Death Bed

by Leigh Russell

‘Thank you,’ she muttered. ‘Thank you for the food. Thank you.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  He turned away from her. ‘No,’ she called out. ‘Don’t go. Stay here, please. I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Nothing’s going on.’

  She took a deep breath and gagged at the horrible smell in the room.

  ‘Please. I can’t stay here. I’ll die if I stay here. Let me go.’

  ‘You’re not going to die.’

  ‘You can’t keep me here. Let me go.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? What do you want with me?’

  The man didn’t answer. She turned her head slightly to follow him with her eyes. He walked over to the far wall where she could make out irregularly shaped objects lining the shelves, all creamy beige in colour. She couldn’t tell what they were.

  ‘Let me go,’ she begged again. ‘Why are you keeping me here? What am I doing here? It’s a mistake. It must be a mistake.’

  She was talking to herself as much as to him.

  ‘What is all that?’

  He turned to look at her.

  ‘I was wondering when you were going to wake up to what’s here, in this room, right in front of you. I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about it before now.’

  ‘What is it?’

  She was curious in spite of her pain and trepidation.

  ‘This,’ he waved his arm in a circle, ‘is a collection so precious no one could put a value on it. It’s a collection from life.’

  He selected an object and held it up in front of her: it took her a second to realise that it was the inverted top of a human skull.

  ‘That’s horrible,’ she blurted out, with sudden recklessness. ‘Is that what makes the room stink so badly? You should chuck them all out.’

  He strode across the room and glared down at her. For a second she thought he was going to hit her as she lay there, powerless to avoid his blows. She closed her eyes and heard his voice raised in agitation.

  ‘You don’t understand. How could you? Some of these items are thousands of years old. When you’re dead and gone, while you are rotting, they’ll still be here, unchanged.’

  He returned to the shelves, picked up a carved object and gazed at it reverently.

  ‘Look at this.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ she stammered, too frightened to be cautious.

  His lips curled as he approached the bed and held the thing in front of her face so she could see it close up. The handle was about a foot long, made of what appeared to be light coloured wood, pine perhaps, pitted and pock marked, the ends slightly bent. The middle of the shaft was carved in a spiral pattern. Thin strips of leather had been threaded through a hole at one end and plaited into a single strand, which then divided into two strands each again divided into four.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ he demanded, his face suddenly alive with excitement.

  She stared at him in horrified fascination.

  ‘It’s a whip!’ he told her, raising it triumphantly above his head. Donna whimpered and cowered back against the stinking sheets.

  ‘Don’t hurt me,’ she whispered.

  He seemed amused by her reaction and stroked her arm very gently with the strands of the whip. It tickled, tan leather showing pale against her dark skin.

  ‘You don’t imagine I’d use this on you? You’re the one who’s insane.’

  His bark of laughter startled her.

  ‘Do you have any idea how precious this is? This whip comes from America where it belonged to Chief Sitting Bull himself. He had it fashioned from the thigh bone of an enemy.’

  He held it up again, admiring it against the light.

  ‘From the thigh bone of an enemy?’ she repeated. She wasn’t sure if this was really happening.

  The man replaced the whip carefully on the shelf and returned to loom above her.

  ‘I wouldn’t soil this precious object on a filthy bitch like you. That’s a disgusting idea.’

  Spit sprayed from his thin lips; she felt a globule of saliva slide across her cheek, but couldn’t move her hand to wipe it away.

  There was a click and the light went out. Donna rolled her eyes frantically from side to side. She couldn’t bear to be left alone again in darkness that was never silent. The chains holding her clanked when she stirred, the bed creaked beneath her and sometimes she heard pattering of raindrops on the skylight, or tiny animals scuttling past. The hideous stench became overpowering and her aching muscles tensed as a fresh sound shuffled softly and steadily across the floor. ‘What are you doing?’ she croaked.

  The man didn’t answer. The noise stopped and she heard the door open. With a wrench of her neck she turned to look. Silhouetted against the light from the stairs the man was leaning over, dragging a black bin bag across the threshold.

