Others

by James Herbert

  Not even slightly uncomfortable, Mac replied: ‘Who else could he have meant? I mean, do you, yourself, know anyone locally who might fit that description.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that I did myself.’

  Still not fazed, the DCS went on: ‘You know precisely what I’m getting at. Sorry if I’m being indelicate, but I don’t have time to spare anyone’s feelings.’

  He was right, of course. What’s more, in his own way, he was treating me as an equal, a sensible, objective equal. Although I didn’t consider myself a ‘monster’, I was different from most of my fellow men, and Mac was straight enough to treat it as a plain truth. I had to face it – I’d always had to face it – I was unsightly, and although I knew Mac well enough to be confident that he didn’t think of me as a ‘monster’, we were both aware that there were plenty of others out there who did. We were professional investigators, even though there was a vast difference in the nature of our individual work, and Mac respected me enough to know I would understand his position. His question may have sounded harsh, and sure, it stung at first, but in fact, it was reasonable under the circumstances and, as I said, he was treating me as an intelligent equal. Others might have misunderstood, but I didn’t.

  ‘No, Mac,’ I said, at last answering his question. ‘I can’t think of anyone around town who might be described in that way. We’ve got plenty of weirdos, our fair share of mental cases, and even some pretty “monstrous” gangster types in the neighbourhood. Nobody that you could describe physically as a monster, though. No one I’ve ever met, anyway.’ I stubbed the half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray close to my elbow. ‘But tell me, Mac, d’you have any idea yet of how it happened last night? I know the kid was scared out of his mind when I reached him, but d’you think he was involved in Henry’s murder?’

  The big policeman pondered awhile before answering. ‘I suspect that Henry Solomon had been using these offices as a night-time trysting place for some time. The youth – we’ve identified him as Jamie Kelly, by the way – was well known to us as a rent boy and it’s possible that it wasn’t the first occasion he’d been brought here. What we don’t know yet, and hopefully it’ll only be a matter of time before we find out, is whether Solomon picked him up in a gay club or on the street, or whether they already had a prearranged meeting here. Until we’ve established either, we can’t say if one or both were followed back to your offices. It could even be that some low-life passer-by discovered the front door downstairs was open and decided to have a look around.’

  I began to notice the tiredness in Mac’s face. He’d obviously worked through the night until he was satisfied that at least some progress had been made towards solving the crime.

  ‘The other thing we can’t know,’ he continued, watching me – not suspiciously but in his usual intense way – across the desktop, ‘is if the boy wasn’t involved in the murder, then as a witness why was he not himself harmed?’

  ‘Maybe the killer wasn’t aware that the kid was here. For some reason he could have been in here, in my office, when the intruder arrived and then hid when he saw or heard what was happening to Henry.’

  ‘It’s a possibility, but we don’t think so. We believe your colleague and the boy were engaged in sexual activity when they were disturbed. It would account for both victims – and we have to treat the boy Kelly as a victim even though it appears he caused his own death – being in a state of undress. Our pathologist, who worked through the night to feed us early results, found secretion in the boy’s penis and trousers that suggest sexual arousal some time before he fell. Forensics are looking for similar secretions, if not even spilled semen, on the first victim’s shirt, his desk, and the floor and chairs around it.’

  ‘And Henry? I know that – ’

  Mac raised a hand to stop me. ‘Not only have we been unable to find the instrument used to mutilate his body, but we still haven’t been able to locate the missing body parts.’

  I sat there stunned. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to wonder what had happened to Henry’s severed genitalia and gouged eyes. I suppose my mind had refused to think about it, my subconscious protecting me from further shock.

  ‘It’s another reason you’re no longer a suspect, Dis,’ Mac said, as if to reassure me. ‘There’s no way you could have got rid of the cutting instrument and the removed organs before the two women reached you, especially without even a trace of blood on you. In fact, you wouldn’t have had time to commit the crime itself. We still have to investigate your friend Louise Broomfield a little more, although she’s not under suspicion – no motive and she doesn’t look strong enough to mix it with two males. We’re just puzzled as to how she knew something had happened here.’

