever you want. ”

  “That's not what I want to do.”

  “What then?”

  “I'd like you to take me to bed.”

  They finished up their main course, but passed on deserts and coffee. Instead, they made record time on their journey back to Chris's apartment.

  Bradley had a way of undressing her that was so effortless, so seamless, that it felt as though her clothes had evaporated. He took a step back, so he could study her body. Every line, every curve, every inch belonged to him. He leaned forward, and planted the tenderest of kisses on her breast.

  When he began to undo the buttons on his shirt, it was as though he was doing it in slow motion. He knew it drove her crazy. She reached out – too impatient to wait, but he brushed her hand away. After what felt like an age, he cast his shirt aside - now she could touch. The feel of his chest and toned stomach made her tingle with anticipation. Her hands slid down to the waistband of his trousers; this time he didn't stop her. Instead, he grinned as she fumbled with his belt; she was all fingers and thumbs.

  His trousers dropped to the floor; his boxers could barely contain his erection. Kneeling down, she freed his cock, and pressed it between her breasts. Before she could do more, he lifted her to her feet, and carried her across the bedroom. No sooner had he laid her on the bed than his mouth was on her. She gripped the sheets as his tongue began to tease her clit. His hands slid slowly up the inside of her thighs; his tongue dipped inside her wetness, and then went back to teasing her clit. He slid his hand across the flat of her tummy, and then began to squeeze her breasts. His fingers were inside her now – quickly finding the spot. It was all too much - her senses were in overdrive, but she wasn't ready yet. She wanted him inside her.

  Bradley sensed her desire. This time when he guided his erection into her pussy, he did so slowly and gently. He could be gentle when he wanted to be. They were soon in sync, and found a rhythm which although much slower than their reunion fuck was no less satisfying. Their bodies rose and fell as one; they kissed – their tongues battling to explore each other's mouth.

  Holding her tight to him, Bradley rolled onto his back. His cock felt even bigger now she was on top. As Chris rode him, she began to rub her clit. Bradley grinned – content to let her do the work now.

  Chris was the first to reach orgasm. Her pussy muscles contracted as she continued to ride him. Moments later, she felt him come deep inside her.

  *********

  Bradley had an early morning flight. He was up at five and out of the apartment by six.

  Chris saw him off at the door. She had deliberately allowed her dressing gown to fall open, in an unsuccessful attempt to lure him back to bed. After he had left, she made coffee, and marked up the calendar. For some reason, she had taken to keeping a record of the days he spent with her. It was April, and so far they had only managed eighteen days. That was less than one week per month. It was like being married to someone in the armed forces.

  After a shower and a bowl of cereal, Chris drove to the office. Since her father had died, she had considered giving up the office to work out of her apartment. The incident with Drake had served to remind her why that wouldn't be a good idea.

  Chris had worked through all of Mrs Jeremies papers, several of which were now stained with Drake's blood. It was easy to see why the police weren't giving much credence to the serial killer theory. There appeared to be little or no similarity between any of the cases other than the fact that all of the victims were professionals. Serial killers usually kept to the same or similar MO – this felt like a dead end. Chris was tempted to decline the case. She hated the idea of disappointing Mrs Jeremies, but better that than to raise false hopes. She picked up the phone intending to deliver the bad news, but at the last minute had a change of heart, and instead called an old friend of her father's.

  *********

  Joe Mason had looked forty when he was in his twenties. Now he was in his late fifties, he actually looked young for his age. Joe and her father had grown up in the same neighbourhood, and had been childhood friends. Joe had been in the police force all of his life; the first ten years in uniform. He had been one of the pallbearers at her father's funeral. They met in Joe's favourite greasy spoon cafe in the centre of town. On the wall behind the counter was a sign which read:

  Welcome to the poncy-coffee free zone.

  We serve only two kinds of coffee: black or white.

  “Nice to see you Chris.” Joe kissed her on the cheek. “I still don't know how someone as ugly as your dad could produce someone as beautiful as you.”

  “How are you Joe?”

  “Same as always.”

  “Isn't it time you retired?”

  “What would I do?”

  Joe had never married, but according to her father, he had never been short of female company as a young man.

  “Are you still running your dad's business?”

  Joe took a sip of his tea, pulled a face, and proceeded to put three teaspoon's full of sugar in it.

  “Kind of.” Chris said. “Most of the clients left after dad died.”

  Joe nodded.

  “Most of my work these days is following cheating husbands.”

  “No danger of that type of work drying up.”

  “A depressing thought.”

  “True though.” Joe put another teaspoon full of sugar in his mug. “What can I do for you Chris?”

  “I wanted to ask you about a case a client brought to me yesterday.”

  “What kind of case?”

  Chris pulled the Jeremies file out of her bag, and passed it to Joe.

  It took him little more than ten minutes to flick through the paperwork.

  “Whose blood is this?”

  “The cheating husband of one of my clients.”

  Joe smiled – he knew Chris had trained in boxing and kick boxing.

  “What's the story?” He passed the file back to Chris.

  “The first woman murdered was my client's niece.”

  “The dentist?”

  “Yeah. My client seems to think all of these are the work of the same man.”

  “She's wrong.”

  “You sound sure.”

  “I am. You know I can't talk about individual cases.”

  “I know.”

  “These have already been cross checked. Someone had floated the idea that we might have a serial killer. There's nothing to back it up. It isn't just the MOs are different – there's nothing to connect them – no matching fingerprints, DNA – nothing. I think your client is barking up the wrong tree.”

  Chris nodded. He had only confirmed what she already suspected.

  “Thanks Joe.”

 
; *********

  The next morning when Chris arrived at the office there were two messages on her answer phone. The first had been left the previous day while Chris had been in the greasy spoon with Joe. It was from Celia Drake. She had thanked Chris for her help, and said she would come into the office to settle her account. She asked Chris not to post the invoice because she had moved out, and was living with her sister. Alan Drake had tried to persuade her that it had all been a misunderstanding, but Celia had decided she would no longer be a door mat. She had ended the message by thanking Chris for the work she had done on her husband's nose.

  Chris smiled. She hadn't been sure Celia Drake would have the courage to leave her husband.

  The second message had been recorded earlier that morning; only a few minutes before Chris had arrived. It was from Mrs Jeremies. Chris had intended calling her to tell her she wouldn't be able to take the case. Mrs Jeremies sounded almost manic. The message was short:

  “There's been another.”

  It didn't take Chris long to turn up the news article. The local newspaper's web site had it listed as breaking news. Susan Moore 27, an architect had been found dead in her apartment. The details were sketchy, but it appeared she hadn't shown up for a family birthday party. Her father had found her – poor sod. The police were reported as saying that the death was being treated as suspicious.

  The phone rang; Chris knew who it would be.

  “Yes, I've just read it.”

  Mrs Jeremies sounded even more worked up than she had in her recorded message. She wanted to know if Chris was going to take the case.