A Taste for Blood

by Davies, David Stuart;

  ‘The authenticity of the note has been called into question.’

  ‘Authenticity? You mean whether she wrote it.’

  I nodded. ‘The handwriting…’

  ‘She was distressed. She was just about to top herself. Her handwriting would have been all over the place…’ She paused her eyes widening with feline ferocity. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘It’s possible that she didn’t kill herself.’

  She looked shocked at this suggestion. Whether she was acting, I couldn’t tell. If she was, it was a good performance.

  ‘You mean that she was… that someone killed her?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said, reaching for a cigarette box on the mantelpiece. ‘Who’d want to kill her? For what reason?’

  ‘Sometimes there doesn’t have to be a reason.’

  There came that stare again. It almost came with a cat-like hiss this time.

  ‘You’re not with the police, are you?’

  ‘No. My client is not satisfied with the suicide verdict. He’s asked me to investigate.’

  ‘Who is this lunatic, your client?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say. It’s a confidential matter, you understand.’

  Frances Coulson rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, I understand. Okay then, Dick Tracy, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Anything you can tell me about Annie. You were cousins.’

  ‘We were cousins, yes, but in our case blood wasn’t thicker than water. I knew her best when I was a kid and I didn’t care much for her then. She was twelve years older than me and she used to look after me when mother went out.’

  ‘Why didn’t you like her?’

  ‘She was too prim and proper. A real goody two shoes. She was no fun. And she remained no fun all her life. Hanging herself just about summed her up.’

  ‘What do you know of her marriage? Her son?’

  Suddenly Frances Coulson emitted a strange laugh. I guessed it was one of amusement but it was chilling in its sharpness and ferocity.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I ventured.

  ‘That was when Madam Goody Two Shoes fell by the wayside. There was no marriage. The lady was no widow. She just got herself pregnant with the first man who showed any interest in her. And as soon as he’d got her into bed, he disappeared from sight and who could blame him. She invented the phantom hubby for the sake of respectability. Once the baby was born, she turned to religion and never let another man near her.’

  ‘What about her son?’

  ‘Malcolm? Don’t know much about him. I only met him a couple of times. He could twist his mother round his little finger, though. Still, mustn’t speak ill of the dead. Poor bugger copped it at Dunkirk. He was only nineteen.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Annie?’

  ‘Oh, God, that was years ago… no, hang on a minute, I tell a lie. I bumped into her by accident a few months back when I was up in town. I was meeting a friend to go to the pictures and I’d just popped into Woolworth’s down Oxford Street and when I came out I ran into Annie.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  Frances Coulson shrugged. ‘Much the same as always: dowdy and a bit miserable. No, actually she was more than a bit miserable. She seemed quite distracted. She didn’t really want to talk, which was fine by me because we have… had… nothing in common. I mean blood ties stand for nothing, do they? There’s more fallings out between families… Just because you’re related doesn’t mean you have to get on, have to like one another, does it? Anyway, I must admit I did feel a bit sorry for the poor old cow that last time. She seemed so down and …old. She’d aged quite a bit. I suppose looking back, I can now see that she was probably depressed. Obviously she got worse and couldn’t face going on anymore. And so…’

  ‘Did she give any clues as to why she was depressed?’

  ‘No. I asked her how life was treating her and she said something about God helping her to carry on.’

  ‘What about friends? Do you know if she had any?’

  ‘If she did, she never mentioned them to me. There might have been some sad soul at her church that she cottoned on to but somehow I doubt it. She was always a lonely woman, solitary, and when Malcolm died she shifted right back into her shell.’ With a dramatic gesture she stubbed out her cigarette. ‘If you want my advice, Mr Detective Man, I should abandon this wild goose chase. It’s clear to me that Annie Salter committed suicide because she saw no reason to go on living. The idea of someone murdering her is plain daft. Why on earth would anyone want to? For what reason? How would her death benefit anyone? Forget it.’

