Villain

By Karen Element

If pushed far enough, are we all capable of committing murder?

When accused murderer, Peter 'Grudge' Grudgefield is acquitted, he's free to continue where he left off. Court reporter, Mercy Baines is outraged. With years of experience recording court cases, she knows he's guilty. But when her son, Flynn, goes missing, her anger is stifled by a desperation that threatens to bring her undone.  

Vincent Stonestreet, Crown prosecutor, has never lost a case … until now. His sense of failing the victim cuts deep, and he vows to reverse this travesty of justice, no matter what it takes.

And then there's Leonard Lemass. What part does an elderly gentleman play in this story, with its unrequited love, a missing teenager, and a quest to right a wrong? 

Villain is a thought-provoking look at love in all its forms – romantic, motherly, fatally obsessive – and the lengths that we may go to because of it. Is taking a life always the wrong thing even when the reason is so undeniably right? 

Karen Element writes with deep insight about good and evil, and what happens in between. In this mystery story with its supernatural themes and provocative questions, she invites you to open your mind to anything being possible. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Element
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9780648267850

Karen Element

On any given day, Karen Element has a million story ideas rattling around her head. Turning her ideas into stories provides an outlet for her vivid imagination. When she is not writing, she loves travelling to far-off places, where she collects even more inspiration for her writing. Karen has published two novels. She lives in Brisbane, Australia with husband, Michael.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Firstly, thank you to my amazing husband Michael for giving me the time and the space to write. Your support means everything to me, my darling.

To Mary Jessop, for helping me realise that anything is possible, and for being there when I need you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

To Christine McGarvey who has read everything I’ve ever written and has me saved in a file in her computer. Lots of love.

To Deb Christensen for her insightful reviews of my work. I appreciate ever word, my dear friend. x

Dear Emma. Thank you for your love and unfailing support.

Patrice Shaw, my editor. Thank you for all that you do and do so well.

Kirsty Odgen, book designer. You have the magic touch.

1

Mercy

As the truth hung in the balance, it searched for a soft place to land, somewhere safe, somewhere sound, somewhere where the bruises wouldn’t show, but all the soft spots were taken, no room for the truth to string its five letters together, to be admired, not among the tissue of lies waiting to be told.

Mercy sat up straighter in her chair, lifted her chin and smoothed her skirt before casting her eyes over the real offenders. They couldn’t fool her; no way, no how, she’d seen it all before. Call it a superpower, call it dealing with the same shit, different day, but from any line-up Mercy could pick the truth from those who dared to tell a lie.

Truth or dare … Mercy knew … those who dared were about to tell a lie. Mercy steadied herself, readied herself for the inevitable. At 11am on a Wednesday morning, things were about to get a whole lot worse.

Cries from the public gallery, anger that was bursting at the seams, rang out across the court room. The people were close to boiling point, enough was enough was enough already.

‘Why is this taking so long?’

‘Kill him, kill the bastard till he’s dead!’

‘Shut up, the lot of you – I can’t hear!’

The rag-tag mob who never left the building − warriors, the lot of them, steadfast, loyal, bitter till the end, they weren’t afraid to voice their opinions.

‘Silence in the court!’ the judge, Amaretta Warness, decreed. ‘I will have order here.’

‘Yeah, good luck with that!’ One warrior’s cry splintered above the rest, an unofficial spokesperson for them all who dared to say what every member of the rag-tag mob was thinking.

‘Bailiff!’ Amaretta fought back, her domain, her rules, no matter what the extenuating circumstances. With this level of hatred, and emotions running high in the courtroom, she wouldn’t hesitate to evict anyone who dared to overstep the mark.

The bailiff took a step closer. The hecklers shut their traps. Now was not the time to get the judge offside, to get kicked out, to miss the pointy end of the proceedings, not when they were this close.

Yes, they were this close, but Mercy was in no hurry. She didn’t need to hear the words said aloud to know the verdict. It was a skill she’d honed during her eleven years on the job − a trick of the trade.

‘What are they thinking?’ Mercy raged under her breath, but she knew exactly what they were thinking − not the whole truth, not nothing but. The moment the members of the jury filed back into the courtroom; Mercy knew. It was the way each juror stole a furtive glance toward the defence table − a sure and certain sign they’d found the defendant not guilty − that gave the game away.

