Lamb to the Slaughter (9781301399864)

by Ellis, Tim

  His feet were like blocks of ice. He was hungry, thirsty and he needed the toilet. ‘All right, thanks.’

  ‘I’ve taken a few photographs as well – just in case.’

  ‘Really?’ He climbed out of the car, locked it and followed the woman into the house opposite Dragan Milić’s house.

  ‘Do you mind if I use your toilet . . . ?’

  ‘The door on your left. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  After he’d relieved himself, he wandered along the hall to the kitchen. ‘Thank you . . . ?’

  ‘Sonia Nesbitt at your service.’ She gave him a three-fingered salute. ‘Previously Queen’s Guide and senior section leader with the Girl Guides.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘Sit, drink, eat,’ she said. ‘Stake-outs are thirsty and hungry work.’ She spoke as though she’d had years of stake-out experience.

  He pulled out a chair and sat down. On the table Sonia had provided a veritable feast of cheese crackers, a selection of cheeses, pickled onions, chutney, plum tomatoes, slices of crusty bread with butter, chunks of ham, boiled eggs . . .

  ‘Are you expecting a troop of girl guides?’

  She laughed like a walrus. ‘You need fattening up, young man. You’re far too thin.’

  He helped himself like a man who had just escaped from prison. ‘I am a bit hungry.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘I need to . . .’

  She tapped a television screen and switched it on. ‘Got it here. The cameras have been directed at that house. Don’t want to miss anything, do we?’

  He screwed up his eyes to peer at the tiny screen and could just make out the black van in front of the garage.

  She grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘The food will still be here when we get back.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  She led him upstairs, along the landing, through a door, up some more stairs and into an attic.

  ‘I can see everything from up here.’

  He glanced around the room. She had everything anybody could ever desire or need for a stakeout. There was a telescope on a tripod with a motor drive and automatic tracking pointing out of a skylight window; on a long table – neatly lined up – were a pair of high-powered day- and night-vision binoculars, a single-lens-reflex digital camera with a zoom lens that could have photographed a hummingbird drinking from the well of plenty, a laptop computer, recording equipment . . .

  ‘I’m an amateur compared to you,’ he said.

  ‘Be prepared, that’s the Girl Guides motto.’

  ‘You’re certainly that.’

  ‘Take a look through the telescope.’

  He stuck his eye over the lens. It took him a few tries to actually see anything, but then he jerked backwards.

  She laughed. ‘They do that a lot, I’m afraid. Like living in the same street as a warren of rabbits.’

  ‘Have you actually seen them doing anything . . . illegal?’

  ‘That should be illegal,’ she said. ‘Some of the things I’ve seen them doing . . . It must be a foreign thing. The British would never do anything like that. ’

  ‘Other than what they’re doing at the moment?’

  ‘It depends what you define as illegal.’ She pointed to a box of DVDs. ‘Six months worth of surveillance.’ Then she powered up the laptop.

  He saw three men sitting at a table playing cards. One of them spoke in a foreign language.

  His brow furrowed.

  ‘Over there,’ she said, pointing at Milić’s house.

  ‘You have cameras and microphones inside the house?’

  ‘They left the door open one day. As leader of the Neighbourhood Watch I felt it was my responsibility to check everything was all right. Just to be on the safe side, I installed some devices – for their own protection, you understand.’

  ‘Of course. Do you understand what they’re saying?’

  ‘Not a word – foreign gibberish. If they’re living over here they should be made to speak English, that’s what I say. Personally, I blame that Nick Clegg . . .’

  ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘Too smarmy for his own good.’

  ‘Have you ever seen any blond-haired children in the house?’

  ‘Not until yesterday. I saw three of them being transferred between his vehicle and another four-by-four. Here . . .’ she said, finding a file on the laptop. ‘This was from yesterday.’

  He only caught a glimpse of the three children, but he recognised them as the ones from Pitt’s house. ‘Any idea where they were taken?’

  ‘Do you think I’ve got nothing else better to do with my time?’

  He followed Sonia Nesbitt downstairs, eager to finish the food he’d piled on a plate.

  ‘You’re coffee has gone cold,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you another one.’

  While she did that, he phoned his contact at CEOP – Chief Inspector Tina Marzocca.

  ‘This had better be good,’ she said. ‘It’s quarter to two in the morning for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘It’s DS Rowley Gilbert.’

  ‘What’s so urgent that it can’t wait until I wake up naturally, Gilbert?’

  ‘I think I might have found what we’ve been looking for.’

  ***

  ‘Please?’ Valery Jacobs pleaded in a voice that was barely audible.

  She was suspended in a horizontal position by rope tied around her wrists and ankles. Those ropes had been looped through metal rings bolted to the walls, pulled tight and tied off, so that her body was stretched into a star shape.

  He’d chosen the place with exactly this in mind. It was an abandoned saddle-making factory on the outskirts of Broxbourne next to the railway line. The owners used to employ over two hundred local people to make leather horse saddles, bridles, reins and other equestrian equipment, but they couldn’t compete with German efficiency and quality.

