The Ladykiller

by Martina Cole

The bigger of the two dogs made as if to run at him and Edith called it back.

  ‘Hello, Edith. Long time no see.’

  He watched happily as her eyes opened wide and her mouth curved into a grin.

  ‘George?’ Her voice was husky with emotion.

  He nodded and then she was running towards him and into his arms, the dogs following, sensing that he was a friend.

  ‘Oh, George . . . George! It’s so good to see you. Why didn’t you ring me and let me know you were coming? Where’s Elaine? How’s everything back home?’

  The words were tumbling out, tripping over each other as Edith led him into her house. Her heart was bursting with happiness. She had experienced so much with George, he was her closest relative. Her childhood confidant. The only part of life in England that she regretted leaving. Now he was here with her, her happiness knew no bounds.

  George held her arm tightly as they walked into the beautiful house, a lump of emotion in his throat.

  There was nothing like family.

  Patrick and Willy were driving back to Grantley.

  ‘I’m telling you, Pat, she was nuttier than a squirrel’s posing pouch. And that bloke Joseph weren’t much better.’

  Patrick nodded absently. It had been a waste of time. They had known nothing.

  But the man had to be somewhere. If he used his credit card then Patrick would be on to him. Oh, he knew all the faces that could help him. He wasn’t a repoman for nothing. He could find just about anyone, given time.

  But time was something he didn’t have.

  If Kate found out who the Ripper was, then the police would be looking for Markham as well. He could still get to him in prison, but it wouldn’t have the personal touch. And Pat wanted to do this job himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Patrick answered the telephone. A female voice came down the line.

  ‘Mr Kelly?’

  He yawned. ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I’m Louella Parker from Colmby Credit. I have some information regarding a Mr George Markham.’

  Patrick felt a surge of excitement.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Subject to the usual terms, of course.’ The woman’s voice was crisp. ‘I do rather put myself out for these things.’

  ‘All right, all right, don’t make a meal of it. If you tell me what I want to know you’ll get the dosh.’

  The woman cleared her throat delicately and he was glad for a moment that she was on the other end of a phone line, otherwise he would have grabbed her throat and shaken the information out of her.

  ‘George Markham booked a flight to Orlando by credit card on the twentieth of this month. He was due to leave on the twenty-third. The company he travelled with was Tropical Tours.’

  Patrick was stunned.

  The dirty bastard had outwitted him!

  ‘Mr Kelly, are you still there?’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah. Sorry.’

  ‘I trust that’s what you wanted to know?’

  ‘Oh . . . yes. Yes. You’ll get the money, Miss Parker, in the usual way.’

  While the woman thanked him, he put the phone down gently and stared out of the library window.

  He’d gone to the States?

  Patrick began looking through the phone book for the number of Tropical Tours. Once he had established the flight number and whether or not George Markham had been aboard, he would plan his next move.

  Frederick Flowers scanned the sea of faces in front of him. He always felt nervous when addressing the press. You never quite knew what you would be asked.

  ‘Is this the work of the Grantley Ripper?’ The scruffy, bearded man stared into Flowers’s face.

  ‘I really cannot divulge that sort of information, as well you know. At the moment we are liaising with the Kent Constabulary to ascertain whether it is the same person.’

  ‘Why is Detective Inspector Kate Burrows here, then? Do you think that a female officer might handle the case differently? Better?’

  Flowers made a conscious effort not to screw up his eyes in annoyance.

  ‘Detective Inspector Burrows is a very capable police woman, she is respected by her colleagues and myself. Her sex has nothing to do with it.’

  The female reporter pressed on, undeterred. ‘Nevertheless, it is unusual for a female DI to be on a case of this size.’

  ‘My dear girl, I assume you are writing with a feminist slant? Well, can I go on record as saying that we are here to trap a cold-blooded callous murderer, not to discuss sexual politics.’ He turned from the woman and looked around. ‘Who’s next?’

  The reporters laughed.

  ‘Have you any idea at all who the man is? Any leads?’ a booming voice called from the back.

