UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  He chambered a round, noisily.

  ‘No!’ Laing wailed. ‘Honest, I don’t know!’

  ‘We’ve got past that bit, Arthur.’ Joey smiled into the man’s anguished, terrified face. ‘This is the bit where you confess or ring Harry; one or t’other.’

  ‘I didn’t do it.’ Sob. ‘But I don’t have Harry’s number. He doesn’t give it out.’

  ‘Not good enough. Think of something to stop me killing you. Quick! Quick!’

  ‘Jonjo!’ Laing screamed. ‘I’ve got Jonjo’s number! He knows everything Harry ever does. He’ll be able to set something up.’

  ‘Okay,’ Joey said, eerily calm again. ‘Turn up your volume so we can all hear. And make it count. It’s the most important call you’ll ever make.’

  It was a good job Laing had Jonjo on speed dial or he’d have never got through. His famous safecracker’s fingers were shake, rattle and rolling.

  ‘Jonjo, it’s me, Arthur. Look . . .’

  ‘Arthur, you fucking wanker! Where were you Tuesday?’

  ‘I got jumped. Look Jonjo . . .’

  ‘Don’t look me, just fucking listen. Are you sober?’

  ‘Yes. My head’s killing, but . . .’

  ‘Right, don’t touch a drop of anything. Don’t even sniff the cork. And get yourself to The Black Horse this afternoon, two sharp. Understand?’

  ‘The Blackie's shut . . .’

  ‘It’s open this afternoon. Use the back door. Harry’s having a council of war. He wants everyone in. Even wankers like you. If you want to carry on breathing, be there. Be sober. And make sure you agree when Harry tells you what he wants you to do. Got me?’

  ‘Yes. But . . .’

  Too late, Jonjo had hung up.

  ‘Fuck me, Arthur,’ said Mike. ‘You are shit-hot. You didn’t even have to try to get that out of him.’

  Joey laughed. ‘Where do we find this Black Horse? In Shipley, is it?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Laing said miserably. ‘It’s out of town, off Leeds Road.’

  ‘In the middle of nowhere, then, somewhere where we won’t be disturbed?’

  Laing nodded and started to cry.’

  ‘And we can get there in what, half an hour?’ Joey grinned. ‘Great. That gives us time to get organized.’

  * * *

  From that first, desperate experiment up until she lost her virginity at sweet sixteen Penny had played with herself regularly, no longer seeing anything wrong with it, preferring the playful description to the horrid, taboo-ridden MASTURBATION that, for her, would be always be tainted. Then, as her confidence with boys grew, the need receded until it was as good as gone and MASTURBATION became a rare, almost forgotten pastime. And so it had remained through a whole string of lovers, right up to Geoff, when it really had stopped, even while Old Faithful was going through his early work-to-rules.

  The awkward so-and-so.

  It was only in these last few weeks (since she’d been so insensitively told to get her loving elsewhere!) that she’d started occasionally coming back to bed on a weekday, after everyone else had gone off to school or work. An hour or two playing alone helped her tolerate her husband’s depression and lack of humour. And it wasn’t being unfaithful. Even if she did fantasize while she played, she’d made it an unbreakable rule that, when she actually thingied, she would only ever think about Geoff. So what if her fantasies began with other men? What woman didn’t fantasize about a handsome stranger at one time or other? At least she only fantasized about the unattainable. According to all the agony aunts, lots of women fantasized about neighbours or blokes from work . . . and not only while playing with themselves, but while actually doing the deed with their unsuspecting partner.

  How unfaithful was that!

  Penny’s early fantasies had been predictable, if not tame. She’d usually have her girlhood idol, Tom Cruise, to romance her with those wonderful eyes. Or Johnny Depp, in Captain Jack Sparrow mode, ready to give her a good and jolly rogering. That had been pleasant but ever so slightly repetitive. Then, one memorable morning, she’d suddenly found herself wriggling and squirming beneath Triple H, from the otherwise awful American wrestling that Jamie watched. She hadn’t previously considered a man of such aggression and massive physique but, after a couple of hours of imagining what he might be able to do for her, he’d qualified as another regular.

