by Guy N Smith
Damn! Stereotyped answers even if they were his own opinions. “I see.”
“But I don’t think that you’ve anything to fear from this woman, Kate. She’s only interested in men, and they have to be of small stature.”
“I’m glad.” But I’d be even more pleased if you’d just give me a clue, Glenn.
“Still, I’d be happier if you were on the telephone. That way you’re never isolated, day or night. If you feel the need to talk to somebody, you can. I wouldn’t mind in the least if you called me just because you wanted a chat. That's part of my job. Likewise, if you had a bad night and felt you couldn’t stand it any longer I’d come right out to you.”
“That’s very reassuring,” she knew that she was trembling visibly now, hoped that he would mistake it for the nervous condition for which he was treating her. “In fact, I think I’ll take your advice, I’ll call in at BT on my way home, ask them to install a phone.”
“Good girl,” he got up out of his chair, a sign that the consultation was at an end. “Just a moment and I’ll write you a note saying that I recommend that you are connected at the earliest possible opportunity. That way you should be on the phone within a few days. They always give priority to people under medical treatment living alone.”
“Thank you,” she accepted the note, just managed to stop herself from saying, ‘Glenn’. “I’d only phone you if I was really desperate, though.”
Which, she reflected as she left the health centre, was inevitable.
Doctor Glenn Whittaker had given her no indication of what she most wanted to know, it was a 50-50 chance either way. She would savour the build-up to finding out for herself. But in the meantime he had given her something else, a renewed lust for human male genital flesh.
Any male so long as he was small.
25.
Micky had drifted into the city the same year that he was due to leave school. His emaciated appearance was accentuated by his threadbare clothing, scuffed trainers with soles that flapped loose and wet his feet on rainy days. Filth grimed his skin yet, facially, he was attractive. With caring parents and a proper education he might have made his mark in later life. But he had neither of these, languished in the remedial class until he finally made the decision to leave it all behind him.
He had run away from home principally because of the court order against him. In effect it was a curfew, the direct result of his being charged with 69 counts of theft in varying degrees from shoplifting to burglary. The order meant that he was not allowed outside his parents’ council house unless he was supervised by an adult. His folks were shits, both of them, he had told the court that but they had ignored him. The prospect of being confined in the house with his mother and father was daunting.
He could have phoned Childline, asked them to come round and look at his bruises, told them that his parents went to the pub every night except Wednesday when they played bingo, and to ensure their son’s good behaviour in their absence, they roped him securely to his bed. Look, see the rope burns on my wrists and ankles! A length of sticking plaster was taped over his mouth in case he tried to shout for help. Its removal upon their return was exceedingly painful for one just going into adolescence.
But Micky didn’t shop his parents because it would have undoubtedly resulted in his being taken into youth custody. The magistrates had warned him upon his last juvenile court appearance that one more misdemeanour, however small, even if he only broke his curfew, would have dire consequences for him; he would be arrested and taken to prison where he would remain until his next court hearing. He had been ordered to return to court for sentencing on May 16; there was a hint of possible leniency depending upon his behaviour in the meantime.
Micky ran away from home in mid-April; if the police hunted him then he was not aware of it. Possibly his parents would not report his disappearance until just before the social worker’s next visit was due.
He headed for the subways on the north side of the city, badly lit tunnels that stank of urine and worse, an accumulation of litter that was seldom cleared, where dropouts in their dozens existed in alcoholic or drug induced degradation.
In the beginning Micky couldn’t afford even to buy food; the cash which he had taken from the old teapot on his parents’ mantelpiece was stolen from him whilst he slept the first night.
A couple of men, he never learned their names, showed him how to earn a living. It disgusted him the first time, it hurt him physically, but after that he learned how to blank out his mind and body to it.
There was a demand for boys on the Ringway, men came from all parts of the city looking for them; some paid exceedingly well for their pleasures. Micky’s boyish stature was an investment; he was never short of clients.
