Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense

by Simon Brett

When she slumped, the tall figure, still maintaining the tension on her neck but keeping at arm’s length, started to drag her body across the grass to the yew tree. Here he stopped and continued to pull on the chain with all his strength for a full three minutes.

  Then he let the body drop to the ground. She lay dead on her side. He rolled her over on to her back, then the blue rubber fingers deftly straightened the legs and crossed the arms on her chest.

  They reached into the pocket of his dark blue jacket and withdrew a polythene bag. From this they extracted a slip of blue paper. It was two inches long and one inch wide, and had been cut with kitchen scissors from a sheet of Basildon Bond Azure notepaper. In the middle of it were three words, typed in capitals by an IBM electric typewriter fitted with a Bookface Academic golf-ball.

  The words were “THE THIRTEENTH KILLER”.

  The woman gaped horribly. Pushing down the swollen tongue with one blue rubber finger, he inserted the slip of paper into her mouth.

  He looked round to see that there was no one in sight, checked that he had omitted nothing from the ritual with the corpse, then, keeping in the shadows of the wall, moved silently out of the churchyard.

  The body would be discovered in the morning. And, when the police had examined it, there would be no doubt that the Thirteenth Killer had struck again.

  At one twenty-five on the morning of 13 February, on the other side of St Mary’s churchyard wall, Constable Norton spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Sergeant, just reporting that I’ve found the front door open at Wainwright’s, the newsagents in Lechlade Road. I’m going in to investigate.”

  The tiny speaker crackled back at him. “Do you want me to get one of the squad cars round?”

  “No, don’t bother. Mr Wainwright’s an absent-minded old sod at the best of times, and when he’s been drinking . . . He’s forgotten to lock up more than once before now. I’ll go in and check. If I don’t call again in fifteen minutes, then send a car round.”

  “Okay. As you know, we want all cars on the alert tonight for . . .”

  “Yes, I know, it’s the thirteenth. Cheerio, Sarge.” The whole Police Force knew it was the 13th, the whole town knew, gradually the whole country was getting to know the date’s significance.

  The other murders had taken place on the 13th, the first two only a month apart, and then the third after a three-month gap. It had taken three for the pattern to become clear, three before the police got a special “Thirteenth Squad” organized to investigate, three before the press caught on and some reporter managed to extract the name, “The Thirteenth Killer”, to swell his headlines.

  Since then, nothing. Nine months had passed and vigilance naturally relaxed. The whores were slowly coming out on the streets again. It was Constable Norton’s belief that the Thirteenth Killer wouldn’t strike again. The increased police effort, the publicity, it had all scared him off.

  For nine months every cop in the town had been on the alert, his head ringing with “privileged information”. That’s what the Superintendent they put in charge of the Thirteenth Squad had called it—privileged information. They all knew about the stranglings with a bicycle chain, the laying-out of the bodies, the macabre message in the mouth on Basildon Bond Azure notepaper, typed by a Bookface Academic golf-ball. They even knew about the blue rubber gloves, which had left traces on the chains.

  And they all knew they must never give away any of this privileged information. Not to their wives, not to their lovers, not to their priests, to no one. There was always the danger of some nut trying a carbon copy murder.

  Constable Norton didn’t expect a carbon copy murder by a nut, any more than he expected another authentic attack. In his view, the case was over, stale and over.

  And, increasingly, the rest of the Force was coming round to his opinion. Oh, some of the young ones—like that Constable Tate—they still thought there’d be another. Tate obviously thought he was going to solve the case single-handed, kept volunteering for nights down round Nelson Avenue, even snooping there when he was off-duty. He saw himself as the great hero who was going to nail the bastard. He was young and ambitious.

  Norton remembered when he had been like that, when he’d joined the Force and for his first few years in London. Seemed a long time ago. Anyway, he’d had to leave London. And he was better off here. Nice quiet manor most of the time, even a good chance of promotion. Married a few years back, two kids. Not as much money as back in the London days, but safer.

