That's the situation Nancy Kerr finds herself in in Don't Come for Me.
Here's an extract -
Prologue
You're in the bathroom late at
night when you hear a noise coming from outside the door, and there's this tiny
part of you, the product of centuries of genetic programming designed to make
you fight or flee, that thinks there's someone inside your house.
Somebody waiting for you
outside that door.
Panic sucks the air out of your
lungs.
Your dread of what's outside
that door places an icy hand on your shoulder.
All kinds of scary thoughts are
going through your mind. Different permutations of what's outside the door.
Has someone broken in and
they're going through your stuff?
Is someone there determined to
do you harm as they have in the past?
There's this tiny voice inside
your head telling you not to be so silly. You're imagining things. After what
happened before that's understandable, but you can't let fear rule your life.
Be the boss of you.
When you open that door, you'll
feel ridiculous when you see that nobody's there.
There is no bogeyman waiting.
You open the bathroom door,
confidently to prove you don't care; that you've mastered your irrational fear.
Not tentatively like you want to, so you can turn on your heels and slam the
door shut. Just an inch so you can get a peek at what's out there.
In a few seconds, you're going
to be laughing about this. To feel a fool.
With your heart beating in your
ears, the door swings open and right away, you see that you were right to be
worried.
Both chairs are upturned in the
living room and the TVs been pulled out of its brackets. Your boyfriend's
nowhere to be seen.
You go into the kitchen and
there's a knife on the floor and a pool of blood. You're trying to take all
this in as your heart thumps against your breastbone on stereo.
That's when the police turn up,
threatening to break down the door if you don't open up.
Surveying the scene you know
that they're gonna think you killed him...
My name is Nancy Kerr and I'm
not a murderer. Since my parents were murdered I've come close a few times, but
I've never done the deed.
I did tattoo the world RAPIST
across the stomach of one of my parents' killers. But to me that was justified,
righteous revenge because when I walked in on those monsters that’d killed my
parents, they raped me and left me bleeding to death on the kitchen floor of my
childhood home. What happened caused me to have a breakdown and I ended up in a
psychiatric hospital where I was in the land of the zombies for fourteen
months. I have no memory of most of what happened there. When I was released, I
tracked down the men responsible for my parents’ deaths and discovered I had an
aptitude for detective work. Since then, I’ve helped track down the madman
responsible for abducting sex workers from Glasgow’s streets.
But, hey, that's another story.
Accused of my boyfriend Tommy's
murder, I need to prove my innocence. It won't be easy. Confronted by the same
scene as the police, I would think I was guilty too. And, Tommy's still
missing, presumed dead; murdered by me.
The clock's ticking.
Chapter 1
Detective McAskill pounded a
meaty fist into the table, but I barely blinked. He'd done it so many times
before it’d lost its dramatic effect. He was a short, dough ball of a man with
ruddy cheeks that looked like a kid had scribbled them on with a colored
pencil. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing pasty, podgy
arms more used to lifting pints than weights. Sweat came down in rivulets from
his brow and his nostrils flared like a racehorse’s every time he hit the
table. Apparently, the police aren't allowed to beat confessions out of
suspects these days, but I can tell McAskill hankers for the good old days.
I was seriously worried about
his state of health, and I was the one accused of murder.
”We will find him, you know
that, Kerr. No matter where you've put his body."
This time it was Detective
Cullen who up until now had been playing the good cop, who spoke.
Cullen was a tall man with a
fine head of lustrous black hair and steady eyes. He was the one I needed to
watch because everything he did or said was measured unlike Cullen who was one
step away from being a knuckle dragger.
Not for the first time, I gave
them my spiel. "I didn't put his body anywhere, because he's not dead and
I certainly didn't kill him. And while you're wasting time with me you could be
out looking for him."
Convinced I'd killed him, they
were doing nothing to find Tommy. Instead, they were checking out possible
burial sites, including my parents’ garden and allotment. I still hadn't been
able to sell the house I grew up in. Nobody wanted to buy a house where two
people were murdered. Or maybe the rose bushes in the garden put them off, as
mum always said they took a lot of looking after all. Whatever the reason, in a
way I was glad: all I had left of my family were memories and most of them were
in that house. Sell the house and I would be giving away another part of them
and I didn’t have enough parts of them left. They say you’ll always have your
memories as if that should console you, but it doesn’t. All you want is the
impossible – you want your loved ones back.
