by Martina Cole
He stayed in his seat. Josephine Denham was gone from his vision now. All he could see was the three thousand for the passport, and for Tony Jones to take his place in the testing.
The woman walked from the room and into the accounts offices. She pulled Peter Renshaw aside and after a hasty few words he followed her to her office.
It was empty. George had gone.
‘I thought he was going to hit me!’
For once in his life Peter Renshaw looked at an attractive woman without seeing her breasts, eyes, hair, legs. He knew what was wrong with George. This place was his life. His refuge.
‘Did it ever occur to you that maybe the man knows he’s finished? That he’ll never work again? That tens of young men and women are waiting to fill any job he might be eligible for? That he’s got a wife and home?
‘Of course it didn’t, Mrs Denham, because you never think of anyone but yourself and this bloody firm. Well, when your turn comes - and it will, my love, make no mistake about that - I hope whoever axes you does it with a bit more tact.’
With that, he walked from the room and left Josephine Denham with her mouth agape.
On the table was the piece of paper she had handed to George. She picked it up and stared at it. Twelve thousand pounds. It wasn’t much for fifteen years.
Elaine was fed up with lying in bed and had decided to get up. After making herself a cup of tea and reading the paper in the kitchen she decided she needed something to take her mind off things. She looked at the garden as she washed up her cup and a thought occurred to her. She could germinate the tomato seeds. Every year at this time George popped them into the airing cupboard ready to go into his greenhouse. Then all summer they would have big fat red juicy tomatoes.
She went upstairs and got dressed. Her aching head was feeling much better after a couple of aspirins. She pulled an old jumper carefully over her head and put on a pair of tracksuit bottoms. Elaine was a woman who needed to be doing something. That was why the house was so spotlessly clean. If she had five minutes to herself then her thoughts wandered to the way she lived and it made her depressed.
She made her way down to the garden shed. It smelt musty, like sheds should, and she looked around her. George had it quite cosy really. This was his little domain. His refuge. He spent a great deal of time here.
Suddenly, Elaine felt like an interloper. She shrugged. This was as much her shed as George’s. He had the gardening sorted out like she did the house. His and hers.
Now, where were the seeds? She began by looking on the small shelves he had built. There were gladioli bulbs waiting to go into the ground. She would get him to put some by the front door this year, liven up the front of the house with a nice spray of colour. She was warming to her theme. Planning the garden would give her something else to think about. Once George was made redundant he would be spending a lot of time in the garden. He could replace the whole lot. Buy some nice rose bushes. She liked a nice rose and George was a good gardener. He was patient and thorough. There were never any weeds anywhere.
She began clearing the old desk of gardening debris, then opened it up to find his gardening magazines. She would flick through them and get some ideas. They could even have a bigger pond, with a nice rockery.
She pulled out the magazines and then went cold. She stared down at the books as if not quite sure of what she was seeing.
A girl was looking at her, a Chinese girl, nearly naked and with a chain around her neck.
She was smiling.
Elaine picked up the magazine and stared at it, feeling the bile rising in her stomach.
Underneath there was another one. This had ‘Nazi Torturers’ emblazoned across it. On the front were two women in SS uniforms dragging a scantily clad girl between them.
Elaine closed her eyes tightly and opened them again. It was no good, they were still there.
Slowly she removed all the magazines. Her heart was heavy now. Underneath the magazines were some scrap books and she took these out. Sitting in George’s comfortable chair, she opened one. It was full of newspaper clippings about the Yorkshire Ripper, yellowing with age now and brittle-looking.
There were the photographs of his victims. Headlines screamed out at her: I WAS CHOSEN TO KILL. HER EYES DROVE ME CRAZY. RIPPER IN THE WITNESS BOX.
She closed the scrapbook and opened another one.
This time the cuttings were newer, all about the Grantley Ripper, and suddenly Elaine knew what had happened. It was crystal clear.
It was George who had murdered all these women.
He was sick.
He had attacked her!
Elaine hastily began to put the scrapbooks and magazines back where she had found them. She had to get the police. She was fumbling in her haste and only half aware of the shadow that passed the shed window. She did not even hear the shed door opening. She turned around and came face to face with George. So great was her terror that instead of screaming she groaned, holding on to the desk for support lest she faint away completely.
George was staring at her. And he was smiling. The little smile that just showed his teeth.
‘Come and have a cup of tea, dear, you look as white as a sheet. You’ve had a shock, I think.’
Kate was in the canteen having her lunch when she was told there was a phone call for her. She went to the phone on the wall by the door and picked it up.
‘Burrows here.’
‘Kate? It’s me, Dan.’
She felt a surge of apprehension as she heard the desolate tone of his voice. She pushed herself against the wall to try and muffle their conversation.
‘Look, Dan. About what happened. I swear I had no idea . . .’
He cut her off. ‘I know that. Let’s face it, Kate, I asked for it. Well, you can tell that . . . your friend, that it’s done. The CIB are off your back. I’ve been round to see Lizzy and told her that I’m going back to Anthea’s.’
‘And are you?’