  It took him five minutes to reach Wainwright’s, the newsagents.

  The door was locked, but he had a key that fitted. As he raised it to the lock, he noticed he was still wearing the blue rubber gloves.

  They were safely in his trouser pocket when he knocked on Mr Wainwright’s bedroom door. The old man took a bit of rousing from his alcohol- and pill-induced slumbers. He opened the door, half-heartedly clutching a poker, still too bleary even to be frightened.

  “Don’t worry, Mr Wainwright, it’s only me, Constable Norton.”

  The old man grunted, uncomprehending.

  “You left your front door unlocked again, you naughty boy.”

  “Oh. I thought I’d . . .”

  “Well, you hadn’t. Less of the bottle and a bit more concentration, me old lad, or you’ll have all the villains in the area helping themselves to your takings.”

  “Yes, I . . .” The old man’s head was aching. “What time is it?”

  Norton flashed a look at his watch, deducted nine minutes, and said, “One twenty-six.”

  “Ah. I . . . should I come down and . . .?”

  “No, no, I’ll slip the latch, don’t worry. You just get back to bed. But don’t let it happen again, eh?”

  “No, I . . . er . . .” But, given permission to go back to bed, the old man was already on his way. As he slumped under the covers, he mumbled a “Thank you”, and immediately started breathing deeply. Norton waited a couple of minutes until the breathing had swelled to snores, and then went back down to the shop.

  That’s the advantage of being a good cop, he thought wryly—knowing all the people on your manor, knowing who drinks too much, who’s on sleeping pills, who’s likely to be a bit vague about time.

  He slipped the latch on the door and checked it was firmly locked, then looked at his watch. Twelve minutes since his last call to the station.

  “Sergeant, Constable Norton. All okay at Wainwright’s. As I thought, old fool had been hitting the bottle and forgot to lock up. So I gave him a telling-off and he’s gone back to bed.”

  “Okay, Norton. Thanks for calling in. And don’t forget, it’s the thirteenth. Keep a look-out for . . .”

  “Yes, Sarge, of course, Sarge.” A brief pause. “You know, I don’t think it’s going to happen again.”

  “Don’t tell anyone on the Thirteenth Squad, Norton, but, actually, neither do I.”

  As he paced his beat, Constable Norton went through what he had to do. The main thing was to keep calm, and he didn’t think that’d be a problem. He’d been calm enough when he’d pocketed the Bookface Academic golf-ball from that insurance office where there’d been a break-in. He’d been calm enough when he sent his son out to buy a new bicycle chain; and calm enough when he’d said he’d broken it and sent the boy out for another. He’d been calm when he’d asked his wife to buy some rubber gloves for cleaning the car.

  Come to that, he’d been calm enough while he killed the woman.

  And he knew he’d had to do that. He’d been over the problem many times in the last three weeks, and he couldn’t see any other way round it.

  He’d thought, when he got transferred from the Metropolitan, he was okay. The bribery enquiries were getting close, but not close enough. He reckoned he got out just in time.

  He’d been lucky, too. The only person who could really point the finger at him was Big Tony, and Big Tony had died of cancer just at the most convenient moment. So Norton had started in the new town with a clean slate, and seemed to b
e making a success of it.

  Or rather, was making a success of it until he picked up the woman for soliciting. Her recognition of him had been instantaneous, and she’d come up with far too much detail of meetings at the Salamander Club, dates, times, the sums of money involved. What he’d expected to be a quick trip down to the station to charge her had ended with him pleading and agreeing to a hundred-pound pay-off the next night.

  There had been another pay-off each week since then. Three hundred quid. That was a lot on his pay. The wife hadn’t yet realized what was happening to their savings; when she did, he’d have to invent some story about losing it on the horses.

  But it couldn’t go on like that. The woman was likely to get more greedy rather than less. She was used to a lot of money from her days with Big Tony, and the idea of screwing it out of a cop was one that would appeal to her.

  It was after the first pay-off that he had thought of the Thirteenth Killer idea, and the more he thought about the idea, the better it seemed.

