Six Dead Men

by Rae Stoltenkamp

  The guys in charge of the online message board sometimes put little jokes in to brighten people's day. It was frowned upon by higher up but generally accepted as harmless fun. As he glanced at the advertisement a cartoon ghost with a speech bubble containing the word Whooooooo! materialised from the background of the job specification.

  Deed found himself chuckling. How did the IT guys get away with that? Shaking his head he continued the job search he was undertaking. He consciously avoided any jobs advertised in the North of England. They always caught his eye none the less: an opening in Sheffield, two in Leeds and another in Liverpool. Pulling his eyes from these positions he continued his trawl of local jobs in his pay scale.

  *****

  As soon as he walked into the pub he wanted to walk right back out. The room was crammed with people. An umbrella of smoke hung over everyone. Urgh. I’m going to reek of it. He thought about heading out to the beer garden but worried Martin would not realise he was there. So he opted for staying where he could see the door. And the noise of the place astounded him. The endless babble of voices swelling and falling was punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. Were pubs always this noisy? And what were they all talking about? What do they all get out of this ritual? And when did I forget how to be a part of it all? He thought back to the last time he had been in a pub on a regular basis. It went back to the days when he was a lit student. He’d never found socialising easy. Being an only child made him prone to seeking the company of a good book before looking to human contact. But at least at uni he’d seen the inside of a pub. I’ve slipped back — Mr Hermit Crab.

  Feeling exasperated with himself he turned to the bar and ordered a malt. The scent and colour of the liquid lifted his spirits. His eyes lifted from the whisky to see Martin scanning the room for him. The natural thing to do would be to raise his arm. He found himself hesitating. But then Martin spotted him and waved a hand in greeting.

  Martin was breathless. “Sorry I’m late Sir.”

  “My fault entirely Martin. I keep you far too busy.”

  Martin stood wedged between a member of the public at the bar and Deed’s stool. He brushed his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his head.

  Deed coughed lightly and turned to catch the eye of the bartender. “What can I get you Martin?”

  Smiling brightly Martin pointed to a fridge behind the barman. “A Belgian fruit beer Sir.”

  “You can’t spend all night calling me Sir. It’s Robert.” Even as he said the words Deed knew he sounded officious. He was trying to relax but was feeling ridiculously nervous.

  Still smiling Martin nodded but Deed thought he spotted a glimmer of disappointment. Martin thanked the bartender by name then spoke to Deed. “How about going outside? It’s not as crowded.”

  “Yes. Definitely.” The fewer eyes on this meeting the better. There were several other policeman in the pub and he didn’t want other members of the team thinking they could pally up as and when they liked. Robert Deed. That’s a terrible thing to think. Why did this environment make him so uncomfortable? He couldn’t keep blaming his only child status. Deed followed Martin out to the walled garden.

  The first hint of autumn suspended Deed’s breath in the air. Two garden heaters gave off enough of a halo of warmth so it was still pleasant out. They found a vacant spot near the far wall. Martin settled into a slouch where the wall partly supported his frame, the bottle of fruit beer hanging at his side, hooked between fore and middle fingers. He looks so relaxed, at home even. Why didn’t I order a bottle of something? So much easier to hold onto when you don’t have a table at the ready. He realised Martin was talking to him and caught the word “rugby”. “Don’t know much about it Martin. Always felt I should learn the rules.” He felt foolish and unable to continue.

  “What’s your game then Sir? I mean Robert.”

  “Snooker. Learnt to play when I was at university.”

  Martin began bandying a list of names and scores around with some relish. Deed caught two or three names which sounded familiar. Shit, this is my punishment for not signing up for those interdepartmental socials. I have to say something. “I rarely watch the game anymore Martin.”

  He also didn’t like to mention he mainly played alone because he went down to the club at ridiculous hours in the morning when most people were still catching their REM sleep. It was his thinking mechanism — when he was working on a difficult case it helped him sort out fact from fiction. Sets of dashed white lines would emerge from the baize to suggest possible shots and angles. The order of it calmed him. If he did not control the cue ball then the other balls on the table controlled his every after action.

