Mitchell, D. M.

by crime The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery

  Eventually he pulled the Land Rover to a sliding halt on the snow covered grass verge by the gate to Deller’s End. A chill wind caused the branches of trees to hiss like waves breaking on shingle and great clumps of dislodged snow came thudding silently to the ground. A full moon blazed brightly in a crisp black sky, the stars standing out clear and sharp.

  As he trudged down the path he noticed the cottage door was ajar and he cursed himself for forgetting to lock it in his haste to tend to Erica. A small drift of snow had accumulated just inside the room. He scooped the snow away and closed the door, not thinking anything of it till he glanced down at the remains of damp, muddy footprints on the carpet leading into the living room. He turned on the light. He’d clearly made one set of prints when he’d dashed in to phone for the emergency services and collect the duvet from upstairs. But there was another set of prints, on closer inspection, that evidently did not belong to him. They were larger than his for one thing, and the remains of the deep tread told him unequivocally they were made by a pair of boots and not by the soles of his light shoes.

  He began to get worried that, as remote as this place was, he’d been burgled. He went immediately to his few pieces of furniture – drawers, a bureau – but there was no evidence that anything had been disturbed. It was only when he turned to check upstairs that he noticed the symbol painted on the wall. A circle, painted in black, a cross in the middle of it, a star in the centre of the whole.

  ‘What the blazes…?’ he said, going closer to it.

  He noticed it wasn’t a straightforward circle; it was a serpent eating its own tail.

  * * * *

  20

  Two-for-One

  He supposed he’d better call the police to report a break-in and damage to the wall. He was told to leave the scrawl until the police had been to check it out. An officer eventually turned up four days later. Break-ins were apparently not a priority for a force having to endure savage cuts to frontline staff and the pressures of the recent bad weather.

  The terminally tired officer asked to be taken into the living room where the damage had been done.

  ‘Looks like the work of kids,’ he surmised. ‘Some young ne’er do well with time on his hands decided to take advantage of you leaving your door open.’ He looked meaningfully from above his pad at Gareth.

  He grinned sheepishly. ‘Probably true, but aren’t the footprints on the large size for kids?’

  ‘Trust me, some teenagers these days are fully grown except for up here in the head. I think they come out of the womb fully grown. What you have there,’ he said with a decisive point of his pen at the symbol, ‘is a common or garden graffiti tag. Some kid marking out his territory.’ He slapped his cap back on purposefully. ‘My advice would be to get better locks and remember to use them in future. Isolated cottages like this are a magnet for trouble. Good job there’s nothing stolen; the insurance companies won’t pay up if you leave the door open and invite them in.’

  Gareth took it on the chin and watched as the police officer took a photograph of the drawing. ‘If we can match this up with tags from elsewhere we might catch the culprit.’ He took more photos of the muddy footprints. They’d faded considerably, dried into the carpet. ‘Not your size,’ he noted. He pocketed the tiny camera. ‘So, you’re definitely sure nothing’s gone missing?’

  ‘As far as I can tell,’ said Gareth, ‘everything’s still here.’

  ‘Kids,’ he said, ‘fooling around.’

  He told him they’d be in contact just as soon as they heard anything, which, he detected from the dull tone of voice, was likely to be never. Gareth walked him to the door, watched him get into the police car and drive away, rather rashly, thought Gareth, as the slush had turned to ice.

  Searching out an old tin of emulsion paint Gareth did his best to cover up the symbol, but despite a couple of coats the thing kept creeping back. In the end he gave up, the ghost of the image never quite going away, reminding him these had been a strange and unsettling few days.

  So who was she? Who was Erica and where the hell did she go? Likewise, who was the American guy searching for her? Eventually he stuffed the box of jewellery down in the cellar, in the hope that one day he’d be able to return it to her and partially to try and forget her. But he found that was impossible. She stuck like a thorn in his mind.

  Life got back to something representing normal. But everything had been washed clean of the meaning it had before he met her. His work suffered. He really had to get more productive, he told himself. He took long walks along the coast in the hope that inspiration would blow in on the wind and that his growing obsession with Erica would blow away on it. She was a poison that had infected his system, he thought grimly. A poison that had begun with a kind of euphoria and was ending in a black swirling cloud of emotions which threatened to engulf and suffocate him.

  He became so absorbed he forgot to stock up on provisions. It was only when he went to the cupboard to search out something to eat that he did a Mother Hubbard; same for the fridge. He slipped his arms into a coat and set off for the Cavendish store to grab a few groceries, reluctantly acknowledging that it was the mundane necessity of the everyday business of having to eat that forced him back into the real world again.

  The two sisters who ran the store were never far from one another. It could be quite threatening to have them both serving you at the same time, he thought. But they must have sensed his dark mood and even offered him vocal support, even if that were limited to pointing out where the two-for-one cupcakes they had on offer were to be found.

  He half-heartedly wandered along the thinly populated shelves of food and gradually filled a basket with all the basics. He’d go to the supermarket in a few days, he thought; these prices would cripple him. He was acutely aware of them watching his progress up and down the two tight aisles, his final approach to the counter quietly disturbing, for they were staring at him pretty much as they had when he’d first landed in Pembrokeshire. He thought those days were behind him.