  The woman was, after all, an ideal victim. Shiftless, unattached, a prostitute like the others. A second-class citizen, the sort whom most of the population righteously reckoned invited danger by her choice of work. No one would mourn her and, so long as the details of the murder were right, no one would be suspected, except for the Thirteenth Killer. The press would have a field day, the whores would go back off the streets for a few weeks, and one more unsolved murder would join a sequence that Norton reckoned had already stopped.

  So he just had to keep calm, and it’d be all right. Sure, he’d be questioned, because the murder had taken place on his patch, but he knew who’d do the questioning and he knew they’d be sympathetic. The Thirteenth Killer had made a point of doing the other women in well-patrolled areas, but no one in the Force wanted to draw attention to this. The police were already looking silly enough, as the deaths accumulated.

  No, it’d be all right.

  He didn’t think the body would be found till daylight. A lot of commuters went through St Mary’s churchyard on their way to the station. Norton went off duty at six, so he didn’t reckon he’d be called to the scene of the crime.

  The only important thing he had to do was to get rid of the blue rubber gloves. And that had to be managed with care. He knew enough about the workings of the forensic boys—once again his “privileged information” was helping—to realize the traces he might have left on the gloves, prints, minute hairs, a whole collection of microscopic clues that could link him to the murder.

  He also knew, from his own tedious experience, the detail of the police searches that would follow the discovery of the woman’s body. To dispose of the gloves anywhere on his beat would be too risky.

  But he had planned for that, too. He felt a glow of satisfaction as he contemplated the extent of his planning.

  The gloves had to be burnt. Burnt with intense heat until they congealed, melted, and were consumed.

  And they were going to be burnt in the one place where police investigators would never look for them.

  He continued evenly pacing his beat.

  It wasn’t yet light at six-fifteen as he approached the back entrance of the police station. The welcome blast of heat from the antiquated radiators greeted him as he walked inside.

  He smiled at the irony. The heating system at the Station had long been scheduled for modernization, but the work kept being delayed. And as long as it was delayed, the old coal-fired boiler remained roaring away in the basement. Right next to the constables’ locker room.

  All he had to do was go downstairs and slip the gloves under the lid of the boiler. There’d be nobody around. The other constables would have nipped into the locker room sharp at six and already be on their way home or warming up with cups of tea in the canteen.

  As he walked along towards the basement stairs, a WPC came rushing along the corridor. “Sensible lad, Norton,” she said, “coming in the back way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can’t get through the reporters at the front.”

  “Eh?”

  “Haven’t you heard? The Thirteenth Killer’s struck again!”

  And she hurried on.

  He assessed how hard the news had hit him. So . . . someone had found the woman’s body earlier than he had expected. So . . . his interrogation would come that much earlier.

  But it didn’t worry him. He still felt calm. He could cope.

  Just get rid of the gloves, and he could cope.

  He had started down the stairs when Constable Tate came bursting out of the Operations Room. The youth was transformed. He walked ten feet tall and positively glowed with triumph. “Norton,” he shouted, “have you heard?”

  The urge to get down to the boiler was strong, but Norton curbed it. Act naturally. Act naturally, and everything will be all right.

  He managed a wry grin. “Yes, Tate, I’ve heard. The Thirteenth Killer has struck again. I take it all back. You were right and I was wrong.”

  “Thank you. Very decent of you to say so.”

  “So now all that remains is for us to find the bastard.”

  “But we have!”

  “What?”

  “Or rather I have.”

  “You . . .?”

  “I was patrolling Nelson Avenue at half-past twelve and I actually saw the attack. Had to chase the bastard for miles, but I got him! Caught him absolutely red—no, get it right—caught him blue-handed! Isn’t it great news? He’s in the . . . Here, are you all right?”

  Norton was not all right. The shock hit him like a punch in the stomach and he vomited instantly.

  “Good God, you poor soul. Have you got a handkerchief? Let me mop you up.”

  “No, I . . .”

