by Guy N Smith
“He’s lying, he begged me to circumcise him, he paid me to.”
“He paid you to indulge in perverted sex games. You went too far, against his wishes, committed a deliberate injury to him.”
“Ask Mrs Underwood, if you want to know the truth.”
“We have already spoken to her. You were requested to go to Mister Rees-Edward’s house for a sado-masochist session, part of which would be a simulated circumcision. You decided to do it for real, fled the premises and you were picked up by a patrolling police vehicle. You told the officers what you had done, you made no mention of having been requested to do it.”
“Jesus Alive!” Tanya buried her head in her hands. Melton looked at Fallon, then across at Ford, resisted the temptation to gloat. They’d pipped the upstart to it, the chief’s blue-eyed boy. There had been a major hunt in progress for the female killer known as the Black Mantis, incorporating the Special Support Unit of the Regional Crime Squad, backed up by the Technical Support Unit. And she’d been bloody well picked up in the street in broad daylight by two patrolling PCs from Q Division.
So, fuck you, Ford.
Ford’s expression was inscrutable, he stood beside Arnold. The door opened, the chief shambled in, clicked it shut behind him. The tension escalated, everybody was on trial. Heads would roll if they failed to get a conviction. Even Buckle was nervous.
Fingerprinting was routine for all charged suspects. Tanya allowed her wrist to be held by the WPC, her resistance was broken.
The questioning might go on for another three or four hours, depending upon her co-operation. Where were you on the nights of … Between the hours of … There would be an identification parade at ten o’clock sharp tomorrow. Maurice Gee would attempt to pick his circumciser out of a line of eight women.
Ford shook his head in bewilderment. Somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong. Okay, to his knowledge Tanya Mitchell had circumcised two men but for very different reasons from those of the Black Mantis. She wasn’t the Big Girl. No way.
Which was why the Mantis had to be found. Fast.
* * * *
“Well?” Dawson spoke through the stem of his unlit pipe. Nicotine bubbled in the bowl when he sucked on the well-bitten stem.
“They haven’t finished questioning her yet, Sir.” ‘Sir’ because everything was going sour, the protégé had failed his mentor.
“Naturally, we’ll wait for all the facts but I think that we have every reason to be optimistic.” It wasn’t like the chief to jump the gun. “We’ll see what happens in the morning.”
“The Mantis is a big girl, half as big again as Mitchell. That’s where it all falls apart.”
“She was only seen by her victims in the dark. Darkness and a state of perverted eroticism are an unreliable combination. Apart from that, hair can be dyed, cut short. A female serial killer is the rarest of predators, a circumciser even rarer. But we shall know for certain soon enough. And, in any case, she’s a perverted slut.”
You want it to be Tanya Mitchell, Ford thought. Because all perverts are guilty in your book. You need a conviction, that’s all that matters, and if the mutilations continue then there’s a copycat at large. Blame Tanya. If she’s not the Black Mantis then she’s the next best thing. A guilty scapegoat.
“We want a double murder charge as well as the mutilations,” Dawson confirmed Ford’s thinking. “Her folks hadn’t the slightest suspicion that she was into sado gaming. They’re shocked out of their minds. They’re refusing to have her back under their roof but I guess that prospect won’t arise for a very long time!”
“The evidence is slight so far. All we’re working on is coincidence.”
“We’ll close that sick parlour down!” Dawson’s thinking was blinkered; he was already extending his radius of vengeance. “I’m hoping that we can charge Underwood as an accessory to assault.”
“Maybe, maybe not. She’s registered as a therapy unit.”
“We have an unprecedented opportunity to strike a major blow at criminal perversion, Ford.”
“I still think Mitchell isn’t the Black Mantis. Sir.”
“I’m hoping that by tomorrow we can close the files. The Black Mantis has already cost the taxpayer a fortune, restricted our manpower.” He paused to light his pipe. “There are rare occasions in this job, Ford, when you actually feel that you are winning. Those moments are to be savoured. This is one of them. Then you start all over again. Hopefully, we shall be able to divert all our resources into catching this psychopath now.”
