Kissing a killer, p.1

Kissing a Killer, page 1

 

Kissing a Killer
 


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Kissing a Killer


  Kissing a Killer

  David Carter

  Published by David Carter, 2017.

  Also by David Carter

  Down into the Darkness

  Grist Vergette's Curious Clock

  The Sound of Sirens

  The Inconvenient Unborn

  The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene

  The Twelfth Apostle

  The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

  Kissing a Killer

  Watch for more at David Carter’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also By David Carter

  Dedication

  Kissing a Killer

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Author’s Notes

  Sign up for David Carter's Mailing List

  Further Reading: The Twelfth Apostle

  Also By David Carter

  About the Author

  This book is dedicated to

  Adsheads everywhere, and

  especially Eric, Colin, Philip,

  and Hazel, (my mother).

  All now gone, but all still

  hugely missed.

  Kissing a Killer.

  An Inspector Walter Darriteau murder mystery.

  © David Carter & TrackerDog Media 2017

  Follow David on Twitter @TheBookBloke

  www.davidcarterbooks.co.uk

  Cover design by Indie Designz http://www.indiedesignz.com

  First Edition.

  The right of David Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publishers, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published by TrackerDog Media, 118 Ringwood Road, Walkford, Christchurch, Dorset BH23 5RF, England. Please contact us for wholesale and distribution enquiries at: [email protected]

  Enquiries welcomed from overseas and secondary publishers.

  One

  He was strong. Incredibly strong. She stared up into his dark unblinking eyes. Nothing there. No pity, no emotion, no feeling, no humanity, nothing but an iciness that chilled her bones.

  When you are close to death your whole life flashes before you, so they say, but it was not Eleanor Wright’s life that flashed through her tortured brain, but his, the attacker, her killer designate, the cold strong nameless man who held her so.

  Why was he doing this? Why did he hate her so much? Why did he hate himself so much? Perhaps he had been abused as a little boy. Perhaps his father had beaten him. Maybe he didn’t have a father and had grown up wild. Maybe he’d been beaten by a wicked stepmother, and this was his idea of revenge. All of those things were possible, or none of them at all. Maybe he simply had a screw loose. There are lots of guys wandering about with loose and missing screws, and she knew that well enough, just as most women do.

  It was her mother’s scolding face that next presented itself to her racing brain. Eleanor recalled the conversation as if she had hours to live, days even. It only took a second.

  ‘You know what you are doing is so wrong!’

  ‘I need the money, mum!’

  ‘Get a fucking job then!’

  ‘What, like you? Serving teas and sandwiches all day to the afternoon coffin dodgers for the minimum wage? I don’t think so! Not a bloody chance!’

  ‘At least it’s honest.... and respectable.’

  ‘Don’t start down that line again!’

  ‘Don’t you think God sees what you are doing... every time you do those perverted things?’

  ‘God! God? What did your so-called God ever do for you?’

  ‘He gave me you, for a start!’

  ‘Well you drew the bloody booby prize there!’

  ‘Don’t be so wicked! I am blessed. You are blessed too. On the day of judgement...’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, well I have news for you, mother dear; there’s no such fucking thing as a God! Or any crappy day of judgement either. You’re in for a big disappointment, I’m off out. Derek said he’d treat me to a curry.’

  ‘And that Derek’s a useless article too!’

  ‘Yeah right, and the hot men are queuing up to see you as well.’

  ‘Don’t involve me in your sordid business!’

  It had been a fairly typical mother/daughter conversation in the Wright family in recent times, but Eleanor’s full attention was brought back to the here and now, to the man in front of her, strangling her.

  She wanted to scream, but he was never going to allow that. And anyway, the caravan was remote, at least half a mile to the next one, and being November that was almost certainly vacant anyway. She could hear the rain drumming on the roof. It was getting heavier too. Screaming would be a total waste of precious energy. She stared up again into those dark eyes. If only she could stab him in those cold eyes with her long and strong fingernails; that would make him think twice, but he’d thought of that. He’d come prepared. She recalled his exact words when he had tapped on her caravan door.

  ‘You’re open for business, I believe?’

  ‘It’s a bit late, ain’t it?’

  ‘Never too late for business, bonny lass. Come on, open up, I’ve plenty of cash, and we have all night.’

  ‘Can’t you come back tomorrow? I’m not really in the mood.’

  ‘No! Open up! It’s starting to rain,’ and he had leant on the flimsy door, and she was never going to resist, for one simple reason. She liked the look of him, and the sound of his calm voice, and his neat understated smile, and the thought of plenty of cash.