The police were wasting time;
precious time that could be the difference between finding Tommy alive or
chopped up into pieces and packed into a suitcase, then dumped in the River
Clyde.
The last time I'd seen him he'd
been in the living room watching TV and I'd gone to get a shower, expecting him
to come in and join me. I heard banging and when I came out there was a puddle
of blood and a knife and he was gone. Then the police showed up.
Of course I'd told them my
story many times, but they weren't buying it. The police thought they'd met a
killer dumb enough to kill someone, hide their body and then lay in wait for
them with the murder weapon. If this wasn't such a nightmare I'd have been
insulted.
Even when my lawyer Drew
Bennett put it in the same terms, the line of questioning hadn't wavered. This
wasn't so much a whodunit as a shedunit. My reaction strayed between
astonishment and bewilderment. Part of me wanted to cackle at the absurdity of
it all, whilst the other half wanted to demand to see the hidden cameras. Well,
this had to be some fly on the wall TV show where any minute now an over made
up host would jump out and say "Gotcha" and everybody would laugh,
except me.
Detective McAskill shoved his
gargoyle face within inches of mine. "You do know we can charge you with
murder even without a body?"
Rather than move away, I moved
my face closer to his. I was tired and scared, but I refused to be intimidated.
"I told you, Tommy's not dead. I didn't kill him. He's missing. And we're
wasting time here. You need to find him."
I couldn’t hide the desperation
from my voice.
McAskill scrunched up his face.
"Not the same old story. It's getting boring. Go on, hen, tell us the
truth. Get it off your chest."
He lowered his eyes when he
said chest. His colleague gave him a nod and he sat down.
"Look, Nancy," said Cullen, clasping his long,
slim hands together the same way a bank manager does before he turns you down
for a loan. "We know you and your boyfriend argued. He lied to you about
his past. It's understandable you'd be upset. That you'd want to give him a
piece of your mind, but things got out of hand. Hey, it happens. We've all been
there. Haven't we Pete?" He glanced over at McAskill who smirked.
"You were in the kitchen
chopping up some carrots, or maybe you were using the knife to clean the food
from the plug hole. My wife makes me do that." He made a face. "Damn
annoying I can tell you. Maybe he made a sudden movement and you put out your
hand, forgetting the knife was in it. Accidents happen, don't they, Nancy?" His gaze was
steady. "And that's what happened. Isn't it? You didn't mean to do it. A
court will understand. They'll be on your side, especially considering what
happened to you in the past."
He sounded so convincing he
almost had me believing what he said was true.
"Now's the time to speak
up, Nancy.
Continue to deny it and you could get 20 years when you’re convicted. Tell us
everything and we'll put in a good word with the judge. You could get less than
10 years. Be out in less than five." His voice was low, seductive. “Get on
with your life.”
I took a deep breath, something
I'd been doing a lot since they'd arrested me. Losing my cool wasn't going to
help me or Tommy, but we were wasting time here. "I told you what
happened. Someone took him. They must have because he was gone when I came out
of the shower. He wouldn't leave me; not without telling me where he was
going."
I gave Cullen a despairing
glance. "It's just as I told you. When I came out of the bathroom, there
was blood on the floor and the knife. He was nowhere to be seen."
My heart was thundering against
my chest. They had to listen to me. He needed their help. The longer they took
to start looking for him, the more chance he'd end up dead. If he wasn't
already. But one thing gave me hope that he was alive: surely if killing him
was the intention of whoever took him, they'd have killed him in the flat and
left his body, not set it up to make it look like I'd killed him.
Eyeing each man imploringly, I
said, "You've got to try and find him. Please." Maybe I could appeal
to their compassion.
While they were wasting time
with me anything could be happening to him, especially if his past had come
back to haunt him. Tommy had been part of a four-man Special Forces team given
the top secret mission of assassinating an Iraqi politician who'd been helping
terrorists. The mission failed when they were betrayed by a colleague and Tommy
and his remaining comrade, Eric were faced to fake their own deaths after a
bounty was put on their heads. Now it looked like they'd found him. Not even
being given a new identity had saved him.
McAskill sneered. "We'll
find him alright. Wherever you've put him. We'll find the poor bastard and nail
you. So, you can cut out the little miss innocent act. Better folk than you
have lied to us and been found out."
