The Ladykiller

by Martina Cole

  Food was a woman’s way of healing.

  If only it was that easy.

  ‘Come here.’ It was a command.

  She put down her drink and went to him. She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips.

  ‘I’m not sure I like your tone!’

  She was laughing and Patrick felt a feeling in his gut, like a hand gripping his entrails.

  He knew what she was trying to do. She thought he was having a bad day over Mandy and was trying to cheer him up.

  She was good. Kate was a good woman.

  He pulled her on to his lap and put his hand up her jumper, rubbing at the soft skin of her breasts.

  ‘Oh, Kate . . .’ It was a heartfelt cry, and she felt it like a physical blow.

  ‘Patrick, tell me what’s wrong. I want to try and help you. Are you in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that, I swear to you.’

  ‘Then why are you like this? Is it Mandy? It’s as if you’re on tenterhooks for some reason.’ Her voice lowered. ‘It is Mandy, isn’t it?’

  He could tell her the truth about that anyway.

  ‘Yeah . . . it’s about Mandy.’

  ‘You’re missing her? It’s perfectly natural, you know. It often hits people suddenly. I’ve seen it before.’

  Her earnest face stared into his and he felt his heartbeat speeding up.

  He wanted to tell her that he missed her every second of the day; that it was there with him when he opened his eyes in the morning and when he closed them at night. Even his dreams were no escape from the feelings of futility. But now he had the perpetrator within his grasp and tonight he was going to commit murder. And he couldn’t wait!

  But he knew Kate would not understand his need. The need to destroy the man who had ravaged the only decent thing he’d had. It would cleanse him. He knew he could lie to himself, say he was ridding the world of a piece of shite. That’s what Willy had termed it. But deep inside he knew that that was only a small part of it. Revenge was what he wanted. Revenge, and the feeling of blood on his hands.

  Kate watched the emotions cross his face and her heart went out to him.

  Then, suddenly, they were on the floor.

  Her clothes were being pulled off her and he was inside her, thrusting away as if his life depended on it.

  She had never known a loving so brutal and so beautiful. They came together in a shuddering climax and then lay there, holding one another tightly.

  Patrick stared at her dark eyes and wished he did not have to do what he was going to do. Because if this exquisite creature ever found out, he would once more lose everything he had.

  But even Kate’s love wasn’t enough. Revenge had a bitter taste already, but there was no going back.

  George was humming softly to himself. Cynthia was quiet and pliable. He arranged her limbs once more to his satisfaction. She had muscular thighs. All the horse riding, he guessed. She had passed out with fright, and that had annoyed him. Because tonight he wanted, needed, a woman to beg.

  His mother should beg really. Beg him to forgive her. But she wouldn’t.

  He felt the rage coming again, then he heard the noise. It was a child’s crying.

  James was awake.

  Cynthia stirred beneath him. The crying of her child was penetrating somewhere in her unconscious. She opened her eyes and, remembering what had happened, looked at George, terrified.

  The crying was getting louder. The little hiccoughing sobs were like knife blades in her heart.

  How long had she been out? Had the man hurt James? She tried to push herself up.

  George tutted to himself. He felt the woman’s hands on his chest and the force as she tried to push him from her. An animal strength seemed to fill her body. Her child needed her. Her child was in danger.

  They were all the same.

  Cynthia brought up her knee. Panic over her child galvanised her into action. She caught George in the groin and he groaned, a white hot pain shooting into his testes. Lashing out with the knife, he swiped it cleanly across her throat, slicing the skin and veins as neatly as a surgeon.

  Cynthia put her hands to her neck in shock. Bringing them away covered in blood. She opened her mouth but only a strangled gurgle escaped.

  George watched her head snap back as she shuddered to her last sleep, the gaping wound spurting blood.

  Then she was still, her eyes fastened on him.

  George wiped the blade on the dirt beside him, then he stood up and rearranged his clothes. Picking up his overcoat, he slipped off the white cotton gloves and pushed them into the pocket. He walked to his car.

  James was crying hard. He had woken up in a strange car with a strange smell and his mother was gone. He huddled into her coat, trying to breathe in his mother’s perfume.

  George opened the door and scooped him up. Then he walked back to Cynthia with him.

  The child struggled, and George held him tighter.

  ‘Be quiet!’

  James gulped in a large draught of air and screamed. George dropped him on to the leaf-covered ground. The child was stamping his feet and screaming and he watched, fascinated at the strength in the little body. At the determination to get whatever it was he wanted.

  He watched him stumbling around on fat little legs, trying to find something familiar. Fear and panic were making him clumsy. Then George tried to grasp his hand but the child would not let him.

  He pulled his arms away, screaming louder and louder until finally George began to hit him.

  On his way to the hotel George started humming again.

  Patrick and Willy pulled into Bychester Terrace at two fifteen. As Patrick walked up the path, he felt a loosening in his bowels. He would be facing the murderer of his daughter in next to no time. He felt a heat inside him as he thought about it. The few hours with Kate had been tinged with despair. Now she was gone from his mind. All he could think about, all he could see, was the future without Mandy. His child.

