“You’re here already. I was going to buy you a cake and give you the latest news.”
Ruby already carried a bag, bulging with whatever she had bought. “Silvikins, I saw you at breakfast.”
“But I didn’t want to talk in front of the others,” Sylvia explained. “Come on, beautiful Bluebell, I’ll buy you a coffee and we can share cakes.”
The village shop sold bread and cakes in the front, and a small café at the back sold the tea, coffee and chocolate drinks. The entire place frequently changed hands, since the business was erratic. There was a maelstrom of profitable activity during the tourist season and on the occasional sunny weekend in spring, while the rest of the year brought in a sad loss, even accounting for the Rochester residents, making it hardly worth opening. The Tablecloths looked as though they’d cost a whole season’s profits.
Sylvia sipped her coffee and said, “You don’t listen to the news, do you? No, nor do I, but I listened this morning on purpose. That wretched creature Sullivan has escaped.”
Spluttering through her second cream cupcake, Ruby spat crumbs. “People don’t escape from prison these days. This isn’t Alcatraz. What happened?”
Sylvia handed her a napkin. “I don’t think escapes were common from Alcatraz either, but that’s beside the point. They think he had inside help. It was a transfer, he was being taken to a more secure gaol somewhere. Frankland Prison, wherever that is. Life sentence inmates, I believe. But after a couple of hours, they found it wasn’t the right man they had chained in the back of the van, and they couldn’t find Sullivan anywhere. Ridiculous.”
The café was brightly lit, which added some vague optimism to an otherwise grey day and dismal news. “Top up the coffee?” asked the waitress.
Ruby nodded. “And your cupcakes are delicious. These little chocolate things with cream on top. Can I have another of them too please?”
Sylvia scowled and was ignored. “I make them myself,” added the other woman. “I’ll bring a selection.”
Back on subject, Sylvia put her head down and kept her voice low. “You’ll be sick after all that cake. But listen, it’s important. That monster knows us, and he’s spoken of revenge. I don’t know his wife but she’s in danger too. Lionel Sullivan is fairly recognisable, but he could be anywhere. I assume the police will watch the area fairly thoroughly. Well, they’ll want him back.”
“He might go back to his shed?” Ruby shivered.
“It isn’t there any longer. The police tore it down.”
“Where’s Frankland Prison?” Ruby asked, finishing her coffee. “If that beast escaped on route, then he may be miles away.”
“Up north, on the east coast,” said the voice behind a large plate of oozing cake. “Durham, or near there.” She set the plate down. “I’m Kate. I bought this place a year ago. I’ve seen you in here before? It’s been a struggle, unfortunately, but I do love baking.”
Ruby admitted, “I’ve been buying cakes here for about five years. Gorgeous, but I don’t often sit in.”
The conversation was becoming two sided. “The wretch didn’t escape from the police van,” Sylvia pointed out after Kate had trudged off again. “He never got on. Someone else took his place. Now that has to be an inside job. Bribery or threats or something. So Sullivan is somewhere in Gloucestershire or nearby.”
“Well, they’ll catch him soon enough,” decided Ruby. “He’s a big slob so he can’t hide in a crowd, and he can’t go back home and he probably hasn’t got any friends, and hundreds of policeman will be out searching for him.”
“I’m not sure about the hundreds,” said Sylvia. “And he had a good plan for escaping so perhaps he has a good plan for afterwards. Anyway, I’m going back to the manor to watch the news. Are you coming?”
“Wait a minute while I buy the rest of these cakes.”
The news was not inspiring. Lionel Sullivan had not been recaptured. Nor was there any breakthrough on the bodies in the chimney case. Harry was offered a cupcake with a chocolate butterfly sitting on the cream peak. He shook his head. “Nearly lunchtime. And that looks too much like a trapped budgie.”
Ruby ate it herself.