As the jury foreman rose to his feet, Mercy braced herself for the impact. From her position as the court reporter that’s about all she could do. She couldn’t spring to her feet, fists clenched tight and pumping, and demand satisfaction. She didn’t get to express her feelings. Mercy had the burden of keeping this trade secret hush-hush, her mouth shut, her outrage on pause. Worse still, she’d be required to record the verdict for posterity, and there was something nasty about recording something for future reference. You couldn’t change it, you couldn’t take it back, not without proof, not without using invisible ink in the first instance. Mercy felt a keen responsibility to be tied to the lie, to be the one to make it official, but what choice did she have? It was all part of the job, the shitty part, the part where the bad outweighs the good, where faith in the system gets pushed to the limit, and where a miracle is needed to prevent mankind from irreparably harming itself.

Mercy glanced towards the public gallery, the rag-tag mob, their faces all bright and shiny and expectant as they readied themselves for victory. But victory could be a slippery sucker, left of centre and on the move. Nothing that a band of diehards couldn’t handle. They’d raise the roof, raise a riot; they wouldn’t take this lying down, not when only the death penalty would do.

It was all over social media – Bring It Back, Australia! – opinion polls calling for the death penalty to make its triumphant return. Give him a taste of his own medicine, tighten the noose around his neck, let him feel what she felt, and a few more colourful suggestions besides. Make him suffer was the general consensus, the one with the most likes, definitely the one to beat.

All anybody wanted was justice for Zoe Flame. The little pop princess exploded onto the Australian music scene last summer with enough noise to make America sit up and take notice. Zoe was on her way, a force to be reckoned with, all her dreams come true.

Be careful what you wish for …

Headlines, by-lines, the price of fame, Zoe Flame was the most famous person Wyah had ever produced. She was the city’s pride and joy – 2.5 million people couldn’t be wrong. She was the local girl made good, and she always would be. Death could never change that. Ashes in a jar would never change that.

There was even talk of a memorial – a statue or similar – to be commissioned and erected in the city centre; somewhere for Zoe’s fans to pay tribute rather than some dusty old cemetery. Mercy would be sure to visit, to pay her respects, curious to see what Wyah’s artistic community came up with.

But first things first.

‘We find the defendant, Peter Felix Grudgefield, not guilty!’

The jury foreman delivered the blow, a blow so devastating, the shock so complete, it rendered the courtroom silent. Amaretta was all over it. She dismissed the jury, clearing the courtroom before the verdict had a chance to take hold.

Once the coast was clear, Mercy turned her attention towards those leftover, those left behind, shocked, and incredulous: judge, defence, prosecution, the victim’s family … Mercy avoided the accused, the villain of the piece, the one they had to thank for this monstrosity, the one responsible for rounding them up, roping them together, kicking and screaming all the way to the verdict.

Despite this, he spoke. ‘Hey sweetheart, hey, over here! I know you can hear me. Now’s not the time to play hard to get. HEY! You coming, or what?’

The accused raised his hand, waving, winking, trying to distract like a man possessed.

Is he talking to me?

There was no mistake. Mercy shuddered as she felt those killer eyes, vacant eyes – devoid of wholesome human emotion – making tracks across her body.

Mercy swallowed hard; the effect of the killer’s warning shot had taken her completely by surprise. She’d not so much as glanced his way, caught his eye, given him any encouragement whatsoever. Thirty-nine days of keeping her eyes averted, of keeping her emotions in check – her golden rule, a personal best.

‘Mr Grudgefield, might I remind you—’

‘Sorry, Your Honour, just the excitement and all, you know …’

‘I will hold you in contempt—’

‘For what, for being over the fucking moon?’

‘Mr Grudgefield!’

‘Okay, okay, I said I was sorry.’

The accused took a bow, but he didn’t take the hint. Then he turned towards Mercy. ‘You sure you don’t want to come with me, sweetheart?’

Mercy felt the effect of the killer’s second warning shot. It did something to the air between them; it altered its particles so that it became dense and heavy. It was difficult to breathe as her determination to ignore the evil in the room began to waver.

