The words of the priest and the manner in which he had treated him after the funeral had helped Frank Sullivan to some extent come to terms with his loss and indirectly his moral transgression; but like a palliative drug, the effect of the priest’s words and actions wore off in less than a week and gradually that all-embracing gnawing feeling of despair returned to claim him once more. It seeped into his body, rippling through his veins and stifled his thoughts. He had planned to go back to work on that Monday, but when the day dawned, he could not face the prospect of pretending to return to his old normal life. What was the point? There was no normal life any more. In fact, he had no life at all now. He lay huddled in bed, pulling the bed clothes around him like some magic shield, as though it would protect him from the vicious truths of reality.
And so he lay in bed all day staring at the shifting patterns of light on the ceiling. Sleep avoided him and it was only when he felt the need to go to the lavatory that he managed to pull himself out of the womb-like pit and stumble forth. Once on his feet, he realised that he was hungry and that his mouth was desert dry. Wrapping his old dressing gown around him, he made his way down stairs. He felt creaky and old, his limbs stiff and slow to function after twenty hours or so of inactivity.
He cringed as the fluorescent light sprang into life in the kitchen. The cupboard was virtually bare. There was a packet of teabags and a couple of cans of beans. That would have to do. After putting the kettle on and setting a pan of beans on a low light, he wandered into the lounge and lit the gas fire. He sat huddled up by the flames for a few minutes until he heard the shrill whistle of the kettle. He made the tea and poured out the lukewarm beans on to a plate and returned to the comforting warmth of the fire with them. He spooned the beans into his mouth in a mechanical fashion, hardly tasting the underdone tepid mush. The tea was more satisfying: hot and strong.
He deposited the plate on the tiled hearth and gazed at the congealed orange smear left by the residue of beans. He seemed fascinated by the pattern and reached out with his finger to trace the outer edges of the shiny gloop. Was this it, then? Was this to be his existence, future? Hunched over the fire in his own home, snatching a scratch meal before slinking back up to bed to escape from the world, to escape from himself? He shrugged. Maybe so. He had no energy, no impetus for it to be otherwise. His life was a barren landscape. Well, he mused darkly, perhaps it always was. He tried to think back to a time when he was happy, really happy: when pleasure was relaxed and carefree and not hemmed in by material concerns, various responsibilities, a sense of failure and the feeling that life was always bearing down on him. Running the film of his life backwards at great speed in his mind, he had to reel way back to his childhood for such a moment. It was at Blackpool Pleasure beach. He was… what? Eight or nine? Short trousered and unfettered, he ran in the sunshine through the various stalls and rides, giddy with excitement, entranced by the noise, the garish lights, the joyful cries and screams of girls on the big dipper, the bangs, the screeches, the magical-looking candy floss, the blaring hurdy-gurdy music; all the fun of the fair. It was like a brash kaleidoscope of enchantment. There was that really fat man in the glass case, holding his rotund tummy, swinging backwards and forwards, laughing, laughing, laughing. Laughing fit to bust. He stood before the juddering mechanical figure entranced by and then caught up by its jollity. He started laughing, too. It was contagious. He held his tummy with merriment as tears of joy ran down his young face. He saw that little boy in his mind’s eye. He was that little boy. Was this the last time he had been really happy? Happy, with no restraints, no shadows looming in the background. As this vivid scene etched itself on his brain, he realised that he was crying again. But this time they were not tears of pleasure. As he clenched his moist eyes tight he could hear the noises and smell the toffee apples, the candy floss, the hot dogs and the rich ozone aroma of the seaside. And then, suddenly, another sound broke through into his consciousness. It was brighter, sharper, louder. That was because it was real and in the present. It was happening now. His eyes shot open and all the dream-like sensations vanished, shattered like a broken mirror, leaving him with the harsh tring of the doorbell echoing through the silent house.
