The warning signs had been there from the beginning. She should have bailed out after the soup course, certainly before dessert. But she had stupidly stayed to the end, and even gone home with the guy afterwards, so who could she blame but herself?
The man was a talker. Her sister had warned her about talkers. Guys who talked about themselves all the time – it was one of the primary indicators of a psychopath. Sarah read a lot of books about psychology. Or was it psychiatry? Melanie would have to ask her when she got out of this mess. If she ever got out.
Psychopaths didn’t scare Melanie. Half the guys she dated displayed strong psychopathic tendencies – glib charm, an inflated sense of self-importance, pathological lying. Sarah liked to point out that Melanie shared many of these attributes herself.
Whatever the psychological theories, Melanie had known there was something wrong with this guy right from the start. He’d spent most of their dinner date telling her about his ex-wife and why that bitch would never get a penny out of him, no matter how many fancy lawyers she hired to do her dirty work. By the time the waiter brought the bill, Melanie had a pretty clear idea why his wife had left him, but she made sure to smile prettily and keep her opinions to herself.
He was still talking now, telling her something about Jack the Ripper, but it was very much a one-way conversation. With a gag in her mouth, she wasn’t able to contribute anything beyond the occasional grunt or nod of the head.
They’d driven back in a black taxi cab to somewhere in North London, … that’s right, Harrow. Very posh. A smart apartment in a converted Victorian mansion block.
He’d hit her with something. A stick, or a cane, or … yes, that was it, a cricket bat. Sarah would probably have had some insight into what that was all about. Some kind of insecurity going back to his school days, no doubt. She’d blacked out immediately after that. And then he must have tied her to the metal bed posts. He didn’t seem to have undressed her, though. So this wasn’t about sex. The ropes and the knots must be more of a Boy Scout thing.
She looked up at him through her stinging eyes, her bound tongue unable to form words. Her left eye had swollen up and was half-closed. That half of her vision was painted red.
Focus, Melanie, listen to what he’s saying.
He seemed to be working up to some kind of point at last, after what seemed like hours of disjointed rambling. ‘Do you know what Jack the Ripper did to his victims?’ demanded the man. ‘He eviscerated them.’ He articulated the word with care, in five distinct syllables, as if he had been rehearsing it. ‘That means that he cut their insides out of them,’ he explained, just in case she wasn’t already familiar with the word.
‘Do you know how many women he murdered?’ he asked. ‘Do you?’ Melanie moved her head from side to side as much as she could. The movement triggered a fresh bout of intense pain. ‘Five. At least five. Maybe eleven. Possibly even more. Nobody knows for certain. It might have been dozens. Dozens of dead women. Eviscerated. Dirty prostitutes, all of them. Just like you.’ His eyes flicked over her body, and then around the room.
A prostitute? She didn’t recall having entered into any kind of contractual arrangement with this man, nor accepting payment for any services rendered. In fact, no services had been rendered. She was a thief, yes. A liar, certainly. But a prostitute? Technically not. She said nothing however. The gag saw to that.
‘They never caught him, though. Do you know why?’ Melanie shook her head again. ‘He was too clever for them. Too clever by half.’
The man produced a knife suddenly and held it up to the light. ‘See how it glints,’ he said, twisting it one way, then the other.
Melanie watched intently. The knife did indeed glint.
He held it against her throat.
She tried to hold his gaze steadily, but his eyes darted in all directions. She struggled to move, but he had tied her arms and legs brutally tightly to the bed. In an attempt to distract him, she made a gurgling sound in her throat.
‘Got something you want to say, have you?’ he demanded, and his face filled with glee. ‘Some famous last words? Think I care what you have to say? Think anyone cares? You’re just a dirty prostitute. Nobody cares about you. Nobody.’
He removed the knife from her throat and began pacing the room in agitation. She listened hard to catch his words. ‘Do it!’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Just do it!’
After a minute he returned and sat on the edge of the bed. The blade was on her throat again. She could feel its cold edge.
