by M. G. Cole
“Careful! That’s quite valuable.” He laid it carefully on the chair. “As are those books I’m selling you. Hough’s a fascinating chap. I shall have to tell you about him one evening.”
Garrick stepped back, knocking one of the new table lamps over.
“Sorry. My coordination’s shot lately.”
“Not your fault. I’ve been restoring them. I don’t want to go and break them now I have an interested buyer.”
“I’ll get out of your hair then. Best of luck if you found a sucker to buy these.”
John pointed to the door. “Out, you philistine!”
27
It was dark outside the third-floor window. Fresh snow was falling, glittering when caught in the streetlights. Across the green, a steady stream of rush hour traffic moved up and down the slope of London Road. Everything in that frame, in that moment of time, was normal and uncomplicated.
“I would not jump to any conclusions at this stage, David.”
Garrick tore his gaze away and looked at Dr Rajasekar. His consultant was middle-aged, slender, with an angular face that enhanced her projected wisdom.
“Jumping to conclusions is part of my job,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His hands were clasped in his lap. His thumbs nervously circling one another. He was 41, but never had he felt more like a vulnerable child than now.
“Not in my world,” Rajasekar snapped back. She indicated to her computer screen where Garrick’s MRI result was rendered in three-dimensions. A small area had been shaded in near the front. “The mass has not increased from the CAT scan, but now we have a better sense of its shape. This is your frontal lobe.”
She used the mouse to spin the scan around. “The growth could be applying pressure, which would result in the headaches you describe, although I would have thought they would have remained more constant. Perhaps the stress of work is a contributing factor. We shall get to the bottom of that,” she added with a smile. “Any trauma to this part of your brain can lead to amnesia or psychosis. How is your memory?”
“I remembered to come here tonight.” The doctor didn’t seem to appreciate his joke.
“We have yet to locate the sarcasm centre of the brain.” She peered over her glasses at him. “You could be the medical breakthrough we have all been waiting for.”
A dose of gallows-humour is what Garrick needed. He felt his shoulders dip as he relaxed slightly. Dr Rajasekar gave a small smile of satisfaction when she noticed.
“And the psychosis?” Garrick prompted.
“Hallucinations, voices. The usual thing. Any sign of those?”
Garrick opened his mouth for a pithy comeback, but stopped himself. He shook his head. Despite the circumstances, he was relieved he wasn’t ticking off any of the symptoms.
“It goes without saying that you must contact me the moment you ever think that is happening. There are other indicators to keep an eye out for. Delusions, paranoia, personality changes…”
“No. Unfortunately for my team, it’s the same old me.”
Rajasekar continued on without interruption. “Social difficulties, a lack of awareness or insight that you previously had no issues with, disorganised thinking…”
Shit.
Garrick shifted in his seat, his cheeks flushed as if the temperature in the room had substantially increased.
“Are you alright, David? Would you like a glass of water?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been having a problem with the case I’m on. It’s a complicated snarl of…” He stopped himself from giving anything away. “It’s a murder investigation.”
“I imagine that is the most stressful type of case to be on.”
“It’s never easy. But this one… I don’t know if it’s tangled up because of the case, or because of me. I keep having the nagging thought that I have been overlooking the obvious, or…”
“And has anybody else commented on this? You superiors, for example?”
The morning’s major detonation of the case aside, he had thought things had gone, if not well, at least in line with the normal meandering path such things tended to.
“No.”
“Then I would put it down to stress. Complications of what you do, the few months you have had off from work, and of course, your sister. That is a lot, and I mean a lot, for anybody to process.”
“What is the next step?” he tapped his skull, and this time swore he heard the tumour rattle. He hoped that wasn’t the start of the hallucinations.
“We have to assess whether it is benign or malignant. Which means a biopsy.”
Garrick tried not to entertain the thought of the doctors drilling into his skull.
“That’s about all at this stage. I will make arrangements as soon as possible. In the meantime, I will prescribe something stronger for the headaches. Co-codamol should help. And keep taking the dexamethasone.”
“Is that it? What else can I do?”
“I could tell you not to worry about it, but I think that would be pointless, wouldn’t it? Other than that, I strenuously recommend you avoid head trauma of any kind. That includes impact sports. Even heading a football. If anything changes, let me know immediately.”
Garrick thanked the doctor, and she walked him through the empty reception of her practise, where the receptionist had already turned the lights low before she had left.
“Good luck with the case, David. Perhaps one day you can look back on all of this and write a book about it.”
He shook her hand and chuckled. “Weren’t you the one on the search for the sarcasm gland? Maybe that will be your bestseller. You could be the next Doctor John Stockton Hough!”
She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and repulsion.
“What a peculiar thing to say.”
Garrick shrugged, not entirely sure what he had said to offend her.
Dr Rajasekar’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea who John Stockton Hough is, do you?”
In the cold air outside his consultant’s private practise, DCI David Garrick stopped and watched his warm breath rise into the night sky. It was a sign he was still alive. For that, he must be thankful.
And now…
Now it was apparent how most people took life for granted. It was only when it was taken, or the threat of it removed, did anyone stop and reevaluate what they had. That was often when it was too late to change course.
