by David Moody
‘Stop it. You’re just twisting everything. This is all circumstantial. You’re trying to make me out to be some kind of—’
‘I’m not trying to do anything,’ Litherland interrupted, ‘except find out who killed all these people and stop them before they kill anyone else.’
‘I need my lawyer,’ Scott mumbled, barely able to form cohesive words now.
‘I really think you do.’
‘I had nothing to do with any of this.’
‘What about Graham McBride?’
Scott started to sob involuntarily. He tried to stop himself, but that just made it worse. ‘We had a fight,’ he managed to say. ‘I already told you.’
‘That you did, aye. We know you were involved in his death, though whether you caused it or not is something the coroner’s going to have to decide, and we should have her findings shortly.’
‘What would you have done?’ Scott asked, pleading almost. ‘He exposed himself in front of my step-daughter. I did what anyone would do. Are you a parent? Do you have kids?’
‘That’s irrelevant. But for the record, yes, I do have kids and yes, I’d have certainly done something if I’d caught a man flashing at my daughter. I’d maybe not have killed him, though.’
‘But you know why I did what I did, don’t you? I saw red. You do these things for your kids.’
‘Not so good with other people’s children though, are we, Scott?’
His heart sank. A few barely suppressed tears became an uncontrolled flood. ‘This has got nothing to do with what happened back home. I made a mistake and I’ve been punished for it. Believe me, there’s not a day goes by when I don’t—’
‘When you don’t what, Scott? You see, I’m having trouble tying a few things up here. You’ve a history of lying to the police and—’
‘And I’ve paid the price for that. Jesus, please...’
‘You knocked a girl down and killed her, then just drove on.’
‘I panicked.’
‘Doesn’t change what you did.’
‘I was gone for a matter of minutes. I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t know what to do. I turned straight around and drove back but by then...’
‘By then other folks had got to her. By then it was too late.’
‘It didn’t make any difference. She was already dead. I did it. It wasn’t my fault, but I did it.’
‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? That’s why you moved to Thussock.’
‘How could we stay in Redditch? She lived on the same street as us, for Christ’s sake. We knew her parents. I’d got people throwing paint at the house, people badmouthing me all over the place.’
‘Hardly surprising.’
‘I’m not going to argue. If I could turn back time I’d do it in a bloody heartbeat. My business went down the pan... I lost almost everything.’
‘Not as much as the family of that poor kiddie though, eh? Or the relatives of any of the people who’ve died round here recently either.’
‘I didn’t do any of this. I punched that guy in the face, yes, but I didn’t have anything to do with any of the others.’
‘Then who did? I tell you, Scott, it’s causing us some real problems. We’re a small rural force, and our resources are stretched as it is.’
‘Then stop wasting them on me.’
Litherland looked at him for a few seconds, weighing him up. ‘This killer,’ he said, ‘whoever he is, is a devious little fucker. He’s not leaving a bloody trace, you know. Not a single clue. No footprints, tyre tracks, fingerprints... So you can see why we’re following up every lead, and why you’re so interesting to us.’
‘This has got nothing to do with me,’ Scott sighed, exasperated, wishing he could find some way of convincing the detective but knowing he probably wouldn’t.
‘Sick little bastard, we’re dealing with here, Scott,’ Litherland continued, not finished yet. ‘I do hear what you’re telling me, but I can’t dismiss your involvement. You saw poor Shona’s body so you know how sick what’s happening here really is. These people have virtually been bled dry, their bodies mutilated. Excuse my language, Scott, but I think you can probably understand how bloody angry this is making me. I’ve innocent people being abused then murdered in my town, and I’m gonna put a stop to it.’
‘It’s horrific,’ Scott said, ‘but I don’t know how else to tell you... it’s got nothing to do with me. You can’t accuse me of—’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything yet. I’m simply pointing out my concerns and asking you to clear a few things up. Surely you can see where I’m coming from? I might not have all the forensics I need yet, but alarm bells are ringing as far as you’re concerned and you’ve said little to convince me otherwise. Look at it this way, the killings only started after you arrived in Thussock.’