‘Yeah. I rang her this morning. We’re going to have another try.’
It was a lie. Dan was going as far away from Grantley as possible. He didn’t want any reminders of Patrick Kelly.
‘I hope it works out for you, Dan, really I do.’
The line crackled, Dan had muttered something inaudible and Kate said his name down the phone line a couple of times before hanging up. She went back to her table and lit a cigarette. The canteen was filling up but the babble of voices and laughter went unnoticed by her.
She was still thinking about Patrick and what he had done. After Willy had dropped her off she had thought long and hard about Patrick and, much as she loved him, had admitted to herself he scared her.
The worst of it all was, scared of him, annoyed with him or anything else that she might feel, above all she wanted him. Desperately. It was this that scared her more than anything.
‘Penny for them?’
Caitlin’s voice was friendly.
‘I wouldn’t take money from an old man.’
He laughed in surprise. ‘Is everything all right with the other business?’
She nodded and Caitlin grinned.
‘Sure that Danny’s an eejit. Imagine doing that. Still, the blood testing is going well, so that’s something anyway.’
‘It’s certainly going better than anyone expected, that’s for sure.’
‘Did you hear about Spencer?’
Kate shook her head.
‘Well, like all the male officers he got a letter, same as everyone else. He’s doing his pieces! Thinks it’s a deliberate slur on his character.’
Caitlin roared with laughter, bringing many eyes to rest on him and Kate.
‘But it was what that Amanda said to him that’s really caused the trouble.’
Kate was intrigued. She smiled at him. ‘Go on then, tell me.’
Caitlin leant across the table and whispered: ‘She said she had read a secret psychologist’s report that stated the Grantley Ripper was a policeman in his late-twentie
s with a history of paranoia and violent and disruptive behaviour!’
Kate giggled. ‘Well, if the cap fits!’
‘My sentiments entirely!’ Caitlin was roaring again. ‘Sure she’s a comical lass that one. So Kelly saw your old man then?’
He changed the subject so quickly he caught her offguard. ‘Yes. It’s all right.’
‘That Patrick Kelly is a very astute man, you know. You just let him sort out everything. You’re lucky to have such a good friend.’
She dropped her eyes.
‘Come on, Kate, we’ve still got a good half an hour. Let me buy you a drink in the pub. My throat’s as dry as a buzzard’s crotch!’
Kate closed her eyes. ‘You have a disgusting turn of phrase, you know.’
‘Sure me wife, poor woman, used to say that. God rest her nagging soul.’
‘You miss her, don’t you?’
‘I do, Katie, more every day. She had a tongue like an adder, but she was me wife. Come and have a drink, lass. This place gives me the heebie jeebies. All this youth makes me stomach turn.’
Kate stood up and followed him out of the canteen. She could do with a drink herself.
Elaine was sitting opposite George at the kitchen table. He had made her a cup of coffee and it stood in front of her, cold now, with a thick skin of milk floating on top. George had been silent, just smiling at her every now and then while he sipped his own coffee.
‘Elaine.’ His voice was so low she could barely hear him, but all the same she jumped in her seat.
‘Don’t be scared, Elaine. Would I hurt you? Now would I?’
She bit her lip.
‘I didn’t mean to murder anyone, believe me, my dear. It just happened.’ He spread out his hands in front of him in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I don’t know what it is. I just see them - they’re all whores, every last one of them.’
He was nodding to himself now and Elaine felt her nails bite into the flesh of her hands.
‘Even that bitch O’Leary, with the children. They’re much better off without her, believe me. You didn’t see her like I did, Elaine. Sprawled out on the dirt. She had no tights on, you know, and the weather was freezing. She was a slut . . . a dirty stinking slut.’
Elaine put her hands over her ears to block out his voice. George stood up. Fear overtaking her, Elaine made a rush for the kitchen door. As she ran George grabbed at her hair. She shrieked as pain tore through her. Blood began to seep from her wounded head on to the vivid orange locks. George punched her to the ground, every movement calculated and controlled. He stood over her and shook his head.
‘You’ve been a trial to me, Elaine, do you know that?’
Her lips were already swelling from his blows and she could taste the blood in her mouth.
‘Why didn’t you just divorce me? Why did you have to sit there all those years, a silent reminder of what I’d done?’
He gave her a vicious kick in the stomach and she gagged.
‘Now I’ve got to kill you. You understand that, don’t you? I couldn’t possibly let you live now you know my little secret.’
He tutted a couple of times in exasperation. Elaine stared at her husband through watery eyes.
It dawned on her that George was as mad as a hatter and she was never going to see Hector, her friends, or anyone ever again. She was as good as dead already.
He stepped over her cumbersome body and walked out into the hall. Elaine could hear him whistling between his teeth, a habit that had grated on her nerves over the years. She saw, from her vantage point, that he was opening the coat cupboard in the hall and lifting up the floorboards. She pulled herself painfully to her knees. Grabbing at the wall, she staggered upright. The floor was covered in blood, and as she swayed and tried to steady herself she felt droplets running down her chin and into the folds of her neck.
