Francis was the only one who had really listened to him, listened and understood his passion. He felt at ease with this man and was able to tell him things he had never confided to anyone else. Things about his childhood and his first encounter with uncooked flesh and the revelations that this had brought about. Francis never condemned or criticised him. Indeed, he began to smuggle in little treats: a piece of liver, a small cut of beef, and some pork. All uncooked and red with blood. It was their little secret. A secret that bonded them even closer.
And then the plan had developed. An idle remark. A casual aside. But it had created a spark with gradually ignited and the plan flickered into life.
And today was the day to put it into operation.
Through an innate ability to master his emotions, and a learned facility developed from being shut away in this Godforsaken dump, Northcote was able to maintain a cool and collected outlook even when exciting and dangerous things were about to happen. As he sat in his cell patiently waiting for the arrival of his visitor, the observer would have noticed nothing about his appearance to suggest a mood of suppressed anticipation and excitement. Except perhaps for the gentle – ever so gentle – movement of Northcote’s thumbs. While all other parts of his body remain statue-like still, his thumbs circled each outer in a lazy moribund fashion. It was the one chink in his armour, his one expression of inner excitement. Meanwhile the eyes were dead, glacial and dead, and the body remained rigid with the feet splayed flat on the floor. You could hardly tell the man was breathing.
But the thumbs continued to move like comatose butterflies.
* * *
As was his usual practice, Dr Francis Sexton kept on his hat, scarf and coat once he was inside the building. He was such a regular visitor to Newfield that he only had to flash his authorisation in a casual fashion to the guard on reception before he was allowed to pass through the locked section into the hospital.
‘You here again?’ asked the guard in a cheery fashion, hardly looking up from his library book, a western with the title ‘Me, Outlaw’.
Sexton nodded.
‘Hardly seems five minutes since the last visit.’ The man chuckled. ‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’ He chuckled again at his own sarcasm and returned to the dust of Arizona.
Sexton made his way to E block where Northcote’s cell was situated. It was a cold, gloomy building with the smell of damp and decay always in the air. The décor was a mixture of the faded and neglected original Victorian furnishings and the utilitarian touches institutionalised grimness. He passed a few staff on his way but no one took much notice of him or gave him a greeting.
Eventually he reached E block and passed through swing doors which led him down a short tiled corridor at the end of which was Northcote’s cell: E 2. A young man in a white coat sat outside the room. It looked to Sexton as though he had dropped off to sleep – and who could blame him, sitting on guard outside a madman’s room just in case he became unruly, agitated, violent. To Sexton’s knowledge, Northcote had exhibited none of these symptoms since he had been admitted eight years ago. The sound of Sexton’s shoes clipping sharply on the tiled floor seemed to rouse the young man from his doze. He glanced up and observed the approaching visitor. Before the doctor was upon him, he recognised that grey overcoat and the black fedora. He rose to his feet and taking a key from the pocket of his white coat he slipped it into the door.
‘A glutton for punishment, I reckon that’s what you are,’ grinned the young man sleepily.
Sexton emitted a non-committal grunt.
The door swung open and he entered the cell. No sooner had he done so than the door clanged to behind him.
Northcote rose from his chair and the two men stood facing each other, neither of them opening their mouths, but their eyes spoke volumes. Gradually Northcote raised his right arm, and extended it towards his visitor. Sexton took it and the two men shook hands.
‘Dr Sexton, it is so good to see you,’ said Northcote in his strange gravelly voice, which had developed since his incarceration. He spoke little, hardly a few sentences a day, and it was as though his vocal chords had become rusty and were in danger of seizing up.
‘And you too, Ralph,’ he said with a ghost of a smile, as he placed his briefcase on the floor.
Northcote’s eyes darted in its direction, wide with anticipation. ‘You have perhaps brought me some treats.’
‘Later. For now, it is time to get rid of that beard.’
Opening the briefcase he extracted a small cardboard box and handed it to Northcote. It contained a pair of scissors, a shaving brush and a piece of shaving soap. ‘Put the debris in the box,’ said Sexton.
Moving to the little sink with a piece of aluminium which acted as a mirror, he began chopping away at his unruly growth. Sexton, took off his hat, coat and scarf and sat on the bed to watch. Ten minutes later, Northcote had completed his task. Scratching his chin, he turned to his visitor. ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Well, you look like the ghost of Christmas Past, but at least you don’t look like you did.’
‘Feels strange,’ Northcote said, rubbing his chin. ‘But that’s good. Anything which has a touch of novelty is good in this place. Now, can I have my little treats?’
Sexton nodded and retrieved a small damp brown bag from his briefcase. ‘A little liver,’ he said. ‘Fresh meat is very hard to come by at this time,’
‘The war, you mean?’
‘Yes, the war.’
Northcote shook his head. ‘I know nothing of the war in this shabby cocoon.’ He tore open the bag and his eyes flickered with glee at the sight of the slimy red offal. There were two pieces each about the size of a child’s hand. He snatched one up and slapped it to his mouth and chewing on it noisily for a few seconds, sucking the blood from it, before he bit into it. He gave a gurgle of delight as he chomped on a ragged fragment. Sexton watched with fascination as with the serious deliberation of an animal Northcote devoured the liver, slowly but with enthusiastic relish. When he had finished his lips and cheeks were smeared red. He looked like a crazy clown.
