Six Dead Men

by Rae Stoltenkamp

  Chapter 6

  Terence Ire straddled Marc Goodwill. The pressure of Ire’s position on Marc’s chest forced him to pant for breath. Ire’s legs pinned Marc’s arms against the side of his body where he lay on the patterned two star hotel carpet. Marc’s eyes were wide with fear. Ire’s left kid gloved hand was clamped over Marc’s mouth.

  “That’s Italian leather you’re sniffing there Marky boy. Expensive stuff, but worth every penny. The Italians know about leather.... And motorbikes.”

  Marc tried to shift his position under Ire’s weight.

  “There’s no use struggling Marky boy. I’m fitter than you are and I’m stronger than I look. I work out everyday. A combination of strength and stamina — that’s my routine. I had to miss my session today because of you Marc.

  Now, let’s go back to the beginning again. Have you told anyone else about what you’ve found?”

  Marc tried to shake his head under the pressure of Ire’s hand.

  “You’re not just saying that because you know it’s what I want to hear are you?”

  Again the attempted headshake. Marc’s breath was becoming ragged and a vein was throbbing near his temple. His eyes rolled back in his head.

  “Uh uh uh. Don’t you go fainting on me now Marky.”

  Ire shifted his weight on Marc’s chest to give him more room to breathe.

  “Two more questions. Did you email any of this stuff to anyone else? No.... Good. Did you save any of this work anywhere else besides your laptop?

  Marc’s left eye flicked over to the hunting knife which was balanced with its tip embedded in the carpet and its serrated edge just inches from his eye. Ire’s right forefinger rested lightly on the top of the knife.

  "If you’re lying to me I’m afraid your family will suffer. Marky, are you getting my drift?”

  Marc could only grunt from behind the gloved hand masking the lower half of his face. His cheeks were blotchy and his nostrils flared. Pathetic tears ran from the corners of his eyes to soak the green carpet.

  Ire shifted his position swiftly and the knife was suddenly more securely in the grasp of his right hand. He slid the blade beneath Marc’s rib and felt the tip puncture the heart. He smiled at the look of surprise on the dying man’s face and pushed the knife as far as it would go before he twisted it expertly. He felt Marc’s body shudder against his holding calves and thighs. As Marc’s eyes rolled back in his head Ire released his left hand from Marc's mouth. He wiped the saliva and snot on the glove on to the dead man’s t-shirt. He pulled the blade out and stood in one fluid movement. He watched the blood droplets with fascination as they splattered on the carpet and the lower part of Marc’s t-shirt.

  Ire then pulled an evidence bag from his back pocket and carefully stowed the knife in it and tossed it on the unmade bed. He went through the room methodically, searching for any possible hiding places where Marc may have stashed papers, discs or memory sticks. He gathered everything together before placing them into his rucksack. Lastly he picked up Marc’s laptop and slid it alongside everything else in his bag before shouldering it.

  Ire made his way to the fire door on the roof of the hotel. Removing the doorstop he had placed there earlier that morning, he looked out at the heavy clouds of the October sky before crossing over to the roof of the house next door where he slid down the drainpipe and slipped in through the pre-arranged open window of Yelena’s bedroom. Less than tuneful singing was coming from the bathroom to the accompaniment of running water. He placed the gym bag under her bed and began removing his clothing. The gloves he stuffed into his pockets while the rest of the clothes he dumped on a heap near her dressing table. His warrant card he placed in its usual place on the dressing table next to Yelena’s pack of birth control pills.

  Ire glanced at his reflection briefly in the dressing table mirror and smiled with satisfaction at the tautness of his frame, particularly the definition he’d achieved in his deltoid and pectoral muscle groups. Jean Claude Van Damm in his hey day. He strode across the floor in a few strides and yanked the bathroom door open.

  The singing stopped abruptly. “Ire! Aaaagh! Ok, ok — you want go again.”

  Ire’s vice-like grip clamped Yelena’s hands above her head. “I don’t like your weary tone. Just remember why you’re still in business.”

