BURN, BABY, BURN

by Jake Barton

  Dexter nodded. He’d been quiet for a while. Donna had never seen him like this before and it wasn’t a good sign as she suspected he had no idea how to proceed and was racking his brain for a solution.

  *****

  Gary was just what Donna needed tonight – an awesome hour of sex to relieve the tensions of the day, followed by a shoulder to lie on until she fell asleep. She brought him up to date on everything that she’d done today.

  This had become a nightly routine and she’d found it helpful to have a sounding board for some of her more outlandish theories. Gary was involved in this situation after all, deeply involved, and yet he brought a point of view that wasn’t dominated by what Donna had learned from Dexter. They lay talking for hours until Gary went and spoilt it all.

  "I worry about you," he said, and it was enough to rouse Donna’s dormant sense of independence.

  She knew she wasn’t being fair; all the poor sod had done was suggest that he go with her tomorrow to make certain she was safe. Now she wished she’d never told him about how scared she’d been at the discovery of the squirrel corpses. In the safety of her own bed, Donna had to admit it sounded a bit feeble, but she’d been terrified at the time. That didn’t mean she needed her hand held twenty-four hours a day, even though the idea had its attractions.

  Gary shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Sorry. Just shows we don’t really know each other very well, doesn’t it?"

  "That’s soon remedied. Donna O’Prey, the person. Well then, I don’t smoke, drink alcohol only in company, never on my own." Donna took a deep breath. "What else? I’m not the least bit religious, enjoy junk food but feel guilty every time I eat it. Oh, and I love Liverpool FC with a passion. That’s me. Now what about you?"

  Gary laughed. "Bloody Hell. Here goes then. I feel middle-aged every morning yet still behave childishly too often for comfort. I swim to keep fit, work too hard, don’t make friends easily. I’m carrying a lot of emotional baggage from the past and am occasionally overwhelmed by it. I like you a lot, but am only too aware that I’m too old for you."

  "No, you’re not."

  "Yeah, I am. But I like Peg a lot too. Maybe I should move in with her. She cooks a mean breakfast and wouldn’t be after my poor old body all the time."

  "Don’t bet on it." Donna grinned. "Enough. Now go to sleep, you soft sod," she said, kissing him gently.

  "And going back to where we started, I still worry about you."

  He turned over and she lay there in silence. The thought of letting Gary look after her, even if he wanted to treat her like a delicate flower, was so appealing. Why couldn’t she take that step and do what her heart was telling her? Stubborn. She’d been on her own for far too long. Wasn’t it time to let Gary fully into her life?

  She’d fallen for him, big time, but him wanting to take care of her could be a sign he felt the same way.

  ~ Chapter 18 ~

  Marcus bent to examine the lawn at the back of his mother's house. The trip-wires had been disturbed. Someone had been here.

  He looked up, as if suddenly aware of another presence, and saw a faint shadow move away from the first-floor window of the house next door. He smiled, another loose end, but not for very much longer. The revelation of an intruder was rather more disconcerting, hinting as it did at an interest in his activities that was distinctly unwelcome.

  Stooping, he picked up and examined a piece of plastic that caught his eye – a laminated video club membership card, bearing the photograph of a woman around his own age, perhaps a little younger. He smiled broadly.

  The name on the card was Donna O'Prey.

  Interesting.

  Gary Rudd’s new friend was turning out to be more interesting than he’d thought.

  *****

  It wasn't one of Dexter's usual haunts, but all the requisite features were, like the fare on offer, always the same: steamed-up windows, wipe-down melamine tables, plastic-covered bench seats, brown sauce and jumbo-size ashtrays, the smell of fried bacon mingling with cigarettes – home from home for an ex-copper.

  Donna had managed to get lost on the way, despite the directions she’d been given, but was only ten minutes late. Dexter looked up as she walked in. He smiled at her as she grinned at the heaped plate on the table: double egg, sausage, beans and a mountain of chips. No sign of portion control here.

  "All coppers eat like this," Dexter mumbled. "A police canteen isn't strong on quiche or cheese salad."

