The Stalker's Song Read online

  THE STALKER’S SONG

  A Gripping Crime Thriller

  Georgia E Brown

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  The man salivated as he watched her, groaning as he rubbed his hand over his groin. She was sitting cross-legged on the pale silk throw which covered her large chesterfield-style bed. He thought the tastefully furnished room reflected her innate elegance, with its huge chandelier dominating the high ceiling and scattering prisms of light around the silvery walls and white French furniture.

  It always thrilled him to observe her; his pleasure heightened by the knowledge that she was totally unaware of his scrutiny.

  When he first set eyes on her, on his TV screen, he knew he’d found his next target. Idly watching the BBC News one evening, his attention was drawn to the cool, confident blonde being interviewed outside the Albert Hall. She’d been waylaid by a reporter on her way into a CBI Conference, with a question about her opinion of the potential effect of Brexit on the economy. Looking smart, in a well-cut dark blue suit, she radiated class as she turned intelligent green eyes to the camera and articulated her views. He found her confidence appealing, knowing that destroying it would give him indescribable pleasure. He’d punched the air, shouting ‘Game On! Let the pursuit begin.’

  The power he felt as he secretly spied on her was an enduring aphrodisiac. He knew that he was nearing the point where he needed to possess her, body and soul, but for now the chase was exquisite.

  Hearing her chatting animatedly with her step-daughter in Barbados, he was surprised to realise that she was talking about taking a trip out there. As she spoke and gesticulated with her free hand, the loosely-tied, white robe she was wearing parted a little, showing the swell of her pale breasts. When she reached over to take a tissue from a flowery box on the bedside table, her gown opened even further, revealing a glimpse of her nakedness beneath. Desire overwhelmed him and, eyes riveted on her body, he unbuttoned his jeans, pulled the zip down and urgently masturbated, his imagination running wild. When his heart rate had returned to something like normal, he tuned back into her conversation and became aware that she was making firm plans to travel to Barbados.

  ‘I feel ready now, Fiona. I think it could be cathartic for me to spend time in the place where your dad and I were so happy’.

  Following the sudden death of her husband, at the end of last year, she’d had some kind of breakdown and he’d watched with incredulity and frustration as she descended into a deep depression, mourning for the old man she’d been married to. She took to drink in her misery, and for a few months was stoned most of the time. He simply couldn’t understand why someone like her could care so much for such a boring old man. Of course, friends and family had rallied round to give support. Her daughter even put her university studies on hold and moved back home. Close friends took it in turns to stay with her, and her stepdaughter, Fiona, came over frequently from Barbados to be with her. Unfortunately this meant that she was rarely alone, denying him the perfect opportunity to satisfy his longing.

  Now, listening to her conversation, he realised with mounting anticipation that things were about to change. He began whistling the song that had been on his mind since he first met her:

  Oh Carol, I am but a fool

  Darling I love you, though you treat me cruel

  You hurt me, and you make me cry

  But if you leave me, I will surely die

  CHAPTER TWO

  British Airways flight 2155 was cruising at thirty-six thousand feet, en-route to Grantley Adams International Airport, Barbados. The moving map told me we were still a fair way from our destination, as I settled further back into my seat and took a deep breath, trying to calm the knot of anxiety nestling in my stomach.

  My thoughts drifted back over the last tumultuous year. Almost unbearable grief, combined with excruciating guilt, had driven me to the brink of a nervous breakdown in the months following Peter’s death. If I’d known, when he left me that morning, that I would never see him again, I would have dragged myself from my comatose state, held him to me and never let him go.

  I’d stayed out very late the night before, partying with my girlfriends, a long-standing arrangement to say farewell to of one of the girls who was emigrating to New Zealand. We ended up clubbing; drinking into the early hours before getting taxis home. As a consequence, when Peter left early the next morning, I barely opened my eyes, let alone wished him a safe trip or kissed him goodbye. I vaguely remember him planting a light kiss on my head before he left, never to return.

  After his death, I sank into utter despair. Unable to cope, I couldn’t see any point in getting out of bed in the mornings. On the days I did manage to get up, it was a huge effort just to do the basic things; to shower, get dressed, or eat. With a wave of remorse, I remembered surrendering myself to drink, trying to dull the edge of the pain and the guilt, needing the oblivion that only alcohol could bring.

  If it hadn’t been for the unwavering support of friends and family, particularly Julia and Fio
na, and Patsy, a close friend since childhood, I really don’t know how I would ever have come through it. God knows how they stuck with me through the misery, the drinking, the abuse I hurled at everyone. I hated the world and everyone in it. I wanted them to go away and leave me alone. I just wanted to die.

  ‘Mum, you can be as nasty as you want. We’re not giving up on you,’ Julia told me several times.

