The Doll Collector: A Chilling Serial Killer Thriller

By Joanna Stephen-Ward

Her dolls are on display, but her crimes are hidden—until the façade begins to crack . . .

A couple and their young son burn to death in a house fire. A girl dies from a nut allergy. A woman falls under a train during rush hour. An accountant falls down the steps to his basement.

Their deaths appear to be accidents, but Gloria knows they were murdered. Because she murdered them. And every time Gloria kills, she buys a doll.
But how many dolls will she need to keep her satisfied?

Gloria craves love and happiness and friendship, and will do anything to get what she craves. But now her behavior is spinning out of control, in this dark, compelling thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781913682446

Book preview

Chapter 1

GOOD FRIDAY 1991

The hinges screeched as Gloria opened the gate to the allotments. Wincing, she looked over her shoulder afraid the noise would alert people in the nearby houses.

If anyone comes, I’ll say I was here today and lost my keys, she thought.

Not daring to open the gate any wider, she squeezed through the gap, catching the sleeve of her jumper on a loose piece of wire. She tried to unhook it, but it had become twisted. Impatient to get away from the street lights, she yanked it free, shredding the wool. Careful not to drop the padlock, she slotted it through the loops. The clouds covered the moon, and she felt safer.

She found herself in a world of dark shapes. Sheds and rows of canes she’d hardly noticed before now looked eerie. She kept to the edge of the path and followed it to the first crossing, wishing she’d taken more notice of the route when Garry had brought her here two weeks ago. When the moon appeared from behind the clouds she felt as if people in the houses overlooking the allotments could see her from their windows. Feeling more secure the further away from the houses she got, she looked around. As she tried to remember if they had turned left here or further up, a fox trotted across the path, startling her.

I wish I was a fox, she thought as she watched it disappear into some bushes. They don’t have to pay rent or look for somewhere to live. Vixens don’t get rejected because they’re not pretty enough. Smell ... the right smell, that’s what attracts the males. I wish all I had to do was wear the right perfume.

She was getting deeper into the allotments when she saw a man standing in the middle of one of the plots. An exclamation of fright escaped her lips. She froze. He must have heard her, but he was as still as she was. Her heart thumped. Had she interrupted someone burying a body? Could she escape before he grabbed her? She’d been worried about someone seeing her and ringing the police. Now she would welcome sirens and flashing blue lights. Her throat tightened. She pulled at the neck of her jumper, trying to ease the constricted feeling. Fixing her eyes on the figure, she backed away, ready to scream if he chased her. A breeze caught the flap of his long coat. She almost fell over with relief when she realised it was a scarecrow.

When her heart stopped pounding, she retraced the steps they had taken when Garry had shown her his new shed, which he boasted, was one of the largest on the allotments. Stifling her boredom, she had listened to him raving about it as if it were a mansion, agreed that the plums on his tree would be delicious and nodded in the right places as he lectured her about the advantages of having a greenhouse.

When she reached his allotment, she recognised the huge shed. She slid the key into the lock. It turned, and the door swung open. The inside smelt of new wood. She switched on her torch. A bottle of weed killer, marked with the skull and crossbones, stood on the shelf. She ripped out the pages of his gardening books, tore them up and threw them on the floor, then took his packets of vegetable seeds outside and emptied them over the path. She put on his gardening gloves, picked up the scythe and spade, and went outside. Imagining his shock when he saw the damage, she dug up his raspberry canes.

‘This is just the start of your troubles, Garry,’ she whispered, as she pulled out the rows of markers. At his asparagus beds, she giggled, remembering what he had told her. ‘It’s expensive because it takes three years to get a crop,’ she said, mimicking his earnest tone. She took his grow-bags out of his green-house, tipped them upside down and trampled on the tomato plants. ‘Stupid people,’ she muttered. ‘Who’d want to spend their weekends getting filthy when you can go into a nice clean supermarket?’

The wind made the plastic ribbons he had tied on stakes whine. He’d told her they were supposed to scare birds. It had been a still day, and she hadn’t understood what he meant. But now she did. She ring-barked his plum tree with a penknife, cutting deep into the wood. Using his scythe, she lashed out at everything. Cabbages fell from their stalks as the blade swished through the air. The destruction fuelled her rage. Yanking out the bamboo canes he had arranged in rows to support his runner beans, she flung them on the ground. Determined to ruin everything, she stamped on them revelling in the sound as they split.

