My Heart Belongs To You: A Psycho Thriller Read online

  MY HEART BELONGS TO YOU

  Michael A Walton

  Chapter One

  13 February - 09:45

  (Life remaining 33 hrs 15 mins)

  ‘Tom will die at precisely 7 p.m. tomorrow night.’

  John Hanson pulled the chirping mobile from his pocket and studied the screen.

  A momentary frown took control of his rugged but handsome features. The light blue screen told him that the caller ID had been withheld. Carrying two mobile phones might seem confusing to some, and to others, it might label him as a drug dealer, but to Hanson it was clarity itself. He had a business line for clients, and a second line for private calls or key people, separate and neat.

  On this occasion, it was his second mobile, hence his hesitation, because only four other people had that number and he was confident that none of them would ever pass it on to another party. Each of those four was listed only as an initial. “S” was Stephanie, his savant sister and the most important person in his life. A life he would lay down for his sister. It´s what big brothers did, or at least, it was what John Hanson would do.

  “T” was Tom Wilson, his back-up man through countless scrapes during his time in the regiment. More recently, since he set up Hanson Securities, he was his right hand man and more importantly, his closest friend.

  ”J” was for Jane, his secretary at the office of Hanson Securities, who manned the office and did everything from answering the phone to ensuring that every time you opened the biscuit tin, it contained more than crumbs.

  Finally, there was “D” for Donald Myers, the current head of MI5, whose office was housed in Thames House. The iconic building sat on the banks of the River Thames at Vauxhall Cross, a building that John Hanson’s work brought him to on many occasions.

  John punched the green symbol and backed into a shop doorway. Whenever he took a call in a busy street, he moved instinctively, so he had his back to something solid. It also served as a spot, which allowed a good field of vision around him. Taking a call generally sucked a person’s attention away from his immediate environment. John Hanson was the opposite; with Hanson, it heightened his awareness. Rigorous training, tested in some of the most deadly parts of the world, had added this second nature reaction to his survival toolbox. If someone wanted to distract, or get the drop on another person, they could simply call that person on their mobile. Suddenly, they would become deaf and blind.

  ‘Is this John Hanson?’ came a male voice in his ear. Hanson’s quick mind did a flash search of his memory. No face sprang forward, and no memory file opened to offer a name.

  ‘Who am I speaking to?’ asked Hanson.

  ‘My name is Richard Turner, Detective Inspector Richard Turner. Donald Myers from MI5 gave me this number. Are you John Hanson?’

  The hairs on Hanson’s neck stood up. If Donald Myers had passed on this number to another person, it wasn’t in connection with an invitation to a birthday party. ‘Yes, this is Hanson.’

  ‘I have been given your name as contact in the event of Tom Wilson’s death.’

  For just a split second, John Hanson’s eyes stopped sweeping the busy street in front of him. His brain stopped filtering the endless passers-by, looking for threats, or for any signs that the tides of shoppers washing by were anything other than that. Hanson took a quick steadying breath before he spoke. ‘When did he die?’ The answer that came back was not what he expected.

  ‘Tom will die at precisely 7 p.m. tomorrow night.´

  Chapter Two

  13 February - 09:46

  (Life remaining 33 hrs 14 mins)

  ‘Karen we’ve been kidnapped.’

  Tom Wilson waited, and waited. He knew that at any minute, he would wake up and this bizarre dream, no, this nightmare, would vanish as the early morning light banished it back into the dark recesses of his imagination from where it had clearly originated. Visions of being carried and laid onto a large slab-like table, and of being stripped and bound, would soon evaporate, melting away as day wrestled control from the night. The strange thing was that it still felt so real that he could almost feel the straps cutting into his wrists and biting into his ankles. He could feel the wide restraint band across his abdomen and some kind of collar around his neck. He frowned as he tried to follow the sound of his breathing, it was… well, it was odd, because it had an echo. It was as if there was someone else breathing close by.

  ‘T… Tom, Tom is that you?’

  Tom’s eyes snapped open at the anguished voice of his fiancée’s question. ‘Karen, wha…what’s happening? Where are you?’ He swallowed deeply, his mouth feeling sticky and so dry that it distorted his speech. Trying to turn his head, he realised that the straps he thought he had imagined were real, and that, as he struggled, they did cut into him. There was another band pulled tightly across his forehead, preventing him from turning, and another was across his throat. It was impossible to look to his left where he sensed Karen was. Not that he could see her, even if he could turn, because they were cocooned in a place of inky black that was so dark, so disorientating, it made perception of space and scale difficult. However, the hollow echo suggested a structure of large proportions, even cavernous.

  Karen was sobbing now, a pitiful sound in the darkness that cut into Tom like a hot razor. Each whimper was watered down as it scampered away to the far recesses of what he was now convinced was a large structure.

  ‘Tom wha…what’s happened to us?’

  Tom flexed against the bindings that held him. His sinewy muscles bunching as they strained, the anguished sound of his fiancée’s voice sending neat adrenalin into his blood stream, but he quickly realised there was no chance of breaking them. He took one deep breath as the shock started to wear off and the professional side of his character slid into place.

  ‘Karen, listen to me.’

  The 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 preventing him from making a clear evaluation. ‘Karen!’ his voice was sharp. He needed to get her attention. ‘Listen 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 on 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 kidnapping, there really wasn’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 to settle, ‘Who… would do this, Tom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tom tried to shift his weight, as he became aware of the hard surface he was laying 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 sud
denly became aware of his left hand, and he squeezed it gently.

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

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

  ‘We’re holding hands, Tom.’

