Tracy Sullivan, now back in the comfy apartment supplied by the police, phoned Morrison. “Can you tell where people are from their emails and stuff? I heard from my creepy father.”
“Yes, usually.” Morrison grabbed a pen and paper. “Give me the return phone number.”
“I phoned it already and it’s disconnected. Dad must have chucked the phone. And he says he did nothing wrong, it was all Olga. I don’t know anyone called Olga. It must be his girlfriend.”
“I’ll contact Cosmore and she’ll come around to pick up your phone.”
“That’s fine. I have the new one you gave me anyway. Dad’s the only person who uses the old number.” She phoned Sylvia immediately afterwards. “My sick father contacted me again. Shall I come back to Little Woppington? I’m a bit bored here doing nothing. I’m happier at your pub with you and Harry to talk to. I even like your funny friend Ruby.”
“Come, please come,” Sylvia approved loudly. “All we do at the moment is puppy-sit. Shed-searching is much more fun, and the weather’s improved. Less mud.”
Harry grabbed the phone from her and said loudly, “But he can’t be here. No point in coming. He’s up in Nottingham. There’s been another murder.” The gasp followed by an eerie silence echoed throughout the living room. Sylvia turned to Harry. He handed her back the phone. “Just heard it on the radio. Some little town near Nottingham. Very nasty, typical Sullivan murder.”
“Yuck,” Sylvia spoke again into the phone. “Tracy, it’s probably a waste of time, but we just got up to Nottingham again. When I was there before I admit I got rather bored. But this time we know he’s there.”
“I’ll come with you. Please.” Tracy remembered a slight handicap. “I’ve got no money for the train. Unless I go back on the game for a couple of days.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Sylvia. “I’ll send you some money. But you shouldn’t come, not really. I don’t think Morrison would approve.”
“I reckon he can’t stop me,” Tracy bounced back, sounding cross. “I’m not under arrest. I just fancy a trip north.”
“I’m not objecting,” Sylvia told her. “There’s a nice cosy pub called the Black Out near the Nottingham train station. Meet you there. When? Day after tomorrow?”
Tracy thought about it. “The day after. In the evening. Time to get the money, have a bath, get up my courage But don’t tell your cop friend.”
It was the following evening and Sylvia was packing for both herself and Harry when Morrison turned up. He flopped down on the larger couch in the small living room where Harry was half asleep, feet up on the coffee table, a glass of wine undrunk.
He woke up at Morrison’s arrival. “Humph?”
“Young woman discovered dismembered just outside Southwell, Nottinghamshire. The pieces of her remains were collected into a large black plastic rubbish bag. She had been chopped as usual. Yet her head had not been taken from her torso. I can’t remember any other of Sullivan’s victims ever escaping the usual beheading. Sullivan has a system. First a serrated knife cuts the windpipe. Then a similar knife severs the sides of the neck, but not as deeply. Finally the head is removed by axe.”
“Shit,” Harry muttered.
“Not this time. The head remained attached. He must have been in a hurry. But all limbs were separated, the internal organs also collected into a smaller bag. Interestingly, this second bag was a small carrier bag from Harrods. Somewhat recognisable. The entire bag , including the Harrods bag, was left outside the iron gate to a somewhat large and grand estate and farmland. The dead girl’s under examination by the Midlands pathologist at present, and there’s plenty of DNA for tracing her name.”
Harry shook his head clear of the nausea and sat up straight. Darcey, I appreciate you bringing the information. But it’s not like you. What’s going on?”
Crossing his hands over the slightly increasing bulge of his chest. Morrison sighed. “I was never on the original case years and years ago,,” he said softly. “I was too young. But that vile creature murdered six young women, each mutilated and beheaded. Having presumably comparatively little privacy, there was usually some months between each brutal crime. Then he stopped.”
Harry hauled himself from the depths of his armchair and launched himself towards the antique sideboard, fished around amongst the bottles clustered on top, and asked, “Scotch? Gin? Red wine? Sherry?” He took one of the glasses from behind the doors, inspected it for cleanliness, and began pouring himself a neat Scotch.
