The wind howled its annoyance when he closed the door behind him and sent a sudden barrage for rain to strafe the wiundows but Philbret was already at the stairs, shrugging off his mac and scarf and making yet another ascent. His mind flirted briefly with the idea that the steps, varnished wooden risers, should by now be displaying signs of age and excessive wear but no dips were apparent, only a few scuffs and scratches.
And it smelled here in this dark passage – some cat had magicked its way in and decorated with walls with a coating of urine or a rat had crawled under the stairs to die.
Philbret’s office was L-shaped. From his seat he had a view of the entire room. Across from his was the large conference table he would use to interview any new masters of the genre (and wasn’t that a laugh) for his Grave Words column. The last one had been a carpet-fitter from Hull called Nigel Willett who had a lisp and chronic halitosis.
Now Philbert opened one of the latest submission envelopes with his paper knife, its sheen considerably dulled from years of cutting, and pulled out the manuscript. What’s this? He thought. The manuscript was an utter mess. It had been typed on the back of milk receipts, used envelopes, letters from the Gas Board, even on a section of cardboard from a box of Coco Pops. Coffee stains were on every ‘page’, the typing was atrocious and a basic knowledge of spelling was aparetnly lacking.
“What’s THIS?!” He was getting angry. The gall of the man. And no SAE! The bastard. Right. He was going to… there was an accompanying letter with the story, slipped in between the fourth and fifth pages, almost as an afterthought.
Mr philbot.
itS TIME YOU HAD ONE OF MY STORYS. SEND THECHEQ THIS WEEJ WEEK.
ROMAN FORREST
It was getting comical. The name was obviously contrived – a fabrication that reeked with pretension. And for the man to virtually demand publication… What a colossal impertinence. Philbert laughed it off. He would perform an Elvis Presley and Return to Sender, but not before ripping this effort to shreds.
BLONDE on aSTIKC
By ROMAN FORREST
He loved knifes.Yeah. He loved there sharpness and beauty. He loved the way they could cut and slice flesh, the slick oily blood what coated the metal after…
What kind of ungrammatical crap was this? Philbert found his ‘trigger’ finger itching to shoot this Forrest into the ground and he pulled one of his rejkection slips close. But now his mood had lightened. Coffe,e, shelter from the storm, a comfortable leather chair. And he was a story that might give him a chuckle. He left the rejection slip alone and returned to the first page. He could play God to it later.
…coated the cold metal after digging it in deep into unsuspecting victims and tugging through skin and grissle. Yeah, Jethro love playing with his knifes they was his toys…
At lunch time Philbret took the story down to the local pub – The EMPTY COW – and finished it off over a chicken pie and Guinness.
…and then Jethro pulled thr knife out of his head and licked the blade clean. A nasty laugh rose into the night getting louder and louder. It only stopped when he begun to cry, kneeling over the girl with the knife in his hand.
“I only wanted you to bleed on me,’ he whispered, softly. “Is that such a crime?”
A single teardrop splashed on the kniofe, making it glint in the moonlight.
THE END
Philbert paid for his lunch and walked back to the office, his trigger finger throbbing.
Dear Mr Forrest.
Have you ever been to school? If not, perhaps you ought to try it. It will help your spelling. I received (NB ‘I’ after ‘e’ except after ‘c’) your story but have to send it back for the following reasons:
A) It was poorly presented.
B) It was almost illegible.
C) It was UTTER CRAP.
As you have not sent an SAE I will be forced to hold on to your story until you send return postage. Please do not send any more stories. If you have to submit them, sumbit them to a dustbin. Preferably one which is open.
Yours, DP.
Almost as soon as Philbert signed the letter he realised, with swooning dismay, that he did not have an address to send it to. It was pathetic. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t send the cheque this comedian wanted. With a cry of anger and frustration – Gaaaagh! – he threw the manuscript, complete with jam and coffee stains, into the bin.
The next day there was an envelope bearing Forrest’s handwriting. There was a dead sparrow inside. And a letter.
