A Taste for Blood

by Davies, David Stuart;

  ‘There’s not a lot to understand. Simply, you’re my prisoner now.’

  ‘Prisoner? Why?’ Northcote tugged on the handcuff. ‘Why have you done this?’

  ‘Because it suits my purposes, my plans.’

  ‘What plans?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you need concern yourself with those for the moment. They do not require your active participation. Let us just say that you are simply my insurance, my alibi.’

  Northcote felt a wave of despair crash over him. He didn’t know what Sexton meant but he knew that he was in deep trouble. ‘You can’t do this to me,’ he wailed. ‘You and I were going to be partners…’

  ‘Were we? In your dreams, my dear fellow. Why should I associate myself with an insane murderer?’

  ‘You know I’m not insane.’

  Sexton gave a little shrug as a wry smile touched his features briefly. ‘Maybe I do, but that’s not what the authorities think and will continue to think once I set to work.’

  Northcote shook his head in confusion. The effects of the drug were still fogging his mind. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Sexton chuckled. ‘Couldn’t possibly tell you. Don’t you know careless talk costs lives?’ His laugh grew louder, echoing loudly inside Northcote’s brain.

  ‘Sweet dreams,’ added Sexton softly as he made to leave. ‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’ He switched out the light and closed the door. In the pitch darkness, Northcote could hear the key turning in the lock.

  SIX

  The vicarage of St Saviour’s was a run down affair. The crumbling Victorian edifice had been an impressive adjunct to the church in its day but now it was in serious need of repair with damp and mould making a major invasion both inside and out. Father James Sanderson used only a few of the rooms, the rest were closed up and left for the insidious decay to take possession. It crossed my mind that it would almost be a blessing if the building received a direct hit on a Nazi bombing raid – providing no one was hurt – so that the place could be put out of its misery.

  When I called that evening, Father Sanderson was just washing up a few dishes from his evening meal. He bade me take a seat by the meagre fire and offered me a cup of tea. Soon I would be awash with the stuff.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon,’ he said, sitting opposite me. ‘Don’t tell me that you’ve made some progress already.’

  ‘I won’t tell you, because I haven’t, but I realise that I need to know more about Annie Salter so I can start building up some theories. It’s all a bit vague at the moment.’

  This was a soft start to the questioning. I had decided to bide my time for the moment.

  Sanderson shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be much help to you. I doubt if I can tell you any more that I have already. I didn’t know the woman’s background all that well.’

  ‘Who did?’

  He shrugged again. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What about neighbours?’

  ‘Well, Annie was a very private person, she kept herself to herself but I believe she was quite friendly with the chap next door. Archie Dawson. He’s an artist, cartoonist. He does a strip in one of the kids’ comic cuts. He’s at number 14. I got the impression from what she said that he kept a kindly eye on her.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘What about Annie’s son?’

  Sanderson screwed up his face as though he were in pain. ‘He was a little devil. Got himself into trouble with the law before the war. I reckon if he hadn’t gone into the army, he’d be back in gaol now.’

  ‘Did he have any friends locally?’

  ‘Malcolm made enemies not friends. You’re not thinking that there’s someone who might have a grudge against Malcolm who’d take it out on his mother?’

  It was my turn to shrug. ‘Not really. It would be a little convoluted and as the boy is dead there’d be little point. But, I suppose, stranger things have happened. I’m not ruling anything out yet.’

  ‘You know best. You’re the detective.’

  These words did not cheer me. They just reminded me of the burden I was carrying. I remembered that earlier in the day I had regarded this case as a challenge. In a few short hours it had become a burden. Oh dear!

  ‘What regiment was Malcolm assigned to?’

  ‘The London Regiment, I think.’

  ‘And there was no other member of the congregation that Annie was friendly with?’

  Father Sanderson thought for a moment. ‘Well, she shared the flower rota for the church with Mrs Dewhurst, Rita Dewhurst. I don’t think the two women had much in common but they did sort of work together.’

  Father Sanderson gave me her address and I made notes of all these names in my little notebook, although this procedure did not fill me with much hope. All they promised were a series of bland conversations à la Mrs Coulson. I reckoned it was time to grasp the nettle. If I was to get anywhere with this case, there was no room for holding back or pussy-footing around.

  ‘Well,’ I said, rising from my chair, ‘thanks for your help, but no thanks for your hindrance.’

  To my great satisfaction Sanderson’s jaw dropped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice full of uncertainty.

  ‘And so am I. To be honest Father, I am puzzled. Do you really want me to find the murderer of Annie Salter?’

