Chain of Evil

By Nora Fountain

Adam and Rosie’s happiness is almost tangible, a fact which is very much resented by Rosie’s stepbrother, Greg Phillips. He envies them to the point of madness and schemes to get his hands on their money. Fuelled by drug addiction, he is prepared to kill to get what he wants, and he does. His devious plot results in Adam being locked up for Greg’s crimes. Rosie befriends a young girl, Cindy, who is in trouble and who may be the only person who can identify the real killer. Discovering this, Greg takes to stalking Cindy and injures her little boy. When he turns up at Rosie’s isolated home, drugged to the eyeballs, she keeps up the pretence of not knowing he is the killer but in the end he abducts her and forces her to face her worst demons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nora Fountain
• Release date: Dec 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466041387

Nora Fountain

I was born in Derby but after a few years we moved to Bristol. My five children were all born there but by the time they reached their teens we had settled in darkest Dorset. What an inspiration the county is and what wonderful characters live there. As a setting it can hardly be bettered for romantic novels, contemporary or historical.I fitted in various kinds of work while the children were growing up. I've been an Avon lady, done market research, taught English to foreign students and coached English students in French and Spanish. Once it was possible I resumed my education and eventually became a freelance legal translator. I still enjoy learning languages. I have a smattering of German and Russian as well as the languages I translate. Currently I am listening to Italian CDs in the car in an attempt to catch up with my six-year-old granddaughter who is effortlessly fluent.I love to travel. Italy is a frequent destination as that's where my youngest son and his two gorgeous children live. My favourite city is probably Paris, though, closely followed by Venice. At seventeen I went on a study course in Paris and fell in love with the place. Several of my short romances begin, quite unintentionally, in that beautiful city.Every new place sparks ideas for writing. I haven't written my Venice novel yet, nor my Prague one. The mind teems with ideas. If only there were twice the hours in the day. I still wear my translator's hat some of the time and I like to paint in oils but writing is what I enjoy doing the most.

Book preview

Chain of Evil

a novel by

Nora Fountain

Published by Nora Fountain

Smashwords edition

Copyright © 2011 Nora Fountain

Formatted for ereaders by Bas Fountain

www.basfountain.co.uk

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Afterwords

Chapter 1

Tracey lounged on the vast, king-size bed In the Fulham flat, bored.

She hated waiting around doing nothing. Stretching, she wriggled her toes and sat up. The reason she was here at all was Greg Phillips. In the study across the hall, he was sitting hunched over a computer screen, tapping away at the keyboard. He might almost have forgotten she was there.

To be honest, she was getting worried. What would happen if anyone found out it was she who had worked out Adam Foster’s password and passed it to Greg? She may not be the brightest button in the jar, but passwords were meant to be secret, that much she did know. Greg, though, had persuaded her that not only did he need it but he actually had a right to the information he could gain from using it.

She flicked through the magazine beside her for the umpteenth time. It wasn’t her kind of magazine. Give her one of those confession or celebrity jobs any day. This one, full of tastefully furnished interiors, was for rich folks, not for the likes of her. Greg had plucked it from a rack in the sitting room. It was an odd purchase for a man like him to make.

His face was shadowed by the green shade of the desk-lamp - one of those classics with a sturdy brass base. From time to time he clicked the mouse and muttered a triumphant ‘Yes!’ At others he raked his fingers through his thick blond hair, pushing back the heavy lock that flopped onto his forehead.

A smile curved Tracey’s lips. Just looking at him made her tingle. That was why she was here - she fancied him to death and he said he felt the same about her.

She wrinkled her nose. It smelt musty in here. The place could do with an airing. How often did he stay here? He hinted vaguely at travelling abroad but clammed up if she asked about it. He was a hard man to get close to, except in bed.

So what? He was gorgeous. As far as she was concerned, Greg Phillips had everything. Physically, anyway. Broad shoulders that shut out the light when he towered over her. Fantastic bone structure. And that boyish mop of blond hair.

She’d only known him a matter of weeks. Most of that time he had been out of the country but soon they’d be together for good. She’d rather look at him than at this silly magazine with its perfect interiors any time. Time for all that in the future.

Her thoughts drifted on. She could just see the enclosed letter-box attached to the front door. He never read his mail while she was there. He made her laugh, though, the way he peered in and murmured: ‘More junk mail. More bills,’ and flipped it shut.

How lucky she was that he wanted her, Tracey Woods, a general dogsbody in an investment bank, a small fish in a very big pond. Sitting up she stretched again, combing her fingers through long dark hair and tossing it back over her shoulders. She wriggled beringed toes, the nails dark purple, at the end of long, shapely legs. Greg was definitely a leg man, though he appreciated the rest of her.

Soon this dream of a man would stop clicking away on that boring old computer and give her his undivided attention. She reached for the magazine again, wondering again why he’d bought it. She’d have had him down as more the sports car and yachting type. He was keen on sailing - she knew that from the tales he’d told her that fantastic week-end they’d spent together.