  ‘She thought I was in danger.’

  ‘So I understand. It doesn’t really explain anything does it?’

  I reached in the pack for another cigarette, even though I hadn’t fully-smoked the last one. ‘Not unless you believe in clairvoyance,’ I remarked.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure that I do.’ For the first time the DCS looked uncomfortable in his chair. He cast his gaze away from mine and pretended to examine objects and papers on my desk.

  ‘What is it, Mac?’

  His eyes stopped their roving and fixed on me once more. His voice was toneless when he told me. ‘The attack on your colleague was gruesome enough, Dis, but there was another aspect to it.’

  My already leaden heart seemed to take on more weight. I didn’t want to hear this, but I knew I had to: I had to learn everything I could about Henry’s murder.

  ‘The wounds to Henry’s face . . .’ the policeman said, his words now becoming slowed, yet still toneless. ‘The bloody holes where the eyes had been . . .’

  My hand, lifting the cigarette to my lips, froze in mid-air.

  ‘The pathologist,’ said Mac, ‘found semen inside one of them. Whoever strangled and mutilated your friend used the empty eye socket for his own sexual gratification.’

  My hand dropped away, cigarette untouched.

  27

  When I left the agency after my conversation with Detective Chief Superintendent Macaroon, I made for the nearest, quietest bar I knew, somewhere I could sit in peace for a while. I ordered a large brandy and took it to a table in a secluded corner and there I sat for quite a while, ruminating on life, death, and the sickness of mankind. It wasn’t what you’d call the Happy Hour.

  Two brandies and a Löwenbrau later I made my first call of the day. It was past noon by now and I wondered if Etta might still be in bed, sleeping off our late night; we’d talked long, hard and wearily till way past dawn, with me doing most of the talking. It was Saturday, so no need for her to go into work, even though she often did; I tried her at her flat first. Etta was there and she was awake. When I invited her to join me she agreed immediately.

  During our conversation after leaving the police station, I had told her all the details of the Ripstone case and the events of the past five days, including the dreams I’d had, the visions in mirrors, the crazy thing that had happened in Shelly Ripstone’s house. I spoke of my visit to the old people’s nursing home, PERFECT REST, with its oddly-chosen paintings and inquisitive ‘guests’, and I mentioned the sudden death of Hildegarde Vogel, the long-retired midwife and the only lead I had in tracing our mutual client’s allegedly missing offspring. I described the urbane yet somehow sinister Michael Rennie doppelgänger, Dr Leonard K. Wisbeech MD, FRCS, WXY fucking Z, and his cold, autonomous manner, as well as my suspicions regarding possible past misdeeds, namely newborn-baby abduction. Finally, I told her about Constance Bell.

  All this got us nowhere, it didn’t resolve anything but, as the phone company likes to tell us, it’s good to talk, and at least I got everything off my misshapen chest, if not out of my mind. It also gave me the opportunity, while I was telling all, to put forward a suspicion that had been growing inside my head for a couple of hours, daft though it might sound. It was this: had Henry been killed as a w
arning to me? Worse – worse for Henry, that is – had I been the intended victim? I don’t mean that Henry was mistaken for me, which was hardly possible considering our very different physiques, but that he was murdered because he happened to be at the agency instead of me?