  ‘Why bless you, of course I do.’

  ‘Then I must ask you to stop prevaricating. You know more than you’ve told me. You have given me only half a tale and expect me to work with that. If Annie Salter was murdered, you know why. She has been distressed for some time. There was no one closer to her than you. She must have unburdened herself to you. But, for some reason, you and God were unable to help her. It was your guilt that led you to engage me, wasn’t it?’

  The priest turned from me, his body shaking with emotion. He muttered something but I did not catch what he said.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, my voice rising in frustration. ‘Help me.’

  ‘I cannot,’ he muttered, swinging around in the chair to face me once more, his eyes moist with tears.

  ‘She told you something, didn’t she? In confessional? That’s what the box is for, after all, isn’t it? For people to tell you their horrid truths. I reckon that she told you something that made you aware that she was in great danger. Greater than you realised.’

  Father Sanderson said nothing but I could see from his expression and the haunted look in his damp eyes that I was on the right track.

  ‘So when you found her hanging there, murdered, you wrote a suicide note in a strange hand to help convince the police that it was murder. But, unfortunately for you, they weren’t having any of it.’

  ‘You are a clever detective, after all,’ said Father Sanderson, allowing himself a slight smile. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because you are not such a clever deceiver.’ I fished the suicide note out of my pocket. ‘This paper was torn out of a notebook. It is the identical kind of notepaper, in fact, on which you wrote Mrs Frances Coulson’s address for me.’ With a flourish I now produced this sheet and matched the two together.

  ‘Careless, but not conclusive,’ I continued. ‘However, although you tried to disguise your handwriting in the note, you could not quite eradicate some of your own stylistics. The squashed ‘e’ and the little flourish on top of the ‘o’, for example. There is much personality in an individual’s handwriting and like certain facial features, they are difficult to disguise. To be fair, you did quite well, but not well enough. On top of all that there was a small red stain in the bottom left corner. Communion wine, I suspect’.

  Father Sanderson ran a bony hand through his thick crop of grey hair. ‘I can see that I seriously underestimated you, Johnny.’

  ‘It’s easily done. Usually with just cause – but not in this instant. Anyway, now it’s time to come clean and tell me all. Why was Annie Salter murdered? What was her dangerous secret?


  ‘I cannot tell you what she told me in the confessional. You know that. It is against the strict laws of my calling. It is between her and God.’

  ‘So where do you fit into this relationship? As an errant eavesdropper? I am sure God would approve of you helping me catch a murderer.’

  Father Sanderson shook his head and placed his hand on his heart. ‘I would like to, my son, but I just cannot.’

  With a great effort – and it was a great effort – I contained my anger for the moment. My instinct was to grab the old cleric and shake him violently until he spilled the beans, but what stopped me was my respect for a man of the church and, more particularly, the belief that even if I shook the fellow until his teeth fell out, he still wouldn’t tell me.

  ‘You are right,’ he said slowly. ‘I was the first to find Annie and I did write the note before I went round to see the police. I thought that if I convinced them that the note was written by someone else, they’d believe it was a murder and investigate. In this way I wasn’t betraying any of Annie’s confidences.’

  ‘Isn’t it a sin to let the murderer go free?’

  ‘I don’t know who the murderer is, Johnny. Please believe me. I just knew that Annie was fearful of something from her past.’

  She had good reason to be, I thought. ‘There are things you know that are vital to this case. You must help me.’

  Sanderson simply shook his head gently in reply.

  I don’t know whether it was tiredness combined with a mixture of the remaining fragments of my own grief and blind frustration, but I exploded with anger. A fierce fury took hold of me, rippling through my body like an alien possession. All my previous restraint shot out of the window. I jumped up, grabbed hold of the cleric’s shoulders and gripped them tightly, dragging him to his feet. ‘Tell me,’ I roared. ‘Tell me what you know, you stupid old fool.’ I bellowed the words as though I was reciting someone else’s script. It wasn’t me who had turned into this ranting bully: I had become another person who was inhabiting my skin. For a few fleeting moments Sanderson looked terrified and then a kind of strange serenity settled on his features. He offered no resistance to my violence and made no attempt to wrench himself from my grasp.

  ‘I can’t, Johnny,’ he said, his voice a frail whisper. ‘I can’t.’ His lips trembled with emotion. As he gazed at me with his sad and serene eyes, my anger subsided. It went as quickly as it had arrived. I could feel the heat and tension leaving my body. I felt weak and ashamed. With a sigh, I released Father Sanderson from my grip and he slumped back down in a chair, while I stood before him, disheartened and embarrassed.

