Free Urge to Kill (1) by JJ Franklin

himself.
    ‘I’ve had a very harrowing experience.’
    ‘Oh dear. What on earth happened Mr Draper?’
    ‘I can’t even bear thinking about it.’
    ‘Oh dear.’
    ‘For goodness sake, Clive, stop shilly-shallying and tell us what happened.’
    ‘I’ll try.’
    ‘Clive.’ Mother never had an ounce of sympathy. Well, not where he was concerned anyway. She had set her face determinedly against his tears at Father’s hands believing that was the way to raise a man.
    ‘There was a murder. At the spa.’ He watched as his news hit home. Whatever they were expecting it wasn’t this. Maybe they thought Clive had been involved in a car accident on the way home. But a murder, now that was worthy of even his Mother’s attention and he relished the word.
    ‘A murder,’ he repeated, enjoying the sound.
    ‘Oh my goodness.’
    Mrs Sinclair dropped into the nearest chair and unbuttoned her coat as shock sent a hot flush soaring upwards, turning her neck and face a beetroot colour. But Clive wasn’t going to let her take the attention from him. Mother was made of sterner stuff and barely glanced in Mrs Sinclair’s direction.
    ‘So who was murdered?’
    ‘I heard someone say it was a young girl. She was in one of the treatment rooms, practically next door to me.’
    ‘But I thought you were going to the gym?’
    Too late, he realised that his pride had outstripped the need for caution. His dear Mother was always as sharp as a tack.
    ‘Lisa was just giving that pulled muscle a quick massage.’ Mother accepted the lie although she took a second more than necessary before her eyes left his face.
    ‘Margery—get a glass of wine for Clive. And have one yourself—you look like you need it.’
    Clive cursed himself for embellishing the story and kept everything factual as he described how they were herded into the café, ordered about and questioned by Inspector Turrell.
    By the time he had finished, they were feeling suitably sorry for him, and Mrs Sinclair had poured him a glass of his favourite red wine. Now, as they finished clucking over him, he wanted to be on his own. He was sure his exploits of today would receive attention from both the local and national press, and he couldn’t wait to see his publicity.
    Pretending concern for keeping her so late, and thanking her profusely for staying with Mother, he hurried Mrs Sinclair to the door. It was a relief when the door closed behind her. Clive headed straight into the kitchen, calling to Mother on the way.
    ‘Won’t be long now, Mother.’ Mother said something in reply but by then he was halfway down the flagged hallway and into the modern, black and white kitchen. Ignoring the steaming casserole, he turned to the small television, thankful he had purchased it to keep Mrs Sinclair happy.
    He was delighted to find the murder mentioned on both the local news and the national news. The rush of power and excitement reminded him of the time he won the cup for unarmed combat. He had enjoyed seeing all those nondescript faces looking up at him and clapping. Soon, the whole nation would come to realise how important, how powerful he was. No one would beat him now.
    One young reporter was inclined to be lurid and called it ‘The Baby Doll’ murder, which he didn’t like. Nor did he like the solid reassuring tones of the local police superintendent who vowed that his force was doing everything they could to catch whoever committed this heinous crime and, while the public should continue to take normal precautions, there was no need to panic. His rather pompous tone made Clive determined to prove him wrong, and he began to plan his next statement.
    He knew that it would be prudent to place his next message in a different location, but he wanted to throw down a personal challenge to DI Turrell. The Inspector would look such a fool when another murder took place right under his nose, where no one would expect it, back at the health spa.
    Clive began to think of ways he