  ‘What is it? What’s in there?’

  Still he didn’t answer.

  ‘Where are you going? You can’t leave me here. Please, don’t leave me here.’

  The door closed behind his bent figure, leaving Donna in darkness. Even with her eyes tightly shut, she couldn’t ignore the shadowy objects on the shelves. They grinned at her, as her mind spiralled out of control with fear and hunger until she thought she would go mad.

  8

  CONSTERNATION

  Dave rolled over, stretched out and yawned. A Sunday morning lie in was just the job. He wished he could do the same every day.

  ‘Must be nice not to have to get up for work in the mornings,’ he’d said to his dad when the old man had retired.

  ‘Don’t wish your life away, son.’

  The trouble with sleeping for so long was that it made him feel groggy when he finally woke up, although that could have been the hangover. He smiled. It had been a good night. Liz was still asleep. With a grin he reached over and drew the tip of one finger very gently across her rounded upper arm, like an insect crawling over her skin.

  ‘Bog off, Dave,’ she said without opening her eyes. ‘I know it’s you.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Get lost.’

  He threw himself on her and set about tickling her until she screamed for him to stop.

  ‘Best thing for a hangover,’ Dave said cheerfully as he tucked into a cooked breakfast while Liz lit a cigarette, inhaled and threw her head back to blow smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘Aren’t you eating?’ he asked, fork raised. ‘It’s nearly twelve. You should have something.’

  ‘I feel more like throwing up than eating anything after last night.’

  Dave laughed. ‘Lightweight.’

  ‘I know my limits.’

  ‘Clearly you don’t,’ he laughed.

  He wiped his plate clean with his last piece of toast.

  ‘That was terrific. Shame you couldn’t join me.’

  He stood up and put his arms round her.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘You can start with putting the rubbish out. That bin stinks.’ She pointed at the kitchen bin, overflowing with a week’s garbage topped off with the remains of a takeaway curry.

  ‘And while you’re at it, we’re nearly out of fags.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll run round and get some fags and I’ll pick up a paper at the same time.’

  He swore as he tugged at the bag of rubbish which slid slowly out of the bin.

  ‘Don’t spill it,’ Liz fussed.

  ‘Got it.’

  It was threatening to rain as he opened the front door, crossed the narrow paved front garden, dropped the bag in the bin and used the lid to cram it down.

  ‘Just going round the corner then,’ he called out. He turned off into an alleyway that was a short cut to the newsagents at the station. A foul smell grew stronger as he advanced and he saw that someone had dumped a bulging black bin liner on one side of the path. He swore. People had no respect, leaving their stinking rubbish on a public path. The smell was almost overpowering, making him gag and he stumb
led, accidentally kicking the bag which tipped over and fell on its side blocking the path. He reached down and grabbed the bag. It felt slimy. ‘What the fuck is in here?’ The bag wasn’t even tied up properly because as he yanked it to one side it fell open and he drew back in horror at the sight of a bloody, bruised and swollen face staring up at him, unseeing, from inside. He turned away and was violently sick.

  Dave blinked and shook his head, stepping forward to take another look. There was no mistaking what he had seen. He stood for a moment unable to think then reached out to close the bag, but couldn’t bring himself to touch it again. Dread seized him and he felt himself trembling. He looked up. There was no one else in sight. With a frantic lunge he pulled the two sides of the bag together to conceal its horrific contents before running back the way he had come.

  ‘Liz! Liz!’

  ‘What is it? Don’t tell me you’ve spilled the damn rubbish - ’

  She caught sight of his face and stopped.

  ‘Not feeling so clever now? You and your big breakfast. You look well sick - ’

  ‘There’s a woman in a bin bag out there in the alley.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a woman in a bin bag, in the alley.’

  ‘Tell her to bugger off. What’s she doing out there anyway?’

  ‘No, no, she’s dead.’

  ‘What?’