  She moved to the door and swung it open to indicate that the interview was over. That was OK by me. It was clear that I wouldn’t be squeezing any more juice out of this particular orange. However, I was convinced she had told me all she wanted me to hear. That there was more to the story was certain, but I wouldn’t get it from her.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, heading through the hall to the outer door. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

  I could manipulate the truth also.

  To be fair, the chat with the sparky Mrs Coulson hadn’t been a complete waste of time. It did help me start to build up a picture, albeit one-sided at the moment, of the dead woman.

  As I walked down the street, I passed a smart wiry fellow who seemed in a great hurry. He was the sort of chap one saw at the dog track: tweed jacket, bright yellow waistcoat, extremely shiny brogues and a trilby perched precariously on one side of his head. He had marked aquiline features but shifty with it. I suppose he was quite good looking if you go for that sort of thing. I reckoned Mrs Coulson did for I turned and watched his progress and saw that he moved swiftly up her garden path and rang the bell with alacrity. So, he was the reason I had only the five minutes.

  * * *

  On my way back into town, to my neck of the woods, I selected the information I thought was relevant and useful from my conversation with the prickly Mrs Coulson and filed it for further use. I reckoned that now I needed a more in depth chat with my client, Father Sanderson. At the moment he seemed to be the only person who could give me more unbiased details about Annie Salter’s character and circumstances. Unbiased? Well, maybe I was being naïve.

  Something the delectable Mrs Coulson had said was very pertinent to my investigation: ‘How would her death benefit anyone?’ The answer to that was the key to the whole matter. It usually boils down to motive. Why had Annie been killed? What purpose did her death serve? And to whom? That is what I had to discover. It was a challenge, but I had been faced with such challenges before and succeeded.

  One thing I had realised in making my brief excursion to Chelmsford was that I had begun to feel a little bit like my old self again. It was good to be on the scent once more and exercising my detective skills, however modest. In fact I even managed a smile, a genuine one this time.

  With this lightening of my mood, I decided that it was time to repair a few fences. It wasn’t that I had fallen out with Benny, my old friend the café owner who had mother-henned me for years, it was that I had shunned him in recent months. I couldn’t put up with his kindness and solace. I was hurting too much. I didn’t want kind words and pots of tea. I was selfish, I suppose: I wanted to wallow unsolicited in my own grief.

  It was growing dark when I reached his café. It was nearing closing time and there were just a couple of customers, each huddled over a cup of tea staring into space. Benny was at the counter reading a newspaper. He looked up as I entered, his face registering a mixture of emotions. It was clear that he didn’t know whether he ought to be pleased or dismayed at my appearance.

  ‘Any chance of tea and toast?’ I said cheerily.

  For a few moments Benny still remained uncertain how to react, so I broadened my grin. ‘Today would be good.’

  Benny’s face suddenly lit up with pleasure. ‘Today it is. Grab a seat and I’ll have it with you in a trice.’ With a little chuckle, he hurried
off to the kitchen.

  Five minutes later I was munching toast lavishly smothered with margarine and strawberry jam while Benny sat opposite me, an indulgent grin wreathing his features.

  ‘So… how have you been?’ he asked gently, testing the water.

  ‘Miserable. Feeling sorry for myself, but I think I’m starting to crawl out of that particular hole.’

  ‘That’s good. That’s what we all want: the old Johnny back.’

  ‘I’m not so sure you’ll get that, but I’ll try not to be a pain in the backside.’

  Benny rolled his eyes. ‘The old Johnny was always a pain in the backside.’

  I nodded wearily. I reckoned that Benny was right.

  Suddenly his features darkened. ‘You should see Peter. He’s been missing you. He comes in here twice a week and mopes. He’s deliberately stayed away from you because he feels you don’t want to see him…’

  I shook my head with dismay. ‘That’s not true. It’s just… it’s just…’

  Benny touched my arm. ‘I know. But he’s very young still. A tender shrub. Despite his height and long trousers, he’s still just a kid and kids need love and affection.’

  ‘What about the girlfriend? How’s that going?’

