The Eighth Day (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  Dawson dictated the conversation in a stilted, staccato style. Unrelated subjects being raised and then discarded with equal suddenness.

  “Have you ever holidayed in Poland, Ford?”

  “No, the only time I’ve been abroad was on a day trip to Bologne.”

  “You should try Poland. You won’t find anywhere more like pre-war Britain.”

  Ford won another bet with himself that apple pie and custard would follow. Tea in preference to coffee, and that he and the chief would take their cups through to the lounge whilst Maggie cleared the table and washed up.

  “You know, Ford, sex is the focal point of most evils,” Dawson spoke with his back to the other, stood looking out of the widow down the driveway. “Men kill for it, crimes of passion. Prostitutes sell it on the streets, without it they would not be able to afford drugs. I can never understand why God, in His wisdom, did not invent a less troublesome means of procreation. Doubtless, He put one major temptation before man in the hope that he could resist it. As the French police say in murder cases “ Cherchez la femme”. We have to do that and I hope that your theory will lead us to her. Time is running out. Incidentally, your wife has left you, I hear.” The chief turned around, his expression was one of undisguised disapproval.

  “I’m afraid so. She walked out on me a few weeks back, she’s living with another man. I haven’t heard from her since.”

  “I’m sorry, Ford,” genuine sympathy now. “I admire you for keeping it to yourself.”

  “I’m coping.”

  “I’m sure you are,” a hint of a smile. “Again, we have evidence of the heartbreak which sex causes. I think that is something which a civilised society should learn to dispense with. There is a society, you know, attempting to prove that a relationship can be equally as happy without sex as with it. Its members aren’t old fogies; a lot of youngsters are joining. It gives you hope for the future.” He paused, turned back to the window. “I applied for the vice squad on principle, as a young man I thought that possibly prostitution could be eradicated. That is an impossibility, you merely drive it underground. You have to learn to live with it. Up to a point. You accept its existence but you don’t condone it. It’s the pimps I hate most, the whores are their slaves. I only learned to segregate the two comparatively recently. Those who exploit sex are the real offenders, not just the pimps, but the purveyors of pornographic material, paedophiles. Perverts. She’s a pervert, you know.”

  “Yes.” Ford thought that was unlikely but it would have been unwise to tell the chief.

  “We have to get her, Ford.”

  Mrs Dawson appeared with the teapot, offering refills. Ford wondered how much she knew, if anything, apart from what she had read in the papers or seen on television. Maybe she didn’t read the newspapers or watch TV. In all probability she and her husband did not enjoy a sexual relationship, maybe never had. Their own personal protest which nobody knew about.

  “You have to be a kind of automaton to run the unit successfully,” Clem Dawson sat down at last, there was a notable change in his attitude. Confidentiality whereas before there had been arrogance. “One hundred per cent devotion to duty at the expense of all else. You don’t do it for money because if you did that you’d be as bad as the enemy. You do it because it’s right. Everybody hates you, your own men, too, if you do the job properly. I can think of many parallels. You keep on killing the enemy, keep them at bay, but you’ll never defeat them. The sad thing is they won’t salute you for bravery; they’ll never ever withdraw. Remember that, Ford, the only thing you’ll ever get out of it is what they call job satisfaction and pride in yourself. You can’t expect anything other than that, not even thanks. It isn’t like any other job in the force. And it’s the toughest. I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Thank you,” Ford said, and meant it.

  “I generally take a short siesta at three before I start work again.”

  Ford saw by the clock on the mantelpiece that it was ten minutes to three. It was the chief’s way of telling him that the time for socialising was over.

  “I have to get back, too,” which was what he was expected to say. “I have to find out what she loves. Then I’ll find her.”