“The same. I’m off-duty,” muttered Morrison.
Harry passed a glass and began to drink from the other. “You’ll have to yell if you want ice.”
Morrison did not seem bothered by the lack of ice. “DNA wasn’t understood much back then,” he said. “Not much to go on, in fact. Neither killer nor some of the girl’s identities were found. Failure. Bloody misery in the Force. And then it starts again. DNA was readily available, and Ostopolis is quite an expert. Yet we still couldn’t trace the bugger. “
Watching the Scotch disappear from Darcey’s glass, Harry nodded. “At least you could identify all the victims.”
“Every single one, lying out in that horrific mutilation, had been a beautiful young girl full of energy and hopes for her future. One was engaged to be married a week later. I promised each and every one to catch her filthy killer. I swore vengeance. I stood there staring at empty eye sockets and promised on my own life that I’d arrest her bastard murderer. And thanks to you, my friend,” he looked up at Harry, nodding over the rim of his glass, “I kept my promise. But now I’m forsworn, for the filth has escaped. And he’s been free for months. Made a fool of every police force in the country, he has. So much for Morrison and his Homicide Squad. Useless. I’ve considered retiring, but I won’t.”
He slammed down his empty glass. With a sudden impatience, so did Harry. “I’ll do anything. I’m hoping the daughter will help.” He thought a moment, then added, “We’re going up to Nottingham tomorrow, and she’s meeting us there. I hope that’s not an unwise confession. We won’t get in the way of the local detectives, I assure you.” Said Harry.
“Your original help was indispensable.” Morrison held out his glass as Harry approached, waving the bottle of Scotch. “But this disgusting prick of a maniac has started again. In a different area. I’m not in charge up there, but I’m going to offer every atom of co-operation I can.” He scratched his chin, frowning. “But it’s better not to involve the daughter. Sullivan killed his other girl. And she’s too young.”
“But street-wise. And knows her father’s habits.”
Having refilled both glasses, Harry smiled at his passionate visitor. Harry said, “Darcey, you’re pissed. For the first time I’ve ever seen you, you’re pissed. And, joy upon joy, so am I. Pissed as a salamander.”
“A newt,” said Sylvia, entering the room. “Salamanders are gentle sober little souls like Bluebell’s new puppy. But tomorrow both of you will hopefully be sober, and we’ll all be off to see Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham.”
Both men smiled tipsily back at her. “Tomorrow,” slurred Morrison, “I shall be off to walk every bloody inch of that forest until I find the bastard.”
“With us trying not to get in the way,” nodded Sylvia.
Harry was falling asleep in the large armchair. Since he had not finished his last glass of Scotch, Sylvia obligingly finished it for him.”
With a huge smooth stone, slick with water from the plastic bottle, Lionel was sharpening his longer knife. Both sides, across and down, Across and up. Shheeeth, sheeeth, the blade slid across the wet stone. Lionel watched the steel reflect the sunshine through the trees.
Even without the hope of capturing and playing, even without hope of banishing Olga, Lionel enjoyed the sound of the metal against stone. Pictures swept through his head of past successes, and of others he had not yet tried. Experimenting was usually a delight. Sometimes it had failed. Cooking and eating the internal parts had rarely
proved attractive, although kidneys cooked in red wine with a little blood had made a good supper on two memorable occasions.
The tented hideaway within the cottage had proved his most home-like escape so far, and he hoped he could stay another week or two. But constant movement was the only real path to anonymity, and he hoped he had the energy to keep up the trekking. At present, he had no car and little food, but there was clean water nearby and an endless supply of wood for warm fires at night.
There was something else, far more important. Up within the falling thatch of the ancient roof, was a space, cupboard-like, invisible from below, and sealed by beams, straw, reeds, age, and stacked pebbles. Here over the years he kept his memories, no playthings and no toys remained. No female had cried out as he grabbed her, he had not raped nor cut even a rabbit. But he had a bag of souvenirs, and these were a casual pleasure, bringing rich reminders. Underpants. Black lace knickers covered in blood. A bra with the points, nipple coverings, blood-stained too. A cheap bracelet. A pair of laddered tights. Earrings in the shape of hearts.