  Etta suggested I was being paranoid. If my suspicion was that this Dr Leonard K. Wisbeech was behind the dark deed (sometimes Etta could be too hardnosed), then why would a respectable and obviously eminent physician be involved in baby-snatching? Even if he had, even if he had stolen babies to sell on to infertile but wealthy couples – which, come on now, was hardly likely, was it? – why on earth would he resort to murder to cover his tracks? Especially if such an illicit trade would be so hard to prove anyway? If not paranoid, then I was being over-imaginative. Didn’t these so-called visions – hallucinations, she would call them – didn’t they indicate that my head was a little screwed up at the moment? Could it merely be payback time for all the drugs I’d experimented with over the years? I might be semi-reformed by now, but the damage was already done, the dregs of those chemicals were still floating around in my system. God knows what they were doing to my brain. Didn’t I get frequent headaches, night sweats, the occasional lapse of memory, nothing serious, but hints that all was not quite right? I couldn’t deny it, because I had mentioned the symptoms to her myself. But they were mild, just caused by stress, overwork. Perfectly normal, I swear, and nothing to do with debauched younger years. Besides, I had pointed out in our talk, Louise Broomfield had had similar visions – wings and voices, portents of danger, but Etta had argued that the clairvoyant tuned in to my feelings, picked up my vibes, experienced my distress. Get a grip, had been Etta’s advice, start thinking rationally again.

  And who could blame her for being so reasonable?

  I had spoken to both Ida and Philo by phone, breaking the news of Henry’s death as gently as I could and telling them to stay away from the office over the weekend. The police had their addresses and phone numbers and would probably be dropping by later in the day for statements from them. They might also be asked to go to the station for fingerprint elimination. They had understandably been upset and now I rang to ask them to join myself and Etta at the bar where we could mourn Henry over some stiff drinks. Both said they’d come at once.

  After leaving the flat that morning, my first visit had been to Henry’s mother. Unfortunately, she hadn’t reacted too well to me. I don’t know if she blamed me in some way for her son’s horrendous and untimely death, assuming no doubt it was something to do with the business we were in, or if she merely had a thing about people like me. Henry had to have picked up some of his outrageous – and regretfully, sometimes humorous – bigotry from somewhere (although I often thought it was superficial, part of his occasional flamboyance) and as his mother tearfully ranted at me, I began to suspect from where. She was in obvious shock, that shock no doubt compounded by the sordid circumstances of her son’s death but, to be honest, it was a relief when she slammed the door in my face.

  From Evie Solomon’s house near the seafront, I had gone straight to the agency to be greeted by the parking ticket and surly copper.

  Nursing my brandy now in the quiet corner of the bar I tried to ring Constance for the second time that day (the first had been early morning, as soon as I’d dragged myself from bed after little more than two hours of restless sleep, and had been informed by PERFECT REST’s receptionist that Ms Bell was unavailable). Holding the mobile close to my ear, I waited impatiently for the call to be answered.

  Finally: ‘PERFECT REST. How may I help you?’

  In my mind I pictured the plump bespectacled receptionist, Hazel, sitting at her semi-screened desk in the nursing home’s light, airy reception area with its long corridors leading off and doddery old folk in dressing-gowns shuffling by.

  ‘Yes. I wanted to speak to Constance Bell, please.’

  A pause. Somebody in a group at the bar laughed raucously and I cupped my hand over the cellphone’s speaker protectively.

  ‘And whom should I say is calling?’ came the distant voice again.

  I lifted my hand a fraction. ‘Nicholas Dismas.’

  Another pause.

  ‘I’m afraid Ms Bell is not available.’

  ‘You told me that earlier. Could you try her extension for me?’

  ‘Ms Bell isn’t here today.’

  My turn to pause.

  ‘D’you know where I can reach her?’

  No hesitation at all this time.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t. Good day.’

  Click.

  ‘Bitch!’ The receptionist, I meant.

  I tucked the phone away and lit another cigarette. My head was thumping, but it wasn’t from a hangover. What was going on? I asked myself. Surely Constance wouldn’t refuse to take my calls? Not after last night. We’d connected, I was sure of that. In a very intimate way, there was no doubt. And it might have developed into a physical intimacy, despite Constance’s initial reservations, if Louise Broomfield had not interrupted things with her call. And the hell that had followed shouldn’t have distanced us: if anything, it should have drawn us closer together. I began to worry that Constance hadn’t made it safely back to the rest home. But then, surely the receptionist would have mentioned the fact and not just told me the care-supervisor was unavailable?