  Liz leaped from her chair.

  ‘Who the fuck is she?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘You’re not pulling my leg?’

  She gazed at him in consternation, registering his pallor and staring eyes.

  ‘Are you sure? Perhaps you’d better check - ’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’m not going out there again. It’s horrible, Liz, horrible. Her eyes – and the smell, Jesus - ’

  He put one hand over his mouth then dropped it abruptly.

  ‘I’ve got to wash my hands.’

  He ran over to the kitchen sink and began frenziedly lathering the soap.

  Liz followed him.

  ‘We’ll have to tell someone,’ he said, still furiously scrubbing his hands.

  ‘Tell someone?’

  ‘What else can we do? We can’t just leave it there. We’ll have to call the police.’

  ‘What about the council?’ Liz suggested. ‘Can’t they do something?’

  ‘The council? What are you talking about? What can the council do? This isn’t a dead rat we’re talking about.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we call a doctor?’

  ‘The police bring their own.’

  ‘We can’t have the police snooping round here. What if they want to question us? What if they find the dope?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Liz. What are you on about? Why would they want to come here? We have to call the police. They have to investigate a murder.’

  ‘You don’t know it’s murder. She could’ve taken an overdose. Maybe it’s a suicide.’

  ‘Don’t be a fucking idiot, Liz. The body’s in a bin bag. No one crawls into a bin bag before they commit suicide. Someone killed her and dumped the body there. Oh bloody hell. What are we going to do?’

  ‘Calm down. Here.’

  She lit two cigarettes and handed him one.

  ‘We’ve got to think,’ he said, inhaling hard.

  His hands were still trembling.

  ‘You’re right,’ Liz said. ‘We’ve got to phone the police. I’ll move the dope and you make the call.’

  ‘Fuck the dope, there’s a dead body in the alley.’

  He sounded slightly hysterical.

  ‘Calm down, Dave. The way you’re carrying on they’re going to think you had something to do with it. Dave - ’

  She stared at him with sudden apprehension.

  ‘You didn’t – I mean – is it someone you know? Do you know who she is?’

  ‘No I bloody don’t. And you’d be in a right state if you’d seen it – her. Now fuck off and stash the dope while I call the police.’

  9

  WORKING TOGETHER

  Geraldine had planned to spend Sunday unpacking. She had slept really well, got up early, showered and gone out for breakfast, putting off her chores in spite of her good intentions. Finally she had returned to her flat and settled down to sort out the packing cases. Apart from her furniture all her belongings had been delivered to the living room, as the largest space in the flat. The move had been rushed and she hadn’t bothered with labelling anything so it was a bit of a lucky dip delving into the cases. She was carting an armful of utensils into the kitchen when her phone rang. She was on call, and having just moved to London didn’t expect to be given much time off, so she wasn’t surprised. A familiar exhilaration shook her, followed as always by a sour sense of guilt. She was pleased to be working again, but the call meant someone had died. With a quick glance around her living room filled with boxes, piles of books and heaps of clothes, she set off for Hendon and the start of her first case in London.

  ‘Here we go,’ she sang as she drove, in a tuneless chant. ‘I’m on my way, I’m off to London.’

  The traffic crawled along in places even though it was Sunday and the journey to Hendon took longer than she had expected, so she arrived with no time to look around before she was due at an initial briefing. As Geraldine walked in a young female officer beamed at her and Geraldine returned the smile. She had been told the Met would seem informal compared to the Kent force. The other woman approached and held out her hand. She had a warm, firm grip and an alert, friendly grin.

  ‘Hi, I’m Sam Haley, Detective Sergeant. I think we’re going to be working together.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Steel,’ Geraldine responded to the relaxed approach from a junior officer with slightly frosty formality.

  The sergeant didn’t seem to notice Geraldine’s reserve.

  ‘I can show you around if you like. I know you’re new to the Met. I did a stint up North but most of my time has been spent here in London, which suits me. I’m a Londoner born and bred. Where have you come from?’ She spoke very fast, with an air of suppressed energy.

