Deadly Compulsions

CHAPTER 1

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South-East London

December 10, 9.30 p.m.

‘Where are you, Tony?’ Mandy Gibbs whimpered as she gazed up and down the dimly lit street. ‘How could you do this to me?’ Agitated, clutching her mobile and the envelope with the photos in her trembling hand she hurried back into the house.

She heard the TV in the front room and peeked in. The room was empty. Her mother was out for her usual nightcap at the local, she guessed. She tipped a number into her mobile. Still no answer. She couldn’t wait any longer. Must get home before Johnny comes back and catches her with her suitcase. Maybe Tony’s wife was causing trouble again, and that’s why he was delayed. And we planned to go away, the three of us, she thought bitterly.

She reached the back room and saw it was closed. Strange, she thought, she was sure she’d left it open only minutes before. Turning the knob, she pushed the door inward. Total darkness. She chilled. She knew she had left the lights on. Who put them out? Necessity meant she had to get her things. Nerves tingling, Mandy stepped into the room and stretched out her arm for the light switch. The moment her trembling fingers touched it, she knew she wasn’t alone.

‘Who is...’ she couldn’t finish.

A hard blow cracked against the back of her head, and she sank to her knees. She couldn’t grasp what happened. Dazed, instinct told her to flee. Palms against the wall, she staggered to her feet and took a step towards the door just as it was swung violently shut, and the key was turned, cutting off escape.

The next second a solid object hit Mandy’s forehead. The force made her reel backwards. Her head a mass of sickening pain, blood stinging her eyes, she groped for support.

‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’ she cried out in pain and shock. There was no response.

Straining her eyes, Mandy tried to have a glimpse of her attacker. Unable to make out anything in the blackness, she began to slither cautiously along the wall aiming for the window that she knew was there somewhere. Her progress restricted by the tight dress she had bought that day.

Hearing a faint noise, she shifted out of the way. The object swished passed her head and slammed into her shoulder, the impact paralysing her arm. Almost immediately following she was repeatedly hit in the face and head, shattering nasal bone, breaking teeth and spraying blood.

Screaming in agony and fright, she inched towards the window. She’d go through even if it meant smashing the glass with her bare hands, she decided.

A powerful kick landed in her belly. Mandy doubled over in pain and fear.

‘My child, you bastard! My child!’ she shrieked, then dropped to her knees sobbing. As she did so, she hit out with her good hand and felt it connect with a face. Her second punch missed, but her enemy made a sound for the first time, a low inhuman growl. A split second later a brutal blow landed on her battered temple. She keeled over and lay retching. Barely conscious, she dragged herself to her knees and started to crawl towards the window.

Another kick landed in her side. She gagged and continued. Her groping hand touched the curtains, and she hoped she would be safe soon. Gathering her strength, she gripped the curtains and desperately hanging onto her senses hauled herself to her feet.

She still couldn’t see who was in the room with her. But by now she was certain they wanted to kill her.

Then a shape, darker than the background, rose up. Mandy wiped blood from her eyes and as she leant forward to see who it was, a savage blow exploded on the side of her head.

She collapsed bringing the curtains down over her unconscious body.

The key was turned in the lock, the door opened, and a dark shape slipped from the room.

When minutes later Mandy came to, she hurt all over, and there was a burning pain in her abdomen. She was lying on her back and light from the streetlamp filtered through the window. She tried to move but could not. Suddenly she realised why. It was the weight of somebody on top of her, pinning her down. Was he going to rape her? Her nose picked up a scent that wasn’t there earlier, confirming it wasn’t the same person as before. Unable to grasp what was happening to her, Mandy raised her eyes and found herself looking into a pair of cold, merciless eyes.

Desperation and fear gave Mandy strength and managing to free an arm she flailed about wildly. Feeling her hand touching hair, she twisted it around her fist and pulled.

Her arm knocked to one side, gloved hands grabbed her throat cutting off a rising scream and squeezing the life out of her.

Mandy could no longer fight back. She knew she was about to die. Determined to find out who was doing this to her, she gathered what little strength she had left and stretched her arm upwards. Groping at the head, she hooked a finger under the scarf covering her attacker’s face, wrenched it down, and with incredulity in her dying eyes, she recognised her murderer.