’You’d better clean your face,’ said Sexton with a half smile.
‘A little water clears us of this deed,’ replied Northcote moving to the sink where he ran the tap and swilled the blood away. He stared as blood, now pink diluted by the water, spiralled away down the plughole.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That was most tasty. I get nothing like that in here. Everything is incinerated before it reaches a plate.’
Sexton ignored the remark. He had heard many similar ones before. It was Northcote’s usual and predictable mantra after consuming his meaty titbit.
‘Are you ready? Are you prepared?’
Northcote nodded. ‘I am.’
* * *
The young man was interrupted from his day dream – a languorous affair that featured one of his favourite film stars in a state of undress – by a tapping on the door of cell E 2.
‘My session is over. I’m ready to leave now. Thank you,’ said a voice.
It was exactly the same set of words Dr Sexton used on every occasion he visited.
The young man roused himself and unlocked the cell.
’Thank you,’ said Sexton gruffly, pulling down his hat and then hurrying off along the corridor.
Some minutes later, he passed the guard on reception with a brief wave and was soon out into the growing dusk, breathing the free fresh air for the first time in eight years.
* * *
The evening meal, if such a grand term could be used for the lukewarm slop that was usually served up for the inmates of Newfield, was dished up at around six in the evening. And so it was on this occasion. The young man, still on duty, was presented with a tray by one of the kitchen staff. It contained a plate of mashed potatoes and some greyish meat substitute and piece of bread and a glass of water.
‘For his lordship,’ said the skivvy with a sneer.
The young man grinned a
nd unlocked the cell door.
‘Grub up,’ he called as he entered. What met his eyes caused him to drop the tray. It clattered noisily on the tiled floor, the food spilling widely, some of it onto the trousers of the prone figure which was slumped face downwards by the bed.
The young man bent down and turned him over. The sight that met his eyes caused him to emit a strange strangled cry.
The unconscious face belonged to Dr Francis Sexton. He had a deep cut to his forehead which was seeping blood down his face.
‘My God!’ cried the young man. ‘Christ!’ he added for good measure.
For a moment these exclamations were all he felt capable of. He was shocked and stunned into inaction by this weird turn of events. Gradually, his brain began to function and the situation before him came into focus. He rose to his feet and rushed into the corridor to press the alarm bell.
Out in the darkened car park, the man in Dr Francis Sexton’s coat and hat unlocked the boot of his car and clambered inside.
FOUR
I sat staring at the pint of beer before me, watching the minute bubbles that were clinging to the rim of the glass disappear one by one. Fascinating though this vision was, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was running my interview with Father Sanderson over again in my mind. It was now lunchtime and I had sought shelter and sustenance – a pint and a cheese sandwich – in a small pub near the church.
The conversation – the one about the hanged woman whom Sanderson thought had been murdered – intrigued me as a detective. He was so convinced that the police had got it wrong, read the signs incorrectly and/or were happy to tidy up yet another death into the solved drawer. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time this had happened. I was a copper before the war and I knew how desperate some officers were to wrap up an investigation as soon as possible and in a self imposed, blinkered fashion, accepting the probable as the truth rather than consider other options.
‘I’d rather like you to investigate the matter, Johnny. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m not sure I’m the man to do the job,’ I said, my feet already getting cold. I wasn’t confident that I was up to this investigation and besides…
‘Oh, I expect this to be a professional arrangement. I will pay you, of course.’
I shook my head vigorously. ‘I couldn’t accept money from you…’
‘Because I’m a priest? A man of the cloth?’
My expression must have told him that he was correct in his assumption. How could I charge this impoverished old cleric for my services? And yet how could I afford the time and expenses to carry out an investigation for him? I was impoverished too.
‘But I’m your client,’ he responded with some warmth, his cheeks flushing. ‘I have a little money put away for a rainy day and I reckon this is it. I was very fond of Annie. I wish to engage your services. This is not a favour I’m asking: I want to see justice done.’
Reluctantly I agreed, but I had little needles of guilt pricking me at the idea of taking money from the old fellow.
So that was it. My first case in the new year. My first case since the death of Max. I raised my glass of the now rather flat beer in a toast to the beginning of the rehabilitation of John Hawke.
While I was in the vicinity, I visited the police station on Frampton Street and as luck would have it, Sergeant Harmsworth was on desk duty. I explained who I was and Father Sanderson’s concerns. Harmsworth grinned. He seemed an affable, comfortable chap, easy going if a little bovine. Unlike some coppers, he did not seem at all concerned that I was a private detective meddling in their affairs.
‘Oh, I know all about the Father’s theory that the old bird was murdered. I suppose being a man of God, he likes a little mystery. But I can tell you, there was nothing mysterious about Annie Salter’s death. She hung herself. Plain and simple. There was not a scrap of evidence that a second party was involved. She even left a note.’