  There was something wholesome about her stocky build and glowing complexion that gave the impression she was used to fresh air and exercise. Her blonde hair was cropped in a bob at the front and cut very short at the back, sloping into the nape of her neck. Geraldine returned the sergeant’s smile but before she could respond the room fell silent. The briefing was about to begin.

  The detective chief inspector was standing beside the incident board where a photograph of a young black woman was displayed, her face bruised, her bottom lip split and one eye swollen and bloodshot. It was difficult to tell what she must have looked like before she had been viciously battered, but she could have been beautiful.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  The detective chief inspector looked slowly and deliberately around the assembled officers. Geraldine had the feeling he was taking in every detail of her face, although his gaze only lingered on her for a second. He was tall and burly with broad shoulders and a square chin, his dark hair flecked with grey, still physically powerful, a man who could pack a punch if he chose to. There was an air of arrogance about him, perhaps suggested by his surprisingly well-educated accent.

  ‘I’m DCI Reg Milton, for those of you who don’t already know me, Senior Investigating Officer on this case.’

  He turned to the incident board.

  ‘We’re investigating the violent death of a young black woman, aged somewhere around twenty. The body was found early this afternoon in an alleyway near Tufnell Park station.’

  He read out the post code and the exact address.

  ‘The body was discovered, wrapped in a black dustbin liner, by a David Crawley, tenant of a ground floor apartment where he lives with his girl friend, Elizabeth James. So far we have no identity for the victim, but there’s little doubt we’re looking at suspicious circumstances. There’s a Gold Team meeting here tomorrow with th
e borough commander and someone from media and communications, and the Safer Neighbourhood Inspector will also be present.’

  He glanced around the room again.

  ‘Hopefully we can sort this out very quickly, certainly before the papers get too busy. So, let’s get going and gather as much information as possible before the meeting tomorrow.’

  Geraldine discovered she was indeed scheduled to work with Detective Sergeant Sam Haley and their first task was to interview David Crawley, the witness who had discovered the body.

  ‘We can get to Islington in time for tea,’ the sergeant chattered cheerfully as they walked over to the car.

  Geraldine nodded without answering.

  ‘The canteen at Islington’s nothing special,’ Sam went on, ‘but it’s worth going there at tea time. There’s homemade banana cake, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Fine. But we’ll see David Crawley first.’

  ‘Yes gov, but if the banana cake’s all gone you’ll be sorry.’

  She laughed and Geraldine couldn’t help laughing too. She had a feeling she was going to enjoy working with Sam Haley.

  10

  ONE DEAD STRANGER

  It began to drizzle as they drove past Tufnell Park station.

  ‘We’ve taken the wrong turning,’ Sam called out, leaning forward to squint at the road names.

  ‘Do you want to check the sat nav?’

  ‘No. It’s easy. We’re virtually there. We just need to go back to the tube station and pick up Tufnell Park Road at the junction. It’s one of the roads off there. Yes, we’ve gone too far.’

  They turned round and found the street they wanted. As they turned into it they saw a police cordon blocking access further down. Almost all the spaces along the road were taken but they managed to park a few doors away from the alleyway where the body had been found earlier that day.

  Geraldine checked her phone before she got out of the car.

  ‘There’s still no news of the victim’s identity,’ she said, screwing up her face at the rain.

  Sam put up a large black umbrella. Huddled together underneath it they hurried along the path towards the forensic tent up ahead, spanning the width of the alleyway. They pulled on their white suits and blue overshoes before shuffling sideways between the fence and the edge of the tent, to the entrance. Geraldine’s ankles were damp and rain had dripped inside her collar, but she forgot her discomfort at the familiar rush of adrenalin at starting on a case, all her senses alert as her thoughts focused on one dead stranger. Inside the tent there was an air of quiet industry. Scene of crime officers were busy taking photographs, scrutinising the ground and placing small items carefully in evidence bags.