by N. C. Lewis
"Aye, happen you're right about that." Fenella was pacing. She had been worrying about the link between Perkins and those he attacked. Pearl Smith and Viv Gill wrote to him in prison. That link was easy. But what about Dr Joy Hall? She'd been his psychologist in Low Marsh Prison. A different link, she thought, and that's what caused the concern. Had Hamilton Perkins decided to wreak revenge on the women who'd worked with him when he was inside?
If her gut instinct held true, there'd be more deaths to come. They'd need to build a list of women who'd come into contact with him and track down the rat to his lair before the next wave of carnage began. Fenella turned her gaze to the room and said, "If you were in a life-or-death battle, where would you run?"
"Back home," Jones said. He sat in the front row with his tablet computer on his lap. "I'd run straight back to the place I know."
"Perkins was born and bred in these parts; he can't be more than a stone's throw away," PC Beth Finn added.
"We've swept the village and have found nothing unusual." PC Hoon got to his feet. He looked as though he had slept in his police uniform. "Someone would have seen him if he was still in the village, ma'am. We've not had a single sight of the man. Anyway, he's killed two women. Why come back? Why not vanish like he did before?"
"Men like Perkins enjoy the thrill of watching," Dr Joy Hall said. "Perkins enjoyed seeing the police fumble about before he was first caught. To him, it seemed they did not have a clue. He'll exhibit the same behaviour again, haunting the crime scene and striking out at the next victim until he finishes the job he…" She gasped and did not finish the sentence.
The team stared at the phone. A soft hiss of static crawled through the speaker. Everyone in the room knew that what Perkins started, Perkins finished. He had Dr Joy Hall in his sights. The only question was when.
Fenella changed the focus before the mood went too far downhill.
"PC Hoon, have a word with the pub landlord. Find out if there are any new workers on his books. PC Finn, make a list of women who have come into contact with Hamilton Perkins since he went into prison. I know that won't be easy, but go back as far as you can." She paused to think. "I spoke with Vicar Briar this morning; he mentioned a labourer by the name of Hazza. A last name would be useful and an address. He comes in every Tuesday, keeps the church grounds tidy. Walks with a limp. Jones, I'll leave that with you."
Jones gave the thumbs up. "Ma'am, I've got more details on Viv Gill's financials, and I've tracked down Pearl Smith's bank manager, a Mr Pete Clarke. He lives in St Bees. Single. A bit of a ladies' man. Puts it about, if you get my drift."
Fenella nodded for him to continue. As he spoke, her mind went back to Hamilton Perkins and the link between the three women. He'd been caught and convicted as a schoolgirl killer, escaped from prison, and returned home to show the world—what? That he's graduated to another league? She was thinking about how long Dr Joy Hall would be in hospital and how long after that the attack would come, when she realised Jones had finished and Dr Joy Hall was speaking.
"For the past few days, I have been trapped in this hospital with nothing else to do but think about Hamilton Perkins. I've delved deep into his mind, gone places more fearful than words, and each time I come back to one thing: he never fully opened up to me. There are so many things I just don't know."
The room became still. They did not know what she was going to say next but sensed it was important. The silence stretched out so that it felt like an hour.
"Dr Hall?" Fenella said after a few more seconds. "We can hear you, luv. We are listening."
When Dr Hall's voice came through the speaker, it was as quiet as a wisp of wind. "Do you know the Teal twins?"
Fenella's head jerked to look at Dexter. He stared back and ran a hand over his chin. The Teal twins were once notorious for a drug racket they ran out of Whitehaven. They were thugs who got rich through business and brawn. Nothing unusual in that except Tim Teal and Jim Teal claimed to be twins. That was true in part; they were distinct personalities—both evil.
But they belonged to the same man.
A man who'd been locked behind bars for twenty years with no chance of getting out.
"Aye, I know Tim." Fenella hesitated a beat. "And Jim."