CHAPTER 2

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South-East London

December 10, 10.15 p.m.

‘I did it! I killed the bitch!’ I whispered to myself and started to walk rapidly down the street away from the shabby house. But then realising that people running on a deserted street in this area was bound to attract attention, I slowed down to a normal pace. Too late! The split second before I did so, curtains were pulled open, and a woman stared at me from a house across the street. The street was narrow, just wide enough for two cars to pass, and the distance between us couldn’t have been more than twenty feet. Obviously, she’d seen me as I passed under a street lamp. Would she know me again? I wondered as I tried to saunter away feeling her eyes on me while resisting the urge to run.

Getting out of the area, I quickly calmed down and returned my thoughts to the killing. To be truthful to myself, I enjoyed strangling the bitch. It was especially satisfying when she tore my scarf off, and I saw her recognising me just before I felt her thyroid cartilage snapping under my thumbs.

It wasn’t easy killing her, which was good. She was still very strong and fought back wildly despite the beating she had taken before I arrived. But, of course, because of that my satisfaction was all the greater in the end. Nevertheless, I wished it had lasted longer. I was getting a definite sexual kick out of it and still felt aroused as I recalled her body wriggling under me while I squeezed the life out of her.

Still, it was a pity it was over so soon, I thought. Great pity. I had no idea killing could be so pleasurable. Next time I must make it last longer, prolong the fun, I decided as I reached the small cul-de-sac where I parked my car. I unlocked it, got in and started up the engine. Before driving home to a drink and sandwiches, I selected a CD from my collection, and then as the music started playing, I put the car in gear and drove off.

CHAPTER 3

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December 12

Tony Simpson woke at 7 a.m. as usual. After a while, he reached across his gently snoring cat, Annabel, and took the envelope with the ultrasonic photograph Mandy gave him the last time they were together three long days ago. It showed a tiny embryo, their baby, and pouring over it, he felt as proud and happy as any new father feels. But then the happiness gave way to a sense of gloom. It wasn’t just for himself he was worried. He had an impending divorce on his hands, a daughter at boarding school, and a mortgage. And he and Mandy planned to move in together very soon. Two households to care for, two households to finance.

His uneasiness grew as he recalled the message he received the day before, requesting him to attend an interview with the managing director of the firm of IT consultants he worked for, Friday at ten o’clock sharp. He knew it was something serious when for the first time ever the boss didn’t speak to him himself but let his secretary do the talking. Rumours of imminent reorganisation at the Croydon branch offices where he had worked as a programmer for the last three years didn’t make him feel easier.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock next to a smiling photograph of his eleven-year-old daughter, Clarissa. Then careful not to disturb Annabel their five-year-old tiger cat, snoring beside him, he got up and went to the kitchen to start the coffee percolator while he shaved. Jane, his soon to be ex-wife, appeared to have gone out.

Coming out of the bathroom he noticed the telephone answering machine blinking. He stepped over to it and pressed the play button. A voice told him the message was recorded at 5.45 p.m. the evening before. It went; Mr Simpson your appointment at head office has been brought forward. Please attend at 9.30 instead of at 10.00. Thank you.

He glanced at the phone’s digital clock. ‘Christ, I’ll never make it,’ He said aloud. He turned the percolator off, dressed hastily and hurried to the railway station barely noticing the icy drizzle.

Buying a morning paper at the station kiosk, he treated himself to a first-class ticket and managed to get a window seat. There was nothing of interest to him in the sports pages, and as the train eased out of the station, he turned back to the front of the paper and glanced idly at the front-page headline.

LAMBETH MURDER HUNT

Under the sub-heading: "HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?" was a black-and-white photograph of a man.

Jesus Christ! The face was his! But that’s impossible, for Christ’s sake!

With his heart about to explode from his chest, he stared the photograph. He saw wide-set eyes, prominent cheekbones and a square jaw. A small mole was visible over the upper lip to the left of a long straight nose. The hair was receding at the temples and appeared dark above a high forehead. And there was no mistaking the half-Moon shaped scar on the left cheekbone.

There was no doubt. It was him! But it couldn’t be! It just couldn’t be!

