EMILY MCCANN WAS pleased to be home, a gin and tonic in her hand, her feet up in front of the fire after a long hot bath. Then the phone rang: the prison. Fearon had caused a lot of trouble during the day – and enjoyed doing it – but he was now extremely agitated, according to officers watching over him. Alone in his cell on the punishment block, he’d flown into a rage, begging for writing materials on which to scribble down a grovelling apology, rapping on the cell door so hard he’d opened the wound to his right wrist, drawing blood.
‘Oh, he’s sorry all right.’
Not because he scared me, Emily thought. That’s what turns him on.
‘He’s sorry because I’m angry with him . . . Well, tough.’
She listened as the officer explained his dilemma. Fearon had woken the rest of the cons. There was bedlam on the wing and he needed to restore calm. Appeasing one prisoner was the best way to do it. Fearon wanted assurances that she’d see him next morning.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Give him what he wants if it’ll shut him up. You guys have a hard enough job without having to put up with that all night.’
They said goodnight and rang off.
Emily returned to the sofa and tried to unwind, but she couldn’t help thinking about Fearon, imagining the state he was in. She’d told him time and again that he was a reckless hothead. Not her fault if he didn’t listen. There’d been times when her sessions with him had been so difficult that she’d found it necessary to debrief with another staff member afterwards. Though each session lasted no more than an hour, she always emerged feeling wrung out. Completely and utterly exhausted. Sometimes it took several hours before she could clear her head of the despicable images he painted.
The clock struck the hour.
Rachel had left no note to say where she’d gone or what time she’d be home. Wondering where she was, Emily got up and threw a log on the fire. She poured herself another drink and sipped it absent-mindedly as she tried to process the day’s events, specifically Fearon’s behaviour and the risk he posed. She shuddered, picturing the smirk on his face as he sat in her office chair, relishing her unease as he recounted what he’d put his victims through, flirting with her while describing every morbid detail.
Pathetic: she was old enough to be his mother.
But therein lay the problem . . .
Fearon had never been interested in girls his own age. He seemed incapable of a loving relationship with anyone. It was all about power with him: sex too, but with an element of fear ever present. Horror even. His penis was a weapon, an instrument of terror. That was what made him so dangerous.
His victims were all forty plus. Emily didn’t need Stamp to tell her that. She knew fine well what Fearon was up to. According to Ash Walker, he’d been gutted when she’d suddenly disappeared from work after Robert died. He’d taken her absence personally. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Talked about her constantly, as if afraid she’d left him and would never return.
By the time she’d heard about that, Emily was in a place too dark to realize the significance. Too numb to care. Robert was dead and that was all she could think about. But then things had taken on a sinister twist. After he’d cut his wrists, Fearon had openly admitted he’d done it to get her attention: Because you don’t love me any more.
Emily shivered.
Just how deluded was he?
She hadn’t shared that conversation with anyone, not even Jo Soulsby. And certainly not Stamp. That would have been guaranteed to set him off. He was right about one thing, though: Fearon had a dangerous and deep-seated obsession with older women. He’d turned his focus on her and she’d have to watch her back.
As she drank the last of her gin, her eyes drifted to Robert’s picture on top of the piano, smiling at her as he sat astride his bike. He was not a handsome man on the outside but he’d had a big, big heart. He’d loved her with a passion.
Emily suddenly felt guilty.
It had only been a few months since he’d passed away and yet she’d been tempted to let Stamp into her life. Her desire to overcome loneliness was strong, her urge to have sex even stronger. She didn’t care that Rachel might disapprove – or anyone else, for that matter. She wanted – needed – to feel alive again. In her head, she could almost hear Robert’s voice . . .
Knock yourself out, babe! I just want you to be happy.
She wiped a tear from her cheek, her sadness turning to anger. The prison staff had been sloppy while she was off work. Fearon had obviously overheard them talking about her loss. The day before yesterday, he’d woken up in the prison hospital and told her it was the best day of his life when he heard the news that her old man had croaked. She must be gagging for it now, he’d told himself.
The ramblings of a deranged mind. But all the same . . .
She’d fled the ward in tears.
Bile rose in her throat as she recalled his joy. Her fury didn’t end with him. Prison staff had no business discussing her in the presence of men like Fearon. They should’ve kept their mouths shut.
Well, maybe Emily couldn’t turn back the clock, but she could and would make a stand. It was time to show Fearon who was boss.
She’d told him once that every action resulted in a reaction and today she’d proved it. Never in his worst nightmares had it occurred to him that she might push him away. But that was exactly what she’d done. Much to SO Walker’s obvious delight: a brief respite from Fearon was like a day off, so high maintenance was he.
No doubt Kent had been pleased about it too, the bastard.
Emily sighed.
Fearon could barely handle being banged up in solitary overnight – what would happen if they moved him to another wing when he got out? What if she didn’t keep her promise and refused to see him tomorrow? The day after? The day after that? In his present state, he’d surely flip.
With only a couple of weeks to go till his release, time was running out. If she didn’t work to correct his behaviour in the final days of his sentence, who would? If she managed to get through to him, it might just save another woman’s life.
Much as she would have liked to wash her hands of Walter Fearon, she wasn’t ready to give up on him just yet.