She was tipping weed killer over the remaining plants when an explosion of sound ripped through the air. Fear clawed her stomach. Two yowling foxes rushed out of the bushes on the next allotment. They vanished into the undergrowth still making an unearthly noise. She released her breath and sank onto one of the logs dividing the plots.

She put her head in her hands. ‘I wish I wasn’t me,’ she whispered. ‘I want to be slim and beautiful like Princess Diana. I want to get married and have children. They’ll love me, and I’ll love them.’ She lifted her head and surveyed the devastation.

Sated, she began to walk home, less cautious than when she had arrived. Foxes and scarecrows couldn’t frighten her now. Teddington High Street was deserted. Earlier, people had been leaving the restaurants and pubs. She’d seen a couple gazing at each other across a candlelit table. Now they’d probably be in bed making love. The thought emphasised her loneliness.

Wrecking his allotment hadn’t erased the pain of the conversation she’d overheard. When she’d heard Garry answer the phone, she’d tiptoed to her bedroom door and eavesdropped, hoping he’d tell the caller what good company she was, what a fantastic cook she was, how she kept the house clean and tidy and how much he valued her. First, he said that he was sure he was getting the flu. Details of his symptoms followed.

I’ll make him hot lemon and honey, she had thought.

Then he talked about cricket. She was yawning when she heard him say, ‘The new lodger?’ His tone had been dismissive. ‘Ugh, she’s a lump of lard. She’s got a neck and shoulders like a bull. Hair’s blonde – does it like Princess Diana, but it’d take more than a hairdo to make her sexy. She keeps giving me flirty looks. Nothing worse than an ugly girl with a high libido.’ His laugh would stick in her memory for years. ‘Still, I have to put up with her. If interest rates go any higher, I’ll have to rent out my new shed.’

Until then, she’d thought he’d chosen her to be his lodger because he liked her. She’d thought he was looking for company. Soon after she’d moved in she’d thought he was becoming interested in her. It had taken all of her willpower to behave as if she hadn’t heard his remarks. As she ironed his shirts, she wanted to burn holes in them. When she washed up, she wanted to smash his plates and glasses. She knew Garry hadn’t realised she was listening and had thought she was still at work because he had come home early. But she was looking for another job and had taken a sick-day.

A sick-day, a sick man and a phone call, she thought. That’s all it took to change your life, Garry. Three little things.

It was after midnight when she arrived home from the allotments. Garry had gone away for Easter, so there was no need to be quiet. Under the hot shower she washed herself with the Dior soap she had shoplifted, as she considered the next part of her revenge. When the idea struck her, she was too worked up to sleep. Instead of going to bed she sat in the kitchen with a mug of coffee plotting the details. She broke off pieces of Easter egg, dipped them in the coffee and sucked the melting chocolate.

In the morning, she went into Garry’s study. Its untidiness meant she wouldn’t have to be careful. The cash tin, bank details and account books for the cricket club were easy to find. Searching for the address where he worked took longer. She considered writing the letters on his word-processor, but was worried he would trace deleted files on the hard-drive.

No rush, she thought. I’ll do it at work.

Arriving at the office early was a first for her. She hated her data input job at the industrial estate in Feltham. In the empty office, she wrote two letters, printed them out and produced labels for the envelopes. Before touching them, she put on gloves. That evening, she caught the train to Waterloo and posted them. Nothing happened for two weeks, so she thought they had ignored the letters because they were anonymous. Then at the weekend, one of his friends arrived. Gloria kept out of sight, but stood at the top of the stairs. She heard Garry raise his voice.

‘Ridiculous! Who said this? Everything’s perfectly in order, I’ll show you the books.’

She just had time to get back to her bedroom before Garry came running up the stairs. She heard him rummaging around in his study, then run back down the stairs as if he was in a race. The lounge room door slammed. Half an hour later, his friend left. Garry was distracted for days. Gloria pretended not to notice.

A week later when she arrived back from work, she found Garry slumped in front of the television.

‘Oh, Garry. You’re home early. Are you sick?’

‘Yes. No.’

‘That’s a funny answer.’ She sat in the armchair opposite him. ‘Are you sick or not?’

He shook his head.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, hoping he’d been sacked.

‘Everything.’