  ‘Was the child molested at all?’ called another.

  Kate followed Caitlin out of the building and to their car. Caitlin lit one of his cigars.

  ‘It’s funny you know, Kate, but why would the man come here?’

  ‘I thought that, Kenny. I wondered if maybe he was visiting over this way. Could he work here maybe? Has he family in the area? The murders in Grantley were obviously done by someone who knows the neighbourhood. Maybe he lives here now but was brought up in Grantley? Why kill the child so brutally?’

  Caitlin shook his head.

  ‘The blood testing is backlogged, did you hear?’

  Kate nodded. ‘I heard. We need more manpower on it.’ ‘It’s the results that are taking all the time. Still, we’ll keep at it. Time’s the one thing we haven’t got, but it’s also all we’ve got, if you get my meaning.’

  Kate smiled wanly.

  ‘I keep thinking of that child. How can we not have anything to go on? Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Look, girl, Peter Sutcliffe took years to find. Then there was Dennis Nilsen. He was even cooking the poor fuckers’ heads and no one would have found him if he hadn’t blocked up his drains with human flesh. Murderers like this only get caught quickly in books and on TV. Real life is a different thing altogether. This man is probably discussing the murders with his family, friends, workmates, acting like he’s as shocked as them. But underneath it all he’s laughing at them and us. Oh, yes, especially us. He’ll read the papers and grin all over his face.

  ‘But you mark my words, he’ll do something wrong and when he does make a mistake, we’ll be waiting for him. And do you know the first thing I’m going to do?’

  ‘What?’

  Caitlin leaned towards her and grinned.

  ‘I’m going to smack him once for every corpse that I’ve seen with his handiwork on it and twice as hard and as long for the child. It’s what will keep me going.’

  Kate turned from him. Before she could answer the reporters began filtering out of police headquarters and she started the car. The last thing she wanted was to get caught by them.

  Caitlin’s words troubled her though. More than she cared to admit. She was aware that any suspect they had now could be in great danger. James Redcar had put a different light on this inquiry altogether. Everyone knew that even criminals had their own code of conduct when it came to a child murderer. As soon as the Grantley Ripper was identified, there’d be more than just the police out to get him. She just hoped they could get to him first.

  As she drove back towards the Dartford Tunnel she saw a plane taking off from Gatwick and sighed.

  How she wished she was on it.

  Patrick went back through Elaine’s address book and grinned. Willy grinned back.

  ‘He’s gone to his sister’s. Well, we can soon put a stop to his gallop. Get me Shaun O’Grady on the blower, I’ve just had a great idea.’

  While Willy dialled, Patrick poured out a fresh cup of coffee. He had the man now. He was convinced of it.

  He thought fleetingly of Kate. If she ever found out what he was going to do, she would never forgive him.

  His mouth hardened. This had nothing to do with Kate, this was family business.

  He sipped the hot coffee and lit a
cigarette. Willy handed the phone to him.

  ‘Shaun? It’s me, Patrick, how are you?’

  Shaun O’Grady sat in his luxurious home in Miami and whooped with delight.

  ‘Hiya, Pat. How’s tricks?’

  ‘I’ve got some trouble, Shaun, family trouble.’

  Shaun O’Grady pushed the woman beside him away. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and gestured to her to light him a cigarette.

  ‘What kind of family trouble?’

  ‘It’s Mandy. My Mandy. She’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ O’Grady’s gravelly voice was disbelieving.

  ‘What happened? Was it an illness, what?’

  He took the proffered cigarette and pulled on it deeply, his eyes travelling around the large room without seeing anything. He had been dealing with Patrick Kelly for over fifteen years. Although the two men had met face to face only twice, they had built up a mutual respect and friendship over the long-distance telephone line.

  Shaun O’Grady was an American version of Patrick Kelly. Except Shaun O’Grady had branched out into other areas that Kelly knew about only through word of mouth. One of which was a service providing professional hits.