  There was a blank look on Martin’s face. I am the only man on God’s green earth who knows less than the contents of a postage stamp about sport. He and Martin lived in different worlds.

  *****

  Three weeks later the closing date for the psychic liaison post had been changed to mid October with a rider informing prospective applicants the job would also be advertised to the public; a sure sign nobody wanted it. The IT boys had jazzed it up even more. When Deed had checked the job board earlier in September, the ghost had been replaced by a figure of a medium with her hands hovering above a crystal ball. Now the font of the job title changed colour and appeared to drip down the advert like blood.

  Deed moved the mouse to scroll down the page, but his fingers disobeyed and clicked on the gory advertisement. He began reading its details.

  *****

  The telephone in his office rang and Deed turned to read his Commanding Officer’s name on the caller ID panel. He was reluctant to answer the phone. The man was trying to persuade him to take a sabbatical rather than go through with his transfer request. Taking a deep breath Deed answered the phone.

  Five minutes into the conversation and Deed was staring at the wall of awards and certificates opposite his desk.

  “Bob, you’ve been quiet for some time now. Are you still there?”

  “Yes sir.” A slight pause. “This psychic thing seems intriguing and I need a change of scene sir."

  “You don’t want to be rushing into something like this Bob. You didn’t attend the counselling sessions we advised after your father's death."

  Deed felt annoyed. He hated people calling him Bob and he didn't want the CO referring to his father. So he chose not to comment until the man was forced to continue.

  "Take a sabbatical. You've had a 100% clean-up rate and that means 100% commitment to the job. You’ve never taken any time off. A sabbatical will give you time to decide if this is really what you want." There was another pause which Deed refused to fill. “It’s a good time to take a sabbatical. Take a few months off and then we’ll go from there.”

  The idea of extended time off was appealing. The desire for a sense of peace coupled with the beauty of the old masters suddenly engulfed him. Italy would be nice, maybe Florence. Could even take the opportunity to learn some Italian. But the fact his CO was suggesting it made Deed discard the notion.

  He was experiencing the emergence of an uncharacteristic stubborn streak. “I'm adamant about the move to the psychic division Sir. I’ll still be in contact with this department as a consultant."

  He barely heard the rest of his CO’s comments and replaced the receiver with relief at the end of the call. Deed was glancing at the front cover of Joseph Carpenter’s personnel file. Unusual, not having a photograph on his website. What does he have to hide? But, the testimonials from his clients were overwhelmingly positive. But those can be faked.

  Feeling an inexplicable sense of apprehension mingled with anticipation, Deed opened the file. A passport sized photograph of an unassuming man stared out at him. There was a Buddhist monk aspect to the psychic’s features, the cheeks round with a hint of ruddiness. It was difficult to tell from the head and shoulders shot but Deed got the sense of a man in his early fifties. For Deed the photograph evoked the feeling that Joseph Carpenter like
d the good things in life. Likes good food, wine... no, beer and whisky I think. He let his eyes wander over the features in the picture, letting that instinctive part of himself take over. Yes, but only admires beautiful women, nothing more. Possibly prefers boys. Mmmm... not picking anything else up. There was also something closed off about the picture, something about the way the lips seemed pressed together and the eyes inward looking. He hides a part of himself. Wonder why that is? More interestingly for Deed, the picture provoked a concentrated feeling of calm in him, a serenity he had not experienced since the end of August.

  *****

  Alone in the Thamesview apartment his inheritance had bought; Deed, with his back to the riverscape on offer, was gazing at the stilled image of Madi on his television screen. He breathed a silent sigh. As he turned away from the screen he tried to focus on the views which had clinched the deal on his purchase of the flat. The calm waters of the river were a sharp contrast to his frame of mind, but the moody sky with its tumble of ash clouds reflected in the almost still surface of the river was a perfect match.

