Sixth Victim

by Kate Mitchell

  It was the thinnest of whispers. Her eyes searched about the room until they again alighted on Cecelia.

  ‘Marcia,’ the candle flickered as she spoke, no gale of breath was being ushered from these lips. ‘You’ve come to see me, child. Oh, how I have missed you.’

  Compulsive, Cecelia’s eyes were glued to Mary Davis’s, trapped under that deadly gaze.

  ‘Marcia, are you afraid of me? Do I look so different? Won’t you kiss your mother?’

  ‘Marcia,’ the voice from next to her said. The man with angry eyes looked down at Cecelia. ‘Go to your mother.’

  She looked to Mr. Davis’s angry eyes frightened by his temper, but his needs were bigger than hers. Just do this once for me. Pretend to be Marcia to give this gentle woman her peace.

  Almost in tears, Cecelia bent down to kiss this dying woman. The softest and kindest of lips on the veil which hovered between life and death. And love was recorded. Unkind to Cecelia’s mind that already she could smell death on this woman, no amount of cleaning would scrub this odor away.

  ‘Oh, my dearest child,’ whispered Mary Davis as the brush of Cecelia’s lips touched her cheek. ‘I had a dream that you were dead to me Marcia. I have been ill for so long, it’s not you who’s dying, it’s me.’

  Tears fell fast from Mr. Davis’s face. He was greatly thankful for what Cecelia was doing for his Mary.

  ‘Tell me how you’ve been Marcia. Are you happy where you are?’

  She didn’t know how it came about but Mrs. Davis’s cold hand now sat in Cecelia’s.

  ‘Yes, I’m very happy. I am the happiest I have ever been except that I am missing you.’ That necessary lie.

  ‘No, Marcia. This is your life. You are to do what you want to which is to make yourself happy. You don’t know what it means to us knowing you are happy. After everything we have been through, you are our success…’ Mary’s eyes were closing, but in her face was the blessed look of happiness.

  Mr. Davis cried, long tears slipping over his cheeks while watching Mary until again she succumbed to sleep. There was no shame in his tears when he looked at Cecelia, she had done something wonderful, his gratitude was more than he could contain.

  ‘Come,’ he said, bidding her leave Mary’s room.

  Again, she followed him into the kitchen. In the strangeness of the early evening, Mr. Davis was taking the kettle off the hob to fill with water. Slowly and thoughtfully, the world of penalties was pushing down on his shoulders.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said. Five minutes later, tea was ready for them to drink.

  16

  On the way home, Cecelia went through their conversation again which was more of a confession. They drank their tea in silence as if they were waiting to be released from this unnatural spell. Image by image dropped into the picture of a slow-growing evening filling with emerging shadows. These shadows came forward ready for introduction. Hand outstretched, I am Death. How do you do? You passed me several times; unfortunate for me, but not for you. I needed someone to make up the numbers. The grim smile. But I will be back for you too in the future.

  ‘First, I want to thank you for what you have done for my wife.’

  The old man from five minutes ago was now replaced by a much younger man; Mr. Davis was no longer sad. How is that so?

  ‘You have given Mary something I could never give her; the peace she needed knowing that something good had come out of our lives. Marcia will always be a success to her. As a parent, we want this for our children. And I thank you. I could never do that, but you did this for Marcia and my Mary. And I will always be grateful. Grateful,’ he repeated and nodded,’ blessing himself with this one good deed.

  It was an idea he took with him as he picked up his empty cup to go to the sink, slowly and methodically cradling the notion that this action was beautiful. As if every act had been carved out from wood and needed to be assessed, then loved.

  ‘Will you stay while I go and check on Mary? I’ll be no more than five minutes. Please stay, I have something to tell you,’ he was by the door. ‘This evening has meant so much to me. You gave Mary and me the understanding that we were still a family again.’

  Mr. Davis was out of the room before anything more could be said. The emptiness of his presence certified a release while Cecelia still wondered why she was here. Looking about the bric-à-brac kitchen, the polished pots, a butler’s sink, an old Welsh dresser which had seen better days.

