by Michael Kerr
The tall guy came through an open gate that was set into a six foot-high wall, grabbed him by the sleeve of his Parka and pulled him into the yard of an empty house, to swing him face first into the wall, spin him round and follow up with a blow to his stomach that stopped Billy from thinking about doing anything but attempt to take his next breath as he fell to the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As she knelt as ordered on the kitchen floor, he wrapped duct tape around her neck and to the shortened barrels and the wood fore-end of the shotgun to secure her to the weapon. He then taped his right hand to the stock, which he had cut down to resemble the butt of a pistol. She was now fixed to him with the open ends of the barrels snug against the nape of her neck. They were a unit. Any untoward attack upon him would result in him pulling the trigger and blowing her head off. He’d seen this method used by a hostage taker in a movie, not thinking for a second that the time would come when he would utilise it. It was surreal. Hollywood and reality meeting head on.
“Stand up,” John said. “Let’s go and untie Dougie. He’s got some work to do.”
Ruth slowly climbed to her feet and he guided her out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the bedroom. With the sickle in his left hand, he sliced through the ties that held Doug’s wrists to the bed head.
“Take a good look at the position Ruthie is in,” he said. “If you make one wrong move I’ll pull the trigger. Do you get the picture? Can you imagine seeing her pretty head come apart like a shot melon?”
“Don’t hurt her,” Doug said. “I’m not going to do anything to give you reason to.”
“I hope not. Now go downstairs and I’ll explain what we need to do.”
Doug rubbed his wrists as he climbed off the bed. The thin lengths of plastic had dug in and abraded his skin, having been tight enough to almost cut off the circulation to his hands. “Do you mind if I use the loo?” he asked.
“No problem,” John said. “You’re on trust, my friend. Break it and we all know what will happen.”
Doug used the toilet and then turned on the hot water tap and bathed his wrists. He felt a little weak, but the blurred vision had cleared and although his head was still sore it was no longer aching.
Downstairs, sitting around the kitchen table, John discussed the situation with Ruth and Doug. “I’m hemmed in here at the moment,” he said. “The police will check every property, so when they knock at your door I need to know that they’ll move on, happy in the belief that I’m not here. Problem is they may have a look around. Your friend’s body is in the woodshed, and her car is behind it.”
“What do you want me to do?” Doug said.
“I’ve parked Ruthie’s car back in front of the cottage next to your Jeep. You need to think of somewhere to stash the other one where it won’t be found. Then you can bury the woman.”
“There’s a marsh less than half a mile away,” Doug said. “The track behind the cottage runs past it. If we push it in there it’ll never be seen again. It’s like a swamp.”
“Let’s do it,” John said.
Doug reversed Gill’s Audi out of the undergrowth, and John got in the rear of it with Ruth. She sat sideways with her face almost up against the window. Doug got in the front and drove slowly around to the rutted track that was only used by forest workers. It took him almost five minutes to reach the marsh without putting the lights on. He stopped the car next to the sloping bank and they all got out.
“Do it,” John said, standing well back with Ruth.
Doug did what John had done with his Nissan; opened all the windows, then took the handbrake off and walked to the rear of the Audi and pushed it forward, down the slight incline.
They all held their breaths as the car slid forward and the bonnet disappeared in the dark, soupy water. And then the Audi stopped. Doug leaned forward with his hands on the boot and put his weight behind it and pushed again with all his might. The car moved forward another three feet, dipping as it went, and the sulphurous-smelling liquid flooded in through the front windows. Inch by inch the Audi was gradually sucked deeper, but was still visible for a long time. At last it vanished, and bubbles burst on the surface for a while before the marsh appeared as still as it had been when they arrived.
“Good job,” John said. “Let’s get back and finish up.”
It was dark. The logs at the back of the woodshed moved, and then a few of them were dislodged and fell, and a pale arm flopped out from the gap that had appeared. Three fingers of the hand were missing.
More movement in the gloom. The smell of blood and the taste of corrupting flesh were too enticing for the rats to ignore. They moved in again, to gorge on the corpse, mewling, hissing and snapping at each other as they fought to feed on the tenderest parts.
As the door opened and the light was switched on, the vermin reluctantly scattered, to flee through gaps between wall planks and down the tunnels they had dug beneath them, out into the night, to crouch in the murk and wait, determined to return and continue the blood fest.
Ruth saw a rat vanish into a crevice between two logs, and then her eyes were drawn to the arm that was resting on the cold, hard earth. She began to tremble and then to shake uncontrollably.
“Waste not, want not,” John said to Ruth and Doug. “I’ve decided that I like rats. They’re survivors. Nothing stops them. We poison, trap and shoot them, but it doesn’t make a dent in the population. They just keep fucking and procreating and their numbers grow and grow.”
“They’re vermin,” Ruth said with a now increased hatred for the rodents. “They spread disease.”
“So do humans,” John said to her, before turning his full attention to the job at hand. “Drag the body out from there,” he said to Doug. “And then move the bench, get a spade and dig a grave for it.”
