by Shaun Hutson
Her orgasm came as she tore off his top lip.
She took it between her bloodied front teeth and bit deep, pulling. Shaking her head from side to side until it came away. She chewed once and swallowed that too.
Her pleasure was limitless now.
The shattering power of her climax sent what felt like an electric charge through her body and, as blood from his severed tongue spilled down her naked torso, she rocked back and forth on top of his writhing body, her arms holding him down with surprising strength.
He tried to scream but the blood flooded back into his throat.
She slid off him, reaching for the vase on the bedside table, bringing it down with terrifying force on his head.
The vase shattered, the blow opening another savage gash on his forehead.
His eyes rolled upwards in the socket as she clambered back onto him, like some unsatisfied lover in search of gratification.
She used the jagged, broken edges of the vase to open his stomach, the muscles and flesh splitting like an overripe peach.
She thrust one hand inside the reeking cavity, her fingers closing around a length of intestine. It felt like a throbbing worm, bloated and slimy but, undeterred, she pulled hard, ripping the bulging length free. Paula raised it to her mouth and bit into it ignoring the blood which poured down her arms and torso. It trickled through her pubic hair like crimson ejaculate and she slid back and forth in the reeking mess, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Her mouth bulging as she filled it with the dripping entrails, chewing happily.
Jennings had stopped moving. Even the muscular spasms which had racked his body having ceased.
He was dead by the time she began peeling pieces of skin from his face, pushing them into her mouth with a gourmet’s fervour.
It was as she reached for his eye that the door opened.
Twenty-seven
‘Who is he?’
Hacket’s voice sounded like gravel as he sipped at the coffee, gazing through the two-way mirror into the interrogation room.
The room was bare but for a table, two chairs and three men.
A uniformed sergeant. Detective Inspector Madden and a third man.
‘His name’s Peter Walton,’ said DS Spencer, looking down at a sheet of paper fastened to the clip-board which he held. ‘Age thirty-two, no fixed abode. Eleven previous convictions. All small-time stuff though. Handling stolen goods, mugging, that kind of thing.’
‘You call mugging small-time?’ said Hacket, his eyes never leaving Walton. He studied every inch of the man’s face as he sat toying with an empty packet of cigarettes. The lank hair, streaked with grey here and there. The sallow complexion, sunken eyes. Unshaven. His lips were thick and puffy, as if he’d been chewing the bottom one repeatedly until it swelled. He had a dark birthmark on the left side of his neck, just below his jaw. Hacket noticed with disgust that there was some hardened mucous around one nostril. When he tired of playing with the cigarette packet, Walton began picking at that particular nostril, examining the hardened snot before wiping it on his trousers.
Spencer had not expected the school teacher to drive to the police station after the phone call. He was even more surprised by his appearance. Hacket’s hand was crudely bandaged, the blood still seeping through. His hair was uncombed and the dark rings beneath his eyes made him look as though he hadn’t slept for a week. Spencer noticed the smell of whisky on his breath but made no comment. Instead he had shown the dishevelled man straight through into the office which looked onto the interrogation room, watching as Hacket sat down, his eyes never leaving Walton. As if he were trying to remember every single detail about the man.
Hacket himself had washed his face when he’d finished speaking on the phone to Spencer, scrubbing the dried blood away. Then he’d bandaged his hand, pulled on a jacket and driven to the police station. The cold night air combined with the news he had just heard had served to shock him out of his stupor even though he was still aware of the smell of drink on his breath.
Now the two men sat in the small room gazing through the two-way mirror as if they were watching fish inside an aquarium.
‘We picked him up in Soho,’ said Spencer. ‘He was trying to sell some videos. Cassettes which had been stolen from your house.
‘You said that there were lots of fingerprints in the house when Lisa was killed.’
‘There were. Unfortunately, none of them match with Walton’s.’
Hacket exhaled deeply.
‘You must be able to hold him on something,’ the teacher rasped.
‘Apart from receiving stolen goods, there’s nothing.’
‘You mean you’re going to let him go?’ Hacket snarled, turning towards Spencer for the first time. The DS saw the fury on the teacher’s face. ‘He killed my daughter. You can’t let him go.’
‘We can’t prove that, Mr Hacket. Not yet. And, until we can, we can only hold him for forty-eight hours. After that he’s free.’ Spencer shrugged. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do but it’s the law. He has his rights, regardless of what you or I think.’
‘And what about my daughter?’ Hacket muttered through clenched teeth. ‘What about her fucking rights?’
‘Look, I told you that we thought two men were involved well, perhaps Walton can lead us to the other man. To the one who really murdered your daughter.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t him?’
‘Because his blood group is different to that of the man who raped your daughter.’
Hacket swallowed hard and turned away, his attention returning to Walton. He could see the man nodding or shaking his head as Madden asked him questions. He didn’t seem very concerned. At one point he even smiled. Hacket gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles turned white. What he wouldn’t give for ten minutes alone with the bastard.
Forty-eight hours and he would be free again.