  Donna looked at Dexter, then at his plate. "Looks bloody lovely."

  "Eileen," he called out. "Same again over here, when you're ready."

  A rail-thin woman in a wrap-around pinafore waved a knife in acknowledgement from behind the mountain of toast she was buttering. Donna slid into the seat opposite Dexter and pinched a chip.

  "I’ll want that replaced when your plate gets here," he grunted, passing over his notebook for Donna to read.

  He looked as rough as a bear's arse, but the haggard looks were deceptive. She'd seen him looking much worse than this and knew the old grey matter would still be whirring away at peak efficiency. Donna wouldn't fancy taking on Dexter in a game of high stakes poker. Just when you'd start to think you had the upper hand – he was a busted flush, a spent force – out would come the winning hand to scoop the final pot.

  "So? What have we got?" Donna enquired.

  "A big load of nothing is what we’ve got. Time for more leg-work, I reckon."

  "Bugger!" Donna snarled at the prospect of more door-to-door work.

  The dispassionate word hung in the air like a stray dust mote lingering in the fetid air of summer heat.

  Dexter frowned. "It’s the job. You know that."

  "I know. Sorry. I just want to find them. Paula and Celine. Your old mob are off looking in the wrong place and it’s so bloody frustrating."

  "I can easily get Andy to take a turn, if you like. The thing is, I want you to do it for two reasons. One, you’re good at it, and I want it done well."

  Donna snorted at that, but she was listening.

  "Two," Dexter went on, "I thought you’d want to be out in the field on this case, especially as we’re following up one of your own ideas. You came up with the idea that there was a property out there that we don’t know about, but I can always find you something to do in the office, if you’d prefer to let someone else follow it up."

  Bastard! Donna thought, but didn’t say it.

  Typical Dexter. He was only letting her know so much of what he had in mind, perhaps out of pique at her having had some input into the case that just might prove useful, but Donna was used to that. He would tell her in his own way, and in his own time. As much, or as little, as he wanted her to hear. From bitter experience, Donna knew he had his own way of going about things, and nothing she could do or say would change his routine. Fair enough, really. Best just to let him do things in his own way.

  Her breakfast arrived, preventing further speech for a while, at least on Donna’s part. As she mopped the last morsel from her plate, Dexter rose to his feet. "I’ll ring Andy then, shall I? Only I’ve jotted down a few notes, might be useful." He held up a sheet of paper.

  "Don’t you dare. I’ll do it," Donna said, accepting the sheet of paper. "Sorry I was such a moody cow just now."

  "I never noticed. Keep in touch." With a wave in the direction of the kitchen, he was out the door and gone.

  Eileen, who was obviously chef, headwaiter and resident busybody came over and stacked the empty plates. Donna dug in her pockets, mentally cursing Dexter for sticking her with the bill, but Eileen waved it away, indicating the neatly folded tenner under Dexter’s plate.

  "Lovely feller, Mister Dexter, isn’t he? Related to him, are you?"

  "No. He’s my boss."

  "Oh. I see." Her silence suggested that she fancied him something rotten. No chance, girl. Not even when you cook the best breakfast on the Wirral. Nothing wrong with her, it was just that Donna had never known Dexter to show the faintest interest in
women. The job had always come first, last and everything.

  Donna sat for a few minutes studying Dexter’s notes. It was warm and cosy in here and the streets would be hard and uncomfortable. A red-faced man went out and another man took his place, sitting down heavily with a deep sigh. Donna glanced at him, saw he was staring at her, and looked away.

  His grey beard retained just enough ginger hair to make her shudder. It wasn’t her favourite colour combination. She’d nothing against beards as such, but if Donna were male with the capacity to grow one, she wouldn't bother. Mind you, in all fairness, there are beards and there are beards. Well-trimmed facial hair could be okay. Not great, in her opinion, but okay. Then there are beards like the one opposite her right now. Grizzly Adams style, shaggy, unkempt, and, for all she knew, home to a host of insect life. Room enough for a few starlings and a couple of gerbils. Fine in a remake of Ben-Hur, but nowhere else.