His eyes darted everywhere. ‘What about the new Ripper? Have you heard of him? I bet you have. Everyone has. He’s all over the news, isn’t he? Famous. Can’t get away from him.’ He laughed. ‘They can’t catch him either, the police. They keep thinking they’ve caught him, but he’s still out there. Still killing. Do you know what he does to his victims? He doesn’t just cut them up, doesn’t just eviscerate them, oh no.’
The man leaned in close. The blade pushed hard against her windpipe. Melanie held her breath.
‘Eats them, he does. Gobbles them up for his dinner.’ He sat back on the bed. The pressure of the blade eased a little. ‘You thought you were being taken out for dinner, right? You little slut. Turns out you are dinner.’
The man laughed again and stood up. He waved the knife in front of her, slashing the blade through the air. The activity seemed to please him. ‘I’ll be back later,’ he said and left the room. She heard the key turn in the lock.
Melanie struggled again with the ropes that bound her, but they refused to loosen. She resigned herself to a wait, whether short or long, she couldn’t guess. But he would be back at some time, and then who knew what might happen? Sarah might. She knew all about serial killers. She wondered how long it would be before her sister reported her missing, and whether the police would ever find her.
She stared up at the plain white square of the ceiling. A small crack ran along one edge of its elaborate cornice. She followed the line of the crack to the far corner of the room where it ended in one of the alcoves next to the chimney breast. There, a fat black spider busied itself with a captured fly that had become entangled in its web. Eviscerating it, probably.
She couldn’t help but think of the look of terror that so often haunted Grandpa’s eyes these days. Perhaps this was how he felt.
Chapter Forty-Four
Cambridge Street, South London, quarter moon
When PC Liz Bailey arrived at the centre for asylum seekers, events were already starting to spin out of control. The drop-in centre was a church hall belonging to the adjacent United Reformed Church on Cambridge Street. A large and angry crowd had gathered outside. Liz quickly counted at least forty people as the patrol car pulled up across the street.
The arrest of two Romanian men for the Ripper murders had been followed swiftly by speculation that a sinister gang of illegal immigrants was responsible for the crimes. The fact that a school headmaster had also been arrested seemed to have been forgotten in the rush to find a scapegoat.
The Ripper murders hadn’t finished either, despite the three arrests. Another gruesome murder had taken place the previous night. The body of a young woman had been found dumped on waste ground in an area frequented by immigrants from Eastern Europe. The killing had borne all the hallmarks of a particularly violent Ripper murder, the corpse torn to ribbons, limbs ripped from the torso, the body partially eaten. It seemed that one or more murderers was still at large, and the finger was being pointed at the immigrant community.
Now local people had decided to take the law into their own hands.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Dean Arnold, who was driving the patrol car. ‘This looks like a powder keg.’
Liz nodded grimly. Her flu was worse than ever, and the scratch on her arm was hurting like the devil. She had bandaged it up, but the wound kept weeping a yellow liquid. She had stepped up the painkillers from aspirins to ibuprofen, but her headache wasn’t getting any better. Dealing with a violent protest was t
he last thing she needed right now.
The crowd, which consisted of men, women and children, was pushing up against the door of the church hall. The protestors held banners and placards and were shouting abuse at the people holed up inside. One of the banners read, Romanians go home. Another read, Keep murderers out. A smattering of English flags and Union Jacks waved above the heads of the crowd.
‘How many people are in the building?’ asked Dean.
‘As many as twenty asylum seekers and volunteers. Come on.’ Liz pushed open the door of the car and stepped into the throng.
Another two uniformed officers had already arrived and were trying to force their way to the door of the drop-in centre. Dean elbowed his way after them, pushing through the crowd like a bull. Liz decided to start pulling people away from the back.
Before she could get started, a woman came up to her and barred her way. ‘You can’t stop us from protesting,’ said the woman. ‘We’re entitled to protect our community from these murderers.’ She clutched two children close to her side.