After he was able to buy food, he moved on to drugs. Cannabis in the beginning, then heroin and crack. The drug pushers walked unhindered in the subways, usually in twos or threes because addiction could drive those at the lower echelon of society to violence in an attempt to satisfy their craving when money was short. Men came in search of boys. The subways were a hubbub of twilight industry but seldom was a female prostitute seen there; her wares were low on the client’s shopping list of perversion.
Bodies lay stretched out in the shadows, either sleeping or drunk. Alcoholism was often fuelled by methylated spirits; it was oblivion not flavour that these wretches sought. Violence amongst themselves was rare, their strength had ebbed from them, hastening death to release them from the torture of living. Sometimes a corpse went unnoticed for days, nobody was interested in the fate of their colleagues. The police seldom came here; it was a no-go area which was best left to sort out its own problems.
Micky tossed restlessly, his soreness after a night’s work prevented him from sleeping. He sweated and shivered alternately with a virus that he had contracted; it would pass, it always did. He had found a hessian sack outside the fresh ground coffee shop up on the high street above, used it as a sleeping bag. The aroma of coffee beans was strong, heady. Figures moved around him, there was just the sound of laboured breathing, the rasping of diseased lungs. The others would not interfere with him, there was an unwritten code amongst this community; you didn’t help anybody but you never harmed them intentionally.
A dim glow from the few lights that remained provided a shadowy light, enough to see silhouettes by. He turned over, thought he glimpsed a figure close by, couldn’t be sure. He dozed.
Suddenly, he awoke with a start. Somebody was leaning by his side, their hand had trespassed into his bed sack. Stealthy fingers that had already found his lower regions, stroked them sensuously.
“Oi!” He would have sat up but the stranger was leaning on him, pinning him down. “What the fuck …”
“Sssh!” It was a woman’s voice, husky and cultured. “Don’t wake the others up.”
“What do you want?”
“A nice young man,” her breath smelled of peppermint-flavoured toothpaste, a waft of perfume assailed his nostrils. He coughed, he wasn’t used to it. “Wouldn’t you like a girlfriend instead of all these perverts after your ass?”
The thought was exciting. Micky had never bothered with girls back home; he hadn’t started to mature until after he left. “I don’t mind.”
“You certainly don’t!” She laughed, unzipped him, started to rub him faster. A gasp of satisfaction escaped her lips; she had obviously found something that pleased her.
Her other hand slid down the coffee sack, he drew his knees up, made a kind of tent so that it would be easier for her. Something hard and cold touched him, made him flinch. “What’s that?”
“A little something that will add to our pleasure.” He sucked in his breath sharply.
“That’s nice.” Then, “ooh, you’re pinching me!”
“Not for long.”
Micky screamed shrilly. His filthy hands groped at himself in the enshrouding hessian, tried to find out what had happened to him, the extent of his injuries. He felt her draw b
ack, brushed his face with her hand, knew that she had leaped to her feet.
“ What the fuck have you done to me?”
He was writhing, crying and screaming, his ragged trousers already saturated with blood. He screamed again, louder this time.
Somewhere further along the stinking passageway a huddled shape stirred, a slurred voice said, “shaddup!” Screams were not uncommon within this ghetto of depravity; you learned to ignore them, just protested when they disturbed your drunken slumbers …
Micky struggled to his feet, the bloody sack was entwined around his ankles, constricting bonds like his parents used when they roped him to the bed. You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Micky.
The half-light was darkening, streaked with crimson. He felt his senses slipping from him. Even as he fought to free himself from his shackles, oblivion claimed him. He tottered uncertainly for a moment, then fell backwards. There was a resounding crack of splintering bone as his head struck concrete stanchion. He slid to the floor, rolled over, lay face downwards, blood seeping out from beneath him.
Nobody stirred, the protester had already gone back to sleep.
* * * *
Kate walked breathlessly through the shadowy side streets, her body quivering, her nostrils flared as she scented blood. So easy, but it did not detract from the excitement. She had hunted. And found.
