Nailbiters

by Kane, Paul

  But it was as they’d grabbed a quick lunch of Mega-Burgers and fries there in the ‘Oasis’ that she’d said to him: ‘This is personal for you, isn’t it?’

  Wasn’t just shoes women were known for, Hammond thought to himself, it was also their intuition; more powerful than anything he could muster. ‘How do you mean?’

  Charlie took a sip of her coke before answering. ‘I’ve seen you with this, like a dog with a bone. You care about those girls, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Hammond said, but didn’t clarify that he cared about one more than any of the others.

  ‘I like that,’ said Charlie, smiling at him and taking a bite of her burger. ‘You’re a nice guy, Pat, you know that?’

  He offered a smile back, but said nothing in return. A few years ago, before he’d met Ella, he would have been in there like a rat up a drainpipe. Wouldn’t have worked out, obviously, but that wouldn’t have stopped him with a woman like Charlie; shit, he’d have been getting down on his hands and knees and kissing the ground that she might be interested. But there was no-one else for him now, never would be. That’s what made it personal, and that’s why he could never tell anyone about it.

  They checked out a couple more places that afternoon, but it wasn’t until the following day that there was a development. Nothing was reported by the other officers, and it was the last store on their list – a mom and pop place as the Americans might have called it, name of Wilkinson’s – that bore fruit. It was run by an elderly man who had owned the place since the 1960s and also offered shoe repairs, as well as selling new ones. They’d talked to him, looked around the place, chatted to the assistants, and come up empty; no odd feelings that anything was wrong, nothing. It was only as they were leaving and Hammond happened to look up – his ‘Spider-sense’ swiftly and forcefully kicking in – that he saw the curtains twitch in the flat above the shop. Could have been anything, just someone being nosy, but Hammond insisted on going back inside and asking about it. About who exactly lived above the store.

  ‘Well… I do,’ said Mr Wilkinson. ‘Why?’

  ‘Alone?’ demanded Hammond.

  The white-haired man had scratched his head. ‘Since my wife passed away. There’s my son, of course. But he’s only been back a few…’

  Hammond wasn’t listening anymore, had already clocked someone through the open side door – heading down the stairs, sloping away towards the back of the building. He pushed Mr Wilkinson aside, probably a little too roughly but then he wasn’t thinking clearly; he was thinking only of Ella. Then Hammond was out through the back door and in pursuit, the man ahead of him running down the rear alley – and though it was only from the back, Hammond could see that he might well be a match for the person on that CCTV footage. That he might well be their guy.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted, even though in all his years on the force that tactic had never, ever worked. In spite of his size, the man was fast and it had been a while since Hammond had set foot inside a gym, let along used any of the equipment. He was lucky, though, in that there was a fence at the far end of the alley. The man leapt at it, scrambling to get over the top, but Hammond had his legs before he could reach that height. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he grunted, holding on to the writhing figure. Wilkinson’s son kicked back, catching Hammond in the cheek and pitching him backwards. Seconds later, he was up and over, leaving the Inspector behind.

  It took Hammond a bit longer to clamber over the fence, but he made it – and still had the man in sight: just. He was running towards the road now, not stopping even for the traffic. Hammond ran as fast as he could after him, halting cars coming from the left and right, one clipping him as it braked. ‘Bastard!’ he growled, not even sure himself if he meant the driver or the man he was chasing.

  There was a park ahead, and Hammond knew if the man reached that he’d be lost. The detective put on a spurt, but had no chance of catching his quarry before he reached the gates. Then, out of nowhere, Charlie entered stage left and flew at the guy – tackling him and bringing him to the ground. Hammond couldn’t help grinning. She was already cuffing the man as Hammond joined them, winded and trying to catch his breath. ‘Thought I’d skirt around,’ she told him. ‘You did a good job of distracting him, though.’

  Hammond nodded his thanks to the woman and she nodded back – still having no idea what this actually meant to him.

  * * *

  The suspect had spoken not a word on the drive back in the car, and continued to remain silent in the interview room – even after a grilling from both Balfour and Hammond.