‘It’s coincidental.’
‘Lot of coincidences, though. You’re the one who found Shona, Ken Potter died not far from where you’re working, you’re seen driving around on Saturday evening when Angela Pietrszkiewicz was killed and you’d already paid her for sex, you’ve confessed to beating the shit out of Graham McBride...’
‘It’s all circumstantial. It’s not even that, it’s just bullshit. I want my brief.’
Litherland stood up, pushed his chair under the table and collected up his gruesome, blood-spattered photographs. ‘Fair enough, Scott. I’ll have you taken back to your cell, then we’ll do this all over again when the duty lawyer arrives.’
15
PC Mark Hamilton couldn’t remember anything like this ever happening before. Not anywhere, and certainly not in Thussock. Born and raised in the town, he’d gone off to university then spent several years travelling before coming back home. He’d managed to get himself in (and out) of various dodgy situations whilst abroad and had seen more than his fair share of trouble in other postings around the country. He’d dealt with inner-city gangs, drugs traffickers, fraudsters, deviants – the whole gamut of shysters and bastards and society’s dregs. But not here. Not in Thussock.
Travelling had initially broadened Mark’s horizons and had made many of the people he’d left behind seem infuriatingly blinkered and self-obsessed. Being away from the town for so long, though, had also made him feel unexpectedly protective of the place. All his mates on the force thought he was out of his mind when he’d accepted the posting and come back here, but he knew what he was doing.
The crimes which had recently been committed in and around the town were unprecedented in their number and ferocity. The killings were wanton, brazen, indiscriminate, and apparently motiveless. He was glad they’d got that slimy fucker Scott Griffiths locked up in the cells. Cocky bastard. Hamilton had had his eye on that one since they’d first met at Ken Potter’s house. Sergeant Ross felt the same about him, he knew he did. There was something about Griffiths which just didn’t ring true. There was no denying he was a suspect. More to the point, right now he was the only suspect.
PC Hamilton walked down the high street, making a point of acknowledging all the faces he knew, and making even more of a point of acknowledging the few he didn’t. He stopped and talked to several folks, letting them drive the conversations, reassuring them that everything possible was being done when the topic of conversation inevitably strayed towards recent events, going as far as to discreetly tell one or two of them that they did, in fact, have someone in custody.
In reality, this morning’s foot patrol was little more than an impromptu public relations exercise. Thussock didn’t particularly need much policing at this time on a Monday, but Sergeant Ross had taken great pains to stress the importance of maintaining a visible presence until they were able to go public about Scott Griffiths.
PC Hamilton was thirsty. One of the things he liked most about foot patrols like this was the freedom. In uniform he could come up with a viable reason to go just about anywhere, and right now Mary’s café was calling to him. Mary McLeod could gossip with the best of them and she was
always willing to share anything she’d heard on the grapevine. If she knew how he’d used the titbits she’d inadvertently dropped into conversation before now she’d have been mortified, of course, so he kept things light and informal. To Mary, PC Hamilton was still the snotty nosed little kid she used to have to shoo away from outside the café with his mates in the school holidays.
He made a beeline for the café, figuring that even if Mary didn’t have any information for him today, she’d almost certainly have a mug of tea and maybe even a bacon sandwich if he played his cards right. His stomach growled at the prospect of food. He’d been on his feet since they’d brought the suspect in for questioning, and he’d likely be out a few hours longer yet. He needed sustenance.
Strange.
The café was closed. The lights were off inside.
If there was one thing he knew about Mary McLeod, it was that she never closed the café. Running the place was more than a job to her; since her husband Derek had died it had become a way of life. She lived alone now and relied on her regular customers for company more than income.
Was she ill? Worse, was she... ?