  He knew as he walked to the front door that the house was empty. It had that deserted air. He knocked anyway and waited.

  The anger was back. The burning anger that started in his chest and wormed its way through his body, seeping into sinew and bone. Maddening him.

  He wanted George Markham. He wanted to strangle the life from him slowly. He wanted to castrate him. He wanted to hurt him more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

  This man had used his daughter as if she was a piece of dirt, and Patrick Kelly would see that justice was meted out.

  He walked around the back of the house, Willy following. As they passed the overflow pipe a trickle of water splashed on to them.

  ‘Bollocks! That water’s bloody freezing.’ Willy’s voice was a whisper.

  Taking a glass cutter from his pocket he cut a hole in the back door. Within seconds they were inside the house.

  It was empty all right.

  Patrick cursed under his breath.

  Turning on their torches, they began the search for a clue to where their man might be. By tomorrow night latest they would know every move he made. Patrick Kelly had already arranged for that in case tonight’s visit drew a blank.

  Elaine’s handbag was in the hall cupboard and Willy rifled through it. Taking a shabby brown address book from it, he put the bag back where he’d found it. Patrick motioned that they were leaving.

  He felt as high as a kite. The adrenaline was coursing through him. He had not got this close for the man to evade him now.

  If it took him the rest of his life, he’d find him. Especially now he had his name.

  Nancy lay in her bed contemplating the evening’s events. She knew that Lily had never liked her, the feeling had always been mutual. But she had never fully realised the extent of her dislike until tonight.

  For the first time in her life, Nancy Markham was frightened. She realised that at eighty-one her life was nearly over and if what had been threatened tonight came to pass, she would finish it
in a home.

  A home!

  How dare that stinking slut threaten her with a home?

  But she had.

  And Joseph had agreed. Oh, not out loud, not in so many words. Her son was too much of a coward for that.

  But he had agreed with his eyes. The eyes that were as grey and lifeless as his father’s.

  She clenched her fists in temper. When she thought of how she had fought to give them a decent life! And Nancy really believed that she had.

  When she thought of the sacrifices she had made for them . . .

  One of the things George had inherited from his mother was her capacity for fantasy.

  Lily’s voice was at full throttle in the room next door.

  ‘She goes this time, Joseph. She should have been put away years ago. You know that and I know that.’

  Joseph stared up at the ceiling.

  ‘She’s as nutty as a bloody fruit cake. But she’s cute.’ Lily wagged her finger at him.

  ‘Oh, she’s cute all right. Well, I’m telling you now, Joseph Markham, I’ve had enough. I’ve had to put up with her all these years. It’s all right for you, you’re out all bloody day. Have you any idea what it’s like, having to listen to that sodding bell, day in day out? Well, have you?’

  He closed his eyes tightly.

  ‘Even the children hate her. I never see them any more. She’s driven them from the house.’

  Suddenly, it was all too much for her and her voice quavered. She swallowed back her tears. Joseph turned to her and hesitantly took her in his arms. The display of affection was too much for her and the dam broke. Sobs were shaking her whole body and Joseph held her to him, seeing in his mind’s eyes the girl she had been.

  ‘Hush now. Hush now, Lily. Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll sort out somewhere for her tomorrow.’

  She pulled away from him.

  ‘Pr-Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Now he had actually said it out loud, it was true. He’d see the doctor first thing in the morning. If he could, he’d get her put in council care. If he couldn’t, then he’d pay for it. The time had come to let go. He had done all he could for her. Anything he owed her had been repaid in full. Over and over again.

  It was funny, but after all that he had heard tonight, he had no fear of her any more.

  It was as his wife had told her: she had finally fouled her nest.

  He stroked Lily’s hair and smiled to himself. It’d be nice to see the children more often.

  In the Mile End Hospital two nurses stood over Tony Jones. He was heavily sedated. Jeanette had left the hospital ten minutes earlier.

  ‘Poor man! He’ll be scarred for life.’

  ‘Those bloody dogs should be put down, all of them. To think it could be wandering around now. Imagine if it attacked a child!’

  ‘Yeah. Didn’t you think his wife was a bit funny?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well . . .’ The other nurse lowered her voice confidentially.

  ‘It’s as if she knew he was going to be bad. She didn’t seem surprised or shocked when she saw him.’

  ‘Can’t say I noticed really.’

  ‘Oh, well, maybe it was just me.’

  ‘Come and have a cuppa before we start the turns.’

  Tony groaned in his drug-induced sleep and the two women watched him for a second. He settled down once more.

  ‘Poor little thing. He’ll know all about it when those stitches on his face begin to tighten.’

  ‘Let’s get that cuppa while we’ve still got the chance.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  George had just had his meal on the plane and was now watching a hilarious episode of Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em. Frank Spencer was a motorbike messenger for a firm called Demon King and was inadvertently delivering pornographic pictures instead of letters and parcels. Everyone on the plane was screaming with laughter and adjusting their headphones. George laughed more than any of them. He was really enjoying himself.

  He had eaten all his meal, discovering he had a ravenous appetite when he had seen the Beef Stroganoff, Duchesse potatoes and peas. He had also had a small bottle of red wine.