One frightening thought, it only crossed her mind for a second, she had known that she would not find the one she sought in the kingdom of dropouts and rent boys. That had not mattered, tonight had been a diversion, a means by which her craving could be satisfied.
She knew that even if she found him, she would not stop. She could not. Her lust for human flesh was insatiable.
26.
Ford was shocked. He was also uneasy and embarrassed. Everything that he was, he suddenly was not.
Because the chief had phoned him at home and invited him over for Sunday lunch. Detective Chief Superintendents did not socialise with Detective Sergeants. Except for a very special reason. And not knowing that reason troubled him most of all.
“My wife and I would be delighted for you to join us, Ford,” Dawson’s voice was a crackling whisper over the line, he probably had his pipe in his mouth, too. “We thought that you might like to join us for matins, also. At the cathedral, ten-thirty sharp. Meet us by the west door.”
“Thank you, sir, very much,” Ford’s voice was devoid of its usual staccato brusqueness, he just hoped that the other did not notice the slight nervous tremor. “I shall look forward to it.”
“Excellent. Ten-thirty on Sunday, then.” The line went dead, the dialling tone came back.
Shitfire, this was the last thing Ford needed! It was like one of those crazy dreams where you were going somewhere but never got there. He stood there holding the receiver, looking at it with a kind of disbelief. Looking for reasons, not finding them. For a moment he suspected a hoax, one of the PCs mimicking the chief’s voice. Maybe the rest of them would mingle with the congregation to witness Ford’s embarrassment. Dawson wouldn’t be embarrassed, whatever, he never was.
No, it was for real, all right. Which was worrying, particularly for a non-socialising man, one who seldom mixed, even at work. For sure, neither Fallon nor Melton had ever been to the chief’s house for Sunday lunch. Possibly nobody ever had because the Dawsons weren’t the party type. So why me.
Because it was all part of an indoctrination process, mentor entertaining protégé, the DCS was stepping up the grooming. A vice squad chief was a 24 hours a day, 365 days a year man. He wanted to ensure that Ford didn’t stop off for a breather en route; you boarded the train and you stayed on it until you reached your destination.
Ford decided upon the light grey suit which he wore for formal occasions, court appearances and inquests. This was likely to be the most formal of all. He chose a claret tie to go with it.
The congregation was surprisingly sparse, a scattering of city socialites who liked to be seen worshipping in a high place; faces which were vaguely familiar to the detective, he recognised the Lord Mayor and prominent dental surgeon.
Dawson didn’t shake hands, just the faintest of nods as he left the other to follow his wife and himself down the carpeted aisle to the fourth pew from the rear, leaving Ford to sit on the outside. One thing, he thought, the chief didn’t come here to be noticed, he seemed intent on insignificance. Possibly few of those present knew who he was.
Ford played his own version of follow-my-leader. He knelt as the Dawsons knelt, eased back when they did. He found the hymns, marked the pages in readiness. So organised, he hadn’t expected to be anything else.
A junior deacon officiated. The choir was made up from the cathedral’s own choral school.
Ford mimed the words to the first psalm; he could not hear the Dawsons singing, either, even though he strained his ears. Somehow he made it through the service and then everybody was filing back out into the warm May sunshine.
The chief did not own a Mercedes or a BMW. Nothing so ostentatious, just a red Mondeo, as immaculate inside as it was out. The man’s private life was comfortable but not luxurious, he neither coveted his neighbour’s wife nor his possessions.
The modest red-bricked house stood on the bottom of Sandford Avenue, it had been there before some far-sighted builder had envisaged a tasteful cluster of Swedish-style stockbroker residences, possibly some move had been made to buy out the previous owner so that it could be demolished. The latter had refused, perhaps turned down generous offers in his stubbornness so that the house became the poor relation of the more illustrious edifices that surrounded it. It was fringed by trees, fast growing poplars planted by the nouveaux riche in an attempt to hide this eyesore. They had hidden the Dawsons with it and that was how Clem liked it. He stayed back and let others create his anonymity.
