by Will Carver
‘Let’s get you back inside. A cup of tea will warm you up.’
A WORD ON BRITISH STEREOTYPES
They know that a cup of tea does not cure everything.
But they will always give it a try.
Detective Sergeant Pace came speeding along Stanhope Road. Roger Ablett was massaging his knuckles into his chest after devouring the last handful of fries and witnessed Pace’s unmarked vehicle power past the diner with what looked like Mrs Beaufort in the back.
It was Mrs Beaufort. Her heart had broken on that first day, when Jacob Brady was shot, and the first cracks began to appear in her beloved town. She’d felt this too. Like an aftershock. Her chest was being ripped open and Hinton Hollow was being torn apart. She blamed the man in the driver’s seat for bringing this blight.
Detective Sergeant Pace is a curse.
Detective Sergeant Pace brought this upon us.
Detective Sergeant Pace is society’s burst appendix.
Now she saw him as the only one who could possibly repair what had been broken.
HOLEHEARTED
Pace could see between Rachel Hadley’s legs from thirty feet away, through his dirty windscreen. The part of her body that Charles Ablett had described as the perfect fit.
She’d been blown onto her back by the force of the close-range shot. She’d rolled backward onto her shoulders briefly. When her body flopped down flat, her left leg had bent and the knee had remained pointing towards the sky. Her dress was pushed up to her waist and the wind was causing it to balloon. She was on display. Luckily, nobody was around. Not yet. Not like they had been when Jacob’s life had been cut short on that first day.
Fuck. Is this escalating? Is it sexual now? Pace was whispering like the trees. He didn’t want Mrs Beaufort to hear his thoughts but he could not keep them inside.
‘Oh God.’ He spoke loudly. There was no containing his reaction to the sight of two more bodies. Small. Innocent. Shattered lives.
‘What is…?’
Pace slammed the brakes, cranked the gear into reverse and wrapped his left arm around the passenger seat to get a better view of what was behind him.
Nothing was behind him.
The engine revved. The tyres squealed in pain. The car whipped itself around to face the other direction. Pace could have popped the car back into gear and driven out of Hinton Hollow. He could have disappeared forever, left it all behind. Like Julee and Oz had. Like he had done to London. I wasn’t going to let him run away any more.
Pace pulled the car over to the kerb and parked on a double-yellow line.
‘Wait in the car,’ he instructed Mrs Beaufort. ‘Do not try to get out.’
‘But.’
‘You do not want to see this, Mrs Beaufort. Is there anybody that can take you home? If not, I will drive you there when I am done.’ It was unorthodox but this was not a regular situation. He could see a female paramedic helping an older lady in through the school gates while another was administering to the boy.
Another hole in another heart.
Mrs Beaufort did not answer him. And that was good enough. She couldn’t get out of the car, anyway. The back doors could only be unlocked from the outside. He didn’t want her to panic if she tried to get out and realised that she was trapped. She already had a heart condition, the extent of which was unknown to the detective at that point.
He slammed the door shut and looked back over his shoulder.
Nothing there.
Nothing he could see.
Just me. Pushing him along.
Watching the horror.
YOU KNOW THIS PLACE
Inspector Anderson finished instructing his constable on the front desk that the information went no further. Hell, it wasn’t even common knowledge that Faith Brady had taken her own life yet. Now there were three more bodies lying outside a school.
This needs a quick clean-up, he told himself in that rather special detached manner he had perfected since moving to The Hollow.
The bloody florist will be grinning from ear to ear. Never been a better fucking time to sell flowers in this town.
He sat down behind his desk, which was due to fall apart any day, and called Councilwoman Hayes. He did not need to look the number up. He knew it.
‘I thought we’d agreed that I’d call you,’ she answered, speaking under her breath slightly. Anderson could tell she was gritting her teeth.
‘Anita.’
‘I’m free tonight after nine,’ she offered.
‘Anita.’
‘Too late for you? You’re not past it yet, inspector.’ Her tone was lighter.
‘Anita!’ He killed the mood. ‘This is a courtesy call. You are going to come under some scrutiny very shortly. This cannot be contained.’
‘What is it? What’s going on?’
‘Another shooting in Hinton Hollow.’ It was a momentary lapse in his matter-of-factness.
‘What?’
‘Worse than before. Two kids. And the mother, this time.’
‘Where? What?’ She was upset. He could hear it.
‘Outside the Stanhope School. I’m on my way there now. Nobody knows. I have my best man on the case but it will get out, you know this place. Be prepared, okay?’
He hung up before she could say anything else. Though he was no longer listening, Anita Hayes thanked him before she replaced the receiver.
Anderson’s moustache was at Pace’s side within four minutes.
HOPE
The paramedic gave Pace the same shake of the head he had given after examining Jacob’s cracked remains. Young Aaron Hadley had died instantly. He’d gone wherever the souls of the innocent moved on to.
FURTHER THOUGHTS ON SOULS
A 21g loss in weight does not seem enough for Aaron Hadley.
