by Mark McGinn
Wilbur nodded a reluctant agreement and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘You know the place, Henry, but take this radio telephone. I want an update every few minutes.’
‘Five minutes,’ said Henry, smiling. ‘Don’t want to be too distracted.’
***
Henry and Eva Peters clasped hands a discreet distance away from all the frenetic activity around the Hanlon building, which looked worse with every minute of the day’s new light. People clutching transistor radios to their ears reported that there’d been minor injuries across the city but no loss of life. More than three hours had elapsed since the big one and everywhere the power was still off.
Henry had climbed into green overalls and someone had found him a pair of work boots that were snug but would do the job. Eva’s slim build was camouflaged by the navy blue puffer jacket she loved. It contrasted with canvas shoes the colour of candy floss.
‘You might look rugged in that hard hat and orange vest, Henry Peters, but I know the real man.’ Henry’s heart lurched as she pulled him towards her. There was warmth and worry in her eyes as he pecked her on the cheek.
She looked solemn. ‘You don’t have to prove you’re a good man. I know you are, Henry. This is about that awful man de Vito, isn’t it?’
Henry’s jaw tightened. ‘You saying that means a lot to me after..., you know, events in the last couple of weeks. I know I haven’t been flavour of the month.’ Scuffing the fragile ground beneath his feet, he said, ‘De Vito’s part of it, I’ll admit.’ He looked up into his wife’s eyes. ‘But I’m doing it for Abby Sissons. I really need to find her.’
Eva looked around. Trying to suppress the shrillness in her voice, she said, ‘You don’t even know her, Henry. She’s just some uni student who’s got drunk in a pub after an argument with that horrible woman who’s making people, good people like you, put their lives at risk.’ She grabbed his hand. ‘Don’t go, Henry. Walk away. Let Mr Big Shot put his neck on the line. He’s used to being a bloody glory hunter by the sound of it. That’s not you, Henry.’
‘For God’s sake, Eva,’ he shouted, ‘And you, a church goer. That could be our girl in that basement.’
She dropped her head.
After an awkward silence Henry lifted her chin, saw the tears that had burst their dam. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a softer tone. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I know you’re worried about me. I’ll be fine, honestly.’
Eva nodded, unconvinced.
‘Look. Don’t wait around here feeling anxious. You could help me by checking on Mother. If I knew you were seeing to her, I’d have two fewer distractions.’ He forced a smile. ‘There’s really nothing you can do here except get in the way of people who are busy. They don’t need that.’
***
On hands and knees in a drain on the south side of the basement, adrenalin had got rid of the tension in Henry’s back and shoulders. By the time he’d found the entrance he wanted, he’d made three radio telephone calls to Wilbur Dalton and scared off as many rats. He wished the man would just let him get on with it but accepted Eva wasn’t the only one worried about him.
Hearing nothing of the outside world, he inched forward with determination, all senses vigilant. The drain was free of water but an unmistakeable smell of wet dirt remained. He was satisfied with progress until he heard a scratching sound. The narrow light beam thrusting from his helmet detected something grey. He took a sudden gasp of breath, then froze.
A water rat, the size of a small cat, glared at Henry from red eyes. Its bristly back was hunched menacingly, its teeth bared ready to defend something dead or dying. Henry crept forward again, crowbar gripped tightly in one hand. No rat would make him turn back. He eyed a rock partially submerged in the dirt floor tunnel. Applying the crowbar, he released some of the clay’s grip. But it held fast. The sound of claws again, active on the drain surface. The rat was getting closer. Henry could feel his heart thumping against his chest wall, a frantic request to be let out. He gave up on the excavation and swivelled his head in a desperate attempt to locate the one creature in the world that terrified him more than anything else.
The rat shrieked at the sound of static from Henry’s RT. Its long tail slithered away and into a dark hole just beyond the beam of the light, taking Henry’s terror with it.
Wilbur’s call told him de Vito had come up empty handed but he was returning with a small explosive charge to blow away an obstruction between the sump channel and the north side of the basement. Henry’s thoughts went to the lawyer, Sasha Stace, who had pleaded for collaboration in the search. He couldn’t help but smile at that irony. A plea falling on two sets of deaf ears – the only time he and de Vito would share the same thoughts. There would be no collaboration.
The quake had presented Henry Peters with an unimaginable opportunity. When he got to the trapped woman he would have won the race. He would have beaten de Vito at last.