  He was so much better looking than the aging creeps who normally found their way down to her old caravan beside the swirling river Dee. Often violent, often drunk, often in need of a damned good wash, often in filthy smoke-ridden clothes, often out of shape and flabby, the kind of gone-to-seed guys that normal women would run a mile from. That’s why they needed her, or someone like her, though they didn’t really want to pay for it, and often barely had enough cash even for a quick BJ.

  Eleanor Wright knew that her name and whereabouts were an open secret in the local pubs. Fact was, that when she had first started doing tricks she might even have encouraged the landlords to “Send ’em down to see me after you’ve finished with them!” Though she’d wiped that idiotic chapter from her mind with a big sigh and a shake of the head.

  She’d stood across the caravan from him, weighing him up, as he appeared to be her, as they usually did. It was a little strange. A young fit good-looking guy like him hav
ing to visit the local whore. You’d think he could find a girl of his own. He’d make a fab boyfriend for someone, and for a moment she allowed herself to daydream. Maybe he could become her boyfriend. Maybe they could go steady, and who knew where that might lead? He’d sure as hell make a heck of a husband, the kind of guy any girl would love to enter the pub with, on his arm. Tall, fit, smart, healthy. But the days when young men like him would look at her seriously had long gone. Whoring’s a hard business. It leaves its mark, even on a twenty-something, and there was nowt she could do about that now.

  She set her newly nail-polished hands on her hips and pouted and said, ‘So what is it you want?’

  His soft reply seeped through the caravan.

  ‘Bit of rough, bit of slap, lots of sex.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, going to the door and flipping over the catch. ‘Hundred quid.’

  He left out a short sharp grunt and shook his head.

  ‘Not a chance! Fifty quid, and think yourself lucky,’ and he opened his wallet and took out a fifty pound note and tossed it on the plastic topped coffee table.

  Eleanor glanced down at it. It was a brand new note, straight from the bank, or the ATM, by the look of it, and fifty quid was fifty quid, and a girl had to eat, and obtain other vital provisions too.

  ‘All right,’ she said again. ‘But not too rough.’

  She thought she detected another slight smile, maybe more of a smirk.

  ‘Come here!’ he ordered, and she did as he asked without a second’s hesitation.

  He took hold of her shoulders and spun her round. He pulled a length of thick cord from his trouser pocket. He’d come prepared, she remembered thinking that, but then they often did, as he wound it round one wrist and then the other, and pulled it tight and knotted it, tying her hands together behind her back.

  ‘Not too tight!’

  ‘Shut it, bitch!’

  He was going to be one of those.

  An abuser, hopefully more vocal, than physical. But fact was, she liked him, there was something quite different about this guy, even slightly exciting, and with a little luck she might even enjoy what he had in mind. It did happen, occasionally, though not often.

  He spun her round again and stared down into her green eyes. She wasn’t even scared of him. That would have to change. He slipped his hands around her pretty white neck and squeezed. Not too hard. There was no hurry.

  She tried to breathe, and couldn’t.

  ‘No!’ she said.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Needs must.’

  ‘I’ll never understand men.’

  ‘There’s nothing to understand. Just prepare yourself.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To meet your maker.’

  It was when he’d said that, that she’d recalled that miserable conversation with her overweight mother.

  ‘I don’t believe in God,’ she gabbled, trying hard to speak.

  ‘Not many people do,’ he said, and this time he did smirk. ‘Until they are about to meet him, or her, and then everyone does.’

  She wanted to stab him in the eye, but that was impossible. She wanted to knee him in the groin, but already her legs were weakening. She thought of spitting in his face, into those dark intense eyes. It would be her final act, to spit in the face of her killer, but was that really how she wanted to sign off from this confusing and cruel world? With anger and spite? Right there, it didn’t seem to her to be the right thing to do, and anyway, his grip was tightening. It was unlikely she could find sufficient puff to spit at all. Right there, she knew she would find it hard to manage a dribble.

  He squeezed again, not fatally, but frighteningly, as if he was enjoying it. Prolonging the play, getting off on building up to a climax. She leant towards him and reached up. He smelt her cheap perfume.

  He imagined she was about to bite him, on the throat or nose, lips or cheek.

  ‘Don’t you bite me, bitch!’

  ‘No,’ she said, the tiniest of whispers, or had he relaxed his grip sufficiently to allow her reply?

  ‘Kiss,’ she muttered, and standing on tiptoes she planted a gentle kiss in the centre of his unlined forehead. She pulled away; and saw the lipstick on his fine face.

  She tried to smile, but could not.

  The dark was coming down fast.

  The truth was, she wasn’t all that bothered. In the previous eighteen months she’d thought about doing it herself many a time. At least this way she would never take with her any feelings of guilt.

  The perfect suicide.