Doug could have just gripped Gill’s wrist and hauled her out from the log pile, but could not bring himself to treat her remains with a lack of respect. She was still a person to him. He moved a couple of dozen pieces of the kindling and, placing his hands beneath her armpits, pulled the body gently from the stack, only to jerk back and let it fall as the ravaged face, with its eyes missing, fell back to show the gaping wound in the throat.
Doug turned and glared at the man whom he now wanted to kill. “You could have tied her up and gagged her,” he said. “You didn’t have to kill her.”
“Don’t push your luck, Dougie, or Ruthie here could wind up as rat food as well,” John said. “Just bury the bitch.”
Doug laboured to dig a hole in the hard-packed earth. It was over an hour later that John said, “That’ll do, it’s deep enough. Find something to put her in to keep the rats from smelling blood and digging her up.”
Doug had a few large, empty laminated fertiliser sacks. He struggled to manoeuvre the corpse into one of them, and then folded the open end over and used heavy-duty staple pliers to fasten it. After placing the bag in the shallow grave, he shovelled the earth back over it.
“Tamp it down,” John said. “And after you’ve put the bench back over it, spread some sawdust and stack a few paint cans and stuff underneath. Make it look undisturbed. And then screw the hasp back on the door, so that we can padlock it again.”
With the car at the bottom of a bog and the body under the ground, John relaxed a little. But he would have to think more clearly. For some reason it had not crossed his mind to have Doug put the body in the boot of the Audi. The burial in the shed had been unnecessary. No matter, if the police did call at the cottage, and he was sure that they would, then his only worry was the couple. If either of them appeared unduly nervous, or thought that they could escape, and attempted to, then he would be in danger of being apprehended.
Back in the kitchen, he allowed Doug to go upstairs and shower and change his dirt-covered clothes. He stayed in the bedroom, still joined to Ruth by the taped shotgun.
When Doug was dressed, they went downstairs again, and under instruction from John, Doug made sandwiches and cof
fee for them all.
John enjoyed the supper, but neither Doug nor Ruth ate. He could understand that they were upset and frightened, fearing even more for their lives after seeing what he had done to their friend. And that gave him added power. Knowing that he could and would kill them without hesitation was going to keep them in check.
“What happens when the police knock at the door?” Doug said.
“Good question,” John replied. “You’ll open it and talk to them and convince them that everything is okay. If I believe that they’re satisfied I’ll let them leave. But if you give the game away, Ruth dies, and then you will. And what might happen after that won’t matter.”
“They may want to take a look round.”
“That’s fine. You can tell them that Ruth is in the shower, and let them do their thing. They’ll most likely be local plods that don’t really expect to find me. The cops are playing a hunch. Searching the forest is probably wishful thinking on their part. They know that I could be anywhere in the country by now.”
“And when they leave?” Doug said.
“I’ll wait till I think that they’re sure I’m not in Epping Forest, and then the three of us will take a trip in the Jeep to wherever I decide I want to go. I’ll leave you tied up and gagged, and after a few hours I’ll be long gone and I’ll call a number you can give me of a friend or family member and tell them where you are.”
“You killed Gill,” Ruth said. “So why would you let us live?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because we’ve had some kind of interaction. Everyone I’ve harmed so far has been a total stranger to me. I’d rather not hurt you if I don’t have to. To you I’m some kind of monster, but I didn’t mean to be the person I’ve become.”
“What happened?” Ruth said.
He took another sip of coffee as he thought about the question. “Hard to believe,” he said in a very low voice. “But I was what most people would think of as a regular guy. I had a well paid job that I enjoyed doing, and a wife who ticked all the right boxes. We had a mortgage, did the things that I imagined all couples did: shopping, watching TV, gardening, and having an annual holiday somewhere every year for a change of scenery.
“It was when Naomi was born that everything changed. Anna, my wife, had post natal depression and went off sex. I thought that given time it would pass, but it didn’t. I started looking at porn sites on the computer, then took a big step and went with a prostitute. Paying for it with someone that is only doing it for money is pretty sordid. It made me feel dirty.”
Doug stood up slowly, took his and John’s mugs over to the counter and refilled them. Ruth hadn’t touched hers.
“Thanks,” John said as Doug set the full mug in front of him and retook his seat. “The first time I killed a woman was because I panicked. I didn’t consciously decide to strangle her. Sometimes what you do is spontaneous. A voice in my head just said ‘Do it’, and so I did. I was ready to commit rape, because I had rubber gloves and a condom. But when it happened it really was a spur-of-the-moment act. I somehow doubted that I would go through with it. I pushed a girl down in an alley and raped her, and she started to scream, so I put my hands around her neck to shut her up. It was like being in the grip of a raging fever. When I realised that she was dead, I put the body in a skip and went home. I vowed to myself that if I didn’t get caught I would never do it again. But a part of me was driven. It was as if someone else inhabited my brain when I got the urge: like I’d stepped out of the room for a while and let him do whatever he wanted to while I was away.”
“That doesn’t inspire much confidence,” Doug said. “You could always step out and let that…that side of you kill us.”
“I’ve never hurt anyone I know,” John said. “I worked with women that I could have stalked and raped, but I could choose not to. If you put your feelings toward me to one side and do what you’re told, you’ll be safe.”