  As I fretted, dragging on the cigarette and sipping brandy and beer in turns, Etta Kaesbach walked into the saloon bar, closely followed by both Philo and Ida. We all hugged and exchanged commiserations, our shock, our sadness. My two colleagues plied me with questions and Etta wanted to hear of any new developments, but I refused them all until I had got in a round of drinks.

  We toasted Henry – wherever he might be – before the remorse and weeping began. We celebrated his short life and we mourned its passing. We did what all good friends should do on such occasions – we shared funny stories about him, his sayings, his little foibles, his love of movies, especially musicals – and it was good for us, for it was the first step towards acceptance of this awful event in our lives. His faults – particularly his pseudo-racism – were ignored, his merits aggrandized. His over-fussy attention to detail, something that had irritated us all at some stage, was complimented upon and now admired as a great quality. We smiled and then, as the liquor-liquid flowed, giggled over his penchant for bright braces and colourful bow-ties and snazzy socks, all worn with deadly dull grey cheap business suits. We wept over his ‘big secret’ and regretted that he’d never felt comfortable enough with it and us to share the burden, a burden primarily of his own making. We worried over the fate of his ailing mother, on whom he had doted, and I didn’t mention the slamming of the door in my face that morning, nor the harsh words with which she had scolded me. We brightened ourselves again by remembering Henry’s acerbic but very funny humour, each of us relating a particular putdown from him, remarks we had had to laugh at even when we were the butt of the putdown. Henry had been complex, but he had been very real, an individual in a fast-becoming faceless society. We fêted him and we grieved for him.

  I know our private wake did us all some good that day. There was a lot more sorrow ahead for us, but at least we had started the process of recovery. Henry would have enjoyed all aspects of the celebration.

  As for myself though, I wish I had drunk even more. I wish I had drunk so much that I’d passed out until the following morning. Perhaps then I’d have been oblivious to the fresh horrors that were to visit me later that night.

  28

  Had I been dreaming? I can’t remember. All I know is that I was suddenly wide awake without being aware of what had awakened me. Moonlight, that which had managed to filter through the canyons of tall buildings backing on to my premises, played through the partially parted curtains to create a long silver strip that ran across the floor and over my bed. A small mist curled in front of my face and I realized it was the vapours of my breath.

  The room was ice cold.

  I start
ed when I heard a noise, perhaps a follow-up to the one that had aroused me from my booze-sodden slumber (yes, I’d indulged myself further after I’d left my inebriated friends and returned to the flat). The sound came yet again, a short, staccato rapping from somewhere along the hallway outside the bedroom. As if someone were knocking on the front door.

  ‘No, they wouldn’t . . .’ I mumbled to myself.

  Journalists had been waiting on my doorstep when I’d arrived home earlier in the evening, two from the local rags, another three from the national tabloids, and one, who was a little more restrained than his colleagues but not much so, from an upmarket broadsheet. How they had located my flat address I had no idea, although I suspected someone at the local copshop (all police stations are hives of information for journalists) had tipped them off. I wasn’t in the phone book, so it had to be either that, or they’d looked me up on the electoral roll. They had bombarded me with questions as soon as I stepped out of my car (yes, I’d drunk and driven, and yes, I know it was stupid of me, but on that particular day I couldn’t have cared less) and I’d had to force my way through them, then force the front door closed behind me once I was inside. Obviously they had got my description from the police or neighbours alongside the agency, because they had known who I was the moment my foot touched the kerbside. The journos had hung around outside for a couple of hours before giving up, ringing the bell and banging on wood every ten minutes or so, even tapping on the front-room window when that had no effect. I’d ignored them, drawing the curtains and going through to the kitchen for the hidden illegal palliative awaiting me there. Cocaine can sometimes help you cope with all kinds of pain, both physical and mental, and by then I was in desperate need of an analgesic, no matter how temporary its effect.

  After the hit, and without eating anything – food was definitely out on that day – I’d gone straight to bed. Before reaching any kind of comforting high, I’d fallen asleep. And slept and slept, but not enough. The rapping had managed to disturb me.