Page 64 of Eternal Obsession

“What?”

“Chess. You make a move, your opponent makes a move, etcetera. With Orpheus, you will never see him coming. He will derail your scheme.”

“You are done. Now get out,” I warned him.

“He will swipe you off your feet and he’ll take both your queen and your King before you’ve even considered your strategy.”

“Out, now!” I shouted.

“When Catherine complains about the way he dispenses with you, he can reassure her that he gave you every opportunity. So be it. Such is life. Or in your case, death!”

“Give this message to Orpheus,” I said. “Tell him I am coming for him.”

Chapter Thirty

ORPHEUS

Captured in sleep, the dream holding her firmly, Ingrid Jansen struggled to awaken from her nightmare. She saw herself as a rookie police officer once again, standing next to a woman who was tied and gagged in a chair. Ingrid kept reassuring the woman that everything would be all right, though the woman was dead.

The emergency phone call had come through to the Salisbury police station at 2100 hours—a domestic disturbance on Rowland Street.

Ingrid was unarmed, her baton taken from her at knifepoint by the man and thrown out of the window, breaking it upon impact. Ingrid scanned the room for other objects that she could use to defend herself and checked for possible exits.

The putrid smell of rotting food hung in the air. Movement caught her attention, and for a frightful moment she glimpsed maggots crawling among the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink.

Unbeknownst to Ingrid, the police sharpshooter positioned just outside the kitchen was taking advantage of the broken window.

Her aggressor was becoming even more agitated. “You fucking bitch.” He waved the knife at her.

Pandemonium, a noise shattering the tense atmosphere deafened her, stinging her ears as the gunshot hit just above its target exploding the man’s head. Ingrid was splattered with brain matter. His blood covered her body and entered her mouth. She spat it out, resisting the urge to vomit.

I could bear her dark ruminations no more. It was time to wake her.

Ingrid stirred in response to the sensation of my fingers gently stroking her hair. She bolted up, heart pounding from both nightmare and the invasive tactile stimulation. She jumped out of bed wearing nothing but her underwear, and ran to the sitting room. Finding no one she continued to search each room, still dizzy from sleep. Finally she ran to the front door finding it was as she had left it—locked, bolt on.

She walked into the bathroom, splashing water onto her face then back into the sitting room, collapsing onto her couch. Pulling her golden chenille throw over her she sat staring into space.

Ingrid glanced at her watch. It was five in the morning. She was due to catch the train at 0700 at Salisbury train station. A Monday. And this week she was attending a police forensic psychologist’s course at Scotland Yard.

The next hour slipped by as she showered, dressed, and eased herself into the rhythm of the day. She set out for the train.

Her mind, wholly absorbed in the intricacies of her caseload, wandered methodically through the labyrinth of evidence back at the office. Each scrap of fact she examined with forensic clarity, her imagination deductive, relentlessly pursuing conclusions that would uphold the letter of the law and offer solemn justice to those wronged. She arrived in London refreshed and eager to learn new concepts that would take her career to the next level.

The course was scheduled for 0930.

Being her usual early self, Ingrid sat in the front of the hall in order to get the best view of the lecturers. She was delighted that her friend Dr. Elizabeth Miller was the senior speaker. Suddenly this all made perfect sense to her, for if not Elizabeth, who would have placed her name down on the course attendance list? Elizabeth had been with the police for eleven years, a senior forensic scientist based at Scotland Yard. She had qualified with a PhD at Oxford and had been recruited by the Metropolitan Police for her say-it-like-it-is attitude.

At thirty-five, Elizabeth was at the height of her career and held in high esteem within the community. Her slender stature and striking dark features, reflective of her African heritage, gave her a graceful, commanding presence. Her intellect, of such rare caliber, was in constant demand. What those in attendance might not have known was that her sense of humor was every bit as beguiling as her brilliance. She had married John, a police officer at a nearby station. Ingrid considered herself lucky to have a good friend in the force. She listened to her friend speak, in awe as Elizabeth conducted the lecture.

Science never stood still and the feats they were accomplishing with DNA sequencing and other cutting-edge innovations were both awe-inspiring and profoundly impressive.

Elizabeth wowed everyone as she shared the latest innovations.

Ingrid thoroughly enjoyed her friend’s articulate presentation and afterward was delighted to accept Elizabeth’s invitation to join her for a drink in Covent Garden.

In the secluded West End wine bar the two women nestled in the corner, sipping Chardonnay while exchanging news about friends and family. It was as though the months that had passed between them were mere hours.

They covered it all, politics, the latest work drama, and even gushed over new recipes they couldn’t stop making.