  One of the sisters silently began to unload his basket; annoyingly slowly too. The other offered him the sort of smile a ferret might give before plunging down a rabbit hole.

  ‘We had someone come into the store yesterday asking about you,’ she said casually.

  Gareth raised a brow. ‘Me? Are you certain? Who?’ He hoped it was Erica.

  ‘Well, it might have been you but we couldn’t be certain,’ broke in the other sister, glowering at his carton of milk as if it had been misbehaving before tossing it unceremoniously into a carrier bag.

  ‘Of course it was him!’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘He said he was a reporter from the Clarion.’

  ‘It wasn’t the Clarion!’ she corrected.

  ‘Then which paper was it?’

  ‘I can’t quite remember, but it most certainly wasn’t the Clarion, that much I do know.’ A bag of potatoes followed the milk. ‘He was American.’

  ‘An American?’ said Gareth.

  ‘Clarion or not, he was a reporter and he said he was looking for the man hereabouts who knocked over a young woman in the snow.’

  ‘You’re certain he was American?’ asked Gareth.

  ‘Jones the Post said that your Land Rover was involved in an accident.’

  Gareth took the carrier bag and handed over his money. ‘How did he know about the accident?’

  ‘Jones the Post knows all sorts of things,’ she said, throwing his money into the till and slamming the drawer shut. ‘I’ve had to charge you 5p for the carrier bag,’ she added. ‘It’s policy.’

  Gareth mumbled that it was fine. ‘What did this man look like?’ he asked.

  They went on to describe, in detail, the man from the hospital.

  ‘But we didn’t tell him where you lived or anything like that,’ said the sister at the till.

  ‘Oh no,’ joined the other. ‘He wasn’t from around here. Anyway, we don’t trust reporters – all that phone-hacking stuff, it’s just
deplorable! We only take reputable papers in the shop now.’

  ‘Was she badly injured?’ she said, coming from the till to lean on the counter. ‘You didn’t kill the woman, I hope?’ She said it jokingly but the optimistic light shining in her eyes begged otherwise.

  ‘No, I didn’t kill her,’ he assured. He thanked them for his things. ‘Look, if anyone else like that comes around asking for me, don’t point out where I live, huh?’ He was feeling a tad uneasy about this mysterious man who appeared to be following him around.

  At that moment two uniformed police officers came into the shop, seemingly filling it with their presence. Gareth gave one of them a glance and made as if to squeeze by them to leave. One of the sisters quipped loudly that they’d found him at last, and laughed, rather too shrilly.

  ‘Mr Davies?’ one of the officers said. ‘Mr Gareth Davies of Deller’s End?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he returned. Then realisation hit him. ‘Have you found the kids who damaged my wall?’

  The second officer stepped forward, a sheer rock-face of a man. His expression was equally stony. ‘Mr Davies, we’d like you to accompany us to the station.’

  ‘Sorry?’ he said, bemused.

  ‘We’d like you to come along with us, sir.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘If you would, sir,’ he said, meaning definitely and don’t argue.

  The faces of the two sisters were a sight to behold, thought Gareth as he left the shop with the policemen. That was the last time he would ever get offered their two-for-one cupcakes, he mused.

  * * * *

  21

  Hollowed Out

  Gareth was one of those people, he decided, that just being in the company of the law made him feel instantly guilty. Everything about him told them he was guilty – his voice, his sweaty palms, his increasingly furtive looks. He bet they could fasten a lie detector on him and he’d come out responsible for anything from shoplifting to terrorism. Whatever it was they were looking for when they sat him in that sterile interview room he was certain they believed they found it in him. The officer who sat opposite him told him to relax, it was only a question or two, that’s all; shouldn’t take too long. Routine. He liked how they used that word. Just being in here was anything but routine.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Gareth asked, glancing apprehensively at the CCTV camera in the corner of the room.

  All in good time, the officer told him. He needed to confirm his name, date of birth, address, which he dutifully did. As he was finishing another man came into the room, dressed in plain clothes, closely followed by another dressed similarly. There was an obvious handover and the uniformed officer rose and left, the other two taking his place, sitting side by side opposite Gareth.

  The older of the two looked familiar. Large-framed, good head of hair but almost grey, eyes that had seen it all and needed to rest; his partner was far younger, slim, quite handsome, a jaw that sported hair somewhere between a fashionable five o’clock shadow and stubble. He guessed they represented both ends of the career spectrum; starting out, seeing it out.

  The elder introduced himself in a quiet, unhurried drawl as Detective Chief Inspector Stafford of the Greater Manchester Police; his colleague was Detective Inspector Styles.

  ‘How long have you lived at Deller’s End, Mr Davies?’ he asked. He told him. ‘And where did you move from?’

  ‘London.’

  His head nodded gently. ‘Bit of a change, London to rural Wales. Don’t you find it a bit isolated?’

  ‘It suits me fine,’ said Gareth. ‘What is all this about?’

  ‘You’re a photographer,’ he said, looking down at the table.

  ‘I get by.’

  ‘Live on your own?’

  ‘Yes. Is that unusual?’