Liz raised her voice above the sound of the chanting crowd. ‘I’m going to ask you to step away from the community centre, madam. We need to clear a space so that your protest can proceed peacefully and the rights of the people inside the centre are protected too. Now if you’d just step back, we can allow you to continue your protest in peace.’
Two more women and some youths had joined the first woman. One of the youths stepped forward. ‘Ain’t gonna do that,’ he said. ‘Not until we’ve sent these Romanians a firm message.’
‘Yeah,’ shouted one of the other women, who was carrying a Romanians go home placard. ‘Everyone knows that’s where the murderers are from. They can’t stay here. It ain’t safe.’
‘I’m going to ask you again to step aside peacefully,’ said Liz. She was glad to hear the sound of sirens as two more police cars arrived. They were going to need at least a dozen uniforms to get this crowd under control.
‘Ain’t gonna do that,’ repeated the youth. The women nodded in agreement behind him.
‘Who’s gonna make us?’ demanded another youth who had pushed his way to the front. He wore a Union Jack baseball cap and had a scarf wrapped round his face.
‘I must warn you that any use of threatening language or behaviour toward a police officer is a criminal offence,’ said Liz. She stepped between the two youths and the women, trying to keep her antagonists apart. ‘Please step back now and allow me to carry out my job.’
‘No way,’ said the second youth.
‘They can’t live here,’ said the woman. ‘They’re murderers and criminals.’
Liz glanced behind her. The new police officers were engaged in stand-offs with protestors across the road. The crowd seemed to be growing as more people came out of side streets. Liz was on her own for now. She turned back to the youth with the scarf over his mouth.
‘Stand back now!’ she shouted. ‘Get back!’
The two youths stepped forward.
Liz grabbed hold of the one with the scarf. ‘I am going to arrest you for obstructing a police officer.’ She pulled a set of speedcuffs from her duty belt and pushed one arm of the cuffs against the youth’s right wrist. The cuffs snapped shut.
‘Hey!’ shouted the youth. ‘What you doing?’
He was fully cuffed before he realized what had happened. Liz grabbed his arm with both hands and dragged him away from the others.
Behind her, she heard shouts from protestors and police alike as the protest started to become violent. A brick sailed over her head and smashed through the window of a parked car as she dragged the youth to a waiting police vehicle. She handed him over to another officer and turned back to the fray.
More police had arrived, but the protestors greatly outnumbered them. The demonstration had turned ugly, with bricks and bottles being thrown overhead. A police officer staggered from the scene with a bloody face. Others followed, bringing their arrests with them, but the crowd had now doubled in size. A large window of the community centre smashed and fell to the ground, scattering splinters of glass both inside and out.
Liz grabbed hold of two of the women carrying Go home placards and shouted at them to go home themselves.
‘Not until you get rid of those Romanians,’ said the woman with the children in tow. ‘Yeah,’ said her friend, defiantly.
A glass bottle smashed to the ground, scattering glass around the children’s feet, making them scream.
‘Come on,’ said Liz urgently. ‘Get out of here before you get hurt.’
The women nodded and left then, a look of fear in their eyes.
More police cars arrived, and officers dashed out to help. Flashing blue lights reflected off the remaining windows of the building, blazing bright in the late afternoon gloom. The crowd began to break up in panic, with people running everywhere. Liz looked for Dean Arnold and found him protecting the main entrance to the centre. He was in a stand-off with two men. She pushed through the crowds toward him.
‘Step away from the door!’ Dean shouted at the men. ‘Get back!’ Dean was a burly man, but not as big as these guys. One stood a foot taller than Liz. She grabbed hold of him and pushed him up against the wall. As she did so, the other punched Dean in the face, giving him a bloody nose. Liz twisted the first man’s arm behind his back until he cried out, and held him there. ‘Help, over here!’ she shouted, hoping for some assistance.