  There was no sign of Maggie Dawson on the way out. Perhaps she, too, slept after lunch on Sundays. Ford walked down the gravelled drive, knew that the chief was watching him all the way. He had delivered his own brand of pep talk, the one and only time he would do it. Somewhere on the confidential files he would write a report recommending Jason Ford for the position of chief in years to come. The Detective Sergeant had the right pedigree, he just had to prove that he could apply it to the job. The Black Mantis had to be caught.

  Ford’s train of thought led to Serena but he had no regrets. What had happened was for the best. But he knew that he needed a woman again; Dawson’s philosophy did not work for everybody.

  27.

  Kate had gone back to the park that warm Sunday afternoon. Not to paint the ducks, nor to watch them objectively. Not in the hope that her nemesis might return.

  Fine weekends were not suited to any of these occupations. The park would be crowded, youths playing football and cricket, children yelling and screaming, their parents shouting at them to ‘shaddup’; pensioners dozing on the lakeside benches. The ducks would be overfed, gorged on non-nutritious white bread so that the spring hatches of ducklings would start life with a handicap.

  Towards mid-afternoon the ice cream van would arrive to a fanfare of repetitive musical chimes which echoed in your brain for hours afterwards. A long queue would form, wrappings from choc ices, cornettos and lollies would litter the well-trodden grass. Noise and disturbance from every direction.

  She used not to go to the park on Sundays between May and September, it left her with a feeling of depression and frustration for the rest of the week. But now the tower block was depressing her, she finally admitted to herself that the move was a mistake. It was a cowardly way of getting rid of Paul. She could just have ordered him to leave, threatened to ring the council and report him as an unwanted lodger if he refused to go. Instead she had run away. From him.

  Now she was paying the price for volunteering to inhabit one of the hellholes in Valley Tower. Floor thirteen, lucky for some. Decidedly unlucky for her.

  It was claustrophobic; it had its own peculiar smell, which you took with you wherever you went. The sour damp odour of mustiness. It was dark in there, too, north facing so that you had to have the living room light on in the daytime. That cost money, the council made no deductions for their mistakes.

  At night vandals infiltrated the stairways, sprayed obscene graffiti on the walls, urinated on the landings. That added to the smell.

  It might not have been so bad had she been working, out during the day. But a solitary life at home in those cramped quarters was akin to a prison sentence.

  That Sunday following her move Kate knew that she had to get away, if only for a few hours. She wasn’t in the mood for painting, and even if she attempted it the distractions would reflect in her work. Which wasn’t fair to the ducks.

  She tried to think of other places she might go. Neither ice skating nor the cinema appealed to her. Walking the streets, window-shopping in empty shopping precincts were little better than staying here. So, she decided on a compromise; she would go to the park, not as an artist nor as a bird watcher, but as one of ‘them’. She would laze in the sunshine just like they did, let her mind go blank.

  It would be a new experience.

  She went to her favourite place, the old tree stump, everybody else seemed to have avoided it. She curled up into a foetal position, closed her eyes, thought she might even manage to doze because the noise from all around meant nothing to her.

  Except for the quacking of the ducks.

  She experienced a pang of jealousy because somebody else was feeding them, an urge to rush down to the water’s edge, shout ‘Stop it! They’re mine! You’re killing them with white brea
d.’ Which took her thoughts back to Doctor Whittaker. Glenn.

  She had almost called him out last night. Instead, she had gone to the subways, found herself an easy, futile victim. It was a stupid thing to do, the risk was becoming greater each time. She had achieved nothing, an urchin adolescent who could not possibly have figured in her search. Lust had ruled her. Next time she must be more selective.

  Which again had her thinking about Whittaker. He was the kind of man she could … She pushed the thought from her, such thoughts were dangerous. Emotion clouded clear thinking.

  It was very warm, possibly the start of an early heatwave. She ought to spend more time out of doors, come here again tomorrow perhaps. And the day after. The crowds would be gone then.

  Her eyes were starting to close. Sleep was a premium she could not afford to ignore.

  It was as though she had only been asleep a few moments when she awoke with a start, knew immediately that something was wrong. Some in-built alarm system had shrilled a warning to her.

