The Eighth Day (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  He might not want a relationship with you, Kate.

  Another disturbing thought. Just because he had talked intimately did not mean that he wished to go any further. He surely would not risk his career. In which case she could always register with one of the other doctors. If he had given her a cue then she had not responded to it.

  She decided to seek another consultation with Glenn Whittaker. That was easily contrived; during its course she could steer the conversation round to his place of birth, his ancestry, his religion. But she must not mention circumcision, not in view of its current publicity. Yes, there were ways of finding out what she wanted to know. She laughed softly to herself but the urge to lie back in the bath, and continue with that which she had almost started, was gone. For the time being. Until she knew for certain.

  She got out of the bath and began to dry herself.

  She dressed in blue Levi’s and a black and white checked blouse. Then she searched the washbasin drawer until she found a pair of hairdressing scissors; on occasions she trimmed her own hair, primarily because she could not afford a visit to the hairdresser. Usually she made a passable job of it, enough to see her through until her finances improved. Tonight, though, she had something much more drastic in mind.

  In less than two hours the job was complete, a handful of wet hair deposited in the pedal bin. The need for a ponytail was gone; she checked the line with the aid of the mirror in her compact bag. Not a bad line, it could be improved upon but she would seek the professional finish in a day or two. Right now it had served its purpose, put her one move ahead of …

  Somebody was knocking on the outer door, a heavy tap of knuckles on the opaque glass. Three taps. They had an authorativeness about them, which instinctively had her hurrying to make herself presentable. It wasn’t Paul, he had a key, anyway. And, even if it was, he never knocked like that, he drummed with his fingertips. A housing officer, in all probability, a follow-up visit to that letter. We have a queue of applicants for Valley Tower, Miss Leonard, we need an instant decision. I’m sorry, Miss Leonard, but since we wrote to you circumstances have changed, we can no longer …

  She almost ran to the door, was aware that she had left the bathroom door open and steam was drifting into the living room, condensing the mirror. Through the frosted glass she could see uniforms, navy blue like the gasmen wore.

  It was the police.

  A tall constable stood just behind a WPC, hands clasped behind his back like the traditional bobby in black and white cop films. His expression was stoic, he was probably bored.

  His companion was young, probably a rookie who had just qualified, Kate thought. She had a clipboard in her hand, smiled as the checked it.

  “Miss Leonard?”

  “That’s me,” Kate’s voice was even but her stomach knotted and churned. They couldn’t have anything on her, she was too clever for them.

  “May we step inside a moment?”

  Kate stood back, held the door, closed it after them. The bobby was looking round, his gaze settled on her studio area.

  “Just routine, Miss Leonard, we’re sorry to bother you,” the WPC’s clipboard was under her arm now.

  “You’re doubtless aware that there have been murders in the vicinity.”

  “Oh … Yes. That prostitute, you mean?”

  “Yes, that and … a rather nasty assault on a man which ended in his death. Which is what we’d like to speak with you about.”

  Oh, mothershit! Kate’s vision blurred momentarily, the room swung, then steadied. She heard herself say in a voice that sounded a million miles away, “Oh, sure, if I can be of any help.”

  No, Kate hadn’t been in the vicinity of Barker and Bird Streets, nor the gas works, on the dates mentioned. She was right here. Painting. “I’m off sick at the moment. I work at the bank. My hobby is painting.”

  “Ducks, I see,” the female police officer stepped nearer to the paintings. “I recognise the setting; the park lake just down the road.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Those pictures are absolutely magnificent. Are any for sale?”

  “I haven’t finished them yet. I’ve got four on the go at present. I do a bit of one, then another; I’ve always worked that way. Eventually they all get finished.”

  “I’d be interested in one myself,” the officer’s eyes flicked from picture to picture. “If you decide to sell one, perhaps you’d let me know. I’m down at the main station, you can either phone or call in, leave a message if I’m not there. I’m WPC Braithwaite. Seriously, I’d like one.”

  “Thank you, I’ll let you know.” Kate hoped her relief didn’t come over too strong. “It could be three or four weeks before I’ve got one ready.”

  “There’s no rush. In the meantime, I’d strongly advise you not to go out alone after dark. Also, if you see anything suspicious, a man hanging round or a woman with fair hair done up in a ponytail, about your build and age,” the WPC looked up, looked back down at the printed circular which she held out to Kate, “then please contact us on this number. Don’t engage in conversation with anybody matching this description.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open,” Kate took the proffered piece of paper, “but I generally don’t go out at nights. Not alone, anyway, my boyfriend has always been insistent on that.”

  “And quite right, too.” The constable opened the door, held it for his female colleague.

  “I’ll let you know the minute I’ve got a painting finished. Or if I see anybody suspicious matching that description.” Kate was glad that the mirror was opaque with condensation. She added, on impulse, “They shot the geese, you know, and some of the ducks.”

  “We know all about that,” WPC Braithwaite’s smile vanished. “We’ve had nothing but complaints from the residents since. But I’m afraid it was all above board, there’s nothing we can do about it. Unfortunately.”

