The Rotting Spot

by Valerie Laws

  Waiting in a police car to give her statement, Erica suddenly recalled Julie saying she wished Molly would turn up dead. She’d got her wish, and fast too. She saw Will lope over the bridge and scramble to the lip of the harbour. A constable climbed down the skinny ladder onto a battered boat, which rocked and swayed. The tide was so far out now, the boats were beached on silt. The mooring rope of the ‘Emily’ was draped with hairy green weed. Something was caught round the rope, washing about in the shallow muddy water. Like a bundle of old clothes, sodden and discoloured. Erica knew what it must be. She sat with her head resting on the headrest in front, the cold surface on her hot head sticky and slick. Radios were bursting into life, and officers scrambling about like ants in the rotting spot.

  She closed her eyes. Shortly after, renewed noise made her open them again to see Gil, leaning over and vomiting off the bridge into the polluted water, while Sally patted his back awkwardly and looked as though she’d soon join him. They’d found a body. She felt no surprise when Will looked into the car.

  ‘Erica? Come into the pub, you could do with a drink,’ and he took her elbow as if she was elderly. She felt Will’s hand, his youthful heat on her chilled flesh. She went with him. She didn’t even argue. For a few more minutes, even seconds, she could exist in a world where it hadn’t happened yet. At the bar, the choking strength of the brandy burned its way down into her empty belly, filling her head with fumes. An overwhelming, primitive hunger came over her, and she tore open a packet of crisps, needing the salty fatness, the sharpness of the edges, licking the crumbs off the torn foil bag, and then falling upon a Mars bar, sinking her teeth into the sweet chocolate and toffee, fudgy, filling, obliterating … She was wiping the last of it from her mouth after washing it down with more brandy , when Will came to tell her that they were removing the bedraggled body of Mickey Spence from the harbour.

  ‘He was going to leave me his head,’ Erica said thickly. The sugar rush and the alcohol dazed her shocked mind while warming her gut.

  ‘Come on, Erica. He’s not suffering now.’

  ‘Why did you ask Gil to identify him? I could have done it.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want to remember him like that. I know you were fond of him.’

  Thought I’d not be up to it, more like, thought Erica. But she was too weary to make the point. She had a sudden flash of Mickey’s eager, boyish face when she’d brought the puffin’s head to him, and she was sobbing into Will’s arm, her tears hot on his skin. ‘I want to see him,’ her muffled voice said.

  ‘Better not, really, Erica.’

  ‘He can’t have been in the water longer than a few hours.’

  Will hesitated. ‘He looks sort of dignified, he’s got a peaceful and distant sort of expression. But he did fall off the cliff, and it looks like he hit some rocks or something on the way down.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ She felt disloyal to be sitting here while strangers manhandled Mickey’s poor body.

  ‘That’s not all. There’s been some kind of predator attack. His face … probably rats, there’s some damage.’

  Silence. Will maintained his professional distance with an effort. He wanted to pick her up and wrap her in blankets. Hell, Sally should be doing this, he thought. Looking down at Erica’s profile, he saw a tear roll down the curve of her cheek, reminding him of the water drop that had so turned him on in her office when they were sparring. In the grip of a spasm of feeling, he said, ‘It’s probably for the best, Erica.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the circumstances, I mean. I mean,’ Will pushed up his tousled hair desperately, ‘I mean, he had a girl’s head in his rotting spot, who but he could have put it there, or dug it up again? He was obviously mentally ill, ok, and he probably didn’t suffer much, and at least now he won’t have to go to trial…’

  He broke off. Erica’s eyes were like chips of green glass, she was looking at him as if he’d been gnawed by rats. Or as if she’d like him to be.

  ‘Sounds to me like you’ve already tried him.’ She walked through into the lounge, head high. Fiona was crying, and Erica found comfort in consoling her and applying suitable remedies.

  ‘He was such a sweetie.’ Fiona shredded a bunch of sodden tissues. ‘I’ve known him all my life, Erica.’

  Will raked his sweat-damp hair flat with his nails. The case was solved already, it seemed, cheating him of the opportunity to find a killer.

  16

  Tuesday 1st July

  Police Station

  ‘Right, well, the labs haven’t been best pleased, being lumbered with two post mortem specimens over the weekend.’ The Super concluded a typically wordy intro.

