by Rob Ashman
I was angry at everyone. Angry that all I ever wanted was to do was take care of my family, but that was not enough. I took that rage out on the rest of the world.
The alcohol served to dull the wrath. When I entered that fuzzy, blurry sliver of life between being conscious and passing out, the pain stopped. But the relief was short-lived, and when the effects wore off, and the beer ran out, the rage returned in all its ferocious glory. It was the only consistent thing in my life.
Then, I realised one morning, as I watched the sun come up while sat on a park bench, I am not at war with the world – just a tiny fraction of it. My predicament was not the fault of the bus driver that refuses me entry onto the bus, it was not the shop keeper who shoo’d me out of his doorway nor was it the woman dragging her kids to the other side of the street to avoid me. It was not their fault.
I remember the thought went off in my head like a grenade, and from that point onwards, I began to get myself back on track. I got myself a nicer bedsit that smelled of boiled cabbage but at least it had a communal washing machine. I put real food in my belly and clean clothes on my back.
My normal job was a distant memory. John, my business partner, had stopped trying to get hold of me and carried on delivering crappy little contracts as though nothing had happened.
I got another job, cash in hand. It kept me occupied and put money into my pocket. It gave me structure. With my life coming together I had time to give full vent to my darkest thoughts. Fantasies that enabled me to channel the rage onto those who most deserved it. Daydreams and fantasies that gave my anger an outlet and kept it in check. It was a coping strategy that worked.
I was on the way up, then one day, I cracked.
One Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in the café of the Village Hotel. It was a big day. I was waiting to see my children for the first time in over ten weeks. I was taking them to the zoo.
Then, that fucking woman, Vanessa Wilding, walked in minus the kids. She was a solicitor who my wife had employed to broker an agreement between us on visiting rights with the children. I was desperate to see them and would have agreed to anything at the time. Sadie had made it clear she did not want me near them. Ms Wilding convinced me that an arbitrated arrangement was the way forward and that going through the courts would get messy.
‘Going through the courts? Who said anything about going through the courts?’ I remember blurting out.
‘Your wife did, Mr Palmer,’ was her flat response.
In the face of that option I thought the introduction of a third party would ease the situation. How wrong I was.
Vanessa Wilding was an unremarkable thirty-year-old woman, with unremarkable hair and an unremarkable face who wore unremarkable clothes. She was, however, remarkable in one particular respect – she hated my guts with a passion that I could taste in the air whenever we met. She was a sadistic bitch who enjoyed nothing more than delivering bad news. Time and time again she had rowed back on previous points of agreement, choosing instead to take my wife’s position over mine. It was fast becoming apparent that this woman was merely an extension of my wife’s grand plan to obliterate me from their lives all together.
She slid into the booth next to me, placing one hand on top of the other on the table.
‘I’m sorry to have to inform you, Mr Palmer, that I’ve spoken to your wife and she still feels uneasy about you seeing the children today. You’ve made great strides but she feels it is still too early.’
I had been granted supervised visitation rights by some kind of kangaroo court. The prospect of time with my children was the powering force behind me getting my shit together. This woman’s role in life seemed to be to deny me that right.
‘But we agreed that I could take them to the Zoo. We agreed that you could come along. We agreed–’
‘I have to take a balanced view, Mr Palmer. I have to take the feelings of both parties into consideration and your wife has grave concerns that you’re not ready. The children aren’t ready.’
‘But we agreed…’ I said, staring down into my coffee struggling to keep the emotions in check. ‘We sat in a room, all of us together, and we agreed.’
‘We did, Mr Palmer, but as I said, I have to take into consideration your wife’s concerns.’
‘My wife’s concerns – what about my concerns?’
‘What concerns are they?’
‘That denying me access to my children will have a detrimental impact on my recovery. I’m doing this for them.’ The mug rattled on the table top as my hands began to tremble.
‘I appreciate this is a disappointment for you. We can set up another meeting, maybe for two weeks’ time.’
‘Two weeks!’ I spat the words into my drink. ‘Two weeks? I’m ready now. We had an agreement and you are reneging on that.’
‘Mr Palmer, I know this is hard, but I have to make my decisions based upon both parties, and your wife has made it clear–’
‘So, now, you’re making the decisions? We all agreed a way forward. But now it counts for nothing because you alone are making the decisions? Look, I bought the fucking tickets – I even bought you one!’ I fumbled around in my wallet and removed a ticket, tossing it at her.
‘Calm down, Mr Palmer. You are not helping yourself.’
‘Not helping myself? No, you are the one who is not helping. By choosing to unilaterally go against the agreement we reached, because you, and you alone, now want to make the decisions. That’s the part that’s not fucking helping.’ The mug rattled loudly against the table.
‘My role is to take a course of action that is in the best interests of both parties, Mr Palmer. I have to make day to day decisions as I see fit. And your wife–’
‘Is a manipulative bitch.’ I slid the mug of coffee across the table into her lap. She yelled as the hot liquid burned her crotch and thighs.
Two hours later, I was sat in the custody suite of the local cop-shop, crying like a baby. Earlier, I had been interviewed by a stern looking woman and a tall copper with glasses.