She looked directly at the accused now. She knew his type. He would never give up, never stand down, never let something he wanted slip through his fingers.

She had the court transcript to prove it, the gruesome details …

Mercy found herself trapped, albeit intrigued. What diabolical force made this man tick? What made him do the things he was accused of – the things he was capable of.

‘You’ll keep,’ Mercy said, firing a warning shot of her own.

‘Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we, sweetheart?’

A killer smile, straight from Hell, impossibly wide, all perfect white teeth and malice, his lips stretching far beyond their capacity as they made room for the sheer abundance of delight to escape from within.

‘Last warning, Mr Grudgefield.’

‘Sorry, Judge. That’s the last you’ll hear from me. Can’t blame a bloke for trying though, can you?’

And exactly how hard would he try?

Dread crept up Mercy’s spine. It was a no-brainer that a man like him would re-offend, be recaptured, get locked up, have another and another day in court. But as for what he’d get up to in the meantime …

Mercy wouldn’t allow herself to go there. Another golden rule: don’t imagine the worst. But after being part of this case from day one, the worst had come and gone. What was to prevent a repeat performance, and another and another − serial-killer style − unless fate took a hand?

Mercy considered the mood of the crowd, all those emotions running high. Would someone take the leap of faith, take the law into their own hands, and come out on top? A million likes for sure if the right person came along.

Meanwhile …

He’ll keep.

Mercy had other people to concentrate on now; those who wouldn’t hurt a fly, who deserved her attention, people she admired and cared about – colleagues, friends, people doing it tough.

Starting at the top.

Amaretta.

Mercy had much admiration and respect for Amaretta. The two were friends outside of work, the type of friends to have a laugh over a coffee, catch a movie, indulge in a little retail therapy. They’d even played tennis a few times on the court at Amaretta’s not-so-humble abode, another court in which Amaretta presided over with expertise. Their birthdays were coming up; a day they shared along with their quirky sense of humour, their penchant for chocolate-covered coffee beans and their hatred of loopholes in the legal system.

Perched up there on the bench, the judge’s black robes falling in a soft cascade all around, the epitome of style, grace, and let’s-take-those-rotten-bad-guys-down, Mercy couldn’t even begin to imagine what Amaretta was feeling right now – the weight of responsibility as the verdict began to hit home. Amaretta had once confided to Mercy that she had no real power. She was more like a referee – there to keep the prosecution and the defence in line − that she wished she were more like the Queen of Hearts – ‘off with his head!’ Now, there was a woman with power, one with the right idea. Make-believe or not, the Queen of Hearts was a woman to be reckoned with, a woman worthy of emulation. Mercy would go out and sharpen the axe right now if she thought it would help.

What got Mercy through?

She’d switch to autopilot – her default state when things got tough in the courtroom – another other trick of the trade. That’s how words such as exsanguination, strangulation, mutilation, violation passed her by with little effect. She attached no meaning to them. They were just words, words to watch out for. Sticks and stones … but words said in the context of a courtroom did have the potential to harm.

She could write a book – a bestseller – one from the court reporter’s point of view. It would be a powerful thing displayed in the front window of all the major bookstores, recommended on Amazon. She pictured a pretty, bold cover adorned with splatters of bright bloody red, the letters of the title and author exploding across the front in thick, spiky letters.

Please judge this book by its cover!

And what would the title be?

Up too close?

Run a mile?

If only she wasn’t bound by confidentiality and a whole bunch of other ethical mumbo-jumbo, Mercy would make a fortune.

On to the defence table, the place of mixed feelings.

Mercy never allowed her gaze to linger there. Maybe a fleeting glance, an occasional consideration, but she couldn’t afford to get involved or to become too emotionally invested.

It was enough to hear it all, to be the one responsible for recording it for posterity: the truth, the lies and all the mishmash in between. She let the words drift on the air – in one ear and out the other – while she kept a safe distance.

Mercy’s eyes skimmed past the accused, coming to land on Wade Dennis, a puppet on a string if ever there was one. She harboured some serious doubts about the defence counsel, this ring-in, this no-one from the sticks who’d somehow managed to score the biggest gig in town – a joke really, considering the width and depth of this case.