The girl was crying again. She could hear noises from the room next door, but could not understand what they meant. The chain around her ankle did not permit her entrance into the next room, but on occasion when Master unlocked it and came in, she had been able to see what it was like, and had been astonished to find it only a little superior to her own. Both rooms were dark and windowless, both were barely furnished with just one single bed in a corner, two little hard chairs in her own room but two larger cushioned chairs in the other. The other room also had a toilet, whereas hers had a bucket next to a small hole in the floor. The hole was an earth filled sewer and stank, yet gradually Eve had become accustomed to the stench and barely noticed it anymore. On a little table in the next room were a few pornographic magazines, a pile of old books, and other things she would have adored to make use of herself, especially the kettle with several broken cups, the loo with a solid seat, and the running water. The water came from the basin beside the toilet, and a pot of tea bags appeared to be refilled fairly regularly. There was an open bowl of sugar which was also often refilled, much to the delight of the cockroaches.
Her first glimpses of Master’s small dirty bedroom had disgusted Eve. But slowly, in contrast to her own, she had relished so much, including the superior bed. On the first morning of her abduction, in a terrified whisper, Eve had asked permission to go to whatever corridor held the toilet. Master had pointed to the bucket and the hole against the far wall. He had remained watching. Eve had sobbed for long hours and again into the night.
Yet everything remained dirty. Master hardly ever washed anything, nor had he any easy way of doing so, and Eve had no access to clean water at all. She cried most of the time. Twice she had tried to kill herself, but this had been by wrapping the chain around her neck and pulling, which had done nothing but make her cough and vomit. The vomit stayed on the floor until it dried up and chipped off.
Unable to count the passing of time, Eve knew simply that her imprisonment had lasted for at least a week. She knew more about herself now, the lack of both courage and imagination which she daily tried to increase. She learned even more about Master. He was crippled, mentally impaired in several ways, and probably suffered from epilepsy or some similar condition. Yet this list of degenerative conditions did not make him as desperately unhappy as Eve would have expected. Presumably, he had never known any life different. But he was not confined to his small room the way she was in hers. She heard him leave and later return. Once when he failed to properly lock their shared door, it had swung open and showed only empty space. Eve had tried in frantic determination to escape, but the chain around her right ankle had been unbreakable and she was sitting on the floor sobbing when Master came back some hours later.
He treated her in three ways, and the conditions rarely altered. He wanted sex. This mattered to him and he insisted on when and how this happened. He had marched in one day, pointed to the bucket, and ordered, “Tinkle.”
Having discovered the dangers of disobedience, Eve had sat on the bucket, balanced with legs apart, closed her eyes, and tried to urinate. Since she ate and drank little, this took some time, but Master waited in silence. Eventually she managed to obey.
Master had grunted. “No fun,” he declared, and left the room. But he experimented with many odd ideas and his appetite was demanding.
When he felt thwarted, antagonised, disobeyed or in any manner annoyed, Master flew into a rage of terrifying panic. He thumped holes in walls, kicked and screamed, tore out his own hair and Eve’s, damaged or destroyed anything in his way and behaved like a buffalo in panic. But these tempers cooled abruptly. He would wipe his eyes, gulp, and leave the room quietly.
Master’s third rule of behaviour was unexpected at first, although Eve found it hard to manipulate. Master became suddenly sympathetic, caressing and murmuring. He b
rought her food and alcohol, helped her bandage her knee where he had kicked her and made her bleed and limp. He had kissed her ear and told her he’d look after her. She was, he said, his little kitten.
“I had a little kitten before,” he mumbled. “But she weren’t a good girl. She were naughty. Then she went away. I can’t remember where she went but I ain’t seen her since. You is my nicest little kitten ever.”
“How many,” Eve croaked, “have you had?”
“Dunno. Lots. But not so many. Two maybe. No, more. A hundred p’rhaps. Dunno really. Counting is rotten hard work.”
“I could teach you.”
But then he had lost his temper. “You wanna be a teach person? You fink you’s better n’me? I never liked teaching folk. You shut yer ugly face.” And he had punched her in the mouth, making her lips and her gums bleed.