***
Now, fully upright, Abby Sissons was as he had left her a few hours before. She was the other side of a barred door, lying on her side, one wrist handcuffed to a pole concreted into the floor. The pole once supported shelving for some of his own records. She was naked from the waist down, her skin touched by the orange glow of a kerosene lamp. That, a water bottle and some of Eva’s cheese scones were the comforts he’d provided her in his absence. He hadn’t favoured her more than the others. That was only fair.
His light beam revealed that some of the ceiling above her had given way. A piece of it was close to her head. Blood had oozed into her blonde hair. Eyes shut, she was alive, just. She wouldn’t be for much longer. The gag was still in place. It was the thing he’d first thought of when Maxwell made reference to sounds coming from the building. Tears had formed a creek through the dust on her pale cheeks. He frowned at the sight. In his heart, he hadn’t wanted her to suffer an injury while he was away. It was why he’d secured a foam sleeve over her wrist before applying the cuffs.
Although none of the girls liked it when he left, he always promised he’d be back and he’d always kept his promise. He’d been open with them, never once telling them a lie. Remarkably, none of them had ever asked if he was going to kill them. How might he answer that? Perhaps something about never letting them suffer. And that had been true. When the end came it was quick. Chemistry proved to be good for that and even better for the disposal later.
Removing a leather glove, Henry gently drew a heart on the back of her bare leg, with his finger tip. He admired the perfection of her shape, the hollow of her waist. Her thigh was cool to his caress. He swallowed hard, feeling that unmistakable, almost overpowering urge. But with de Vito about to appear, there was no time to repeat the passion of several hours before. There’d be more pleasures to come and plans were already afoot. It was how he worked: a lady in waiting before becoming queen. One selected before waste disposal in the disused cemetery he and Maxwell had passed on their way into the city.
His thoughts went to Jim Maxwell talking about three missing girls. Could it be that the other two women hadn’t yet been reported as missing? Henry pulled a matchbox and scissors from his bag and took his fifth trophy: a cutting of pubic hair, which he tucked lovingly into the matchbox before redressing the girl in her knickers, jeans and footwear.
‘Wilbur, from Henry. Over.’
‘Henry, a sit rep please. Over.’
‘The basement and concrete floor have held up well. De Vito has the girl. Told me to fuck off, wants no assistance. Over.’
‘Abby’s condition? Over.’
‘Bad head injury. Not good. Best prepare the mother. He’s got her on the flat board trolley we left here last year, so he’s pushing her out using my route. I’ll come out first so she’ll be between us. Over.’
When Henry heard the charge explode at the north end of the basement, he turned off the kerosene, and using his headlamp to guide him, he pulled the trolley to where de Vito would appear. As his nemesis appeared, he struck h
im with the pickaxe between the bottom of his helmet and his spine. He dropped instantly and Henry checked, then double-checked, for a pulse. Smiling, he manoeuvred the body onto the trolley and wheeled it to the woman. The little grey wheels protested at the dead weight they carried, squealing like the shrieking rat with each full revolution. He tipped de Vito off and replaced a lifeless body with one near death.
He worked hard at shutting away thoughts of how he’d handle the publicity and the praise for his heroism. He knew there’d be post-mortems of both bodies. It was why he’d used the blunt end of the pickaxe. He wanted to achieve a neck break of sufficient force without too sharp an incision. Fatal injuries consistent with falling debris. There would be nothing untoward when semen would eventually be found in the woman and the fact that it was his didn’t bother him. Henry had never had a parking ticket, much less done anything that might have him in some database.
Searching the cracked walls near his basement entry Henry found a place for the balance of de Vito’s explosives and set the charge. He placed his rival’s body on top of the girl, thinking it likely that for Abby’s safety, de Vito would have attempted to shelter her from any falling debris. When he’d crawled to a safe distance through the hole in which he entered the basement he detonated the charge behind him.
***
The resonator Henry Peters had built in the fortified shed at the back of his property was hidden on a platform beneath the floor. It had taken him a year to obtain the parts and assemble it. He’d tested it on some dogs he’d ‘rescued’ from the pound, raising and lowering the platform as required, oiling the source of the squeaky noise that might have drawn suspicion from neighbours. The buttons to operate the platform and the machine that would liquefy a body at significantly less heat than a crematorium were inside a combination-locked box. The body of Abby Sissons was the only one that hadn’t been through the alkaline hydrolysis process but, as he predicted, there’d been no unsatisfactory consequences following her or de Vito’s post-mortems.
It had been over five months now since the September earthquake had upset his routine. In the interval Henry had been busy grooming the next woman. Like the others, she was carefully chosen: her movements, habits and food preferences all carefully researched. There was no significant male in her life and she’d never taken the few classes he still taught after being promoted to deputy CEO at Bosco. After much research, he’d found a new location he could legitimately visit.