His frustration quickly gave way to something more serious. Given everything that had happened over the last few days, Mark feared for Mary’s safety. Griffiths had fought with Graham McBride outside the chemist opposite. What if she’d seen them? What if Griffiths had caught her watching and done something to her? Hamilton hadn’t been on duty last night when McBride had been found. He didn’t know if anyone had seen Mary since. He cupped his hands around his eyes to see in through the window but it was too dark inside. He knocked the door then tried the handle. It was open.
‘Mary? Mary, you in? It’s PC Hamilton. It’s Mark...’
Nothing. He took a few steps inside and called out for her again. The place was deathly silent. He looked hopefully at the beaded curtain through which she always loved to make her dramatic entrances, but it just shifted with the breeze from the open door.
Wait. What was that?
He was sure he could hear movement in the back of the café and he went through to the kitchen. No sign of anyone. He knocked on the door between the private and business parts of the building – kept shut as always – then pressed his ear against it. There was definitely something in there... he could hear a faint scraping, scrabbling noise.
He pushed the door open and had barely taken a step forward when Mary’s yappy little dog – Horace, he thought its name was, or was it Milly? – came running at him. It swerved between his legs and pelted past, whimpering rather than barking. Hardly a guard dog, it was little more than a tiny, highly-strung ball of fluff which generated a lot of noise and shit and served no other purpose. His girlfriend Meryl called it Mary’s rat on a rope whenever they saw her out walking it in town.
The dog’s unusual behaviour heightened PC Hamilton’s concern. He noticed it had clawed deep grooves into the very bottom of the door in its desperation to get out.
‘Mary?’ he called out again. ‘Mary, are you here? Is everything okay?’
He went deeper into her living area – her small private kitchen space built on the other side of the café pantry – then stopped. The place smelled awful, truly rank. His pulse began to race. She was dead, he was sure of it now. He’d seen the bodies of a couple of the other victims and the memory of their brutal and senseless mutilation was seared onto his retinas, all he could see. He’d been one of the first on the scene when those kids had found what was left of Ken Potter on the tracks, and he’d been there when Angela Pietrszkiewicz had been found too. She’d been stripped to the waist... violated... He prepared himself to find another body here, then panicked. What if the killer’s still here? He leant against a wall and steadied himself. Wait, it’s okay... the guy from Redditch is in the cells...
PC Hamilton trod in something moist and he froze as it squelched beneath his boot, fearing the worst. The smell hit him before he was able to reach across to the curtains and let in some light. Dog shit. Gross. He gagged. Bodies he could just about cope with, but the smell of dog shit got him every time. And the floor was covered in it, scattershot diarrhoea courtesy of that vile little creature he’d just let out. He kicked off his boots rather than risk treading shit through the rest of the house, then picked his way through the canine minefield. Christ, why did people bother with dogs? Meryl had a cat, and as much as he despised the needy little fucker, at least it always took itself outside to crap then buried the evidence afterwards.
‘Mary?’ he shouted again. He edged down her short hallway then looked into the living room. The curtains were open. No Mary. More importantly, no body.
Upstairs.
He climbed the steps slowly, his sock-clad footsteps making little noise. He tried to think of as many possible explanations for the situation as he could: Mary’s just overslept, she’s ill, she’s had a heart attack, she’s fallen out of bed and broken something, she’s just not here... He focused on those slightly more palatable options and tried to block out the idea of finding her like Angela Pietrszkiewicz yesterday, covered in blood, with every last shred of dignity barbarically stripped away.
Onto the landing. Still nothing but silence. He worked his way along, room by room. The bathroom was empty, as was the back bedroom. The door to Mary’s room was ajar. He took a deep breath then knocked and pushed it open. ‘Mary?’
He didn’t look until he had to, not knowing what he was going to find.
The relief was immense.
Mary was sitting on the floor at the foot of her bed, wearing a loose, open dress and very little else. She looked up at him and smiled and he felt himself relax. ‘Thank Christ you’re okay,’ he said. ‘Did you not hear me shouting?’
‘No, sorry.’