  More likely the old man was the one grumbling, thought

  Will.

  ‘But we’ve got the reports, for what they’re worth. Massum?’

  ‘Sir. The skull seems to be Molly Westfield’s; sex, age, match of face to photographs, especially the front teeth, all fit. Dental records are no longer available, but the mother identified the earring as like one belonging to Molly at about that time. Actually had a photo of her wearing them.’

  He paused, to take a sip of coffee. Will’s mind suddenly filled with the picture of Peg’s puzzled face at the door, in the last moments of her ignorance, the scent of baking drifting from behind her, the earring in a plastic bag in his pocket; how she dropped like a stone into her sister’s arms at the sight of it, her brain switching off, in a last attempt to save itself from terrible knowledge. Or guilt.

  Hassan continued. ‘Soil samples from inside the skull suggest it’s probably been in the actual rotting spot all along. They’re working on retrieving some DNA from the skull, scraps of, er, tissue, take a while to get results, that is if they can find anything to compare it with, but in the meantime it’s safe to assume it’s her. We’ve checked the database of missing girls, no likely matches with any other case.’

  ‘Ok, well at least we all know where Molly is now. That’s something. Even for the family.’ The Super sounded quite decent, but then he spoiled it by adding, ‘I should say, at least we know where some of her is. God knows what happened to the rest. Fish food, I suppose.’

  Will saw Hassan’s face and broke in before his colleague could say something professionally suicidal. ‘As for Mickey Spence, Sir, looks like he fell from the cliff. Tide was coming in, carried him upstream a bit, then as it carried him down on its way out, he got caught round a mooring rope. Some injuries are consistent with hitting the cliff on the way down. He’d been on the booze, Sir, according to the pathologist, and locals say he was very susceptible to alcohol. He died instantly, cardiac arrest, the shock of hitting the cold water when alcohol had caused vasodilation; vagal inhibition. Didn’t have time to drown. Quite common for drunken sailors falling off docksides to die that way apparently.’

  ‘None of the injuries ante mortem then?’

  ‘Can’t be sure Sir. Doc says the usual sign, the so-called vital reaction, is often absent if trauma occurs just before death. Head injuries were consistent with a fall. Some post- mortem rodent damage. It looks like accident, or suicide.’

  ‘So what have we got? The papers are loving this skull stuff. They want heads to roll, in more ways than one, if we don’t have this sewn up double quick. Bastards are complaining Molly was there all along, and we didn’t find her. The word incompetence hangs in the air like a bad smell. As if we could have looked everywhere … So please tell me Spence did it. Knocked the lass off, buried her head in his rotting spot, gloated over it for twenty-five years, sick bleeder … for some reason, digs it up again, and then falls or jumps off the cliff. Now why did he do that, if you can apply reason to a psycho?’

  ‘Sir, he was a collector of skulls. Quite fanatical, it seems. When we visited Erica Bruce a while back, she showed us a horse’s skull.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ The Super interrupted Will when he rashly drew breath. ‘So she’s a nutcase as well. Sorry Will, she’d be too young, if born at all, to
make a likely suspect.’

  ‘No, Sir.’ Will explained about the horse. ‘Ms Bruce says he’d been dropping hints about getting a human skull. And we found this.’ Will passed over a stack of print-outs. ‘Seems Spence had a blog, on some site called The Skull Hunter. Strange stuff about collecting skulls. If you look here, and here, highlighted in yellow, he says how much he wanted a human specimen. It was definitely written on his computer.’

  ‘God, what a nutjob … so your theory is…?’

  ‘Well, Spence has the head, all those years, just dying to display it, the crown of his collection. Suddenly everyone’s talking about Molly. He can’t resist it any longer, digs it up, but of course he can’t show anyone. Conflict, Sir, you see, resolved by getting pie-eyed and falling, or jumping, off the cliff.’

  ‘Hm, makes as much sense as anything else in this case. Strange bugger, this Spence.’

  ‘Very eccentric, Sir.’ Hassan, now poker-faced, chose his words carefully. ‘Seems popular in the village, always lived alone though. Except for his summer assistants. Among whom, are Molly Westfield, Lucy Seaton, Erica herself, and now Fiona from the pub. Every one of them noticeably pretty.’