  He flashed him a pasted-on smile. ‘Not at all, Mr Davies.’ From a cardboard folder that sat on the table he pulled out a photograph and slid it over to Gareth. ‘Do you recognise that, Mr Davies?’

  He did, instantly. It was the painted symbol from his living room wall and he told them so. ‘One of your guys told me it was probably a graffiti tag. Seems a lot of bother to drag someone down all the way from Manchester to investigate a bit of vandalism.’

  Slowly the officer removed another photograph and pushed it across the table so that it sat alongside the first. ‘Actually this photograph is the one from your wall; the first came from elsewhere,’ he said.

  Gareth held them up together. ‘They look the same. Do you suppose they were done by the same person then?’

  He ignored the question. ‘Have you ever lived in Manchester, Mr Davies?’

  That took no time at all to answer. ‘Never. All I know about Manchester is that it has two football teams and a canal.’

  ‘A visit recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even briefly?’

  ‘Not even for a nanosecond. What has the graffiti on my wall got to do with Manchester?’

  He slid yet another photograph over. A young woman smiling for the camera, caught in the bright glare of the flash. She looked like she’d been taken unawares.

  At first glance Gareth thought he was looking at Erica, and his heart lurched. But then he realised it wasn’t her, similar yes, but definitely not Erica.

  ‘Do you recognise this woman?’ said Stafford. The younger officer called Styles leant forward a fraction.

  Gareth shook his head. ‘Never seen her before.’

  ‘Are you certain? Never met her, even briefly? Perhaps at a party somewhere, on the streets, in a café? Take another closer look,’ he insisted. ‘See if it refreshes your memory.’

  Gareth pushed it back across the table. ‘Never clapped eyes on her till this moment when you showed me this. Who is she? Am I supposed to know her?’

  ‘Do you recognise the name Ania Dabrowska?’

  ‘It’s not a name I’m familiar with,’ he said. I think I’d remember that one; Polish, is it?’

  ‘Good guess,’ he said passing a sideways glance at Styles.

  ‘Hardly,’ Gareth countered, ‘I’ve known a few Polish people. Youngsters coming over for the work.’

  ‘And you are absolutely certain you never knew this young Polish person who came over for the work?’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ he said, exasperated, ‘I have never seen this woman before. Who the hell is she and what has she to do with me? Why am I being questioned like this?’

  DCI Stafford sat back in his chair, stretching his back and shoulders. ‘You mean who was she. She’s dead, Mr Davies. She was murdered.’

  Gareth was stunned. Then he made the connection: the slot on the TV news some time ago, when he was in the hotel in St Davids; the young woman found dead in a Manchester flat. The man opposite him was the officer leading the investigation, the one who was asking for witnesses. That’s why he looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Gareth, ‘you don’t suspect me of having had a hand in her murder, do you?’ He could feel his insides screw up like newspaper and his legs go weak. His mouth was mopped dry in an instant. He looked from elder to younger and back again, searching their dispassionate eyes.

  ‘As you can understand, Mr Davies,’ Stafford said, coming forward to lean on the table, ‘we need to chase any lead we find, and, naturally, want to eliminate you from our enquiries.’

  Gareth’s hand swept back his hair in a nervous gesture he’d had since a kid. The tension was getting so tight he could hear it squeak. ‘I hadn’t realised I had to be eliminated from anything.’

  ‘Are you aware of how this woman died?’

  ‘I heard something on the news, briefly. Didn’t take too much notice if I’m to be totally honest.’

  ‘Every limb severed from her body.’ He stared hard into Gareth’s eyes looking for a reaction. ‘All her limbs set beside the torso, the head removed and placed on top of it all. The entire body covered in quick lime. She’d been there months befor
e she was discovered. It wasn’t a pretty sight, as you can imagine, Mr Davies.’

  His face was twisted in horror at the image the officer so brutally conjured up. He could feel himself beginning to sweat profusely. ‘It’s a terrible thing to have happened,’ he said. ‘But like I said, what has this got to do with me?’

  Stafford hesitated then put an index finger firmly down onto the photo of the symbol. ‘What we can’t understand, Mr Davies, is why the same image that appeared on the flat of a murdered woman in Manchester should appear on the wall of your cottage in rural Wales. Knowledge of the symbol hasn’t been made public yet. And yet here we have the very same – same size, same colour, same black paint, in your cottage. Naturally we are more than a little curious.’

  Gareth could feel a headache beginning to come on, pain blistering at the base of his skull and threatening to engulf his entire head. ‘Naturally it’s the same person,’ he said.

  ‘Naturally,’ he agreed, raising a brow. ‘Can we get you a drink of water, Mr Davies? You look like you might need one.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of murder?’ he gasped. ‘Shouldn’t I have a lawyer or something?’

  ‘Why, do you think you need one?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything!’ he said, anger building up.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Stafford. He smiled disarmingly. ‘Just routine questions, sir. No need to get alarmed.’ He went again to the folder. That damn folder, thought Gareth! ‘Perhaps you can explain a couple more things for us, Mr Davies.’ He brought out a number of documents, separated them and showed him a driver’s licence. ‘Do you recognise the photograph on there?’