Killing Pretties

by Rob Ashman

  ‘I did and she told me to piss off and reminded me they were on private property.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Morning!’ the man in the vest called out as they walked past. ‘Nice day for it.’

  The woman giggled.

  Malice resisted the temptation to walk over and ram the can down his throat. Instead, they made their way past the gardens to the boundary of the estate. Against the overgrown hedge was a shallow embankment leading down to a dried-up stream. The place was littered with cans, bottles and plastic bags. The body of a man was lying at the bottom. He was face down, his arms by his sides.

  Malice picked his way down the banking and arrived at the man’s feet. The man’s face was buried into the ground with only the back of his head showing. He skirted around him to get a better view. The CSI team showed up.

  ‘You’d better take some pictures,’ Malice said. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. The team clicked away and after what felt like an age said, ‘We can move him now.’

  Malice knelt down and tilted the body to one side. The CSI next to him rolled the man’s head to expose his face. Malice held his breath as he stared down at the split lip and bruised cheek.

  Then he held his eyes closed and mouthed a silent ‘Fuck it’ to himself.

  Chapter 24

  It was the day I came second and figured out how to win …

  C hristian produced the most beautiful glaze. It dazzled and glinted, changing from green to blue to purple as the light reflected off the surface. A triumph.

  I had entered a national competition to be held in Birmingham. My disappointment with the last competition was behind me and I was fizzing with excitement.

  I’d chosen to mark the occasion by making something different. I entered an abstract sculpture standing twelve inches high on a brass base depicting a man and woman dancing. This was way out of my comfort zone of jugs, cups and bowls. Functional, stylish and beautiful was my usual stock in trade, this was — to say the least — unusual. When I showed it to Elsa she said, ‘What is it?’ which told me it was abstract enough. I asked her if she would care to join me at the event. She smiled and said ‘Not this time, honey.’ I reckon what she really meant was ‘Not anytime, honey.’

  The venue was one of the smaller exhibition halls at the NEC. The great and the good of the UK potting world were there. Some I recognised, some I didn’t. The gallery was sectioned off into various categories; mine was in the one called La Belle d’Amateur Abstract, which described me down to a tee.

  I mooched around admiring the work of the other competitors, shaking their hands and exchanging pleasantries. All the while thinking: mine’s better than that! After each walkabout I returned to my piece to find a small gaggle of people surveying it. I introduced myself and enjoyed the attention. On the table in front of the piece was a cardboard place-name sporting the title of the sculpture: Simply Pretty. A fitting tribute to the vacuous shit-bag who’d been banging my wife.

  When Christian was hanging from the meat hooks embedded in his back, it hadn’t been difficult to select my ‘packets of joy’. Elsa had always said he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. That made it easy. His face had to come off. Nose, lips, eyelids, eyes, cheeks: the works. However, the part that caused me the most inconvenience was his teeth.

  I knew they could prove to be tricky so I’d practised on a pig’s head. I told our local butcher that I was doing a sculpture of a pig and wanted to get the details of the head right. For a tenner he obliged and the following week he handed me a pig’s head in a bag.

  Pigs’ teeth are bloody hard to dig out. I tried a number of tools and found a pair of electrician’s pliers worked best. But when I used them on Christian they were useless. I think it was because the aperture of his dead gaping mouth was smaller than that of the pig and I couldn’t get the same grip. I reverted to a pair of long nosed pliers which were less than ideal. Even when I sliced through his gums, in an attempt to make it easier, some of the teeth broke off. Never mind, they were still usable.

  In life, his teeth beamed a smile that made people love him. In death they lay in my pestle and mortar while I bashed and ground them into calcified grit. But it was worth it. People commented about the glaze, quizzing me about how I’d achieved such a unique look.

  ‘Was it cobalt?’ one woman asked. ‘Did you use copper oxide in the slip?’ asked another. I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. After all, even if I told them they wouldn’t have believed me.