  Turning from the unseen cityscape and back to his obsession, he clicked the play button on the VCR. At the start of the Burry case the excuse he gave himself for bringing home the tape of that first interview with her was that he needed to study her. His gut had reacted to her and he always trusted his gut. It never let him down. He had rationalised his actions, telling himself he wanted to capture her, to prevent more crimes. To catch this killer he had to think like her, walk inside her mind, be her. It was not unusual for him to bring home files or tapes to review. But the more he had watched the video, the more disconcerted he became.

  And while he shied away from the reasons why he had not ever returned the tape to the station, his mind, yet again, ran back to the final interview with her in his office. Touching Madi had changed everything for him. In that moment she had somehow ensorcelled him. This was his only explanation for his strange behaviour ever since. He found himself thinking of himself as Darren in the ‘Bewitched’ series he used to watch as a child. He felt angry that his subconscious would choose to make light of his situation. Aaaargh! Madi’s not a harmless figment. She’s more... more dangerous, like the succubae in Bram Stoker.

  In Manchester she had been within his grasp. There was no way she could have stopped him if he had chosen to take the right action then and arrest her. On what charge Robert? What crime would you put on the custody sheet? Murder by kiss? No matter how much he tried to hide from it, he was uncomfortably aware of the real reason he had not done what he should have. I must curb these... feelings.

  Her image on his television screen was grainy, but the size of the picture made it seem as though she was in the room. She swivelled in the interview chair like a rider dismounting from her horse. Rose geranium scent wafted through the apartment. He knew it wasn’t really there, that it was only a sensory memory, but he tried to cling to it, making the mistake of taking a deep breath. He had gone to every high street perfumery to track down that scent, disconcerting assistants as he unstoppered bottles and sniffed at their contents. Then he had discovered it by chance in a corner at his local health food shop. Why had he never noted it before? The owner said he always stocked it in his minute aromatherapy section. He had bought a bottle there and then and sometimes he opened it just to remember. But he had not done that today. T urn it off Robert.

  A sigh from deep down inside welled up yet he continued to watch the video tape. In it Madi, back in her chair, tucked a strand of hair behind a tiny, elf-like ear and he felt a melting sensation in his chest. He groaned softly, hopelessly but did not stop the machine. Instead he unblocked the mute facility on his television and leaned towards the screen to listen to the soft hum of her voice. Then he slumped back on his black leather sofa. My own little siren who has wrecked the ship of my sanity . Closing his eyes he listened to the hypnotic rise and fall of Madi’s voice.

  Sun drops prick their way through a lacy layer of leaf canopy, leaves transparent in the glow of light, the flow of chlorophyll pulsing. The forest floor, a crazy mosaic of autumnal colour — leaves of oak, maple, larch, poplar and more. All these trees in one place, impossible. And then the snowdrops and anemones, the crocuses and hyacinths, the bluebells and daffodils, the lily of the valley and the tulips. Too many flowers... more impossibility. Picture perfect, too perfect. Aaah, I’m dreaming.

  A badger sow enters through an arch of flowering cherries into the filigreed light. I like badgers. Always make me think of that poem. How does it go? Oh yes, ‘Never saw a wild thing sorry for itself’ — Lawrence?... yes, Lawrence.

  Sniffing at the undergrowth it pauses, scratches restlessly at a carpet of bluebells with a forepaw till a patch of deep red earth is cleared. Her pawing creates a clearly demarcated rectangle of earth. See me. See me. She doesn’t see me. I wish she’d see me. Now she concentrates her efforts on creating a hole where the scattered and wilting flowers once bloomed. What’s she doing? I wish she’d see me.

  A terrier appears out of nowhere. No snuffling, or rustling of foliage, no whining or barking to indicate its arrival. Warn the badger! Warn the badger! Damn it. Damn it. The dog’s head is much larger than its body; canine teeth abnormally proportioned, dripping with saliva and blood —a shark on dry land. The dog turns its head, looks and dismisses what it sees. Not interested in me. Only the badger. WARN THE BADGER! Too late.