He walked up the hill to his car and called DS Okon.
“We’re keeping Sam Fielding in overnight for questioning and should have the paperwork through tomorrow so we can search the farm,” she had told him. “Everybody is back on their feet here, sir. There’s a feeling that this is it. Forensic evidence on the wounds is matching nicely. The only thing we don’t have, are Fielding’s fingerprints on the knife. If we had that, it would be case closed, lock him away, and throw away the key.”
This was the first time he had heard Chib sound so jocular, and it suited her. He had no wish to pop her bubble, so listened with the occasional “uh-huh” or “mmm?” as she neatly parcelled the evidence away.
“What time will you be back here, sir?”
“I’m not sure, Chib. I have to pick something up.”
He hung up when he reached his car. The snow was heavy now and he would be stuck in rush hour traffic too, so getting back to Wye would take a good ninety minutes if he was lucky. Plenty of time to think. Stuck in a traffic jam at Goudhurst, he called Chib’s mobile and got her answer phone. He left a brief message.
A few minutes later, Fanta called him about their special project.
He leaned back in his seat, staring at the red brake lights of the vehicle in front, and listened.
It was almost eight o’clock when he parked outside the bookstore. As usual, the lights inside were on despite the late hour, enticing anybody inside who sought shelter. The snow had become a blizzard, and the white street had become almost indistinguishable from the snow-covered pavement. No traffic had dared dist
urb the veil. At the end of the street he could see the café, bathed in darkness. Such a lovely small village, yet it had been the meeting point for people with such evil intent. People who took life for granted.
The doorbell gave its familiar tinkle as he entered. The heat and dim lighting from the assortment of lamps instantly made him feel drowsy. Not a side effect from the lump in his head, he hoped.
“John? It’s me. Have you got those books?”
There was no answer. He strained to listen.
“John?”
He peeked into the backroom. The toilet door was ajar, and there was no sign of him in the cramped space he called a kitchen.
Garrick backtracked to the door and peered outside. The only set of tracks were his own, so nobody had been in or out for the last few hours. He walked down each aisle, stepping over piles of stacked book catalogued to John’s own unique system. The lamps cast more shadows than the light they provided. He ran his hand over the soft velvet lampshade and considered pulling it off so it could offer more illumination.
“David?”
John Howard stepped through a door at the rear of the store, accompanied by a flurry of snow. He had changed out of his usual smart suit, into jogging bottoms and a white T-shirt. “I was out the back. I didn’t hear you.” He indicated to the box Garrick had seen earlier. “I have those books for you. And…” He produced a sheet of paper and magically wafted it through the air. “An invoice for eighty-six pounds. I warned you they were not cheap volumes.” There was a twinkle in his eye as Garrick took the paper. “You look like a man with the world on his shoulders. Sit. Let me make tea.”
Garrick sat in the chair and toyed with the invoice, repeatedly folding and unfolding it. Neither man said much as John boiled the kettle, then poured it into his vertical teapot. He stirred it, then closed the lid.
“So what ails you?”
Garrick had known John Howard for years. John had even met his sister once when she had visited Kent to provoke another argument. They had never exchanged birthday or Christmas cards, yet there was an openness they shared.
“I have a tumour in my head,” he finally said. “They don’t know if it’s malignant or not, but it’s pressing on my frontal lobe. That means I could start to hallucinate, become paranoid, go crazy…”
John smiled and placed the teapot over a mug and dispense the brew from the bottom. He never offered milk or sugar. That would be a sin. He handed Garrick the mug and made one for himself.
“It sounds as if you are going to be more like the rest of us.”
“Wouldn’t that be awful.” Garrick sipped the tea. It was sweet and had a slight nutty hint. John was watching his reaction like a hawk.
“Good?”
Garrick sipped again. “Different,” he said diplomatically as he fought the torpid atmosphere in the room. He was used to seeing John in a suit, but in a T-shirt he could really see the old war vet had taken care of himself. His muscular arms almost filled the sleeves.
“Have you told anybody else about this?” John enquired.
“Until the doctor knows for sure what it is and how it’s affecting me, there’s nothing really to tell people.”
John closed his eyes as he drank his tea. “Mmm. Nice.” He indicated to the books. “I was wondering why the sudden interest In the gypsies. Any progress in your case?”
“Plenty. All three girls were–”
“Three girls?”
“There was another this morning.” John gently shook his head. “All asylum seekers. One had taken up with the Romani, and she was in a hell of a mess. The trucker who inadvertently brought her over was forcing her to sell drugs through the Traveller community. She wanted out, he didn’t want her to leave.”
“So he killed her?”
“That’s how it seems. It seems one of the Romani elders wanted to take over the drugs run. One thing led to another, and the truck driver ended up killing him, while the girl ran. She was dead hours later.”
“Terrible.”
“Same cause of death as another poor girl before Christmas. She was working on a farm, which so-happened to have connections to the same truck driver. A Romanian. I showed you his picture earlier.”
“I remember. I have seen him in the cafe. He was always fawning over that young girl who works there.”