  ‘Are we heading where I think we’re heading, gentlemen?’ The Super leaned forward eagerly. The press would love this.

  ‘We searched his premises thoroughly. Right mess, untidy as hell. Books about skulls and anatomy, sharp craft knives and scalpels, and well, you should see what we found under his bed, Sir.’

  The Super leaned further, almost falling off his chair.

  Tuesday 1st July, Ivy Lodge, Wydsand Bay

  Erica greeted Will and Sally with cautious courtesy. She made them both drinks, even going so far as to produce normal tea, milk, and HobNobs borrowed from Rina.

  ‘Lucy’s still missing. Surely she must have heard about Molly, from the media. She’d want to be there for her family. So why hasn’t she come forward?’

  Will left his biscuit on the saucer. ‘I know. We must look at the possibility that she’s, erm, come to some harm.’

  ‘Or that I’m right about her being scared of someone there – Molly’s skull turning up would scare her even more.’

  Will ploughed on. ‘It’s just unfortunate we can’t interview Mr Spence…’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ Erica’s tone was sharp. Sally prepared herself to comfort Erica, or wrestle her to the floor, as required.

  ‘Why would Mickey know where Lucy is?’ Erica persisted.

  The two officers exchanged looks, the world-weary faced by the naivety of the hopeless innocent. Erica caught the look, sparking her anger.

  ‘It sounds like you believe Mickey killed Molly, and now you’re accusing him of having some part in Lucy’s disappearance too. Very heroic, blaming a dead man who can’t answer back. Can’t come up with alibis. Can’t be interviewed. Can’t have a fair trial, only a trial by media.’

  ‘Come on Erica, you must admit…’

  ‘Why should anyone admit, when you can pin crimes on dead people? Why not have Mickey posthumously found guilty of being Jack the Ripper, as well!’

  ‘All the evidence we have points to his involvement – the skull, in his, er, rotting spot. Who else knew it was there? You yourself said he’d boasted of getting one.’

  ‘And we discovered Spence had a website for skull- hunters, including a blog in which he went on about how much he wanted one…’

  ‘Oh, so it was Mickey! I did wonder … It didn’t seem his style, but there was more to him than met the eye. I asked him and he denied it.’

  ‘Oh he did? Interesting.’ Sally pounced.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, it all looks bad for Mickey, shame we can’t ask him about it now. His death is very convenient, isn’t it? Someone could have buried the head in Mickey’s rotting spot, so that if Molly’s death was somehow discovered, he’d be a ready-made suspect!’ Erica began restlessly pacing the floor.

  ‘Can’t you see,’ she went on, looking from Will’s dark, drawn face to Sally’s freckle-nosed elfin one, ‘Lucy staying away means she knows Mickey isn’t the threat in Stonehead. His death’s all over the media, so she’d go home to her son, if she believed Mickey was Molly’s killer.’

  Will paused. Shit, Erica had a point there … if Lucy was alive. Sally spoke up.

  ‘That’s true enough. But surely he’d know if someone else had buried Molly’s head? Wouldn’t the ground be disturbed?’

  ‘Sally’s right. The ground would be all churned up.’

  ‘Who knows,’ Erica countered, ‘all this was twenty-five years ago or so, but it could have been made to look like determined predator damage, fox or even cat, sometimes one gets in, manages to shift the basket, and digs up the ground. If Mickey found it like that one day, he’d just flatten the ground to minimise the damage, put the other skulls and basket back, and leave it alone, none the wiser.’

  Their voices had been rising, and now Rina put her shiny dark bob round the door.

  ‘What’s up?’ she demanded. She entered the room, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, her white coat giving her an efficient, medical air. She put an arm round Erica’s shoulders and faced the two officers. ‘D’you want me to stay, sweetie?’ Rina asked Erica, her eyes still challengingly on Will’s.

  ‘That’s fine by us,’ Will smoothly defused the confrontation. ‘I’m sure Erica will be glad of your support. We’ve got more to discuss.’

  Will was pushing up his hair into spikes. So he wasn’t entirely sure of himself, Erica thought. She put her arm through Rina’s, its solidity making her feel earthed to some primitive source of power.