Dr Joy Hall said, "I'm certain a third woman wrote to Hamilton Perkins. The Teal twins will know her name. The three men shared a cell in Low Marsh Prison."
Chapter fifty-four
The downhill slide in PC Hoon's day began at the Dog Inn in the village of Egremont.
It was noon when he parked and then crossed the street, with a large black bag, to the narrow-fronted, white-stone-and-black-timber-framed pub. Once a coach stop in the days of horse and cart, lords and ladies on their way to and from Scotland would stay for a day or two. Those times were long gone, and now it was sandwiched between a car hire business and a wine cellar on a busy road. Neither lords nor ladies had visited in years.
It had been awhile since he last drank in the pub. Two years, at least. He'd stopped on his way back to St Bees because they had free showers and great bar food of the sort truck drivers enjoyed—battered, deep fried, with a dollop of ketchup on the side. At Mrs Lenz's house, the shower required coins which he had supplied in a frantic rush, but the water dribbled out for only a short while and never got more than lukewarm. He'd not bothered to shave and nearly struck Mrs Lenz when she called him back to scrub the mess he'd left in the loo, with a bog brush.
And that was the other reason PC Hoon stopped at the pub. The Dog Inn had rooms by the week on the cheap. Not a king's palace by any means. The floorboards creaked; the air smelled of stale smoke, and tiny black bugs leaped from between the bed sheets. But it was better than Mrs Lenz's. He'd book a room for a month. Piece of cake, he thought as he walked through the doors. He was in uniform; the black bag contained his clothes.
It was dark inside the main entrance, and PC Hoon was surprised to find a reception area where there had once been a bar with cheap ale on tap. Above a sign which said NO FREE SHOWERS sat an elderly man, nothing more than a skeleton in a cheap polyester suit with hair the colour not found in nature.
"Can I help you, Officer?" The man smiled, his skin stretching so tight, he looked like a grinning skull.
"I see you've done a bit of renovation," PC Hoon said as his eyes darted about. The saloon where he once sat and drank cheap ale was gone. As were the booths and heavy oak benches where the truck drivers ate their fried food. There was a set of sliding doors with an electric swipe-card device where the scarred oak bar once stood. The air smelled fragrant, rose petals he thought, as his nose sniffed in vain for the scent of stale beer. He spied a name tag with the word "Bob" in large black letters pinned to the man's suit. "Bob, I've not been by in a while. I used to drink here."
"You on duty?"
"Lunch break."
"You'll not be wanting a drink, then, will you?"
"A bite to eat, for old times' sake."
Bob folded his arms. "Are you a member?"
"Eh?"
"The new owners turned it into a private club. Must have been two years back. We've got a fancy bar, gym, changing rooms, the works. Only members admitted."
"And the hotel rooms… I don't suppose—"
Bob shook his head. "Long gone. Converted into a yoga studio and salon, both booming round these parts."
"I'll not take up any more of your time, then." PC Hoon took a final look around and cursed at the speed of change. Egremont used to be a black smudge on the map; now it had turned into Greenwich Village—bohemian and hip.
He turned to leave when the front door flew open, and a woman in a tie-dye dress with floral cowgirl boots hurried in. Her brown hair was frizzed into an Afro, which dangled in two curls in front of bug-eyed sunglasses that rested on her forehead.
"Thought you were coming tomorrow," she said in a breathless gasp. "I'm running late, so can't show you around. Bob, will you give the officer a day pass and let him in. He is here for the crime s
afety inspection. Nowhere is off limits." She paused a moment, her sharp eyes taking in PC Hoon. "Except the women's changing rooms. Stop by my office on the top floor when you are done. I'd like to know what you find."
"Will do," PC Hoon said as Bob placed a slim plastic card with a microchip into a slot in his desktop computer. "We are here to serve."
But the woman had already disappeared through a set of sliding doors.
"Why didn't you say you were here for the inspection?" Bob said as he handed over the card. He lowered his voice. "Don't get on the wrong side of the boss. She has a temper like a bloody shark. Show the pass to the waitstaff in the restaurant, and they'll see you're all right for lunch. The quinoa feta cheese salad isn't half bad."