  He sat in a window seat looking down at the cottony clouds and felt a moment of euphoria. He was going to Florida, he was going to see Edith. His Edith. He was going to enjoy himself.

  He thought about the night before and his happy expression faded for a second.

  The memory of the child was troubling him.

  Then he shrugged. All children got beaten at some point, by parents or by teachers. He knew this for a fact.

  Satisfied again that he had not done anything really wrong, he savoured once more the delights of the woman’s body. He could feel his own excitement and forced those thoughts from his mind, concentrating on the clouds and the blueness of the sea that peeped through the whiteness every so often, reminding him that he was leaving England. England, Elaine, his mother . . . mustn’t forget his mother . . . and all his troubles.

  He would start again in Florida, he had decided. He would sell the house. It was all his now. He experienced a small feeling of annoyance, just a flicker really, that Elaine had had to die like she did. Not because he felt any guilt, but because it had stopped him claiming the insurance money.

  He had it all worked out. When he went back to sell the house he would say that Elaine had run off with someone. He gave his little grin. That would immediately win him sympathy. He would put the house up for sale and then return to Florida and Edith.

  He would remove Elaine from her watery grave and bury her somewhere. He’d put her out with the garden rubbish in black bags and then dump her on the tip.

  This made him want to laugh again. Elaine on the tip! Better than she deserved, maybe. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Either way, she was gone.

  Beside him sat a little girl. She was sandwiched between George and her mother. Her mother was still laughing at Frank Spencer, showing pearly white teeth.

  George decided he approved of her. She looked like a mother should. Flat-chested, clean and wholesome-looking. No make-up or jewellery. The programme ended and Desmond Lynam came on the screen to talk about the next feature. George pulled off the headphones and relaxed. The little girl did the same. She smiled at him shyly. George smiled back, smelling the sweetness of the little body. He noticed she had a pack of cards and leant towards her.

  ‘Would you like a game of snap?’

  The child flicked back her long blond hair disdainfully.

  ‘I don’t play snap. I play poker, pontoon or five-card stud.’ She saw the dismay on George’s face and hurried on, ‘I also play rummy and trumps.’

  George smiled once more.

  ‘How about a game of rummy, then?’

  ‘All right.’ She began to shuffle the cards expertly and he sighed.

  Nothing and no one was ever what they seemed.

  Five-card stud indeed!

  Kate looked down at the two bodies and felt sickness wash over her. The woman was lying spreadeagled on the dirt floor, her neck a gaping wound. Blood had dried on her shoulders and breasts. Her mouth was in a perfect O. That was bad enough, but it was the child’s body that affected her.

  His little face was crushed completely, nose and cheeks collapsed in towards his brain. His tiny plump baby fingers were curled in his palms. He was lying huddled into his mother’s body.

  The pathologist shook his head.

  ‘She’s been dead longer than the child. My guess is he crawled to her for comfort then suffocated in his own blood.’

  He pointed with his pen at the child’s face. ‘See here and here? Well, the blow caused the blood to flow down the back of his throat. His nose couldn’t release it, no way. He practically drowned in his own blood. Poor little fucker.’

  Kate wanted to cry. She wanted to cry desperately. But not here. She refused to though she guessed shrewdly that more than a few of the men around her were feel
ing the same.

  Murdered people were bad enough, but murdered children? They were the worst.

  When they had received the call that the Grantley Ripper had decided to expand his area, they had all felt a sense of shame. They hadn’t stopped him and the man was on the move.

  And the case had a new dimension. He killed little children now. Christ alone knew where he would strike next.

  Kate heard the sound of sobbing and turned to the left. In a clump of yew trees stood DS Willis, head bent. Caitlin was patting him on the shoulder and lighting him a cigarette. It was the boy’s first child corpse.

  Kate felt a surge of affection for the young man. And for Caitlin. Much as he tried to be the hardfaced know-all, Kate was realising he was in fact quite a soft-hearted man. She looked at the two bodies and pictured the tiny child trying to find his mother’s warmth. Crying, in acute pain, he had dragged himself to her. Believing, as all children believed, that she would protect him. Make him better. Only Mummy was already dead and the child’s time was running out.

  Dicky Redcar had alerted the police to his wife’s disappearance at eleven fifteen.

  Two patrolmen had found the Range Rover at eleven forty-nine and assumed she had tried to walk and maybe gone to a friend’s. There was no reason to suspect foul play. At one twenty-five they had begun a search; the bodies had been found just after two.

  Kate had been alerted at five thirty that the Grantley Ripper had decided to extend his operations. The DNA on the woman had been conclusive. It was the same man, and the only clue they had were his tyre tracks.

  As Caitlin had remarked, unless they had a definite make on the car the tyre tracks were a piss in the ocean. How many dark-coloured saloons were there, for heaven’s sake?

  Kate saw Frederick Flowers arrive and heaved a sigh. The heavy mob was here. That meant the newspapers were already on to it.

  Dicky Redcar was in shock. His three remaining children had been taken by relatives. His sister had wanted to stay with him, but he needed to be alone.

  He sat in his study with a photograph of Cynthia and James on his lap. He could hear Major, one of his horses, whinnying outside the window.