  She knew the man standing there watching her even before she opened her eyes and saw him.

  Instinctively she was afraid, shying from him as she struggled up into a sitting position.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you.” His voice was scarcely more than a whisper; he sounded embarrassed.

  I do apologise.

  He was small, the way she knew he would be. Short cropped fair hair, he wore his grey suit awkwardly as if he was not accustomed to formal wear and had put it on especially for her.

  Ford had wandered into the park on impulse. His intention had been to walk straight home from the Dawsons’ house, change into some more comfortable clothes; think through everything that had been said over lunch, the Mantis case. Somewhere, something was waiting to be noticed. The chief had disturbed him in lots of ways, had him taking a long hard look at himself. The unorthodox ‘briefing’ had set him thinking about Serena again. A longing, not for her because her return would have been nothing less than a continuation of their declining relationship. Something much stronger, a basic human need. He could not remember when he last had an erection.

  Perhaps, subconsciously, he had come into the park in search for a woman. No, that wasn’t true, there was no way he could have picked one up cold. Then just to look at a woman, any one of the twenty or so scantily clad females who sunbathed here, aroused the innocent voyeur. A longing for a mate he couldn’t have, he didn’t want another permanent relationship. Neither was he seeking a one-night stand. Just the erotic thought, a fantasy, Dawson would probably even have disapproved of that.

  The girl lying curled up on the old tree stump had seemed to draw him. His intention had been to look and walk on. As it was, he had only lingered a few seconds but it had been enough to wake her. She was nervous, edgy. More than that, scared.

  “You startled me,” she gave him an embarrassed smile. “I didn’t hear your approach.”

  “I’m just killing time,” he felt awkward, too, he was no spontaneous conversationalist. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I was bored, fell asleep,” it was as if she needed to justify herself. Then, “Do you come here often?” There was a directness, an insistence about the question, demanding an answer.

  “I think I’ve only ever been here once before,” he fidgeted with his hands, needed to do something with them so he thrust them into his trouser pockets. “I’m not used to leisure time. Some friends invited me round for lunch, it spoiled my usual routine. I’d’ve outstayed my welcome if I’d stopped on for tea, so I thought I’d use up half an hour in the park on my way home. Sundays can be a drag if you’re not used to doing nothing.”

  “Too right,” she wasn’t scared any longer but neither was she relaxed. Just wary. “Weekends are a bore when you’re off work sick and you’ve been trying to get through each weekday.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Stop bloody apologising all the time! “Nothing drastic, I’m thinking of packing the job in, anyway. Working in a bank bores the pants off you the whole daylong. What do you do for a living?” Come on, I want to know.

  “I’m in between jobs right now.” Which, in its broadest sense, was true; hunting the Black Mantis and keeping an eye open for a psychopathic rapist at the same time. “What’s your name?” My turn now.

  “Kate. Kate Leonard.”

  “Jason Ford.” And you won’t find me in the phone book when you check up on me.

  “I’ve just moved flats,” she seemed to be warming to the conversation now as if she had been looking for somebody to talk to before she’d fallen asleep. “The one I was living in wasn’t too bad until my boyfriend moved in. Then our relationship fell apart and, short of seeking an eviction order against him, I couldn’t get rid of him. So I applied for relocation. They put me in Valley Tower, off the Oxford Road. Number 177 on the thirteenth floor. Unlucky for me.” She laughed, it sounded forced.

  “I live up on Weedon Road.” And I’m not telling you the number. “I’ve had problems, my wife left me some weeks ago. Another man.”

  Her expression said, ‘they all say that’. “Life is full of problems,” she lowered herself back down. “Why don’t you sit down, Jason?” She patted the edge of the stump. “We might as well be comfortable whilst we both kill time.”

  He perched on the edge of the bole, wondered if she had noticed the protrusion behind his zip; he folded his hands across his crotch, and tried to will his arousement to subside. It refused.