Confused and feeling as if he was in a dream, he shrunk back into his seat and tried to hide behind the newspaper as he read the write-up under the photograph:-

Scotland Yard are anxious to interview anyone who may have knowledge of the whereabouts of this man who was observed at a crime scene in Lambeth, South London during the late hours of Wednesday. Mrs Amanda Gibbs, 32, was found brutally murdered at her mother’s house in Lollard Street South-East London.

The victim’s grief-stricken husband, a well-known local businessman and benefactor, provided police with the following description of the suspect.

Age: 34 years, Height: 6feet 2 inches, Eyes: Blue, Hair: dark-brown, Special features: half-moon shaped scar on left cheek. Police warn that this man is dangerous and is not to be approached by the public.

Refusing to believe what he saw, he re-read the article several times. His world fell apart. Dear God, no, not Mandy! He was devastated. This was the end. How could he go on without her? He coughed hard to disguise his sobs and spread the paper wider.

Mandy was dead, and he was supposed to have murdered her? But he loved her! He nearly yelled out. Yet the police were now hunting him as her murderer. What’s going on? The picture was the spitting image of him, no matter how long he stared at it. But it wasn’t him! So who was it? Was somebody trying to set him up? If so, why? He couldn’t think straight.

He stepped off the train at Clapham Junction, went into a cubicle in the public toilet and wept until he had no tears left. After calming down a little, he took a train back home to be alone with his grief, to think, and work out what to do.

Turning into his street, he spotted a police car parked outside his house. He did a rapid about-turn and doubled back, the familiar street a shapeless blur in his haste. When he got to a safe distance away from the house, he called his wife on his mobile.

‘It’s me,’ he said. Jane didn’t respond. ‘I know the police are there and I know why. Read it in the paper. I didn’t do it.’

CHAPTER 4

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‘Why am I the number one suspect?’ he asked himself. Admittedly, he was drunk Wednesday night celebrating his impending new fatherhood and later couldn’t remember much of what had happened or what he did. But, it wasn’t in him to kill, and certainly not Mandy. So who wanted her dead? And who was stitching him up? His mind was full of unanswered questions.

Seeing the police car outside his house had sharpened reality. It was clear the police had a strong enough case to feed his photograph to the press. But how did they come by it? And what had prompted his old mate Johnny Gibbs to give his description to the police? I mean fair enough, he had been having an affair with his wife, but they had been very careful, Johnny knew nothing. The police would arrest him as soon as they saw him. Then they’d lock him away, and his claustrophobia would drive him crazy, he knew.

And if he were caught, then what? Would the police be looking for the murderer, or would they just let him rot in jail? After all, he’d been spotted, and there was also that photograph. He must take matters into his own hands, and for that, he must remain free. He saw no other way. He needed to think this out before deciding his next move. First, he must find a place to hole up. He went through the list of friends and acquaintances in his head but rejected them all. Most had families, and he couldn’t expect them to hide a murder suspect even if they were to believe his story. Then it occurred to him; what story? He didn’t have a story! Couldn’t even remember which pubs he’s been to on Wednesday night, or when he got home. He doubted Jane would be willing to give him an alibi. Not after the nasty row they had had the night before.

He recalled how she had waited for him when he got home from the office.

‘Anthony,’ she called through tight lips as soon as he entered the house. She was standing stiffly in the passage, her arms folded over her firm bosom. She was fired up for another row. He wasn’t.

‘Anthony,’ she repeated, ‘I want to speak with you.’

‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ve had a hard day,’ he protested.

She glared at him. ‘Yes, I can smell it from here. And no, it cannot wait,’ her voice rose. ‘We’ll have out right now, or I won’t be here tomorrow.’

‘All right, then,’ he said, resignedly. ‘What’s eating you this time?’

‘What’s eating me? What’s eating me? You even dare to ask? You come home late. You smell of alcohol. You don’t care about anything, not to mention how you’ve been neglecting me. All in all, you’re impossible to live with, and I’ve had enough of your stupid working-class behaviour.’