Hacket closed his eyes tightly, as if hoping the rage would vanish but, when he opened them again Walton was still there. The rage was still there.
The pain.
And the guilt.
He got slowly to his feet, wiping one hand across his face.
‘What did you do to your hand?’ asked Spencer, nodding towards the bandaged appendage.
‘Just an accident.’ Hacket turned towards the door.
‘One of my men could drive you home, Mr Hacket.’
The teacher shook his head, pausing with his hand on the door knob.
‘You let me know what happens. Please,’ he said, without looking at Spencer. ‘If you manage to hold him. If he spills the beans on his… partner. You’ll let me know?’
‘Yes,’ said Spencer, watching as Hacket left.
The schoolteacher paused a moment on the steps of the police station, sucking in deep lungfuls of night air. As he stood there a police car pulled up and two uniformed men got out, running past him into the building.
Another emergency?
Hacket walked to his car and climbed in, sitting there for a moment before starting the engine. As he twisted the key it purred into life.
‘Peter Walton,’ he said under his breath.
He had a name and he knew what the bastard looked like.
It wasn’t much but at least it was a start.
He pulled away, guiding the car out into traffic.
Twenty-eight
Her fingernails were deep inside his eye socket.
Like hooks, ready to pull the orb free of his skull but, as she heard the door open, Paula Kirkham turned, her blood spattered hand falling to her side. She chewed slowly on a portion of Jennings small intestine, pieces of it sticking to her chin. Her torso was smothered in his blood. The room smelled like a slaughterhouse. Crimson had soaked the bed itself, elsewhere it had sprayed up the walls as if directed by a hose. Some of it had even spattered the sandwiches which Jennings had asked for.
Paula swallowed what was left of the intestine and looked blankly at her parents.
Tony Kirkham slipped
inside the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Irene crossed towards the bed, towards Paula and the mutilated remains of Stephen Jennings. She smiled benignly at her daughter and held out a hand, watching as the young girl slid from Jennings’ torn body. Irene wrapped a blanket around her then gathered up the clothes which lay in an untidy bundle on the floor, some flecked with blood.
Paula smiled lovingly at her parents and, as she passed him, she paused and kissed her father softly on the cheek.
He smiled and touched her hair. Hair that was matted with blood.
Irene led her from the room and Tony was left alone with the remains of Jennings.
He wasted little time.
First he wrapped the body in the sheets and covers from the bed, cocooning it. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the string he carried, wrapping long lengths around the bloodied corpse to keep the covers in place. The stench was appalling but he continued with his task, fetching Jennings’ small suitcase from the wardrobe. Into it he pushed the dead man’s clothes, his shoes, and anything else he could find which gave the appearance that someone had stopped in the room. He moved through into the bathroom, scooping up the rep’s toothbrush and razor. Those too he tossed into the suitcase.
The mattress was sodden with blood, Tony made a mental note to burn it later. The large wood-burning stove in the basement of the hotel would be more than adequate for that task.
He would dispose of Jennings’ body in there too. And his clothes.
As for his car, that could wait. He would drive it out into the countryside in the small hours and dump it. Even when it was found there would be nothing to connect it to the hotel, to the Kirkham family.
To his beautiful daughter.
Tony smiled as he looked down at the blood-drenched parcel of bedclothes which formed a shroud for Stephen Jennings. Some blood was beginning to seep onto the carpet. He would have to move fast before it left too indelible a stain.
The crimson which had spattered the walls would also need to be washed off.
He left the room for a moment, hurrying along the corridor to a utility room from which he took a mop, bucket, several cloths and dusters. By the time he returned to the room, a puddle of thick red fluid was beginning to spread out around the corpse. Tony muttered to himself, knelt down and lifted the body. He was a strong man and the weight bothered him little. He carried Jennings into the bathroom and dumped the corpse unceremoniously in the bath, looking down at it for a moment before returning to the bedroom.
As he picked up one of the cloths to wipe down the dressing table, the door of the room opened and Irene walked in.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘She’s sleeping now. I cleaned her up first then put her to bed.’ She surveyed the blood-spattered room indifferently. ‘How long will you be?’ she wanted to know.
‘Give me an hour,’ he said.
Irene nodded and glanced at her watch.
11.57 p.m.
She turned and left Tony to his task, hurrying down to reception. She ran her finger down the guest register and found Jennings’ name. Then, with infinite care she changed the date of which he was due to leave. If anyone came looking for him, which was doubtful, they would say that he didn’t stop the night, that he had to leave suddenly. That he hadn’t left an address where he could be contacted.
That task done she scuttled back upstairs to her husband who was washing down the walls.
‘What about the body?’ she asked.
‘I’ll take care of it in a minute,’ he said, calmly. ‘There’s no rush.’
No rush. No fuss.
They were used to the ritual by now.
12.57 a.m.
He’d said an hour and he’d been right.
The body was gone, all of Jennings’ belongings were gone.
Irene Kirkham looked at her husband, who nodded.
She reached for the phone and dialled.
