Deadly Obsession

by Michael Kerr

  “Has Lisa Norton given you anything hard yet?”

  Jack grinned.

  “Apart from your cock, you pervert,” Ken said, unable to suppress a pained smile.

  “She’s convinced that he’s our worst nightmare; a stalker who escalates quickly and kills. She’s working something up tonight.”

  “Yeah, you, Jack. Try not to take her mind off the job in hand. Although I doubt you’re her type.”

  Jack pulled a face and said, “I’m nobody’s type. I’ve got nothing to offer anyone. I’m a guy who passes through at odd hours and doesn’t contribute. I don’t do long-term relationships.”

  “Hold the violin, Jack. I know you’ve been there and got the T-shirt. But you contributed towards Danny. That was a joint production. So why not stop bitching, see more of your son, and have something else in your life. Don’t just be a copper.”

  “Since when did you start giving free advice to people who don’t want it?”

  “Since I’ve seen you begin to become a pain in the arse. You drink too much of that Yank bourbon, don’t eat for days at a time, and smoke like you’ve got shares in Imperial Tobacco. You’ll burn out if you don’t lighten up.”

  “You’re taking advantage of our relationship. You have no―”

  “Don’t start acting like a fucking diva, Jack. I’m speaking my mind. I thought you liked it straight from the hip. You haven’t taken any leave as such since you split with Sharon. You’ve become like a sewer pipe bunged up with shit. You need flushing out before you back-up and choke on it.”

  “That’s almost poetic for a cop. But apart from this case, there are dozens of others that won’t just solve themselves.”

  “Get real. There will always be more than we can cope with. The resources aren’t there. Never have been and never will be. We do our best and some of them get resolved. At the end of the day, it’s a job. You have to be more than what you do. When we’re both worm food life will go on. You have to realise that you can’t win.”

  “Maybe you’ve got a point, Ken. But I have to compete. Winning is the goal. Nobody wants to come in second.”

  “But you take it personally.”

  “It is personal. I choose to see these bastards as the enemy, not just of the people they victimise, but of us and every other decent citizen. We joined up to beat them, Ken. We take them on. If that isn’t personal, then what the hell is?”

  Ken sighed. “I know where you’re coming from. It’s noble. But even a soldier needs rest and recuperation. You need to play a little golf and screw around: know how to recharge and maintain optimum performance levels.”

  “I’ll chill, Ken. I know you’re right. I’ve been thinking I should be more of a father to Danny. I’ll find a way to compromise.”

  Ken punched Jack lightly on the arm. “I hope so. But I won’t hold my breath. Just get it through that thick head of yours that you’re not a one man band. We’re only cogs in a machine.”

  “That’s true, but a little simplistic. The cogs are part of the whole, no less important than what they help to drive. Without them, there is no machine.”

  “Enough. I’ve given myself a headache. I’m going home. I might take Sheila out for a steak meal in some half-decent restaurant. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, and made his way back to the squad room, to be met by Mike coming out of the door.

  “Fancy a pint, Mike?” he said.

  “Not tonight, boss. I’ve got a heavy date with a flight attendant.”

  “Like in air hostess?”

  “Exactly. She was in Chicago this morning, and tonight I’m taking her to a night club in Romford. It’s a small world.”

  Jack nodded. Dropped into a chair when Mike had gone, and then stood up again and went over to where the coffee was. The room was empty. Half the team were working cases, the other half off duty, which with SCS was little more than standby mode. They all carried pagers.

  The coffee was like tar. He drank it anyway. Ken had discomposed him. Made him think about things he tried not to. He would ring Sharon in the morning and arrange to take Danny somewhere special. Wherever his son wanted to go. And he would maybe go home now, grab a shower and pop out for a bite to eat. A curry would hit the spot, with a pint or two of lager to cool it down. Funny, he felt lonely, and that wasn’t the same as being alone. It wasn’t a good feeling.

  Time to leave. He slipped on his jacket as he headed for the lift. Pressed the button and then stuffed his hands in his pockets while he listened to the groaning of the cables in the shaft. His right hand closed on the Post-it pad. He pulled it out and looked at the number written on the top page. It was Lisa Norton’s number. He had the urge to call her, but didn’t.

  It was late. He’d showered earlier, had a wet shave and got dressed in clean shirt and jeans, then decided that he had no appetite to sit by himself in the local curry house. There would be couples and foursomes talking quietly. And more boisterous parties of lads who’d been pub crawling. He couldn’t fancy being a part of and apart from others in those surroundings. He picked up his mobile and let his thumb transfer the now memorised digits to the keypad.

  When she answered he almost cancelled the call. Wings fluttered in his guts. He shouldn’t be doing this.

  “Hello.”

  “Er, Lisa, it’s Jack Ryder.”

  “What’s happened, Ryder? It’s late.”

  Shit. He’d just dug a deep hole and fallen in it. Climbing out might prove to be difficult.

  “Uh, I didn’t realise it was this time of night,” he said. “I should have waited till morning. I lose track. It isn’t important.”