  But Norton was too weak to stop Constable Tate from reaching into the trouser pocket. He just swayed feebly against the wall as the young man drew out the rolled pair of blue rubber gloves.

  It was at that moment that everyone came rushing out of the Operations Room with news of another sensation.

  A woman’s body had been found in St Mary’s churchyard.

  DON’T KNOW MUCH ABOUT ART

  I HAVE BEEN described as not very bright. Partly, I reckon, it’s my size. People who look like me have appeared as dumb villains in too many movies and television series. And if you’ve had a background as a professional wrestler, you find the general public doesn’t have too many expectations of you as an intellect.

  Also, I have to face it, there have been one or two unfortunate incidents in my past. Jobs that didn’t turn out exactly like they was planned. Like when I was in the getaway car outside that bank and I drove off with the wrong passengers. Or when I got muddled after that bullion robbery and delivered it all back to the security firm. Or when I wrote my home address on that ransom demand. Okay, silly mistakes, sort of thing anyone could do in the heat of the moment, but I’m afraid it’s the kind of thing that sticks in people’s minds and I have got a bit of a reputation in the business as a dumbo.

  Result of it all is, most of the jobs I get tend to be—to put it mildly—intellectually undemanding. In fact, the approach of most of the geysers who hire me seems to be, “We couldn’t find a blunt instrument, so you’ll have to do.”

  Now, of course, my own view of my mental capacity doesn’t exactly coincide with that, but a chap has to live, and a recession isn’t the time you can afford to be choosy. I mean, you read all this about rising crime figures, but you mustn’t get the impression from that that villains are doing well. No, we feel the pinch like anyone else. For a start, there’s a lot more blokes trying to muscle in. Side-effect of unemployment, of course, and most of them are really amateurs, but they do queer the pitch for us professionals. They undercut our rates and do bring into the business a kind of dishonesty that I’m sure wasn’t there when I started. The cake isn’t that much bigger than it ever was, and there’s a hell of a lot more blokes trying to get slices.

  Result is, I take anything I�
�m offered . . . driving, bouncing, frightening, looming (often booked for looming I am, on account of my size). No, I’ll do anything. Short of contract killing. Goes against my principles, that and mugging old ladies. As I say, it’s no time to be choosy. When this country’s got more than three million unemployed, you just got to put off your long-term ambitions, forget temporarily about career structure, and be grateful you got a job of any sort.

  So when I was offered the Harbinger Hall job, never crossed my mind to turn it down. Apart from anything else, it sounded easy and the pay was bloody good. Five grand for a bit of petty larceny . . . well, that can’t be bad, can it? Sure, there was always the risk of getting nicked, but didn’t look like there’d be any rough stuff. Mind you, never be quite sure in stately homes. Tend to be lots of spears and shotguns and that stuck on the walls, so there’s always the danger that someone might have a fit of temperament and cop hold of one of those.

  Still, five grand for a weekend’s work in a slow autumn was good money.

  The initial contact come through Wally Clinton, which I must say surprised me. It was Wally I was driving to Heathrow after that jeweller’s job the time I run out of petrol, so I didn’t think I was exactly his Flavour of the Month. Still, shows how you can misjudge people. Here he was letting bygones be bygones and even putting a nice bit of work my way. Take back all that I said about him at the Black Dog last New Year’s Eve.

  Anyway, so Wally gets in touch, asks if I’m in the market and when I says yes, tells me to go and meet this bloke, “Mr Loxton” in this sauna club off St Martin’s Lane.

  Strange sauna club it was. Not a girl in sight. I think it actually must’ve been for geysers who wanted to have saunas. All neat and tidy, no little massage cubicles with plastic curtains, no funny smell, no nasty bits of screwed-up tissue on the floor. Most peculiar.

  Bloke on the door was expecting me. Give me a big white towel and showed me into a changing room that was all very swish with pine and clean tiles. He told me to take my clothes off, put on the towel and go into the sauna. Mr Loxton would join me shortly.