"I'd best begin with the men's changing room," PC Hoon said." It'll have a shower, right?"
"Along the hallway and up a flight of stairs on your left," Bob replied.
As PC Hoon walked through the sliding doors, he thought his luck had changed for the better.
It hadn't.
Chapter fifty-five
PC Hoon let out a contented sigh. He felt refreshed after his shower and now sat in the Dog Inn's chic dining room out of uniform with his black bag of clothes placed under the table. He planned to change back before he left but felt he blended in much better in his regular clothes. He stared at his empty plate which moments earlier brimmed with green leaves and white feta cheese with little brown things he'd never seen before that tasted sour. It would have been a nice enough meal, he thought, if it hadn't been spoiled by the lack of fried grease.
"Another glass of sparkling water for sir?"
The male waiter with his high-pitched voice and dance-like walk reminded PC Hoon of a butterfly. And that irked him. Where were the rough-looking truck drivers with their pot bellies and lumberjack shirts, who ate cheeseburgers and chips for breakfast?
"Sir?"
The waiter was still at his side. PC Hoon didn't like water. It had no taste, but they didn't serve fizzy pop. There was wine, of course, and even craft beer, but he didn't want booze on his breath when he visited the pub in St Bees. He'd made that mistake before. Drove his car whilst drunk. Fast. Very fast. Past the priory in St Bees. But he'd got away with that. It was a while ago. Still, he wouldn’t chance his luck. And there was the landlord who had whined about him drinking on the job. He had threatened to file a complaint. The mess with Maude was plenty enough on his plate. No! He'd not drink while on the job.
"Just half a glass," PC Hoon said.
"Cumbria's finest water, sir." The waiter made a delighted sound as he poured.
PC Hoon didn't like that either. He might have said a foul word or two if he'd not seen the woman in the aqua dress with the emerald-green crocodile handbag. She walked across the restaurant, sat at a table in the corner by the window, and placed the handbag by her side. Pricey. Very pricey.
It had started quite by accident last spring, in May. PC Hoon had been invited to speak on a panel about safety at the Women's Institute event held at St Bees Priory. It was an annual talk with a fresh set of speakers each year—nurses, firefighters, and this year, the local bobby. There was nothing hard to do except show up and speak for ten minutes, then answer questions for another fifteen. Arrive at one, and it would all be over by two thirty.
On that fateful day there was not much going on in the village, so PC Hoon slept in late, missed breakfast, and ended up at Don's Café. It was a mistake, he knew, to eat a King Kong fry-up. He recalled washing down the last slice of toast with a mug of sweet, milky tea, then his world went blank.
It was the rough hand of Don that woke him.
"You'll have to pay your bill now; it's after one," he had said.
PC Hoon paid, scrambled out the café door with quick steps as he raced towards St Bees Priory. When he got to the moss-and-lichen-covered, red-brick building, the main door was locked, so he walked around the side and stared into the window of the main hall. The pews were packed. Three speakers sat behind a desk on the stage with one empty chair. His.
For a moment, he considered banging on the window but thought better of the idea. Quickly, he walked along the length of the priory until he came to a door. He turned the handle. It opened, and he stepped inside.
The room was silent and cool with dull-grey walls, no windows, and a large mahogany bench in the centre. On one wall, next to a tired-looking speaker, was a brass plaque with words:
DOMINUS DEUS TUUS IGNIS CONSUMENS EST.
The Lord your God is a consuming fire. Deuteronomy 4:24
Two rails of coat stands stood on either side, filled with an assortment of ladies' coats. A single row of handbags jostled for space on the bench; each had a small, blue ticket attached. It was some kind of temporary cloakroom.
PC Hoon placed his hands on his hips and stared at the handbags. One stood out from the rest, shiny black with a gold buckle. Expensive.
That's when things got weird.
