Killer

Killer

The Summerfield Murders Part 1

Copyright: C.S. Carter

Verlag GD Publishing Ltd. & Co KG, Berlin

ISBN: 9783958302914

E-Book Distribution: XinXii

http://www.xinxii.com

Published: 18th August 2014

The right of Karl Jones to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

KILLER

THE SUMMERFIELD MURDERS PART 1

You cock-teasing bitch!

Her mind and her senses overwhelmed by pain, Beth barely heard the words, despite them being screamed by a voice filled with anger that came from just above her head.

She cried out anew as her tormentor lashed her back with his belt. Each blow with the doubled-up length of old and cracked leather felt more savage than the one before, and her skin felt as though it was on fire. She had lost count of how many times she had been whipped, and she no longer cared.

Despite the abuse her body was suffering, the teenaged girl continued to crawl, dragging herself slowly but inexorably toward the trees she could see in the distance.

When she escaped his car, Beth had thought only of running, of putting as much distance between the two of them as she could. Now, she was convinced that safety lay across the field, within the trees ahead, even though she knew that the road, and her best chance of meeting someone, anyone, who could help her, were behind her.

With agonising effort, she hauled herself forward, her progress desperately slow. She was aware of her tormentor above her every foot of the way, she could sense him even when she couldn’t see or hear him, and it sent cold shivers racing up and down her spine. They clashed with the hot pain that radiated from the injuries he had inflicted on her, adding to the confusion and conflicting sensations that left her barely able to think.

He had caught up with her when she fell over the fence separating the farmyard they had been parked in from this field. That was when her punishment started.

Look at me when I’m talking to you!

As the command was shouted in her ear, a hand seized her by the shoulder and rolled her over onto her back. She felt as though someone had stabbed her with a dozen blades all at once, the points jabbing into her on either side of her spine. So sudden and so fierce was the sensation that she had to fight the urge to throw up; she almost blacked out, but a sharp slap across the face revived her. She wished it hadn’t.

I said look at me when I’m talking to you!

Another slap rocked her head to the side and she tasted blood, just as she had the first time he hit her. It felt as though her ordeal had lasted for hours, yet she knew barely five minutes had passed since it began. Looking up into his face, Beth found herself wondering how things could have changed so drastically in such a short time.

One moment they were kissing, passionately, and the next he was attacking her. All she had done was push his hand away and ask him to stop when he tried to go further than she wanted. She hadn’t been nasty about it, she’d been reasonable, she thought, yet he had reacted like a maniac.

Beth couldn’t recall fighting him off, nor could she recall how she got out of his Land Rover. All she did remember was racing from the vehicle, climbing awkwardly up the fence, and then falling down the other side of it into the field. From there she had been crawling.

You’re a cock-teasing little bitch, aren’t you?! You pretend you’re better than the other girls, but you’re not; you’re just the same.

Anger filled his voice, making Beth flinch, as though each word was another physical blow.

You’re happy to let a guy take you out and pay for things, but the moment he tries to get a thank you, it’s all ‘I’m a good girl, I don’t do that kind of thing’, and you want to be taken home. Do you have any idea what it does to a guy, being treated like that? It’s fucking frustrating!

He lashed out with the belt again, slashing her cheek and making her scream. Blood ran down her face from the open wound and dripped to the grass beneath her. A second blow caught her ear, almost tearing it off; the sharp stab of pain from the new injury made her forget about the knives in her back, for a moment at least.

This time you’re not going to say no, you’re not going to tell me to stop, and you’re not going to push me away. You’re just going to lay there and enjoy it.

Feeling detached from herself, Beth watched as her top was ripped open and her bra yanked away to expose her breasts. He pawed at her breasts with one hand while flipping her skirt up to her stomach with the other. He rubbed her roughly through her panties. It was when he pulled them aside, exposing her to his lustful gaze, that a previously undiscovered streak of defiance blossomed in her. She fought back as he tried to force one of his fingers inside her; bringing her knee up sharply, she watched him groan in pain and stagger back away from her before falling to the ground, clutching his balls.

Adrenaline surged through her, blocking out her suffering and giving her the strength to shove him away. The moment she was free of him, she struggled to her feet. Sparing the figure on the ground the briefest of glances, she turned and hurried across the field, clutching the remains of her top to her chest.