  Imagining as she sat looking about, it wasn’t difficult to think of herself as being a part of this family, a family of love. A mother and father. A mother turning from her kitchen tops while preparing her children’s dinner. Brother and sister leaning across to each other, pulling faces, poking out tongues, the brother teasing his little sister and the little girl loving it and giggling. This time a young Mr. Davis came home from work, pulling out his chair to sit down at the table with them. This had been a family, a real family, and nothing like Cecelia’s memories. Her vision of their home lives just demonstrated how unhappy and fearful her life had been.

  But there are always worse things happening to others, Cecelia reminded herself dutifully as she drove herself home. Her head clouded with imageries, from Mary’s face to Mr. Davis and then to a couple of young girls standing on a corner. Children used for sexual fantasies. Slipping a coin into a slot. For the corrupt, everybody was a commodity. A cruel and corrupt world, unscrupulous people living off the vulnerable. Her problems, by comparison, were nothing, nothing she could truly complain about, except her problems hurt.

  But now she had learned valuable lessons from this experience that people like her father, a tall and strong-looking man can be broken, driven to suicide by the torment of hatred. Her father had been a good-looking man, and an educated one, someone to be proud of. But Tina took her pleasure in marrying to destroy, for only in that way did she feel superior. Why had her mother hated him so much that she could laugh with derision when she was told he was dead?

  This was a strange and cold world.

  When Mr. Davis returned from Mary’s bedroom, his face once crippled by grief had thrown off its props to become something like tranquil, the same she had seen on Mary’s face. He was at peace with himself.

  ‘You’ve got such a long way to go with your life,’ he said, retaking his seat. ‘You are not as strong as you look, are you?’

  Cecelia shrugged, baffled by the change of his conversation.

  ‘I want you to promise me to look after yourself. In many ways, you remind me of Marcia. She was a sweet-natured girl with spirit.’ He lowered his eyes again. ‘Nothing is going to touch Mary anymore,’ he smiled. ‘She will never awake from this sleep.’

  ‘You mean she is dead?’

  ‘Yes. I kissed her on the lips and then her forehead. I made the sign of the cross on her. She has gone to our children, Rodin, and Marcia. And it won’t be long before I follow her.’

  That automated response to stretch out her hand and refute this statement would not be welcomed, not by him. He had grown weary with his life; it held no pleasure.

  ‘I, who would have given my life for Mary, who worshipped the ground she walked on have taken her life. It was best this way.’

  Had she heard correctly? Mr. Davis had killed his wife? No, this was not possible.

  ‘It is better she goes now than later; I don’t want her to know what I have done.’ He spoke with great calmness as if he had made peace with himself; his hands were on the kitchen table, clasping each other. ‘I don’t want you to do anything about what I am going to tell you; you will be the only person who will know the truth. It doesn’t matter what happens once I am gone.’

  Was he well? Cecelia struggled to understand what was going on. He was saying he had killed his wife, yet there was no regret on his face, no pride, nothing except empty capitulation. It was the same as her father. Before he went on that long walk to his own death, daddy gave her a letter. Read it, he told her looking at the clock. Read it the follow
ing morning. I want you to promise me you will look for happiness, Cece. Never let anyone be cruel to you. You are special, Cecelia; you should know that.

  Now Mr. Davis was staring into his cup of cold coffee as if looking into his destiny.

  ‘I killed Tony Hare, and I am sorry for that. He didn’t love our Marcia like she deserved to be loved. It was one of the reasons why I took his life. It was wrong, I know, but he wouldn’t stop crying and telling me that it was his fault. And because of that, I decided he was guilty. I hadn’t planned what I was going to do. I told him I wanted him to make a memorial for Marcia which reassured him. We went in my car to Elmansor Park; he became very optimistic, almost happy. We were going to do something together for the first time. I asked him to choose the place for the memorial. And when he went to find the place, I took an ax from my car and hit him. He never knew he was going to die. Mercifully, it was quick.’