  Then the door was closed and the police officers were gone. Kate leaned back against the wall, she was sweating. No, it hadn’t been a close call, far from it. House-to-house enquiries, the cops had called after that first prostitute was murdered. Paul had talked to them, she’d been in the bath. Like this evening. A routine enquiry, they had been and gone, they would leave her in peace now. And no way was she going to offer that WPC one of her paintings, she didn’t want to phone or call at the police station. They were the enemy.

  It was some time before her thoughts returned to Doctor Glenn Whittaker. Pleasant thoughts that detracted from police visits, only one thing marred them. One question which needed to be answered and only the doctor could tell her what she wanted to know. Somehow, in a roundabout way, she would find that out. And then, depending upon that answer, everything would be beautiful.

  23.

  “I take it this isn’t an official visit, Sergeant?” Margaret Underwood’s attempt at light-heartedness failed miserably; there was a distinct tremor in her voice. Police calls at her mock Georgian house in the city’s stockbroker belt were seldom welcome. She was uneasy; she had flirted with the law successfully for almost fifteen years, one day her luck must run out. She prayed that it wasn’t today. She had never been prosecuted but there was always a first time.

  Ford smiled, eyed her up from her dyed raven hair right down to the toes of her black leather boots. She wore a tight-fitting cat suit that showed off a well-maintained figure to perfection, successfully hid any lines and wrinkles; a careful use of cosmetics masked those on her aristocratic features. At 60 she was still attractive; she had to be for the sake of her lucrative business. “It’s unofficial,” which wasn’t altogether true, merely bordered on a lie. “We’ve given up raiding Madam Pain’s Punishment Parlour. At least, until there are changes in the law. In our favour.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” she ushered him into the lounge, a huge room the breadth of the house. He felt his feet sink into the thick pile carpet, noted the Regency table with matching chairs. A grandfather clock ticked loudly, it was accurate to the minut
e.

  “I do wish you would stop referring to my clinic as if it was some seedy chamber of correction, Sergeant. You really should know better by now. Can I get you a drink?” She opened the double doors of a mahogany cocktail cabinet, Ford saw the array of bottles, an extensive choice of wines and spirits.

  “No, thanks. I’m teetotal.” Which was true, his greatest worry was that he might start hitting the bottle again when Serena’s departure really hit him. At the moment he had plenty to occupy his thoughts.

  “Promoting the don’t-drink-and-drive campaign, I suspect.” A retaliatory jibe for his reference to her business. “My business is therapy, as I’ve told you many times before. No way is it a cover for a brothel. My clients come to me to rid themselves of phobias and fetishes which have made their lives a misery. Thank goodness corporal punishment has been abolished, you’ve no idea what it did to the pupils of the last generation. They come here to relive those horrors, rid themselves of lifelong hang-ups. Am I not providing a valuable service? I am doing what doctors, psychiatrists have failed to achieve. And I can say with all honesty that my success rate is second to none.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Maggie,” he lowered himself into an armchair, crossed one leg over the other. He needed to put her at her ease if he was to win her co-operation. “You’ve never been charged so what are you worrying about? A few years ago a tenant in a house owned by a cabinet minister was doing exactly the same thing you’re doing. When the honourable gentleman discovered what was going on there was an almighty scandal but nothing came from it.”

  “You’ve got some fetish you wish to rid yourself of?” She poured herself a dry sherry, pushed the doors shut.

  “Maybe, maybe not, I don’t really understand it myself. But if you’re asking me if I’ve come here to have my backside lashed by some wench in studded leather, the answer is ‘no’.”

  “You’ve come about this woman you call the Black Mantis,” it wasn’t a question this time. “Well, I can vouch for all my girls, you’re wasting your time, Sergeant.”

  “You learn something new every day,” he put his fingertips together, stared up at the rose scrolled ceiling. “I learned something today.”

  “Yes?”

  Ford hesitated, experienced a rare moment of embarrassment. “That some men get pleasure from … Foreskin tortures, simulated circumcisions and the like.”

  “I guessed that was what you’d come about,” she seated herself on the arm of the settee, sipped her drink. “Well, I don’t think you’ll find your Black Mantis under this roof, Sergeant.”

  “Who knows?” He seemed relieved now that he had said it. “It will probably turn out to be the most inoffensive person imaginable. Murderers often are. Tell me, do you get men coming here to have their foreskins whipped, make-believe circumcisions and the like.”

  “From time to time,” she answered him spontaneously in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mostly they are ex-public school pupils. It all stems from some kind of rivalry that used to exist between boys at these establishments. To be circumcised was macho, a kind of ‘just look at this, that’s what I had done to me’. You’re considered inferior if you’ve still got your foreskin. You know, young teenagers giving one another the once-over in the showers after sports. That was where it all began, I don’t think it exists to that extent today, probably because most public schools are mixed and the boys have something else to occupy their minds. Homosexuality has decreased in public schools as a result.”

  “We can’t rule out that the woman we’re after attended a public school, picked up her fetish there.”

  “You’ve got a point, Sergeant.”

  “Do you have any such girls working for you?”

  “No, I can vouch for that.”

  “I’d like to talk to Tanya Mitchell,” he watched her carefully, saw her tense slightly.