I nodded sympathetically to create the impression that I agreed with him fully and that Father Sanderson’s notions were groundless.
‘Could I see the note?’ I asked.
‘If we’ve still got it. Hang on. I’ll have a look in the back office.’
He shifted his ample frame off his stool and disappeared into the far reaches of the station, returning a few minutes later holding a piece of paper.
‘Here you are, Mr Hawke,’ he grinned again, passing me the note. It was written in pencil on a scrap of paper torn from a cheap note book. There were the words as I had been told: ‘I just can’t go on any longer.’ The handwriting was shaky and clumsy – whether this was as a result of emotion was a matter of contention.
‘Father Sanderson says that this is not Annie Salter’s handwriting,’ I said casually.
Harmsworth shrugged. ‘We’d nothing to judge it against, but as far as we could tell old Sanderson didn’t have much familiarity with her writing in any case. And besides, if you are going to top yourself, the last thing you’re gonna do is write in your best handwriting, are you? The hand’ll be shaking too much for your actual copperplate.’ He chuckled at his own conceit.
I turned the note over. The paper was blank but there was a little stain in the bottom corner.
‘You can keep it if you like,’ said Harmsworth, hoisting himself back on his stool. ‘We’ve no use for it now.’
‘Thank you,’ I said graciously, slipping the note in my pocket. I reckoned I had seen more in that scrap of paper than the ample sergeant and his colleagues had.
My first real task was to find out more about Annie Salter: her history and her circumstances. Father Sanderson had been able to jot down the address of her cousin, a Mrs Frances Coulson, the only blood relative to attend the funeral. She lived in Chelmsford and her rather bijou semi-detached house was to be my first port of call.
If anything the day had grown more miserable by the time I had travelled to Chelmsford and found my way to Worthington Avenue. The sky had coagulated into a uniform dark grey and the wind had sharpened, piercing the folds of my overcoat causing me to shiver involuntarily.
Father Sanderson had told me that Frances Coulson was a woman in her mid-forties. She was a widow. Her husband had been something important in one of the city banks and had left her reasonably well provided for. That was all. I got the impression that he would have liked to tell me more about the woman, but he held back. No doubt he did not want to colour my impression of the lady. He thought I should make up my own mind about her. I was the detective after all. However, his reticence in this matter suggested to me that there was something he didn’t quite like about Mrs Frances Coulson.
The Coulson dwelling was a very neat affair indeed: neat privet hedge, neat rectangular lawn, and neat shiny knocker on a neat green front door. I knocked, straightened my tie and waited.
I heard a voice somewhere in the house calling out, ‘Coming.’
And indeed in less than a minute she came. Frances Coulson opened the door bringing with her a strong whiff of pungent perfume. When she saw me, the broad crimson grin disappeared almost immediately from her lips and her eyebrows lowered with disdain. I was either a great disappointment to her or she had been expecting someone else. I decided it was both.
‘You’re not selling anything, are you?’ she said, managing to inject a sneer into the query.
I raised my hat and proffered my card. ‘I’d like to have a little chat with you about Annie Salter,’ I said gently with a polite smile.
She studied my card for a moment. ‘Some detective you are,’ she observed sourly, the sneer still in place. ‘Haven’t you heard? Annie Salter’s dead.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I know. That’s why I wanted a little chat with you.’
‘What’s this all about?’
‘Well, if we can have that chat, I can explain.’
Indecision clouded her features for a moment and then she sighed. ‘Very well, you’d better come in – but only for five minutes mind. I am expect
ing a visitor.’
That explained the crimson smile then.
Mrs Coulson was an attractive woman, full bodied, veering towards the stout with a smooth complexion which she attempted to hide with too much face powder. She wore a pin-striped pencil skirt and a tight angora sweater which emphasised her curves, which were substantial. At a little over five foot she was too short for my liking, but I can imagine many a middle-aged gent taking a fancy to the sweet-smelling and curvy Mrs C.
She lead me into the lounge, which like her was attractive, if a little over the top. Vibrant cushions, shiny trinkets and a garish rug clamoured for attention with the rather nauseous patterned wallpaper. There was a wedding photograph in a silver frame on the sideboard. It showed a younger but similarly over-dressed version of Mrs C with her husband outside a registrar office. She was in large checked suit with fox furs and a ridiculous hat; he, a weedy incongruous fellow, was draped in a pin striped suit that seemed two sizes two big for him and had a grin which suggested he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have this lovely creature on his arm and, indeed, in his bed.
The gramophone in the corner was playing a dance tune when we entered the room but, with quick staccato movements, Mrs C stopped it, replacing the lid with a sharp snap.
She didn’t ask me to sit down or offer me a drink. She really did mean five minutes.
‘What’s all this about, then?’ she snapped, standing with her back to the fireplace and giving me a gorgon stare.
‘There is some concern… some doubt as to the manner of Annie’s death and so…’
‘Nonsense. She committed suicide. Didn’t they find her hanging from her own ceiling? And she left a note.’
A Taste for Blood Page 3