  The silence grabbed her, hugging her in a vice-like grip, breathing into her ears that it was never going to let her go. That she would remain suspended in this time-lock forever. Until the spell was broken.

  ‘You can go now, Cecelia Clark. You haven’t done anything wrong. Have a good life, Cecelia, you deserve it.’

  What was going to happen next was the question that needed answering. But for her own life, because in telling Cecelia to leave now, he was giving it back to her. Glad to run out with her life, for that brief second she thought he would claim it. If what he had told her was the truth, she wanted to get home, bury her head, and forget what had happened. But Phoebe would be waiting for her, and seeing her distressed would demand to know what was wrong.

  ‘Hello Phoebe, it’s me, Cecelia,’ she had hit the answer phone and was glad it had gone on to the answerphone. ‘I’m running late. I won’t be home tonight. I’m staying in a motel. Apologies for letting you know at the last moment. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Bye.’

  She was going back to her own house to escape the world. Tomorrow she would go to Phoebe’s and apologize, but tonight Cecelia needed to be on her own. She needed to sort out what was going on in her head.

  The first thing she was going to do tomorrow was to go to the station. It would be difficult because of Mr. Davis’s confession. And in that senseless argument of hope against the truth, she wished he had been lying.

  Don’t think about it anymore tonight. Your head’s in a muddle, you need to sleep. But there was one thing she was sure of. She was going to quit journalism, rent out her house, and move in with Phoebe. She had enough of this disturbing life; it was obvious she wasn’t cut out for it. Phoebe and her world of flowers was the place she wanted to be.

  Taking sleeping tablets had not been a good idea, especially as Cecelia wanted to make an early start in the morning. But it was a toss-up. Better to get some sleep than none at all after the day she had been through. Natural sleep would not be possible.

  The morning alarm had gone off, and she had slept right through. The sun laying across the bed embellished her face with warmth. After taking that long luxurious stretch indicative of good sleep, Cecelia realized that it wasn’t Sunday, she wasn’t on holiday either, she was late.

  Leaping out of her bed with a quick tidy up to get her house ready for renters. Cecelia hurried for the shower, it was going to be a cold one, but it didn’t matter, it freshened her up with a shriek, she had no towels. It also meant her yesterday’s clothes had to do for today. But this wasn’t unusual.

  Nothing to eat, nothing to drink except water. She would get herself something after going to the police station. Her watch told her it was gone eleven in the morning. How long did she sleep?

  On a sunny day, the drive to the station was a pleasant one. The smell of burgers and stuff in the air made Cecelia hungry. If there was time, she would have treated herself to a hotdog with plenty of ketchup, mustard, and onions. Junk food of gourmet standing. And the reason why she was so hungry was that she had forgotten to eat yesterday.

  Reporters waited outside the Alandra Police Department. Cecelia got out of her car to make her way to the front, uneasy about so many people hanging around? Then out of the offices walked Detective Travis with papers in her hands.

  ‘It has been confirmed that the Alandra Slasher has taken a sixth victim,’ read out Detective Travis to the waiting crowd of news reporters. She was confronted with flashing lights as the cameras went off.

  Another victim?

  ‘I can’t comment anymore except that we are closing in on the murderer.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas who it is?’ one reporter shouted.

  Flashes of lights continued to be triggered.

  ‘I am asking the public to carry on taking precautions. There is a dangerous man still out there. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m asking you to let the police get on with what they are good at. Good afternoon.’

  Frugal information wasn’t enough to satisfy their hungry appetite. Another young woman's death meant panic. What was happening to Alandra?

  Walking into the police station, sounds of shock and helplessness bounced off the walls. Her interview with the Davises was worth nothing in face of what had just happened. A man who killed his dying wife was not top news anymore. Standing over another uniformed man’s desk, pointing out something of importance, was Detective Travis.

  Seeing Cecelia, Detective Travis nodded. She would be over in a minute.