‘Fucking assault!’ I shouted. The words bounced off the walls of the small room. ‘It was an accident, I tell you. I was annoyed – yes. Angry, even…but I did not pour coffee over that woman on purpose.’ I was lying through my back teeth and they knew it.
I did a great job of convincing them I was falling apart at the seams, mainly because I was. I pleaded with them that it had been an accident, I had bought her a ticket to join us at the zoo. Were those the actions of a person who wanted to do her harm?
After what seemed like a lifetime the tall guy said, ‘Ms Wilding does not want to take the matter further. You will receive a caution. Consider yourself a very lucky man, Mr Palmer. I think we both know what happened in that café, you lost control and let your anger get the better of you. In doing so, you assaulted her. Follow me to the office and we will conclude our discussion in there.’
I remember waiting for a taxi to pick me up and sobbing into my hands. I had really fucked up this time. God only knew when I would see the kids again.
My train of thought is broken by a man driving past, sounding his horn. I snap my head back to the matter in hand. The woman in the thick rimmed glasses and sun-flower hair is no longer in the window.
Shit, where did she go?
The front door opens and the yellow head bobs down the front steps to her waiting car. She’s carrying a shopping bag.
Shit!
I was not expecting this, she does her shopping on Saturday. My plan is clear and it says Saturday. I feel a mix of panic and elation rise in my chest.
Today could be the day. I need to get home fast.
13
‘Pigs?’ Tavener’s voice boomed through the speakers.
‘Yes, that’s what I said. Apparently, our killer goes through the same process they use to kill pigs in abattoirs. First, they stun the animal, then they cut its throat so it bleeds out and finish it off by scaling in a huge bath and scrubbing the skin clean,’ Kray repl
ied.
‘That’s some ritual.’
‘I checked it out and it’s correct.’
‘We need to look for someone who works in an abattoir or who has connections with one.’
‘Or maybe a psychopath who simply enjoys the way it plays out.’ Kray twisted the end of the indicator stick and the windscreen wipers swept away the water. A hedge butted up against the front of her car, the leaves and shoots sprouting from the top danced in the wind.
‘Quade is still looking for you.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s gonna have to wait. I got something to take care of first.’
There was a pause on the end of the line.
‘You okay today?’ asked Tavener.
‘Yes, of course. Just got a lot on, that’s all.’
‘I know but that’s not what I’m asking. Are you okay today?’
Kray didn’t answer. She stared out the front of the car across the neatly manicured lawns with park benches dotted around. Despite the bite of autumn, patches of vibrant colour burst through the mist and rain. It looked beautiful – she hated the place.
‘Yes, I’m okay, thank you for asking.’ The professional edge had gone from her voice, leaving behind it a trail of raw emotion. ‘I’ll be back in the office when I’m done.’
‘See you then.’ Tavener hung up and the car was quiet.
Kray’s knuckles were white as she gripped onto the wheel. Why the hell did he have to ask? Why did he have to ask about today? Kray had been avoiding this but could put it off no longer.
She unclenched her fists and reached to the back seat to remove a plastic bag. She opened the door and immediately wished she hadn’t. Rain smacked her in the face as she struggled to get her umbrella to do what it was supposed to do.
‘Fucking, fuck–’ She wrestled with the mechanism while carrying the bag. The black canopy eventually opened up and she ducked beneath it. Water droplets hammered off the taut material filling the space below with a percussive noise. She trudged up the verge, watching the wet grass soak into the hem of her trousers.
She passed along a new row which hadn’t been there the last time she’d visited. The sad truth was – more people died in the winter months. At the rate at which this row had filled up this was going to be a particularly bad year.
Kray stopped in front of the black marble stone set on a plinth. She kneeled down and cleared away the dead flowers from the vase, tipping the old water onto the ground. Something caught her eye, glinting in the dirt. She picked it up and held it in front of her squinting eyes. It was a brass pin. Not any old pin, this was the brass pin that she clawed from the lapel of a dying man to free her hands from the cable ties. The brass pin that saved her life. The brass pin that Joe had sent her.
On her last visit, she had left it glinting in the sunlight on top of the headstone. The wind must have blown it off. She cleaned away the soil and placed the pin at the base of the stone.
‘Pigs! Would you believe that?’ she said, pulling the bouquet of flowers from the bag. ‘Fucking pigs!’ Her hands fiddled with the cellophane wrapping, struggling to get it loose. Trying to remain under the umbrella. Her hands were shaking.
‘Come on!’ She snarled under her breath as the transparent material tore apart. She balled it up and pushed it into the carrier bag. Kray arranged the flowers in the urn and opened up the bottle of water, filling up the vase. She smiled as the rain cascaded off her brolly onto the new blooms. What am I doing?
‘So anyway, how have you been?’ It was an absurd question but one she could never seem to stop herself from asking. ‘I got back to work and they made me up to Acting DCI. What about that, eh? Quade is doing my fucking head in. After everything that happened, she’s now behaving like we’re best mates. That woman is weird.’
