by Mel Sherratt
After a lot of cursing, he finally opened the door, pulled the key out of the lock again and slammed it shut with his foot. He threw his keys down onto the tiny table behind the door, pulled off his shoes and threw them down too. Swaying slightly, he waited. But all that greeted him was the silence ringing in his ears.
Frank had lived in Queens Road for over twenty years. As the middle house in a row of town-houses, it wasn’t much to look at – it had certainly lost its flair soon after Mario had moved out ten years ago – but it was safe and home, and all he had. Yet, even after all this time, he hated coming home to an empty house. Why he’d had to fall out with the man, accuse him of seeing someone on the side, he would never know. Over the years since, he’d had a few flings but it was hard at sixty-seven to find places to pick up blokes.
Next to come off was his jacket, which he hung over the banister; the same too with his shirt. In trousers and an off-white vest, he shuffled through to the tiny kitchen at the back of the house, where he poured himself a large whiskey and knocked it back quickly. He banged the glass down on the worktop, sat down at the table and poured another.
He spent a lot of time here rather than in the living room, not minding the scum that surrounded him. The wall units would have been white if they had seen a cloth in a while; the small worktop to one side was littered with piles of newspapers, junk mail: catalogues for women, leaflets for guttering, Bargain Booze flyers, cheap food at Farm Fresh. Every day there was something new delivered; every day he just added it to the pile. Sometimes, he’d clear them away, shove them in the bin and wait for the mountain to grow again. Tonight, they were at a moderate height that a gust of wind would have great fun with.
There was a knock at the front door just as he was debating whether to pour another whiskey. Peering up at the clock, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why couldn’t Danny realise that no meant no: why did he insist on coming round to visit? He hadn’t been into young boys for a long time.
Ever since he’d made the mistake of letting him and his friends in one night, Danny had been coming back like a boomerang. It wasn’t as if Frank didn’t like having him around but evil thoughts had resurfaced – thoughts and feelings he’d tried to keep hidden for years. The first time he’d come alone, Frank had sat and watched television with him before throwing him out as he’d wanted to grab a pint. Danny had said he’d be fine staying there by himself, was annoyed when Frank refused, but he still came back the next evening. He wasn’t a bad kid, but Frank didn’t want to see him all the time. Danny was sixteen years old. Mud sticks – Frank knew all about that. All that trouble he’d got himself into over that bloody boy at Reginald Junior School – and he’d only touched him the once.
He shuffled back to the front door and slung it open. ‘If it’s food you’re after, I don’t have much in,’ he said not even moving to look who it was before going inside again. But when no one followed him, he went back towards the door.
A man dressed in black stood in the doorway, a thin cardboard box in his hands.
‘Yes,’ said Frank.
‘Someone ordered a pizza, mate.’
‘Not me. You must have the wrong address.’
‘Thirty-four Queens Road, right?’
‘Yeah, but I . . .’ Frank laughed. ‘The little twat.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Danny. He must have ordered it. Hang on a minute.’ He searched out his wallet from his coat. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Who the fuck is Danny, Frank?’
Patrick stepped inside and closed the door quietly. When he noticed Frank’s eyes dart into the corner of the hallway, he spotted the cricket bat standing in the corner. From where he stood, he knew he was blocking him from reaching it.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ said Frank. ‘Get out of my house. What the hell do you want?’
‘No time for questions, Frank. I think your takeaway is getting cold. You wouldn’t want to eat it any other way than piping hot.’ Patrick flicked open the box, picked up the pizza and, before he could react, rammed it into Frank’s face.
Frank let out a yelp. He took a step backwards, pulling at the dough base and rubbing the hot sauce from his face. The pizza slid to the floor. His words were muffled as he wiped at his mouth.
Patrick kicked him in the groin this time.
Frank dropped to his knees with a grunt. Then a fist smashed into his face. He fell backwards, smacking his head on the floor behind him, the thinning carpet providing no protection.
‘What do you want?’ He put an arm up to protect his face. ‘I don’t have any money.’
‘I don’t want your money.’
‘What do you want, then?’
Patrick dragged him back up to his feet, pushed him up against the wall. ‘We’re going to have some fun,’ he said. ‘Let’s play a game.’
‘No! Get the fuck away from me.’
Patrick tutted. ‘I think you need to learn some manners, Mr Dwyer. Boys should be seen and not heard, isn’t that right, Frank? That’s what you told me, all those years ago.’
Frank frowned.
‘Yes, that’s right. Take your mind back to 1983 – I would have been ten.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. You were my P.E. teacher.’
Frank’s shoulders sagged. ‘It was a mistake. I paid for it,’ he said. ‘I lost my job, my livelihood – everything!’
‘Not because of me. You touched Charlie too. He told his parents, who told the headmaster, and THEN you lost your job. He was listened to, Frank. Whereas me? I had no one to talk to. No one to tell what you did to me that day, what you forced me to do to you.’ He took a little satisfaction as panic began to set in for Frank. ‘Do you recognise me now?’
Frank nodded.
‘So, who am I?’