Rarely has he seen her so quarrelsome, but he knew he should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve taken more notice of her moods recently and be prepared for the inevitable showdown. It is said that anger made some women more attractive. That didn’t apply to his wife. Normally, she was a very good-looking, tall, slim brunette, but when she was angry her green eyes flashed, her lips were tightly drawn, and she looked vicious. Once or twice, he had the feeling that she was about to attack him but had no idea what he would’ve done. Probably stand there, take it and feel guilty.

‘What are you going to do, Jane?’ he said, getting heated himself. ‘Back to your parents? You know as well as I do what your toffee-nosed father would say to you; I told you so, my girl. But you’ve made your God-damned bed now lie in it. He’d shut the door in your face.’

She didn’t say anything, just stood there fuming.

‘Look,’ he went on, ‘I know we can’t go on like this. I’ve already seen a solicitor about a divorce.’ he blurted, but immediately knew he should have waited until they were both calmer.

‘I knew it! I knew you were seeing someone else,’ she hissed, enraged.

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he put his briefcase on the hall table and wondered if Jane knew about him and Mandy. She sounded very sure of what she was saying.

‘I should’ve known it wouldn’t last,’ Jane went on. ‘My parents warned me often enough about you and your sort. You could never keep up with us. Once in the gutter, always in the gutter.’

He didn’t want to stand there arguing and stormed out of the house. He was angrier with himself than with Jane. He shouldn’t have said anything about the divorce until a date was set for going away with Mandy. But he couldn’t turn the clock back and found coping with the conflict in his heart very difficult. Soon, he must make a choice between Mandy and his daughter, Clarissa. He knew what it was like to live in a broken-up family. And he also knew Clarissa would suffer badly. She was a sensitive child, and the two of them were very close. He consciously excluded Jane knowing she’d learn to manage without him well enough.

It took him a while to realise that you cannot force love. Either it is there, or it isn’t. It might grow on you with time if there is at least respect. But if there was any at all between Jane and him, it eroded with time. They were just too different in outlook, tastes, and needs, with hardly anything in common. For a while, they made up their quarrels in bed, but when the physical side began to wear off, they were back to square one. They had slept separately since months, he sharing his bed with the cat.

He turned his mind away from his marriage and tried to concentrate on where he was and what he was doing the night Mandy was murdered. But try as he might, not everything came back. The dubious chain of events was punctuated with blanks. He knew he got drunk. And was there a traffic accident of some kind, or was his mind playing tricks? He couldn’t remember.

***

It started to rain heavily. By then he’d completed a full circle of the block, but the police car was still there. His car was parked behind the house and aiming for it, he turned into the street behind the house. And stopped dead in his tracks. Another police car faced him only a few feet away. It was parked outside his back garden and was unoccupied. But the garden gate was wide open. They must be at the back door. They’d see him as he passed going to his Volvo, he thought. But he had no choice. He needed the car.

He pulled his head into his collar, bent against the rain and with his heart in his throat walked rapidly towards his car parked behind the police vehicle. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Jane’s yellow Beetle on the garage forecourt, and a little farther he saw two uniforms sheltering under his balcony. He bought this house because of the balcony. He used to sit there taking in the view of Streatham Common. It wasn’t the Downs, but for someone who spent his younger years in narrow flats in narrow streets, it was a dream come through.

Sadly, the dream lasted only a short time, and he began to feel like a tenant. Jane loved to throw sherry parties for her friends. Normally restricted to the living-room, which she always referred to as the drawing room, they often spilt over to the rest of the house; the loud laughter and piquant jokes he couldn’t help overhearing wherever he sought refuge. Their profane behaviour initially shook his faith in women, but then it came to him that when alone men were no different, and he laughed the whole thing off.

However, after years of it, he felt he had, nowhere to escape and be on his own for a while. With time, he developed a feeling of not belonging, of being an outsider in his own house, his own marriage. He knew Jane had noticed, but she didn’t appear to care. He suspected she actually enjoyed being instrumental in his evolving a complex.

And then, of course, there were her parents. Even Jane admitted they were dreadful bigots, and knowing her rebellious nature, he became convinced that one of the reasons she married him was to spite them. They constantly interfered in their private life, giving them unasked-for advice, compelling them – in particular him – to lead the kind of life they were leading. No thank you, he thought.

By the time he got to his car, he was very nervous. Fumbling for the keys, his hands shook, and he dropped them. Picking them up from a puddle, he noticed damage to the front wing and the vague recollection of a traffic accident flashed into his mind again.

