Sweet Oblivion

by Rhiana Ramsey

  ‘Lou…’ Steve began. Louise turned around and shot him a venomous look.

  ‘Don’t say a word Steve.’

  Melissa lay back on the bed, placing an arm beneath her head in an arrogant, mocking posture.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, I’m an invited guest,’ she sneered back at Louise.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ she turned her back on Melissa and confronted Steve.

  He looked scared, she could see him swallowing hard. That he was scared pleased her.

  ‘To think I trusted you and you made me feel guilty for thinking ill of you. No wonder you’re knackered, sleeping with me, sleeping with her! The lies come so easily to you, don’t they? You’re all the same. Lying, cheating bastards. No one woman’s ever enough is she?’

  ‘I think actually, it’s just that you’re not enough Louise,’ mocked Melissa from the bed.

  Louise spun on her heel and ran over to the bed, anger sweeping over her in a maddening tsunami-type wave.

  ‘Still haven’t put your clothes on, no? Well now it’s too fucking late!’ she screamed at Melissa, noting with satisfaction that the smug expression had dropped from her face and had been replaced with one of fear.

  Louise grabbed Melissa by the hair and dragged her from the bed, naked legs flailing, breasts wobbling, looking totally undignified. Melissa screamed in pain, her hands grabbing at Louise’s wrists in an effort to wrench her grasp free.

  ‘Louise, for God’s sake!’ shouted Steve.

  Louise was enraged, she couldn’t stop herself. She’d never felt so much anger, she couldn’t see properly, she couldn’t think straight. All she knew was she had to get rid of this woman, humiliate her and hurt her. She wanted Melissa to feel a fraction of the pain she was feeling at that moment.

  She pulled on Melissa’s hair, dragging her forcefully down the corridor. She could hear Steve shouting at her to stop, his hands on her shoulders to try and control her. She shrugged him off easily and continued to drag Melissa through the cottage by her hair. She was so angry, so pumped, that dragging Melissa seemed effortless.

  ‘Louise, let go, please! You’re really hurting me!’ Melissa wailed.

  ‘Good! How could you Steve? With her! And you Melissa, don’t you care at all that he’s with me? Feel good does it taking someone else’s man?’ Louise’s voice was hard, she almost didn’t recognise it.

  She continued to drag Melissa down the corridor, not caring that Melissa’s dignity was on display or that she was in agony.

  ‘Louise, please, please…’ she pleaded.

  ‘Quit whining you pathetic creature!’

  They’d reached the front door now and Louise wrenched it open with her left hand, the right still wrapped in Melissa’s hair. She pulled Melissa to her feet, body bent over, breasts dangling. With a hard shove she pushed Melissa through the door, satisfied as Melissa fell onto the steps, naked and snivelling.

  She noticed the old couple had stood up to watch the scene as she slammed the door shut and turned her attention on Steve. He stood behind her, his hands raised, palms open in submission. Melissa started to bang on the front door.

  ‘Let me in! I’m naked!’ she begged.

  Louise ignored her and just stood looking at Steve, her eyes cold and hard, her chest heaving from exertion. She felt hatred and anger and pain; she wanted to hurt him, she wanted to hear him cry out in agony.

  ‘Lou… I’m sorry. I didn’t want to come down here alone. She means nothing to me…’ Steve blurted, hoping this might calm her down.

  ‘How long?’ Louise panted.

  ‘What? Why does that matter? She means nothing, you have to believe me…’ Steve replied.

  ‘How long, Steve?’ she shouted, her body shaking as she fought to control the urge to hit him. Melissa continued to bang on the front door.

  ‘A few months.’ he said, sheepishly.

  She snorted derisively.

  ‘You lying, cheating bastard. I loved you, I trusted you more than anyone. I gave myself to you and this is how you repay me? Jealous of my commitment to work, jealous of my ability... You are a fucking male whore and one day you’ll get what you deserve!’ she shouted at him, before adding quietly: ‘You’ve broken my heart. I knew I should never have let you in.’ She looked him in the eyes; Steve bowed his head in shame.