He looked at her again, then looked away with embarrassment when he realised how much of her flabby body was on show. She’d been grossly overweight for as long as he’d known her, so large that she’d scared him when he was a kid; a grotesquely made-up, mountainous monster. He’d vivid memories of her catching him and his mates playing around by her bins one time. His mates had got away, but she’d managed to grab him. He could still remember the smell of used cooking fat and cigarettes and the feel of her pudgy hands on his shoulders, greasy from working with cooking oil all day, every day.
‘Is everything all right, Mary?’
He made himself look again. She was on the floor with her legs splayed, everything on show. No knickers, he thought, and he tried not to stare but he couldn’t help himself, his eyes drawn to the parts of her he wanted to see least.
‘Cold,’ she said. She lifted her head and looked at him. She’d got the most beautiful eyes. He’d never really noticed them before. They were deep brown. Warm. Welcoming. Irises almost as dark as her pupils. She had a kind, motherly face, but she’d always covered herself with too much makeup for his liking, tried too hard with her hair and clothes, like she was clinging onto long gone youth. For crying out loud, she’d gone to school with his mother. She was no spring chicken.
But today Mary looked... different. He felt the awkwardness melting away.
PC Hamilton remained in the bedroom doorway, watching her watching him. He couldn’t put his finger on what was different about her today. In fact, he decided, there wasn’t anything specific, she just looked... right. Motherly. But it was more than that. He took a few steps further into the room then stopped and knelt down next to her, wanting to help, wanting to be sure she was okay. ‘You sure you’re all right?’
Mary lifted a hand and touched the side of his face. ‘Fine,’ she said, her voice an alluring, airy whisper.
He tried to move, but he was rooted to the spot by her serene beauty. His mouth was dry, his pulse quickening. He’d never thought of Mary in this way before. It was hard to accept, but he realised he wanted her.
What the hell? Don’t be stupid, man. She’s old and greasy... this is Mary from the café for crying out loud...
But there was no denying t
he attraction. She still had her hand on his face and he leant against her touch, then he pushed himself even closer and kissed her cheek and revelled in the closeness. Her smell... oh, her smell... words couldn’t express how it made him feel inside. So natural, so right. He felt a burning in his gut now that he fought hard to ignore. He wanted her, but he knew that was ridiculous. I’m twenty-seven, she’s got to be almost seventy... It wasn’t going to happen. Not here. Not now. Not Mary. It was wrong on every conceivable level.
But that burning was getting stronger. He couldn’t understand it, but he couldn’t dismiss it either. He’d known her for more than twenty years, but had never appreciated her like this before. Why hadn’t he seen it until today? And she felt it too, he knew she did. The way she looked at him, the way she touched him... The way her breathing had changed: light with frequent fluttering gasps now, like the way Meryl’s breathing changed when they made love together. Not when they fucked while her dad was out and not how it was when she was on about having kids again and sex was contrived, but how they connected in those rare moments when circumstances and emotions combined and collided perfectly, when they had the kind of sex that made him feel alive, more than human.
He knew Mary would make him feel that way this morning. He wanted her and he knew she wanted him. She had her hand on his crotch. There was a wet patch on the front of his uniform trousers.
PC Hamilton peeled Mary’s dress completely open. She shuffled around and lay down flat on the floor for him, her saggy breasts parting as gravity pulled them in different directions, a roll of fat hanging down over her waist as if she was wearing a string belt beneath it. The sudden shared passion was undeniable. She opened her legs. Moist. Ready. That excited him even more and he hurriedly stripped, kicking off his trousers and underwear. He crouched down beside her, cock hard, still not understanding why but knowing that all he wanted was Mary.
No foreplay. No words.
My god, he’d never seen anything as beautiful as this woman at this precise moment. The roadmap of broken veins on her thighs, her breasts like bags of grain, the mole on her hip the size of a coin, her unkempt bush of wiry grey pubic hairs, streaks of cellulite...