  More recently she’d become a little depraved. It had begun with Captain Sparrow, having had his fun, handing her on to his crew, who hadn’t seen a woman in nearly a year. Then he’d cast her away on an island populated with cannibals, who (fortunately!!) had better uses for her than the pot. Next she was marooned on an island full of voracious Amazonian women of every colour and hue.

  And wasn’t that what fantasy was all about? In reality she’d only ever slept with men, and only everyday men, one at once. She was never going to do it with anyone famous or a boatload of pirates, never mind half a dozen sexed-up Amazonians under a coconut tree. As long as she swapped her dream lovers for Geoff, just before the critical moment, she didn’t count it as being untrue.

  Well, maybe remotely untrue . . .

  Lying naked on the bed, duvet kicked onto the floor, she decided there were two questions to answer; two very basic questions that might well impact on the rest of her life.

  Or at least should impact on the rest of her life.

  As an honest, God-fearing woman who only ever wanted to be loved.

  Firstly why, when her husband had paid attention to her last night for the first time in absolutely ages, had she needed to do that at all?

  And secondly why . . . at that critical last moment . . . why hadn’t Geoff swapped places with her beautiful, big-chested, ebony-skinned lover?

  Why had it been Rick instead?

  * * *

  The landlord saw his new customer and winced. Well over six foot (probably something like six-four) and the best part of twenty stones. Not fat though. Very solid, but not by any stretch of the imagination fat.

  Kyle, they called him; early-to-mid-twenties, from Crossflatts. Never heard of before last Friday, when he’d laid waste to three bouncers.

  Three of the bastards!

  Jordan gulped, concealing it as best as he could. He only hired bouncers for nights, and only the busy nights at that. Midweek afternoons didn’t even qualify as quiet.

  ‘Pint of cider and double port.’

  Jordan didn’t need the grief he’d get from saying no. Not with backup two days away. He tapped the Dry Blackthorn pump, got a nod and poured the drinks.

  ‘Five twenty-five,’ he said politely.

  ‘Not like that.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘There’s only one of me, isn’t there?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I want it in one fucking glass, don’t I?’

  As the product of generations of licenced victuallers Jordan knew the customer was always right. Well, usually right. He also knew this was his home and that he didn’t have to endure rude and aggressive guests. Balancing those precious pieces of knowledge took half the time it took him to tip the port into the cider glass.

  ‘Five twenty-five.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Jordan took the casually offered tenner and dumped the change into a hand the size of a snow shovel. He was discreetly retreating when Kyle spoke again.

  ‘Have you got a problem with me?’

  ‘Why should I have?’

  ‘Because of the other night. Your gorillas kicking off like that.’

  Jordan could afford to be many things, but not a coward. He went back and faced the giant over the bar.

  ‘They didn’t kick off.’

  ‘No? Give me the same again and we’ll talk about it.’

  ‘Give? That’ll be five twenty-five.’

  ‘You’ll get your money. So stop fucking about and get me my drink.’

  There was a handful of other customers in the pub, but nobody of any use in a scrap. The landlord got a fres
h pint glass and mostly filled it with cider before adding a double port. No point in starting anything.

  ‘Cheers,’ the giant said again, grinning unpleasantly.

  A pile of coins had appeared on the bar top. Jordan helped himself and rang in the sale. He didn’t want to discuss history with Kyle. Hell, he didn’t want anything to do with him. He was wondering how to best to sidle away when salvation came in through the front door.

  The new arrival was just as big as Kyle and even scarier. He was, however, a familiar face who knew how to behave. The only time Jordan had ever seen him make trouble was when some pissed-up lads mocked the red and white patch on his ripped denim jacket.

  Big mistake!

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said in greeting. ‘The usual, is it?’

  ‘Just a quick one,’ Angel replied. Then, turning to Kyle: ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Having a drink with my mate here.’

  Angel put a rough hand on the other man’s shoulder and pulled him away from the bar. Jordan watched with interest, expecting an explosion that never came. Instead Kyle stood nose to nose and listened to what Angel had to say.