As expected, he’d been the talk of Bosco. His and de Vito’s courage had helped to put the college on the map. He’d done education proud, been selfless in service. There was some talk about a future public ceremony, a civic award. To his chagrin, the authorities had thought a posthumous award for de Vito might also be appropriate.
As for the missing girls, the police had down-scaled the resources on those inquiries. Short of pretending he was gay, he’d successfully cultivated an image that made him the least likely suspect.
Now, on 22 February 2011, Henry sat in Cashel Mall with 17-year-old Claudia Styne. She was a little on the young side although, unlike the others, she showed less skin and her blonde hair didn’t reach her shoulders. The day was overcast and they’d got their food just before the change of lunch crowd at 1.00pm. He’d have happily eaten indoors in one of those high-backed booths affording maximum privacy. He’d thought Claudia would want that too but, to his surprise, she was happy to sit on the seats surrounding the planters on either side of the outdoors mall.
Henry let his eye line follow the newly extended tram tracks towards the Bridge of Remembrance, where he’d met his first girl. All around them people were carrying bags of food, or shopping. Some faces were happy, others looked harassed. Henry handed Claudia a chicken roll and a piece of rocky road slice. She smiled warmly, revealing one slightly crooked tooth.
Everything had gone according to plan. He’d worked hard to link her interest in aviation with his new venue and, as with her five predecessors, he’d successfully built trust between them, positioned himself as the father none of them had. Henry could tell from the open way she sat and faced him that she saw him as no threat. He’d studied body language and the importance of empathy in interpersonal relationships. He’d memorised some key phrases, practised them in the mirror and delivered them smoothly when it counted. All the girls had been impressed with his sensitivity.
Anticipation quickened his heart. Another young woman from the college wearing a short thigh-hugging skirt and high heels caught his eye.
‘When do you think we could see your father’s museum?’ Claudia asked. ‘I can’t wait.’
Henry smiled. ‘Soon. I’ve got everything ready, especially for you.’ He felt the familiar tingle.
A hint of a frown appeared. ‘Really, Henry, you didn’t need to go to any trouble, honestly. Just being with those old machines, relics of history...’
He nodded. ‘Believe me, I did.’
***
The warning, if it could be called that, first came through a gentle vibration under their feet. By the time the ground shock tore through Henry’s legs and up into his chest, the street lights and the paving into which they were set were alive with energy. The boxed seating propelled him upwards. He heard something crash and looked up to see people running towards him, some with arms in the air, others with hands over heads like helmets. Glass, metal and concrete chased those fleeing from shop awnings and facades. He heard someone screaming, then more crashing, louder this time. Burglar alarms penetrated the sound of human panic. He looked for something to grip, his body, like everyone’s, at the whim of nature. Men, women and buildings fell with equal speed. Everything seemed blurred by dust.
When he refocused, Claudia was lying on the ground, white with shock but unhurt. The young woman in the heels had fallen; her head was cut by falling debris. He ran and crouched to face her. Her peach-coloured skirt had climbed to reveal black lace knickers and silky cream thighs. Her chest heaved and Henry swallowed hard.
The ground had calmed when Henry shouted over the commotion. ‘I’m going to move you to safety. Is that OK?’
The woman nodded as tears slid down her cheeks.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Liz.’ She winced. ‘I think my leg’s broken.’
Henry looked up, saw the perilous nature of the deformed structure above them. ‘I need to get you away from this building. I’m sorry, but it might hurt a bit when I drag you away.’
Liz nodded, resigned.
‘Brave girl. I’ll slip my arms under your shoulders.’ As he moved into position, he saw terror in her eyes and was about to reassure her. The last thing he heard was the beginning of her scream. He fell over her body, his head crushed by falling debris.
When they recovered Henry’s body, rescuers looked for identification. Inside his jacket, someone found a rubber band around six matchboxes. Only one of them was empty.
####
Dear reader,
I hope you enjoyed this short story.
Next: Remember what they say about revenge?
They were once on a jury together, forty years ago, when a man was executed for killing his wife. Now three of the four are dead, amid personal vendettas and accusations of pornography, and the last man standing is arrested for the murders. It’s up to Sasha Stace QC to secure his conviction. But the case is circumstantial, the trial sensational, and nothing is as it seems. In her fight for justice, Sasha embarks on a course that imperils her life and endangers those she loves. Best Served Cold is a fast-moving and gripping legal thriller with more twists than the rope that strangles its victims. Be warned.
Please now go for a full length F-R-E-E thriller to https://www.mcginncrime.com/best-served-cold-landing-page
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