As Mercy looked at Wade, she could almost see the light catching on the strings, trapping him in someone else’s version of the truth. He hadn’t pulled this off, been the one to score such a mighty, unlikely victory. He wasn’t the one pulling the strings.

It wasn’t hard for Mercy to tear her eyes away from the defence table to the one adjacent, coming to rest on Vincent Stonestreet, the Crown prosecutor, the man who owned the courtroom. This was his turf, his domain – the place where he came into his own.

Vincent was here to uphold the law, to fight, to win, to never back down. He possessed the looks and the talent to take him places. He was top of public opinion polls, talk-shows, covers of magazines, as well as title holder of the most eligible bachelor of the year.

He dressed accordingly, always in the best and finest, and he never wore the same tie twice during a trial. He considered it bad luck. It was common knowledge around the courthouse, a little quirk of his that Mercy found absolutely adorable.

Vincent had won every case he’d ever tried, no thanks, no fanfare necessary. He simply loved what he did, and it showed. Keeping the city safe was what he lived for, the reason he was put on this earth, and that also showed.

A humble man, Vincent would never let his success go to his head. But what about failure? How many fans would the Crown prosecutor have left after today? Past glories would be instantly forgotten, no matter how many, no matter how grand, a tall poppy cut off at the knees. He didn’t deserve that. How would he handle his first defeat, this man who’d never lost a case, and with all the world watching?

Vincent Stonestreet wouldn’t take this shit lying down, not until he’d secured justice for Zoe Flame. He’d find a way – without a doubt. He wouldn’t rest until he set things right, set his accusers straight.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

Without a doubt …

Everyone knows that.

2

Grudge

Peter Felix Grudgefield was a very happy man. ‘Call me Grudge,’ he’d announced in the interrogation room on the day of his arrest − the name had stuck. Another thing that had stuck was his faith in the lawless, for Grudge had friends in high places – right up there in the nosebleed section – friends who could organise a get-out-of-jail-free-card if the price was right.

Everyone has their price, their weak spot, it really amounted to the same thing. Grudge was all about knowing what that was. It made the business of being powerful that much more enjoyable. Being indispensable to his friends in high places … what a rush!

Drug dealer, drug maker, heartbreaker, Grudge was all about knowing his product, knowing what would get the punters to hand over the big bucks for a taste of a little homemade something that was designed to stagger, to take the edge off in spectacular fashion. That went double for his friends in high places. They could afford it and more, them and their nice, healthy, expensive addictions. Nothing like the secrets in a secret family recipe to get them good and dependent and coming back for more.

It was Grudge’s practice to ensure that the end-product was of the highest calibre, that it went off with a bang and a rattle. He’d put the measures in place to know − his own unique brand of quality control. He loved the acrid taste, the way the powder melted in his mouth as he used his index finger to run it around the hollow of his cheek. He’d test and taste each batch, checking for uniformity, strength, longevity, as well as any unforeseen glitches in the recipe. He thrilled to see the finished product; the little bottles of white pills all lined up in their neat and tidy rows, ready and waiting for distribution.

The hallmark of success.

‘How long’s this shit gonna last, Grudge?’

A straight answer? Grudge didn’t have one of those. The most frequently asked question, the one unknown that Grudge couldn’t answer for certain. But he got it, he really did. No-one wants to get high, to shoot for the stars, only to be brought back down to Earth in a screaming hurry, not when there’s so much to explore up there.

Grudge had been brought up in the family business, part of a family tree that no-one was game to shake too hard. He wasn’t about to start climbing the walls like his mother or suffer a fatal overdose like dear old Dad. Drugs didn’t control him. Nothing wrong with getting a little wasted, a little bent out of shape from time to time, but as for his glorious needs, these new urges he’d come to respect …

There was only so much self-control a body could sustain before it caved in, gave in, to the inevitable. Oh yes, Grudge was itching to get back out there alright, desperate to scratch that itch, the one that was impossible to reach through the bars of a prison cell.