  ‘You sure this is our guy?’ his boss had asked when they’d taken a break.

  ‘Why else would he have run?’ argued Hammond.

  ‘If I saw your ugly mug coming, I’d probably do a runner as well,’ replied Balfour, but he conceded his inspector had a point. Why would the man have fled if he didn’t have something to hide?

  Turned out he did – not in the shop itself, which was scoured inch by inch, but in a shed on the allotment Toby Wilkinson’s father owned but didn’t really use any more. Toby had made use of it, though, as they’d discovered when they searched it and found all the missing – all the severed – feet inside, plus the handsaw that had been used to detach them; not to mention what else they’d seen when a black light had been flashed around the place.

  ‘The sick fuck,’ Balfour had whispered after he’d been told.

  When Hammond confronted the man with photos from the scene, he’d looked up at the inspector and smirked; the grin threatening to split his fleshy face in two. Then that grin had turned into a giggle, before evolving into a full blown guffaw.

  ‘You think this is funny?’ Hammond had snarled, rising and banging his fist down on the photos.

  ‘Easy,’ Balfour cautioned, placing a hand on Hammond’s arm – nodding over at the camera to remind him that the interview was being recorded for posterity.

  Hammond nodded and took his seat again. The last thing they wanted was for Toby to get off because of a cry of police brutality – although right at that moment all Hammond wanted to do was ram his fist into that face; ram it so hard it exploded out the back of the man’s skull. But there was something he needed to know first.

  ‘So you kept the feet, dumped the rest of their bodies…’

  ‘Only bit I needed,’ said Wilkinson, who’d become a bit more talkative once he knew they had their evidence; even confessed to using thick bootlaces he’d then disposed of as his murder weapon of choice. He’d grown up around shoes, around feet – helped out in the shop sometimes, though he’d had to stop because the temptation was too much he’d admitted. The temptation to kiss the feet of female customers, to lick them (and Hammond again had to switch off the memories of doing the same with Ella). Inside that shed he’d been able to do whatever he liked with them, though, whenever he liked. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘But why change it up? Why send us the foot this time?’ Balfour enquired.

  ‘And,’ Hammond asked yet again, ‘where is the rest of her? Is she even still alive?’

  Toby Wilkinson simply shook his head, the remains of that smirk lingering. Hammond grimaced, his hand still balled into a fist.

  ‘Answer me, damn you!’

  ‘Patrick,’ Balfour warned again.

  ‘Tell me!’ Hammond said, getting up once more and rounding the table. Grabbing Wilkinson and screaming into his face, removing all traces of that smile. ‘Tell me you little shit, or so help me I’ll—’

  Balfour was there in a flash, pulling Hammond away. ‘Inspector!’ But it took a couple more PCs to actually wrestle him out of the room. ‘What the hell has gotten into you?’ asked the DCI when they were outside.

  ‘What’s the matter, did he put his foot in it?’ said the smart-arse Wells; just passing by, wrong time, wrong place.

  Definitely the wrong thing to say.

  Hammond lashed out before anyone could stop him, striking the man with a fist that was still lo
oking for a target. He backed off, backed away – looking around at startled faces, then down at the ground, at the copper rubbing his jaw. Then his eyes found Charlie in the corridor; she’d seen what had happened and they exchanged a look. Her lip was trembling and Hammond thought he saw her eyes watering – because she knew for sure now. Knew what she’d only suspected before.

  He got out of there before anyone had a chance to say anything, left the station and got into his old Nissan, driving away at speed. Hammond got about a mile from there before he had to pull over; before he started slamming the steering wheel.

  Before he started crying himself. Crying, and thinking that he might never, ever stop.

  * * *

  In light of what had happened, both inside the interview room and just outside it, Hammond was taken off the case and suspended.

  The comedian Wells decided not to press charges, especially after Balfour explained that it was in his best career interests not to. It was all put down to the stress of such a high-profile investigation, although Charlie had called, left messages to say that if he needed to talk she was a good listener. Hammond didn’t need to talk, he needed to know what had happened to Ella.

