A Fatal Obsession. Faith Martin

meaningless demand.

      He’d received the first one a little under a month ago. Just a few lines, the implication of a veiled threat, and unsigned, of course. Nonsense, through and through, he remembered thinking at the time. It was just one of the many things a man of his standing – a self-made, very wealthy man – had to put up with.

      He’d crumpled it up and tossed it away without a second thought.

      Then, only a week later, another one had come.

      And, oddly enough, it hadn’t been more threatening, or more explicit, or even more crudely written. The message had been exactly the same. Which was unusual in itself. Sir Marcus had always assumed that nasty anonymous letters became more and more vile and explicit as time progressed.

      Whether it was this anomaly, or sheer instinct, he couldn’t now say, but something about it had made him pause. And this time, instead of throwing it away, he’d kept it. Not that it really worried him, naturally.

      But he’d kept the one that had come last week too, even though it had said exactly the same thing. And he’d probably slip this one, also, into the top drawer of his desk and carefully lock it. After all, he didn’t want his wife finding them. The wretched things would only scare her.

      With a sigh, he unfolded the piece of paper and read it.

      Yes, as he’d thought – the same wording, almost exactly.

      DO THE RIGHT THING. I’M WATCHING YOU. IF YOU DON’T, YOU’LL BE SORRY.

      But this letter had one final sentence – something that was new.

       YOU HAVE ONE LAST CHANCE.

      Sir Marcus Deering felt his heart thump sickeningly in his chest. One last chance? What was that supposed to mean?

      With a grunt of annoyance, he threw the paper down onto his desk and stood up, walking over to the set of French windows that gave him a view of a large, well-maintained lawn. A small brook cut across the stretch of grass marking the boundary where the formal flower garden began, and his eyes restlessly followed the skeletal forms of the weeping willows that lined it.

      Beyond the house and large gardens, which were so colourful and full of scent in the summer (and the pride and joy of his wife, Martha) came yet more evidence of his wealth and prestige, in the form of the fertile acres being run by his farm manager.

      Normally, the experience of looking out over his land soothed Sir Marcus, reassuring him and reminding him of just how far he’d come in life.

      It was stupid to feel so bloody… well, not frightened by the letters exactly; Sir Marcus wouldn’t admit to being quite that. But unsettled. Yes, he supposed that was fair. He definitely felt uneasy.

      On the face of it, they were nothing. The threat was meaningless and tame. There wasn’t even any foul language involved. As far as nasty anonymous notes went, they were rather pathetic really. And yet there was something about them…

      He gave himself a little mental shake and tramped determinedly back to his desk, sitting down heavily in his chair. And with a look of distaste on his face, he swept the letter into a drawer along with all the others, and locked it firmly.

      He had better things to do with his time than worry about such stupid nonsense. No doubt the mentally deficient individual who’d written them was sitting somewhere right this moment, chortling away and imagining he’d managed to put the wind up him.

      But Sir Marcus Deering was made of sterner stuff than that!

      Do the right thing… Surely, it couldn’t be referring to the fire, could it? A spasm of anxiety shot through him. That was all so long ago, and had had nothing to do with him. He’d been young, still working in his first executive position, and had no doubt been wet behind the ears; but the fire hadn’t even occurred on his watch, and certainly hadn’t been his responsibility.

      No. It couldn’t be about that.

      Defiantly, he reached for a biscuit, bit into it, opened the first of his business letters and pondered whether or not he should introduce a new line in wireless sets into his stores. The manager at the Leamington Spa emporium was all for ordering in a large batch of sets in cream Bakelite.

      Sir Marcus snorted. Cream! What was wrong with Bakelite that was made to look like good solid mahogany? And what did it matter if it was 1960 now, and the start of a whole new exciting decade, as the manager’s letter insisted? Would housewives really fork out their husband’s hard-earned money on cream Bakelite?

      But at the back of his mind, even as he called in his secretary and began to dictate a reprimand to his forward-thinking executive in the spa town, his mind was furiously churning.

      Just what the devil did the letter mean by ‘do the right thing’? What was the right thing? And what would happen if he, Sir Marcus, didn’t do the right thing?

       CHAPTER TWO

      ‘That you, love?’ Barbara Loveday called out as she heard the front door open and shut. ‘I’m in the kitchen!’

      And Trudy, who was wearily hanging up her things in the tiny hallway, couldn’t help but smile. Of course her mother was in the kitchen – Barbara Loveday was rarely anywhere else. Throughout their childhood, she and her older brother, Martin, had spent more time in that tiny, comforting space than anywhere else in the small terraced house in the rather rundown area of Botley they called home.

      As a suburb of the city, Botley might lack Headington’s lofty hills and smart new housing, or Osney Mead’s more bohemian and colourful canal-side charm, but Trudy couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. And on a cold, disappointing day, with her bones aching and her eye blackening nicely, she was more than happy to traipse through to the kitchen, where she knew the appetising smell of something tasty cooking, and a warm, loving welcome from her mother could be guaranteed to greet her.

      ‘You’re home earl—oh, Trudy, love!’ Barbara said helplessly, her face creasing in concern as she saw her daughter’s face. ‘What happened? Come here.’

      For a moment, as her mother’s ample form enfolded her and pansy-brown eyes – the mirror image of her own – inspected her face carefully, she didn’t mind feeling as if she was about six years old again. It was, after all, very nice to know that someone loved and cared for you, and here, in this little kitchen, with its cracked linoleum floor and cheerful yellow curtains, she felt safe and appreciated once more.

      Which was more than could be said of how she’d felt back at the station.

      ‘Here, love, sit down. Let me make you a nice cuppa. I’ll put something on that eye. I’ve got some cream that’ll do the trick. I only wish we had a nice bit of beefsteak to put on it.’

      Trudy couldn’t help but grin – even though it made her face hurt. Because if the Loveday family had been able to afford a nice bit of beefsteak, she knew full well they’d never be foolish enough to waste it on her face. It would be cooked and scoffed in no time at all.

      ‘Mum, it’s nothing,’ she insisted, sitting down at the tiny kitchen table, shoved up against one wall to preserve space, and then looking down as Maggie the cat rubbed against her ankles. She reached down absently to stroke her black-and-white fur. But the loud purring that resulted, Trudy suspected cynically, was more likely intended as a spur for someone to feed her than as an offer of support or sympathy for her human companion.

      Trudy was wise to the ways of feline cunning.

      ‘So, what happened this time then?’ Barbara demanded, standing by the sink as she watched the kettle start to boil, hands planted firmly on her ample hips.

      Trudy sighed. She really didn’t want to get into this fight again. The same old argument about whether or not women belonged in the police force had been running in the