by Martina Cole
The little girl looked up at the man and grinned, exposing tiny pearl-like teeth.
‘Melanie Daniels and I’m three.’
‘You’re a big girl for your age, aren’t you? Let Grandad get his coat, darlin’, while me and you have a little chat.’
The child looked at her grandad and was glad when he nodded assent. She decided she liked the big man in the big coat. Willy watched fascinated as Patrick took the girl’s tiny hand. He then accompanied Tony Jones while he got his coat. Tony opened his mouth to speak and Willy silenced him.
‘You must have been barmy if you thought you could pull one over on Pat where that scumbag’s concerned.’
Tony hung his head.
Melanie was sitting on Patrick’s knee, regaling him with stories about her life.
‘I’ve got a little cat called Sooty. Have you got a cat?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘How about a little doggie? You got a little doggie?’
Patrick smiled at her with genuine good humour. She was an enchanting child.
‘Can I make you a coffee, Mr Kelly?’ Jeanette’s voice was flat. She knew enough about Patrick Kelly to know her granddaughter was safe. She had known Renée many years before. She knew that he would remember that.
‘Why not?’ Patrick looked into her eyes. ‘I’m sorry about this, Jeanette, but you know the score.’
She couldn’t meet his gaze so got up and went to the kitchen. Willy and Tony came back into the room.
‘And I go to play school.’ Melanie was still chatting and Patrick was enjoying the conversation.
‘Really? What do you do there?’
Melanie bit her top lip in consternation as she thought. ‘We do singin’ and paintin’, sometimes. I can sing “The Wheels on the Bus”, all the way through.’ This last bit of information was given with a toss of her long blond hair and Kelly laughed.
‘You’re a clever little girl, Melanie.’
‘My grandad says I’m as pretty as a picture. And he sings me songs. Don’t you, Grandad?’
Tony nodded his head, watching the scene in front of him.
Patrick looked at him as he spoke. ‘And what songs does he sing you?’
‘Can I sing one, Grandad? Please?’
Tony nodded again and she began to sing.
Patrick let Tony Jones sit stewing for another twenty minutes before he decided to leave. By this time Melanie had become so enamoured of him she screamed the place down because she wanted to go with them. Her cries followed them from the house.
She had insisted on a kiss from all three of them, and Willy had had to be scowled at severely by Patrick before he complied. Patrick, on the other hand, had stroked her hair and comforted her before leaving, enjoying the innocence and babyness of her; an innocence that had reminded him of another life, one where he had had a wife and a child.
In the car, he turned to Tony.
‘A lovely child. You must be proud of her?’
Tony nodded, he couldn’t answer.
‘Wasn’t she a lovely little thing, Willy?’
He half turned from his driving. ‘Oh, yeah.’
Patrick continued conversationally.
‘Imagine how you’d feel if someone took her, buggered her, and then left her for dead on a filthy floor. Half her skull battered away, hair stuck to the floor in a pool of blood. If you had to watch her die, slowly and painfully, in the hospital. Watch her fight for her life, after operations to cut her skull away bit by bit because her brain was so swollen inside her head. Makes you sick just thinking about it, don’t it?’
Tony’s nod was barely noticeable.
‘Well, now maybe you’ll understand why you’re going to get the hiding of your fucking life, won’t you? But first I want that cunt’s address, phone number, post code. I want to know everything you know about him. All right?’
Tony nodded again.
At least Kelly hadn’t said he was going to kill him. As far as Tony was concerned, that in itself was a result.
Book Two
‘Hanging is too good for him,’
Said Mr Cruelty
- John Bunyan, 1628-88
A rape! A rape!
Yes, you have ravish’d justice.
Forced her to do your pleasure
- John Webster, 1580-1625
Life for life,
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth,
Hand for hand, foot for foot.
Burning for burning, wound for wound,
Stripe for stripe
- Exodus, 21:23
Chapter Twenty-Six
George booked himself into the Hilton Hotel at Gatwick. He was feeling upset. He knew he would not sleep.
He opened his suitcase. He had packed one of his favourite books and tonight he needed it. He needed the release from the real world. He opened the magazine at the centre pages. A girl was looking up at him. She had real auburn hair. George knew it was real because it was the same top and bottom.
He slipped off his clothes and hung them up neatly in the wardrobe, then relaxed on the bed in his underpants. This time tomorrow he would be in the USA. He allowed himself a grin. He’d be in Florida, starting a new life.
His tongue was just poking from the corner of his mouth now as he concentrated his energies, thinking up different situations and pastimes for the girl on the page.
George was beginning to feel better.
Patrick smiled at Tony Jones.
‘So what you’re saying is, Tony, you took the blood test for the bloke?’
He nodded, his eyes aimed at the floor.
‘You actually went and took the blood test - the blood test that I’m paying for - so that piece of shite could walk free?’
‘It wasn’t like that, Mr Kelly. He had me by the bollocks . . .’
‘I’ll have you by them in a minute, mate.’ Willy’s voice was low and menacing.
Tony looked at Patrick in distress.
‘I’ve been selling snuff movies. He bought them. Said he’d rope me into it . . .’ His voice was desperate.