It was after many other punches that one of her front teeth came loose and eventually fell out. Since there was no mirror, she did not see herself until one day when Master brought her a large bowl of drinking water. As she bent to drink, she had slurped up her own reflection, gasped, and burst once more into tears. Now permanently naked, she was filthy and scarred, her hair was missing large clumps and the rest hung in thick greasy strands. She had one black eye, swollen lips and the missing front tooth. Her left cheek was badly cut and although the wound had partially closed, it was black and oozing.
That had been when she attempted her second suicide, but that had failed as had the first one.
Although Master’s legs were unusually short and bent outwards, his arms were normal length, giving him a gorilla gait with his knuckles almost to the ground. Sometimes Eve felt sorry for him, but pity was hard to maintain when the man was raping her with particular brutality. He was well endowed, but also liked using a bottle. Sometimes he fell asleep beside her. Once she had tried to strangle him with the chain as she had tried to use it to kill herself, but Master had snored and fallen from the bed. She tried again. Then he woke, confused, and stumbled back to his own room.
She was too frightened to try again. Even a frown in his direction could send him into fury.
“I’m getting a proper telly,” he said one day. “Dunno where to put it. Maybe near me bed. Or you wants it? Might be nice, eh?”
“Jesus, yes,” Eve gasped. “Yes please.”
He staggered in with the screen in his arms two dreary weeks later. Although small and a little cracked, it was watchable. Three channels worked well. Master stood it on the floor and plugged it into the nearby socket. For the first day, they saw only blurred flickers, but on the following day, Master came home with an indoor antenna. It worked. They both sat on the floor and watched with animation. Eve had strict instructions not to turn it on herself during the night or Master’s absence at any time. But one day she managed to see the news.
Chapter Five
He had written, “Now an expert on the vicious crimes of others, I have been investigating the bodies in the chimney. A nasty case.”
But Paul had got no further since investigating anything seemed unusually difficult. Just starting an investigation was a significant challenge. He had rented a bedsit in Cheltenham, set up his laptop, got a part-time job in the local Tescos, and dated the girl who seemed to spend all her days cleaning out the freezers. Janet was pretty but not the most intelligent of dates he’d ever been unfaithful with. He did, however, spend more time with Janet than he did with his laptop.
Now using his own name, resting on the fame of his earlier notoriety as an accused serial killer, Paul had sold his small book in large quantities. Doing the same again lit his hope as though a small torch flickered just above his head. He visited the house and was permitted nowhere near it. The garden was being excavated one small square at a time, and it appeared that the house was being demolished in almost the same manner. There were police on the roof and the chimney was a pile of bricks without stature. Paul sighed and went back to work.
Winter in the valley was dour. Winds blasted through and the sheep on the low surrounding hills found their own valley hideaways. Kate Howard closed up shop and went to visit Ruby at Rochester Manor. She took cakes. “Those bearing cake,” Lavender said as she opened the door, “will always be welcome. Especially by Mrs Pope.” She poked her head around the living room door and nodded. “Ruby dear, you have a visitor.”
Harry and Sylvia had been talking over a coffee table covered in empty cups, small plates, and glasses smeared with the dregs of orange juice. Ruby and Stella were together on the second couch. Ruby hopped up and waved. “How sweet of you to come, Kate. And cake too. Lavender, could we have more tea?”
“We were talking crime and serial killers,” sighed Stella. “Not the nicest subject. But it’s all hit rather close to home just recently.”
“I know about those poor little girls in the Tudor house,” said Kate, delighted to have a seat right in front of the fire. She risked taking off her gloves and scarf. “I actually went to visit that house once just a few years ago. I wanted to move to something bigger. My husband and I are a bit squashed at present. I must say you have a wonderful home here.”
With a vague hand and fingers fluttering in all directions, Ruby said, “But there’s a lot of us live here. Retirement, you see. What does your husband do?” Not that she really cared, but it might be a path to mentioning her own now dead but once famous husband.