Philbret scrunched the letter up and hurled it into the bin with enough force to create a dull clang. His fingers jittered for a moment. He’d had hate-mail before thanks to his style of criticism but the bird had shocked him. Usually it was along the lines of: You blind bastard. You wouldn’t see a good story if it hit you. That’s the last story you get from me.’ But he was dealing with a nutter here. He
20
I managed to find a taxi near the factory; a driver who had pulled off the main drag to eat a sandwich and read the Daily Express. I offered him a ton if he’d take me to Mayfair – I wanted a word with President, aka Craig Taft – and he asked if I wanted some of his sandwich. I was going to say no but then I realised I hadn’t eaten for hours. I gratefully stomached it and it was not bad either: tuna and mayonnaise with tiny cubes of celery and cucumber and red pepper mixed up in it with lemon juice and lots of black pepper. It hurt like motherfuckers to eat, mind. Niker’s blows bitched at me from under the skin. My entire head felt like a balloon inflated to breaking point.
We were slipping through Whitechapel (police helicopter still prowling around), night thick as nan’s gravy, when my phone vibrated.
‘Hi, Phil,’ I said, through a jaw tender with raw pain. It would stiffen tonight. I’d be lucky if I managed to open it enough to be able to lick a stamp by tomorrow.
‘How were your lamb chops?’
‘Gnawed to the bone.’
‘And the blow job? Gnawed to the bone too?’
‘Nice… now hear this… it seems there was some calling card after all.’
‘Beyond the book?’
‘I heard about that. But yes, something else, something subtle, definitely left on the body.’
‘Go on.’
‘Both Martin Gower and Malachi Dawe were fond of tattoos. I found evidence of recent ink deposits in the lymph nodes of both victims, though on first appraisal, neither man wore tattoos you could describe as being other than a few years old.’
Kim had a tattoo, as did Sean Niker. I thought of the photographs of Sarah. The illegible tattoo beneath her left breast. I wondered if the killer was some kind of body mod fetishist, or a mental tattooist who wanted his ink back.
Clarke went on: ‘It seems that something was added to the designs on their arms. Dawe had a full sleeve of mainly tribal art. Celtic designs and so forth. Gower had fewer tattoos, but they were more abstract stuff. More complex. A phoenix. Angels.’
‘Get on with it, Clarkey.’
‘Well, it seems text was added. Crudely. We’re talking pins and biro ink here. But nestled in among the elaborate stuff. And small. I only caught it because the light favoured the new ink in a way that it didn’t the rest.’
‘What text?’ My heart was shifting like Lemmy’s thumb playing ‘Ace of Spades’.
‘On Malachi Dawe the words were “Maximum Creep”. On Gower, “Maggot-Hearted You”. Mean anything? Elaborate insults?’
‘Maybe. Maybe something else. They sound like titles.’
‘The titles to your autobiographies, maybe?’
‘Cheers, Phil,’ I said. ‘Manhattans on me next time.’
I just about had the phone back in my pocket when it buzzed again. Simm, this time.
‘Hello, honey,’ I said.
‘There are very strict laws in this country regarding the breaking and entering of private property.’
‘Who said anything about B&E? I was just on my daily parkour jaunt and I fell through your dodgy khazi window. Yo
u’re lucky I didn’t cut myself or I’d sue your badger sac off.’
‘I’ve already talked to lawyer friends, Sorrell. You don’t have a leg to stand on. You even sent picture evidence of yourself in my office. Your arrogance is matched only by your stupidity.’
I could imagine his face and those blinkless eyes: Michael Caine meets Salman Rushdie via owls. Honey Badger my arse. I bet behind his back everyone, including his clients, called him Reptile Cuntlord.
‘I’m ready to play Who’s the Naughtiest?’ I said. ‘I’m willing to go to prison for trespassing on your property and noseying through your files. But you’ll have some questions to answer too, regarding obstructing the police. Those nasty little love letters you’ve been collecting. Especially if this psycho gets his tools out for another one.’
‘There’s no evidence to suggest this is the same person,’ Simm said, not unreasonably. I might have concurred had I not spoken to Phil Clarke. ‘What if it’s all a grand old game, in the spirit of the surrealists? A new kind of novel?’