He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. There was no one about. They were all in the hall. He picked up the shiny black bag with the gold buckle, and left. Even now he couldn’t explain his actions, except that it gave him a thrill.
He took it straight home. Maude shuffled about upstairs, so he went to the basement. A shiver of electricity ran from the base of his spine and surged into his brain. He felt alive. The woman's handbag was his to do with as he wanted. This is how drug addicts must feel, he had thought, when they take the first hit.
A few days later, he sold the purse and credit card to a fence in Whitehaven. He kept the handbag for his private collection. The first of many. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought they might make nice gifts for the wife who came after Maude. But the truth was it gave him such a charge that he could not stop. Everyone trusts a policeman, and that made it easy. PC Hoon loved easy.
Now Maude had his secret collection of handbags, and with it, she had him by his balls. The witch would squeeze until his eyes popped out if he didn't stop her. And he would. But first there was the little matter of that emerald-green crocodile handbag. If he hadn't seen the damn thing, it wouldn't matter. But he had seen the glorious piece and had to have it.
Whatever the cost.
Chapter fifty-six
PC Hoon shivered with quiet excitement.
The woman in the aqua dress took out her mobile phone and turned to face the window, her back to the crocodile handbag. He watched for a long moment, then glanced about the room. There were people seated at several tables all engaged in their own conversation. The light-footed waiter with the butterfly walk had vanished through a set of swing doors into the kitchen. There was no one else around.
A chance!
PC Hoon slowly got to his feet, and the clock started ticking. It was madness to do this in broad daylight, but he couldn't stop himself. There was no reason or thought as he inched towards the handbag. If his brain cells twitched at all, it was with desire.
He got to the table where the woman in the aqua dress paced in a handful of quiet strides. The woman's voice was high pitched and irate. He was close enough that her words on the phone were crystal clear. Her lunch date was late but on the way now.
With a steady hand, he leaned forward and let his fingers grasp the straps.
"I'll order a starter, then," the woman said. "Soup or salad?"
Again, he glanced around to make sure he wasn't seen, then eased the handbag off the table and swung it under his arm. Slowly, with great care, he edged back towards his table. He kept one eye on the woman, the other on the kitchen door from where the light-footed waiter would soon appear.
He was almost at his table when his worst fear struck.
In a smooth yoga-like move, the woman in the aqua dress stood, spun around, and with the cell phone pinned to her ear, marched directly at PC Hoon.
His body became a block of stone. Even if he had wanted to run, there was no strength in his limbs. If he could feel his legs at all, they were nowt but two stick
s of jelly. A sour taste of bile bubbled in his dry mouth. For a brief instant, he thought of Maude and how she would laugh at the mess. Now she'd run to the police with all she knew, just to dig in the knife and squeeze his balls to a pulp. And in that moment, he was consumed by rage. He'd buggered it up, and it was all Maude's fault.
But the woman in the aqua dress didn't give PC Hoon a second glance as she marched past him and through a door which led to the ladies' room.
He staggered back to his table. With a hand that trembled, he grabbed the half glass of water. With a single gulp, he downed the drink and once again scanned the room. No one watched. No one saw a thing. The other diners were engaged in quiet conversation.
Piece of cake.
A boldness swept over him now. It carried his mood to a new high. In his elation he turned the bag over in his hands. So fine a piece! It felt like money to touch. The first of his new hoard. It would not be the last.
The high suddenly vanished and panic set in. He had to hide the handbag, get it out of view. He stooped down to unzip his black bag of clothes. It would fit nicely in there. The thought of carrying it past the reception desk as Bob the skeleton watched gave him another thrill.
He did not hear the soft click of the door or the hurried footsteps. A movement out of the corner of his eye got his attention, a blur of aqua flitting across the room.
She'd only been gone a handful of seconds!
But there she was, standing at her table, hands on her hips, staring at PC Hoon who held her handbag in the soft caress of a mother to a newborn child. There was a moment of stunned silence, which seemed to stretch for an hour.