My hackles weren't so much as
raised as standing to attention. I'd had enough of this bullshit. "You
can't seriously think that I killed him?"
The way Cullen and McAskill
exchanged bemused glances, you'd have thought we were standing as the rain
bounced off the sidewalk and I'd insisted it was clear blue sky.
"How could I get the
better of someone like him? You must have read his file? He's a highly trained,
Special Forces soldier. He's 6ft 2 and even if you stuck Naomi Campbell's legs
on me I'm titchy. And I'm not a crack soldier. I design the crappy inserts that
fall out of newspapers and magazines when you're trying to read them." I
paused, not wanting them to catch them on a lie. "Well, did until they
fired me. But, back to Tommy, the guy who's missing, the man you should be
searching for because some mad bastards have taken him. They must have because
when I went for a shower he was there. When I came out he was gone."
McAskill got up and walked
around the small, airless room. There wasn't a bare light bulb swinging from
the ceiling but there might as well have been because the heat was oppressive.
On one of the hottest summers on record, I'd worked in a hospital laundry and
unluckily for me I'd been lumbered with operating the steam press. It was that
type of oppressive heat in this room.
McAskill gave me a dirty big
grin as he produced an evidence bag. An object I knew very well was inside.
"For the purpose of the
transcript, I'm showing Miss Kerr a Taser," said McAskill.
Shit. I'd forgotten all about
that.
Since I’d been raped I'd been
carrying it for protection.
Cullen eyed me intently, his
watery eyes gleaming. "Have you seen this before, Nancy? Answer yes or no."
Damn, what could I say now?
Deny it and they'd find my prints all over the thing. Admit it was mine and I
was screwed. They'd think I'd used it to subdue Tommy. And, it was an illegal
weapon. But denying it was mine might make me look even guiltier.
I turned to my lawyer for
guidance. He was too busy examining his expensive manicure. He'd been lumbered
with me because I didn't have a lawyer and he was visiting a client at the time
and he despised me for it. Apart from one interjection, he'd sat there
impersonating a stuffed dog.
I was about to tell him I'd be
better off with a stuffed toy as my legal representative, when he finally
deigned to speak.
His voice was as smooth as
chocolate. "Go on, Nancy;
tell these nice gentlemen what you told me. Some kind, considerate individual
got you that as a present. You'd no idea it was real and you certainly have
never used it, nor would you know how to." He stopped talking and gazed
over at each detective in turn, grinning broadly. "Christ, guys. My
client's an office worker, not Steven Seagal."
McAskill glowered. "Let
your client answer the question, Mr. Bennett. This isn't some tacky TV cop show
where you get to butt in and show how smart you are. Save your showboating for
the jury."
Throughout this exchange,
Detective Cullen sat there with a neutral expression on his face. He'd probably
realized a long time ago that his colleague was an idiot and easily riled.
McAskill turned to me, face as
red as a Glasgow tourist coming off a flight
from Malaga.
"Miss Kerr, does this Taser belong to you?"
My throat was so dry I had to
sip some water from the paper cup in front of me. The water was lukewarm and
tasted like it’d come from a puddle. I genuinely had no idea what I was going
to say before the words tripped out. "Yes, it's mine."
McAskill made an hmm noise and
I wished I could grab the Taser and make him dance. "I bought it to
protect myself after my parents were murdered and I was left dying on the
kitchen floor. I was terrified the men who'd attacked me would come back and
finish what they started." Then I added to rile McAskill. "Your lot
never caught them, you know. They're still out there."
I couldn't hide the venom in my
voice. Nor did I want to. I was seething that after all I'd been through, I was
the one being treated like I was some kind of lowlife when I'd done nothing
wrong. Why couldn't they see that I'd been set up?
Cullen's neutral gaze shifted
to something approaching sympathy, whilst McAskill eyed me wearily.
"I'm sorry for what
happened to you, Nancy," said Cullen. "I genuinely am. And my
condolences for your loss." He sounded genuine. "But Tasers are
illegal in this country. We'll have to add possession of an illegal weapon to
the list of charges, although I'm sure in your case, a jury will be
sympathetic. But, then with a murder charge, that’s the least of your worries.”
That's what I was worried
about.
Copyright Jennifer Lee Thomson, 2018
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