  ‘Oh, well, I think there has been some cooling off there.’ He grinned. ‘The flames of passion have waned a little. As I say he’s still just a kid. He needs some mature advice.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m qualified to offer it. Look at the mess my life is in.’

  ‘Hey, I thought we had stopped feeling sorry for ourself. Count your blessings, Mr Hawke. There are many folk in this town in a far worse state than you. You lost a loved one. Yes. But there are thousands out there in that same big boat. Remember with fondness and grieve for them but get on with your life. Grieve for them – not for yourself.’

  As always, Benny was the source of sound advice.

  FIVE

  Gingerly Dr Sexton touched the bandages that covered the wounds on the back of his head.

  ‘I reckon you’ll have a stinker of a headache for quite a few days, sir’ observed Inspector Horace Wisden gravely. He was a big man with a face like a rumpled pillow which housed a pair of kindly brown eyes.

  ‘Yes. But I suppose I should be grateful that the brute didn’t kill me.’

  ‘Too true,’ replied the inspector in a distracted fashion as he turned over the pages of his notebook.

  They were sitting in a small office in Newfield House. It was here that Sexton had been bandaged by one of the medical orderlies after it had been established that he had suffered only surface wounds. He had then been interviewed by Wisden who had arrived on the scene with a body of men shortly after the alarm was given of Northcote’s escape. The officers were searching the grounds while Sexton gave his statement.

  ‘Well, I think we’ve got all the information that you can give us at the moment. It may be that we will call on you again, of course.’

  ‘Does that mean I can go?’

  ‘Well, yes, but are you sure you’re safe to drive? I mean …a blow to the head.’

  ‘Oh, I’m perfectly fine apart from the headache. I’m not likely to keel over at the wheel and I can see perfectly well. No double vision.’

  Wisden seemed unconvinced. ‘If you’re sure.’

  Sexton nodded gently. ‘I’m sure.’ He rose eagerly and made his way to the door but Wisden took hold of his sleeve and held him back. Sexton’s heart skipped a beat.

  ‘There was just one thing, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sexton’s voice was dry and tense.

  ‘Well, I reckon you probably know this Northcote as well as anyone. The workings of his brain, I mean.’

  Sexton gazed at the police inspector non-committally and said nothing.

  ‘In your opinion, what is the fellow likely to do now that’s he’s out, escaped? Where do you think he will go? What will he do?’

  ‘I am sorry but I can’t really help you there. You see there’s no logic in a mind like his. A mind without reason is unfathomable. We can sometimes discover what stimulates such violent and anti-social behaviour but one cannot predict what such a creature will do. It’s a cliché, Inspector, but I’m afraid your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Do you think he will try to kill again?’

  Sexton gave a bleak smile. ‘Oh, yes. I am quite sure of that.’

  * * *

  Dr Sexton stood on the steps by the main door of Newfield House and breathed in the cold night air. Already the frost was forming on the bushes and exposed rooftops of the outbuildings and his breath escaped in little white clouds. A number of police officers, their torches like mini-searchlights, were roaming the grounds in search of the fugitive.

  It was a futile task.

  Sexton made his way to his car. On reaching it, he tapped three times on the boot lid, paused and tapped three times again. After a brief pause, he heard the same set of taps repeated by the resident within the boot. Sexton beamed and swung himself into the driver’s seat. Within minutes he had passed through the gates of the institution and was out on the open road.

  * * *

  Just over an hour later, he pulled into the drive of his detached house. Unlocking the garage, he drove the car inside and then closed the doors before pulling open the boot of the car. The occupant within, who had been hunched into a ball slowly unfurled himself with a groan. With the help of Sexton he managed to clamber out of the boot. With a further groan, he stood erect. For some moments neither man spoke.

  Northcote eventually stretched, his arms reaching above his head and grinned. ‘That feels good,’ he said at length, almost to himself.

  ‘Let’s go into the house and get you settled in your quarters,’ said Sexton with some eagerness. He was anxious to have the fugitive out of sight.