  The time came for the judging panel to make their rounds. We all filed out into a separate room to enjoy the drinks and nibbles on offer.

  After a considerable amount of wine, the MC announced that we could return to the hall. I tried to act nonchalant but couldn’t help scurrying back. Next to my piece was a red, white and blue rosette with second Place written in the centre. I was ecstatic.

  Other competitors came over to shake my hand and congratulate me. This was a big deal and I was soaking up the adoration. One of the judges took me to one side to ask about my glazing process. I made up some rubbish and he went away happy.

  I was hooked.

  Pretties were the way to go.

  The celebrations continued well into the night and I can remember lying on my hotel bed staring up at the rotating ceiling trying not to be sick.

  Why the fug didn’t I come first?

  The words buzzed around in my head as I drifted off into a drunken sleep. When I woke in the morning, the answer hit me harder than my hangover.

  I need to take my ‘packets of joy’ when they’re still alive.

  Chapter 25

  C allum is looking decidedly unwell. The packets of joy are wrapped in greaseproof paper and sitting on the table. He’s turning grey. I put my fingers to the side of his neck and can feel the blip of a pulse. The tourniquet around his genitals has done the trick but the blood loss from removing his tongue has proved a challenge.

  His pectoral muscles are missing along with his collar bones. Why Elsa should have made particular reference to them is beyond me, but mention them she did. The metal grid beneath our feet is washed a deep crimson.

  I watch as the life drains from his body. I can see why Elsa was so keen to have him to herself. He’s a classic Pretty.

  I place each of the packets onto a tray and lay them in the freezer. I have a competition coming up and they’ll play a starring role in my winning creation. It’s another figurine depicting a woman dancing with a partner. I’m confident the packets of joy will make the glaze sing to the judges.

  I strip off my apron and make my way out into the drying room. The warm air hits my face and dries my eyes. I lock the door, push the shelving into place and wander back to the house.

  Elsa is busying herself in the kitchen.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Fine, I reckon I’ll be ready ahead of time.’

  ‘Thanks for being patient,’ she says, kissing me. ‘What do you fancy for dinner? How about I make a curry?’

  ‘That would be great. Do you have raita?’

  Elsa opens the fridge and scans the contents.

  ‘I can make some — just the way you like it. You know, I was thinking…’

  ‘Oh, what?’ I turn on the tap and squeeze a dab of washing up liquid into my palm.

  ‘We should give the pub in the village a go. I hear it’s under new management and the food is really good.’

  ‘Sound good to me. I’ll check my diary.’ I rub my hands together to make a lather and wash my forearms, the white, foamy suds turn pink.

  ‘We’ve not been out for ages,’ she says.

  ‘Who do you know that’s been there?’

  I pick up the nail brush and scrub the congealed blood and skin from under my fingernails.

  ‘Jean was talking about it.’ Elsa collects yogurt and cucumber from the fridge and reaches for the chopping board. ‘You know her, the woman who goes to the same gym as me. She was impressed, we should give i
t a go.’

  ‘Jean?’

  ‘The woman with the dogs.’ Elsa slits the plastic covering off the cucumber and starts chopping.

  ‘Oh, yes, I know. The frizzy haired woman.’ I look at my hands, turning them over. My fingernails are stained a stubborn shade of red.

  ‘That’s the one. She’s ever so chatty.’

  ‘Maybe we could go as a foursome?’ I open the cupboard under the sink to grab the bleach. I squeeze the thick liquid into my hand.

  ‘Nar, her husband is boring. Besides, it would be nice to go out just the two of us.’ Elsa spoons yogurt into a bowl and adds the diced cucumber.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. That would be nice.’ I scrub away at my nails before rinsing under the tap, a spiral of rust-coloured water washes down the plughole. I swill my hand around the sink to dislodge the bits of cartilage sticking to the stainless steel.