Souvenirs and photographs. Many years ago he had bought a Polaroid camera. This no longer existed, but many of the pictures taken at the time, although sepia-tinged and crumpled, still remained along with the memories of filming them. Naked girls, terrified, being raped, cut, tortured and killed. There was also the contact details of his only living daughter. The previous one had not, of course, been his own blood. But he accepted that Tracy was. He wouldn’t kill her. Not unless he had to. In the meantime, it was a long bleak time since he had enjoyed a woman in his hands, and this was not only agonisingly dismal, leaving him in a constant pain of yearning without fulfilment, but also left him prey to Olga, feeling a failure, and worthy only of the death he handed out to others.
There was not, he presumed, any comprehension after death. No pain, then. No Olga clinging to his back. Peace and darkness. So what he had given to many women over the years was no ghastly walk into hell. Just the endless sleep he wanted also for himself.
Stretching out one barefoot, Lionel examined the bulbous growth of his toes. Mud and old sandy earth was ingrained beneath each nail, and although some were broken with jagged corners, others had grown into curved hoofs, long and thickened. This amused Lionel. He scraped a little between his toes, since the collection of dirt could occasionally itch. Cleanliness, once important during his time as a coach driver, was no longer of the least interest to him. He had avoided showering in prison since the water was invariably too cold, and some other inmates took the piss out of his naked appearance until he showed them he wasn’t the best man to insult. Taking the piss out of Lionel Sullivan usually led to serious injury.
It was later that day when he decided to enjoy fresh air and sunshine, that he walked up through the thick evergreen woods along the higher ridges, that things began to get more interesting. A red-haired girl, early twenties perhaps, was leaning against a tree trunk. A cup seemed to hold red wine. She was enjoying a solitary picnic. Lionel, not attempting surprise, walked up behind her.
“It’s a good day for a rest in the woods,” he said, keeping his face in shadow. “I’ve no intention of disturbing you, but you look as content as a robin on a Christmas card.” He softened his voice, carefully removing the gruff menace, and it seemed to work for the girl turned, smiling.
The train pulled into the small rural station at Southwell, and Harry woke with a start. “We should have driven,” he said, scratching his ear.
“We’ll be driving with Morrison and Rita,” said Sylvia. “Yes, I know it means we have to leave the choices to them, like when to leave and where to go. But it saves you from falling asleep at the wheel.”
“Except that you could be a little fluttering navy clad angel and keep me awake with poetry and stories and songs, and little affectionate nudges every now and again.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” said Sylvia, grabbing Harry’s case as well as her own, and pushing open the door. Two steep steps down onto the platform and Harry grabbed both cases from his wife while marching towards the unattended exit.
Outside the sun was shining, the hedgerows were bright with daisies and buttercups, the breeze was a pleasant interruption, and the Black Out pub they wanted was right opposite on the other side of the road. Since their room was already booked, they simply signed in, happily gave over the two small cases to the boy appearing behind the desk and climbed one flight of stairs to the open door, the large white bed, the little white bathroom, the huge window, and the magnificent view visible beyond.
“Welcome to the Black Out,” said the boy, dumping the cases on the floor beside the long wardrobe.
“Welcome indeed,” said a far more familiar voice. DI Rita Ellis had now reached the stage of hugging on sight, but Morrison stood back with a grin. Tracy isn’t here yet,” he said. “But we’ve been in contact. She’s still on the train. Both Rita and I are off duty at present, which allows a little freedom, so I suggest we start by visiting the spot where the last murder victim was discovered. This wouldn’t be possible with Tracy, so we can get it done now. Shirley Ramington, now identified, no other DNA discovered on or inside the body. She’s no longer there of course, and the site is sealed off, but they’ll let us in once Rita and I flash credentials.”