  “Why?”

  “Because she once partly circumcised a man, a doctor had to finish the job for her. Does she still work here?”

  “Occasionally. When she’s short of cash mostly.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “I can give you her address. She lives with her parents so please be tactful.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Very well.” The other got up, went over to a writing desk in the corner, lowered the desktop lid and rummaged through some pigeon holes until she found the notepad she was seeking. Ford saw that she used a magnifying glass to aid her writing; she was too proud to wear glasses and possibly contact lenses did not suit her. “Here you are,” she came across to him, held out the sheet of paper, “But, like I said, use your discretion. Her parents have no inkling …”

  “And they won’t have from me,” the detective folded the sheet into four, slipped it into his pocket. “I just want to talk to her.”

  “Take it from me, she isn’t your infamous Black Mantis.”

  “I never thought she was. I have to pursue every avenue in an investigation on this scale. One other thing before I go …”

  “Yes?” Madam Pain’s suspicions returned, she had learned long ago never to trust a policeman.

  “This is a dual enquiry, we’re hunting a sadistic killer, too. He’s already murdered two prostitutes.”

  “Let’s hope he sticks to prostitutes, then. Some kind of holier-than-thou killer, by the sound of it. My girl’s aren’t whores, he won’t harm them.”

  “He’s likely to kill any woman he comes across. Especially big ones. The Mantis goes for small men. There’s a pattern to both of them, I’m just warning you to be on your guard.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” her lips moved, stretched. “I’ll bear that in mind. And may I, too, give you a word of warning before you jump in with both feet?”

  “Go on?”

  “Tanya is an odd girl, doubtless. I don’t think anybody really understands her, perhaps I’ve come the closest. But underneath her apparently hostile and sadistic exterior, there’s no harm. Just a sweet girl who’s somehow got lost in the process of growing up. Her sadism is all fantasy. Occasionally I’ve used her here when demand has dictated it, then she really lets herself go. But deep down she’s sweet. She loves animals, particularly cats, takes in any stray that turns up. She’s got a cattery all of her own. That’s all, I just wanted you to know in case you prejudged her.”

  “Thank you,” Ford said and let himself out. He had not for one moment thought that Tanya was the Mantis, he just wanted to find out what made somebody like her tick. Like Dawson said, they had no profiles; Ford was attempting to draw one.

  * * * *

  The girl had short-cropped hair, wore a T-shirt and cut off denim shorts, went barefooted. Ford noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra. At a glance she might have been taken for fifteen, sixteen the most.

  There was no response to his knocking on the front door of the off-white 1920s house that stood back from the road, so he followed the weedy path round to the rear. The garden had gone untended for some years, waist high grass with tracks trodden through it, fruit trees that withered with canker. It was long and narrow, maybe 100 metres in length.

  “Cassy, no! Oh, you are wicked, how many times have I told you not to kill birds! There are loads of mice, go and catch some of them.”

  She was sitting on a stool outside a dilapidated shed, a limp sparrow in her cupped hand, staring at it through tear-filled eyes, stroking it in the vain hope that it would suddenly revive, that it wasn’t dead. She sighed, put it down and looked up at Ford’s approach.

  “Cassy will never learn,” her voice was husky. “I’ll have to bury it later. Hi, there.”

  “My name’s Jason Ford,” he squatted alongside her. “I just wanted to chat to you.”

  “Feel free,” there was a haunting sadness about her, a wide-eyed innocence that set her apart from other girls of her own age. A black and white cat sidled up to her; she lifted it up on to her knee, stroked it. “This is Taggy. She doesn’t bother with birds, she catches rabbits, there�
��s a lot of them on the old railway embankment at the bottom of the garden. I’ve seen you before somewhere.” She stared at her visitor, furrowed her forehead as she tried to place him.

  “I’m a police officer,” he smiled disarmingly, “but don’t worry, I’m not here on official business.”

  “Oh!” She drew her legs up, clasped her hands around her knees, a kind of withdrawal into an imaginary cocoon. “I don’t want my folks to know that the police have called. They’ve gone shopping but I’m not expecting them back for another hour. I’d like you to be gone by then.”

  “I’ll make sure I am,” he stretched himself out, it was relaxing here, did not have the artificiality of landscaped gardens.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” She bent forward, kissed the cat on her lap. It purred, settled itself more comfortably. “Do you like cats, Mister Ford?”

  “I love ‘em,” he watched her carefully.

  “I’m glad,” she smiled. “I love animals more than I love humans. Which is why I belong to the ALF.”

  “And the National Front, too?”

  “No!” A sharp denial, almost a hiss. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with them. I’m only interested in protecting animals and birds.”

  “You wear a nazi cap, though.”

  “Sure, but that’s only when I’m angry. I have to make myself really angry before I can flog anybody. I tell myself that they’ve been killing cats, shooting or trapping them. That gets me in a frenzy, I can do almost anything then.”

  “Could you kill somebody?”

  “I … don’t … know,” she looked thoughtful. “Maybe, maybe not. I wouldn’t want to, though. Why do you ask? What is it you want me to do for you, Mister Ford?”