  Or rather, hiss. Whatever Angel conveyed came out in hushed yet angry tones. Jordan caught the words “Dwyer” and “Kings” but missed the rest right up until the end.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Angel concluded. ‘Be there.’

  He turned back to the bar and grabbed the waiting pint of Landlord, downing it in one.

  ‘Take it out of that.’ He indicated the coins on the bar. ‘He’s paying.’

  ‘I don’t think he likes me,’ Kyle confided as the former-biker left. ‘Now why ever could that be?’

  Jordan kept his thoughts to himself.

  ‘Same again,’ Kyle went on. ‘Take for Angel’s as well, while you’re at it.’

  Jordan had a quick glance at the clock. Kyle had had two of his five minutes already. But that wasn’t his problem, was it? He fixed another drink and took most of Kyle’s remaining change.

  ‘Those bouncers of yours,’ said the unwelcome customer, ‘sack ‘em. They’re not up to the job.’

  ‘Thanks for the feedback. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Funny bastard, eh?’ Kyle’s laugh was as unpleasant as his grin. ‘But no offence taken. If you want a proper, professional crew let me know. I can guarantee you won’t have aggro in here again.’

  ‘I use an agency.’

  ‘Sack them as well. They’re obviously shit.’

  The landlord had a good look at Kyle’s eyes. Not glazed at all, in spite of the booze he’d just sunk.

  ‘Like I said, I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Do.’ The giant burped then picked up his third pint. ‘Trouble with this place, it’s living in the past.’ He waved a hand, as if indicating the wider world outside the pub lounge. ‘Too many old gimmers stuck in ruts. Everywhere I look, even Angel. Good old Sean shouts and Angel jumps, just like he’s always jumped.’

  The five minutes were up and that third pint’s virginity was still intact. Jordan decided against suggesting it was time Kyle went.

  ‘Don’t think I’m jumping too.’ Kyle burped again. ‘I’m a leader, not a follower. I only follow when it suits me. Know what I mean?’

  Deflowering his pint with one massive mouthful, he leant over the bar. ‘Angel thinks I’m a rebel. I always take at least ten when he says five. And good old Sean . . . he doesn’t even fucking notice. They haven’t got a clue. I could run a team of bouncers on every door in town and they’d never know.’

  There was an inch of purple drink left in his glass. He regarded it critically.

  ‘Angel will be steaming by now. But not nearly enough. Better do me one more before I go.’

  * * *

  ‘Believe it or not, that used to be a school.’

  ‘I believe it,’ said DC Longdon. ‘It looks exactly like the one I went to in Donny.’

  ‘This was the football pitch.’ Carlisle indicated the grassy area they were standing on. ‘It’s changed a lot, but we’d be in the centre circle.’

  ‘Bit big, isn’t it?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s changed a lot. The pitch ran this way, parallel to the school. Micky Johnson was headed over there, towards those bushes. They were a lot thicker back then. Johnson had made himself a den in the middle. Like a nest. He’d lined it with flattened cans.’

  Longdon gazed uphill. ‘So beyond the bushes . . .’

  ‘There was a row of houses with spare land behind. The houses have been demolished now, leaving this supersized field.’

  ‘Did the houses look onto the bushes?’

  ‘Yes, but they were condemned and boarded-up. It was a lonely and secluded spot at the time. It was by night, anyway.’

  ‘Still in a built-up area, though.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carlisle conceded. ‘Anyway, it was one of Johnson’s haunts. At first we thought somebody knew that and ambushed him. Then we saw the CCTV from the petrol station; the one with the shadow.’

  Longdon nodded. He’d spent the morning looking at old photos and reports and would know all about the shadow. Right now he probably knew as much as anyone about the whole case . . . apart from Carlisle himself, of course.

  ‘So Micky Johnson was followed,’ he said, ‘making the attack random rather than planned.’

  ‘I’d call it opportunistic,’ Carlisle replied. ‘Because I think the actual killing was very much planned.’

  He offered his cigarette packet to Longdon, who took one.

  ‘Random victim, planned killing.’ The younger officer filled his lungs with smoke. ‘You could say the same for ours.’