  "Excuse me, love, was that DI Dexter just gone out?" The voice had an icy bloodless character. Donna hesitated for a moment, and then nodded guardedly.

  "Not a copper anymore, George," Eileen called from her position behind the counter, ear wigging again. "This young lady works for him."

  "That so?" He turned his shaggy head towards Donna once more. "Tell him George sends his regards, will you, love? He’ll know me."

  Donna nodded and stood to go. Eileen caught up with her outside, grabbing hold of her arm. "Watch yourself," she cautioned. "You see him again, just make sure you’re not on your own."

  "Okay," Donna said doubtfully.

  Eileen glanced over her shoulder. "Your boss sent him down," she said, "And not before time if you ask me. The thing is, he’s the sort to bear grudges, so watch yourself. Dexter’s a hard nut and can look after himself, but you’re only a bloody kid, so watch out for people like Georgie Coombs, okay?"

  "Thanks. I’ll be careful."

  "Mind you are, love. Come back any time, won’t you?" Eileen darted back into the café leaving Donna on the pavement.

  Truth to tell, the man in the café had scared her, and she was only too aware that mixing in the same world as Dexter was a dangerous game. She tried to act tough, but was so bloody insecure it was painful. Part of the trouble was that she’d always had a crutch to lean on.

  Donna’s dad had his own way of going about things and that would become the only way that was acceptable. Growing up under his roof, just the two of them, Donna soon learnt when to tow the line and when to stand up for what she believed in. It wasn't easy. Two inflexible wills at war wasn't a pleasant experience and she’d learned to reserve any shows of defiance for crucial matters.

  Vowing never to eat cabbage, at the age of seven, meant that the bloody stuff was served up for every subsequent meal, nothing else, just cabbage. It was a case of eat it or starve. Donna had held out for three days before admitting defeat.

  After his death, Peg took over the running of her life. Donna was in no state to argue at the time – sedated, spaced out and wasted by the drugs the doctors were giving her – and when she’d recovered, it was too late. Peg was firmly in control and although Donna loved her dearly, she wished she'd back off a bit now and again. Sometimes, she felt like an intruder in her own life.

  Now there was Dexter. Like Peg, a benevolent despot, but the end result was the same. His air of complete certainty was unnerving. He knew everything and everybody. Donna seemed fated to be ruled by others, although well aware that most of this was her own fault. When it came down to it, she needed direction. She’d weighed up her strengths and weaknesses and there was no doubt which came out the winner. She’d once tried to draw up a list of her virtues, but after staring at a blank sheet of paper for five minutes, gave up and made herself a snack. A bowl of soggy Weetabix topped with jam if she remembered correctly. Pretty pathetic scoff. The drawing up of lists wasn’t a strong point either.

  *****

  The young man lay on his back, tied securely to the bed with strips of torn-off sheet. Although naked and with his head shrouded in a hood, he appeared to be a willing participant, not struggling in any way.

  Marcus reached down to him and brushed the man’s shoulder with his lips, inducing a low moan of pleasure.

  "Not long now," Marcus whispered. "Be patient, I’m on my way."

  Rising from the bed, Marcus left the room, returning a few moments later with the nude figure of a woman draped over his shoulder. He placed her alongside, but not touching the young man on the bed, and tied her arms and legs securely to the bed frame with more sheet strips.

  The woman’s eyes followed his movements, but she made no attempt to move as he checked the security of the knots. She was conscious, but only barely aware of her surroundings. The sleeping tablets she had taken were powerful, but she’d raised no objection to swallowing them. Marcus needed her and that had always been sufficient justification for her.

  When she felt the liquid falling on her naked body and smelled the petrol, her eyes widened, but she remained calm, oblivious to the frenzied struggles of the young man who was sharing the bed with her. He was nothing to her.

  Marcus leant and kissed her on the lips, the passionate kiss of a lover.

  "I never told you about my sister, did I?" he whispered. "Funny thing, all that searching and she was so close all the time. Under the flowerbed, right up against the fence. I didn’t hurt her. I just dug a hole and put her in it. She hardly cried at all. When we left the house to move here, I scattered rose petals over the place I’d buried her. Wasn’t that nice of me?"