The sound pierced the darkness with an insistent ferocity. Gradually, he realised what was happening. There was someone at the front door. His front door. It was happening now. Who the hell was calling on him? He never had visitors. Even after Mandy’s death had become public, the only people who called were a few neighbours and a chap from work and they had only hovered briefly on the doorstep. The bell rang again followed by a hollow banging on the door. Whoever it was, they were insistent.
Slowly Frank Sullivan pulled himself to his feet and with the stiff movements of an automaton made his way down the hall to the front door.
‘I’m coming,’ he croaked, in an attempt to silence the banging and ringing, but his voice was feeble from lack of use and had no effect. Turning the knob on the Yale lock, he wrenched the door open to discover a man on the threshold. His features were in shadow.
‘Hallo Frank,’ the man said. ‘I hope I can come in.’ He moved forward causing Frank to step back. Confusion filled his mind for a moment and he was just about to ask the man what he wanted when he suddenly felt a violent pain in his stomach. It was fierce and agonising, sending shockwaves throughout his whole body. He cried out in agony and gazing down he saw the man retract the knife from his stomach. The blade was wet with blood. It took him a few moments to realise that it was his blood.
‘What… what?’ he stammered, his mind in disarray.
The knife pierced his stomach again, the blade moving upwards, slitting the outer flesh.
Frank Sullivan was able to mouth the words, ‘Bloody hell’ just before his legs gave way and he sank to the floor, his mouth now clapping open and shut with inarticulate groans.
The man leaned over him and continued his task with increased energy. For a few moments his victim squirmed mutely, his eyes wide with pain and terror
But soon it was all over.
Frank Sullivan lay dead in his own hallway.
‘We must stop meeting like this. Body-Bags-R–Us, eh?’ Chris McKinnon gave a weary half-hearted grin.
Snow was used to the forensic officer’s gallows humour. He knew that it was in no way meant to be disrespectful to the corpse which lay at his feet but was simply method of diluting some of the gruesome gravitas of the bleak scenario. A life dealing with dead bodies, many of them mutilated in some manner, could easily eat into your consciousness and wear you down. The only way to fight the enveloping cloud of gloom was to challenge it with humour, flippancy and dubious quips. It provided protection and allowed one to retain a grip on normality.
‘Where’s your shadow – your trusty DS?’
‘Bob. I’m afraid he’s succumbed to the flu.’
‘Lucky bugger: a day in bed. That’s just what I could do with.’
Snow glanced down at the body. ‘Who found him?’
‘The postman. He was delivering and saw a fair quantity of blood on the doorstep and was suspicious. He looked through the letterbox and saw the body. Nice little surprise.’
Snow gazed down at the bloodied corpse of Frank Sullivan. Despite the number of murdered bodies he had encountered in his career, it still made him feel queasy to gaze at the pallid, blood-streaked skin and features frozen in a twisted agonised grimace of shock or terror. Death came to us all and it was never pleasant but rarely was it as ugly or as gruesome as this.
‘What can you tell me?’ he said quickly turning to the pathologist.
McKinnon pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. ‘Well, for a start I reckon this is number two. Another little deed carried out by the one who knifed the guy in the street a few weeks ago.’
‘Sammy Tindall.’
McKinnon nodded. ‘Yeah. Him.’
‘What makes you think it’s the same murderer?’
‘The modus operandi is identical. The cuts are very
similar. In fact, I’ll stick my neck and say it’s a copycat of the last one and I’d bet my pension that it’s the same weapon. I’ll be able to confirm that when I’ve carried out the autopsy.’
‘Just the news I wasn’t waiting for. So now I’ve got some nutty serial killer to find.’
‘It’s better that way, isn’t? Two murders but only one culprit to apprehend. Two for the price of one.’
Snow smiled grimly. ‘You have rather a bizarre way of looking at things – but I suppose you are right. All I have to do now is to try and find some connection between Sammy Tindall and this poor sod in order to give me a lead. Up to now I’ve got nothing. There must be something that links them.’
‘Must there? You were the one who used the phrase ‘nutty serial killer’. Aren’t they the ones who kill without rhyme or reason? Without a decipherable pattern? Just random slaughter.’