  ‘Lead on,’ replied Northcote easily. He was enjoying himself.

  Once inside the house, Sexton drew the curtains in the sitting room before switching on the lights. Northcote slumped down in an arm chair, his feet splaying out before him. ‘This is grand,’ he said, still grinning. ‘After what I’ve been used to it’s like the Ritz.’

  ‘A cup of tea or something stronger?’

  ‘Tea will do just fine for now. I reckon I need to find my sea legs before I get onto the liquor with not having had a drop for eight years.’

  ‘O.K. I won’t be a moment. Then we can talk.’ Sexton bustled off into the kitchen.

  Left alone Northcote sat back, closed his eyes and relaxed. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so contented. He could hear the rattling of tea cups and the gush of water into the kettle and the popping of the gas ring in the kitchen – ordinary domestic noises that were music to his ears. He had almost fallen asleep by the time Sexton returned with a tea tray.

  The tea was dark brown and strong. Northcote gulped it down. ‘Not your normal brew, is it?’

  ‘Earl Grey. Very refreshing. Would you care for another cup?’

  ‘Yes, I think I will.’

  Sexton poured him another cup. He himself had settled for a gin and tonic.

  ‘Smooth as a baby’s bottom, eh?’ said Northcote as he sipped his second cup of tea, his voice heavy and tired.

  Sexton nodded. Automatically his fingers reached for his bandaged scalp. As he pressed gently, he felt a small twinge of pain. ‘You certainly gave me a bit of a headache,’ he observed drily. There was no humour in his voice.

  Northcote gave a lazy grin. ‘Sorry about that but we needed some authenticity.’

  He stumbled over the word ‘authenticity’ and shook his head slowly as if to dislodge the overpowering sensation of tiredness that was creeping over him. It was as if all the life in his body was being drained from him.

  ‘Authenticity,’ he repeated in the same clumsy manner before allowing the cup and saucer to fall from his grasp. His eyes widened momentarily in dreamy surprise as the room swirled about him, he slumped backwards unconscious in the chair.

  ‘
Sweet dreams,’ said Sexton, smiling at last. ‘Time to escort you to your new home.’

  * * *

  When Ralph Northcote regained consciousness, he found that he was lying on a camp bed in a darkened chamber, illuminated by one dim electric light bulb dangling above his head. As the clouds of the drug slowly dissolved and his vision and mind stumbled back into focus, gradually he was able to take stock of his new surroundings. He saw that he was in a vaulted cellar, the limed walls of which were grubby and blemished with patches of green mould at irregular intervals. Confused as to where he was and why he was here, he tried to drag his body into a sitting position but had great difficulty in doing so. In fact he failed. Something was preventing him. It took his hazy mind a few seconds to realise why. His left hand was handcuffed to the metal bed head.

  He was a prisoner.

  Again.

  He could not move from the confines of the bed.

  Panic and distress overwhelmed him in an instant and he screamed. His utterance was loud and inarticulate, like a wounded animal caught in a trap – which in essence he was. Strangely he found some comfort and solace in screaming, so he continued. With his eyes screwed tight and his fingers clenched, he bellowed at the top of his voice.

  Suddenly a door at the end of the dank chamber opened and a figure in a white coat entered. Northcote ceased yelling and, opening his eyes, he stared at the figure in disbelief as it approached the bed.

  It was Francis Sexton.

  ‘Ah, you’ve returned to the land of the living, eh?’ he said smoothly, moving towards the bed, a self-satisfied grin touching his shadowy features. ‘Strong stuff that tea.’

  Northcote shook his head in a desperate attempt to dislodge this hallucination from his sight. This mad vision. Was he dreaming? Was this really happening? Or was he going crazy?

  ‘What… what the hell is going on?’ he asked, his voice tired from all his screaming, now reduced to a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Welcome to your new home.’ Sexton threw his arms out in a theatrical gesture to encompass the gloom.

  Northcote shook his head miserably. ‘I don’t understand.’