Tanya felt sick and close to fainting. It was warm, she smelled her own sweat beneath the oversize jeans and matching dark blouse which she had been ordered to wear. The seven foot high brick wall gave her a claustrophobic feeling like it had moved inwards, restricted the stone flagged yard area. An urge to scream, to become hysterical. They’d have to call off this farce then. But she fought it off because it would not serve any purpose. It would only be a postponement.
She stood there, frightened and uncertain of herself, glanced at the other seven girls. Thin ones, plump ones, tall ones, short ones. They had been conversing in muttered voices, clustered into two groups. Waiting. She heard one of them laugh in a silly, high-pitched titter. Because, for them, it was all a game. Maybe some were WPCs, others recruited from mundane walks of life, probably being paid for their time. Money for nothing, they had nothing to lose. There was only one sure loser. Herself.
A uniformed constable stood with his back to the iron gate which led off from the police station, hands clasped behind his back in the traditional British bobby stance. Nobody came in or went out without his say so.
She heard voices from outside the yard, approaching footsteps. The officer moved, lifted the latch. Tanya squinted against the bright sunlight, saw four men coming through the entrance; the fourth attracted her attention by his very nervousness, his stumbling walk. Not just small and thin, he reminded her of a skeleton that had had a covering of skin stretched tightly over it, a size too small so that they had had to tauten it and secure in wherever it met. Pinched features, head bowed as if he tried to hide his shame beneath the brim of a greasy trilby hat. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a fawn raincoat in spite of the heat; his trousers were either too short or braced too high, exposing pathetically thin ankles in ruckled navy blue socks. He fumbled out a handkerchief, hooted his nose.
The gate was clanged shut, the policeman resumed his former stance against it.
“Stand in a line please, space yourselves out,” the man giving the orders was obviously a Detective.
Bodies shuffled, Tanya found herself second from the end. The thin man was staring down at his feet, he gave a bronchial cough. What a fucking wimp, she found herself thinking. The principal witness, she categorised him immediately. A downbeat ageing Rees-Edwards, another jerk who’d had the skin cut off the end of his dick. She visualised him, a revolting turn-on with every bone showing beneath a transparent skin. No stamina, a bony arse, his excitement temporarily straightening out the wrinkles in his genitals. A foreskin freak. I want to be circumcised. Go on, I mean it, I want it for real this time.
God, she’d bet a year’s tips that he’d screamed blue murder when the Mantis had cut him. He probably hadn’t had a hard on since, never would again. His kind asked for it, pleaded for it, but it was the last thing they really wanted. Because there wasn’t anything left for them afterwards.
“Stand still, look straight ahead of you, please.”
Tanya fought against her escalating panic. There was no way she’d circumcised that wimp, she’d never seen him before today. So she didn’t have a thing to worry about. Everybody said that the Mantis was big so he wouldn’t give her a second glance.
Would he.
Sweat ran in her eyes, stung them and blurred her vision. He was starting up the other end; he’d probably pick out one of them before he got this far. She glanced out of the corners of her eyes, saw how his shoulders bowed, his hands were clasp
ed behind his back; stretching his neck but having to lift his head up at the same time in order to see, scrutinising features, leering silently over boobs. The dirty old fucker.
He shambled on to the next. Maybe this one had got a button on her blouse undone, the way he stared. He almost lost his balance, kicked one ankle against the other as he moved on.
Tanya wondered what they gave you for a circumcision. A hundred quid fine and six months in prison, suspended. If you were lucky. Bail? Her folks wouldn’t pay bail, that was the only sure thing, so she’d have to stop in clink. Her parents wouldn’t have her back home, one of the policemen told her that, they had refused the invitation to visit her in the cells. Her belongings would be piled in the front porch when she was ready to collect them and please don’t knock the door. They didn’t owe her anything, she was no daughter of theirs now.