  Had Wilkinson garrotted her, like the rest? Would she be found in some skip or washed up on the banks of the canal? It seemed less likely, the more time that passed, they’d ever get the answer – and especially when Hammond wasn’t allowed access to the prisoner. And seemingly all but impossible once Wilkinson took his own life whilst in custody. He’d bitten into his wrists to open up his veins after being visited by a distraught father who’d essentially disowned him. Those family ties having more impact than any screaming policemen. You could take away belts and laces, but if someone was determined they could still find a way to end it and take their mysteries with them.

  Mysteries like Ella.

  Hammond would dream about her, when he could get to sleep that was – often with the aid of large amounts of vodka. In those dreams she would be running towards him on a beach, like in all those god-awful romance movies. It was usually the thing that tipped him off he was dreaming in the first place, the running; but he would try to push that to the back of his mind and enjoy the fact he was with her again, even if he knew it wasn’t real. He could look into those blue eyes, stroke that golden hair and kiss those lips. Then he’d wake abruptly, be wrenched away from her all over again and end up reaching for the vodka.

  At some point he decided that he should visit her home. Not the one she had in town, that dingy bed-sit she’d tried to keep hidden, but he’d followed her to one night anyway just to be able to picture where she was when she wasn’t with him (and not have to think about her with all those other guys). That had also given Hammond her second name, Tyrell, which was on the lease.

  No, the place she’d come from. The place she’d told him about… if nothing else, her mother – her step-mother – had a right to know exactly what had happened to her daughter, face-to-face rather than just being told about it impersonally on the phone. If he couldn’t have any part in Ella’s future, then perhaps he could connect with her past. Sure, they hadn’t got on (which family ever really did?), but they were still family – and family was all important. Family ties…

  So, he’d got the address and set off – locating the property in a nice little corner of the suburbs. Looking at all those houses, it was hard to imagine why Ella had left in the first place; he certainly wouldn’t have done. Cushy, very cushy. Her mother was one Hester Tyrell, who was at Number 24, Langley Avenue: a white, two storey property with a 4x4 outside on the driveway that made the Nissan he was parking up look like a horse and cart by comparison. This family had money then, maybe not fortunes but they were doing all right. Again, he wondered what kind of argument could have led to Ella storming off and never coming back…

  ‘If that’s how you want it, then fuck off and get yourself killed.’

  He closed his eyes, breathing slowly in and out. Had to keep it together, at least long enough to get through this. Hammond climbed out and walked up the driveway, admiring the pretty arrangements of flowers in the front garden, the tiny tree in the middle of the lawn. When he reached the front door – ringing the bell as he did so – Hammond was surprised to see it open almost immediately. Standing there was a woman with dark grey hair, streaked through with lighter shades of the same colour. She was wearing a maroon dress that covered every inch of her, right up to the neck, and over the top of that a shawl – the effect of which was to make her look much older than she probably was. ‘Yes?’ she asked eventually, her voice tinged with more than a hint of suspicion.

  ‘Er… hell-hello. My name’s Patrick Hammond, I hope you don’t mind me dropping by but—’

  ‘If you’re selling something, then…’

  He held up a hand. ‘No, no. Nothing like that. I know…well, I knew your daughter.’

  She looked at him sideways then, her suspicion deepening. ‘Which one?’

  It was his turn to pause, then he remembered this woman had kids of her own. ‘Your step-daughter, Ella.’

  Hester Tyrell’s face soured at the name.

  ‘I was part of the investigation leading up to what happened,’ Hammond clarified.

  ‘A policeman?’ Hammond nodded. ‘Then I suppose you’d better come inside.’

  He was shown into and through a hallway with a set of stairs ahead, then ushered right into a living room. The décor did little to dispel the old-fashioned air, tasteful but stuck somewhere in the mid-1930s. Hester Tyrell bid him to take a seat on the sofa, which had elaborately-carved wooden arms and was just as hard as it looked. ‘I…I expect you were told what happened,’ Hammond began. ‘About Ella’s…disappearance.’

