Degrees of Darkness

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘I know. She’s good for me, and we get on really well. I just need to think about it a little more. I need to think about everything a little more.’

  Frank did some of his best thinking out in the open air. Walking helped, too, he found. One of his favourite places was the public golf course overlooked by the Redbridge home, just a few minutes away from where he lived. Here he could skirt the holes, climb some pretty steep hills, cut through knots of trees, and casually observe people play a relaxing game while he, himself, tried to unwind.

  The sun was high, but a gentle cooling breeze blew a welcome caress. The golf course was busy, yet he felt alone and miles from civilisation.

  He was still there when Nicky called.

  Having paused by a green while a golfer stood over a long putt, Frank wrestled the mobile from his jacket pocket. It only rang twice, but this was more than enough for the angry golfer, who muttered and shook his head in disgust. His partners, all of whom wore the obligatory red tops demanded by the course manager, did likewise.

  Frank gave an apologetic shrug, then walked hurriedly away, across to a wide stretch of rough that separated the first and ninth holes. He stood behind a young tree whose thin trunk was shielded by wire, hoping to keep out of the way of stray drives.

  ‘I think we may have caught a break,’ Nicky told him.

  The increase in Frank’s pulse-rate was immediate. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘We ran a check for any suspicious intruder or stranger reports in Paul Clarke’s neighbourhood, going back three months. Nothing of interest came up. We did the same for the Redbridges and got a hit. Two nights before Karen Redbridge saw the man in her room, a woman in a neighbouring road called in shortly after midnight to report seeing a vehicle she didn’t think should be parked outside her home.’

  ‘Please tell me they got the plates.’ Frank’s tongue felt thick and heavy. The sounds and colours of the golf course, normally things he would have luxuriated in, now washed over him as he moved anxiously from foot to foot.

  ‘They did. But it gets better. The vehicle was a van. And it had a clearly identifiable sign on the side.’

  ‘Tell me it’s a locksmith and I’ll have your baby.’

  ‘Not quite. And, that’s an ugly thought, mate. No, the van belongs to a self-employed plumber.’

  Frank felt a surge of disappointment. ‘That’s not exactly the trade we’d normally associate with this, Nicky. A builder, maybe, a chippy, for sure. But a plumber? What the hell do they know about doors?’

  ‘It’s a lead, Frank. You want to follow this up or not?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You want me there?’

  ‘No need.’ He turned his head to look across at the road that swept alongside the first hole. ‘Besides, I’m already here.’

  Nicky gave him the name, address and telephone number associated with the van owner. ‘Don’t pick him up just yet,’ Frank warned. ‘But get him under surveillance as soon as you can arrange it. Your best teams, mate. I don’t want this fucker spooked.’

  Though the Redbridge house stood only a mile or so from his own home, the area might as well have been located on a different planet. The women in these houses were the kind to get together for coffee mornings and Tupperware parties, not in-depth discussions about the latest episode of Eastenders, and riotous Ann Summers evenings.

  The three-storey house was an imposing presence, a large central gable flanked by two smaller ones, bay windows jutting forward as if keen to announce themselves. The exterior of the red-brick and sandstone house was as neat and tidy as the interior that Frank had seen on his previous visit. Dwarf conifers lined up in a row to separate the path from a gravel driveway.

  Allison Redbridge was kneeling on the path working on the weeds when Frank got there. Mrs Redbridge looked surprised to see him, but smiled pleasantly as she brushed herself down and led him through to the kitchen.

  ‘If you’ve come to speak with Karen, I’m afraid she’s out shopping with her father,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘Nothing, thank you. I really just have a couple of questions for you, actually.’

  ‘Fire away.’ She leaned back against the sink unit, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. Her cheeks were flushed and shiny.

  ‘Mrs Redbridge, when I was here before, your husband was asked whether you’d had any tradesmen working here during the previous few months. He said not. I can now be a little more specific, and wonder if you’ve had need of a plumber in, say, the last six months or so.’