She busied herself running a tissue over the cold stone, removing the grime. ‘I didn’t want to come today but then I thought you’d only miss me. So, I thought I …’ Kray couldn’t finish the sentence. She rocked forward, grasping onto the stone with both hands. The brolly tumbled from her hand and fell back over her shoulder. Tears streamed down her face and her shoulders shook.
One year ago, on this very day, she had been happy. She was pissed off with her husband but then, what’s new? They’d had an argument while driving along the promenade and she had bolted from the car. Joe had shouted at her to get back in, but she was having none of it. Kray had run through the flock of tourists to avoid having the conversation. The same conversation they had every time her poor eating spiralled out of control. The same conversation where she knew all along, he was right. She needed to get a grip of her food, or she was going to be ill again. But she didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to face it.
Rampton had come out of nowhere, slashing her with a Stanley knife. The first blow sliced her open from her belly across her chest to her shoulder. Then another and another. The short triangular blade punctured her back and shoulders as he slammed it into her flesh.
Then, her attacker was in mid-air, being propelled backwards by Joe. The two men landed with a splat, with Joe on top. Rampton slithered from beneath him, covered in blood. The Stanley knife was embedded in Joe’s neck and it all went black.
Kray shuddered and gripped onto the headstone. She could see Joe lying on the ground, she could hear the wail of sirens, she could feel the warmth of her own blood seeping from beneath her as she lay on the pavement. There was a woman running, pushing a toddler in a pushchair. Kray could see the child. The little boy was screaming as his mother shoved him along the promenade away from the crazy man. The boy wasn’t wearing socks.
Kray stopped crying. The rain matted her hair to her head and dripped from her lashes.
The image of Joe was gone, the image of the child was gone. Both of them replaced by the man with the translucent face hanging upside down at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes shot through with a crazy paving of ruptured blood vessels. Flaps of skin hung down, his body shredded. Kray’s scars burned and tingled. The puckered line across her cheek was red hot. She could see the victim’s feet and the gap on the right foot where the toe should be.
Kray flashed her eyes open. The image was gone.
‘We’ve missed one. There’s another body.’
14
‘Roz, slow down.’ Tavener was struggling to keep up.
‘We’ve missed one. There is another body out there somewhere.’
‘You’re not making sense. Roz, you’re breaking up.’
Kray put her foot down and the engine revved more than was good for it. Tavener’s voice once more reverberated against the inside of her car.
‘Can you hear me, Duncan? Get hold of Brownlow. We need to speak with him urgently.’
‘Roz what is this about? What body? Where?’
‘I will explain everything at the station. Get hold of Brownlow and nail his feet to the floor in my office. He needs to tell us about–’ The line went dead. No signal.
‘Shit!’ Kray glared at her phone.
Fifteen minutes later she pulled into the station car park. Ninety seconds after banging the door shut, she burst into her office to find ACC Quade waiting for her.
‘Ah, there you are, Roz, I heard you were on our way back. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
‘Yes, ma’am, sorry about that. My network coverage has been crap today. Duncan said you needed to speak with me.’ Kray was panting to get her breath back. She looked like she had taken a shower in her clothes.
‘Yes, I want to sound you out about something.’
‘Can it wait, ma’am? I need to talk to DI Brownlow.’
‘Yes, he was in your office when I stuck my head around the door. Him and another chap. They told me you were en-route, so I sent them away.’
You fucking did what?
‘Ma’am, it’s important that I speak with them.’
‘And it’s important that you speak with me. The press is hounding us for a comment on the Graham murder case. I want to be
sure we have all our ducks in a row. We don’t want a repeat of Jackson’s performance.’
‘No, ma’am, we don’t want that.’
‘So, I want you to draft a statement today which I can brief to the press.’
‘I can do that, but it is imperative that I speak to Brownlow.’
‘Have it on my desk by close of play.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Quade lurched out of the chair and waddled off. Kray pushed buttons on her phone. After two rings, Tavener answered.
‘In my office now!’
Kray paced around, annoyed that Quade had side-swiped her with her press statement demand when she had far more pressing things to do.
After several minutes, Tavener and Brownlow beetled into the office and took their seats.
‘Shut the door,’ Kray said, sitting on the edge of her desk. Tavener stared at Kray with her hair stuck flat to her head, sodden trousers and hands like she’d been digging in the garden.
‘You need to invest in an umbrella,’ he said.
‘Never mind that. Colin, tell me about the missing person.’
Brownlow looked shocked that someone was taking an interest in his case. ‘Well, err, there’s not much to tell. Nigel Chapman was reported missing when he failed to show up for work. We’ve been to his house and he’s not there. The neighbours haven’t seen him either.’
‘When, Colin? When was he reported missing?’ asked Kray.
‘The last known sighting of him was a little over a week ago. Since then he’s not used his mobile phone or his credit cards. His car has also gone AWOL– a blue F Type Jag.’
‘Has he done anything like this before?’ asked Tavener.
‘No, he hasn’t. By all accounts, he’s a bit of a party animal, so I suppose he could be on a bender, but if he is then it’s strictly cash only.’