Garrick nodded. “That’s the girl who was murdered this morning.”
“I hope you have arrested him.”
“And his co-conspirators.”
“Bravo.”
“Only, things didn’t quite add up. We found the murder weapon, but it was impossible for it to have been used on all four murders, and the people we suspected were in custody.”
“That is a problem. I can see why you are stressed.”
“It was a speed bump. Or should I say, sleeping policeman. Me. I should have seen the connection. We arrested Stan Fielding.”
“Stan? Now there’s a turn-up for the books. He was more than your average racist, I grant you, but a killer…”
“I suppose once you kill, it’s easy to kill again. Right? In the Falklands, how many did you kill?”
“They were vermin.”
“They were people.”
John shook his head. “They weren’t British. The Argies were the invading force.” He nodded to the boxed books. “You’ll see how savage some cultures can be. I told you the Romani have heathen beliefs. Shaktism, animal sacrifice–”
“Like the februa Valentine’s massacre you told me about in Rome.”
“Exactly my point.”
Garrick gazed thoughtfully at the lamp. “So you found a buyer for all of these?”
“Yes. Shame. I was getting very fond of them.”
“Your Mary Lynch collection.” He wagged a finger at John. “I finally got it.” When John didn’t react, Garrick put his tea down and leaned forward in his chair. “Anthropodermic bibliopegy. Now there’s a mouthful. I hadn’t even heard about books covered in human skin.” He saw John Stockton Hough’s book on the table next to John’s seat. “And I probably wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t seen that. A cover made from human skin. That’s quite sick, if you think about it. What am I saying it’s sick, full stop.”
“It was accepted practice in the medical world. It’s a tough, resilient coating. No different from leather if you think about it.”
“And his first book was wrapped in the skin of Mary Lynch.”
“She had died of tuberculosis. And the skin was only from her thighs, which Hough has preserved out of scientific curiosity.”
“And later he bound three medical journals in her skin, just like any normal person would. And then there were the Nazis.” Fanta had uncovered a complete menagerie of horror and recounted it with ghoulish glee. “Buchenwald concentration camp was said to make lampshades from the skin of butchered Jews. Ed Gein, murdered people in America, and used their skin to do the same.”
John Howard didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just gazed at Garrick with reptilian curiosity. Garrick picked up the lamp next to him and turned it back and forth, deliberately shining the light coming from the top of the shade into John’s eyes, forcing him to squint.
“I had a look on eBay and couldn’t find anything like them. Luckily, I have somebody back at the station who is a dab hand at navigating the dark web. It’s amazing what you can find there.”
John remained silent.
“Cat got your skin?” said Garrick with a snarl. “What sort of sick mind skins young girls for this?” He held up the lamp.
“Our country is overwhelmed, David. You and your type just ignore it. Gypsies, immigrants, all ruining our way of life. They should stay where they are. We can go to them. They don’t have to taint our streets. And after we voted to be a United Kingdom once again, they still came over. Like vermin. Fielding and the others talked the talk, but they were too weak to do anything about it. Too greedy. They were earning a fortune off the backs of these detritus.” Disgust dripped with every syllab
le.
“So you set them up.”
“Somebody needed to take the blame. I facilitated. And it would get rid of them and perhaps help keep our streets clean of the drugs and filth they were peddling. And with such a selection of beautiful colours parading through…” He smiled and pointed to the lamp Garrick was holding. “I think dear Galina casts a more vibrant hue across this room than she ever did in life.”
Garrick shot to his feet.
John was quicker. He lunged forward, tackling Garrick around the waist. Both men slammed in a free-standing bookcase. It toppled over, cascading books onto Garrick’s head. He dropped the lamp and tried to shield himself from further impact.
The bookcase collided with another behind, which in turn toppled into another – spilling books in a grand domino run. The seven large book cases fell, spilling their contents and smashing the lamps that had been decorating them.
Blood flowed down Garrick’s scalp from where he’d been struck by the corner of a heavy volume. He felt groggy and dazed. Then powerful hands clamped around his throat. John was straddling him, choking the life from him.
He was too powerful for Garrick to dislodge. The calculated frenzy on his face was so focused on Garrick that he hadn’t noticed flames build from the pile of fallen books, ignited by the exposed bulb of a broken lamp.
They took hold of the dry pages in an instant. Thick black smoke curled towards the ceiling and enveloped a smoke alarm that had long run out of battery power.
Garrick felt the life crushing from him. His hand was touching something cool, the base of the lamp he had been holding. The shade had been knocked free, exposing the lit bulb.
With a grunt, Garrick jammed the bulb as hard as he could into the side of John Howard’s face. The man screamed as the glass shattered in his eye, the red-hot filament burning skin before it sparked with a loud pop as it electrocuted him. The building’s circuit breakers snapped, preventing further power from flowing. With a squeal, John fell off Garrick and collapsed.
Garrick kicked the books off him and rolled onto his knees. The shop was full of smoke. A black barrier slowly descending towards him as the fire rapidly spread. Orange flames consuming everything in their path and providing the only illumination now the electrics had been tripped.