  ‘What a day?’ said Detective Travis, collecting Cecelia with her look. ‘Come to my office and I’ll tell you about it.’

  ‘I heard what you had to say outside a few minutes ago,’ said Cecelia, closing the door behind her. ‘Another victim?’

  ‘Yes, another victim, and this time he has changed his M. O.’ Detective Travis went to her filing cabinet to get out a folder. The way she slammed it shut enforced that she was angry. ‘But he’s not going to get away forever. This man doesn’t work on his own, he has a helper.’

  ‘Do you mean two men are raping and murdering women?’

  ‘No. We’ve had descriptions of a woman—have you heard about the Moors murderers in England?’

  No, she hadn’t.

  ‘Murders which shocked the world in England in the 1960s.’ Detective Travis sat down with the folder. Myra Hindley and Ian Brady killed five children, one of them being Lesley Ann Downey. She was taken from a fairground, made to pose naked for photographs, tortured, and then murdered. Why would an attractive blonde-haired woman, Myra Hindley help her lover to do something as sick as that? She was the one who coaxed the children to their deaths. Charming them, promising them. These children trusted her, and she betrayed their trust. I believe this is what we are looking for, the murderer, and his accessory.’ She opened her folder and took out the papers.

  ‘The Slasher’s female accomplice is doing just what Myra Hindley did. Aiding and abetting this man helping to set up and kill his victims.’

  ‘But that’s monstrous.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I sometimes think to myself that the evilest killers in the world are women, only look at Nazi Germany.’

  The upside-down picture was difficult to distinguish, which was just as well, Cecelia didn’t want to see the recordings of this death.

  ‘This time, the monster changed his method of working,’ she frowned. ‘An older woman, and unlike the others, she was not a virgin.’ Yet the photograph looked horrifying real. ‘I can tell you one thing for free; this man hates women.’

  No, she didn’t want to see the photographs.

  ‘Did he leave a message?’

  ‘A good question. Yes, he did,’ Detective Travis looked up. ‘But this time the message was carved across the victim’s chest. He did this while she was still alive. He tied her up with some sort of garden twine. He gagged her too so no one could hear her. The message he wrote was, I do not love her. If he didn’t love her, why did he kill her? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Does she have any family?’ Cecelia didn’t know what made her ask this question.


  ‘No, she doesn’t have any family, at least not in this country. I think she might have a husband.’

  ‘She’s a foreigner?’ Fear was dripping, splashing drops one by one on to Cecelia’s forehead. ‘Where does she come from?’ Let it be anywhere but England.

  ‘She’s English or was English, she died horribly. The man had a metal stake. You know the ones used for pegging down tents. Well, this happened to be a large one. He plunged it into her heart like a vampire after he raped her. But I don’t know when she stopped feeling anything after the way he cut her up. I think he might have used the stake first on her internally.’

  The world was starting to move a little.

  ‘The shop was a mess. Flowers everywhere.’

  ‘It wasn’t a flower shop, was it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good guess. She had been killed in the afternoon yesterday. When no one was about. The Slasher locked the door behind him.’

  Detective Travis turned the photographs around.

  ‘Twenty-nine years old; it was a wicked and agonizing way to die.’

  Lying on the floor in the flower shop, her eyes still open wide in death, her legs and arms tied to four corners of the rooms with a stake pushed into her chest. She was naked and dead. The victim was Phoebe.

  17

  In a hospital room by herself, Cecelia was sedated and sterilized from the rest of the world. Now and again, when she woke from this strange detachment, she looked around the room and wondered where she was and what had happened. In the back of her mind and cut off from her thoughts, she knew something terrible had occurred. So perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing to stay unconscious to the truth. The comforting numbness held her like big friendly arms.

  Witnessing Cecelia’s meltdown Detective Travis called for the paramedics. She understood that something bad happened. Twice Detective Travis had visited Cecelia, sitting beside her while wondering what to do. The only work she could do was to find the person who had murdered her friend. If only Travis had known that Phoebe Howard was Cecelia’s friend.