  ‘Yes, but… there…there’s something wrong.’ Tom frowned, as he tried something, and then he gasped as realisation 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 - 09:48

  (Life 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 concise 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?’ Enquired Turner.

  ‘Now,’ responded 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-sentence. 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 Yard, Westminster.

  ‘I know where you are, Mr. Turner. Fifteen minutes,’ snapped 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 its 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 whatsoever, 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 immediately.’

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

  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,’ interrupted Turner, cutting her off. Turner tried to control his facial features, making a conscious effort to stop his eyes growing wide and his jaw to drop open. It was a wasted effort, the 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 immediately, 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 allowed the blood flow back into his fingers.

  ‘I spoke with Donald Myers on the way over,’ 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 serial killer, so I need details. Tell me what you have on Cupid.’

  This was going to be a short conversation, thought Turner, as he reached into the box and pulled out six files. One for each year of Cupid’s reign of terror. Six files that held around 100 sheets of typed A4 paper each, along with a group of photos that could never hope to capture the horror that each set of couples must have gone through at the hands of a monster. Turner opened the first file, marked February 2006, the first year that Cupid had struck. The first year that two people in love had fallen prey to the twisted mind of a maniac. The graphic photos never failed to make him gasp, and never failed to allow the guilt, which he carried every day like a disease running with spiked shoes through his soul. If he had done his job, five more couples would still be alive today, still breathing, still loving and enjoying life.

  ‘Mr. Turner,’ prompted Hanson tersely, dragging the detective back from dark inner thoughts.

  ‘Sor… sorry,’ stammered Turner, ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘Let’s try the beginning,’ responded Hanson.

  The beginning was good, thought Turner. The beginning involved other couples not connected to John Hanson. The end was what Turner was not looking forward to, because that would be where he had to relay his belief that, his friend was, in truth, already dead. He was still breathing, because Cupid didn’t kill ’til the fourteenth, but that was irrelevant. This would go the same way as the last six years and a new file would be added to the box in front of him. It would contain more sheets of typed A4 paper and a group of graphic photos that would steal his breath, each time he looked at them, which would not be often.

  Suddenly very tired, Richard Turner sighed deeply. He wanted John Hanson to know that this was a lost cause. A trail that could only lead to misery, misery and heartache. ‘Look…Mr. Hanson, I need to be straight with you. We have been chasing this maniac for six years. Six years without a shred of evidence, six years without a single eye witness, and six years without any lead of any substance.’ Turner shrugged his shoulders in resignation, ‘Your friend is already dead, he… he just doesn´t know it yet.’

  Chapter Four

  13 February - 09:50

  (Life remaining 33 hrs 10 mins)

  ‘Oh how his couples screamed.’

  Cupid placed the camcorder carefully into his brief case. He had made sure the battery was charged and the chip clean. He only used chips once for each couple, and then he destroyed them. It was a link, a lead, and he didn’t leave links, and he never left leads. It was how he was able to evade detection and that was important, because it allowed him to continue his work; that was all that mattered. He was angry that most of the press hounds still hadn’t recognised why he did this. They hadn’t accepted that the bonding of two people in love for eternity was the most sacred. The most poignant act of true love that could ever be achieved, and he, Cupid, gave that gift each year to one couple. This year it was Tom and Karen, who would be bound to each other for all time, their love sealed within the ageless time capsule of death.

  Cupid flipped open his mobile and hit speed dial one. His breathing was slightly quicker than normal. The anticipation of giving immortality to the love of Tom and Karen excited him, creating a glow from within.

  ‘Adam, it’s me. Is everything ready?’

  Anyone hearing Adam Black’s voice for the first time would think him drunk, but that wasn’t the case. He was just a little slow. A car accident ten years earlier had caused a head injury that left the left hand side of his face looking as if he had suff
ered a stroke. His voice was corrupted, as if he had consumed a bottle of whisky. Cupid had been driving the other car and whilst he was in no way to blame for the collision, he took on a responsibility for Adam’s recovery, placing him in a private hospital and covering all of his expenses throughout his period of healing. Cupid was a wealthy man, so money was not a problem, and helping this man produced an employee. No, he was more like a disciple, who would walk through fire, if he asked him. He would even lay down his life to protect him and that was exactly what Adam had become, his bodyguard, his protector. Not that Cupid needed much protection at six feet three inches, and weighing in at a muscular fourteen stones. He was more than a match for most men.

  Much of Adams physical recovery had been spent in the gym pumping iron, his savior having introduced him to the discipline of training with weights. The head injury Black had received made him frighteningly single-minded, almost obsessed, as he gulped steroids and pushed weights. The result was a man standing a little over six feet six inches tall, weighing in at a staggering three hundred and eight pounds with less than ten percent body fat.

  ‘Everything is ready Sir,’ drawled Adam, ‘just as you like it.’

  ‘You have my things?’

  ‘Yes, I will be taking them over in about half an hour.’

  ‘And is our couple… prepared?’

  ‘Yes Sir, they were prepared last evening.’

  ‘Good, call me when my things are all in place.’ Cupid flipped the mobile closed. Striding over to his office door, he gently turned the lock, so as not to alert his secretary. Returning to his bookcase, he removed a large volume entitled Surgical Procedures and placed it onto the desktop. Reaching through the gap created, he pushed a hidden button. There was a soft, barely audible click as an entire section of the shelving unit moved forward just an inch on hidden hinges. Pulling it gently towards him, so as not to disturb the books resting on the shelves, a section of the bookcase swung open approximately eighty centimetres wide, like a door revealing a space behind at around a metre deep. This was his private sanctum; this was the epicentre of his world.