  Louise yanked open the front door and shouted at Melissa who was still wailing to be let in and banging on the door: ‘Fucking shut up bitch!’

  Melissa backed away from the door as Louise stormed out through it.

  ‘Don’t ever come near me again Steve,’ she yelled over her shoulder, ‘and as for you Melissa…’

  She drew back her right arm and punched Melissa in the face, catching her just below her right eye. Melissa screamed in pain.

  ‘Steve she hit me! She hit me!’ Melissa wailed, a red mark already swelling beneath her eye. Louise vaguely noticed that the elderly couple were still there, covering their mouths with their hands, looking aghast.

  She walked quickly to her car and climbed in, her body still trembling with anger and rage; starting the engine she drove away at speed, her tyres kicking up small stones and dust from the gravelled drive way. The cloud of dust enveloped Melissa’s naked form as she stood clutching at her face, whilst Steve stood there dumbstruck watching as she drove away.

  As she veered away from the cottage, she continued to watch her beloved Steve in her rear view mirror, his image jumping with the motion of the car, trembling like her body. She exhaled deeply as she felt the first hot tear run down her cheek, its slow progression across her skin leaving a cool, wet trail. As soon as Louise was out of sight of the cottage, she pulled the car over, placed her head on her arms on the steering wheel and cried as she hadn’t cried since she was a child.

  Chapter XIII

  It was early afternoon and the building was quiet. Not many people came in on a Saturday – unless of course they were working on a murder. DI Robert Scott sat hunched over his desk, sheets of paper strewn before him, highlighter pen poised over the sheet he was currently inspecting.

  After tasking everyone with their duties earlier that morning, he had finished off the briefing by telling them that once their task for that day was done, they should go home, get some rest and that he didn’t expect to see anyone back in the office until Monday, unless of course, there was a major break in the case. He’d arranged for some officers to cover the core team on Sunday, which meant they could all enjoy a day off and try to get some sleep.

  He was looking forward to his day off as he hadn’t seen his wife since the case had begun other than to grunt at her as he rolled in and out of bed. Perhaps they could take a trip down to the coast if the weather was nice? The sea air would do them both good and he felt a hankering for real fish ‘n’ chips in paper, served and enjoyed as they should be on the beach.

  Most of his detectives had rung in to say they were done for the day – Tony Jessop had taken a brief statement from another of David Saunder’s former colleagues, nothing of any evidential value had come of it; Peter Jackman had made enquiries with the local taxi firms to see if Mr Saunders had booked any cab, he hadn‘t; Elizabeth Lane had returned to some of the pubs around the hotel, showing David Saunders photograph to staff asking if anyone had seen him on the night in question - still waiting results; Greg Hampton had been sifting through Mr Saunders client list and slowly contacting them in turn to ask when they had last seen him. The remaining five DCs under DI Scott’s command were occupied obtaining statements from everyone else that had not yet been spoken to at the hotel.

  It was unlikely that any of these tasks would in itself identify the killer, but any one of them could provide a simple, little, seemingly trivial clue which would help focus the direction of the enquiry. All the statements would be collated on Monday and any commonality, discrepancies or clues would be highlighted so that other investigative actions could be raised.

  Robert rubbed his eyes wearily. The letters on the page we
re starting to blend into one as he felt his eyelids getting heavy. He just wanted to get through the latest lab and pathology report before he called it a day, ensured all his officers were off duty and went home to his wife.

  His shoulders were tense and he stretched cat-like in the chair, arms above his head, back arched, trying to ease out the tension. He continued to read…

  ‘…The mutilation to the deceased probably did not occur post-mortem; the victim would likely have been semi-conscious, although probably drifting in and out due to the loss of blood and sentient, although to what capacity cannot be established….’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Robert said to himself aloud, imaging the agony Mr Saunders must have been in during his last few moments of life.

  ‘… The initial trauma appears to have been to the eye, and was likely made by a slim, cylindrical, pointed article administered to the eye with force. The blow initially pushed the eyeball back into the orbital socket, visible from the bruising to the brain in this location, before pulling the eye out of the socket. The optic nerve did not break, although it is stretched, presumably from when the eye was pulled out.