His bravery would make it weigh more. He was bigger than his body.
An adult has more experience but a lighter soul.
Bravery and innocence are good. So goodness carries weight.
Therefore, the more evil inside, the less soul you have.
A QUESTION
If Evil has no soul, why do I find myself caring so much about this world?
The young girl looked just like her mother. She would have grown into the same woman, same body shape, same facial features. They both had the same hole in the front of their face and the backs of their heads, though the bullet had entered and exited at slightly different angles due to their difference in height.
At least that would give them a better idea of the height of the killer.
Because Michael fucking Brady can’t even be clear on that.
Pace knew that it was wrong to think of an unfortunate child in that way but this was too raw. The town reminded him of all the things he’d hoped it would help him to forget. And I was gripping at his insides.
He dropped to his knees between the mother and daughter. He thought it would look like weakness but he didn’t care. Sure, the town he had grown up in believed that he was now some kind of desensitised urbanite, and to an extent he was, far more than any of them, but he was fracturing. And cracks are what let out the light to make it easier for the darkness to find him.
He had to pull himself together. Like it or not, the people of Hinton Hollow saw Detective Pace as one thing only. Hope.
Another way that Evil presents itself: H o p e.
‘Detective?’ The male paramedic was concerned.
He hadn’t worked the day after the Brady shooting. That had been his sixth day in a row. He was now scheduled for another four days before he had five days clear to recuperate. He hadn’t rid his mind of the image of Jacob Brady, and now this. He was already looking forward to Sunday. He thought he might lie in and skip church for once.
Perhaps he’d need Father Salis by the time the week was through.
‘I’m fine. I’m fine. This just … It isn’t right, is it?’
The paramedic didn’t answer, he just gave what was becoming his trademark shake of th
e head.
‘Who was the woman?’ Pace composed himself and slot back into the role of investigator.
‘It’s difficult to tell. Her face is…’
‘Not the victim. The woman that was being taken back inside by your colleague.’
‘Oh. The headmistress of the school. She called it in.’
‘Witness?’
‘I don’t know. I’m here to see whether anybody requires medical attention. Unfortunately there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do here, detective.’ He was acting professionally but Pace could see he was being eaten up, a thin film of water dropping over his eyes. He didn’t care about that.
‘Have you checked these?’ He pointed to Jess and Rachel.
‘I don’t think there’s anything I can do.’ The paramedic’s eyes widened as though stating something incredibly obvious.
‘You’re not here to think. You are here to see whether anybody requires medical attention. I’ve seen people live through similar.’ He had, too. But not for long. And not without drawbacks. He wanted the paramedic out of the way. This had the opportunity to get ugly very quickly.
Pace looked over his shoulder at the car to ensure that Mrs Beaufort was still there and still looking in the wrong direction. He could see her hair. That was good enough.
Then a police car turned on to Stanhope from the direction of the train station, drawing more attention to the destruction just beyond the school. Another too-slow reaction. Pace wanted to smoke but instead strode out into the middle of the road and started walking towards the oncoming vehicle.
The sky was starting to fall.
FOR NOBODY
Anderson stopped his car next to Pace’s and Mrs Beaufort watched the giant moustache step out from behind the wheel.
‘Are you trying to get yourself killed, Pace? What’s gotten into you, man?’
‘Are you okay in there, Mrs Beaufort?’ Pace ignored his out-of-touch inspector and bent over, checking in on his passenger, overemphasising his words like an ignorant tourist. She nodded. She seemed comfortable.
‘Not long now and I’ll get you home.’
He stood up straight and beckoned Anderson over with an angry gaze.
‘An ambulance and a police car speed through the centre of town. People are going to want to know what is going on.’
‘You weren’t speeding?’
‘Of course I was but my car is unmarked. This situation is going to explode, sir. We need to seal off the street. I know that is going to bring more unwanted attention but it’s coming anyway.’
Anderson thought about the councilwoman. She didn’t have much time.
They arrived side by side at the crime scene.
‘Holy shit, Pace. That is disgusting.’ His mouth engaged before his brain even had a chance.
Anderson was staring into the dark holes that spread out like meteor craters on the faces of the mother and daughter. He could also see the hole where Charles Ablett’s dick had been that morning. At least Rachel Hadley’s children would never know what she had done, that she had two different semen samples bookending her crumpled remains. Before they’d died, it hadn’t even registered that their mother was trying to save them.
Pace clocked Anderson scrutinising the area between the victim’s legs and nudged him.
‘It’s undignified, is what it is.’
‘You’re right. She shouldn’t be seen like this. She’ll be remembered this way. We need to get the photos taken and get these bodies covered up. Tape the area off and keep people back. I’ve got a possible witness inside. In shock, no doubt, but an adult this time. I can work with that.’
Anderson was nodding along as though he were the subordinate.
‘Maybe I should talk to Mrs Blake. I know her,’ he offered.
‘Sir, I think you’ll be better out here. More people will listen to you than to me if they are told to keep back, they’ll see that this is a police matter. I’ll check on Mrs Blake.’ Pace didn’t want to miss the opportunity and played to his inspector’s ego.