‘I . . . I . . . I can’t remember your name.’
‘I’ll never forget yours.’ Patrick removed the knife from his pocket. ‘After what you did to me, you sick FUCK! Have you any idea what you put me through?’
The tip of the blade that now rested on Frank’s chin rendered him speechless.
‘I’ve used this knife twice already this week.’ Patrick stared at Frank, dark eyes shining with menace. ‘Mickey Taylor – you remember him? I stabbed him in the stomach – and then the heart and then, who knows?’
Frank whimpered.
‘And Sandra Seymour – Sandra Slagbag I called her when I was at school, even though she had small tits at the time. You should see them now – false but huge!’
‘Please, don’t hurt me.’ Frank pushed his head into the wall behind to get away from the blade. ‘I changed – I’ve never touched any boys since then. I just look at pictures, images, anything to stop the urges coming back.’
Patrick brought his head down, relishing his own pain as it connected with Frank’s face.
Frank screamed out as blood erupted from his nose, dripping into his mouth.
‘Shush, baby.’ Patrick’s voice now was calm and soothing.
Frank spat in his face.
Patrick roared and raised the knife in the air, bringing it down swiftly into the side of Frank’s neck. He smiled manically as Frank struggled, no match for him now. He pulled the knife out, stood still for a moment.
Frank clutched hold of his neck. He dropped to the floor, blood pumping out of the wound. Finally, he flopped forward.
While he waited for Frank to take his last breath, Patrick pulled out a handkerchief, wrapped the knife in it and pushed it deep into his pocket.
A minute later, his move in the game played out, he stepped over Frank’s body and let himself quietly out of the house. At the gate, he turned right and began to run.
Chapter Sixteen
Early Saturday morning, Allie
was sitting in the car park of Trentham Country Club, hoping that Rhian Jamieson was a creature of habit and would be on time. During her visit to interview Joe Tranter, she’d noticed the logo that Tom Shaw had splashed across his T-shirt was the same as the one on the bag that she had seen in his living room. She’d checked their register for the gym to find out that Rhian came in most afternoons, but at around nine thirty in the morning at weekends. Allie guessed that she wouldn’t let a simple thing like the murder of her partner’s ex-wife stop her from working out. Idly, she wondered if she was one of the women who would gossip about Suzi Porter or if it would annoy her because she wouldn’t be the centre of attention.
Five minutes later, she spotted the white Focus she’d seen parked in the driveway of the house in Smallwood Close coming into the car park. Allie waited for Rhian to park and get out of the car. Rhian had her head down, checking her mobile phone as she walked.
‘Hi, Rhian, might I have a word?’
Startled, Rhian looked up.
Allie pointed to the building in front of them. ‘I’ve just been checking something out and spotted you here. I didn’t realise that Suzi Porter was a regular too. Did you see her often?’
Rhian shook her head. ‘I told you – I never saw her much. She made sure she went at different times to me.’
‘Right. So, how are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘And Mr Tranter . . . how is he doing now?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘That’s good to hear. I imagine it must have been quite a shock for him on Thursday morning.’
‘As if!’ Rhian barked. ‘They’ve hated each other for years. That’s why he was with me.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything.’ Allie moved to one side a little as another car came into the car park. ‘It’s just with them having a son together, I thought –’
‘You thought they were still close.’
‘Not at all . . . it’s just the way you reacted made me wonder.’
Rhian’s shoulders rose as she stood taller.
‘What do you mean?’ The young woman shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. They split for a reason. He hardly saw her. I would know.’ She added, almost as an afterthought.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean they were seeing each other in that respect.’ Allie pretended to be embarrassed, as if she had put her foot into it. ‘I just wondered if you thought they were.’
Rhian watched the occupants of the car get out and walk past before speaking again.
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ she said quite firmly.
‘He was seeing her regularly, though – he must have been because of Jayden.’
‘He only picked him up! And Kelvin brought him round mostly because she didn’t want to see Joe. So, whatever you’re trying to imply, there was nothing going on between the two of them. Okay?’
Allie nodded. ‘So you’re still saying that Joe was with you at seven p.m. on Wednesday evening?’
Rhian paused for a split second, but it was enough for Allie.
‘Yes, I told you so.’
‘And there was nothing different about that night?’ Allie probed further.
‘No . . .’ Rhian faltered.
‘Remember, anything at all,’ Allie placed her hand gently on Rhian’s forearm. ‘Even the tiniest thing could help us.’
‘There’s nothing!’ Rhian moved from her touch and began to walk away. ‘Stop hassling me or I’ll report you!’
Allie went back to her car feeling satisfied. She was one step closer to breaking Rhian and finding out exactly what they were hiding.
The third murder came through while Allie was on her way out of the station with Perry. A woman had rung in after seeing her next door neighbour’s front door ajar for several hours. She’d knocked twice before pushing the door open a little more, only to find him lying, bloated and bleary-eyed, in a puddle of blood.
Nick had been on his way to an annual general meeting in Liverpool when he’d been informed. He’d turned around and had asked Allie to visit the crime scene and then start house-to-house enquiries until he arrived. DCI Barrow was also heading over. Either Nick had received a bollocking or there had been another letter left behind.