‘Thanks for that. Job’s comforter you are. Anything else?’
McKinnon gazed down at the corpse and shook his head gently. ‘Not at the moment.’
Snow had intended to head back to the office after leaving the crime scene, but instead he made his way to a little café he sometimes frequented which served an excellent double espresso. He reckoned that the potent brew would help stimulate his brain cells or at least provide him with a little warming comfort. Gazing at a bloody dead body did nothing to lift one’s spirits. The grey-haired lady in charge gave him a pleasing grin as he entered, a gentle acknowledgement that she recognised him as a past customer. He gave his order and sat at a table by the window. Business was quiet with just three other customers: a pensioner couple and a woman with a bulging shopping bag bearing a supermarket logo. This solitary coffee break was a little bit of luxury. Usually he would have Bob Fellows with him who would keep up a constant stream of chatter hindering Snow from sorting out his thoughts.
The most interesting – if that was the word – aspect of this latest killing was the fact that the victim was the father of the girl who had drowned just over a week before. The girl who had been pregnant. The girl who had been a student at Matilda’s school. He could not help thinking that there may be a connection between her death and her father’s murder. Added to this there was the mystery of the baby’s father. Initially, that had not been important, but now it was. Apparently, there had been no hint of a boyfriend and so it was assumed it had been some reckless casual encounter. A one night stand. The boy probably didn’t even know her name or the fact that she was pregnant. That aspect of her death had been kept out of the papers. Whoever he was, he was a link in the insubstantial chain. Maybe an important one. If Snow could discover his identity, it may expose a motive. But of course, there was still the first victim, Sammy Tindall. Where did he fit into the puzzle? What connection – if any - did he have with Frank Sullivan or the girl? It was all very tenuous but one had to begin somewhere.
Snow’s coffee arrived, steaming and dark. He savoured it and allowed his thoughts to wander, mapping out in his brain a tentative plan of action.
Mavis Rivers, the school secretary, tapped gently on the Head’s door before opening it. ‘There’s a police officer to see you,’ she announced, unable to keep the smirking tone from her voice. ‘A Detective Inspector Snow.’
Matilda looked up from her desk in surprise. ‘You’d better show him in,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation. What was this all about, she thought. Strangely, she felt a little flustered. Paul never came to see her at work. They never invaded each other’s professional territory, unless…
Snow entered somewhat sheepishly. He, too, felt a little uncomfortable with this scenario. He gave her a brief friendly smile before closing the door behind him. ‘Official business, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh.’ Strangely, she was relieved. She really did not want her boyfriend popping in for an informal visit.
‘It’s connected with the death of your pupil, Mandy Sullivan.’
Matilda raised her brows in query but said nothing. To Snow she was not quite the same woman he took to the theatre or out for drinks and walks in the park. In her severe black, buttoned up suit, which just allowed the flash of white collar of a blouse at the neck, she seemed rather sexless, nun-like even. Her hair, usually fluffed up and loose was combed sleekly, fitting the contours of her face. She was very much in smooth professional mode.
‘I’m afraid her father has been murdered.’
Matilda’s eyes widened in surprise and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘What! Oh, my goodness, that poor man. Do you know who did it?’
‘Not yet. He was killed in his home sometime last night.’
‘How terrible. But… why are you here? Why are you telling me?’
Snow pulled a face. ‘Mandy. She was pregnant.’
Matilda slumped back in her chair, her features pale with shock. ‘Good gracious, you’re not pulling your punches today. You never mentioned this before.’
‘It wasn’t relevant before and I didn’t want to upset you.’
‘Relevant? How is it relevant now?’
Snow gave a gentle shrug of the shoulder. ‘I’m not absolutely sure it is – but I’d like to find out who the father of the child was.’
‘You think there may be a connection between him and the murder?’
Snow shrugged. ‘It’s an avenue worth investigating. I have to follow up any kind of lead.’
‘Well, Paul, you won’t find the father here. It is a girls’ school remember.’