Stealthily, he unlocked the Volvo, got in and fired up the engine. Not to make much noise he drove away slowly, one eye glued to the rear-view mirror as he resisted the urge to floor the accelerator. Nobody followed. He let go of his breath and steered the car south, the shortest way out of town.

He had hardly driven fifty yards when glancing in the rear-view mirror he saw the policemen sprinting out of his garden and jumping into their car. Seeing them, he crushed his foot down on the accelerator and shot down the road towards a junction three-hundred yards away.

He raced through the traffic lights a split second before they changed to red. Then managing to control a skid he made a U-turn and slotted into the traffic as it started moving in the opposite direction.

He kept pace with a lorry on his right, hiding him from the police waiting to cross. He knew he couldn’t outrun the cops in his old Volvo, but hoped they’d think he’d driven in the other direction. Of course, they would set up roadblocks, so he had to get away as far and as soon as possible before that.

Stopping at a crossing some miles away, he looked nervously into the rear-view mirror. He’d have to disguise himself to avoid arrest, he thought. He knew the police would get a description of what he was wearing from Jane. And they knew the car. He must abandon it soon.

Shortly afterwards, he spotted an Oxfam shop, quickly parked and walked back. He chose a dark overcoat and a blue ex-army beret, leaving his own raincoat behind without the little old lady at the counter noticing. He paid and left wondering if he would be remembered. Outside he stepped into a doorway and put on the coat and beret before hurrying back to the Volvo.

Too late! It was hemmed in by two patrol cars. Four uniformed officers were swarming over it, inside and out.

Knowing he’d raise suspicions if he suddenly turned tail, he bent against the wind and with a prickling sensation in his back he walked past the scene as if he were treading on eggs. Reaching an alley, he sprinted down it, slowing down only when he reached the far end.

His breathing back to normal, he crossed the street and joined a short queue at a bus stop. A uniformed nurse in front of him brought Mandy’s sister, Sally, to his mind – maybe she’d help, he thought.

He left the bus at the next stop and seeing his mobile’s battery was low, he headed for a public telephone, called Sally, but there was no reply. He spent the remaining daylight hours in a cinema; as good a hiding place as any. The film was a remake of ‘The Fugitive.’ He knew the feeling.

Later he tried Sally again, but there was still no answer.

He spent that night in a draughty allotment hut, the only one whose door yielded. He tossed and twisted about on the rickety garden chair, exhausted and despite the discomfort, he dropped off. His slumber didn’t last long.

He was sitting in a chair waiting for Mandy. Suddenly he heard a scream. Mandy’s scream. He leapt up from the chair, eyes darting, listening, trying to locate where the scream came from. It came again, high-pitched, more desperate than before - a scream full of pain and fear. He raced out of the room calling to her but got no answer. There were doors everywhere, and he rushed to each in turn, only to find the rooms empty. There was one more room left; its door ajar. He heard whimpering, then came a deep gurgling sound and he shoulder-charged his way into the room. Lights were blazing everywhere. In the middle of the room was Mandy, naked, her eyes bulging in terror, her mouth gaping. She was kneeling in a puddle of blood. A man stood over her with his hands around her throat, squeezing the life out of her.

In a rage, he launched himself at the man, wanting to tear him apart, smash him to smithereens, end his life, send him back to hell where he came from and where he belonged. But then when he was but a short step away the man turned, and he stared at his own face.

He jolted awake, his skin damp despite the cold, his heart pounding. Recovering, he stared into the darkness trying to regain his breath, trying to make sense of the dream. Was he in some way responsible for Mandy’s death? he asked himself. But the answer eluded him.

He was never happier to see the morning break, grey and cheerless as it was. Tired and hungry, his back aching, his neck stiff, he slunk into town. He tried Sally’s number again but still no answer. He bought a newspaper and a couple of cheese rolls. Then he called Jane on his mobile.

‘How dare you humiliate me like that?’ she immediately exploded. ‘And with that slum- whore. Dressing up like a dog’s dinner couldn’t change that one bit.’