  Allison Redbridge shook her head immediately, and Frank felt himself tighten inside. ‘No. Definitely not. We’ve not had any plumbing work carried out here for, oh, three or four years. And then it was Simon’s brother who did the work. We had a new shower installed.’

  Frank nodded, biting his lower lip. ‘You’re absolutely certain? No emergency work? Burst pipe, that sort of thing?’

  ‘No. Sorry. Is this important?’

  ‘I’m really not sure at this point. If you had employed a plumber, and it happened to be the person we’re looking at right now, then …’ Frank let it hang there, his mind already wondering what his next move might be.

  ‘We really don’t have many tradesmen working here, Mr Rogers. Simon’s brother is quite handy with most things.’ She smiled and rolled her eyes. ‘Except some forms of carpentry. There we had him stumped.’

  Frank, who had turned to leave, glanced across the room. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  She inclined her head towards the door that led out into the garden, the one whose lock had been removed by the intruder. ‘It was that door, actually. Barry, that’s Simon’s brother, had one attempt at hanging it. He made such a poor job of it that we had to employ someone.’

  ‘How long ago was this, Mrs Redbridge?’

  Allison Redbridge screwed up her eyes. ‘Oh, it must be nine months or so, now. Late September, I think it was.’

  ‘Mrs Redbridge, can you remember who you used?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I have his business card somewhere. He did a very nice job.’

  She moved across to a cabinet on the other side of the kitchen and began rustling through the contents of the top drawer. Frank watched her with mounting interest. He and Nicky had made a mistake. The parameter they had used previously was within the past few months. The door had been fitted last year, and therefore had not crossed Simon Redbridge’s mind. Even now, the penny was not dropping for Allison Redbridge.

  Nodding to herself and smiling, she straightened and turned to him, arm extended. She handed him a beige card. Frank turned it over and read what was printed there in black letters.

  The information Nicky had given him was: Alan Stevenson, Plumber.

  The card read: Alan Stevenson, Joiner and Carpenter.

  Frank ran it through in his head. A multi-skilled tradesman whose business image was that of master of one trade rather than Jack of all. A man who had fitted the very door used to gain unlawful entry. A man whose van had been seen two nights before the break-in.

  A man Frank thought he should be more interested in than he actually was. What he’d heard was circumstantial at best, yet it was their first real lead. He knew he ought to be feeling something inside, something beavering away at his stomach. Instead he felt hollow. He would follow this development through, but having hoped for elation, he now felt merely curious. Frank had learned long ago to trust his instincts, and they were simply not convinced.

  33

  On another blissfully warm Sunday morning, Frank tended the garden as best he could. His mind afforded him no peace, yet it felt good to be focusing on something different, something natural and mundane. The borders needed tidying, plants required deadheading, and the mower and strimmer got a run-out. At lunchtime, he even cooked himself something, though nuking a lasagne in the microwave was hardly a stiff culinary challenge. But he ate it all, washed it down with a bottle of ice-cold W
hite Stripe, and tried to keep himself busy.

  Later that afternoon, as they made use of a local pub’s garden furniture, Frank and Nicky discussed their suspect. ‘I have a team at the address,’ Nicky explained. ‘It’s a house, so he probably works from home as most of these tradesmen do. One team was in place yesterday evening, but his vehicle didn’t arrive until near midnight. The driver matched the description Mrs Redbridge gave you. He may have been on a job earlier, or even out socialising.’

  ‘Or with his victims,’ Frank suggested. ‘If he’s our man, it’s likely he spends as much time as he can at the place where he’s keeping Laura.’

  ‘We brought some extra teams in this morning, but he hasn’t been out so far. A woman and a couple of young children have been spotted, so it looks as though he has a family. We’ll sit on him until he moves. We’ll have him, Frank. No problem. By the way, how did it all end up with Mrs Redbridge?’