  “Now you’ve woken me up, you might as well tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Christ, Lisa, I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t asleep, or in bed. I was just ribbing you.”

  He took a deep breath. “I was just going over the paperwork and wondered if you’d seen anything we’d missed.” It was lame, but all he could come up with.

  “I’ve put down a few initial thoughts on what type of offender I think he is. I planned on ironing out the wrinkles in the morning and getting it shipshape before I gave it to you.”

  “Fine. I’ll―”

  “Why did you really phone me, Ryder?”

  “I told you. I―”

  “Bullshit! Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  “And do you have my address?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you drink white wine?”

  “No, Jim Beam. You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I’m a shrink. That’s what I do.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Bring your own booze. You can look at what I’ve come up with.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Ravenous. I had a microwave meal hours’ ago, but it was foul.”

  “I’ll get take away. Chinese or Indian?”

  “Surprise me.”

  She disconnected.

  He put his jacket on, pocketed his phone, checked his pockets for keys, wallet, cigarettes and lighter, then took a bottle of JB from a kitchen cupboard. He was all set to go and left the flat on the run. The car engine wouldn’t turn over. He gave it a few seconds. It should not be possible to hate an inanimate object, but at that moment he could have put the Sierra in a crusher and hoped it could feel the steel jaws reduce it to a cube of scrap metal. He willed it to start, turned the key again. It did the right thing. There was a God! The old Ford had earned another stay of execution.

  What the hell was he doing? Ken had made him take a long, hard look at himself, and he didn’t like what he saw. He was in a rut and knew it; letting his life slide. And this impulsive foray was not going to change a damn thing. He should phone her back and cancel. Say he’d got a call and had to attend a crime scene. Anything. But he didn’t.

  He picked up a Chinese takeaway and not long after was standi
ng on Lisa’s doorstep with a carrier bag full of steaming cartons in one hand and the bottle of hooch in the other, in lieu of flowers and chocolates. Still gripping the brown paper bag, he rang the bell, then slid the front of each booted foot up the back of his calves in turn. He felt like a nervy kid on his first big date. He shouldn’t be here. But he wanted to see Lisa with a powerful irrationality that would not be denied.

  Lisa looked through the peephole. He was standing front and centre under the porch light. Satisfied, she slid off the security chain and unlocked and opened the door.

  He didn’t move. Just stood there like he was waiting for a bus.

  “Make a decision, Ryder,” she said. “You’re letting the cold air in. Either come in or leave the food and go. Your call.”

  He felt awkward, out of his depth, but stepped into the hall, wiped his feet on the mat and moved to the side while she locked up again. All he could smell ‒ apart from the Chinese food ‒ was soap and shampoo. And she didn’t seem to feel the need to bother with makeup. Her hair was lush; thick loose locks framing her face at the sides, tumbling onto her shoulders. She was wearing a white T-shirt and grey track suit bottoms. No bra. The rush of cold air that preceded him into the cottage had raised goose pimples on her bare arms, and caused her nipples to stiffen against the thin cotton. The next hour or two would be torture.

  “Let’s eat,” she said. “And then I’ll show you what I’ve got.”

  Her expression remained neutral. Was she playing mind games with him? Or was the double entendre all in his own dirty mind?

  Lisa took hold of the bag by its handles. Their hands touched, and he nearly lost the plot and was within a heartbeat of dropping the food and drink, crushing her to him and kissing her hard on the lips. Instead, he let go of the bag and dutifully followed her through to the kitchen. Everything but Lisa evaporated from his mind. He was lost in the moment and totally captivated, living each second as it ticked into and then out of existence. There was no past or future, just the present. He was feeling all at sea, and his palms were too warm and moist. A little voice at the back of his mind told him that this was one of those momentous events that could prove life-changing. There would be no going back to what had been. He was moving on.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HE had decided to give the parka two hot washes in the machine. The blood came out, so he elected to keep the garment. Waste not, want not. The day had been eventful. It had been lunchtime when the murder of the security guard was broadcast. It was reported that the guy was a fifty-year-old father of two. It had been his first week on the job, after a career in the army.

  Bad choice of new employment.

  There were not enough details. Only that the guard had been brutally beaten to death. The talking head on the TV implied that the attack may have occurred as a result of him confronting a person or persons unknown who were attempting to break into the apartment block.

  Killing was so easy. Without a rock solid motive, the police were like kids at a party, blindfolded and trying to pin cardboard tails on the arse of a donkey. He could lead them in any direction he wanted, taunt them, and watch them become more and more frustrated as he evolved and outmanoeuvred them at every turn.

  He would give Dawn some respite. Phone her and tell her that he was going to be out of town for a week or two. But not for her to worry, it would only be a temporary interlude.

  It was eight o’clock that evening when he parked by the river and walked along the embankment. He stopped, leant against the cold stone retaining wall and looked out at the reflected light from the south bank, which danced on the pitch surface of the Thames. He then punched-up Dawn’s number on the Nokia he had purloined thirty minutes previously from the coat pocket of a yuppie in a busy bistro. He hummed tunelessly while he waited for her to pick up.