Beth didn’t slow her flight until she reached the protective darkness of the trees, where she stopped for a moment to rest and bring her breathing under control. Her pounding heart and heaving chest steadied into a more regular rhythm as the peace of the woods calmed her. Only the buzzing of insects, the whispered fluttering of bird wings, and the rustling as small animals made their way through the undergrowth broke the quiet; it all combined to let her think it had been nothing more than a nightmare, albeit the worst she could remember.

Her brief period of peace was soon disturbed by the sound of him stumbling and crashing through the undergrowth, which reminded her that the attack was a waking nightmare, not a sleeping one. Gritting her teeth against the pain she had been struggling to forget, she set off again.

With each second, the crashing noises behind her seemed to get closer and closer, drowning out the buzzing, fluttering, and rustling of the wildlife. They drove her on, pushing her to race through the trees, despite the agony she felt, at a speed she normally wouldn’t have dared, even in daylight.

Several times she collided with branches or trees she failed to see in time to avoid, collecting a succession of bumps, bruises and abrasions. She ignored these minor injuries, just as she paid no heed to the leaves and small pieces of bark that caught in her hair and on her clothes. The only thing that mattered to her then was outrunning him, and she kept up her frantic pace until she reached the far side of the woods, where she came to an abrupt halt.

What lay before her was not what she had anticipated seeing during her headlong flight through the trees. The river was expected, Beth had known it would be there when she emerged, but where was the village? She’d expected to be in sight of it, or at least in sight of the church spire. Instead, the only manmade structure she could see was the remains of an old, stone building, squatting low on a hill to the right. Pain, exhaustion, and disappointment kept her frozen to the spot for a moment, her eyes flicking between the ruins on the hill and the bend in the river she knew the village lay beyond.

The sound of her attacker swearing, loudly, snapped Beth out of her reverie and she began to move again, stumbling along at the edge of the trees. She didn’t have a clue how far she was from the village, but she did know the direction in which it lay, and she took comfort from that limited knowledge.

She hadn’t gone more than fifty feet when her attacker came barrelling out of the woods. He crashed into her, bearing her to the ground with his weight before she had a chance to wonder how he had found her. Knives stabbed into her once more as she landed on her injured back.

You shouldn’t have run. That was a mistake, bitch! Now I’m going to make this hurt.

Rolling her over, he smashed his fist into the side of her jaw, rocking her head to one side. Her torn top lay open, exposing her breasts to him, and he pawed at them; she batted at him feebly in an effort to make him stop. In retaliation he hit her, again. He alternated blows with profanities until Beth lay still, unable to move at all, and then he ripped her skirt and underwear from her body. He tossed them aside, leaving her exposed to his lust-filled eyes.

The attack didn’t end with the punches or the insults, or with the rough removal of her clothes. Nor did it end when he violently raped her. By that point she was no longer aware of what was happening to her, though; her mind had retreated to a safe place while the tears ran down her face to mingle with the blood that stained the earth beneath her head.

KILLER

THE SUMMERFIELD MURDERS

PART 1

C S CARTER

ONE

Becca waved to Mrs Doyle, who was on her knees, weeding, as she walked past on her way to the house next door. The look on the old woman’s face pleased her - the disapproval she saw meant she had chosen the right outfit for what she had in mind. When she reached the path of her destination she paused and, hidden by the hedge, took out her compact.

Becca had taken a lot of time over her appearance, and she wanted to be certain she still looked her best. Her plan called for her to look so good that she would be denied nothing. Her short hair, as blonde as any Californian beach babe – most people assumed she bleached it to get it so light – was still in the casual style it had taken her almost twenty minutes to achieve.

She was pleased to see that her makeup, artfully understated to enhance her features without overwhelming them, was also still perfect. Normally she used bold colours to grab attention, on this occasion, though, she had decided to go with something a little more subtle. Instead of the bright red lipstick she usually wore, she had chosen a pale shade of pink that she felt made her more appealing and her lips look invitingly kissable.

Becca had selected her jewellery with as much care as she had her makeup. She had plenty of pieces from which to choose, most of them expensive; this time, though, she wore a pair of simple, gold earrings that dangled and caught the light when she moved her head. Her necklace was a matching chain with an Egyptian cartouche that bore her initials ROJ in hieroglyphics. She was fond of the necklace, and the knowledge - gleaned from his online biography - that the man she was about to meet loved Egypt made wearing it an obvious choice.