That angered him, but before he could find something fitting to say, his mobile’s battery gave up its ghost. Perhaps just as well, he thought as it occurred to him that the police might be tracing calls to his house. Then thinking about what she’d said, her choice of words struck him as out of place. What was that about Mandy dressing up? Mandy was always dressed well and elegantly at the times when he and Jane met her and Johnny, for dinner, or drinks.

Later, he had another shock. His card was promptly swallowed by a cash machine, and a message told him to contact the card provider. He was in deep trouble.

He kept on trying Sally’s number until at long last, shortly before midnight and just as he was about to hang up the phone in a kiosk, there was a click, and a female voice said, ‘Hello,’ but it wasn’t Sally.

‘I’m sorry, I thought this was Sally Driscoll’s number,’ he stuttered.

‘It is, indeed,’ came the soft reply. ‘I’m Sadie, Sally’s flatmate. Do you want to speak with her?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Just a mo.’

He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. He didn’t know whether Sally was willing to help or even listen. He knew of no reason why she should. Visiting her a few times with Mandy and using her bed was no guarantee for anything.

‘Hello,’ Sally, said and she sounded husky.

‘It’s Tony, Sal. Tony Simpson. You know about Mandy, I suppose?’

She didn’t answer immediately. ‘Yes,’ there was a sob. ‘We just got back from mum. I also saw the police. They say you did it. I thought you loved her. Why did you kill her?’

‘I didn’t, Sal. So help me. It’s a frame up,’ he protested.

‘The police have witnesses who saw you, Tony!’

‘That’s impossible! I didn’t do it, Sal. Look, Mandy was pregnant with our child, and we were planning to go away to start a new life. Why would I want to kill her, for God’s sake? I loved her very much, as you well know.’

‘I had no idea she was expecting,’ she paused. ‘But why don’t you tell all that to the police?’

‘Because by the time I’d make them see sense, the murderer would most probably be gone. I can’t waste time. I must start looking, and now. But I need your help, Sally.’

‘I don’t know, Tony. The police seem very sure it was you.’

‘I’m telling you it wasn’t! I had nothing to do with it. This man killed Mandy, and I’m the fall guy.’

‘Who is he?’ Her voice lost some of its edge.

‘Wish I knew. With your help, I’m sure there is a chance I could work it out. As it is, I can’t go anywhere or do anything without the danger of being arrested. I have nobody else I could turn to. You do want to find your sister’s murderer, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know. What about the photograph in the paper? That’s you, isn’t it?’

‘Well... yes. No! Wait a minute! No, it’s not me, Sal. There is something odd about that photo, but I can’t make out what it is. Look, I’m not far from your place. Let’s meet, and you compare my face with the photo. If you still think it’s me, I won’t bother you any more. But if...’ The words caught in his throat and there was silence for a while during which he heard Sally taking deep breaths.

‘Mandy had some problems with Johnny, didn’t she?’ Sally said, finally.

‘She’d never spell it out, but I do know she did,’ he replied.

‘Did he know she was expecting?’

‘No. It didn’t show yet. And she wouldn’t have told him.’

‘Poor Mandy,’ Sally whispered and started sobbing. Hearing it, he swallowed several times, fighting his own emotions.

‘Tony,’ Sally spoke at last. ‘Look, I don’t know what I could do, but we can talk about it if you think that it might help. But, you must understand that if we don’t see it your way we won’t get involved. Okay?’

‘I understand.’

‘I’ll come and pick you up. Where are you?’

‘In a phone box by the public library in Cheam.’

‘I know it. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

He left the telephone booth, crossed the road and stepped into the shadows of a large building with an alley at his back in case he had to run. He trusted Sally but had no idea who or what her flatmate was. Freezing in the chilly evening air, he waited apprehensively, watching headlights of approaching cars, ready to bolt at the first sign of the police.

CHAPTER 5

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Sally was late. Tony was about to run for it when at last he spotted her red Mini. She drove him to a large old house where they rented the top floor flat. Soon he was sipping hot lemon tea and warming himself gratefully at an electric fire in the cosy living room. He hadn’t been asked to take off his overcoat or to sit down.

Sally’s flatmate, Sadie, was a slim, Indian girl in her mid-twenties. In contrast to Sally’s shoulder-length wavy red hair and green