by John Gardner
‘Not really, sir, no.’ She wanted to say that she’d rather not think about it. Then, ‘You don’t have to be Havelock Ellis to equate it with sex.’
‘You know about Havelock Ellis, heart?’ He looked suitably surprised.
‘Not really, sir. No. I know he died last year and that he studied sexual aberrations. My young brother heard rumours.’
‘Schoolboys think the published casework is delightfully smutty. Anyway, destruction of the genital area usually indicates something pretty disturbing to do with sex. Which is,’ he added, as though listening in on her mind, ‘sort of obvious really, but the old trick cyclists make a big thing about ripping the abdomen and the genitals.’
‘And what about the eyes?’ she asked, in spite of herself.
‘Could be lots of things. Maybe it’s the old idiocy about the picture of the murderer imprinted on the retina; or it could be that he didn’t want the corpse to see him. Lots of primitive ideas about the eyes of corpses. We’ll only really know when we get him in the nick, sitting down and talking to us.’
‘Emily Baccus, strangled with wire. I presume. No eyes, no cutting. Then there’s one more, Guv.’
‘Bachelor?’ he asked. ‘Bubbles Bachelor?’
‘Yes, Barbara Bachelor. Bubbles,’ she nodded. ‘No knives, bottles, skewers or pans of water. But a possible rape.’
‘And DI Prothero was quite amazed when you added that one to the list. Gave him a new row to hoe, so to speak. DI Earney Prothero being a keen gardener.’
‘How fascinating, sir.’
Tommy Livermore lifted his right eyebrow. ‘Isn’t it? Takes prizes for his marrows and cucumbers every year at the Harrow Flower Show.’
Suzie sensed there was something wicked coming her way.
‘So, what’re your conclusions, Suzie?’
She frowned, an outward sign of the struggle going on in her head. ‘Sir,’ she began. ‘Really, sir, I can’t say. I’m not a trained detective.’
‘Doesn’t matter a damn, heart. Apart from a few technical bits and pieces you own everything required to be a careful and conscientious investigator.’
She gave a little unbidden laugh, half-sarcastic, part disbelief. ‘With respect, sir, how can you know that?’
‘From your file and your school reports.’ He smiled again, and, as she’d already noticed, the smile seemed to hug her. I’ll burst into flame she thought — spontaneously combust.
‘I always try to find out about people I’m called to work with,’ he continued. ‘Particularly those, like yourself, whom I am supposed to teach. The reports for your final couple of years at school were, I thought, exceptional. The dear nuns at St Helen’s were more than helpful, and from what I’ve seen of you already, I think you’re what they call a natural.’ He gave her a flirtatious wink. ‘So, Suzie, grab at your confidence and tell me. What conclusions do you come to?’
She told him: that they certainly had a repeat killer who had murdered at least four people, probably five, and possibly many more.’
‘Good. Go on.’
‘He has some kind of sexual problem, and I’m not very good at sex things, sir. I suppose I was brought up in a sort of repressed ...? Is that the word I’m ...?’
‘Haven’t a clue, heart. Only you know what you know about sexual problems. It’s enough to be aware of the sex thing. Is that why you’re so certain it’s a man?’
‘He kills women. Yes, and I think he’ll kill women until we catch him and put him away. He has a down on women, and it appears to be random. There’s no link between the victims, except he seems to be more partial to very young women. Teenagers.’
‘Teenagers, yes, but —’
‘Not exclusively.’
‘And who is he?’
‘Well he’s someone who can travel easily, I would think. To our knowledge he’s murdered in Cambridge, near Stratford, and in London —’
‘Description?’
‘He’s someone with a distinctive face, or some distinguishing mark.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because our one description of him, from the Snitterfield killing, has him of medium height bundled up, his face obscured, on a day that was pleasant: a lovely spring day so he’s easily recognizable: and he’s strong in the shoulders and arms — the way he kills.’
‘There you are. QED, as my old chemistry master used to say. Quite Easily Done. You’re a star pupil. Suzie,’ he said. ‘Now ...’
The bell buzzed throughout the flat. ‘Damn, just when it was getting interesting.’ He strode off towards the hall and the door, returning with DS Billy Mulligan in tow.