  Marcus watched with pleasure as her face crumpled. She stared at him and began screaming. When the man beside her felt the first flames licking hungrily at the mattress on which they lay, he bellowed behind the hood, struggling frantically. Marcus reached above the bed and removed the videocassette from the machine that was a permanent fixture in the room.

  He ran swiftly down the stairs to the ground floor. The upper floors were well alight and he had no wish to be trapped by the flames. Opening the back door to provide a through draught, he glanced at the house next door with eager anticipation. So much more that had to be done here.

  "You’re next," he said aloud.

  A loud crash above his head prompted a thin smile. The young man’s death had been necessary. He didn’t even know the man’s name, an obviously homosexual student hitching a lift back to his university, but eager enough to earn a hundred quid for a couple of hours between the sheets. No different than the army of young men who sold their arses along Lime Street every Saturday night; he obviously thought it cool to be gay. The student was the right age and build. Apart from the colour of his hair, a mirror image of Marcus himself.

  His mother had served her purpose. She had always been good to him, but never more useful than in her death. She’d known most of his secrets and always stood by him. He’d never talked about the disappearance of his baby sister. That may have been one secret too many.

  As her death approached, however, he’d been unable to resist this final opportunity to tell his mother the truth about the child’s disappearance.

  Even in death, his mother had pleased him as he fed off the anguished expression in her eyes. He had the memory of her final moments on tape and would be able to savour them repeatedly at his leisure.

  *****

  Since Donna left the warmth of the café, the wind had come up. To be accurate, it was blowing a gale. She’d been back home to change, but was still perished. Out on these narrow streets near the sea, the wind was bone chilling. Donna told Peg she’d be back for tea and slipped out before there were any awkward questions about where she was going and what she was up to.

  Secrets. By their very nature, secrets involve deception and what is deception if not a lie? Certainly, she’d never deliberately lied to Peg, and usually tried to keep secrets to a minimum, but occasionally it was the only way. Donna had learnt from bitter experience that it wasn’t a good idea to tell Peg everything. Peg was too intrusive, too inclined
to dominate every facet of Donna’s life. She’d always reply truthfully to any direct questioning, but if Peg didn’t ask, Donna was free to decide whether to tell her all the details. It was a good system.

  A wind straight off the Irish Sea cut right through her. Donna ducked back a pace into the lee of the nearest building and wished for sunnier climes. Or a warmer coat. Whatever. Gritting her teeth, she stepped out into the gale, bending forward as if seeking a dropped sovereign. There’d been an unsuccessful attempt on the World windsurfing speed record on the boating lake a few years ago – it had been windy then, but not windy enough. Nice try, but no cigar. Where are you today, boys? Get your rigs out on the water and that record is history!

  Under the pathetic old duffel coat, Donna was wearing a shapeless and hopelessly bobbled blue sweater whose only virtue was thickness, and beneath that a hideous beige monstrosity which she couldn't ever remember wearing since the day she’d unwrapped it one Christmas morning long ago. Add a pair of baggy cord trousers from an ill-advised venture into grunge chic, now flapping like the flags on the Town Hall roof, a pair of Dennis the Menace socks and black eighteen-lace Doc Martens, and she was banking on nobody she knew being out and about in this weather. The socks had been a doubtful choice in any event and were already rubbing her toes, but they were all she could find. Any sock in a storm!

  The malodorous entry was clearly used as an emergency urinal – frequently. Not to mention recently. Donna took a deep breath, then wished she hadn’t as she splashed through the dubiously reeking puddles and emerged into a cobbled area with houses on three sides.

  Graffiti on the far wall informed the world, amongst other things, that Susan Carter was a rubbish shag and Donna laughed out loud. There had been a Susan Carter in her class at school – a right snotty little cow and she fervently hoped it was the same person. The writing was sufficiently faded for the possibility to exist, and Donna hoped to meet Susan Carter again some day so that she could mention this very public criticism. The only possible lead Donna had come up with after two hours traipsing round the neighbourhood was the address of a former neighbour who’d known Marcus Green and his family many years ago.