‘Get in there and see what she knows,’ Anderson responded, making it sound like it had been his idea.
He stopped Pace before he left.
‘Surely this wasn’t sexual.’ He said it like a statement but it was more of a question. ‘I mean, there wouldn’t be time. There was nobody about on the street, obviously. But, he didn’t kill her then have sex with her?’ Again, a statement that was a question. ‘Then take her underwear as some kind of souvenir?’
‘The killings do not strike me as sexual in their nature, no. But heinous crimes tend to escalate, they become more risky, the killer needs more of something to obtain gratification. I’d let forensics worry about whether intercourse was had and we can do our job. Shut this place down and speak to the witness.’
‘Have you seen worse than this in the city?’ For such a big man, Anderson seemed like a child at that moment.
Of course Pace had seen worse.
He’d done worse.
That’s why he came back.
PLAYING CHICKEN
His kitchen was filled with the scent of microwaved jalfrezi curry.
Darren was responsible for pigs and cows; he let other people kill the chickens that he ate.
The slaughterer was bored.
Waiting for a truckload of livestock to be delivered to an enclosed area they had no chance of escaping seemed wrong. Not in the way that killing another living thing is wrong. Not in the way that they are defenceless and Darren has a stun gun or a mallet or a knife or a vat of hot water or his fists or his feet. Wrong because it was too easy.
He was unfulfilled.
He needed more.
Escalation.
I could have had a hand in Darren’s mind but he would have come to the same notion whether I’d have been there or not. I was watching his change. I was the silent witness. The bystander.
That cat chopper was sick of the activists. Those protesting vegetarians and vegans with their placards and their chants, trying to convince the world that these tiny-brained animals were worth saving as much as any other living being.
DARREN HAD A THOUGHT
What if the animals weren’t in the pen?
What if they had the freedom to run?
Then you’d see about their brains and their stupid feelings.
And Darren decided that one way to escalate the fun, to increase his fulfilment would be to hunt an animal rather than having them gifted to the abattoir.
DARREN HAD ANOTHER BRIGHT IDEA
The next day, he would steal a pig.
12% TIP
Roger Ablett squeezed out of his chair and approached the counter.
‘All done for today, Roger? Can’t tempt you with anything sweet?’ RD asked, already punching his bill into the till.
‘Not today, RD. Thanks very much. My compliments to the chef, as usual.’ He handed across a twenty-pound note before being told how much he owed. He was smiling the smile of a kind-hearted man. An occasional glimpse into the boy he had once been, when he and RD were inseparable.
RD took the note, popped the drawer on the till and fished around for the correct change. He tried to give it back to Ablett but he waved it away and pointed at the white bowl left on the counter for tips.
ROGER ABLETT IN PERCENTAGES
100% self-made.
85% sure his brother had sex with a woman who would be found dead on the street.
62% body fat.
25% chance of arousal at The Split Aces when touched by a dancer.
50% sure he knew how to solve his biggest problem.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ RD said, dropping the coins and five-pound note into the bowl. Roger Ablett closed his eyes for a second to say, of course.
Then he turned and left.
Everybody walked in Hinton Hollow. Everybody but Roger Ablett. His car was parked behind the promenade of shops, in a bay reserved for one of the florist’s vans. He just had to turn right towards the cr
ossroads then right again and a third right to get behind the local stores. He could have been slumped in the driver’s seat of his gas-guzzling Range Rover in three minutes. But the road to Roylake was being closed off. He’d have been turned away and made to travel the long way home.
But, on that day, Roger Ablett decided that he would walk. He would walk out of RD’s Diner towards the unmarked police car that had Mrs Beaufort trapped in it like a rather comfortable hamster. He would continue until he met up with the local police inspector. And he would see the three bodies lying dead on the floor.
And he would recognise the woman as Rachel Hadley. The woman his younger brother had decided would be his next. Roger recalled his troublesome sibling saying that she was gonna get fucked. Fucked good.
If he could just keep his dick in his pants and his fists in his pockets.
A beep, and then, ‘Charles. It’s your brother. Where the fuck are you? What have you been doing today while I’ve been selling properties? Call me back so we can sort this mess out.’
He felt the anger rising within him as it so easily did. He hated those fucking answering machine messages.
He thought about his mother.
I’m sorry, Mother. I know you made me promise that I would look after Charles but he’s getting out of control. I’m almost there, where I want to be. I could be running this town but I’m picking up his shit all the time. It’s exhausting.
Then a thought to himself.
Roger Ablett had witnesses that could corroborate his whereabouts at the time of the Hadley shooting. If someone was going around bumping off kids and women that had scorned him in some way, maybe that same person wouldn’t hesitate to kill a man. Perhaps Charles Ablett could meet an untimely death. The police would never suspect his own brother, they would immediately put the fault in the direction of their local psychopath. And, if it was Charles doing this, Roger would be providing a service. He’d be an unknown hero. That would cancel things out with The Lord, surely.