  ‘Please? Yes, I recall saying that myself, but did you listen? No, you didn’t listen. My pleas fell on deaf ears. All you were interested in was your fucking paperwork. Well, let me tell you that life is about more than paperwork. Death is about paperwork. Life should be about something more than that.’

  ‘I was only doing my job.’

  ‘And you certainly did a wonderful job on me, Valery fucking Jacobs. But breaking families up isn’t a job – it’s a vocation. A person has to be really dedicated to do what you do. All that snooping and report-writing takes time and effort. Did you take your work home at night? Yes, I imagine you did. Did you sit there typing my name into your computer describing me as a dangerous psychopath who should be kept away from his family? Guess what, Valery – you got it wrong. It wasn’t my family that was in danger, it was you.’

  He squatted to stare into her eyes.

  ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘Please don’t do this.’

  ‘Do you know that I haven’t seen my children in twelve months. A father has a right to see his children, but you took that away from me. Nobody should stop a father from seeing his own children . . .’

  He was so fucking angry that he grabbed her throat and squeezed. As her eyes began to bulge he let go.

  She gulped in air, coughed and spluttered.

  ‘You make me so fucking angry. You’ve made it impossible for me to even speak to my children anymore. Well, just as my children don’t have a father, so your son won’t have a mother . . .’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  He laughed. ‘Hurt you? That’s the least of your problems. Shall I tell you what I’m going to do to you?’

  She began squealing and struggling against the ropes. Urine dribbled through her dress and onto the floor.

  ‘Now you’re getting the idea. Pissing yourself is exactly the response I was looking for.’ A teaspoon appeared in his hand. ‘I’ve made this little gizmo especially for you. Yes, I know it look
s like a teaspoon . . . Well, it is a teaspoon, but the end of the scoop has been sharpened for a specific purpose. I’m going to manoeuvre it over the top of your eyeballs, and then downwards. The sharpened end will slice through your optic nerve and your eyeball will simply pop out onto the floor.’

  Valery vomited.

  ‘It does sound a bit yucky, doesn’t it? Anyway, that’s the first part of the plan. I think it’ll be slightly uncomfortable – like having grit in your eye – but it won’t be too painful.’

  She began jerking about again.

  He held her head tight, forced the teaspoon through her closed left eyelid and over the top of her eyeball. The orb dropped onto the dusty floor, bounced once and rolled a couple of inches like a dobber marble. Whatever happened to marbles? Do children still play marbles? Do his children play marbles? The bitch had robbed him of ever playing marbles with his children.

  ‘Now for the right one.’ He used the teaspoon to dig out the right eyeball. ‘There we are – all done. It wasn’t too bad, was it?’

  He picked up the eyeballs from the floor one at a time and slid them into a clear plastic sandwich bag, which he knotted at the top. He then put the bag into a small cardboard box with a longitude and latitude written on the inside of the lid, jiggled it into the pre-addressed brown envelope and stuck the flap down.

  ‘There we are, all ready for delivery to DI Jed Parish at Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘What have you done to me?’

  He laughed. ‘I think you should be more worried about what’s to come than your missing eyeballs, Valery. Of course, I never did get to tell you about the second part of the plan. Well, I’m going to save the person who does your post mortem a job by emptying your abdominal cavity.’ He cut her clothes off with the Stanley knife he had in his pocket. She had defecated – he could both smell it and see the brown stain seeping through her white cotton knickers. Then, he reached under her, pushed the tip of the blade into her flabby pitted flesh and dragged the knife up towards her head – only stopping when he reached the base of her sternum.

  Her large intestine made a slapping sound as it hit the floor. He was surprised at the small amount of blood – he’d expected more. Instead, eighteen feet of small intestine unravelled on the floor like pork sausages being ejected from a sausage-making machine. Suspended from arteries, veins and sinews were the liver, the stomach and the spleen.

  ‘Abdominal wounds are the worst, you know. If I had the time, I could watch you die for two days or more. Sadly though, I don’t have the time.’ He dragged the blade across her throat.

  Expelled air hissed out.

  There, it was done.

  Just two more to go, he thought.

  On her forehead he carved: SEE NO EVIL, and then walked back to his car.

  He drove to Hoddesdon town centre, found the resident tramp – old Abram Welsh – and negotiated the delivery of the brown envelope to Hoddesdon Police Station for two bottles of methylated spirits.

  ‘Make sure it gets there, Abram.’

  ‘Sure will, Mister. For two bottles of meths I’d deliver your wife’s baby.’

  He smiled as he made his way back to the car. He’d heard rumours that old Abram had once been a doctor, but he didn’t believe them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  His services were in high demand. Another couple of kids and he’d think about retiring. At £50,000 a time – he was raking it in. He’d already identified a lovely four-bedroom villa in the Cote d’Azur with unhindered views of the coast. His wife Gabrielle and his two children – seven year old Timmy and five year-old Holly – were beginning to get excited at the prospect of moving to the south of France.