  ‘Mickey Spence never married, or had girlfriends. He employed pretty young girls as summer assistants.’ Sally fixed Erica with a sympathetic gaze. ‘Such as yourself. This will be painful for you, but there is evidence that Mickey Spence, er, indulged in deviant behaviour.’

  Erica stared at Sally. ‘So it’s a crime not to get married nowadays is it? Mickey was an eccentric, not the type to find someone easily who could live with him. He told me he was engaged to a girl when he was working abroad, and she died in some sort of accident.’

  ‘He told you,’ repeated Will.

  ‘He showed me an old photo … this is ridiculous.’

  ‘Yes, well, speaking of photos…’ Will flattened his hair savagely. He found speaking of sexual deviance very difficult, especially in front of three women. This wasn’t what he joined the Force for. He wanted armed sieges, or bringing down thugs with flying tackles, anything but this. ‘When we searched Spence’s place, we found several suitcases of pornography. Pornography of a sadistic nature.’

  Will and Sally waited for Erica’s shocked reaction.

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Erica, relaxing a little.

  ‘You knew?’ Will was incredulous.

  ‘We all knew. It didn’t mean anything. Mickey wouldn’t have hurt a fly.’

  ‘Sadistic pornography?’ Rina stared in horror at Erica.

  ‘Oh, it’s pathetic. It’s just bog-standard soft porn, Playboy type thing. Only he’s drawn things on.

  ‘Things?’

  Sally chimed in. ‘Instruments of torture, blood spurts, whip weals, wounds … things that show a tendency towards violence and humiliation of women.’

  ‘How can you defend him,’ Will said. ‘This man has been employing vulnerable young girls, living in, year on year, while indulging in fantasies of torture and mutilation. Clamps on women’s nipples, blood shooting out, stuff like that. If you knew about this, I’m surprised that you should object to our interest in Spence as the likely killer of a young girl who worked for him.’

  ‘Guv,’ said Sally. Her brown eyes shot messages to him. Oh yes, Sally had been on courses, she’d know what this was all about. Denial, or some such. He cursed himself for an insensitive idiot, when he’d been talking to someone who’d been one of the vulnerable young girls.

  Erica for once didn’t notice this exchange; she was too concerned with defending Mickey’s reputati
on.

  ‘Look,’ she looked round at the three others. ‘Ok, if I’d discovered that stuff now, about someone I didn’t know, I’d be freaked, but we all knew Mickey. I didn’t see that stuff until I’d been living in a while, and knew the guy. He’d leave the odd mag lying about, he was hopelessly untidy. We’d have to go into his room looking for stuff, that sort of thing. We’d see them then. You don’t understand! Mickey loved to be dominated by women and girls! He was no threat!’

  ‘But perhaps he was concealing his real nature, the precise opposite?’ suggested Sally.

  ‘Oh please, don’t give me that Freudian stuff. Whatever someone does, the thing they do the least is their ‘real’ nature. Crap. Everyone has a complex nature, when they express one aspect of themselves, they suppress another, and it needs an outlet.’

  ‘Nurse unacted desires?’ Will startled Sally with this strange remark.

  ‘Exactly! You know, these masochist clubs, you get High Court judges and so on there, and those men who act like babies, wearing nappies; it’s not that they ‘really’ want to be babies or humiliated geeks, it’s just that they need a kind of holiday from their usual authoritarian selves. That was Mickey; he loved us all to boss him about, those sad mags are just a kind of righting of the balance. He didn’t even buy real sadistic porn, those women weren’t being tortured, they’re beaming away, he drew the other stuff on. Poor soul. I bet you didn’t find anything hardcore on his computer.’

  ‘Not so far, no,’ admitted Will.

  ‘Erica,’ said Sally. ‘We know this must be difficult for you, but we must look at the possibility that Spence was attracted to young girls. It’s very common to deny sexual abuse, even to oneself. We can arrange counselling for you…’

  Erica laughed. ‘Please! Do I look like a victim? Don’t insult me! I can’t believe it … Rina, you know me, do you really think I’d tolerate some pervert messing me about, I’d black his bloody eye!’