  The woman took a seat opposite him, but didn’t lean back – instead keeping her posture very straight. Hammond had to wonder whether she’d ever really relaxed in her life. The fact she answered the door so quickly meant that she must have seen him pull up outside through those net curtains, the bay window affording her a view of the entire street from this angle. ‘I was informed, yes. Terrible business…but then, that was the kind of world she lived in, wasn’t it.’

  A statement of fact, not a question; Hammond ignored it. ‘I was wondering if you might be able to shed some light on her background at all? About her time living with you?’

  Hester Tyrell let out a long breath. ‘She was a wilful child, right from the start. I should probably have thought twice about taking her on, but then I did so love her father.’

  ‘Mr Tyrell?’

  She nodded. ‘He sadly passed away when she…when Ella was still only a little girl, really. Ten, eleven. She was the apple of that man’s eye – and, between us, he was much too lenient with her. I did my best, but…well, it explains a lot about where she ended up. A streetwalker! I ask you, how in God’s name…’ The woman shook her head in despair. ‘The shame of it. I’m glad we never had anything to do with each other after she left.’

  It was Hammond’s turn to sigh. This wasn’t exactly how he pictured the conversation going. ‘And you never re-married? No boyfriends or anything? No man of the house?’

  ‘Mr Hammond,’ she said seriously, inching forwards but still keeping her back rigid, ‘I have loved only two men in my entire life, and I married them both. There have certainly never been any… “boyfriends”, as you call them. Only suitors. Two of them, who courted me. The first, my sweet Kenneth, blessed me with my girls…but only after we were wed.’

  Suitors? Fucking hell, thought Hammond. The décor wasn’t the only thing stuck in the past.

  ‘Anything else would have been a sin, as you can probably appreciate.’

  ‘Oh, definitely,’ he replied, then straight away regretted the sarcasm in his voice. He needn’t have worried, it wasn’t even noticed as the woman continued her sermon:

  ‘It’s values such as these I have tried to instil in my daughters now that they’re older,’ she stated, matter-of-factly. ‘I keep telling the
m, when it’s the right one, you just know – don’t you think?’

  Now that Hammond did agree with. It was how he had felt the first time he clapped eyes on Ella.

  As if reading his mind, she now asked: ‘So how did you know my step-daughter, exactly, Mr Hammond? Just through the case?’

  ‘We were… I’m…I was her friend,’ he thought would be the safest answer.

  She stared at him. ‘I see. And the man who did all this, he came to a bad end I understand.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘His guilt finally catching up with him. Agent of the Devil,’ Mrs Tyrell told Hammond. ‘Oh, would you look at me,’ she suddenly said after a pause, ‘where are my manners? I haven’t even offered you a drink. Tea, coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please,’ he said, ‘if you have it.’

  ‘Of course, just bear with me…’ He rose when she did, out of politeness. But when she disappeared into the kitchen – through an open doorway inside the living room – he couldn’t help wandering around and looking at some of the pictures on the wall, hanging over the fireplace: photos of Hester’s daughters when they were small, wearing knitted cardigans and with their hair cut short. There were no photos of Ella on display, however. Various religious mantras covered another wall, including one that caught his eye, footprints on a beach: During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, the text said, it was when I carried you.

  ‘Do you take milk, sugar?’ a voice wafted in from the other room.

  ‘Oh…er, black please,’ Hammond answered. It was then that he heard the creaking from upstairs, floorboards above him. Could have been the house settling, but it sounded a lot like a person. ‘Mrs Tyrell, are we alone in the house?’ he called.

  ‘Oh yes, quite alone,’ came the reply. ‘Apart from the cat, of course – he’s probably hiding, doesn’t like strangers, you see.’

  Could be a cat, he supposed, but Hammond’s Spider-sense was tingling like mad. He made his way across the room to the door Hester Tyrell had disappeared through. ‘So there’s just you and…’ He stopped, the kitchen was empty – no sign of Hester Tyrell. What he did see, when he looked across the way, was a coat hanging from the back door, which was swinging open. A coat he recognised: the padded jacket from that CCTV footage he’d studied so long and so hard.