  The eyeball itself is punctured; there is a deep, circular-shaped wound which penetrates through the sclera, aqueous humor and ciliary body. It is impossible to determine exactly how far into the eye the instrument penetrated, but it did not reach the choroid at the back of the eye as this is unmarked. Fluids from the eye and blood would have rapidly trickled into the orbital socket, quickly filling the deceased’s mouth and throat. It is doubtful he would have been able to use his vocal chords as the fluid would have filled the buccal cavity and oesophagus, causing him to choke…’

  ‘Poor fucking bastard,’ Robert muttered, glancing up for a second to grab his white coffee, then deciding that his stomach couldn’t quite handle the warm, milky fluid. He deposited the mug back on his desk. His brain was too full of bloody images, wounded eyeballs seeping vitreous humor, dangling from stretched optic nerves and lips bubbling out bodily fluids.

  ‘… Apart from this wounding to the eye, the rest of the deceased face is unmarked. There is bruising to the skin around the deceased’s wrists and ankles from where rope ligatures have been fastened. The bruising to the wrists is significant and indicates that the deceased was struggling to try and remove the ligatures pre-mortem...’

  No Fucking shit

  ‘…The deceased’s torso and limbs have not been subjected to trauma. The genitals, on the other hand, have been completely removed; the penis and testicles have been cut away. The tearing to the skin and the lacerations to the bodily tissue in this area indicate that a bladed article, such as a knife or other sharp edged tool, was used and the blade does not appear to have been serrated for the cuts are smooth. However, whilst the cuts are smooth, there is no precision in their infliction; multiple lacerations surround the area, which suggests hurried, rapid movements…’

  Well, that was good at least, mused Robert. Imprecise incisions probably meant that the killer was lacking in experience. He just hoped it wasn’t the handiwork of a serial killer in the making; the removal of the genitals smacked of ‘killer’s trophy’ to him, one of the hallmarks of such killers. Mr Saunder’s privates hadn’t been found at the scene along with rest of him, so the killer must have taken them.

  ‘…Profuse bleeding would have ensued from this wound and it likely that this loss of blood and related body shock is ultimately what led to the deceased’s death.’

  The report then went on to discuss toxicology: blood-alcohol levels in Mr Saunders’ body suggested he would have been pretty drunk, but not totally inebriated; no evidence of illegal narcotics, or other foreign bodies in the blood. Then at the bottom of the report was the usual caveat explaining that the details contained within it had been formed based on the evidence presented to the pathologist by the cadaver, there was always margin for error and that the evidence obtained from the autopsy was true to the best of the expert’s belief and experience…blah, blah, blah. The usual ‘arse-covering-you-can’t-sue-me-if-I’m-wrong’ blurb, with which Robert was only too familiar. The police had an ‘arse-covering’ caveat for everything they did; at least they did once they reached a certain rank – usually chief inspector level and above. Not so much protection was afforded to the officers on the ground.

  Robert glanced up at the clock and noted that the afternoon was fast progressing into the evening. DC Lane hadn’t called him yet to say how she’d got on with her pub enquiries, so he pulled out his mobile and dialled her number. Her phone rang a few times before going to voicemail, her clipped English accent telling the caller she was sorry she couldn’t answer the phone but she would get back to them as soon as possible.

  ‘Elizabeth, just wondering how you got on today with your enquiries. I’m assuming you didn’t come up with anything, as if you had, I know you would have called. I’m leaving the office now but my mobile is on if you need to call about anything. By the way, when I said pub enquiries, I didn’t mean go out on the piss, right? Only joking, although if you are, have one for me.’

  He hung up the phone with a smirk. He had no doubt that Elizabeth had probably had a crafty drink or two, he certainly would have, but he also knew that she was professional above all else and would have made sure she got the job done first.

  Robert placed the pathology report and autopsy photographs into his desk drawer, securely locking them away from prying eyes. If he got a move on, he’d have time to take Fiona out to dinner. He might even have a few drinks himself. He could certainly do with a moment to unwind.