The psychiatric evaluation that had gotten him this far had subsequently done him a favour. A nice clean hospital would’ve had a better chance of holding him. All that chemical restraint. He wouldn’t have minded that, something to take the edge off, to quiet his urges until he understood them a whole lot better. But no, that had not been the recommendation from the mind police. Instead, they’d made it easy for him those doctors, those so-called men of medicine who hadn’t looked too hard: no ink-blot test, no detailed questionnaire, no radioactive dye to determine which parts of his brain glowed in the dark. They’d all agreed, their expert opinions all lined up like ducks in a row:

Peter Felix Grudgefield knows the difference between right and wrong.

The defendant is fit to stand trial.

He just doesn’t give a shit.

And neither did they. They’d been given a chance to study his psychopathy firsthand – up close and personal – and they’d blown it. Didn’t they care, didn’t they want to know, or was it all just too difficult? They’d never even bothered to ask him about Zoe Flame, her, and her other ideas.

‘Go on, you know you want to,’ she’d whispered in his ear – teasing, insisting. She was everywhere: under his skin, inside his head, hard up against him …

What was I supposed to do, Doc?

Well, they’d had their chance, blown it big time. They’d have to read about it in the papers, follow him on social media while they kicked themselves repeatedly. They were the ones to blame, the ones with the answers that they’d never thought to share. Oh, but he’d show them, teach them a valuable lesson. Never underestimate a psycho-killer. Never turn your back, never let your guard down, or else.

The next one’s on you, Doc.

The next one was but a heartbeat away – the court reporter – she was just begging for it. He’d gladly take her down, enjoy the experience thoroughly. If Grudge had a choice he’d lunge at her right now, twist his fingers in her hair, force her to look deep into his eyes, into the future, their future. He’d take her for his own right here, right now if the place wasn’t crawling with police.

Next time things would be different.

Next time he’d be sure not to make the same mistakes – rookie mistakes – come across as an amateur to the whole entire world. He was better than that, smarter, meaner, determined to learn by his mistakes.

Next time there’d be no need to phone a friend.

Next time he’d be sure to leave no trace of himself behind, no hair, no fibres, no skin under the fingernails, no traces of DNA – easier said than done, but a raging fire or a large body of water should do the trick, either one would have him smelling like roses, all innocent and squeaky clean.

Grudge was so confident in himself, he was already planning his next caper, the one where boy-meets-girl, girl has no choice, and boy doesn’t get caught. He’d had a lot of time to think about it, all those endless hours locked away from life as he knew it to ponder his upcoming career.

Jail hadn’t scared him straight, that dark little shithole with only his thoughts for company had certainly been an eye opener, provided a direct route to what made him tick.

Tick, tick, time ticking away, he’d come to rediscover himself while he’d been caged, he’d gotten to know himself a whole lot better, had a chance to peer at himself from the inside out.

He liked what he saw.

This urge down deep inside, it was clean, it was beautiful. He’d chase it to the ends of the Earth, to the end of time, if that’s what it took to keep him satisfied.

—————

‘Psst, hey Wade, hey Mr Dennis, can I let you in on a little secret?’ Grudge said, leaning over to whisper in his defence council’s ear. ‘I don’t give a shit what that prosecutor thinks. There’s no such thing as a curiosity killing. Always a label, always a fucking excuse. Try determined, try hell-bent, try getting off in the most spectacular way! You should give it a try some time, Mr Dennis. I highly recommend it.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that you actually did it?’ Wade Dennis hissed.

‘Haven’t you been listening?’ Grudge said.

Vacant, shit-for-brains, Grudge was decidedly unimpressed with his legal representation. It was such a pleasure to set Wade Dennis straight, to observe his jaw drop open, the way his eyes practically bulged from their sockets as Grudge turned to leave.

‘Hey, wait for me!’ Wade said.

Wade hurried after Grudge, guilty or not, he wasn’t about to let his star client out of his sight, catching up to him just as he reached the exit. This was Wade’s chance to shine − he knew that − his only chance before obscurity returned with a thud.

Grabbing Grudge by the sleeve, Wade swung him around, reaching for the doorhandle as he tried to muscle in front. Even on his best day, Wade Dennis was no match for Peter Grudgefield, no matter how desperate, how righteous, how hard he may have worked, how much he may have suffered and slaved for his fifteen minutes of fame.