Doug was no expert of human behaviour, but dared to think that they were bonding with the killer. He seemed a little bemused, as though he could not quite digest how his life had gotten away from him, and that his obsession with sex had led him to being a rapist and murderer.
“Any words of wisdom?” John said.
Ruth said nothing. She had disliked people in life, but had never experienced the feeling of absolute hatred that she now felt toward this man. He had taken them hostage, hurt them both, and murdered her best friend. That his actions were obviously prompted by self-preservation did not mean a thing to her. If she could gain his trust and was given the chance to, then she would kill him without a second’s hesitation. Her future was in the hands of a psychotic murderer, whom she still believed had every intention of killing Doug and her when he decided that they were of no further use to him: surplus to requirements.
“You were under a lot of pressure and broke,” Doug said. “Now you’re in the biggest bind of your life. But I don’t have anything wise to say. Giving yourself up would probably save you a lot more grief.”
“Would you surrender, knowing that you’d spend the rest of your life in prison?”
“To be candid, John, I can’t begin to think what I would do. The biggest crime I ever committed was breaking the speed limit, and for that I was fined and got three points on my licence.”
John sighed and said wistfully, “I always believed that I was a decent person, but have to admit that I let circumstances affect me to the extent that I started doing very bad things. Killing someone is like breaking an egg: once you’ve done it you can never put it back together again.”
“So why didn’t you stop?” Doug said.
“I wanted to with all my heart, but I couldn’t. Something black and bad and too powerful took over. Maybe that’s how heroin addicts feel. They need the next fix and will do anything to get it. Killing is a little similar to many things; the more you do it the easier it becomes.”
After finishing the coffee, John ordered them back upstairs and watched closely as Ruth once more fastened Doug’s wrists to the bed head. He then used the sickle to cut through the tape to release Ruth from the shotgun, and on a whim fastened her to the bed head as well, making sure that neither of them was near enough to the other to try and bite through the plastic ties that held them in place.
“I need to be on my own for awhile, so I’ll let you two have some quality time together,” John said as he turned and walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door wide open.
It was a little after nine o’clock the following morning when the police car entered the clearing. Sergeant Rob Baxter and WPC Lucy Knight got out. They were not expecting that the wanted killer would be at the cottage, or anywhere else that they visited, but Lucy had unclipped the stud fastening from the pouch on her belt and was resting her hand on the top of the Taser she carried as they walked across to the front door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Matt met Pete at the roadside next to the hospital. They were parked on double yellow lines, so placed large Police Business cards on the dashboards of their vehicles, rather than use the multi-storey car park and have to pay an extortionate amount.
After making enquiries at the reception desk, they took a lift up to the eleventh floor, and while Matt introduced himself at the nurses’ station and they waited to see a doctor, Pete found enough change to pay for two cups of coffee from the vending machine.
Dr. Desmond Slocomb appeared a few minutes later. He gave Matt a weary smile after glancing at the ID he was shown.
“We need to have a word with Mr. Marsden,” Matt said.
“He’s in room 1106,” Desmond said and inclined his head to the corridor to the right.
“How is he?” Matt asked.
“The bullet wound was through and through, and missed his femur bone and artery. He’ll be out of here in twenty-four hours on crutches.”
Matt thanked him and proceeded along the corridor, now holding the cup that Pete had given to him.
Matt tapped on the closed door, open
ed it and waited for the man in the bed to invite him in.
“You’re police,” Neville stated, giving Matt and Pete the once over as he used his arms to lever himself up into a sitting position.
Approaching the bed, Matt held up his warrant card, before pulling up a plastic chair and sitting down. Pete leaned against the wall and grimaced as he sipped the slightly-flavoured hot water that merited being reported for breaking the trade description act.
“I’ve given a statement,” Neville said. “What do you suppose I can add to it?”
“I read it,” Matt said. “This is just a formality. I’d like your personal take on the man that did this to you.”
“He was wearing a balaclava and latex gloves. I had the impression that he was in his twenties from the way he moved and the sound of his voice. He didn’t seem overexcited or nervous. He was calm and collected. I have no idea what gun he had. It was a pistol with a silencer fitted to it.”
“Why do you suppose he didn’t kill you?” Matt said.
“I stood up to him, and got shot in the leg for my trouble. He asked me why a wealthy man like me was asking for it, and I told him that I was dying.”
“Is that true?”
“Yes, Inspector, unfortunately. I have terminal cancer.”
“And you think that was the reason he let you live?”
“Yes. He gave me his word that if I gave him the combination to the safe he would leave me tied up, and would even send help. I sensed that he actually meant it, and he obviously did. That I was dying probably swung it. He was happy to let nature take its course.”
There was no more. Matt and Pete left the hospital and drove back to the Yard.
“How the hell do we stop him?” Pete asked.
“By working with what we’ve got,” Matt said. “Tam and Marci are compiling a list of all rich, single and elderly men that have housekeepers that live out. We need to come up with a shortlist of those that he would find the most appealing, based on the crimes he’s committed to date.”