‘The forensic pathologist is on his way, and that long rather nicely made polished oak wardrobe, facing the bed in two-twenty, is locked, and I’d earmarked you for the job of going through it. Suzie.’
He rang the porter’s flat and had a stilted conversation with Cyril Nutkin, which yielded more keys. Mulligan was sent to bring them to two-twenty. ‘Old Russ still doesn’t sound well,’ the DCS mused. ‘I used to know a judge called Russ, you don’t think they’re related ...?’ Shaking his head firmly, he rejected the idea.
When they got down to the master bedroom of two-twenty it seemed terribly crowded. The forensic pathologist was there, in full fig — the razor-creased striped trousers, black jacket, grey waistcoat, starched wing collar and immaculate cravat. He smelled of some expensive lotion but it didn’t completely banish the formaldehyde.
‘Tommy,’ he greeted the DCS with affection.
‘Robert.’ Obviously on friendly terms with the eminent professor. They clasped hands in what could have been some secret ceremony. Around them the forensic boys did their thing.
‘Going to be a long night.’ Dandy Tom did not sound happy about that, standing there with a notebook in one hand and an exceptionally slim gold fountain pen in the other.
‘Couldn’t we do room three-twenty tomorrow, Guv’nor?’ Billy Mulligan suggested.
‘You game for that, heart?’ he asked and Suzie felt as though he was paying her a great compliment.
‘Can’t do tomorrow,’ and she saw a thunder cloud cross his face, so she quickly explained. ‘I’m going down to interview a close friend of the deceased.’
‘Ah.’ He tapped his lower teeth softly with the capped end of his fountain pen.
All men, her mother had told her, are children at heart, and if you spoil their fun and games they will often behave like very small children.
‘Which deceased we talking about?’ he asked.
‘Benton.’
‘That can wait. Which one?’
‘The pilot.’ Behind his shoulder the pathologist bent over the body, checking out this and that, prowling in her hair, ears, nose, mouth, under her fingernails: practically everywhere. A tall very thin young man, with a bad complexion and roving eyes assisted him.
‘I thought you were doing the pilot on Monday.’
‘Yes, in Hampshire.’ Oh hell, she thought, he doesn’t miss a thing. He bloody knows it all. Been shadowing me all the way. ‘Day off tomorrow, Guv. I’m on Sunday and I go to do the pilot on Monday; then straight from there on leave: also in Hampshire.’
‘Could you rearrange tomorrow?’ he seemed to be pleading.
She stood looking blankly over his shoulder watching her present-buying and happy Christmas plans go down the drain. ‘Well, sir,’ she said, and was conscious that Shirley Cox was at her elbow.
‘Don’t worry about it, we’ll talk later. Now, let’s see what’s in the wardrobe.’ The DCS nodded.
The wardrobe was a built-in fitment: probably the original well-crafted work made and polished by experts in the last years of the previous century. Suzie had been allowed a quick look around Emily Baccus’s apartment on the third floor and it had a similar piece: she had felt a charge of pleasure in running the flat of her hand across the doors until the DCS reminded her that it hadn’t been fingerprinted yet. But down in two-twenty, the fitted wardrobe was now p
ainted with smudges of fingerprint powder.
Once the keys had been inserted and the doors opened to display the interior inlaid mirrors, drawers, shoe racks and hanging closets, her heart sank.
‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us,’ muttered Dandy Tom, crossing himself. He meant that, Suzie realized. There had appeared to be nothing frivolous about his action.
She knew the theory behind most of the bizarre items, but could not in any way associate them with pleasure: the restraints, the whips, the leather masks. The racks of clothes displaying the more obvious fantasists’ dreamworld of nurse’s uniforms, nun’s habits and gymslips. Others were more difficult to fathom: the uniform of an Uhlan, complete with lance, or coats with belts, leads and buckles that would have looked good on a Borzoi but were obviously for use by adult males on all fours. She would never understand some of these items, but there was of course a large supply of the frills, lace and garishly coloured intimate apparel. Those she now almost understood.
‘Well.’ For a second Tommy Livermore appeared to be lost for words. Then — ‘Who was it who said: “The pleasure is momentary, the position is ridiculous, and the expense damnable”?’