Twenty-nine
The house was large. An imposing edifice with a mock Georgian front, its stonework covered by a creeping blanket of ivy. The windows peered from beneath this canopy like questing eyes, gazing out into the darkness. During the hours of daylight, it was possible to see over most of Hinkston from the main bedroom of the house. The building set, as it was, on one of the many hills which swelled around the town.
A gravel drive curved up towards the house from the main road which led down into the town. Hedges which had once been subject to the complex art of topiary had been allowed to merge into one and now formed a boundary along the bottom of the spacious lawn and also on either side of the curving drive.
There was a pond in the centre of the lawn but it was empty of fish. A couple of weather-beaten gnomes stood sentinel.
The house boasted eight bedrooms but, at present, only one was used. Downstairs there was a sizeable library, a sitting room which again looked out over Hinkston itself, and a kitchen.
The surgery had been installed over twenty-three years ago. It had been constructed from two other rooms, one turned into an office, the other a waiting room.
It was in the surgery that Doctor Edward Curtis sat, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up.
He was cradling a glass of gin in one strong hand, massaging the skin above his eyebrows with the other.
Curtis was a tall, lean man in his late forties. His brown hair was cut short, his skin smooth apart from the moustache which covered his top lip. He turned the glass slowly in his hand, looking down into the clear liquid and telling himself that he would go to bed when he’d finished his drink.
He’d said that after the first two. Now, gazing at his fourth, he determined to keep to his word. He took a sip of the gin.
The house was particularly quiet at this time. Not even the creak of settling timbers disturbed the solitude. Curtis enjoyed silence. He was grateful that the house was set outside the town itself, more than half a mile. Of course a frequent bus service brought his patients to him during surgery, those who didn’t drive. But, apart from his work, Curtis was rarely disturbed. He was on call, naturally, twenty-four hours a day, preferring not to employ a locum as the surgeries in town did. Many of his patients called him by his first name and he had found that his rapport, carefully cultivated over the years, helped them to relax. Perhaps, he reasoned, private practice offered more time than that available to his overworked colleagues working for the NHS but it was something which Curtis found both rewarding and necessary.
He had been practising in Hinkston for the last twenty-one years, ever since his return from medical school and he was now a well-established member of the community, his skills sought by both old and young, not just in Hinkston but also further afield. There was one woman on his books who came from London to see him, such was her faith in him.
Curtis employed just two people, both on a part-time basis. A receptionist and a housekeeper, although it would be more appropriate to call her a cleaner. But he disliked the term, finding it demeaning to the woman who performed such a necessary task. She cleaned both the surgery and the house itself.
But not the cellar.
The subterranean part of the house was the private domain of the doctor. He had installed a simple but sophisticated store of machinery and equipment which allowed him to perform some fairly complex tests. His ability to test for diseases such as diabetes and various renal problems, to name but two, removed the need for patients to travel to hospital and so cut down the time they had to wait for results. He even had a small X-ray unit down there. Blood tests and urine tests could be analysed on the spot, the patient able to know the result before they left the surgery.
Most of the money to set up the surgery, and certainly to install the equipment, had come from his parents. Now both dead, they had left him not only the house but a sizeable amount of money which Curtis had invested wisely. His fees were more than reasonable and, living alone, he had minimal overheads. Just the wages of his two staff and his everyday living requirements.
He took another sip of the gin and glanced at his watch.
1.36 a.m.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned.
The door to the surgery opened and Curtis looked up as the newcomer walked across to the desk and sat down opposite him.
‘Join me?’ Curtis asked, pushing the bottle and a glass towards the other occupant of the room.
He filled the glass, watching as his companion drank.
‘Sorry if I woke you,’ he said.
The other merely shrugged.
‘I had to go into Hinkston. An emergency,’ he explained, finishing his drink.
The figure also drained the glass and pushed it towards Curtis, who promptly re-filled it.
‘I’m going to bed,’ Curtis announced, yawning again. He got to his feet, picked up his jacket and headed for the door that led through the waiting room and beyond to the stairs. The remaining occupant of the surgery sat drinking, only the sound of low, rhythmic breathing breaking the deathly silence.
Thirty
She guessed she’d slept less than three hours all night.
Sue Hacket splashed her face with cold water, dried it then wandered back into the bedroom to apply some makeup. She inspected the dark rings beneath her eyes before adding eyeliner and a touch of lipstick. She rubbed her cheeks, noting the paleness of her skin and finally gave in to the temptation of touching on some rouge.
Downstairs she could hear the sound of the radio, the vacuous ramblings of the DJ periodically replaced by the even more vacuous music he played. She slipped out of her housecoat and pulled on jeans and a sweater, stepping into her shoes before she made her way downstairs.
‘Well, come on then,’ she said to Craig who was sitting at the kitchen table trying to fasten the laces on his shoes. ‘You’ve got to show me the way and we don’t want you being late do we?’
‘I won’t be late,’ he assured her, jumping down from the chair and rushing into the sitting room to retrieve his satchel.
