The Temptress Read online

  THE TEMPTRESS

  A NOVELLA

  SARAH SHERIDAN

  Copyright © 2022 Sarah Sheridan

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  The right of Sarah Sheridan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  CONTENTS

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Also by Sarah Sheridan

  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

  The Perfect Family

  A note from the publisher

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  ALSO BY SARAH SHERIDAN

  The Sister Veronica Mysteries:

  The Convent (book one)

  The Disciple (book two)

  The Tormented (book three)

  Devil’s Play

  Girl in Bed Three

  A Perfect Family

  For my wonderful friend, Rebecca

  CHAPTER ONE

  I lead a secret, deadly life. One that I’ve never told anybody about, and it’s so much fun. I can’t believe I’m getting away with it. Honestly, some people just don’t want to see what’s right in front of their noses, do they? Although to be fair, I’m exceptionally good at hiding what I do. But I think the biggest factor that has allowed me to get away with all this for so long is my appearance. And how I sound and come across, of course. I mean, who on earth would ever suspect that the petite, blonde journalist with the beautiful face – Zoe Carter – is the one responsible for a string of murders across London? No one, that’s who. It’s never even crossed the lead detective’s mind, bless him. And to think, I’ve been doing this for twelve years. I’m a veritable pro at it. A highly qualified expert in the art of murder. And DS George Henderson is supposed to be one of the best. Well, he’s certainly met his match with me.

  ‘Oliver Wood is the latest victim in what appears to be a string of related murders,’ Henderson said on the BBC News last night. Honestly, his rugged old face looked so serious, I had to laugh. ‘His body was found in his Kensington apartment by his cleaner. Whoever is behind these slayings should be very scared right now because forensic evidence is mounting, and it’s a matter of when – not if – we catch the killer.’

  Ha, I’d thought. You’ve been saying that for ages now, George. And here we still are. You hunting me, and me just going about my business as a journalist. And a killer. It’s the best game I’ve ever played.

  And now, as I look up from my laptop and out of the café window at the police tape across the street, I think, I’m too good for you all. You’ll never catch me, try as you might.

  If people knew what I did, they might not believe that I’m actually a really nice person. But I am. I love cats, and my moggy Marilyn is my life. I adore her; I couldn’t live without her. I’m always buying her new collars and toys, grooming her, and giving her cuddles – when she wants them. The best thing about Marilyn is that she’s very self-sufficient. She needs a lot of personal space and so do I, which is why we work so well together. In fact, I love cats so much that I support two charities every month: the Cats Protection Society and Paws Welfare Trust. Also, I love nature, particularly flowers; they are the most beautiful things in the world. So pure and colourful. So really, I’m not a nasty person at all. I don’t kill because of that. I do it because people have wronged me and that makes me angry. Furious, actually. Utterly enraged. And the fact that I enjoy what I do… well, you have to take pride in your work, don’t you?

  I love returning to the scene of my crimes, and watching the police and the forensic team dither about, trying to make sense of everything that’s gone on. Luckily, there’s a darling little café right opposite the grand Victorian apartments where Oliver lived, and I’ve been sitting here for an hour, watching the media crews reporting relentlessly. Oh, and I’ve had a latte and a rather lovely avocado salad with balsamic dressing too. Worth coming back here just for a spot of lunch. I must remember this place in the future.

  I mean, Oliver was so much fun to be with at first. Two years younger than me at thirty-five – deliciously handsome, mega successful, and into fine food and drink; we had so much in common. We had some great dates: we went to The Ivy for dinner, spent a weekend at The Ritz, popped over to Dubai for some autumn sunshine, and he even took me to Chipping Norton to meet his mum, Patricia. She makes a superb cup of tea and her homemade shortbread is to die for. Although neither of them did die. Not that day anyway…

  But then, like the five others before him, Oliver made the biggest mistake of his life. It was such a shame in a way, as I was really beginning to like him. But he disrespected me, so he had to go. And I enjoyed every minute of his demise, as I had with the others. Oh, the whole thing was beautiful; so painful yet wonderfully sublime. Watching the life go out of his eyes was blissful. Probably my favourite so far, I think, providing me with the psychological gratification that I need in order to thrive. I’ve researched serial killers, it’s one of my passions to do that actually. I want to know what other people get out of killing. I sure as hell know what I get out of it. And I know that I’m one of the best. Females are statistically more successful at murder than males anyway. Not bragging, it’s just a fact. I’m always tempted to video their last moments with my phone, but let’s face it, I’ve researched the subject enough to know that only amateurs leave digital forensic evidence behind.