  As Kelly spoke, the woman watched O’Grady’s face. Sighing heavily, she pulled on a negligee and left the room. She switched on the thirty-six-inch television in the bedroom and, sprawling on the bed, began watching I Love Lucy.

  She knew Shaun well and when his face had that look, it was best to keep out of his way.

  ‘Pat, Pat, I’m heart sore for you.’ O’Grady thought of his own three daughters ensconced in a large house in Palm Springs with his ex-wife. He might not spend much time with them, he was a busy man, but they were his children, his flesh and blood. He felt a moment’s guilt as he recalled he hadn’t seen any of them since the Christmas holidays.

  ‘What can I do to help you? You name it.’

  ‘Our man is at this moment in Florida. That’s why I’ve called you, Shaun. I want him removed from the earth. I want him dead.’

  ‘It’s as good as done, Pat. Give me the details and I’ll see to it at once.’

  ‘I’ll send the money within a few days . . .’

  ‘There’s no need for money.’

  ‘Fair dos, Shaun, I’ll pay. I’ll ring through the details in a couple of hours.’

  If it was one of his daughters . . . O’Grady closed his eyes. It did not bear thinking about. He began to jot down Edith’s address and after a short exchange both men rang off.

  O’Grady sat on his white leather Italian settee and stared at the Salvador Dali on his wall. He was fifty-eight, with a bald head, long baggy jowels and a large belly that nothing would get rid of. He had short stubby legs and arms.

  He caught his reflection in the mirror and wiped his hand across the stubble on his jaw.

  He thought of his ex-wife’s house, with its comfortable battered furniture and his three young daughters. He heard Lucille Ball’s voice coming from the bedroom and winced.

  He had exchanged all that for a bimbo and a two million dollar bachelor pad.

  The joke was that Noreen, his ex-wife, had never tried to stop his affairs, so why the hell had he dumped her?

  He picked up the telephone again and dialled her number.

  The phone was answered by his youngest daughter, Rosaleen.

  ‘Hello, Daddy!’ He heard her put the phone on the table with a clunk and call to her mother.

  ‘Mommy, Mommy, Daddy’s on the phone!’

  O’Grady tried to ignore the sound of surprise in the child’s voice.

  Noreen’s gently New England twang came on the line. Noreen had class, he admitted that to himself. He should never have divorced her.

  ‘Hello, Shaun, this is a surprise.’

  As he began to answer, the woman came out of the bedroom. She still had on the negligee and her impossibly long brown legs were visible through it. She pushed back thick black hair and lit a cigarette with natural grace.

  O’Grady watched her, fascinated, then spoke into the phone. ‘I’m coming up at the weekend to see the children. OK?’

  ‘Fine. Let me know when you’ll be picking them up and I’ll make sure they’re ready. They do miss you, you know.’

  ‘I’ll call back with the details, Noreen.’

  ‘Fine.’

  She put the phone down.

  He immediately began dialling again, his eyes on the woman’s buttocks, shimmering beneath the thin silk. He smiled at her and she half smiled back, retreating once more into the bedroom.

  ‘Hello, Duane? Get yourself over here now, I have a job for you.’

  He put down the phone and stubbed out his cigarette. He could hear Ricky Ricardo’s laugh and guessed that the programme was coming to an end.

  Tasha loved the old programmes: I Love Lucy, The Three Stooges. He had bought her the Marx Brothers collection. She was twenty-five.

  How old was Noreen now? Thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?

  He would see more of the girls, he was determined on that. Christ, what Pat had told him made you think! Who said the screwballs were only in America.

  George was the centre of attention and loving every second of it. Edith looked fantastic and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her hair was perfectly coiffeured. He knew it must be dyed, but it was dyed a natural colour and it suited her. She did not look like a woman in her fifties. Joss, on the other hand, looked every bit of his sixty-five years. His face was deep brown and leathery. Both of them had American twangs which George found exciting and attractive.