  ‘You know, it really didn’t seem to register at first that Stevenson might be the man we’re after. Then it suddenly seemed to hit her, and she was horrified. I tried to fend her off, lead her away from what she was thinking. I said we just needed to follow up a lead, but she’s no dummy. To the best of her recollection, though, he wasn’t a million miles away from the description Karen gave us.’

  ‘That aspect has been bothering me. How come Karen didn’t recognise Stevenson as the man she saw in her bedroom?’

  ‘I asked Allison Redbridge about that. She said he was only there for two days, and both times he was gone by the time Karen got home from school. Karen may have seen him for a brief moment on the second morning, which would explain the sense of familiarity.’

  ‘Stevenson is described as a little above average height, slightly built but strong, hair cut or shaved close to the scalp, yes?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Could look tall to a girl lying in her bed. Slightly built could be interpreted as slim. And if he does shave his head, perhaps he shaved it even closer for that visit.’

  Frank nodded his agreement. ‘I tried getting hold of the woman who called in that night, but she and her husband are away for the weekend. She may be able to give us a more recent description.’

  ‘If she got a decent look at him.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose we’ll have to bide our time on that one. So now we just wait for the teams to let us know when he’s on the move. What are their instructions after that?’

  Nicky pulled back his shoulders and rolled them. He was wearing sunglasses, but now he propped them up on his head, squinting. His skin prickled beneath the sun. He took a mouthful of his pint before continuing.

  ‘The moment they spot him they call in an extra team. When he moves, three move with him, leaving one at the house. They circle and interchange; you know the drill. Their orders are not to approach him unless there’s an immediate threat to Laura or any of the remaining girls. Once they have confirmation of Laura’s whereabouts, they hold back and wait for a decision.’

  ‘Which’ll be made by Foster.’ Frank shook his head in disgust.

  ‘Maybe. Best wait and see on that one, Frank. There’s some shit hitting the fan right now, so let’s not jump to any conclusions.’

  ‘And what if it all goes off early tomorrow? We’ll be at the crematorium in the morning.’

  ‘I know. The teams are aware of that, as a couple of them were due to attend. Again, let’s see how it all pans out. No point in worrying unduly.’

  ‘No. Agreed.’ Frank held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare. ‘Is it him, Nicky? Is this our man?’

  ‘I really have no idea. Do you feel it?’

  ‘You know, I’m not at all sure I do. I’ve got so much churning around inside me right now that I don’t know how I feel about this man. All we have on him is that he works in the right trade and he was parked near a particular house days before that same house was broken into. It’s worth a look, but it’s pretty thin.’

  Nicky gave a nod. ‘Even so, it’s still far more than we had before.’

  ‘That’s true. I realise this has to be taken seriously, mate, but if you backed me into a corner I’d have to say I’m not buying it. You know how I get, how my instincts take over, and I’m just not feeling it this time.’

  ‘You’re not infallible, Frank. You’ve been wrong before,’ Nicky reminded him.

  ‘I know. And I will be again. But Stevenson doesn’t feel right. I need more convincing.’

  He knocked back his drink and went to fetch two more. They spent the next few minutes mulling over the report that Nicky himself had collected from Ernie Chalk. The victim, confirmed as Tracey Edmunds, died the same way as victim number two: asphyxiation. Prior to her death, Geraldine McGiven had been injected with formaldehyde whilst still alive. Clear evidence of this had been found. Both men were appalled by the news, the child’s pain unimaginable. This had not happened to Tracey Edmunds, however.

  ‘Jesus,’ Nicky said, reaching the final paragraph. He uttered a low whistle. His hand snaked out reflexively for his glass.

  Frank looked up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The bit about the flesh. No wonder it sagged.’

  Frank huddled closer, running his eyes down the thin sheet of paper Nicky had laid out on the wooden table. Ernie Chalk’s conclusion was that Tracey Edmunds had been skinned like an animal. Not well, and not effectively. Butchered may have been a better description. Either way, her flesh had been removed in an amateurish fashion and then later replaced over her skeletal framework. Because of the deep creases created by the sagging curtains of flesh, the thick welts made by whoever sewed the skin back together had not been obvious at the crime scene. According to Ernie Chalk, however, the body laid out on his stainless-steel counter had resembled a patchwork quilt.