  “I often come here to paint. To pass the time. Or sometimes I just feed the ducks.”

  “Painting’s something I would have liked to try but never got round to.” He half-expected her to say, ‘come round some time and look at my etchings’.

  Instead, she said, “I like ducks. The other week they closed the park so that some men with guns could come and shoot the Canada geese. It was awful, it really upset me. There were dead and wounded geese all over the surface, some of the ducks got shot, too. Supposedly accidentally.”

  “You were here?”

  “Right here, in this very spot. I climbed over. The shooters arrived later. If I’d known they were coming I would have gone and frightened all the birds off. But by the time I realised it was too late.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I guess I’m over it now. I’ll never forget it, though.”

  She was big but there was no fat on her. Attractive to the point of being beautiful. He was trying to visualise her naked. His hardness wouldn’t soften so he might as well enjoy it.

  “It isn’t safe for a woman to be alone in the park, particularly when it’s closed,” he was having difficulty in finding something to say. What he wanted to say was best left unsaid.

  “I can look after myself,” Kate’s hand smoothed down her thigh, settled over the reassuring weight that nestled in the pocket of her Levi’s.

  “They all think that.”

  “Who?”

  “Girls. Women.”

  “That’s sexist.”

  “Sorry, it wasn’t meant to be. I was just thinking of your safety.”

  “That’s nice, nobody’s ever done that before. All the same, I’ll still come here whenever I feel like it, regardless of what you say.”

  She was stubborn, all right. “There’s a rapist at large, he’s running rings round the police. I read it in the Sunday Express.” Liar, you never read the papers, you hate the Press.

  “He only goes for prostitutes.”

  “At the moment. Who knows who he might attack next?”

  “I could handle him,” it sounded childishly arrogant. “According to the papers you chaps have got to start looking over your shoulders, too.”

  “Oh, you mean this Mantis, or whatever they call her?”

  “Something like that. She must be a right screwball. Apparently, she’s started castrating them now.”

  “So I’ll have to watch myself, either way.” He made a joke of it.

  You bastard, you’re a
s uncompromising as Doctor Whittaker. Kate’s flesh began to tingle, she rubbed the hobby knife in her pocket, its feel was electrifying. She had noticed the other’s arousement. Sod those people crowding the park. Fuck off, the lot of you.

  She said, “Beats me why the police haven’t caught her by now.”

  “Maybe they know who she is but they’re just biding their time until they’ve got enough evidence to pull her.”

  “Personally, I couldn’t give a shit whether they catch her or not. If a few guys loose their foreskins or privates it’s no skin off my nose. Sorry, pun not intended.”

  He laughed.

  “Do you like ducks, Jason? Or anything like that?”

  “I don’t mind ducks, I can take ‘em or leave ‘em. Never did find time for a hobby, maybe I ought to cultivate one now that I’m on my own.”

  “You have to have an interest,” the conversation was degenerating to boring small talk again, “otherwise you get bored.” Kate was staring around her, checking on the crowds, hoping that miraculously they had dispersed. They hadn’t, people were still coming down the track from the entrance, the ice cream queue had virtually doubled. Inevitably, before long the vendor would have sold out, disappointed a lot of kids. “You got any kids, Jason?”

  “No, I’m afraid I’m not a family man.”

  “I hate ‘em, the little bastards!” Her tone was suddenly venomous, her eyes scanning those who were throwing bread to the bunched mallards. “They seem to delight in cruelty for cruelty’s sake. They throw stones at the ducks.”

  “Valley Tower’s due for renovation and refurbishment. I read somewhere,” he changed the subject suddenly. “There’s an outside possibility that they might even pull it down. So, the council will have to move you again.”

  “I expect so,” she shifted her position, checked the bulge in her pocket again. “You never know what the future holds for you. Me, I live from day to day. Where was it you said you lived, Jason? Weedon Road?”