by Kane, Paul
They swarmed in, checking on casualties, ushering the children to safety, securing the area. Mal moved forwards with Norm and the SWAT team to find the man dressed as Santa keeled over on the floor. They snatched the handguns from his belt, kicked away his rifle, and trained their own weapons on him. Somebody called for a paramedic, and Mal noticed that a few had already entered the grotto to treat the wounded. He feared it would be too late for this particular casualty, however.
Father Christmas coughed, and smiled at Mal. ‘Ho…ho…ho…’ he wheezed. Then he winked from behind his pair of cracked half-moon glasses, before closing his eyes forever.
‘You alright?’ Norm asked his partner.
Mal nodded. Physically he was fine, if a little shaken up.
‘Jeez Louise, look at the hardware in that sack,’ said one of the SWAT guys. ‘Guess not everyone wants video games for Christmas.’
Mal turned and started to walk away.
Norm jogged up alongside him. ‘Hey, where are you going?’
‘Home,’ said Mal.
‘What about the report? Hey…Mal, hey wait up!’
But Officer Malcolm Docherty was already on his way out of the store.
* * *
It began snowing while Mal walked the streets, but he barely even noticed. And it was close to twelve by the time he arrived back home. Mal let himself in, heading straight for Lauren and Brad’s rooms first. They were fast asleep, their innocent faces as pale as angels on the pillows.
Mal left them in peace (heavenly peace…?) grabbed a Bud from the fridge, and walked into the lounge. The TV was on – the end of some stupid Christmas special featuring a variety of Z list celebs. Wendy was dosing on the couch; she only stirred slightly when Mal came in. He took a gulp from the bottle just as a newsflash came up on the television.
‘…in Crosby’s tonight. The shootings left several people injured but only one person dead, the gunman – who has since been identified as a Mr Christopher Cringle. A spokesperson for Crosby’s said, “He has only been in the employ of this store for the last month, and his credentials seemed very impressive…”’
Mal switched off the set and took another swig of beer. The clock on the mantle chimed the hour. His eyes were drawn to the tree in the corner of the room, and the wish lists below it. He wondered whether those wishes would ever be granted, now that…
No, he didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t even want to consider the outrageous possibility that one of the last shining lights, one of the last symbols of hope, was no more. That He’d been tainted by this world, driven mad by the demands placed upon him.
Cringle had just been some nut in a Santa suit, the things he’d said lucky guesses. Just another person who’d lost it and gone ape with America’s favourite adult toys.
‘I know you…You’ve been a bad boy…’
Mal took out his notepad and pen, and scribbled something down. He walked over to the tree, bent over, left the note there. Then he joined his wife on the couch, slumping down beside her.
And waited till morning to see if his wish really would come true.
Sin
When the box arrived, it was treated as suspicious from the start.
For one thing, it was left on the steps of the police station, rather than being delivered with the rest of the post. Nothing was signed for, and it was delivered very early; it was still quite dark outside. The parcel was simply left, and reported by some of the early morning shift heading in to work. One young officer called Wells even made a joke about it, affecting Brad Pitt’s gravely tones as he asked ‘What’s in the box? What’s in the fucking box?’
Not particularly funny, given that the whole station was being evacuated at the time and the bomb squad was called in to make sure the package was safe. From a distance, they all watched as men dressed in heavily-padded clothing approached the oblong and went about their business, finally signalling that it wasn’t an explosive device; not that anyone had ever targeted their small station, in their small town (which had only recently been granted city status – some argued prematurely). He’d never thought it was. Somehow he’d known this was connected with the case, his detective’s intuition or ‘Spider-sense’ he’d always relied on – that and the size and shape of the box.
Because, when the people who had opened it reported back on the contents, they confirmed that not only wasn’t it about to go off and take out half the street, that is wasn’t in fact Gwyneth Paltrow’s head either, they said that instead it was what looked like a foot. A human foot, severed at the ankle.