  Of course, the police haven’t questioned me because no one knows that Oliver and I were seeing each other. He was married, like they all are. His Kensington apartment was just his London work pad, while his wife and kids lived back home in their country pile in the Cotswolds. I always make sure that my men don’t take any photos of me. I won’t have it, and they’re so desperate to keep the affair going that they agree to anything I want. I introduce myself to each one using a different name, so they never know my real identity anyway. So far I’ve been Natasha, Eve, Chloe, Maria, Brianna and Jacqueline. My journalistic name is Zoe Carter and my real name is Zoe Sanders, and I no longer look like I did when all the media photos I use were taken, so not one of my six victims has ever put two and two together and clocked that I’m that freelance writer. I used to have long, dark-blonde hair and now I have a platinum bob. And I’ve had many hairstyles in between. Honestly, men can’t get enough of the platinum; they go increasingly mad for me the blonder I get.

  If they ask what I do for a job, I say different things. So far, I’ve been a shop manager, an out of work actress, a gardener, a teacher, a dental assistant and a librarian. The fact that these men are all married helps enormously, because they are trying to keep our affair even more secret than I am. And they’re so focused on the sex that they’re not that interested in me as a person, and what I do or where I come from. And – being totally honest – I’m really good in the bedroom department so it’s easy to keep them distracted. Let’s face it, we’re never together for that long anyway. My longest tryst lasted for just under three weeks.

  Obviously, I never write stories about the crimes I’ve committed. Don’t want to hang about on the scene asking questions. Subtly observing what’s going on is one thing, presenting yourself on a platter to the police is quite another. I tend to write articles about eclectic subjects, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t use my journalistic investigations to meet men. The more varied situations you put yourself in, the wider the net you cast. And it’s not like I’m actually looking for murder victims anyway. I think I might be ready to have a boyfriend who stays alive. It’s just that it never works out long term because they always go and say something silly to me. So then I’m compelled to finish them off and move on to the next one.

  But I have a problem. I’m trying to retire from the serial killing, but it’s proving more difficult than I anticipated. The realisation hit me one day that I can’t go on doing this forever. I mean, one has to draw the line somewhere, doesn’t one? I’m thirty-seven now, and I can’t see myself still killing in ten years. My back aches sometimes and I’ve had to start taking Well Woman vitamins to combat tiredness. But whenever I try to call it a day, something happens. My idiot new man has to go and ruin everything by saying something stupid, and then bam! Serial killer Zoe comes out. And then I’m back to square one again: single and still a serial murderer.

 
I’ve just met someone new. He’s called Josh, and he’s not only mind-blowingly attractive, he’s the sensitive, thoughtful type. He’s one of the reasons that Oliver had to go; that, and the fact that he made the mistake of criticising me. Said he’d come to the conclusion that I was a narcissist, which is seriously rude. I have zero tolerance when it comes to men putting me down. Daddy Dearest made sure of that, what with everything he did.

  I really don’t want to have to end Josh’s life, as he’s such a sweetheart. And to make matters worse, he’s not even married. Doesn’t fit the mould of my usual love interest at all. Shit. How the hell am I going to work this one out? It wasn’t even like I chose him. The whole thing had happened so unexpectedly after we’d got chatting while we sat next to each other on the Tube a week ago. I’d already decided to go cold turkey and not date anyone else, but then fate intervened and we met, and I couldn’t help giving him my damn number. And I’m seeing him later tonight. Will I honestly be able to keep up my new no-killing resolution? God, I hope so.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I kind of fell into serial killing, the way one simply falls into a new career sometimes. It wasn’t something I’d been planning at all. And if I’m honest, I was surprised at how good the first murder made me feel: wished I’d realised I was so good at killing people years ago, in fact.

  Miles Vaughn was my first victim. Silly old boy. Just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. And I’d warned him to stop the grumbling hundreds of times before it finally happened. He was my longest relationship – nearly three weeks.

  Gosh, I was only twenty-five when I killed Miles – still a spring chicken. I’d gone out on dates with other people before meeting him, of course. Had many one-night stands. But I’d always felt repulsed by the idea of actually getting into a proper relationship. When I met Miles, though, things changed.

  I was coming out of a boutique – Blushing Bella – on the King’s Road in Chelsea one day when a man walked straight into me, causing me to almost drop my shopping bag.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘Do forgive me, I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  Anger was simmering in me. Then I saw his big green eyes staring down at me, and they were filled with such concern that I couldn’t help smiling. We got chatting, and he told me that his name was Miles Vaughn (on a whim I told him that mine was Natasha), and that he owned an interior design company.