Another wave of giddiness came and went. That old guy had got to number five; the way he was leaning forward it was like he was trying to sniff her crotch. Maybe he got a thrill from that, too. Let me snuffle your cunt, darling.
They’d wanted her to sign a confession. To mutilation and murder. Oh, come on, you know it’s you as much as we do. They don’t hang you these days, you know. You get a much lighter sentence if you don’t waste the court’s time. With remission, you’ll be out before you realise. You castrated that guy in the gas works compound, circumcised a juvenile dropout in the subway below the ring road. Look what you saved the social security, they’ll take that into consideration.
No!
It’ll come to it in the end you know, and then they’ll really lump it on you. A nice young girl in a top security women’s prison, mixing with realmurderers. You’d be amazed at what they use for dildos. You’ll bleed for a week. Every week. Ever heard of female circumcision …
No. I’m innocent.
He was looking over the woman standing next to Tanya. Jesus, he touched her! She stiffened, cringed. Just checking if you feel like her, darling. No, not quite right. Almost, but not quite.
Tanya looked into his eyes, just for a second. Grey orbs that were filled with sick lust. And something else. God, he’d have someone for nicking his foreskin. Anyone, but they needed to be more or less right. She couldn’t stop herself from shaking.
He peered closely, his breath smelled foul, had her starting to retch. Hollowed cheeks that puffed out as he breathed, a trickle of dribble running down from the corner of his thin lips. A mental masturbation, he’d been working himself up all along the line. Almost there …
His head was pushed right forward, he was sniffing her denims, maybe trying to recognise a scent. She hoped her BO was real strong. If she broke wind it might be with disastrous consequences; her guts were churning, putting pressure on her bowels. She wanted to wee badly.
Did you steal my foreskin, bitch.
No fucking way, I wouldn’t risk touching it.
I think you did.
Her vision clouded, the yard began to spin. Clockwise at first, then it changed to anticlockwise. His face was a blur, he was mouthing at her, stringing his old man’s spittle like a metronome gone crazy. She drew back in case it hit her. He felt at her, she’d faint at any second. She pressed her thighs together tightly so that his skinny fingers couldn’t worm their way in between. Trying to push his other hand away. Don’t you dare touch my tits.
“Keep your hands down by your sides!”
It was going darker, a cloud had passed in front of the sun. Crimson streaked blackness. People were talking, she got the feeling that they were crowding in on her. Go away, fuck off.
Tanya felt herself starting to fall. A hand grabbed her arm, caught her. Somebody shouted. A rasping voice that shook, accused.
“That’s her!”
* * * *
Ford had gone home early. Fuck goes my promotion, he thought. The chief hadn’t sent for him, that was either a good sign or a bad one. He’d either stay on as a DS or get a sideways move back to Regional Crime. Fallon would tell him tomorrow, give him a letter confirming it in writing if they were kicking his arse out.
Not because a duty PC picked up the Black Mantis but because you disagreed with your DCS. You’re not entitled to an opinion of your own. If the chief says she’s the one, we have to make sure she is. He’s never wrong and shit the man who tries to prove him wrong.
Ford wondered if Tanya Mitchell would have the stamina to hold out. They surely wouldn’t pick her out at the parade; Gee had told him himself that it was a Big Girl. Even if that jerk had a change of mind, an ID parade wasn’t 100% conclusive. A pointer. You needed evidence to back it up. They’d haul her back into the interrogation room, start right from the beginning.
We know you’ve circumcised two men, you’ve admitted it. What’s four, eight, ten? Okay, we’ll charge you with murder, change it to manslaughter, you didn’t mean your victims to die even if you didn’t give a shit if they did. You’ll be sent for psychiatric treatment, you’ll benefit from that. When you come out, and with remission you’ll only be in for around three years, you’ll be normal. Our shrinks are unbelievable, they can work wonders. Confess, and make it easy for yourself.
And us.