The killer had finally given one back…
As DI Patrick Hammond approached the – now unwrapped and open – box to peer inside, he felt his stomach rolling. Not because of the colour of the foot, grey almost white, nor the fact that from his angle he could see right down inside to the crimson meat packed around the bone, bits of ragged flesh skirting the edges where the foot had been sawn off. It was more because he knew whose foot this was, even before he spotted the star tattoo just below the ankle bone, standing out more than ever now against the starkness of the dead skin.
Knew it belonged to her, the woman he loved.
Wouldn’t take the pathologist Dr Foxborough to verify that the foot belonged to one of the most recent…no, the most recent victim. Wouldn’t take matching this against any of the corpses that had been stacking up these past few months in the morgue: all missing one foot; the left or the right, it didn’t seem to matter which. This one particular foot they wouldn’t be able to match against a corpse they had back there, because she was still missing – an abductee.
And now amputee, his mind provided; sometimes it just didn’t know when to shut up. Hammond fought to hold back the tears at this, fought to control the memories that were coming back to him, of kissing that foot, of kissing the toes covered in ruby red nail polish – which were still that same colour, if more than a little faded and chipped now. It helped with his composure that his boss, DCI Eddie Balfour – a man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Homer Simpson, right down to the yellow tinge of his skin which was due to a liver complaint – was now standing beside him.
‘Fuck,’ the balding man simply whispered, which simultaneously said nothing and everything at once. It was a good job the press were being held back behind a cordon, otherwise they might have taken that as an official statement – and it was as good as any, Hammond supposed. Probably more than he could muster himself. Then Balfour asked his DI: ‘What do you make of it?’
Hammond opened his mouth, and closed it again just as quickly. Shook his head. It was better not to speak at that moment, better to say nothing than let it all spill out.
‘Looks like a job for Sherlock Holmes to me,’ said a voice from behind them, that same wet behind the ears tosser Wells who’d been doing the Pitt impressions earlier on.
‘Come again?’ asked Balfour.
‘Well, y’know, the game is a foot,’ the officer clarified, then sniggered. Hammond looked at the ground, gritted his teeth, the clenching of his jaw causing a muscle in his cheek to twitch. He felt like lunging for the man, pounding his head into the pavement – but gallows humour was part and parcel (very poor choice of words) of their job. How many crime scenes had he visited and made jokes at, because he didn’t know the vics, because if you didn’t you’d go stark, staring mad. Poor unfortunates who’d had their hands bound behind their backs and hung, only to be met with gags like ‘He’ll be tied up for a while…’; people stabbed, only for some smart arse to state they ‘Got the point..’; electrocutions that were ‘Just shocking’, and if it had been delivered by this pillock then no doubt the Connery accent would have been wheeled out. Different, though, when it was someone you knew, wasn’t it? Someone you cared more about than anyone – anything – in this whole world. Loved so much, but couldn’t show that you did. A secret love that—
‘You get it?’ prompted the young lad. ‘That’s what he used to say, Sherlock Hol—’
Release valve or no release valve, Hammond was seconds away from having this joker.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Balfour, waving the officer away like the nuisance he was; like a fly buzzing round that didn’t know how close it had come to getting swatted. ‘Very good. You’ll be live at the Apollo doing stand-up in no time… If you’re not careful.’
The officer got the hint about his job and sauntered off. ‘Twat,’ Hammond couldn’t help muttering.
When he looked up again, he saw that Balfour was watching him, studying him. He had to be careful with that kind of shit – not because he was ashamed or anything, but because he would get taken off the case. He’d be no use to anyone then, especially her. ‘This one’s really getting to you, isn’t it?’
Hammond gave a half shrug that was perhaps a little too exaggerated. ‘Shouldn’t have got this far. We should have had the bastard by now. Before…’ He nodded at the box, but couldn’t bring himself to look at it again.