‘Maggot-Hearted You,’ I said, thinking of the extra ink on Martin Gower. ‘Does that ring any bells? Sounds like a novel, doesn’t it? Something a horror writer might come up with. Something you received and chucked in the No Chance tray? Did you send him a form rejection? Or did you add some juicy little barbs? I bet you did. How about Maximum Creep? Title of a book? Or what I’ll chisel on your headstone when Hackboy decides to pay you a visit?’
‘Why should he pay me a visit?’ Simm asked, but his voice was changing. It was defensive, edged with petulance. The kind of bitterness found in the voices of children who are being denied a treat for misbehaviour. ‘I’ll likely be able to sell this stuff now that he has a… profile.’
‘A profile? Jesus Christ, Simm, the guy is a balls-out bedlamite. And it’s too late. The damage is done. He’s on the publishing shit list thanks to you, and that writers’ group, and God knows how many publishers he approached directly. He knows that his magnum opus doesn’t get published unless he’s dead or in jail.’
There was silence for a while. The taxi turned into The Mall. I caught a glimpse of the mounted cavalry troopers at Horse Guards Parade.
‘I’ll split it with you,’ he said. ‘Fifty-fifty.’
‘He’ll split you fifty-fifty.’
‘Think about it. Sleep on it.’
‘I haven’t got the time. Nor have you. You think he doesn’t know where you live? You think you’re safe?’
‘I’m at a hotel.’
‘See? You know the score. You’re visible and you won’t accept it. I’m talking to the police tomorrow. If they don’t lock me away in a darkened room with a bunch of knuckles then I intend to propose we use that manuscript to tease this bastard out into the open.’
‘Mr Sorrell, this could set me up for life.’
‘Well that’s lovely,’ I said. ‘But how much life do you reckon he’ll allow you to have?’
* * *
I got him to agree to meet me in the morning, with the rest of the manuscript, and ended the call. The taxi driver was eyeing me through the rearview window as if I’d morphed into the worst passenger in the world. I asked him if he wanted his sandwich back. He shook his head and concentrated on the road. We were about to pull up at George Yard when I looked up at Taft’s window. A light went out.
‘Don’t stop here,’ I said. ‘Pull up just around the corner.’
I got out and paid him and then stood on the corner thinking about what I’d just seen. So Craig Taft had just switched off his lights. So what? He was having an early night or he was just on his way out. Or maybe he liked to noodle on his six-string in the dark for added ambience. My heart was having none of it. Something was going on. I waited for him to show at the exit. I went around to the back of the building but nothing was going on around there. I tried calling him. No answer.
I went to his door and buzzed him. The door released. No ‘Hello, who is this?’ Just a silent come on in. The worst welcome there is.
I stood in the entrance hall and debated whether to call the police. I could hear radios and TVs playing. Muffled laughter. No shadows on the stairwell. Whatever was going to happen would be over by the time Mawker had tucked his shirt into his underpants and waddled over. I started climbing. The lights in the well opening went out. I was pretty sure they weren’t on a timer. I edged back against the wall and moved up slowly to Taft’s floor. His corridor was dark. At the end, the window cast frozen streetlight on to a corner of the carpet where a figure was sitting on the floor, hunched over, arms around its knees as if it was in pain, or crying. It was Taft, his silver ponytail gleaming in the soft light.
‘Craig?’ I said, and my voice was like a nail hammered into wood. ‘Are you hurt?’
At least he was moving. Or was the dark deceiving me? The grains of night writhed all over it like insects. Surely he was moving. I approached, wishing I’d divested Niker of his shitty little point-and-shoot. I felt naked. But all the other guy ever seemed to use was a needle and a knife. A gun might mean he’d end up dead, and I couldn’t have that. Not if he possessed knowledge of the whereabouts of my daughter. A tooth rocked in my gum where I’d taken a punch. I worried it with my tongue, and the pain focused me. I kept my eyes dead on him. I did not blink.