Tanya Mitchell wasn’t the Black Mantis. Ford experienced a feeling of guilt. He’d got Loony Liz to help him and she’d ended up raped with her throat slit. Tanya had gone and sliced herself a sicko’s foreskin and they were crediting her with all those that had gone missing. The blame came squarely on Spencer Rees-Edwards, he’d goaded her on, got what he’d asked for and claimed he didn’t want it. And Mummy would probably seek compensation.
Tanya, my love, we’ve all dropped you in the shit.
Ford was barely inside the hallway when the phone started ringing. That was probably Fallon ringing to tell him to report to RCS in the morning.
It wasn’t the DCI, it was Chief Dawson.
“Ford?”
“Yes.” As if you didn’t fucking know.
There was a trace of undisguised jubilance in the Chief’s voice. “We got a confession. You can go catch that rapist now.”
30.
Kate came to a firm decision to start selling some of her paintings. It wasn’t easy, each one represented a different facet of herself, her mood at the time. Angry ones immediately after the cull, erotic ones following her circumcisions. These would not be evident to anybody except herself, it was akin to selling her soul.
Nevertheless, if she was to pursue a life of unrestricted freedom, and Doctor Whittaker would not continue to give her sick notes indefinitely, then she needed an income. And there was no better way to earn one’s living than from that which one enjoyed doing most. She would begin by offering her existing works, paint some more. Day after day spent sketching down by the lake. And always pictures of ducks.
She checked on the art centre first. Members were permitted to hang their work in the café area. If sold, the society took a 10% commission. If stolen … “We’ve had about six stolen during the last twelve months,” the secretary informed her in an exaggerated confidential whisper, “but we insist that members do not inform the police or the press. It could give us bad publicity. You see, the thefts happened during the discos, we have to let the room for functions in order to make some money or else we wouldn’t survive. But if it was common knowledge that pictures got stolen, people might think that the thieves were in the society. You do understand, don’t you?”
Kate didn’t but she accepted the risk. She left two small paintings, priced them at £40 each.
The Weir restaurant was decidedly upmarket, evening meals were only by prior booking, the wearing of ties was compulsory. Guests were not permitted to remove their jackets in the dining room.
“We only take the highest quality work,” the portly manager was annoyed at being disturbed from his morning paper. “Nothing priced under £100 and we charge a commission of 15%. We accept no liability for loss or damage, and all payments are made at the end of the month following the sale. By cheque. Are y
ou VAT registered?”
Kate wasn’t but she detected a hint of enthusiasm in the other when she unwrapped her lake scene and held it up for him.
“We don’t sell many,” a brief nod of approval, “perhaps a dozen a year.”
She marked up the price, left the picture in reception. It was worth a try. She might be lucky.
She needed a sale under her belt, she decided. A confidence booster. Provided that WPC Braithwaite had not changed her mind, that could be achieved almost immediately.
Kate was wary of going to the police station. It was a daunting prospect, a big risk factor. They had put photo fit pictures in every newspaper, showed them on the television, and displayed them on every available council notice board. They even stuck them in shop windows.
DO YOU KNOW THE BLACK MANTIS?
Was it worth the gamble for £40? The policewoman would probably haggle; knock her down a tenner on the asking price of £50.
Then Kate noticed the news placard outside the paper shop.
BLACK MANTIS ARRESTED
WOMAN CHARGED.
Holy shit! She bought the Observer, scanned the lead feature. It didn’t tell you a lot, they had bulked it up, went back over case histories. But it told Kate enough to bring a gasp of disbelief to her lips.
A girl by the name of Tanya Mitchell had been charged with the murders of Carl Vallance and Micky Smith. She had appeared at a three-minute hearing at the magistrates’ court that morning and had been remanded until May 28. Reporting restrictions had not been lifted. Bail had not been applied for.
Somewhere along the line somebody had lost their marbles. Kate shook with excitement, thought about her hidden cache of human flesh beneath the floorboards. Somebody else was paying the price for them. The police had pinned the rap on this girl, apparently dismissed the description of herself given to them by the survivors. They needed a conviction and they were half way to getting one. Bully for them and fuck the scapegoat.