  ‘Do let me take you out for a coffee to make up for crashing into you so rudely, Natasha,’ he said eventually. And I agreed.

  We carried on talking over several cappuccinos, and I told him that I was the manager of a boutique in Notting Hill. I don’t know why I said this, it just seemed like a fun thing to do at the time. Miles – who turned out to be fifteen years older than me – told me that he was in an unhappy marriage and had two children. He seemed like such an earnest, kind man that when he asked for my number, I actually gave him my real one. Afterwards, I felt quite giddy as I walked down the steps of Sloane Square underground station, as I’d never given my number to a man before. Other than for business reasons, of course.

  Soon, we were texting back and forth, and it wasn’t long before Miles asked me out to dinner. I agreed, and the following evening found myself sitting opposite him at a little Italian place – La Pazienza – in Putney. Obviously, I’ve never told any of my boyfriends where I actually live; as far as I’m concerned, my little pad in Fulham is a man-free zone. My sacred space that I’m not willing to share with anyone other than my dear little cat.

  We got on well, and over a shared platter Miles told me all about how he wanted to retire early and travel the world, and I talked about how hard my fictional job as a shop manager could be. He behaved himself very well, and had a wistful look in his eyes when we parted at the end of the evening.

  A week later, he invited me to go away with him to a hotel in Sidmouth on the Devon coast. Well, of course I said yes. I hadn’t been on holiday for ages, and the weather was divine at the time. We spent a jolly four days by the sea, wandering hand in hand along the beach, and eating fresh fish in the top-class restaurants there.

  But Miles had started to annoy me on day two of our little vacation. He wasn’t exactly being critical, but he’d started to remark on little things that I did. Like when he said I would look better with a less bright shade of lipstick. And the time he told me I was being a floozy when I winked at an utterly gorgeous waiter.

  Now, the thing that no one understands is that I don’t let men criticise me. I just won’t have it. And I don’t need some psychologist to tell me that this little quirk is related to my father and how he treated me.

  My dad was a bad man, and that’s saying something, coming from me. And he got worse when my mum walked out when I was five. Drank more, beat me every day, and constantly criticised everything I did.

  The final straw came when he’d come back from the pub one night and found me engrossed in a television programme when he’d decided he wanted to watch the football. I was fourteen at the time.

  ‘You’re a good-for-nothing layabout, Zoe,’ he said, a snarl in his voice as he reached out and slapped me hard around the head. ‘Nothing but a thorn in my side. I wish you’d never been born. I wish your mum had had that bloody abortion.’

  Something inside me snapped at that point. The years of abuse came to a head and I clearly remember realising that he had to go. That he’d done enough damage and that I was going to kill him. That I couldn’t let this ogre carry on destroying me.

  So that night, after he’d drunk even more and passed out in his bed, I crept in and put a pillow over his face. If I’m honest, it hardly took any effort at all to hold it there while he briefly flailed around. He’d drunk and smoked for most of his life, despite being an asthmatic, and I think his body was ready to give up anyway, nasty old bastard. It only took minutes before he was still. Dead.

  I stood by his body for a while, high on the thrill of ending his pitiful life. And looking back, I can see that this is where my calling started. My vocation as a serial killer. Because what I felt as I stared at my father’s corpse was something far beyond relief. Much more than mere liberation from his brutish ways. It was a rush; a giddy delight. I can safely say that this was the point of my awakening. My call to murder, if you like.

  My anger satiated by the knowledge he had hit me for the last time and also from the excitement of killing, I went to bed and had the best night’s sleep of my life.

  The next morning, I phoned the emergency services and told them that I’d just found my dad’s body. They came in, looked at the inhaler lying on his chest of drawers, and said that perhaps he’d died from a severe asthma attack while drunk. I agreed, saying that he had been coughing a lot recently.

  The post-mortem didn’t find any signs of foul play, and I’ve since learned that asphyxiation is one of the hardest types of murder to prove. Dad was buried, and I went to live in a children’s home until I was eighteen. I left it determined to reinvent myself, which I did. Separated my life from the seedy one I’d been brought up in, and worked different jobs day and night so that I could afford to rent a one bed flat in Hounslow, before moving to my much smarter one in Fulham. I put myself through college, receiving a BA Hons in Journalism at the end of it, and I’ve worked hard ever since, building up both my reputation and my abilities – in all areas – as much as I can. Oh, and I now have a collection of the most expensive lipsticks going.