Molly Abelard coughed, ‘Lord Chesterfield I think, Chief.’
‘If that’s true then the owners of all this are making right fools of themselves. Or not, as the case may be.’ He turned to Sergeant Mountford. ‘Young girl like you understand all this, Suzie?’
‘Only that it’s a whore’s boudoir,’ she said. ‘I don’t follow the rather absurd rituals. Don’t think I care to, sir.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it. But no, Suzie. This is not a tart’s boudoir. It’s a very high-class tart’s boudoir. All yours, Suzie.’ Livermore chuckled. ‘Just give me the sub-headings. Your DC’ll assist.’ And at that moment the pathologist sighed.
‘The wire ligature was put on post mortem,’ he said quietly. ‘It didn’t kill her.’
‘Well, that’s a twist,’ Dandy Tom said, and they both laughed. They were the only ones in the room to even smile.
But Suzie understood. ‘Loamy’ Lomax, back at Camford nick, had said that sometimes you had to treat death as a joke or you’d go crazy. He had been talking with the Great War in mind, but similar rules applied. She wondered how many bodies the pathologist had seen that day.
The DCS and the doctor went back into the next room and presently a couple of men in white coats came in with a hospital trolley to take Emily Baccus away. Slowly the room started to empty and the drone of conversation vanished from the apartment’s main room.
‘Fifty-six bras,’ Shirley said, finishing the count. ‘Seventy dresses and fifty-six bras. Suzie, you do know who he is?’ she whispered.
‘Who?’ Suzie was still out of sorts, angry with Livermore.
‘The Detective Chief Superintendent.’
‘Tommy Livermore? Dandy Tom?’ Maybe she had misread him, she wondered. He had seemed so friendly, full of praise for her. Star pupil, he’d said. Then came the sudden change.
‘The Honourable Thomas Livermore. His father’s the Earl of Kingscote. Pots of lucre. Filthy with it.’
‘How d’you know?’ It was odd the way some people seemed to think there was something special about anyone with a title.
‘Sergeant Mulligan. Worked with him a long time. He’s even been up to the family seat. Gloucestershire. Told me it was dead opulent.’
‘Well, he’s welcome to it.’ She was somewhat surly as she helped count the remaining underwear, which took forever.
‘Suzie. A word.’ Livermore stood in the doorway.
She went over to him and he signalled for her to follow him through to the drawing room, as her mum would’ve called it.
‘I’m sorry about earlier, heart.’
‘About what?’ Pretend it had passed her by.
‘About going down to Hampshire. Interviewing the pilot. Going on leave.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Yes, that, heart.’ He had his slanting smile on, the eyebrow cocked very high. Again she wished she could do the thing with the eyebrow. ‘Never try to shoot a shooter, Susannah. It don’t work.’
‘Well, sir. I ...’
‘Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to come in. What I really wanted to know was could we have dinner perhaps, tomorrow night? That’s what I was really after.’ He gave a self-effacing chuckle. ‘Just to discuss the pathologist’s report of course, heart.’
‘Of course, sir. Yes. Why not, sir?’ Crikey, she thought. That’s typical of policemen. Never around when you want them, then several arrive at once. Sanders of the River; and now Dandy Tom. ‘Where, sir?’
‘I pick you up?’ he asked and she looked pleased. ‘Seven o’clock be okay?’
‘Of course, sir.’ She gave him her address and felt that old nightingale singing away across in Berkeley Square. He already knew my address, she thought.
‘Incidentally,’ he added, almost ruining everything, ‘to state the obvious, Miss Baccus and Miss Benton appear to have been running a friendly parlour for quirky sex. And I presume you heard that Baccus didn’t get herself strangled with that piano wire. Some idiot wanted it to look as though she had.’
*
Joshua Dance/Slaughter could not sleep. He finally got up, put on a dressing gown and made himself a cup of tea, the old standby, then brought it downstairs. He switched on one of the standard lamps, sat down and thought for a while. He had no idea why he should be restless. The recent change in the number of air raids could have something to do with it. His sleep pattern was strange at the best of times and this wasn’t the best of times.