Perhaps he wanted to give her a glimpse of their future life together, once he’d got his hands on his inheritance. It didn’t matter to her where they lived, as long as he was there. She had grown up in a small East End terrace. Anything would be an improvement on that.

She sat up, curling her arms round her legs and gazing adoringly at the perfect Greg Phillips. The devilishly handsome Greg Phillips. She felt an involuntary shiver at the pit of her stomach.

Devilish was right at times, she had to admit. Those eyes, which could glow with desire, could also flash with anger. Those were the times she felt a strange, inexplicable fear.

Rolling onto her front she leaned over the edge of the bed, picking absently at her finger-nails. How much longer was he going to be? She slid off the bed and walked, shapely hips swinging, across the hall to the study.

‘Greg?’ she called softly, leaning against the door-jamb.

No response. Her voice must be masked by the hum of the computer, so she walked across and slid an arm round his neck. He swivelled round, startled, his eyes glazed. She stepped back, almost overbalancing as he moved to flick on the screen saver.

Why the secrecy? Surely he could trust her? After all, they were going to spend their lives together. That look frightened her; she stiffened in alarm.

‘What the hell are you doing, creeping up on me like that?’

‘I did call out,’ she told him uncertainly. ‘You obviously didn’t hear.’

His features softened. ‘Oh well, no harm done.’

Despite his words, his eyes, shaded by those long, almost girlish lashes, didn’t meet hers. ‘Shan’t be long. Give me five more minutes.’

She turned away hurt, disturbed by his anger. It was out of all proportion to her ‘offence’. Before she was out of reach, his hand snaked out and slid under her dress.

‘Mm, nice,’ he murmured. ‘You’re wearing a thong.’

She forced a smile but remained confused. As she sank back onto the bed, she thought about his reaction, and felt a further twinge of doubt. How honest had he been with her? Did he intend to spend his life with her? Or had he just used her to get the information he needed? Adam Foster’s password. Without that, he had no chance of tracking down his inheritance, he insisted.

Had their initial meeting been fortuitous, as he claimed, or had he schemed to be in the right place, at the right time? Could he be that devious?

Doubt was replaced by guilt. Such a possibility was too dreadful to contemplate. She loved him so much, but what if? What had she got herself into?

His story was plausible enough: their parents, his father and Rosie’s mother, who had been married for some years, had died in a car accident. His step-sister, Rosie, who had survived the accident, had swindled him out of a fortune, and he was tracking funds which were rightfully his. He had a long, convoluted explanation as to why he couldn’t act through a solicitor. But why hide things from her, flicking on the screen-saver like that? Not for the first time she wondered why, if the funds were legitimately his, he couldn’t go to a lawyer.

And why did he need Adam Foster’s password? How did Adam Foster come into it? Apart from being married to Rosie, Greg’s evil step-sister, that is? Tracey had never met her, but she knew Adam well enough, and was sure he would never be party to anything illegal. He must have been taken in by this Rosie.

Tracey loved her job at the bank. She considered herself lucky, in view of her unpromising start in life. Her mother had died when she was twelve, the youngest of six children. Their father, brutal and uncaring, had turned to Tracey’s fourteen-year-old sister for sexual gratification, and ended up in jail. That left their four older brothers to look after them, if you could call it that. There was no feminine side to the men in her family.

She would have been happy to stay at the bank for years, until the right man came along, followed by marriage and children. All that changed one night, when the lift at the bank jammed between floors, and she found herself stranded inside with Greg. His flattery and interest overwhelmed her. He had never explained what he was doing at the bank - she supposed he had been visiting his brother-in-law. By the time the lift moved on, she had agreed to have a drink with him. He took her to an exclusive bar frequented by wealthy young professionals.

‘You’re wasted in this job,’ he told her after her third drink. ‘A beautiful girl like you should be going places.’

That week-end he took her places all right - one place, anyway: a country pub in the New Forest. They hardly surfaced all week-end. That was when he talked about sailing and the glamorous places he had been. He had obviously fallen for her as she had for him. Hadn’t he?

‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’ he had asked, their faces close on the pillow.

‘Oh, yes,’ she had agreed enthusiastically. ‘But I thought that was for other people. I never thought it would happen to me.’

‘Well, now it has. We’re made for each other. We’ll have a great life, you and I. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of will be yours - once I’ve got my hands on my inheritance, of course,’ he had added with a grin.

He then explained how he had been cheated of his rightful inheritance, and she’d agreed to help him recover it. All Greg asked her to do was get hold of Adam Foster’s password. Adam, apart from being one of the top dealers at the bank, was a lovely man, but he was also Greg’s brother-in-law, married to the scheming Rosie. Using the password, Greg could trace funds which were rightfully his, or so he claimed.

It sounded simple enough, so Tracey, who liked Adam and could never believe anything bad of him, took to hanging around his work-station, offering to make coffee and do little errands for him. These often consisted of visits to the nearby florist’s to order flowers for his wife. Lucky Rosie, having such a marvellous man coming home to her every night, and sending her flowers from the office. If only the flowers had been for another woman! Oh well, men never saw through the real schemers.