  Carlisle smiled. He hadn’t been happy with today’s visit, but Longdon had turned out to be a decent copper, not obsessed with serial killers after all. Maybe a bit keen, but that wasn’t always a bad thing.

  ‘Micky Johnson’s been nagging at me for years,’ he admitted. ‘I spent most of last night trying to convince myself there’s a connection. Couldn’t do it. Johnson’s was the most staged, ritualistic killing I’ve ever seen. Compared to him, yours is a basic sex crime.’

  ‘Because of the weapons used?’

  ‘Because of everything.’

  ‘We’ve hit the wall at our end,’ Longdon said ruefully. ‘That beer bottle came from the local supermarket. They have a bin for survivors out of broken four-packs. 50p a time, millions of hands rummaging through.’

  ‘I suspected something like that.’

  ‘Do you think it’s symbolic?’

  ‘A bottle swapped for a stake, you mean? Not the way I see it. I’m not a shrink, but I see your beer bottle as a statement from a sick bastard who doesn’t like women. End of.’

  ‘That doesn’t narrow it down much, does it?’

  ‘What about the guys who found her?’

  ‘Two local wasters. It’s not them.’

  ‘You sound sure.’

  ‘I am. We’ve compared times and everything. They were still in the pub when she died. It’s not them. They’re guilty of all sorts, but not this.’

  It was Longdon’s turn to flash the ash.

  ‘Strange about the motor,’ he resumed. ‘It has to have ended up where it did for a reason. And bugger-all else happened that night.’

  ‘It is strange.’

  ‘Assuming there isn’t a connection . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Could it be another rogue killer from this end?’

  Carlisle laughed. ‘How many do you think we’ve got?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, but you do all right for murders. There’s been two on the national news this last week.’

  ‘Drugs,’ said Carlisle. He ignored the mobile vibrating in his pocket. ‘We’re onto the machete gang already. They’re well-known in the city.’

  ‘I know Bradford’s big for drugs. What about outside?’

  ‘Keighley’s pretty cutthroat. Bingley and Shipley aren’t so bad.’

  ‘Any major players?’


  ‘In Shipley? No, not particularly. It tends to be a young man’s game in these parts. They don’t stick around long enough to get major . . . or old.’

  ‘What about everything else? Is there anyone organized enough to do a job in Doncaster?’

  ‘Unrelated to strangulation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Carlisle’s phone was still going. ‘Dozens,’ he said. ‘But I can’t think of anyone who’d start and not finish.’

  ‘And definitely no women-hating stranglers?’

  ‘Afraid not. Trust me; over the years I’ve tried to place every nutter in West Yorkshire as Micky Johnson’s killer. And I’ve tried linking every murder in the north of England while I’ve been at it, before, during and after. Most are solved or as good as. The only killer who’s totally unaccounted for is the one who did poor old Micky. And who’s to say he’s not banged up for something else? Or even snuffed it?’

  Longdon shrugged and examined the ground, perhaps looking for fading stake marks. Bugged by the persistent caller, Carlisle pulled out his phone.

  ‘Bloody Ayling,’ he grunted. ‘Excuse me.’

  For once Ayling was all business. Carlisle listened to him with growing disbelief.

  ‘Five!’ he exclaimed.

  Then shut up and listened some more.

  ‘Right,’ he said finally. ‘I’m on my way.’ Then, turning back to Longdon, ‘Talking about doing all right for murders . . .’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Penny trembled as she crossed the room and opened the secret drawer. Compared to her usual daytime sessions in bed, this felt especially naughty.

  Naughty, naughty, naughty!

  And no nasty surprises, it’s still there!

  Trembling more than ever, she completed her quest. The size of the . . . the imitation was staggering. In fact it scared her. She made her way back to the bed and, retrieving the duvet, covered herself. No way could she put that . . . sex toy inside herself, but she'd paid twenty-five pounds for it. She had to get some value for money.

  ‘Twenty-five pounds!’ She laughed. Up until a month ago she'd rarely even thought the word "dildo". Then Geoff had gone and upset her again and, next thing she knew, she was on the Internet, impulse-buying an item guaranteed never to flop or let a girl down. Indeed this particular item was supposed do everything apart from light her cigarette afterwards.