  With that verbal reprimand he pushed Yelena up hard against the cracked shower tiles so that her soaped breasts bulged and the veins stood out against the suds. Her right cheek grazed the cracked soap holder over and over again with each of Ire’s jagged movements. As his pleasure mounted he bit into her right shoulder savagely.

  Chapter 7

  For the first week Madie just slept. She knew Brendan didn’t understand it.

  “Madie what’s going on? You’ve been hidden in the box room for days now and you barely speak to any one. You won’t even tell me why you’re here.”

  “I just need some space Brendan. Some time away from London.” Please don’t ask me to explain. I can’t. I don’t know how.

  Brendan did a circuit around the scuffed coffee table which sat between the telly and the Ikea futon. For about the fifth time he stumbled over the tatty sheepskin rug which was meant to disguise the even tattier carpet beneath it. “I like having you here, but you could at least try to be a bit more sociable. My friends are starting to think I made up the sister story and I’m just a sad bastard.”

  “Does it matter what they think?” Better for me to stay out of the way at any rate. Wish I could make you understand that little brother.

  Brendan threw himself onto the futon and slumped down with his long legs stretched out. He thumped the leg of the coffee table with a trainer clad foot in a gesture Madie had all but forgotten. He’s mad at me. Can’t really blame him.

  “I’ll call them down in London and find out you know.” His tone was challenging.

  “So call then.” He won’t call. He’s worried Allie will give him the third degree about how his studies are going and from what I can see there’s not a lot of that happening. And he’s never been that close to Frankie. He might call Luis, but there’s only a slight chance of that.

  Madie watched her brother tussle with the thought of talking to his other siblings and saw his desire to stay out of the limelight of the sibling wars win out over wanting to know what was bothering Madie. “Look I know you’ve got mates coming round later. I’ll make myself scarce. There’s a movie I want to see.”

  “Whatever.” Brendan rearranged his length on the futon and stretched his arm out for the television remote. Madie heard the electronic click and buzz as the set came on and she knew he’d given up on question time for the moment.

  Madie moved out a month later.

  “Your friends are too noisy and keep me awake.”

  “Aah come on Madie. If you didn’t stay in so much it wouldn’t be a problem.” Brendan looked just like Frankie as he stood with his legs apart and his fists on his hips.

  “I need to get a place of my own. I’m staying in Manchester a bit longer than I said.”

  “Madie, what the hell’s going on? It’s Frankie right? You guys never did get on so great.”

  Madie found herself nodding. But she really didn’t want him to know the truth; how his mate Andy had bumped into her in the corridor on his way to the loo. His smile had been engaging and his “Hello luv.” Had set panic alarms ringing inside her mind. She had shrunk back against the confining space of the too small hall and prayed that no part of her would touch him. How could she be so stupid, coming to live with her brother, forgetting he would have all his mates round.

  Now she had a job in the kitchen At St Joseph's Shelter for Homeless and Abused Young Women and she was sharing a two bedroom flat with Cara who also volunteered at the shelter. If she managed her savings just right she figured she could do this till she found a job that didn’t bring her into direct contact with too many people.

  “Alright luv” said the grinning bus driver as Madie jumped onto
the bus. She smiled at him. She loved that about Manchester — the way people treated you as if you were a part of their family. She felt warmed and miserable all at once. A young man in a smart raincoat with a golfing umbrella sporting a Salford estate agents’ logo smiled engagingly at her. On the verge of returning the friendly gesture she scowled instead and pushed her way past him and upstairs to avoid him trying to chat or pick her up. Once settled on the top deck she closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath to steady her jangling nerves. Sometimes the self imposed restraint under which she lived left her feeling raw.

  “Hey Madie!”

  She jumped. She looked over towards the voice and felt as though her heart was rattling in her chest. Relief washed over her. It was Cara and she was indicating there was a free seat next to her. Madie worked her way along the aisle of the swaying bus and sat down - time to pretend that her life was normal.

  “How’s the job hunting going Cara?”