  Just as he was about to close the office door, the phone on his desk started to ring. He stood motionless in the doorway, deliberating if he could reasonably pretend to himself that he hadn’t heard it.

  ‘Fuck it!’ he swore, storming back to his desk, annoyed with himself for not leaving just a couple of minutes earlier. He was desperate for an evening with his wife and a good night’s sleep.

  He again briefly toyed with the idea of ignoring the call, but instead saw his hand reaching out to pick up the receiver.

  ‘DI Scott, murder squad,’ he barked gruffly into the handset.

  The voice on the end of the phone was quiet and Robert was beginning to think it was a crank call when he heard a small sob and a whisper.

  ‘Hello?’ he said again, in a much calmer, more soothing voice. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘DI Scott,’ the voice eventually said after another brief pause. ‘It’s Mrs Saunders. I need to speak with you about my husband. There’s something I think you should know.’

  ************************************************

  Elizabeth Lane was in the pub. She’d decided to have a drink after trawling around all the pubs within a mile radius of the hotel where Mr Saunders had been killed. DI Scott had told her to only visit the pubs within a half mile of the crime scene but she’d had taken it upon herself to extend the radius of her task. She had so desperately wanted to find someone who recognized Mr Saunders and could provide some information, any information, relating to the night in question.

  After hours of walking, jumping on and off the tube, and methodically traipsing around all the pubs meticulously marked on the map she had prepared earlier, and even to some that hadn’t featured on it, she had finally given up and returned to the first pub on her list. The Drunken Frog was barely a hundred meters from the hotel and it had seemed as good a place as any to call it a day and ring Greg to tell him to get down there for a little libation.

  She’d spoken to him over an hour ago, but he had as yet failed to arrive. She called him again; he picked up on the first ring.

  ‘Greg, get down here would you? I’ve been drinking now for an hour and a half on my own and the patrons of this fine establishment are starting to look at me funny. I think they think I’m on the pull!’ Elizabeth moaned, mobile phone pressed against her ear with her shoulder, her hands circling the glass in front of her, wiping condensation from its surface.

&nb
sp; ‘Well, unlike some people I know,’ Greg replied over the phone, ‘some of us have been busy working on a murder enquiry, not visiting pubs!’ he teased.

  ‘You cheeky git!’ she blurted out, pretending to be offended.

  ‘Yeah well you know, when you’re an old sweat like me, you can’t be taking any shit off young usurpers…’ he laughed.

  ‘Look Greg, don’t piss me about, ok? I’m knackered, my feet hurt and I’m not in the best of moods. Too many rejections will do that to a person.’

  ‘Thought you were used to rejection? Still single?’ he teased her some more.

  ‘You fuc…!’

  ‘Now, now officer Lane. I hope you weren’t about to use language unbecoming of a lady?’ Greg butted in before she could finish her sentence.

  Elizabeth sat open mouthed, thinking of a witty retort when Greg spoke again.

  ‘What do you want to drink?’

  ‘You know if you want to buy someone a drink it usually helps if you’re actually in the pub with them, Hampton.’

  ‘Turn around. I’m at the bar.’

  She turned and sure enough, there he was smiling at her, mobile still stuck to his ear. He gave her an exaggerated wave.

  ‘God, you’re such a twat.’

  She cut the call and got up to join Greg at the bar. He was still snickering to himself when she marched up to him and gave him a playful punch on the arm.

  ‘It’s been over an hour! What took you so bloody long?’ she questioned. ‘Seriously, that guy in the corner kept winking and smiling at me. I thought I was going to have to arrest him for being seriously weird.’

  ‘Weird cos he fancies you? Hmm, then again, I see what you mean. Who in their right mind…?’

  She dropped her jaw in mock disbelief then smiled: ‘My God! How rude! I’ll have another vodka as you’re buying.’

  Greg ordered their drinks and then the two detectives moved to one of the tables furthest away from the other punters to enable them to talk with relative freedom.