  He eased the French window of 77 Ellenslea Road open. The night was chilly, and he could hear a train pulling out of Hastings station.

  Once inside, he waited until his eyes became accustomed to the dark. The room looked like a study – with a worktop and chair, a computer, printer, bookshelf and storage cabinet. He made his way across the wood floor towards the half-open door.

  In the hallway he stopped and listened, but all he could hear was a motorcycle screeching into the night. As he took each stair he tested it first. He didn’t mind killing the parents, but it was a lot simpler if they remained asleep.

  At the top of the stairs it wasn’t hard to find the room he was looking for – on the door was a warning: Sarah-Rose’s Room – Keep Out.

  It didn’t scare him, he’d seen a lot worse. He crept along the landing, opened the door and went inside. The quilt was in a heap on the floor, and the girl was sleeping with head at the foot of the bed. He sat down next to her and put his hand over her mouth.

  Her eyes opened wide like an owl’s.

  ‘Sarah-Rose Justice?’

  She nodded her head.

  ‘If you scream or call out I’ll have to kill your mum and dad – do you want that?’

  Her head moved from side to side beneath his hand.

  ‘Good.’ He took his hand away.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the removal man.’

  ‘Are my mum and dad moving?’

  ‘No, but you are.’

  ‘Me?’ She began crying softly. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere without my mum and dad.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll look after you.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘I’m afraid you have no choice, Sarah-Rose.’

  The crying became louder. He covered her mouth with his hand again, took the chloroform out of his pocket with the other hand, unscrewed the cap with his thumb and forefinger and poured a helping onto the bottom sheet. He then grabbed the sheet and held it over her mouth and nose until she became limp.

  Some of the kids were really well-behaved, but others were a nightmare. After screwing the top back on the chloroform bottle, he picked seven year-old Sarah-Rose up and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of coal.

  Just then, the door opened and a woman in a nightdress was standing there.

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  ‘If you do I’ll kill your daughter.’

  Instead the mother said, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I think it’s fairly obvious what I’m doing – I’m taking Sarah-Rose.’

  ‘Where? Why? Oh God!’

  ‘The only question you need to answer is whether you’re willing to sacrifice your life for your daughter’s.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve seen my face.’

  ‘I promise I won’t tell anybody.’

  ‘I can’t take that chance. What’s it to be – your life or Sarah-Rose’s?’

  ‘Mine, of course.’

  He walked towards her. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘You’ll let Sarah-Rose live?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded.

  He pushed his knife into her heart.

  Tears sprang from her eyes. She reached up and kissed her daughter’s face, and then slid off the knife as she collapsed onto the carpet.

  He stepped over Mrs Talia Justice, and as he strode along the landing and down the stairs, he could hear Derek Justice snoring like a warthog in the main bedroom.

  Just before he departed through the open French window, he left a calling card on the worktop by the computer.

  ***

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Richards asked.

  ‘About what?’

  They were in his car on the way to the station. He felt as though a family of stick insects had moved into his eyes with their luggage and a three-piece band.

  It had taken him an age to get to sleep. He’d lain there thinking about what Professor Scoles had said. When sleep had finally arrived, he’d been woken up within what felt like five minutes by the alarm going off at five o’clock. Running ten miles in the cold and dark was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew that it would be all too easy to turn over and go back to sleep, and that was not who he was. He scrambled out of bed
, put his tracksuit and trainers on and forced himself out through the front door. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other – the rest of his body had ceased to function at about two o’clock.

  ‘Your sister.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You seem to have accepted everything at face value.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether you’re really a detective or a sponge.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You’ve lost the ability to challenge what’s put before you. I mean, you’ve accepted this fantastical story by the Scoles woman that I’m Zachary – the male twin from a top secret experiment called Epsilon 5, and that the government knew all about it. Surely you didn’t believe what she told you about Herbert Kühl being Mengele’s assistant and the British government letting him come over here with his family to carry on Mengele’s research into genetics?’

  ‘It all seemed plausible to me.’

  ‘It’s preposterous! He was a war criminal for goodness sake. No one in the government would have agreed to that.’

  ‘I saw a documentary . . .’

  ‘On the Crime Channel?’

  ‘No . . . it was on the History Channel actually. Papers were released by the National Archives in 2006. The American plan to recruit German scientists was called Operation Paperclip, and we named ours Operation Piccolo.’

  ‘Pinocchio more like! You’ll believe any old garbage.’

  ‘You’ll tell me if my nose gets bigger, won’t you?’

  ‘You can rely on me.’

  ‘They said that the UK drew up plans to "forcibly" employ leading German technicians and scientists previously involved in wartime research after WWII to prevent them from working for the Russians. There were fears that the Germans could help the Soviet air force become the most powerful in the world, and eventually about one hundred ended up agreeing to work for the UK government in 1946 and 1947. So, it’s not that far-fetched.’