Satisfied with her appearance, Becca put the compact away and started up the path, admiring the gleaming white Lamborghini sitting in the drive. She didn’t know much about cars, but she did know the sports car was sexy, and worth at least three times what her father had paid for the Mercedes he drove; that made it easily the most expensive vehicle in the village. She couldn’t resist running a finger along the body of the car as she walked by, and immediately felt guilty for doing so; it seemed wrong for her to have marred the paintwork of such a beautiful car with her prints.

The second vehicle in the drive, a green Land Rover, didn’t grab Becca’s attention half as much, and neither did the house she was approaching. The Land Rover was no different to those driven by other guys in the village, even down to the colour; similarly, the house was far from what she’d expected a successful author to own, especially one who drove such a sexy sports car.

Although she had dated Simon Fields, who lived further up the road, for a while, it was Becca’s first time in this part of the village. She had thought the house would resemble the one she had grown up in with her parents; Lowell House, her parents’ home, which had been built in the 1800s, was the largest in the village, with far more space than a couple with only the one child needed. By comparison, the house in front of her was tiny; it was also in need of a fair amount of care and attention.

Becca guessed the previous owner of White Rose Cottage - the house’s name was just barely visible on a faded sign above the front door - had not spent much time looking after it. There were signs that its new owner was endeavouring to fix that lack of care, however. The paintwork on the windows and front door looked fresh, and it was clear that a start had been made on taming the jungle that had once been a front garden.

When she reached the door Becca knocked loudly, and was surprised to find butterflies taking flight in her stomach as she waited for a response. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt nervous about anything.

*****

The sound of the knocker startled Alex and his fingers froze on the keyboard of his laptop. He was tempted to ignore whoever was at the door, being in a bit of a groove with his writing and not wanting to lose it, but the good manners drummed into him as a child wouldn’t let him. Reluctantly, and with a sigh of frustration, he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece revealed, to his surprise, that it was a little after two.

A rumbling began in his stomach, which reminded him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he hadn’t had a drink since a cup of tea mid-morning. Ignoring the noisy protests of his empty stomach, Alex made his way to the front door; when he opened it he found himself confronted by a young woman whose outfit left him feeling like a young boy stuck alone in a room with the most attractive girl in school. His tongue seemed to have become glued to the roof of his mouth.

Alex’s eyes still worked, even if other parts of him didn’t, and he ran them all over the visitor’s body to make certain she was as attractive as his first look suggested. He noted with pleasure the micro mini-skirt, barely more than a belt really, and the tight top that accentuated her slim figure and ample chest. His gaze lifted to her face and it was then that he realised the woman was in fact a teenager of perhaps fifteen or sixteen. He hurriedly cut off the sexy thoughts running through his mind. At least he tried to, her attractiveness didn’t make it easy.

Hello, he said finally, struggling to get even that much out.

Hi, I’m Rebecca Jenkins, Becca, she introduced herself and held out her hand.

Alex, Alex Stevens.

I know, Becca said, smiling brightly. I’m a really big fan. She found the writer’s hand to be a little rougher than expected, but she liked that. Even more, she liked that he was better looking in person than in the pictures on his book covers, and she had always thought he looked good in those.

His black hair was a little longer than in those photographs, though it hadn’t grown so much that it reached his shoulders. She thought it suited him, as did the faded, black jeans and white top he was wearing. His top was unbuttoned partway, revealing tanned skin that matched the colour of his face and arms. That, along with the slight roughness of his hands, suggested to her that he was responsible for the fresh paintwork and the improvements to the garden. It appealed to her that he knew how to use his hands, and was not afraid of physical work.

I’ve read all of your books, several times; you’re my favourite author, Becca blurted out.

I’m flattered, Alex responded, a little nonplussed, but I’d have thought my books too gruesome for someone your age. Teens aren’t usually interested in reading about violent crime, whether fictional or true life.

No, I love them, Becca enthused. They’re great; I love your Inspector Daniels books best, though the true-crime books are great too.

So, how can I help you, Miss Jenkins? Alex asked, uncomfortably aware that his neighbour was peeping through a hole in the hedge that separated their gardens. He could see her eyes showing through the greenery; the only downside to the efforts he had made in clearing the garden.

Can I have your autograph? Becca asked. Her nervousness was gone; it had vanished when she saw the way he looked at her. He wanted her, just like virtually every other man she knew, and that meant she would be able to get what she wanted. I brought copies of all your books for you to sign. Squatting, she opened the bag she had dropped at her feet.

Automatically Alex glanced down, but he didn’t see the books. Instead, he found himself peering down her top, which allowed him to see she wasn’t wearing a bra. He noticed that before he could tear his eyes away and, while trying not to, he couldn’t help comparing her breasts to those of his ex-wife. It was an unfair and unfavourable comparison; the teenager had youth on her side.