‘Girl trouble?’

He grunted. ‘I wish it was. That’d be easy.’

‘Tell me. I might be able to help.’

‘Doubt it.’ He sighed. ‘Someone’s been lying about me.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know. The letters were anonymous.’

‘Letters? What have they said?’

‘That I’ve stolen money from work and the cricket club.’

‘Oh.’ Gloria made herself look dubious. ‘Sounds bad. Money missing from two places.’

‘Nothing’s missing from anywhere.’

‘But you said– ’

‘They’re investigating. I’ve been suspended from work.’

‘It that the same as sacked?’

‘It means I can’t go in till they’ve finished. I can’t go to the cricket club either.’

‘It won’t take long for them to find nothing’s missing– ’

‘It’s not that easy. I made a mistake in the cricket club books.’

She couldn’t believe her luck. ‘Oh. That doesn’t look good. You being an accountant. You don’t expect accountants to make mistakes with money.’

‘It was an innocent error. I was in a hurry.’

‘Someone might be jealous. What about your allotment? I know you thought it was vandals, but with this too ... someone from the cricket club? You’re the captain and the treasurer. You’re important. Maybe one of the blokes has a girlfriend who fancies you.’

He looked more hopeful. ‘You could be right.’

‘Bit odd, though.’ She frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the type girls fancy. It’s not as if you’re good looking. You’re bald. It’s not sexy being bald.’ His expression of dismay almost made her laugh. She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip, trying to look apologetic. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You can’t help being bald. It’s not your fault all your hair fell out. Look, everything will come right, so cheer up. I’ll be a character witness, if you want. What shall we have for tea tonight?’

‘Don’t care.’

She went upstairs to her bedroom and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Triumph had flushed her pale cheeks. She looked at the five dolls on the mantelpiece. ‘You’re going to have company,’ she whispered.

Chapter 2

Feeling like a murderer, Maurice lifted Lotus out of the cat basket and put her on the table.

The vet stroked her. ‘You’re doing the right thing. She’s in a lot of pain with the tumour. Would you like to stay with her? It’s quick and painless. It’ll help her to have you here.’

Too distressed to speak, Maurice nodded. He held her as the vet inserted the needle. Seconds later, her eyes went blank, and she slumped. He buried his face in her fur.

The nurse put her hand on his shoulder. ‘She’s not suffering anymore.’

He watched them wrap Lotus in a towel and place her into a cardboard box, which they put inside the basket. Incapable of responding to the nurse’s sympathy, he paid the bill at the reception desk. As he drove home, he dreaded his return to the empty flat. After unlocking the back door, he went into the shed and took out a shovel.

When the hole was deep enough, he lowered the box inside and covered it with earth.

‘Good bye, Lotus.’

He went inside and put her bowls and basket in the cupboard under the stairs. The silence was oppressive. Builders had been working on the house next door, converting it into two flats, but they had finished yesterday. Estate agent’s boards belonging to his landlord’s firm – Carter and Carter – had been erected. His memory jogged, he looked at the calendar. The rent was due. He wrote a cheque and ran to the post office. He was tempted to put a second-class stamp on the envelope, but Norman and Ian Carter would threaten to evict him if the rent was late.

By the time he arrived home, he was hungry. He’d hardly eaten for a week. After pulling the frying pan from the heap of dirty dishes and cutlery piled on the sink, he scraped out the congealed fat. In the fridge, he found bacon and two eggs. He cut the mouldy crusts off the bread and dropped two slices in the toaster.

While he ate, he day-dreamed about winning the pools. I’ll give big donations to cancer charities and the RSPCA, he thought. When I see a homeless person I’ll give them money. I’ll buy a vintage car and a house and do voluntary work. He filled in the pools coupons. ‘One of these will be a winner,’ he said, imagining the joy of going to work and telling the other people in the syndicate they were rich.

On his way to the newsagents, he took Lotus’s unused tins of food into the veterinary surgery. He gave them to the nurse for local branch of The Cat Protection League.

---

On Saturday morning, Maurice went to the garden centre. He wanted a rose or camellia bush, but the only thing he could afford was a lavender plant. Since his rent had tripled, he had slashed his spending. He drank water instead of beer and washed his hair with soap instead of shampoo. When the washing machine broke down, he washed his clothes by hand until he’d saved enough to have it repaired. He joined a library instead of buying books and cut down on cigarettes, trying to give them up completely. To save electricity, he stopped ironing his shirts and only had a bath twice a week. During the winter, he had worn three jumpers rather than turn on the heating. If his television had been worth anything, he would have sold it.