“Maurice teaches in the local Primary School. And our little girl goes there. Mia. She’s eight. Yes – you said about the crime. It’s horrifying. To think I looked at that chimney and thought what a wonderful fire you could build on that huge hearth.”
“And if a bulky man with huge hands and feet ever comes into your nice little shop,” said Ruby, “call the police because he’s a serial killer too.”
“Just walking around and going into cafes?”
“He’s the one who escaped,” said Harry. “And sadly he might be looking for us.”
Kate giggled slightly, presuming an exaggeration. “I popped in to bring the cakes from this afternoon,” she said. “It’s so quiet outside, there seemed no point in keeping open. These were left unsold. Not stale – made this morning. But I thought you might like them instead of me just giving them to the fish.”
“Did you notice,” asked Sylvia abruptly, “signs of anyone living in that house when you considered buying it?” The tea had arrived, a large flowered teapot, matching milk jug, sugar bowl, and cup of Grissini brought in by Arthur. Lavender trotted behind with a rattle of cups and saucers. Sylvia poured the tea but peered through the steam as she’d carried on talking. “Those girls were obviously kept as sex slaves in the cellar. The cellar didn’t lead directly into the house, but someone else must surely have stayed there, keeping the girls locked up, fed and watered and so on.”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “It was two years ago now, maybe about two and a half. I can’t really remember. No fire definitely, I do remember that because the hearth was full of smelly ashes, all cold. It was all dreary and dark with no furniture, although I think there was a sideboard, you know, a great big wooden thing with carved corners and drawers. But I remember a rug in front of the fireplace. Big fluffy polar bear type rug.”
Harry sat forwards at once. “One of the partially decomposed bodies had white nylon fluff in her hair.”
“But those sort of rugs are terribly common. I doubt if tracing it would help with a thing.”
“We could try.”
“You could go off to Cavendish House tomorrow,” suggested Stella, “and see if they know who bought any but I doubt anyone will remember that after two years and more. Besides,” she clutched her teacup, “I don’t want to get involved. It’s sickening.”
“There’s another carpet shop near the fountain,” said Kate.
“And a very expensive shop on the outskirts, Tewksbury side,” remembered Harry. “I can do the lot tomorrow. It’ll be a good drive instead of slouching through the mud.” He grinned. “Might as we
ll make use of the new car.”
“I could come too,” offered Ruby.
“Sorry.” Sylvia patted Ruby’s hand. “We’ll probably end up in the pub and you’re always tired by seven. Best stay here,” she said. “Or at some nice friendly cake shop in the village.”
The Rochester Manor garage was a half walled dump which Lavender and Arthur both insisted was not worth the money to enlarge or update. Few of the residents owned cars since most of them admitted to failing eyesight but Harry drove his new Lexus out of the shadows with pride, let the engine run in order to get the heating on full, and waited for Sylvia. He’d bought the car with the money from the sale of his little house, and Sylvia had paid for the luxury model. It was bright blue since neither of them wanted to seem old, traditional and boring, and looked a good deal sunnier than the sky above.
Eventually they drove into Cheltenham and started to visit any shop selling white furry rugs, or indeed any rugs at all.
“At least two years ago. Maybe considerably longer.”
The shop assistants looked at this aged couple with faint contempt. They could not remember what they had sold last week let alone two years ago, and many had left or only started work within that time period.
The small Indian owner of a shop selling rugs so beautiful that Sylvia forgot why she was there and wanted to buy six of them, said that he had stopped importing white imitation fur rugs three years past even though they had proved popular, and he had sold twenty or thirty of them. But he could not possibly remember the names or faces of his customers, and he had not delivered any since they were small enough to be rolled up and taken away by their new owners.
By the time they rolled home, grumbling about the useless waste of a day, it was raining again.
Sylvia was looking up furry white rugs online. “Hundreds,” she sighed. “Thousands. China, America, eBay, some cost a fortune and some cost tuppence. This is a complete waste of time. Let’s forget rugs.”
Ashes From Ashes Page 4