At the first opportunity, as Adam arrived one morning in the office, Tracey timed her approach to coincide with the moment he keyed in his password.

To her delight she got the first two letters immediately - R - O. There were four others which she couldn’t discern right away, except that the next letter was on the left of the keypad, the next on the right. It took ten days of hanging around, making coffee and not just for Adam. That would arouse suspicion. Finally she had the whole peculiar password - ROAMKI. She often wondered about those last two letters, assuming the first pair were from Rosie, the second pair the third and fourth of Adam. Where the KI came from she hadn’t a clue. She had already discovered they had no children - his wife was probably afraid of losing her figure. It would never have occurred to her that at their home in Dorset lived a much loved labrador called Pushkin.

After that first wonderful week-end, she saw very little of Greg. He often went abroad on business, he explained, but he kept in touch by phone and as soon as she told him she had the password he was back within twenty-four hours. Any doubts she may have entertained were quelled by the fire of his lovemaking.

He started bringing her to this basement flat in Fulham. Here they drank champagne or brandy, ate takeaways and made passionate love. He was her dream man come true.

Greg switched off the computer and stood up, flexing his shoulders. He glanced at Tracey, lolling on the bed. What was he to do with the damn girl? She had been useful, vital, in fact, to his plan, since she worked at the bank. Stupid cow! She had fallen hook, line and sinker for his flattery and sob story, and he had strung her along while he had to, but now it was time to get rid. She had become far too clingy. Not to say curious.

She couldn’t honestly think he was serious about her, could she? He’d answered her questions with what she wanted to hear, of course. It was the only way. He stretched again, aware of her dark eyes devouring him. He would have to be careful. Once the money was stashed in the accounts he had set up in off-shore banks, he could make his escape. Till then, he must play her along.

He slipped into the sitting room and poured two brandies. As he carried them into the bedroom she arched, cat-like, looking up beneath her lashes and arranging her legs seductively. Good legs, too! Long, smoothly muscled, near-perfect. Not as perfect as Rosie’s, of course. Rosie was perfection itself. Blast her!

Why couldn’t Rosie want him like this little tart? Why couldn’t she flirt with him, flash those big green eyes at him, and invite him to her bed, instead of always looking superior and faintly amused? Why hadn’t she married him, instead of that oh-so-proper Adam Foster? Even as a child, at ten years to his eighteen when their parents had married, she had amused him, responding to his teasing with cool, calm indifference.

The mere thought of Rosie with her blonde, mermaid-like tresses and supple, sylph-like body excited him unbearably. He felt a stirring in his loins, but he couldn’t have Rosie, well, not yet, perhaps never, so why waste what was on offer here? Might as well have a good time with Tracey before dumping her in a taxi. She was a good lay. Great legs, superb body - little brain, unfortunately.

She was always hinting at spending another night together, like that first time, when the need to get her hooked had been paramount. Why on earth had he invited her to eat with him tonight? Her social skills were abysmal, her conversation nil. He’d get out of it somehow, but first…

‘Here we are, Trace. I need a stiff brandy. I don’t know about you.’

‘Great.’

She was soon squirming and moaning, certain that he loved her, meeting his every demand, denying him nothing. She loved him so much.

At last he rolled beside her, sated. If he could shake her off, he could accept that open invitation to the Soper-Grants - not the kind of place to take this kind of totty. That way, he could eat for nothing, which was useful with funds running low.

He snatched one of her hands.

‘You’ve been picking your nails again.’ he snapped. ‘Disgusting! What colour is that, anyway - Dracula’s blood? I was going to take you to that new West End restaurant,’ he lied, sighing dramatically. ‘Oh well, I suppose we’ll have to do it some other time. I’ll get you a taxi.’

‘Were you really going to take me there?’ she asked plaintively. ‘Where that young television chef works? ’

Oh God, that hang-dog expression! Like an abandoned puppy. ‘Some other time, sweetheart. Oh, come here.’ He hauled her astride him. ‘One for the road, eh?’

As she rode him she knew for certain he loved her. With sex this good, he would always come back to her. Her dark hair cascaded down her back as she threw her head back, gripping him with her thighs. She could see their reflections in the wardrobe mirror, her long tresses curtaining their intimacy. It was like one of those steamy, late-night films on Channel Four.

A backcloth of rich velvet curtains hung at the window. They didn’t quite meet in the middle. Suddenly, through the gap, she saw movement, fleeting but definite. There was someone outside, watching. She screamed, and scrambled away to Greg Phillips’s furious: ‘What the hell…?’

‘There’s a Peeping Tom out there.’

He stilled, panic filling his eyes for an instant, but then he grinned.

‘Don’t be absurd!’

He grabbed a dark blue robe from the door and strode to the window, shrugging into it as he went. Pulling back the curtain he was just in time to see a dark shadow disappearing alongside the derelict house opposite. He turned back to her with a pained expression.

‘There’s not a soul out there, you little idiot. You had me worried. Come on, the urge has died, let’s get going.’

‘There was someone, I swear.’

And he had been worried for a