  Frank and Nicky swapped puzzled glances. ‘Do you understand any of this?’ Nicky asked.

  ‘No. It beats the shit out of me. Why on earth would he skin her, then piece the strips back together again afterwards? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Nicky ran back through the report. ‘Formaldehyde. Again. What is this crazy bastard up to?’

  ‘Don’t ask. I wouldn’t want to be inside this one’s mind for too long. He isn’t like anyone else I’ve ever heard of. First, the period between his crimes increases instead of lessens, and second, the level of mutilation decreases. You can still see a natural progression, though. Each one has been in a different stage of…’

  ‘Frank?’ Nicky frowned at him.

  ‘I can see it now,’ Frank said eventually. ‘I can see exactly what he’s up to. But for the life of me I can’t see why.’

  ‘So, do I get let in on the secret?’

  Frank swallowed. Cleared his throat. ‘He’s trying to stuff them. Human taxidermy, Nicky. I couldn’t see it before because I was still thinking of the formaldehyde as more of an acid, as a method of torture. But as a preservative I’ll bet it’s used by amateur taxidermists, maybe even those in the profession. First, he tried injecting it into Jeanette Morris when she was already dead. That failed. He then injected it into Geraldine McGiven while the poor kid was still alive, hoping the natural blood flow would do the trick. Then I imagine he sought some advice, possibly looked at a book or two. I’ll bet that was when he discovered that good taxidermy is possible only if you take the skin off first.’

  Nicky gaped. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Oh, but I am. I’ll take any bet you care to wager.’

  Frank could see a young couple at a table just behind Nicky looking in his direction. He realised his voice had grown increasingly loud.

  ‘But how do we find out for sure?’ Nicky asked him.

  Frank gave a wry smile. ‘We ask an expert.’

  34

  Frank was fortunate enough to locate a taxidermist who worked where he lived, and was actually at home on a glorious Sunday afternoon. Delighted to be of help, the man confirmed Frank’s theory, explaining how the flesh had to be carefully peeled from th
e body, everything else but the skeleton itself removed, before replacing the skin over padding in the shape of muscles. And yes, formaldehyde was widely used by taxidermists, both amateur and professional. There was no elation at being proved right, just a growing sense of distaste and alarm.

  Around eight-thirty that evening, Frank felt like getting out of the house again, so Nicky drove him to a bar in Highams Park; the type of drinking establishment where only members and their guests were welcome, and membership did not come without someone getting at least a monkey stuffed into their top pocket. Located opposite the level-crossing by Highams Park railway station, the door leading down into the basement bore no name, just the street number. A passer-by would have no idea that an illegal, subterranean bar was only yards away.

  Soft amber lighting failed to cut through the thick cigarette smoke that hung in the air like a physical barrier. It was almost impossible to see further than five yards, an enforced myopia that suited the majority of patrons, many of whom were either villains, policemen, or alcoholics – some a heady cocktail of all three. Somewhere in the miasma, a solo guitarist worked his way awkwardly through his Hank Marvin repertoire.

  ‘Jesus,’ Frank said into his friend’s ear. ‘Both my hands have mild arthritis, I haven’t picked up my guitar in years, and I can still play better than that.’

  Nicky led them across to a booth. ‘Want me to get you an audition?’

  They were served by a semi-clad waitress who quite obviously wanted to sell them more than drinks. ‘Two double Irish, and two of your famous mixed grills, please,’ Nicky ordered.

  ‘Uh-huh. Anything else you fancy?’

  In her late teens, she wore a sheer blouse, through which her small breasts could clearly be seen. A minute G-string was the only other thing she wore, and it was obvious that not only her legs were shaved on a regular basis. Frank had never been inside the club before, but he knew exactly what she would do for an extra fifty pounds.