She felt a stab of pain in her back and let go of her captive, who ran off. Someone had punched her in the kidney. She clutched at her back and turned to see who had done it. She was just in time to see a hooded and masked youth run forward holding a beer bottle with a burning wick sticking out of the top. The youth hurled the petrol bomb through the shattered window of the drop-in centre, then vanished into the melee.
‘Shit!’ said Dean. He had subdued his opponent and had him cuffed on the ground. ‘Get this bastard out of here. I’ll break down the door.’
‘No,’ shouted Liz, rubbing her back. Adrenaline had pushed her pain into the background. ‘I’ll go in through the window.’
She stepped up onto the window ledge, avoiding the jagged glass teeth around the edge of the frame, and jumped into the burning building.
Chapter Forty-Five
Inside the drop-in centre, fire had already taken hold. A burning pool of petrol spilled over the floor, and flames ran up curtains and other soft furnishings. A Christmas tree in the corner was a fiery column, hung with blackening decorations. Smoke was starting to fill the air inside the hall. A smoke alarm bleeped frantically overhead.
Liz looked around. A couple of dozen people cowered toward the back of the main hall, away from the windows and door. One woman was seated, clutching a compress to a wound on her forehead. They gazed at Liz in terror.
The back wall of the church hall was windowless. Behind the people a door stood open, but looked to be an internal door leading to another room. There was a fire exit to one side, but the burning petrol had blocked access to it. Liz scanned the space for alternative exits, but the only way out seemed to be the main door behind her, and the broken window by which she had entered. The fire was spreading quickly along shelves of books, leaping from chairs to curtains to piles of cardboard boxes. Flames already reached up to the ceiling, licking it with bright red tongues.
‘Quickly!’ shouted Liz. ‘Over here.’ She gestured to the people to cross over to her, but they remained huddled together in a tight group.
Liz swore under her breath, and crossed the hall toward them, keeping close to the wall and away from the pool of burning petrol that filled much of the floor. The acrid smoke stung her eyes and made her cough. When she reached the group, she went first to the injured woman. ‘Can you walk?’ she asked.
The woman said nothing for a moment, then nodded.
Liz took hold of her hand. ‘Come with me,’ she said.
The woman rose to her feet unsteadily. Liz wrapped one arm around her waist and allowed the w
oman to lean her weight against her.
A second woman came to help. ‘I’m the organizer,’ she said. ‘I’m in charge here.’
‘How many people are in the building?’ asked Liz.
The woman hesitated. ‘Twenty, including me,’ she said at last.
Liz realized that the woman was just as terrified as the refugees. ‘Is anyone else injured?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Then help me get her to safety.’
The three women set off, back toward the main entrance of the building. They had to move carefully, hugging the wall closely to avoid the fire. The injured woman was clearly in shock, and Liz half-dragged her along, making painfully slow progress. With each step the fire raged higher.
The smoke alarm had curled into a blackened twist of plastic and had ceased its warning wail. The time for warning was long past. The noise of the flames was now so great that Liz could hardly hear any sounds from outside. The black smoke made it hard to see. She pulled the woman onwards through the smoke and heat until they reached the exit.
The door had been locked from the inside, presumably to keep the protestors at bay. ‘I have the key,’ said the other woman. She fumbled in her pocket, searching for it.
Liz glanced back at the way they had come. The other people were following in single file, pressing themselves to the wall, away from the heat of the fire.
The woman brought out the key and pushed it toward the lock with trembling hands.
‘Here,’ said Liz. ‘Let me help.’ She took the key from the woman and twisted it in the lock. It turned and Liz pulled the handle to open the door.
Fresh air rushed in as she threw the door open, and Liz gulped it down in welcome lungfuls. But the fire welcomed it just as eagerly. Behind her the flames leaped higher, crackling and roaring, filling the space from floor to ceiling with their wild dance.
Two policemen rushed forward to help the women out of the building.
Lycanthropic (Book 1): Wolf Blood Page 20