  “Still slow. It seems I lack experience. Are you heading up to St Joseph’s now? You’re a bit early.”

  “Yep. I heard that a whole batch of new girls came in yesterday, all still in their teens.”

  “I guess that means we’ll be pretty busy tonight.”

  They both sighed sadly.

  Madie felt safe at the homeless shelter where she could stay hidden in the kitchen, cooking and serving food. She never had to come into direct contact with anyone except Cara and Moira, the supervisor. She also preferred to work nights because there were fewer people volunteering and so she could steer clear of any complications. She could try to be a good Samaritan and perhaps make up for the evil she had done. What else could she do?

  Her brow furrowed as she spotted the young man she had tried to avoid on the lower deck making his way up the stairs. He tried to make eye contact with her as he headed towards a space that had become vacant behind her and Cara. His hand brushed against hers briefly where it lay on the hand rail. She turned her head sharply and pretended to look out of the steamed over window.

  “Stuck up bitch.” he muttered as he sat down.

  She swallowed the saliva that was suddenly threatening to swamp her mouth and said, “It’s too hot up here. I’m going back downstairs. I feel a bit faint.”

  “Oh, okay.” said a bemused Cara. “I’m going to stay here and read my book. See you in a bit.”

  Madie nodded and made her way back down to the lower deck of the bus. She clung onto the rail at the exit doors with both hands and pressed her cheek against the cool metal. It made the heat of her panic subside somewhat and she began to feel a little better. He’s been trying to chat me up for a week now. I have to take a different bus tomorrow. No, every day from now on. No routine. Have to avoid seeing the same people. Mustn’t let people notice me. Got to be more careful.

  *****

  Later, in the sanctuary of her bedroom, shunning sleep to avoid the nightmares which plagued her constantly, Madie wrote in her journal. She employed this writing ritual religiously. She had bought the notebook in a pound shop because she liked the pre-Raphaelite picture on the front.

  La Belle Dame Sans Merci , by Sir Frank Dicksee, circa 1902 the inscription on the inside of the cover told her. Every 20 or so pages the notebook had a new picture. Something in these images appealed to Madie. They spoke of a world beyond the ugliness she felt was beginning to overwhelm her. Besides the picture on the front cover another of Madie’s favourites was The Lady of Shalott. When she first saw this print the woman seemed so at peace with her tapestry, but the closer Madie looked the more she sensed the isolation and loneliness of the depicted figure. Often Madie would stare at the picture and feel she was that woman trapped in the tower.

  From the pound shop she had also bought a set of scented gel pens which smelled nothing like the scent they claimed to be, but Madie liked the lurid colours of them. She always used a different colour for a new entry. Tonight it was Andrew’s turn. She chose the acid green pen from the pot on her tiny bedside table and wrote steadily till her eyelids began to flutter and she could scarcely see the page.

  Andrew was nice. Only met him the once. He told me I could get into modelling. Didn’t really believe him. Even I know I’m way too short. But he was interested in what I had to say. Listened to me. I think I even talked about college. Brendan gave me one almighty lecture about him on the way to that party. Had to remind him I was older than he was and didn’t need looking after. Besides, everybody else was there. I was in no danger whatsoever.

  But Luis had to spoil everything. Kept insisting Andrew had spiked my drink. Ridiculous, just because he caught us kissing...

  So stupid. Something so simple and that’s how I did it. Andrew wanted to kiss me and I let him. And now he’s... Reminded of the reason for her exile Madi couldn’t continue. She curled herself into a foetal position around the journal, her hand still clutching the supposedly lime scented pen in a death-like grip. Unhappy thoughts raged through her mind till mental exhaustion finally pushed her into sleep.

  Every night she wrote a little more about what she remembered of each of her victims. And each night she tried to ascertain why this was happening to her. And each night she failed to find an answer. And in the coldest hours before the dawn, without fail, she woke in a trembling sweat from yet another nightmare. Robert Deed regularly featured in these dreams of terror. What if I’ve killed him? O God! I don’t want him to be dead. But if he was alive he’d come and find me.