“And then,” presumed Harry, loosening his shirt collar, “I suppose we start exploring Nottingham Forest for sheds and broken down cottages.”
“I wonder how you guessed,” smiled Morrison. “The car’s outside. Room for all. I ordered a Range Rover in case bouncing over woodlands proved necessary.”
They were on the road, and the plastic veiled entrance to the field was in sight when Morrison’s phone rang on the dashboard. Hands-free, Morrison answered. Then, white faced, he pulled over and parked the car in the ditch adjacent to the road. He sat there for a moment, staring at Rita by his side.
Lionel Sullivan had almost certainly committed another murder the previous day, the remains having been discovered in the grounds of Rochester Manor, down by the walled entrance where the park grounds cut across the Torr.
This body had not been contained in a plastic rubbish bag. Indeed, it had not been contained at all. The young woman had been violently dismembered and beheaded in the usual modus operandum. Past use of many different implements no longer applied, however. The killer appeared to have use only of a long knife with a serrated blade, similar perhaps to a hand saw, and an axe of the common country type. The neck had been cut deeply with the serrated blade, then more savagely at each side, and finally cut through by the axe.
It appeared that whoever had disposed of the body without the use of any container, had simply stood on the outside of the Rochester walls, and tossed each piece of the corpse one at a time over into the grounds. The head had landed upside-down. One hand lay at a considerable distance. One foot had caught on the top of the wall where Cotswold stones had been built vertically.
The police and forensic squad had collected the body parts and discovered that every piece was present except the kidneys. These had been almost ripped from within the corpse and were missing.
The girl had been discovered by a puppy but had not yet been identified.
In a horrified whisper, Rita said, “How can that monster be here and there at the same time?”
Leaning back against the straw, Lionel murmured softly to himself. He lay naked from below the waist although above the waist he was well covered in a large grey woollen jumped, polo neck, but with the sleeves pushed up over the well muscled arms and the huge grappling hands. Between his naked legs, he wore the torn remains of some woman’s knickers, pink lace and nylon, which did not cover him but lay in their little frills, as though protecting the man’s most vulnerable parts. That part was erect.
Other pieces of woman’s clothing lay strewn, and in the small pot on the little one ring cooker something, smelling unpleasant, was cooking. The smell hinted of lamb’s kidneys but was stronger, more bloody, and perhaps overcooked.
A small pile of fancy topped hat pins were strewn across the floor, and one protruded from Lionel’s big toe. It had been deeply entered into the flesh, and an ooze of blood continued. The soft smile was of such immense contentment that the man refused to move until the chill or the burning kidneys forced him to complete the wallow.
“Sing a song o’ sixpence, an no one here to spy.
Fuck the girl unconscious, and stuff her in a pie.
When the pie is started, the girl begins to scream,
Oh what a dainty dish to eat with lots and lots of cream.
Lionel was in his killing house, Counting out his money,
The girl was on the floorboards, Cuts all through her tummy.
The bitch was in pieces Missing all her toes,
When along came Lionel And bit off her nose.
There was no sign of Olga to snigger at his little songs. And that was exactly how he liked it. Lionel scratched absently at his crotch, smiled, and looked aside at his scattered pile of souvenirs. He had large clump of his dead wife Joyce’s hair, soft although dyed to hide to grey. He had decided that he’d force4 the next girl to piss over it and then eat it. That appealed. It made him feel powerful, sexually satisfied, and very much alive.
The old spells all said that. A death for a life. And it bloody worked. It would work other miracles too, for he could imagine that bastard Harry’s shock when he found the girl’s bits and pieces in his garden. Lionel imagined Harry gulping, vomiting, and falling over in his own vomit. That made Lionel laugh.
Chapter Eight
“So much for being off duty.”
Tracy arrived as Morrison and Ellis left Nottingham. She was hustled into the Black Out Public Hostel by Sylvia and Harry, unpacked her three items in two seconds, and hurried down to the bar to meet up and chat.
Daisy Chains Page 7