  Elsa adds mint sauce and a twist of salt and stirs. She dusts the top with chilli powder, covers with clingfilm and pops it into the fridge for later.

  I towel my hands dry and wrap my arms around her. She melts into me.

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’ she asks.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Do you fancy sex?’

  ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘Not even a quickie? You’re normally up for it when you’ve been working in your shed.’

  ‘It’s not a shed, it’s a workshop. And besides, his car is parked on the drive and it needs to be at the bottom of the reservoir.’

  ‘Okay, you sort that out and I’ll get cracking with dinner. Maybe you’ll change your mind when you get back.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I kiss her neck and breathe in her perfume.

  I go into the lounge and rummage around in Callum’s jacket for his car keys and phone. His BMW is bright and shiny like it’s just been washed.

  ‘Won’t be long!’ I call out as I close the door.

  I can already taste the raita.

  Chapter 26

  M alice was sitting in Waite’s office putting two and two together and coming up with ‘fuck knows’. He couldn’t get the image of Burko’s lifeless body out of his head.

  Ninety minutes earlier the doctor had pronounced Burko dead at the scene; a necessary declaration from a police procedure point of view but entirely unnecessary as he looked as though he’d been run over by a petrol tanker.

  Malice had a bad feeling: First Burko gets his face re-arranged, then two clowns with baseball bats try to put Wrigley out of action and now this.

  What the hell’s happening?

  Waite clicked away at her mouse and a variety of windows and documents leapt onto the screen in front of her. As usual her office was a tip, littered with files and mounds of paper. Malice sipped his coffee.

  ‘Okay, I got him,’ Waite said leaning back in her chair. ‘What’s the score?’

  ‘His name was Gerald Burke, AKA Burko. A low-level dealer who operated a handful of runners out of the Claxton Estate. I arrested him a couple of times but the CPS went soft and he got off with a kick in the shins and nothing more.’

  ‘It says here you couldn’t make the dealer charges stick.’

  ‘That’s right, so he walked. He’s a long-standing operator who tends to stick to what he knows — mainly dealing in Class C with a few Class B — he doesn’t shift the hard stuff in any volume.’

  ‘What was he like?’ asked Waite.

  ‘I know this is going to sound stupid, but he was kind of a nice guy.’

  ‘What! He sold drugs to kids, Mally!’

  ‘No, what I mean is he wasn’t a gangster. He didn’t go around roughing people up or causing trouble. He bought shit and sold it on — that was it.’

  ‘You make him sound like a candidate for The Apprentice.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘If that’s the case how come someone murdered him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whoever it was worked him over pretty good. We’ll get more information when they do the post-mortem. But he wasn’t killed where we found him.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Given the extent of his injuries we would have been walking through blood trails in the grass, but there was nothing.’

  ‘Why dump his body there?’

  ‘Maybe this was all about sending a message. After all, the estate was his patch. Whoever did this, wanted him to be found and the word to get around. This could be signalling a changing of the guard.’

  ‘A turf war?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Did he have anything on him? A phone or wallet?’

  ‘No nothing. We’ve started house to house. The couple who phoned it in said they saw jack shit. The cheeky bastards then asked if there was a reward.’

  ‘Any CCTV?’

  ‘On the Claxton Estate? Come on boss, the cameras would be on eBay within hours of being installed.’

  ‘Okay, smart arse.’

  ‘I’m drawing up a list of known associates.’

  ‘That’s good. Keep me posted.’

  ‘Erm, if it’s alright with you, boss I’d like to keep hold of this one?’

  ‘I thought you said you were up to your bollocks—’

  ‘I know, I know. But as I’ve nicked him before and you said everyone was tied up with the fallout from the immigration…’

  Waite shuffled a wad of papers into a neat stack and shoved them to the corner of her desk. ‘Okay, you run with it and keep me in the loop. The minute the investigation gets too big you need to shout. If you don’t, it will be me kicking you in the shins.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Pietersen stuck her head around the door.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am. Mally, I went through the CCTV from the train station.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I found the Von Trapps.’