Balfour placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about it.’ What he actually meant and what had been coming across since this investigation began, especially in certain narrow-minded quarters was: ‘What’s the big deal? They’re only prostitutes.’ Papers had said pretty much the same thing, after sensationalising those first few disappearances; letters columns especially, commenting that these women knew the risks, that they kept putting themselves out there amongst all these perverts – what did they expect to happen? Wasn’t as simple as that, wasn’t as clear cut. Yes, there might have been a time when Hammond would have agreed, but he knew so much about that world now – so much about the women who inhabited it. Knew one intimately. To him, it was a big deal – not least because these were people, living breathing people (or had been), some of them with families – hell, some only did this because they had families to support. But maybe he’d been underestimating Balfour, because when he continued the man said: ‘We have a lead now, at any rate. Our biggest clue yet.’
Or maybe he was just keen to get this one sorted, get it off the books because it was making them all look bad. If the press got hold of this new turn of events, it would like as not send them into another feeding frenzy. Either way, it was time to take a step back now and let Foxborough and the SOCOs do their work.
Take a step back? If only he could.
She certainly wouldn’t be able to now, would she? His mind said, at it again – reminding him of what she’d lost. Maybe even her life? It explained why he’d not been able to get hold of her in days, all that worry hadn’t been wasted after all. Every morning Hammond would wake up expecting there to be another body; expecting it to be hers. Though not expecting this, never expecting this…
Hadn’t he begged her not to keep going out there? In fact the last time they’d seen each other they’d argued about it, and he regretted that bitterly. She’d seen it as him telling her what to do when that was the last thing he wanted – nobody could ever tell her what to do, she was much too strong for that. No, he just wanted her to be safe and – be honest – he was getting to the point where the thought of all those hands on her, what those men she went with did to her, was driving him crazy.
Should have said something, should have told her how you really feel.
That he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, take her away to the coast like she’d talked about that time, wash away all this dirt and grime and filth. Live the life he…they’d always wanted, that she’d been trying to save up for all these years and failing. That although he couldn’t promise her the world, he could at least give her his heart, his devotion. But he hadn’t said any of those things, had he? Didn’t seem the time or place when they were having a slanging match, and suddenly things were coming out of his mouth that he really didn’t mean:
‘If that’s how you want it, then fuck off and get yourself killed.’
Be careful what you wish for… Hammond was wishing for something else entirely now, though, wasn’t he? Something he’d asked Foxborough about when they visited him later.
‘Is the vic…is she still alive, Doctor?’
Foxborough had looked up at him from his position over the metal table, those bulging eyes rotating in his direction like gun turrets ready to fire; mouth open and poised to shoot him with information that could wound or kill as effectively as any bullet. ‘She was when the foot was severed anyway, that I can tell you.’
Hammond closed his own eyes, rubbed his face. Not quite the answer he was looking for, but it would do. It gave him hope. Wasn’t a dead body, just a dead right foot: there on the table, staring up at him as accusingly as Foxborough.
‘Of course, chances of re-attachment now are slim – it’s way past the six to twelve hour window, and that’s if it had been packed in ice.’
So, that perfect body was mutilated for life. She’d never be whole again, and it was all his fault. If only he’d got to the bottom of this earlier. If only—
‘There were no clues as to the identity of the person who did this from the foot, the wrapping or box. No prints, DNA… Nothing,’ Foxborough told them, as if he thought he was being helpful.
‘But we do know who the victim is, thanks to Inspector Hammond,’ Balfour had said from his position beside him again. Hammond had told them he’d spoken to a few of the contacts he’d cultivated on this case, asked who hadn’t been seen in a while – it wasn’t a lie, he had made sure she hadn’t been around lately on her usual patch. Said it like he hadn’t known immediately who the foot belonged to, said it as if he hadn’t really known the vic at all and wasn’t biting back the yelp that almost followed when he spoke her name.