When he arrived home, he planted the lavender bush where he had buried Lotus.

‘I wanted something better for you,’ he said as he watered it. ‘When I win the pools, I’ll buy you something beautiful.’

He made a pot of tea and lit his last cigarette. Vowing never to smoke again, he savoured each inhalation. As soon as it was finished, he craved another. He’d cancelled his Classic Car magazine subscription months ago, but his old ones were stacked in the cupboard under the stairs.

‘When I win the pools, I’ll buy one of those,’ he said as he looked at the Mark IV Jaguar. He turned the pages lost in a fantasy about driving in a Jaguar car rally. When the doorbell rang, he decided not to answer it. It was probably someone collecting for charity and he hated saying he couldn’t give them anything. After a moment he heard the front door open and someone walking down the hall. Thinking it was a burglar he looked round for a weapon. But it was his landlord. Maurice would have rather confronted a burglar.

‘Ian, I thought you–’

‘Doorbell broken, Jennings? Or have you gone deaf now?’ He threw a torn-up cheque on the table. ‘It bounced.’

Maurice was stunned. ‘I, er, thought ... um, er, I had money in the bank.’

‘Obviously you didn’t or it wouldn’t have bounced. Give me the cash.’

He had used all his cash to pay the vet bill. ‘I, er, haven’t got any.’

‘Get it. I’m coming back on Monday afternoon to show people round the flats next door.’

He looked at Ian’s accusing face. ‘There’s a mistake. I’m sure–’

‘There is a mistake, Jennings. Your mistake.’

‘I must have miscalculated. I’ve been upset about Lotus – she had to be put to sleep.’

‘If you want to find sympathy, look in the dictionary.’

Maurice was hit by a wave of bewilderment. ‘Ian, I never understood what I did to upset you. If I said something wrong, please tell me. We were going to be friends. Your grandmother wanted–’

‘You expect me to remember what an insignificant boy from a council estate said eighteen years ago? You’ve still got a high opinion of yourself.’

‘It must have been something, otherwise you wouldn’t have turned against me.’

Ian looked scornful. ‘Your tricks might have worked on my gullible grandmother, but they don’t work on me. Stop digressing. We’re talking about the rent you owe.’

‘It’s a problem with it going up so much.’ He saw Ian’s gaze resting on the ashtray, then moving to the pile of pools coupons on the red laminate table.

His expression, as he picked up the magazine, was scathing. ‘Give up gambling, smoking and expensive magazines, then, Jennings.’ He flicked through the pages. ‘What makes you think you’ll ever be able to afford anything other than that rusty heap of yours? I’m surprised I haven’t had the neighbours complaining. It brings down the tone of the street. You belong back on a council estate. If you can’t afford the rent, find a bedsit. Falling property prices caused by the recession are the only reason you’re still here. The government’s making it easier to get rid of tenants who don’t pay.’ He picked up a coupon. ‘All this gambling. No wonder you can’t afford the rent.’

‘It’s for a syndicate at work.’

Ian wrinkled his nose. ‘It stinks in here.’ He opened the window. ‘You can’t manage without your mummy, can you? Doesn’t look as if you’ve done any cleaning since she died. You look as if you haven’t washed for a month – you smell like it too. With all these people out of work, how have you managed to keep a job?’

‘If you didn’t work for your dad, you’d be unemployed. Who’d want someone with no O levels?’

‘Your O levels didn’t stop you from being put in a loony-bin, did they, Jennings?

‘It wasn’t a loony-bin.’

‘What was it then? A lunatic asylum?’

‘It was a hospital.’

Ian laughed. ‘A hospital for mad people.’

‘I wasn’t mad. I had a breakdown.’

‘Breakdown is a polite word for insane. Anyway, your O levels haven’t helped you manage money. What use is knowing about the war and the kings and queens if you can’t understand a bank statement?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Look at the state of you.’

If he’d known Ian was going to turn up, he would have had a bath and washed the dishes. The cuffs of his shirts were frayed. There were holes in the elbows of his jumper. Unless he won the pools, he’d never be able to afford clothes like Ian’s – whose grey suit, crisp blue shirt and navy silk tie, with a stripe that matched the colour of his shirt, exuded wealth and good taste. His dark hair was perfectly groomed.