  He was the one person Madie thought of constantly but never wrote about in her journal. If she wrote about him then it would mean that like the others he was dead. She didn’t want him to be dead. She really needed him to be alive. So many times she imagined him tracking her down, knocking on her door and wrapping her in his arms, telling her everything would be just fine. But then the day dream would dissolve and Madie would remind herself of the look she had seen on his face that day at Manchester Piccadilly and how impossible it was for him to want to help her make everything right again. Stupid, stupid woman. How could any man love you knowing what you are? Because if by some miracle she hadn’t managed to kill him, Madie had no doubt Robert Deed knew exactly what she was. And this was why she would never see him standing outside her door, ever.

  Chapter 8

  “Come on, come on, I know you’ll be in the crowd somewhere.” Ire checked the surveillance video again. He watched the pedestrians in the scene and scanned their faces for the one he was certain would be there. “Aha, there you are my beauty.”

  He was looking at footage the Drug Squad had been gathering for months now. It seemed that just as soon as they were about to effect a major raid their main suspect would go missing and then turn up dead. They had passed the tapes onto him because he had a reputation for being able to identify every scumbag that had ever walked the streets of Manchester and Salford. In the course of this Ire noticed a petite young girl who always appeared a day before the suspect disappeared. You certainly get around . He decided there and then he was going to have to check out the young woman.

  Now he picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory. “Are your guys still doing that surveillance in Salford?”

  “Yeah we are, but we’re getting pretty frustrated. We need to make some major busts soon.”

  Ire zoomed in on the figure of the woman on his screen. “Look, I’m checking out that spate of scumbag deaths you asked me to look at and I think I have a lead.”

  “That would be good. We just found another body in the canal.”

  Several images of the woman now filled Ire’s screen. “Who was it?”

  “We’re still waiting for confirmation but we think it’s Billy Saunders.”

  Ire chose one of the images which showed the woman’s features clearly. “Isn’t he Dingo’s enforcer?”

  “That’s the one. And if the squished up mess we dragged out of the canal is Saunders then it must have been some serious fucker who got him.”

  “Yeah right.” Done with h
is crop and zoom job, Ire pressed the attach button on his email. “Okay, I’m e-mailing you a still of a young woman. See if she turns up on any of your more recent footage and let me know.”

  “Thanks, we’ll put a tag on her and see what we can find out.”

  “Keep me updated with what you find Brian.” Ire replaced the receiver before Brian could reply and turned his attention back to the picture of the woman. There was something mesmerizing about her. By God! You're a bit of alright my girl. Would be a shame if you’re involved in these deaths. But let’s find you and then, who knows, maybe you and I can link up. I bet you’re willing to do all sorts of things to a man.

  He licked his forefinger and touched it to the frozen image of the young woman’s face. As he did so he made a sizzling sound between his teeth.

  “You’re a hot one alright.”

  Chapter 9

  Madie made her way to her favourite spot in the greasy spoon. It was owned by a middle aged couple from Cyprus called Jack and Joanna. The shop itself was scarcely larger than an average living-room, but they had managed to squeeze the maximum number of booths into the tiny space. The booths were made to Cypriote specifications and if anyone taller than five foot two tried to sit in them they became permanently ensconced. Hand-made signs indicated set menus and specials of the day made by Joanna’s own fair hand. The warmth of the couple’s reception compensated triple-fold for the lack of space in the café. Joanna brought a cup of tea over as soon as Madie sat down.

  “Your usual love?”

  “Yes, thanks Joanna.” She smiled up at the portly figure and reached for one of the tabloid papers the shop had delivered every day. She never read the paper, only ever turned to the crossword page. She scrabbled in her coat pocket for the pen she kept there and was distracted by Jack coming out of the café’s kitchen to greet her. The couple’s care and concern was one of the few things that made her lonely days that much more bearable. Under the wing of their foreign accents and the familiar odours of toast, sausage, egg and bacon Madie was learning to relax a little into her chosen life of exile.