‘Back off! This is my show, motherfucker,’ Grudge said, grabbing Wade by the scruff of the neck and slamming him into the door jam. ‘Know your fucking place,’ he snarled in Wade’s ear.

Grudge took one last look around the courtroom. A part of him was sad to leave, unfinished business and all, no more centre of attention for him, at least with the lights on.

He should have rushed the judge, jumped over the bench, planted a kiss on her mouth – something she wouldn’t forget in a hurry, something to remember him by, the touch and feel of a criminal, a way to say thank you for setting him free. She deserved it, a taste of what she was missing, ample reward for her efficiency, her expediency, clearing the courtroom the way she had, dispensing with those in the public gallery – the riffraff – before she’d swooped down from the bench in a flurry of black robes and indignation to disappear through the little secret door behind the bench.

Grudge had so wanted to give chase, to corner the judge in chambers and thank her good and proper, but that was made impossible by that hulking bailiff who’d planted himself outside her escape hatch. He was a giant of a man, a soldier. No-one could get through him, not with his bulk and a face only a mother could love. Grudge couldn’t help but notice him – stern, efficient, and up the judge’s arse. Like a bodyguard he was, exactly what Grudge needed right now – someone to part the crowd and provide him with a safe passage through to the outside world.

Another time, another place, Grudge would have had a crack at recruiting him. He’d find his weak spot, a way to lure him over to the dark side, give him no choice whatsoever in the matter. Grudge was good at that, it was his specialty, the way he made people bend to his will before they knew what hit them.

‘What do you say, partner?’ Grudge said, indicating the exit with a toss of his head. He couldn’t help it, he couldn’t resist, he had to at least give it a try. But the bailiff, Jonah Lightly, showed no signs of having heard – no change in expression, no interest whatsoever. Like Mercy, Jonah kept an eye out, but unlike Mercy, he kept one meaty fist clenched permanently down by his side.

None of this went unnoticed by Grudge who was always on the lookout for an additional soldier to swell the ranks. There was a certain dignity about him that Grudge couldn’t help but admire. Mal and Rodrigo – his current platoon – could learn a thing or two from this hulking mass. They’d had it easy while the boss had been away – kept an eye on Tanya, Grudge’s sometimes girlfriend, escorted her to court every day to keep the public out of her face. It had been a nice touch to have Tanya sitting in court day after day when Grudge knew how much she’d rather be anywhere else. All three were absent from court today, preparing for his return, arranging a surprise party, of that Grudge had no doubt. Grudge would have liked to invite the bailiff to come along, to have him join the crew, but he somehow doubted the man with the certain dignity would be inclined to accept such an invitation.

Forget about them, it was her turn now. One last look, one last chance to run back and scoop the court reporter up into his arms. There was a world full of women out there, but none of them were her.

From day one she’d been the only bright spark on Grudge’s horizon, keeping him amused, aroused, on edge with her constant refusal to look his way no matter how hard he tried to catch her attention.

Day after day he’d tried and failed. But failure was not an option in his new line of work. He’d get her in the end, get her to notice him, make sweet love to her with just one look and have her coming back for more.

But this was no game.

She knew he’d been watching her.

How long could she hold out?

It’d driven him mad, her sitting there all prim and proper in her grown-up clothes, day after day after day.

She was a stunner alright – on fire – unlike the cool frosty blondes he usually preferred. A hot-looking redhead like her, she was any man’s type. And that face – flawless. But it was her eyes that really got him going, those twin pools of liquid green, glowing bright with a fearless curiosity that had dared to challenge his.

Languishing in his cell night after night during the trial, he’d wondered what it would be like to be with her in the soft glow of the evening, with her guard down and her mind at rest after the day in court was done.

Would she cook them dinner?

Would they make love right there on the kitchen bench while the roast blackened in the oven?

Would they come up for air before the whole house burnt down?

Thoughts and visions, hopes and dreams had his mind running in circles while his body lingered in the wasted space of night.

Daylight was where it was at, where she was at, that perfect creature who haunted his dreams, who interfered with his every waking moment. What he felt for her, he’d never felt for another.

It could be love at first sight, something real and lasting, but that was impossible for a man like him, someone whose heart was unable