He fetched his book and seated himself in one of the comfortable armchairs. He was reading Graham Greene’s new novel The Power and the Glory, about a priest who was also a drunk — a whisky priest. In the Roman Catholic magazine the Tablet the reviewer had said that it was as though God had said, ‘Love me and break my commandments.’ That was a bit like himself, Josh had thought. Ever since he had met the detective, Suzie Mountford, he had found it difficult to get her out of his mind. Women detectives, he thought. Strange. Was this a sign of how things would change in the future? Women doing all the traditionally male jobs. No, he considered, that couldn’t possibly work. To some extent you could understand it in wartime, but never in peacetime.
Outside, below in the street a drunk was singing. ‘There’ll always be an England.’
He lit a cigarette, stood up, walked around a little, then sat down again, lit another cigarette and read. For an hour or so he read and dozed, his head falling on to his chest. Once, the book slid to the floor and he woke with a start. He lit another cigarette, stubbed it out then read again, and fell asleep once more.
A noise. He was awake instantly, head jerking up, looking around. The noise again. Someone was in the office, next door. It could only be Emily Baccus and he didn’t worry. Emily was a late bird. There, now her footsteps were on the stairs. She was leaving, clickety-clack, he’d know her step, in her lovely high heels, anywhere. Tick-tack-clippity-clop.
He stood up and stretched. He would go back to bed, he thought. So he switched off the light and pulled back the curtains. There was just enough light in the street to make out Emily Baccus leaving the building. She wore her beautiful coat, the long one with the fur collar that had cost her a hundred and fifty pounds from Fenwicks — a king’s ransom.
She strode off on her long lovely legs, heading heaven knew where.
In the office the wall clock struck three.
Three o’clock in the morning, Josh thought. Three o’clock in the morning and all’s well.
He didn’t know that Emily Baccus lay silent on a slab, waiting for the post-mortem saws and knives.
Josh went off to bed, and this time slept peacefully.
*
Golly was deeply asleep. He clutched Lavender’s bear, and in his dreams the creatures came into the room on their dry, clicking legs, and the nightmare began. He started to whimper and the
lady made soothing noises. ‘Golly,’ said the lady with the calming voice. ‘Golly, you have to kill the lady policeman. Kill with the wire. Golly. Kill the lady policeman at Christmas. She will be in a village, Golly. Seek out the lady policeman in Hampshire, Golly. Hampshire in the village of Overchurch. Overchurch, Golly. Kill her in Overchurch. In Overchurch, Hampshire. In Falcon Cottage. Let her see your face, all the better to frighten her with. Falcon Cottage on Christmas Day, Golly.’ It began to echo wildly inside his skull. ‘Christmas-mas-mas-mas-mas Day-ay-ay-ay. Overchurch-urch-ureh-urch. Hampshi-shi-shi-shi-shire. With the wire-ire-ire-ire. Golly. Kill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill-ill.’
When he woke it was the first thing he remembered, the soft, honeyed voice, dripping into his head. Kill the lady policeman. Golly. At Falcon Cottage in Overchurch. In Hampshire. Kill, Golly. Christmas Day, Golly.
Overchurch was three miles from Whitchurch where his mother lived.
Golly screamed and went on screaming until the girl who worked in the flat above came down and calmed him. Later, when Lavender arrived for work, she said that Golly had been shaking with fear and it was like a child having a nightmare.
Only Golly knew the nightmare was real.
Fifteen
Half-way along Oxford Street, heading towards Oxford Circus and from thence to Marble Arch, there was a great gap where a bomb had destroyed a whole shop. It looked like a surgical job: a gap, like someone’s mouth after the extraction of an infected bicuspid. Suzie couldn’t even remember which shop had stood there, but it had been a recent disaster because workmen were still making the wreckage safe. They had roped off where the pavement had been and marked out a path so that little streams of pedestrians left their straight course and followed each other round in a loop back on to the trail again, moving both east and west, like opposing armies of ants being deviated from their common route.
There were quite a few people in the street, trying to catch up on their Christmas shopping during this the last weekend before the holiday — not that it was going to be much of a holiday for many people in the capital, or in the whole country come to that.