  ‘The Von…what?’ Waite waved her hand in the air like the queen waving to a crowd. ‘Go… go!’

  Pietersen pressed the doorbell and shuffled on the spot. Malice was standing behind her, his warrant card at the ready. There was no answer. She pressed again.

  The door opened and a woman with a blonde pixie cut stood before them.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said with a slight European accent.

  ‘Are you Elsa Kaplan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good evening. I’m Detective Pietersen and this is DS Malice, I wonder if we could ask you a few questions, please?’

  ‘Oh, err, yes I suppose so.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Damien! Damien! The police are here!’

  ‘Your husband is at home?’

  ‘Yes that’s right.’

  ‘The police?’ Damien appeared in the hallway. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, we wondered if we could ask you some questions regarding a missing person.’

  Damien looked at the warrant cards on display in front of him. ‘You’re a little off your regular patch, aren’t you officers?’

  ‘We are, Mr Kaplan. Do you think we could come in?’

  ‘Of course, we’ve just finished dinner. Come into the lounge.’

  The smell of curry hit Malice and he realised he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. His stomach rumbled.

  ‘Thank you.’ They both followed into the living room

  ‘Please make yourselves comfortable,’ said Elsa.

  ‘We are looking into the whereabouts of this woman.’ Malice handed her a photograph. ‘Her name is Belinda Garrett.’

  Pietersen lifted a jacket from the seat of the armchair and perched on the edge.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Elsa yelped.

  ‘What is it?’ Damien squeezed alongside her on the sofa.

  ‘It’s Belle.’

  ‘You know this woman?’ Pietersen asked.

  ‘Yes we know her, but we… don’t know her,’ replied Elsa, her voice shaking.

  ‘What does that mean, Mrs Kaplan?’ said Malice.

  ‘Well it means that…’

  ‘Wha
t my wife is trying to say is that we are acquaintances of hers, but we don’t know her on a personal level,’ Damien put his hand on his wife’s leg.

  ‘How long has she been missing?’ Elsa asked.

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Malice asked, ignoring the question.

  Elsa looked at Damien.

  ‘Umm, it must have been a few weeks ago. Maybe last month.’ Damien nodded.

  ‘How did you come to know Belinda?’ asked Malice.

  ‘We see her socially.’

  Elsa looked at the carpet and clasped her hands in her lap.

  ‘Socially?’ said Pietersen.

  ‘Yes we… erm.’ Elsa stumbled over her words.

  ‘Officers, to spare my wife further anxiety, would you like me to explain?’

  Damien took his wife’s hand in his.

  ‘Go on,’ said Malice.

  ‘You would know us as swingers,’ Damien nodded at Malice. ‘You would know us as having an open relationship,’ he gestured at Pietersen. ‘I find it fascinating how the descriptions of what folk do in the privacy of their own home changes over time. Anyway, whatever you want to call it, we have sex with other people — for fun.’

  ‘Swingers,’ said Malice.

  ‘Yes officer, that’s right. We hook-up with people for the purpose of having no strings attached sex. That could be with couples or singles, we’re open to both.’

  ‘And that’s how you met Belinda Garrett?’ said Malice.

  ‘That’s right. We got chatting in a bar and things progressed from there.’

  ‘It would be helpful for us to have the details,’ said Pietersen.

  ‘That’s fine, no problem.’

  ‘Talk to me about the Mexborough hotel,’ Malice asked.

  ‘That’s where we met. I would book two adjoining rooms and we shared the weekend together. There was nothing improper. She was not under age, nor was she coerced. There was never any exchange of money and what she did, she did of her own volition. I would go as far as to say she was more than a willing participant. Wouldn’t you agree, Elsa?’

  ‘Stop it Damien. Don’t make light of it. They said she was missing. That’s terrible. Poor Belle.’