My Heart Belongs To You: A Psycho Thriller (21 page)

‘Will do, anything else?’

‘Yes, call Simpson’s sister at The Spinning Wheel
,
and let her know her brother is alright.’

‘
Okay,
John.’

‘Also tell her that Boyce has developed amnesia as far as her brother is concerned.’

Jane snorted back a chuckle at how her boss might have induced that memory loss ‘There’s something else
,
John.’

‘Let’s have it.’

‘Steph believes the link we have been looking for is the fingers of the dead
women
.’

‘Is that it?’

‘At the moment
.
She’s
becoming frustrated at not being able to explain herself.  Just keeps saying it’s the fingers.’

‘
Okay
, just keep an eye on her.  She’ll work it through.’

‘Will do.’

John checked his watch, 17.45, 25 hours and 15 minutes remaining.  ‘What do you have on Fuller the journalist?’

‘He’s going to be at The Dragos night club in Fulham at 7 p.m. to cover the opening for his paper.  There’s an early evening bash for celebs before opening to
John Q.
Public later in the evening.’

‘Give me a post code.’

Jane came back with the information she had already to hand.

Hanson entered it into his Sat Nav, ‘
Fifty
minutes travel tim
e
.
Should
be there for around 18
.35.’

‘I’ve got Blue Eagle on the line
,
John
.
He
needs to speak to you urgently.’

‘What do you have for me
,
Sir?’

‘I’ve been doing some digging
into
Fuller’s e
-
mail accounts, cross
-
checking with his editorials
, and
also
a book he’s written relating t
o Cupid over the last six years. There’s also
some relevant info
rmation from Richard
Turner
that has made
something abundantly
clear.’

Hanson could feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle.  Blue Eagle’s tone warned him that something of significance was about to be given over. ‘Care to share?’

As Blue Eagle gave him his
news,
Hanson slammed on the brakes
,
bringing his car to a skidding halt, the words replaying in his head.

‘
Fuller
’
s getting his information from Cupid
.’

Chapter
Twenty

13 February
-
18
:
50

(
L
ife remaining 24 hrs 10 mins)

‘Brenda Stiles had ceased to exist.’

Cupid liked this time of day.  The office and
workshops
were cl
osed, the cleaners had
done their work, not to his own office
,
of course
.
He
cleaned that himself.  It was a golden rule that his secretary imposed with unflinching diligence that
no one
was allowed to enter his office when he wasn’t there
.
That
way
,
his inner sanctum remained just that
, a
sanctum and tonight of all nights that was important
, because
on this night, the night before Valentine’s, he would relive the taking of the heart promised to him by Brenda
,
his one and only true love.  For two glorious
years,
he had devoted himself to her, sharing with her every aspect of his life, h
is business plans, his hopes
and
dreams for their future.  He helped her choose her clothes, her apartment, educated her about good food and wines,
and shared
exotic magical holidays with her
,
and then the bombshell.  She called him to say that it was over, that there was not
a
future for them, said he was suffocating her with his control.  He had begged her, told her his love should not be seen as control
,
but a reflection of his depth of feeling. 
Eventually he
had to
accept that
it was over, that she had lied when she had told him that her heart was his forever
,
so he left her little option.  He took what was promised
. He
took her heart.  Now it was his for eternity
,
as she had told him it would be
.
Now,
he was able to hold it close each day
,
since
it remained frozen in time wi
thin the Perspex cylinder in
his inner sanctum
.
He
was convinced,
it contained
the love she had felt for him before she became misguided, confused as to her true feelings for him
,
but none of that mattered any more
,
for he had what was promised to him and his quest had begun.

His mission in life was to show to the world that a proclamation of devotion to another was a frag
ile thing, a thing of beauty, a thing of
purity that could only be protected by
death’s
folds that would tie two people for all time, for infinity.
 