It was quiet for a while. Kelly and Willy both stared at the man in front of them with slitted eyes, as if trying to understand just what it was in front of them.
‘Snuff movies? You sell snuff movies. You deal with scum who rent out little boys, you sell death, and you want me to be lenient with you? You want me to say, “Oh, don’t worry, Tone, long as you make a good bit of bunce . . .”’
Patrick swung back his fist and began punching Tony Jones in the face and head. He could feel the bruising on his knuckles as they came into contact with the man’s skull, felt the first trickle of blood as Jones’s eyebrow split, and still he could not stop. Rage was inside his head, fuelled by the pictures of Mandy’s broken face and body. The knowledge that she had been buggered, raped and humiliated by a sadist who had no more thought for her than he’d have had for a mad dog.
And it was all this man’s fault! He pandered to him, was the means by which this George Markham fed his sick fantasies. Finally, spent, he walked to the corner of the lock-up garage. Outside he heard the scraping of the Rottweiler belonging to one of his repomen. It sniffed underneath the door, making tiny whining sounds. Every so often he heard Jimmy Danks quieten the beast. It occurred to Patrick that Tony could be dead soon.
He shrugged. He didn’t really care at this moment. He blinked back tears; whether they were of rage or sadness he wasn’t sure. All he could think about was his child. That took precedence over everything. There was nothing he could do to bring Mandy back. He accepted that, but he would find this George Markham and make him pay dearly for what he had done. Not just for Mandy but for all of them.
He heard a groan and turned to see Tony Jones regain consciousness. Patrick watched him pull himself up from the dirty floor and sit back on the broken-down chair. He opened the lock-up door and nodded at the man with the Rottweiler. Then he took one last look at Tony Jones and, gesturing for Willy to follow, walked from th
e lock-up.
The dog was straining on its leash now, scenting the air. Its huge jaws were clamping down, making snapping noises. Kelly stood by his car in the deserted block and watched as the man took off the lead and let the dog run into the garage, closing the door behind it.
By the time Tony Jones realised what was happening, one hundred and twenty pounds of muscle had already launched itself at him.
Kelly and Willy drove away to sounds of his anguished screams. The dog’s owner was rolling himself a cigarette. He waved to them cheerfully as they drove off.
George had dressed and left the hotel at eight thirty-seven. He could not relax tonight. Even the book had done little to make him feel better. His mother had upset him so much. He drove around for a while, his head whirling with the things she had said.
His father had not been dead. He remembered only a tall thin man with dark blond hair and a smell of tobacco about him. George remembered sitting with the man on a large easy chair. Then one day he had gone.
His earliest memory of his mother was of her picking him up and kissing him on the mouth, holding him to her tightly even though he had wanted to get away. Her arms had been like steel bands around him.
He shuddered.
A car hooted its horn and he broke out of his reverie to find that he was at a roundabout. He pulled away and took the first turning. He looked at the signpost and saw that he was on the A26 going towards Maidstone. That was how upset he was. He had been driving, unaware even where he was going.
Only his mother could upset him like that.
He pulled off at the slip road that led to Nettlestead. It was half past nine. George drove along slowly, trying to gather his thoughts.
Then he saw a woman about thirty yards in front of him. She was standing by a large Range Rover, actually flagging him down!
George pulled up behind her and wound down his window. Cynthia Redcar rushed towards him, her large man’s parka blowing open as she ran. She had been stranded there for thirty minutes.
‘I say, I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, but my car’s gone on the blink.’
George saw white teeth and abundant black hair. She had a long jawline and anyone looking at her would guess that she was a ‘horsey’ kind of person.
‘Could you please take me to get some help? I must phone my husband, he’ll be worried sick.’ She smiled at him again.
‘What seems to be the trouble?’
She pulled the parka around her slim frame and grimaced.
‘I don’t know a thing about cars, I’m afraid. It just cut out and died on me. Oh Christ, here we go again.’ She ran back to the Range Rover at the sound of a child whimpering.
George got out of his car and ambled after her.
The woman was holding a boy of about eighteen months to her breast, stroking the dark head gently and crooning the way only mothers know how. She lifted her eyebrows at George. ‘Poor little blighter’s cold and hungry.’ She picked up her bag from the back seat and set about locking the Range Rover. She stood in front of George ready and waiting, her eyebrows raised in query.
He really was an odd little man, she thought. Hardly said a word. She began to walk towards the Orion in a determined way. Opening the back doors, she placed the now quiet child across the back seat and slipped in beside him, talking softly and stroking his legs. George saw the child close his eyes and relax. He was entranced at the pretty picture it created.
The woman saw him looking and grinned. ‘Another three like this at home, I’m afraid. I hope Dicky remembers to feed them! He can be so unreliable at times. I’ll bet he fed the horses though, he’d never forget about them!’ She laughed gaily. George stared at her and she felt the first prickle of unease.
‘I say, I don’t like to push, but if you could just drive me into the village?’ Her eyebrows rose once more, this time in hope.
