My Heart Belongs To You: A Psycho Thriller (2 page)

‘Karen, listen to me.’

T
he quiet sobbing to his left
was the
only response
;
a sound that he had to contain, to box
up so
it
did not distort his mind, blindsiding
judgment
and
prevent
ing
him from
making a
clear evaluation.
  ‘
Karen
!’
his voice was sharp
.
H
e
needed to get her attention
.  ‘L
isten to my voice, speak to me
,
and
tell me what you remember
.’ 
He waited,
and
from his left came a few more stuttering sobs before his
fiancée
eventually took six deep steadying breaths and then spoke
.

‘
We
…
we were
at that Italian restaurant
o
n George Street and I
…
I
…
Oh
my God
,
Tom
,
what
’
s happening to us
?’
she suddenly screamed.

‘
Karen
,
we
…’
Tom swallowed, hesitating
and
trying to pick the words that would cause the least panic
.
However,
when it came to
kidna
pping,
there really w
a
sn
’
t a lot of choice
;
no dressy combinations or clever word
-
craft would take
the edge off their situation.
  ‘
Karen
, we’ve been kidnapped.’

Karen
stopped sobbing
.
She
became very quiet
,
as her mind absorbed Tom
’
s words
,
and began to mix them with others.
Kidnap, ransom, freedom, survival, life.
Her breathing started t
o settle, ‘
Who
… w
ould do this
,
Tom
?’

‘
I don
’
t know
.’ 
Tom tried to shift his weight
,
as he became aware of the hard surface he was l
ay
ing on
,
digging into parts of his body, his bare buttocks, his shoulders and various points up and down his legs.
It was clear
that
he was naked so he had to suspect Karen was too.  ‘Karen are… are you dressed?’

There was a slight hesitation
,
as if she needed to
keep
her voice low
.
When
it came,
it was
vulnerable
.
‘Tom I… I’m naked.’

‘It’s
okay,
Karen, so am I
.
’
As
soon as the words left his mouth
,
he realised how ridiculous they were.  Of course
,
it wasn’t alright
.
They
had been kidnapped, almost certainly drugged and were now strapped naked to a table in the pitch black
at
who knows where. 
As his mind did a
mental
search of his own body
,
he suddenly became aware of his left hand,
and
he squeezed it gently.

‘
Tom
!’
shrieked Karen
‘i
s
… is that your hand?’

Despite their
situa
tion,
Tom tried to lighten things
,
‘I certainly hope so.’

‘We’re holding hands
,
Tom.’

‘
Y
es
,
but…
there…
there’s something wrong
.
’ T
om frowned
,
as he tried something
,
and
then
he
gasped a
s realis
ation set in,
‘Oh
,
my God.’

‘
What is it, what
’
s wrong
,
Tom
?’

‘
It
…
it
’s our hands.’

‘What about them?’

‘
They
… they’ve been glued together.’

Chapter Three

13 February
-
0
9
:
48

(L
ife remaining 33
hrs
12 mins)

‘
Where do you want me to start?
’

‘
To be honest
,
I think we need to meet in person
,
Mr
. Hanson.’

‘
Honesty would be good
,
Mr
.
Turner
, lies
tend to upset me.’ 
Hanson
’
s voice was quiet
,
and edged with
ice.
It carried a warning
that was
almost a threat.

Donald
Myers
had given
Turner
a brief but concis
e
background
on John Hanson
.
If
only half of what he had told him was true
,
upsetting this man would not be the best thought out plan.
‘
When do you want to meet
?’
E
nquired
Turner
.

‘
Now
,
’ r
esponded Hanson
, ‘
Are
you at your office?’

‘
Yes, yes
,
I am. I
’
ll give you the address and
…’

Hanson’s voice cut him off in mid-sente
nce.
 
While Hanson had been talking with Richard
Turner
,
he had been working his G3 with his free hand.
A simple text to Donald
Myers
brought an almost instant reply.
Hanson had written
,
Richard
Turner
, where?
 
The reply was almost instant
.
New Scotland
Y
ard, Westminster.

‘
I know where you are
,
Mr
.
Turner
.
Fifteen minutes
,
’ s
napped Hanson
,
closing the line
and
cutting off
Turner
’
s reply
,
as
he strode
forward
quickly
and
hailed a taxi.

Turner
placed the receiver slowly
back onto it
s cradle and gave a silent prayer that John Hanson was batting for the good guys.
He hadn
’
t even met him yet
, but
he had
already
formed
an impression
that left him in
no doubt
wha
tsoever
,
that in fifteen minutes
John
Hanson would be at the front desk.
Striding briskly to his office door
,
he pulled it open and spoke to his secretary.
‘
Linda
,
arrange for all the files on Cupid to be brought to my office im
mediately.’

Five
minutes later
,
a lone box was placed onto the detective inspector
’
s desk.
Normally
,
a
six-year-old
serial murder investigation generated enough pap
er to send Sting and Bob Geldof
into a
n
apoplectic fit
,
but thi
s sad indictment sat on his desk
mock
ing
him.
It said he had failed in his duty
.
That
he was not up to the challenge laid down by
C
upid to find him.
Six years had
not
produced one solid fact that might lead them to the identity of the seri
a
l killer
.
Not
one lead of substance had come to his aid.  Books had been written during
C
upid
’
s
six-year
reign with paragraphs embedded for all time
,
critic
iz
ing
police efforts and particular
l
y his own part.
Cou
n
tless newspaper articles had used razor sharp words to cut through the thick skin
, which
Turner
had to develop over his handling of the
C
upid investigation
.
Skin
that was now covered in the scar tissue of their
accusation
s
.

Ten minutes later
,
as he flicked through the files
,
a
sharp knock at the door, preluded by the entry of his secretary, pulled his attention back from the badlands of his conscience.
  ‘
Are you expecting a Mr
…
’

‘
Send him in
,
’
inter
r
upted
Turner
,
cutting her off. 
Turner
tried to control his facial features
, making
a con
s
cious effort to stop his eyes growing wide and his jaw to drop open.
It was a wasted effort
, t
he tall blond man who strode confidently into his office stood a shade over six feet four and weighed in at a little over
two hundred and fifty
pounds
,
so
Turner
’
s reaction was something Hanson was used to.

‘
Turner
?’
asked John Hanson
,
offering his hand.

The detective inspector took the offered hand, regretting it almost im
media
t
e
ly
,
as the power contained within the frame of the man in front of him pulsed
through the grip
. It was a pointer, almost a warning
,
backed by
intensity
in narrowed
,
diamond blue
eyes
,
which
seemed to burn into his very soul.
  ‘
No need to ask who you are
,
’
smiled
Turner
,
weakly rubbing his hand
,
as Hanson relinquished his grip
and
allow
ed
the
blood flow back into his fingers.

‘
I spoke with Donald
Myers
on the way
ove
r,’
informed Hanson
,
taking the seat in front of
Turner
’
s desk on which a lone cardboard box sat.
Hanson
’
s eyes floated across it for a mere second
.  ‘
He said that you are ninety
-
nine percent confident that Tom Wilson and his
fiancée
have been abducted by this seri
a
l killer
,
so I need details
.
Tell
me what you have on Cupid.’