With an effort, Alex tore his gaze from Becca’s cleavage, uncomfortably aware that her squatting position put her face at the perfect height to see his response to what she was, unintentionally, showing him. Embarrassed, he did his best to control his reaction, but just as when he was a teen, his body was more interested in the sight in front of him than in what his brain was telling it to do.

Will you sign them? Becca asked, smiling with pleasure as she noticed his reaction to her. He was a little more than twice her age, yet he was reacting to her in the same way as every other male she had known since the moment she hit puberty.

Sure, he said after a moment, surprised by the request. Though his career as an author was picking up, it continued to amaze him when he was asked for an autograph. In fact, this was the first time he had been asked to sign his entire collection, not that his released works amounted to a huge library. Why don’t you come in? Alex suggested, stepping back and to one side to give the girl space to enter.

With a smile that was about one step short of being seductive, Becca stepped into the house and made her way down the hall toward a doorway ahead of her. When the girl’s swaying hips drew his attention to her barely covered rear, Alex’s instincts informed him she was doing it deliberately. They also told him she had known he would be able to see down her top when she squatted. Why she was trying to seduce him, or at least get him interested in her, he had no idea, but he was curious enough to want to find out.

Alex closed the front door and followed Becca to the living room, where he stopped in the doorway. Would you like something to drink? he asked.

What have you got? she queried from the soft green sofa she had settled on.

Alex found his eyes drawn against his will to her legs, and the flash of bright orange that appeared beneath her skirt. He berated himself for allowing his attention to be grabbed by such an obvious manoeuvre. He averted his eyes – the image was already imprinted on his mind so it did no good – and they danced restlessly around the room.

I’ve got tea, coffee, milk or juice, Alex told her, resolutely keeping his eyes on her face. As best he could, he ignored the slight smile that played about her lips, and the look of amusement in her startlingly blue eyes that suggested he was right, and she knew the effect she was having on him.

Haven’t you got anything stronger? Becca wanted to know. The hopeful enquiry was accompanied by an inviting smile and a shift of her body that drew his attention back to the highly visible, orange lace underwear. The scrap of cloth was sheer enough that if he wanted to, he could determine her grooming habits; he had to fight the temptation to lean forward and peer more closely.

Once aware he was being teased and tantalised deliberately, though he didn’t know why, Alex found it a little easier to keep his eyes averted. They strayed only once or twice as Becca shifted her position in an effort to catch his eye. Of greater concern to him was the filmstrip running in his mind, flashing scenarios involving him and her on his couch; it wasn’t so much the acts his mind conjured up that shocked him, as the thought of doing them with a schoolgirl who might not even be of legal age.

Of course I do, Alex said, his tone suggesting it was a silly question, but you’re too young to have any. If you’d like something to drink, you’ll have to choose one of the other options.

Becca concealed her disappointment as best she could and said, I’ll have coffee then.

*****

When she reached the end of the path Becca looked back over her shoulder. There was nothing to see, other than the two vehicles in the drive and the closed front door; that disappointed her a little, she had hoped Alex would still be in the doorway, watching her.

Bye, Mrs Doyle, she called out, not surprised to see the old woman still out in her garden, despite her visit having lasted for over an hour. Becca was sure she had remained there solely to watch her leave, so she could disapprove, not that Becca cared. She laughed openly when she heard the old woman mutter, Disgraceful in a barely audible voice. It didn’t matter to her in the slightest what Alex’s neighbour thought of her visit.

The moment the pavement in front of the trio of houses where Alex Stevens, Virginia Doyle and their neighbour lived, Becca crossed the street to the other side. As she walked alongside the wall separating the road from the field next to it, she idly ran her hand over the stones topping it. Each stone was different, and her fingertips encountered roughness on a par with sandpaper, the smoothness of a pane of glass, and everything in between before she reached the gate.

Her mind wandered back over the time spent with Alex – it had taken no effort on her part to get on first-name terms with the author – as she took the shortcut home. She preferred to cut across the fields and cross the river at the old fisherman’s bridge rather than walk through the village, which would take her at least twice as long. Things had not gone as well as she’d hoped, but they were definitely moving in the right direction. Her choice of outfit, combined with her flirting, which had stopped just a step or two short of being outrageous and obvious, had helped.