‘Pay on Monday, Jennings, or you’ll hear from our solicitor.’ Ian strode out of the kitchen.

Maurice heard the front door slam. He cursed his naivety. If he hadn’t been honest, he could still be living rent free. He had known when his mother died, he would have to start paying rent, but he had no idea how much. Eighteen months ago, he had rung Ian’s mother, but to his dismay her husband had answered the phone.

‘Er, please may, um ... speak, I mean, may I speak, it’s Maurice, um ... to Mrs Carter.’

‘She’s out,’ said Norman. Even over the phone his contempt was obvious. ‘What do you want?’

‘I er, um ...’

‘Either leave a message or ring back. I can’t stand here all day.’

‘Could you please tell her my mother ...’

‘What about her?’ he asked.

Trying to keep his voice steady, Maurice said, ‘She died yesterday.’

‘Oh. I’ll let her know.’

He had thought the change in Norman’s voice signalled compassion. Two days later when Norman had called to ask when he was vacating the flat, he realised it had been satisfaction. Sympathy had come from Ian’s mother. She had attended the funeral, sent a wreath and told him to ring her if he ever needed anything. His pride stopped him from asking.

---

On Saturday night, Maurice sat in front of the television surrounded by screwed up pools coupons. The electricity bill was overdue. His car tax was coming up for renewal. He hadn’t bought any newspapers for a week. In the morning, he went to the newsagent and looked at the notices in the window hoping there was a cheap bedsit he could afford to rent. Cards advertising for lodgers caught his attention.

Why didn’t I think of it before? he thought. I’ve got two big bedrooms. I’ll get a lodger. He studied the rent on the cards amazed by the prices he could charge. I’ll put a notice on the board at work. Ian won’t know. I’ll change the lock. Don’t want him barging in again. If he finds out, I’ll just say I lost my key.

As soon as he arrived home he went to his mother’s bedroom. He hated the thought of a stranger sleeping in her bed, but her room was tidy. His was a jumble of magazines, books and dirty washing. He packed her clothes and possessions into suitcases and boxes. Without the books and photos, the room looked impersonal. He was going to vacuum the whole flat, but when the bag became full, he couldn’t find another one. It took him over an hour to wash the dishes.

On Monday, Gloria looked on the notice board at work.

Room to Let:

Double room in nice garden flat in Hampton Wick.

See Maurice Jennings in the Buying Office or ring ext. 340.

---

She had never seen Maurice, but she’d heard his name. The buying office was on another floor at the other end of the building from the accounts department. On the phone, he sounded younger than she’d imagined. Her expectations soared when she saw his street.

‘How come he can afford to live here? He’s only a buyer,’ she murmured, looking at the detached houses with front gardens larger than

Reviews for The Doll Collector

[nicx27 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Doll Collector has one of those blurbs that immediately caught my attention. The idea of somebody buying a doll every time they kill someone and keeping them all together like a little family is chilling indeed. And the tagline is that this is "A chilling serial killer thriller".However, this book is not all that it seems. Yes, it's about a serial killer but I didn't find it particularly chilling. The killer is Gloria, a woman who feels like she is hard done to, who literally dislikes everyone, especially those she thinks have more than her. It's when she takes a room as a lodger at Maurice's house that we witness Gloria's wickedness at its best.This book was not what I imagined at all....in the best way. I loved every second I spent reading it. Gloria is mad, bad and very dangerous to know and I thought she was a fantastic creation. Poor Maurice got lumbered with her and he was such a nice character that I was hoping and praying he didn't end up as the next doll on her mantelpiece. When I say it's not chilling, I suppose I mean it's not scary, but it is most definitely sinister. Gloria is like a tiger getting its prey in its clutches and not letting go until it's well and truly dead. Being able to look on whilst she did her worst made for a gripping and enthralling read.This book also made me chuckle at times, particularly during Gloria's exchanges with other characters, who simply can't wait to get rid of her. And the ending was just brilliant and everything I could have hoped for. I think the author has a fantastic imagination.The Doll Collector exceeded all my expectations. It's different, it has some dry humour in it and I couldn't put it down. I read about 85% of it in one sitting. I loved it.