The newspapers had failed to recognise his quest
.
Even
Giles Fuller had only printed snippets of the messages
that
he had sent to him each year
,
just snatches of what he was t
rying to get the world to understand
.
He had selected him as the one reporter
that
he would contact following each year
’
s coupling
,
to reveal that another couple had been joined by their love for all time, never to be parted, never to have to suffer as he had.
  So each year
,
within hours of the coupling while Cupid was still on a high
,
he would e
-
mail
Fuller
from a random internet café, a different one each year, and tell him what he had done, tell him who he had coupled and where they could be found.  Fuller’s work had attracted Cupid
.
It showed
that he was able to think outside of the box, to be
able to view from all angles
so
something of an under
standing had built up
,
it
developed
through
Fuller’s
editorials where
all others simply condem
n
ed him as a maniac, a madman.
Fuller had
put for
ward that there had to be a reason behind such acts, something that Cupid was trying to explain.
Cupid
reali
s
ed that Fuller could only write so much without revealing that he was in direct contact with him
,
but one year he would demand that he write more, a fu
ll explanation.  The book Fuller had written
en
titled
,
‘Cupid’s Quest
,
’ had come clo
se, expressing many points
that
he
had
made to the journalist
,
but Cupid
wanted more
.
He
needed people to look beyond the physical aspect and look to the spiritual message he was trying to evoke, the purity, the power of true love transcending all things physical, transcending time.

Cupid’s mind re-focused as he placed the cylinder down with trembling hands onto the shiny desk surface.  He allowed himself a second or two to drink in the beauty of the heart suspended within
,
before stepping back into the hidden chamber where he removed the framed photo from the wall
,
placing it with great reverence next to the cylinder.  Switching on his desk
fan,
he slipped a latex glove onto his right hand and began to unscrew the lid of the container.  This moment
was the one
he craved each year
.
It
was the one time
that
he would allow himself to reach in through the formaldehyde liquid and touch the heart that had touched his.  It could only be for seconds
, because
even with the desk fan blowing the fumes away from him
,
it would not take long for his eyes to react to the embalming fluid
.
Nevertheless,
those few seconds while he looked down on the framed photo of his beloved Brenda, his mind would erupt with a kaleidoscope of wonderful memories, memories that, like
this heart, were his to keep
, to savour and relive for the rest of his life.

As
always,
his hand shook as he dipped it into the fluid, the familiar jolt running through his body as he came in contact with the heart
,
quickening his own
,
as he stared into the smiling face with the dancing eyes of his one true love.  As the memories continued to cascade through his head, he withdrew his hand and sealed the lid back into place.  Quickly
,
he peeled off the glove and dropped
them
into a plastic bag
,
which he sealed with a tie wire
,
and
then
he
opened the window fully to dispel the strong odour.  By morning, after the use of some powerful air freshener
,
there would be no trace, no indication that anything unusual had taken place
.
The
framed photo of the smiling Brenda would be returned to his secret room along with her heart, his heart.

He sat at his desk facing
the still open sanctum taking several deep
breaths
.
The
hidden lights illuminated the framed photo with the cylinder below in a soft golden glow.  It created the look of a shrine and that’s what it was to Cupid
.
Here was where
he came to replenish his commitment,
and
to reaffirm this odyssey
that
he had set
for
himself.  Closing his
eyes,
he thought back to the night that he confronted Brenda at her flat, the flat he had chosen
;
the flat he had furnished and decorated.  He heard again the surprise in her voice as he used his key and walked in through the front door.

‘
James
,
what are you doing here?
’

‘
We need to talk this through
,
Brenda
.
You’re
… you’re
clearly confused
.’

The tall slim raven haired woman turned her back on James Holt and walk
ed back along the corridor
to the spacious
lounge
,
as she answered
,
‘I am not confused and you
r
being here will not change my mind.’

‘You just need to clear your mind
,
’
he pleaded
,
pacing after her.

‘
That’s
exactly why I can’t be with you anymore
,
’
s
he snapped
,
wheeling on him,
‘
You’ve
cleared my mind of all my own thoughts, my own choices and filled them with yours
.
I don’t know who I am anymore.’

James Holt recalled the two hours of back and forth arguing that
spira
l
led
along with his temper and then came that moment
,
the comment that resonated through his head like rolling thunder
.
Each
word, each syllable
bounced
around like an out of control laser.