A Deadly Compulsion Read Free

to the kitchen and poured a large brandy, needing a jolt of alcohol to help her to unwind and clear her mind a little before even contemplating sleep.  The brandy was both French and expensive; one of the few extravagances she allowed herself.  The smooth, mellow liquor warmed her, and went a long way to relaxing and unfrazzling nerves that felt frayed and raw from the tension and horror of all that had filled her long day.  She draped her jacket over the back of a chair, then unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor, now too creased to wear again without being washed and ironed.  A pleasure almost as gratifying as the brandy, was the shedding of her clinging black tights.  Surely no snake or lizard could know the same joy in sloughing its skin as she experienced by ridding herself of the hot, encompassing denier, which she had been sheathed in for almost seventeen hours.
    Feeling unrestricted in just blouse, bra and panties, Laura went into the lounge and curled up on the settee, feet tucked under her, glass in one hand and cigarette in the other.  She closed her eyes and let her brain put the events of the day into perspective, mentally filing them away.
    Damn! Another five hours and she would be up and getting ready to face another barrage of slings and arrows.
    The cottage was her bolt hole; a refuge from the turmoil and frantic pace of her work of late.  Situated in splendid isolation on the outskirts of Sand Hutton, – a village east of the Scarborough road – it stood alone, its backdrop thick forest, which was a perfect foil to the city.
    The small dwelling had been a tied cottage for the first century of its existence, tenanted by workers of the estate that it had belonged to.  Now, it was a cosy home, sympathetically modernised yet still retaining many of the original beams that were, as the house, over two hundred years old.  The ground floor comprised a breakfast kitchen and lounge, with a black wrought iron spiral staircase that led up to a landing with two small bedrooms and a bathroom off it.  Laura found the compact accommodation ideal, and valued its peaceful charm.
    Now thirty-nine, Laura had married at twenty-two, and was divorced by the time she was thirty.  There was no animosity or bitterness between herself and Douglas, her ex.  In fact, the break-up had been a time of acute sadness, leaving a sorrow that in weak moments could still choke her with emotion and bring a lump to her throat that felt as though a piece of rock was lodged there.
    Douglas had been worn down by her commitment to the force.  He’d often said that if her affair had been with another man, then he may have been able to cope, fight; maybe win her back.  But he could not battle against her obsession for police work. Laura admitted, much later and only to herself, that he had been right.  She was dedicated to the job, at the expense of all else.  Work had always seemed to come between them.  She had reached a point where she could face the fact that she had loved her husband, but was not in love with him.  There was a difference, though she had not really worked out what it was.  After parting, they had put Kara first, not looking to score points off each other, only wanting what was best for their daughter.  But that bond between them had come to an end after the accident three years ago.
    Laura set the alarm for six a.m., and fell into a deep yet troubled sleep within two minutes of her head hitting the pillow, as the cogs in her tired brain seemed to whir to a stop like the workings of a pre quartz clock in need of winding up.  In her dark dreams she saw the Holder girl, who metamorphosed, her face becoming elastic and reshaping itself into Kara’s.  Now it was her daughter stretched out on the autopsy table; chest and stomach gaping open, her head shaking slowly from side to side as she tutted in annoyance at the mutilation that had been visited both on and in her body.
    Laura was awake and in the