‘But you have some male teachers…’
Matilda gasped. ‘My God! No. You’re not suggesting…’
‘I’m playing detective. It’s what I do. It wouldn’t be the first time a teacher has seduced a pupil.’
‘In this school it would.’ Matilda’s voice had now taken on a brittle tone and her eyes flashed angrily. Paul could sense the defences being erected. ‘I trust my staff implicitly. We have no paedophiles here.’
Snow knew that men who preyed on young girls were extremely clever at covering their tracks, providing a highly respectable face to the world. Matilda could easily be mistaken. However, at the moment, he had no real reason to believe that such a creature was involved in this case and as he didn’t want to antagonise her any further at this time he changed tack. ‘Of course, it may well be that the father is a lad of the girl’s own age, someone she met somewhere. It’s just important that I find out who he is – if only to eliminate him from our enquiries. That’s why I thought if I could have a chat with any friend Mandy had at school that might help. Any close friend with whom she’d share a secret. You know I’d treat it sensitively.’
‘I know what you are asking is reasonable, Paul, but it makes me feel very uneasy.’ She paused closed her eyes for a moment and then with a sudden brisk movement she stood up and glanced at her watch. ‘I didn’t know the girl personally so I couldn’t tell you about her friends, but her form teacher Ann Sanderson would know. It’s nearly lunchtime. I’ll check with her and see if she can suggest someone.’
Snow smiled. ‘That would be brilliant.’
Matilda did not share the smile. The concept of a senior policeman interviewing one of her girls concerning the sex life of another student was far from ‘brilliant’ in her eyes.
Debra Scott was a lanky girl who loped in a galumphing round-shouldered way in an effort, Snow assumed, to disguise her height. She had the potential to be pretty but at present, with her straggly unkempt hair, utilitarian heavy tortoiseshell spectacles over which she peered in a somewhat gormless fashion, attractiveness eluded her. By the time she was twenty, thought Snow, she may be turning heads, if only she learned to stand up straight.
Matilda introduced the gentleman to her as ‘Inspector Snow’ and said that he wanted a little chat with her about Mandy Sullivan. She muttered, ‘Poor Mandy,’ and glanced at her feet. With some apprehension, Matilda left them alone in her office.
‘Mandy and you were good friends, I gather,’ said Paul lightly as though he was commenting on the we
ather.
‘I suppose so.’
‘You shared interests.’
Debra pursed her lips. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Like…?’
Debra thought for a moment. ‘Some pop music. We like New Kids on the Block. They’re cool.’
‘What about boyfriends?’
‘What boyfriends?’
‘Didn’t you and Mandy go out with boys?’
Debra sneered. ‘No. Course not. Boys weren’t interested in us.’
‘Why not?’
Debra shrugged her rounded shoulders. ‘I suppose because we weren’t pretty enough.’ She uttered these words simply, in a matter of fact fashion. There was no sense of self-pity in her tone or attitude.
Snow tried to convey the idea that he couldn’t really believe this was true with an expression of surprise, but he wasn’t sure it was successful. ‘The wrong sort of boys then,’ he said. Probably it appeared as a patronising leer he thought. ‘You never saw Mandy with a boy?’ he said.
Debra shook her head. ‘Not like that. No.’
‘She would have told you if she had.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Did you share secrets?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘What secrets did she share?’
‘Just stuff.’
‘Mandy had a really dark secret. Did she tell you about it?’
‘You mean about her wanting to leave home?’
‘Did she?’
Debra nodded and sniffed. ‘She didn’t get on with her dad. She couldn’t wait to finish school and get a job and leave home.’
‘In what way didn’t she get on with her dad?’
‘Not sure really. He liked to sort of control her. She had to do what he wanted all the time. He was possessive like. I suppose it was ‘cause his wife had left him. Sometimes he stopped Mandy going out for no reason. He said he wanted her company. He was a bit creepy.’
‘Did she confide in you about anything else? Something very serious?’
Snow hesitated. He didn’t want to lead the girl and he certainly didn’t want her to know the truth if she wasn’t already aware of it.
Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller Page 6