  The badger is frozen. Muscles clenched in fear. And submission. Move! DON’T JUST STAND THERE! Don’t just stand there.

  The terrier saunters towards her. The scent of the flowering bulbs grows in intensity, mingles and becomes a nauseating myriad of odours. Oh God, it’s the smell of death. Worse than the most decayed cadaver in the morgue. The badger’s breath wheezes out of her in whimpers of panic. She’s so afraid. Why can’t I help her?

  The snapping of a twig in the underbrush and the terrier, distracted for the briefest of moments, gives the badger the grace she so badly needs. Oh thank God. Thank God. She flees.

  The terrier does not pursue. Instead it sniffs leisurely at the marks the badger has made in the earth. It cocks a leg where the badger has so recently cowered. You bastard. You leave her be . Do you hear me? You leave her be. The stream of urine steams as it hits the ochre coloured earth. And the mud urine mixture scythes through the remaining flowers before coagulating. Oh Jesus. It’s grinning at me. The dog turns its back and leaves, nonchalance in its gait.

  Suddenly wide awake and very alert Deed scanned the room for danger. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it all the way up in his ears. His jaw muscles ached with tension. There was no sign of danger in the room but a hint of it still clung to the prey-predator sensors on the edges of his subconscious.

  What the HELL was that? The threat of violence the dream had evoked was proving difficult to shake off. Who or what does the badger signify? And the terrier — some sort of terror? Jesus, that thing was... nightmarish.

  But I don’t have nightmares.

  Before all this my dreams were dull, pedestrian. I have to stop this obsessing.

  The dream continued to hang over him — a pall that weighed down on him, sucking him into the back of the sofa. Struggling to release himself from the feeling he pulled himself away from the sofa. His legs felt stiff as he forced himself to rise from the suction cup of the leather. Striding jerkily over to the video machine he ejected the tape he had been watching and flung it violently into a far corner of the room. With legs still seeming full of lead he stalked to the hall where he pulled on a jacket and left the flat. It was no longer the sanctuary he had once come to believe it to be.

  This new job might help me forget her . This obsession with her is both mentally and physically unhealthy . I'm going to put all this behind me. I'm going to move into a new sphere of work. It's time to forget the six dead men. It's time to flush Madison Bricot from my system.

  His steps led him to a pub he’d always liked the look of but never entered. It was tim
e he made some changes in his life. He pushed at the swing door. Immediately a burst of noise spilt out into the street. For a moment Deed’s hand paused as his mind reconsidered his decision. Then, with fortitude, he pushed more firmly at the door and stepped over the threshold.

  Chapter 17

  Joseph Carpenter sighed expansively. I want to work with the police but sometimes they're so parochial. He crossed his legs impatiently as he waited for Inspector Deed. This will be the fifth detective assigned to work with me on these kidnap cases.

  But Carpenter had known instantly that Deed was different from the usual police officers who were foisted upon him. When he suggested to Deed they meet in a local pub there had been a pause before compliance but Carpenter sensed it was more to do with Deed warring with some aspect of himself than not wanting to meet him on a social level. Most of the other policemen and one police woman Carpenter had worked with had been reluctant to spend time in his company whether out in the field or alone. I don't really understand why they use me, their distrust of my profession is rampant within the police department. Maybe they feel once they call someone like me in they're admitting defeat. I can understand the bias though; so many charlatans in this business. The sceptics always turn to science to prove the existence of the gift. How am I meant to explain that some things in life are inexplicable and rely solely on blind faith? They viewed him as a side show freak, something akin to the Elephant Man. His thoughts were curtailed as he spotted a tall, well built, middle-aged man entering the double doors of the pub.

  He knew Deed before the man introduced himself. As he entered the pub, a subtle vulnerability leaked from his persona. Outwardly he was assured and capable but Carpenter sensed fluctuations within.

  Still waters run deep, he mused as he raised a hand to identify himself to the policeman. And not really used to pubs as a meeting venue yet.