George was looking around him. The road was deserted. If she had been there for over half an hour then it was obviously rarely used. To the right-hand side were woods, to the left a cornfield. He could feel the familiar excitement mounting. He felt in the pocket of his coat and his hand grasped the handle of the knife. It felt cool to the touch. The road had lighting, but it was subdued, as if the planners knew that it would not be used very often.
‘Do you live far?’
‘No, about eight miles along the road. Trouble is the lighting packs up about a mile further on and I didn’t fancy trekking along there in the dark.’
Her voice was so full of life. George imagined she would be a lot of fun to live with. Could see her playing games with her children, baking her own bread. She looked the type who worried about the ozone layer and tropical rain forests. Riding her horses.
He giggled.
‘Are you all right? Only if I’m putting you to any trouble . . . ?’ She sounded even more uncertain now and George saw her eyes scanning the road for any oncoming vehicles. His face set in a grim mask. The child began to snore gently and George grinned at her.
‘Get out of the car.’
‘I . . . I beg your pardon?’
He pulled her by the arm.
‘I said, get out of the car.’
She went to pick up the child and George pulled the knife out. ‘Leave him there.’
Cynthia Redcar stared at the man. The confusion in her dark eyes was apparent. George could practically smell her fear. She stumbled from the car.
‘Take off your coat and cover him with it. He looks cold.’
Cynthia stood dumbstruck, staring at him.
George rolled his eyes. Why were women always so difficult?
He slapped her across the face, hard. ‘Don’t annoy me, I’m warning you. Just do as I say and everything will be fine.’
Cynthia took off her coat. The wind bit into her. She placed it gently over the child.
‘Now shut the door and we’ll go for a little walk.’
A minute later they were in the woods. In the dimness Cynthia felt his hand go to her breasts and instinctively she pushed it away.
‘What’s the little boy’s name?’ George’s voice was low and menacing and Cynthia felt the threat like a physical blow.
‘Please - please don’t hurt James. I’ll do anything, just don’t touch my little boy.’
This was more like it.
‘Take off your clothes.’
George watched her as she fumbled with the buttons on her jeans. As she pulled her jumper over her head. All the time her eyes were on him. He could see the shaking of her hands as she moved.
She had heavy baggy breasts. George guessed they were marked, could visualise the mauve veins in them from childbearing. Four children did she say she had? His mind was fuzzy again. It was the excitement from her fear. He loved the fear. He loved being in control. She was standing now in her bare feet, her hands across her breasts, trying to hide her nakedness.
‘Lie down.’
‘Please . . . whoever you are, don’t do this.’ Her voice was drenched with tears.
‘Lie down.’ He stepped towards her and she flinched as the blade of the knife neared her face.
She lay down on the damp cold ground, her hands between her legs. George surveyed her for a few seconds before he slipped off his overcoat and knelt in front of her, forcing her legs open with his knees.
‘You’re going to do some things for me, dear. And if, but only if, you do them very, very well, I’ll let you go home.’
He unzipped his trousers.
Cynthia felt a wave of nausea wash over her.
George was happy again. Today had not been so bad after all.
Kate knocked at Patrick’s door at nine thirty. He opened it to her himself.
‘I got your message, Pat, is everything all right?’
‘Yeah. I had a bit of business to attend to, that’s all.’
They went into the drawing room and Patrick poured them both a drink. Kate slipped off her coat and placed it on a chair. She looked around the familiar room and
felt a warm glow engulf her. She liked Patrick’s house, liked it very much.
‘Is it still cold out, Kate?’
‘Yes, it’s going to rain later by all accounts.’
She sat on the settee and sipped her drink. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Pat?’
He jumped. He had been thinking about later, when he would finally get his hands on George Markham.
‘Sure.’ His voice was curt and he tried to calm himself.
‘I had a bit of aggro with one of the repomen, that’s all. It happens all the time.’
He should have left a message with her mother saying that he would see her tomorrow. He should not have arranged to see her tonight. They had been supposed to meet at eight and he had rung and told her mother to ask Kate to make it nine thirty instead. It was a mistake. If she knew what he was going to do tonight . . .
‘What kind of trouble? Her voice was concerned. He looked at her and loved her so much he felt an urge to cry.
‘Nothing to worry about, Kate. How’s things with you?’
His voice was softer now. She watched him lighting a cigarette. His hands were trembling.
‘All right. The blood testing is going great guns.’
‘I’m sure it is.’ His voice was hard.
He felt like telling her that it was all a waste of time, that the Grantley Ripper, George Markham, had paid a man to take the test for him. It was a bloody mockery, the lot of it.
‘We’re doing all we can, you know.’ Kate’s voice was soft and Patrick felt a moment’s fleeting guilt. Then it was replaced by apprehension. If she only knew what he was going to do . . . It would be the end for them. What he had done to Danny Burrows would be nothing to how she would feel when Markham was found murdered. Patrick didn’t care if he was caught, as long as the man paid the price.
Kate was worried. He looked as taut as a bowstring. It was as if he knew a devastating secret but couldn’t tell anyone.
‘Have you eaten, Pat?’
Patrick could not help smiling. She sounded just like his mother: whenever there was a crisis or an upset she wanted to feed everyone.