  Have someone else do it for you.

  Don’t some people pay a lot of money for that in Switzerland these days?

  He said nothing further.

  Not a word.

  His eyes stared down at her, right through her, unblinking.

  He was a nice man.

  In different circumstances he could have been a very nice man.

  Suffocation.

  Panic.

  Involuntary struggling.

  Even if you want to go, you still struggle. Funny that.

  The body overrules the brain.

  He was strong. Incredibly strong.

  He held her tight and tighter still, as she slipped away, and the last thing she remembered before all went black, was planting that kiss on the face of her killer.

  At least she had gone out with style, and love.

  That was something.

  In Eleanor Wright’s confused world, it was everything.

  She was a very loving person, was Eleanor, and love is all you need.

  It really is true. Love is all you need.

  Two

  He held her hard and still for a further two minutes. She was limp in his hands, but growing heavier. Her eyes were wide open as if they were about to pop, but it was clear to him they had ceased to see. Another thirty seconds, he thought, and he began counting them down.

  Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, and he grinned to himself. He let her go. She fell to the floor in a heap at his feet. He leant down and straightened her out, though he didn’t really know why he’d done that. Felt for a pulse. There was none. He would have been surprised if there was. He reached across to the coffee table and retrieved the fifty-pound note and slipped it back in his pocket.

  Stood up and went to the door. Unclipped it and went outside. The rain was heavier still, and thick cloud covered the moon and stars. He peered across the fields, back to the twisty unmade up lane that led up to the main road. From the caravan doorway he could not see a single light anywhere, and that was just as he liked it. There was a plane going over, still quite high, maybe going into Hawarden airport, but the chances of anyone up there seeing him down in the caravan doorway were a million to one.

  He skipped outside and went to the end of the caravan and the group of large old-fashioned blue gas canisters gathered there that heated the place, and provided fuel for the rare bit of cooking Eleanor did to impress her very occasional client she deemed worthy of food. An old-fashioned gas canister for an old-fashioned caravan.

  He reached behind the first canister, feeling for the red plastic container he had quietly placed there before he’d tapped on the door. The container was wet to the touch but that didn’t matter. It was watertight. Found the handle and grabbed and lifted it and took it inside and closed the door behind him.

  The dead girl was on her back, staring at the ceiling, exactly where he’d left her. Her mouth was wide open and that was inviting enough. He crouched down beside her and unscrewed the top. He brought the container carefully to her mouth and gently tipped in liquid, as if she’d asked for a drink of lemonade. The thick clear fluid gurgled down her throat. A smell of petrol filled the small caravan. It was surprising how much went down there. Far more then he’d have guessed.

  And then she was full, and overflowing, and petrol began spreading out on the floor, across the old lino that led away to an even older piece of red and green patterne
d carpet. He stood up and stepped away, and began throwing petrol over the furniture and bedding and old wooden fitments, and then back to the girl and that short purple dress with the white frilly trim. He emptied the last of the petrol all over her clothing, soaking her, and set the empty container on the small worktop.

  Took another look around.

  Had he touched anything?

  Not that he could remember, other than the door and the container and the girl, and none of those really mattered, for with a little luck none of those things would exist in another ten minutes, but just to be sure he wiped the old metal door catch, inside and out.

  He went to the doorway and took one last look, and pursed his lips as if in deep thought.

  She was a strange girl.

  It was almost as if she had wanted him to do what he had done, and he hadn’t expected that at all. But that didn’t matter, for if anything, she had made it easier for him, but there was no denying that a little more fight, some genuine resistance, might have made things slightly more interesting, more exciting even, but hey, there are 3.75 billion females on this planet, give or take, and that number is growing every day, despite the activities of birth control methods and wars and disease, and people like him. Murderers like him. He thought about the title. It brought another smirk to his clean-cut face. He was a murderer, and that was something; an achievement he never expected to make. Fact was, if he wanted another victim to fight harder, there were plenty of potential candidates to choose from.

  He opened the door and stepped outside and was happy to see the rain dwindling away to nothing. He turned back and looked inside. Took out a box of matches. Held his hands just inside the door to shelter from the wind, and struck one. Lit first time. Tossed it across the room.

  BOOF!

  Instant blaze.

  The purple dress immediately engulfed.

  He didn’t dare glance at the liquid loaded face.

  Pulled the door to and turned about and set off towards that twisty lane.

  He was a quick walker, and needed to be.

  He could feel the heat on his neck and the back of his head.

  Stuffed his hands deep in his jacket pockets, and hunched his back, and watched his feet working hard to get away. He was leaving footsteps in the mud, that was clear enough, but that couldn’t be helped. Maybe the rain would return and blur his retreat.

 
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