“A dry sherry to sharpen your appetite,” he handed a glass to Ford. I know you’re teetotal but everybody should drink a glass of dry sherry on a Sunday and a glass of claret or white wine with their meal. It was an order that had to be obeyed.
“Thank you,” the other felt decidedly awkward.
“Do sit down, Mister Ford,” Maggie Dawson had removed her coat, revealed a mauve two-piece that had been fashionable in the late fifties, “I’ll just go and check how the roast is doing. We’ll be eating at one, sharp.”
The chief stood by the fireplace; it gave him a commanding position. A sip of sherry and a glance out of the bay window and then his steely eyes settled on his guest. “The congregation has become abysmal this last couple of years. Twenty-one this morning, counting ourselves. A sign of the times, the godless society in which we live. I really wonder what people do on Sundays, even Sunday shopping proved to be a non-event. You don’t go to church, Ford, so you told me.”
“No.” Guilt, but the chief would have despised him for lying.
“But you said you believed?”
“Yes. A couple of occasions when by rights I should have been dead but I lived. Somebody looked after me. Mostly I work on Sundays.”
“So do I, Ford. After matins. This evening I shall write my report to submit to Scotland Yard. I fear that we shall receive Metropolitan support in this business before long. The force will not tolerate some slip of a wench making a fool of it indefinitely. A full complement of undercover officers were deployed into the red light area, mostly CID support, and she switched to the ring road subways. The body wasn’t found for four days. It was as if she knew.”
“That would be impossible.”
“Intelligent guesswork that anticipated police procedure,” there was bitterness in Dawson’s tone now. “And one doesn’t expect intelligence from whores, Ford.”
“I don’t believe she is a whore. I think we are up against our most cunning and sophisticated adversary for many years.”
“And for what purpose? She debases a religious rite, mocks God. Certainly she does not gain monetarily, so it is perverted madness. I read your report on your interview w
ith Tanya Mitchell. I fail to see the significance of the cats.”
“Not necessarily cats, it could be any animal or bird. Somewhere this circumciser gives love to something. If we find her, I think that will be the key to her undoing.”
“If?”
“When. I’ve gone through the Wuornos file again. It’s the only profile we’ve got to work from. Prior to her arrest, the FBI had to rewrite the rules. In a conversation with her, a guy named Dick Mills was amazed at her awesome comprehension and knowledge of art. She was also well versed in parapsychology and ancient history. Back of it all they all have something normal. The Mitchell girl loves her cats, Wuornos knew art. We have to find out the Black Mantis’s normality before we can catch her. We already know about her abnormality and, right now, that isn’t helping.”
“It’s logical,” another sip of sherry as a sign of approval. “I want her found soon, Ford, before we hand over the reins to the Yard. I want this to be our success, not theirs.”
“Lunch is ready if you’d like to come through,” Maggie leaned round the door, almost an apology for her intrusion.
The dining room was plainly furnished, looked out on to a wide lawn at the rear. A weeping willow shaded the far end, killed the grass beneath it. The borders were filled with shrubs, the only gardening task would be mowing. Ford had a bet with himself that Maggie Dawson saw to that.
“Even roast beef, a true British tradition, is going out of fashion,” Dawson spooned horseradish sauce liberally on to his plate. “This new generation claim that vegetarianism promotes a healthy body and sound mind. Mentally and physically we have never had a sicker society.”
Ford noted that Maggie Dawson rarely conversed throughout the meal, fussed over whether both men had enough vegetables or if their meat was tender enough. She opened the predicted bottle of claret, poured it. Obviously she had carved the joint, too. She knew her role, accepted it without humility because it was expected of her. Ford could not envisage the Dawsons quarrelling, perhaps they had never done so. Totally humourless and yet they were happy that way.