‘And we have a lead on who left the package,’ Balfour added. ‘CCTV outside the station picked up the license plate of the delivery van – driven by one Mr Harry Millard. We’re confident he had nothing to do with it, seeing as he didn’t make any attempt to disguise himself as he left it on the steps. He was just doing his job, basically.’
‘He didn’t think it strange that he had instructions to leave it on the steps?’ asked Foxborough, poking at the foot again with one of his instruments.
Balfour shrugged. ‘Christ knows. To be honest, after speaking with him I’m not sure the man’s all there.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘If you know what I mean?’
‘Your average delivery man, then,’ said Foxborough without any hint of humour this time; Foxborough didn’t really do jokes, and if he did they were so deadpan they weren’t really recognised as such.
‘Anyway, he checks out – mainly because we have more CCTV from the depot where the delivery was arranged, of the actual person who paid for it.’ A solidly built man, wearing a padded coat, jeans and hoodie, which was up; who kept his head turned or tilted away from the camera – had probably scoped the place out beforehand a few times – and paid in cash so there was no card to trace. The woman who’d served him couldn’t remember much more than they’d seen themselves, because they dealt with so many people in a day. Nevertheless, the grainy picture was being circulated around the troops and through the media – the only time they actually were of use. Nothing as of yet.
Hammond had spent a long time staring at that image, staring at his enemy. The person who had done this to her…to so many others before her. He recalled the first of them now, left in a skip down an alleyway like so much trash; some would argue that she was, that it was where she belonged. But Maggie Graham hadn’t deserved that end – nobody deserved that. Not even animals deserved to be treated so poorly; and some of those same people would put their pets above the human lives in question here.
Maggie, staring up, glassy-eyed, with her tongue lolling out black – a thin red line around her neck where she’d been garrotted. Staring up from her final resting place amongst the crisp packets, beer bottles and half-empty cartons of junk food – her frizzy hair actually containing bits of that food. They hadn’t noticed the missing left foot until some of that rubbish had been cleared away, each bit taken to be painstaking
ly examined – the skip itself scrutinised for prints and anything else that might have given the killer away, though they’d yielded the same results as this most recent find. It had been removed quite clumsily really; torn away from the ankle when the saw had nearly finished its job, like a lumberjack hacking impatiently at branches. They had no idea why, until the next body had been found washed up out of the local canal.
Phoebe James was missing that same appendage, except it was the right not the left. While Maggie still had her clothes on, half of Phoebe’s were torn or missing, though whether that was to do with being in the water for so long was debatable. She was a younger than Maggie’s 38, but strangely looked older – and that definitely had nothing to do with the canal’s attentions, because Hammond had seen photos of her when she was still alive. Drug and alcohol abuse was to blame, something he suspected she did to take her mind off her job and which had become a vicious circle; the only way she could now pay for her cravings. Phoebe had been garrotted as well, the same MO. That was when they knew they had a multiple murderer on their hands. When they found victims three and four – Willow Clark and Vera Humphreys (the oldest of the bunch at 45), one in a car park and the other in woods not that far away – they knew they were definitely dealing with a serial killer.
To begin with, certain resources had been at their disposal, in spite of the fact that recent budget cuts had meant even beat patrols had become a luxury of late. Stake-outs to watch these ‘ladies of the night’ – as someone poetically called them; it was the politest term Hammond had heard during all this time – even an undercover officer posted on a few street corners for a week or two. WPC Charlotte (Charlie) Grant, the subject of many a male fantasy at their station, even before they saw her done up in that plastered on make-up, wearing a leather mini-skirt and low-cut top. Hammond had winced at the dirty language she had to put up with as she walked through corridors on her way to do her duty – the wolf whistles and propositions, from single and married officers alike. To her credit, she’d given back as good as she got – she’d learned to do that very quickly when she joined the force, rather than running off to report it as so many of her colleagues had done and come up against brick walls. But that still didn’t make it right.