  ‘Yes, you don’t get rid of us that easily,’ my step-daughter, Fiona, chimed in. ‘Simon insists that I stay over here ‘til you’re better, so I’m not going anywhere.’

  Slowly, I began to emerge from the depths, getting a bit stronger each day; I knew I’d turned the corner when I went a whole day without a drink, then two, three, a week. My recovery steadily continued to the point where I felt strong enough to make the journey to Barbados. I wanted to stay at our holiday apartment, where we’d had some of our happiest times, in the hope that it would prove cathartic, and give me some peace of mind.

  ‘Cabin Crew, seats for landing.’ The voice of the captain brought me back to the present, and the knot of anxiety intensified. Had I made the right decision to stay alone at the holiday home we’d shared together? Should I have listened to Fiona’s attempts to get me to stay with her and Simon? I told myself to stop being so negative, that it would be good for me; another step in the healing process.

  On disembarking, I stood uncertainly at the exit to the aircraft, before resolutely stepping from the plane and descending the stairs. The warm, humid air met me, enveloping me like a cocoon. Walking towards the terminal building, I felt calm, suddenly certain I’d made the right decision to come to the island.

  There were no delays at Passport Control and as I entered the Baggage Reclaim area, one of the porters came hurrying towards me, smiling warmly and looking very smart in his red waistcoat.

  ‘Need help with your cases, Ma’m?’ he enquired, indicating his trolley.

  Before too long, my cases arrived and were expertly plucked from the carousel and loaded on to the trolley. As we made our way past Customs, the porter chatted animatedly, welcoming me to Barbados. Pulling the heavy load (I’ve never learned to travel light) he grinned, showing uneven but startlingly white teeth.

  ‘You can chill now Lady, you is in Barbados.’

  Fiona was waiting in the bustling Arrivals Hall, a petite figure, in a brightly coloured summer dress. I was delighted to see her and as we greeted each other with warm hugs, I was surprised to find I had tears in my eyes.

  ‘Hey. What’s this?’ said Fiona, laughing and wiping a tear away with her thumb.

  I grimaced. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m just so happy to see you.’

  The porter kept up his friendly banter as he loaded the bags into the boot of Fiona’s car.

  ‘Well, you two lovely ladies are gonna have just the best time in Barbados,’ he said, as he slammed the boot and made sure it was properly closed.

  I thanked him with a generous tip, and was treated to another flash of white teeth. Soon, we were driving past sugar cane fields and watching the sky begin to darken as the sun made its descent below the horizon.

  ‘Oh, Fi, it’s so wonderful to be here again. It just feels… so right.’

  Fiona glanced sideways at me as she drove. She looked very pretty, the deep orange of her sundress complimenting her honeyed skin tone and dark, shiny hair.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here – and you’re looking really well. Are you absolutely sure you’ll be alright on your own in the apartment? It’s not too late to change your mind, you know?’

  We were passing the port at Bridgetown, and I could see several huge liners moored there. Later, they would set sail for their various destinations and become visible from the apartment as they left the port, lit up like floating wedding cakes against the dark sky.

  ‘To be honest, I’m even more sure, now that I’m here. When I got off the plane, it felt somehow as though I’d come home. You know, I need some time for reflection, Fi. When I think about it, I’ve hardly had a night on my own since Peter died, what with having the breakdown and everything. If Julia hasn’t been with me, you’ve been there, or Pauline, or other friends. You’ve all been very kind, but I think I need to learn to stand on my own two feet again.’

  ‘Well, we’re not far away if you need us, you stubborn moo!’

  ‘I’ve never really thanked you properly for coming over so often to help look after me when I... went to pieces. Especially as you had your own grief to deal with.’

  ‘Least I could do, Carol. Dad would have wanted me to look after you. And, in a way, it helped me too, to focus on getting you better. Anyway,’ she said, changing down a gear as we approached a queue of traffic, ‘it’s good that you feel strong enough now to come out here.’

  When we reached the apartment, there were two large rum punches waiting for us in the fridge, with a note from the housekeeper, Josie, that simply read ‘Enjoy.’ We sat on the terrace in the warm evening air, sipping our drinks by the soft glow of the lamps set in the surrounding low stone wall.

  ‘When is Julia coming out?’ Fiona asked, taking a sip of her rum punch. ‘Bloody hell, these are strong!’ she pulled a face.

  ‘She’s coming just before Christmas,’ I said, taking a tentative sip of my drink. Josie’s rum punches were legendary. ‘Tastes like she’s used at least a half a bottle of rum in these.’ I spluttered.

  ‘Better let you finish mine,’ Fiona said, reluctantly pouring some of her drink into my glass. ‘Pity I’m driving; it’s delicious once you get used to it.’