George pulled out his army knife and walked purposefully towards her. He was tutting again as if she was a recalcitrant child.
She heard him sigh and as she tried to run towards the back door felt the sharp slice as the knife went through the wool of her jumper and into her shoulder blade. She gathered up all her strength and tried to dodge around the kitchen table. The serrated edge of the knife was caught in the wool of her jumper and George watched in fascination as she staggered away, pumping out blood, the knife hanging half out of her back.
He shook his head. Elaine was always so difficult.
He watched her stagger for a few steps before she fell to her knees, her breaths coming in quick painful gasps.
He walked over to her and, pulling the knife gently from her jumper, raised it over his head. As he did so Elaine turned her head and looked into his face.
‘George! Please . . . please, George . . . !’
She coughed and a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. George planted the knife neatly into the middle of her shoulder blade, burying the blade up the hilt.
Elaine fell forward, and George watched her arms and legs twitch in the final throes of death. Finally he sighed.
Elaine was still, her cheek was pressed against the white tiles and her green eyes stared vacantly at the skirting board.
George knelt beside her body and tidied the orange hair, pushing it around her still face. Elaine had always been such a difficult woman but now she was at peace.
He made himself another cup of coffee and sat drinking it quietly, watching her body.
A little while later he began to whistle once more through his teeth. He had to make some plans now. He had to sort everything out.
At least this way he had saved her the knowledge of the pittance that had been offered to him. She would never have let him live it down.
He glanced at the clock. It was three fifteen. He wouldn’t be able to do anything just yet. He made himself a sandwich and took it into the lounge. He’d watch one of his films and relax. It had been a very trying day.
Tony Jones watched the man sitting opposite him. Larry Steinberg could get anyone anything. He was nicknamed ‘Harrods’ among the villains he dealt with because of this. If you wanted a Nepalese yak Larry would find one, and at a reasonable price. Tony watched the tiny man push his pince-nez up along the bridge of his nose, settling them just below the large lump in it.
‘I had a bit of trouble with this one, Tone, but I managed it for you as quick as I could. Needs must when the devil drives, eh? What did you say you wanted it for?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Oh, well, you obviously have your own reasons. My friends in the passport office are getting very expensive these days. But for you, a good friend, I do it for the old price.’
Tony took a brown envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the desk. Larry opened it and counted the money carefully. One thousand pounds exactly. Not a bad day’s work. He opened a drawer and passed a small burgundy-coloured passport across the desk.
‘I even got you one of the new EEC ones.’
Tony opened it and looked at his photograph staring out of the page.
‘Thanks, Larry. I owe you one, I think.’
He stood up, putting the passport into his top pocket. Larry watched him leave the office and then walked to the window. From there he watched Tony cross the road and hail a black cab.
Larry was intrigued.
The details in the passport were of a George Markham, from Grantley in Essex. The man already had a one-year tourist passport, as well as a ten-year passport with eighteen months on it. Larry knew that something not quite kosher was going down, but he was stumped as to what it was.
Something rang a warning bell in his head but he could not put his finger on it.
He went back to his desk and slipped the thousand pounds from the envelope into his wallet. At least he had been paid promptly. Nowadays that was something in itself.
Tony Jones walked into Sexplosion and poured himself a large Scotch. He drank it down, the alcohol biting into his throat and stomach, burning his ulcer.
&
nbsp; The enormity of what he knew about George Markham was weighing him down. He felt sick every time he thought about it.
All his life Tony had lived among villains, pimps and prostitutes. He had dealt with most of the so-called gang bosses in his time. In his business it was inevitable you would stumble across them at some time or another.
He had always prided himself on his ability to work side by side with the most violent men, keeping his business going and his head above water. He never made their Christmas card lists but they had afforded him a modicum of respect.
His shop was one of the oldest in the West End. His father had run it for years, before handing it over to his only son. Tony wanted to hand it over to his son one day. It was a lucrative business now that porn was more socially acceptable. He had dealt with prostitutes who would give Frank Bruno food for thought before fighting them and with pimps who would carve you up as soon as look at you. Yet none of these people had ever frightened him like George Markham, the little man with the funny smile.
He poured himself another stiff drink and Emmanuel waltzed into the back of the shop, his heavily mascaraed eyelids fluttering.
‘I need a bit of help out here, Tone, if you don’t mind. I’ve been run off my feet.’
Tony glared at the boy.
‘Emmanuel, piss off and don’t come in here again today unless we get busted by the Filth or Joan Collins comes in to buy a vibrator. All right?’
The boy pursed his cherry red lips and stormed out of the room. He could be so bitchy, could Tony Jones. He noticed a new customer in a neat brown suit and immediately cheered up. He liked the newies.
He smiled at the man. His nicest smile. He had all day. By the looks of it Tony was going to drink himself stupid. He’d been doing that a lot lately.
‘Can I help you?’
The man in the brown suit smiled sheepishly.
Emmanuel smiled back widely. He was worth a fifty at least.
George had watched his film and was now feeling relaxed and cheerful. He turned off the video and sat smiling to himself. No more Elaine. No more having to be polite.