  ‘Hi, this is Dawn. I can’t get to the phone at the moment, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you’, the recorded message advised.

  “Pick up, Dawn. You know the rules. You don’t want to piss me off, do you?”

  There was a click. “Are you there?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  No reply.

  “I heard someone got himself beaten to death over at your place.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Are you taping this call?”

  There was a pause. “No.”

  “You shouldn’t lie to me, Dawn. I’ve been very patient with you, but I’m becoming a little exasperated. What do you want from me? What more can I do to convince you that we belong together? Has anyone else in your whole life shown such unflagging devotion or loved you so much?”

  “If you love me, then leave me alone.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You’re all I want, Dawn. If I thought you really meant that, then I’d more than likely just put a bullet through your head. Is that how you want it to end?”

  “Please―”

  “Don’t say another fucking word, Dawn. You’re upsetting me. Really pissing me off. Here’s the final ultimatum. I’m going away for a while. It’ll give you time to face up to the fact that we are going to be together, one way or another. It’s kismet, angel, our lives are interlocked. You need me and want me, so stop fighting it. Now say, I love you, Jerry.”

  Silence.

  “Say it, you ungrateful, stupid bitch, or you’ll end up like that fucking security guard. Everyone has a breaking point, and I’m no exception to the rule.”

  “I love you, Jerry.” A tearful, subdued voice.

  “I love you, too,” he said, then switched the phone off.

  He felt wound up and dissatisfied. He needed to lash out. He looked in the notebook he carried. Rang another number.

  “Hello.”

  “Penny?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “It’s Jerry. I thought it was time we talked. I won’t be writing to you any more.”

  Penny fought to maintain her composure. She had just finished penning a letter to him and addressed the envelope to the occupier of the basement flat at the address she had followed him to. Now she would have no need to post it.

  “I’m glad you called, Jerry. I’ve just finished writing a letter to you.”

  He was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that after you got your rocks off at my expense last night, I followed you home, you sick fuck.”

  She was bluffing. Had to be. He would have known if he’d been followed.

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  The shoe was on the other foot now. She had a sense of power over the pervert who had stalked her and terrified her with his letters.

  “Yes, you creep. Unless someone else was in the haulage yard with you. I followed you all the way to your cruddy basement flat in Muswell Hill.”

  Panic gripped him. He felt weak, out of control. The adrenaline rush he experienced was instigated by fright. He felt dizzy and began to sweat profusely.

  “Then why are you writing to me?” he said. “You could just call the police.”

  “What could they charge you with?” Penny said. “Harassment? I don’t think you would end up behind bars, so reporting you might not be the smart thing to do.”

  “What are you going to do?” he said. There was hope yet.

  “That depends on you, Jerry. If I thought that you would never contact or follow me again, then I would put what’s happened down to experience and leave it at that. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good to me, Penny. I never meant you any harm. It’s over. You can relax.”

  “If I ever see you again, or receive another of your sick letters, then I’ll take everything you’ve sent me to the police.”

  “You’ve got a deal. I’m history. But remember, this is a two-way street. Like you said, I’ve not broken any law. If you shop me, then I’ll do a lot more than just write letters, or watch you flash your tits. We don’t want this to get out of hand, do we?”

&
nbsp; “You’re threatening me.”

  “It’s self-preservation, angel. I’m prepared to get out of your life. But if the boys in blue come knocking at my door, then all bets are off.”

  “I’ve told you, I just want this to be an end to it.”

  “Your wish is my command. Have a good life,” he said, and tossed the mobile phone out into the air, to watch it glint under the ambient light as it pin wheeled down to hit the water and sink.

  She had succeeded in undermining his sense of total power over her life. It was almost inconceivable that she could have had the temerity to take such proactive measures against him. He had never factored-in the possibility of such an aggressive response. And that she thought she could blackmail him into backing off was a mistake she would not have much time to rue. She had transformed herself from a harmless plaything into a sword of Damocles hanging by a hair above his head, and he would not rest easy until the threat was negated. Every breath she now took was one too many. She may have a change of heart and decide to call the police. He rushed back to where his car was parked and made his way to Stratford.

  The flood of relief was totally debilitating and almost equal to when a biopsy on a lump in her right breast had proved benign. She cradled the phone. Let her head drop forward between her shoulders and cried harder and longer than she had when her first boyfriend had jilted her, or when her beloved German shepherd, Ben, had had to be put to sleep.

  She was free of him. She made plans. Living alone was fraught with danger. The small claims manager at work, Anne Chambers, had invited her to move in with her and share the financial burden. Anne lived in a converted loft not too far away, and the offer was now a very attractive one. She would talk to her tomorrow, move as soon as possible, and not leave a forwarding address. It would, for the foreseeable future, be a safe haven. The property was in Anne’s name, as of course was the phone and all other utilities. The only people that would know her whereabouts were those she trusted implicitly.