  ‘Hey, I’m going to be stoned.’ I laughed and pushed her hand away,

  ‘Nothing new there then,’ she quipped. We finished our drinks and Fiona stood up, ready to leave. ‘No need to come up,’ she said, as I made to walk with her up the steps at the side of the villa. ‘You’ve got your unpacking to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ A quick peck on my cheek and she was gone.

  Once she’d left, I hefted one of the cases on to the bed and got busy. I looked at Peter’s wardrobe, where I knew his clothes still hung, untouched. Fiona and I had agreed we would tackle them together, a task I hadn’t yet faced back home in England. I opened the wardrobe door and brought out one of the many tops hanging there; a bright emerald green polo shirt. Burying my face in it, I breathed deeply, but couldn’t detect anything of Peter now in its aroma, only a faint smell of the washing powder Josie used. I remembered vividly the last time he’d worn it. We’d been visiting the Barbados Wildlife Reserve at Farley Hill. Strolling around the grounds, we spotted a variety of animals; armadillos, pelicans, deer, but my favourites were the monkeys. I stopped to take a photograph; Peter walking slightly ahead of me. A monkey was keeping pace with him, running along the corrugated roof of a single-storey building beside the path. Suddenly, the monkey launched itself off the roof and on to Peter’s back. He got such a fright; screaming like a girl, he started to run. His panama hat flew one way and his sunglasses the other, as he tried to dislodge the monkey. I couldn’t move for laughing. I smiled at the memory and, with a small sigh, put the shirt back on its hanger and returned it to the wardrobe, firmly closing the door. We can deal with that later I thought.

  When I’d finally finished putting my things away, I was suddenly overcome by tiredness, no doubt helped by the effect of the rum punches. After sending Julia a short message to let her know I’d arrived safely, I quickly got ready for bed, sank into the plump downy pillows and pulled a sheet over myself. Sleep came almost immediately.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He sat in the shadows, watching and waiting. Before too long, he saw the Fiona woman come up from the garden and step into the pool of yellow light cast by the roadside lamp. Quite a pretty little thing, he noted. He watched until she got into her car and drove off, before turning his own car around and heading back to his hotel. ‘Not yet, Carol,’ he whispered.

  Earlier, he’d been at the airport to watch her arrive, needing to be abs
olutely sure she hadn’t changed her mind at the last minute. The touching little scene when she met Fiona, and shed a few tears, made him smile. Soon, he would make sure she shed a lot more.

  As he drove, he pictured her settling down for the night. She would be tired after the journey, and would no doubt sleep soundly. His whole body was infused with a delicious sense of anticipation. He could almost taste it. ‘Sleep tight, Carol,’ he whispered. ‘Not long now.’

  His fantasies about her were becoming more intense - more violent and sexual, now that gratification was so close. Although he loved the pursuit, the feeling of power that came from silently stalking her, the exhilaration of nearing the end game was pure ecstasy.

  Back in his room, he checked her phone, and saw that she’d sent a message to her daughter. ‘Hi Jules, Arrived safely. Off to bed now - had one of Josie’s rum punches and feeling v sleepy. Fi coming over tomorrow night for catch up. Feels really good being here’.

  ‘Oh, Carol, it’s going to feel even better, soon.’ As he undressed for bed, he was whistling quietly.

  ‘Oh Carol, I am but a fool...’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was dawn when I woke up, not at all surprised to find that I’d slept for a straight eight hours. Jet-lag always took its toll after the long journey. The eight hour flight from Gatwick wasn’t too bad, but the flight from Newcastle to Heathrow, then the transfer to Gatwick added several hours and extra hassle to the journey.

  Pulling on a light wrap, I made myself a cup of coffee, and carried it out on to the terrace, where I sat gazing out over the sea. On the horizon, I could see a huge liner making its way slowly towards the port at Bridgetown. I knew it would stay there for the day, leaving its passengers free to roam the island, before setting sail late in the evening for some other exotic location.

  Looking around the terrace, I noticed how beautiful the bougainvillea was, growing in great profusion up the walls of the villa, creating a stunning cloud of fuchsia. The terrace itself looked neat and tidy, the potted plants all thriving and healthy. Raoul was obviously doing a good job on his weekly visit.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of the fragrant air and let the tranquillity of the place seep into my bones. For the first time in a long time, I felt relaxed, almost happy. I thought how strange it was to be bereaved. Since I’d been widowed, I’d felt sort of apart from everyone else, almost in a parallel world. As if life was going on as normal all around me, but I wasn’t really part of it. Maybe this break would complete the healing process and help me to fully accept Peter’s death and get back into the world again.