  Edith was talking nineteen to the dozen.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with the children and they’re both coming tomorrow. Joss Junior, as we call him, is flying from Denver - that’s in Colorado. He works for a big drug company. And Natalie is driving up from Miami, she works for a cosmetics company there. She’s a buyer, you know. Wait until you see them, George. They’re beautiful.’

  ‘I wish Elaine and I had been blessed with children, but after the boy died . . .’ His voice trailed off and Edith looked at him with ready tears gathering in her eyes.

  How could Elaine have left him? After all this time too. The woman was a heartless bitch and if she ever saw her again, which she admitted was unlikely, she would say so to her face. Poor George. He had no luck with women. First their tramp of a mother and now Elaine. She pursed her perfectly painted coral lips.

  Joss’s loud, booming voice broke into her thoughts. ‘How about we take Georgie here into Orlando for a slap-up meal? We could go to the Mercado on International Drive.’

  Edith smiled widely, displaying all her expensive dentistry. ‘Oh, let’s. George, they have thirty-two ounce steaks there.’

  George was worried. ‘I don’t think I could eat all that, Edith.’

  ‘You old silly, we share it! Come on, let’s get ready.’

  In the back of her mind, she hoped George had a decent suit with him. He looked so damned touristy.

  Still, she reasoned, it was lovely to see him. She fought down the impulse to squeeze him to her again. She was so damned pleased to see him, she could take a big bite out of him. Instead she put her arm around him and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  ‘It sure is good to see you, George. So good.’

  ‘And you, Edith, my dear. It’s been far too long.’

  She accompanied him to the spacious guest room. She was amazed that her brother, whom she had honestly thought she would never see again, was actually in her home. Her beautiful home that she hoped he told their mother all about when he went back. That would be one in the eye for the old bitch!

  ‘How’s Mother, George?’ She sat on his bed, her face troubled now. Every time she thought of her mother, she thought of the child.

  George sat beside her and took her hand. ‘The same as always, Edith. Spiteful, nasty. She hasn’t changed.’

  ‘I bet.’ Her voice was vehement. ‘Does she know about Elaine? Leaving you, I mean?’

  George sho
ok his head vigorously. ‘No. I was going to tell her, I visited her just before I flew out here, but we got into a bit of an argument.’

  Edith’s eyebrows arched.

  ‘Don’t you mean she argued with you?’ The playfulness was back now.

  George grinned. ‘No. Actually, I told her what I thought of her. I only wish I hadn’t left it so long.’ He rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘Edith, did you know that mother . . . was . . . well, a good-time girl?’ He found it difficult to form the words. He found it even more difficult to understand Edith’s laughter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ He was getting annoyed now.

  ‘Oh, George, you always were the eternal innocent. I sometimes think that’s why she picked on you so much. Don’t you remember all the men she used to have around? Remember her fights with them and her drunken ramblings?’

  ‘Of course I do, but I never thought she was . . . well, charging them.’

  Edith sighed.

  ‘You get changed, George, and we’ll go out and have a big juicy steak and a really good time. Mother’s thousands of miles away. She couldn’t harm us now, even if she wanted to.’

  George smiled his assent, but inside his head a little voice said: ‘Can’t she?’ He would have been surprised to know that Edith was thinking exactly the same thing.

  Alone in his room, he looked around at the blues and greens of the furnishings. On the hardwood floor, Indian rugs were placed at strategic points and the cover on the bed matched them perfectly. It really was a lovely room and a far cry from the house they had been brought up in.

  He opened the wardrobe door and was surprised to find a bathroom in there. He filled the bath and poured in some bath salts he found on the window sill.

  He was in America, in Florida with his Edith, Mother was not going to spoil it. He sank back in the water and let his mind wander on to other, more relaxing things.

  Edith, more disturbed than she cared to admit, went to her own room and, opening her wardrobe, took down from the top shelf a little box. Placing it on her large oval bed, she opened it and took out the old black and white pictures.

  There was George, in his short trousers and long grey school socks. There was Joseph and herself. She peered at each picture for a long while. In each and every photo, not one of the children was smiling.