‘Wonder if this is another one, Sarge?’ Perry laughed, nervously as they went out into the car park.
‘I hope it isn’t.’ Allie threw a bunch of keys at him as she went round to the passenger side of the pool car. ‘If this one can be connected to Mickey Taylor or Suzi Porter, it’s going to mean having a serial killer in the city. I can’t even begin to imagine that.’
A sense of unease settled over them as they drove onto Potteries Way. Sneyd Green was two miles from their station. Once there, they turned off Milton Road and into a small cul-de-sac. A few specialist vehicles were already there blocking their way.
Allie looked up at the skies as she got out of the car, ignoring the black clouds flitting quickly across it. ‘CCTV won’t cover this far back from the city centre, I’m assuming?’
Perry shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘I’ll get Sam on to it, just in case it caught anything while it panned around. I doubt any of these houses will have CCTV installed but you never know. We’ll get the house-to-house uniforms to check it out.’
After they’d been logged in and suited up, they stepped into the hallway. Allie could see an elderly man lying on his side, his face turned to her, dead eyes staring straight ahead. He wore a white vest mottled with flecks of scarlet; there was a pool of blood by his neck.
‘Three times in one week?’ Dave said as he spotted them standing behind him. ‘We must stop meeting like this.’
‘Is there –’
Allie held her breath as he handed her an exhibit bag. Inside, it was a red letter this time. E.
‘What happened?’ she wanted to know.
Dave pointed to the side of the victim’s neck and they stepped closer. ‘One stab wound this time. Went straight through the jugular and the carotid artery, hence the blood pattern on the wall before he fell. He wouldn’t have known much about it.’
‘Who is he? Do we know his age?’
‘According to his electricity bill in amongst the mess in the kitchen, he’s called Frank Dwyer. His passport says he’s sixty-seven. Date of birth fourth of September 1947. Lived here for a number of years, so the neighbour who found him informed us before we came in. Kept himself to himself. A regular at The Sneyd Arms pub most evenings.’
Perry nudged Allie and beckoned for her to go outside. She held up a hand indicating he should wait for a moment. ‘The front door was open – no signs of forced entry elsewhere?’
‘No.’
‘Again.’
‘Indeed.’
‘So he knew his killer, or at least felt comfortable letting this person in.’ Allie glanced around, not needing an answer. The hallway was dingy; she would go so far as to say dirty – there was a layer of dust on top of the small table by the door and mirror frame above it. The threadbare cream carpet was covered in pieces of fluff and what looked like crumbs.
‘Or he brought someone home for pizza.’
Allie frowned, turning her attention back to Dave. He nodded at the discarded box cordoned off at his feet. ‘Not sure why it ended up in his face.’
‘Come again?’
‘It was smeared all over him.’ He pointed at the body. ‘That’s not all blood you see around his face. It’s tomato puree.’
‘Weird.’
‘Boss?’ Perry said again. ‘A word.’
Allie followed him outside this time. For relative privacy, they moved to the side of the house. When she looked up at Perry, all colour had drained from his face.
‘What is it?’
‘He was the P.E. teacher at Reginald Junior School.’ Perry leaned a hand on the wall to s
teady himself.
‘You’re kidding!’ Allie’s mouth dropped open.
‘I wish I was. And we all hated him. He picked on all the lads who weren’t good at sports. Rumour had it that he was always looking at the boys when they were in the changing rooms. There was tittle-tattle about a spy-hole in the walls where he could look straight in.’
‘Perry, there were rumours like that when I moved from primary school to Reginald High School,’ Allie responded. ‘Like if any fifth-years caught any second-years when the teachers weren’t looking, they’d shove their heads down the toilet and flush it.’
Perry scoffed. ‘And you believed that?’
‘Well, not now, obviously. But when I was twelve, of course I did. Children can be really cruel. Do you think it was rumours or was he gay?’
‘He used to be known for hanging around the showers too, but if you’re asking if he did anything to me, then the answer is no. He might have wanted to touch boys or he might have dreamt about touching them but, as far as I was concerned, he didn’t actually do any of that. It was all things made up by the kids. There was one about a spy-hole in the boys’ changing rooms to look through into the girls’ changing rooms but I’ll be damned if I could ever find it.’
Allie raised her eyebrows, although she knew he was trying to make light of the situation.
‘Wait a minute.’ Perry frowned. ‘There was an incident. I think Dwyer supposed to have groped someone – God, what was his name?’ He paused for a moment. ‘Charlie Lewis. I think that was him.’
Allie paused. ‘I suppose he might be looking to pay Dwyer back – even after all these years? Think about it – three murders, three magnetic letters and three people who might be connected? This is looking more like vengeance. Let’s call him in and find out if he has a connection to the other two.’ She walked back towards the house. ‘Start talking to the neighbours, see what else we can find out. And not a word about this as we leave, right? The press will have a field day if they find out about these letters. I – I wonder if he’s not spelling out a word but telling us a name.’