It was not the first time Becca had used her looks and sexuality to get what she wanted from someone, and she didn’t imagine it would be the last. The fact that the author was better looking than most of those other men made the thought of doing whatever she might have to do to get what she wanted very appealing. Alex Stevens was just as interested in her as she was in him - she had seen the attraction she aroused within him in his eyes, despite his best efforts to conceal it. He might not have given in to his desire then, but he would, she was sure of it. Once he did, she would be in a position to get what she wanted.

Alex had already agreed to her returning with the novel she was writing, so he could take a look at it. He had also offered to give her whatever advice he could to help her improve it. Her next visit, she was sure, would be the first of many sessions they would spend together, ensuring her career as an author got off to the best possible start.

Becca was honest enough with herself to admit, reluctantly, that her novel needed work, perhaps even a lot, but she was convinced the basic storyline was good, and would appeal to people. With Alex’s help, she was sure it could be made into something great. A well-written novel was not enough to guarantee a publishing deal, however.

The most valuable lesson her great-uncle had taught her was that having the right connections was far more important than any amount of skill. At this time, for her chosen career, Alex Stevens was the right connection. With each new book more successful than the last, he was in a position to put her in touch with the right people, and get them to pay attention. Being recommended by an already successful author was bound to convince the agents and publishing houses to look at her manuscript, once it was ready. That, combined with her being the great-niece of Sir Malcolm Staite, virtually guaranteed that she would get a publishing deal.

If she had to sleep with Alex to be sure of his help and recommendation, Becca was prepared to do it, especially since she suspected she would enjoy the experience. With her mind busy reflecting on her encounter, she was unaware of the vehicle behind her until it braked sharply. The rattle of small stones against the chassis brought her back to the present.

Surprised by the proximity of the noise, she jumped and staggered, twisting her ankle on the uneven ground. The heavy bag hanging off her shoulder, full of the books Alex had signed, weighed her down and she slipped and fell.

Whore!

The word hit Becca like a physical blow as she rose to her feet, knocking the air from her lungs. It was so unexpected that for a moment she didn’t know how to react; she simply remained frozen in the act of pushing herself up from the ground. With an effort, she shook off the feeling and straightened up, only to be blinded by the sun bouncing off the windscreen of the Land Rover, which made it impossible for her to see who had climbed from the vehicle. The one word he had uttered had been delivered in such a harsh tone that it prevented her recognising the voice.

What’s your problem? Sensing danger, Becca took her mobile phone from the waistband of her skirt, where she kept it when she had no pocket available.

You! You’re a whore!

What are you talking about? Becca eyed the figure by the car cautiously, thinking now that taking the shortcut was not the best idea she’d ever had. She needed to return to the road, where she would be safer. There was only one problem with that idea, the hundred and fifty yards separating her from the gate.

Under normal circumstances the distance would have been nothing for her to worry about. At her last school sports day, she had come second in her year in the hundred-yard dash, completing the race on the heels of a girl who had beaten the school record. She didn’t think she would be able to run very far or very fast on an injured ankle though.

With her heart thumping in her chest, Becca started back across the field toward the gate. She kept the Land Rover between her and the mysterious, angry figure for as long as possible, although it wasn’t easy as he moved around it toward her. She limped as quickly as she could, while casting an eye frequently over her shoulder; the feeling that something bad was going to happen meant she was prepared for the worst when he darted forward and lunged at her.

Pivoting on her uninjured ankle, she spun around. As her bag slid from her shoulder, she swung it with all her strength, catching her would-be attacker in his side. The bag burst open, spilling its contents, as he was slammed into the side of the Land Rover. Becca seized the opportunity. Dropping the broken bag, she turned on her heel and moved as fast as she could toward the gate.

The moment she started running, the pain in her ankle trebled in intensity, growing from a dull ache to a deep throb that swept through her body, drowning out everything but the most basic thought: flee! Though her body screamed at her to race on, to get away and escape the man who wanted to attack her, Becca struggled to keep moving. Every time she put her left foot down it was agony, and she worried her ankle would give out, leaving her vulnerable.

After the shock of being hit, Becca’s unsuccessful assailant rose to his feet. His ego was more bruised that his body, although that didn’t make him feel any better about what had happened. Bitch! he yelled after her. In anger, he kicked away the fallen books and then the bag itself before taking off in pursuit. He knew he had to catch Becca before she reached the road or she would get away. It required no serious thought on his part to realise that if she managed to escape, he would be in serious trouble.

Becca had made it only about thirty yards before she stumbled and fell. She sprawled along the