‘Craig?’ I said, but now it was all just breath. His door was cracked open a couple of inches. The black in that gap was deeper than any night I have known. It was a congested dark. Something you could grab hold of, if you were of a mind to. Someone was moving around in there, quite violently, it seemed. Maybe looking for something, now that Taft had been incapacitated. I could only hope that he hadn’t been paralysed.
My breath quickened. This was it. I was going to nail the fucker tonight. I flicked the lights but they were out. He’d pulled the fuses. I flexed my fingers and pressed them against the door, tried to reimagine the layout from my previous visit. Inside I heard the intruder slamming against something. A door, maybe? But it didn’t matter. I had to just charge in there and take him down as quickly and as brutally as possible. I had—
There were no torch beams.
Why would anybody be ransacking an apartment if they couldn’t see what they were hunting for?
Something wasn’t right here. Something was hideously wrong.
I spun around and bolted for the corridor. Taft was gone.
THAT WASN’T FUCKING TAFT. THAT WASN’T FUCKING TAFT.
I could hear feet on the stone steps heading down, shifting fast and light. Stay or go? I darted after the runner, clattering down the stairs, tensed at every landing for a nest of shadows to unfold and fly towards me. I kept an arm in front of me in the hope that any sudden flurry of knife blows might be deflected. But he wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t here. Outside the road was empty in each direction. He’d melted away. I had him in my sights. He’d been three feet away from me. And I’d let him go because I thought he was Craig Taft.
Taft. Christ.
I legged it back up the stairs, jabbing at the emergency button on my phone.
The ambulance took maybe five minutes, if that, but he was dead by then. He’d been scalped. The poor fucker had been scalped. But this was no trophy. This was a desperate act to create a disguise; that figure in the corridor had been wearing his ponytail. And I’d fallen for it. What if I’d gone to the figure first, in my mistaken belief that it was Taft? Gone to help him. I’d be dead.
I’d tried to staunch the wound – what turned out to be the fatal wound, that is – in his neck. The killer had ballsed this one up. The spinal puncture had not been accurate, but had still caused some damage. Not enough to incapacitate him though. Taft had fought back. Slashes in one hand showed where he had tried to defend himself; presumably his spinal injury had prevented him from using both. Had I disturbed this attack? My phone call, my ringing of the doorbell? Had the killer rushed? Made a mistake? I bagged the scalp with its trailing ponytail from the corridor and kept it for Mawker who might be a
ble to lift a DNA trace from it. The noises I’d heard inside Taft’s flat had been reflex actions: his shoe slamming against the side of a wardrobe as death tried to calm him.
I located the fuse box and got the lights back on. The police were on their way.
There were no signs of forced entry. So maybe Taft knew his attacker. Everything was pretty much as I remembered it, though there were signs of a struggle. I’d checked Taft’s body but it was unlikely his attacker could have had the chance to tattoo him considering he couldn’t even render him senseless. Taft did have one tattoo, but it wasn’t as expansive as his erstwhile Accelerant colleagues: a grinning skull nestled within a scorched deck of playing cards, ace of spades most prominent. There had been nothing added to it. No crude DIY job. No emo horror title. Of course not. I’d spoilt that particular part of his game.
The guitars were still on the wall. The CDs were still stacked in their cases on the shelves. The music centre looking cool and functional with its dials and gauges and needles. Everything the same. Just striped with Taft’s blood.
I got lengths of clingfilm from the kitchen and wrapped my hands with it. There was a plectrum stuck into the pick guard of one of his Gibsons. There was a bloody print on it. What was that about? I went to the wall and stared at it. None of his other guitars had any plectrums attached in such a manner. There was an old Altoids tin on his desk with a label that said Take Your Pick. That was where he kept his plectrums. So why was this one so inelegantly positioned? And the blood. Did he put it here after he’d been attacked? Was it a sign? A message?
I plucked it out. Nothing written on it. Not that you could fit much on it anyway. And he’d have been in no fit state to leave any messages. He was in extremis when this happened. Death was minutes away. I put the plectrum down and picked up the guitar. Nothing behind it. Nothing tucked under the strings. I put it back.
Sonata of the Dead Page 18