  Neither of us spoke for quite some time and then slowly Sanderson moved to a cupboard by the door and retrieved an item from within.

  ‘There is something I can give you that may help.’ In his hand he held a key. ‘It is Annie’s house key,’ he said. ‘She gave me a spare when she had that attack of influenza some years back. She was frightened that she might be trapped in the house too ill to move… Her house is empty now and will be for a few weeks. Maybe you could go there and investigate. There may be a clue, something to help...’ His words trailed away and he held out the key to me.

  ‘Maybe…’ I said quietly. I took the key and left. There were no further words to say. Only I wish I had said them. I wish I had apologised for my threatening behaviour. But I didn’t know that would be the last time I saw Father Sanderson alive.

  SEVEN

  Patience was a virtue. Francis Sexton knew that. It was one of those clichés that actually had a basis in truth. Indeed, he was well aware that it was not only a virtue, but in his case, it was essential. However tempted he was to begin his operations, he must not give way to such desires. Oh, yes, he longed to be out there in the darkness seeking victims, seeking to satiate his appetite for blood.

  But he must wait.

  He had waited this long. A few more nights would not hurt. His plan, carefully plotted and executed, had taken months to reach fruition: to spoil it all now with rash and ill-prepared actions would be foolish and possibly ruinous.

  Two more nights and then the feasting could begin.

  EIGHT

  The cleaner found Father Sanderson the next morning. His body lay sprawled on his back on the kitchen floor amidst a scattered array of broken crockery. His eyes were wide open, bulging from their sockets and his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth.

  He had been strangled.

  The cleaner did not know this was the cause of death. It was the police pathologist who established this fact and informed Detective Inspector David Llewellyn who in turn informed me.

  ‘Why are you telling me?’ I asked casually as I lit a cigarette, just managing to conceal the shock I felt at learning that my client had been brutally murdered. I was immediately reminded of my unreasonable treatment of the old priest the previous evening. How I had shouted at him and shook him. An icy wave of remorse surged through my body, but I fought hard to retain my poise. I knew all too well that in situations like this guilt and regret were futile emotions.

  It was round ten o’clock in the morning and I had been slow to get my act together that day. I’d had a restless night and then as dawn began to break, I slipped into a deep sleep, only surfacing well after my usual get-up time. I had only just shaved and breakfasted – a grand phrase for coffee and the stale doughnut I had snared creeping out of the larder cupboard – when my old copper buddy came a calling.

  I knew this would not be a purely social call. It never was with David. Hence my question.

  David raised an eyebrow in a whimsical fashion at my query and smirked.

  I smirked back. ‘You don’t usually call in and give me the low-down on your latest investigation – the new corpse in view – without an ulterior motive.’

  ‘You know the victim.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, he conducted Max’s funeral. You were there. You saw him.’

  ‘You know him better than that.’

  I frowned. ‘I’m sorry. Am I missing something?’

  ‘Your name and telephone number were on a piece of paper found in the dead man’s pocket.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘So, indeed. Tell me about it.’

  I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed. I knew this was no time for subterfuge. ‘I was doing a little job for him,’ I admitted reluctantly.

  David sat in a chair opposite me, his trilby nestling neatly in his lap. ‘I think you’re going to have to be a bit more explicit, boyo.’

  ‘I was afraid of that.’

  David grinned. ‘A cup of tea is a fine accompaniment to a good yarn. You still got a kettle or do you suck the tea leaves through your teeth?’ He chuckled at his own joke.

  I brewed up a tarry cuppa for us both and told him my story.

  ‘So,’ said David slowly, when I had finished, drawing out the preposition to infinity, ‘he was killed because he knew something. He was silenced. Whoever murdered him was worried that the old priest’s conscience would override his religious convictions and that he would blab.’

  I could not fault David’s logic and I confirmed this with a nod.

  ‘Any ideas?’ he asked.

  ‘At this moment, no.’

  ‘But you will have?’

  Possibly.’

  ‘Probably – in fact knowing you, definitely.’

  ‘You have more faith in me that I have.’

  ‘I know you, Johnny Hawke. You are a terrier. Tenacious and impudent. You’ll worry at this until something happens. You don’t like to be beaten. Unfortunately, you also like to play the solitary game, but that is something you cannot do in this case. It may have started out as a private investigation, but now the Yard is involved it is a police matter with all the ramifications that phrase holds. Murder. Police matter. Understand, Johnny? Any information relevant to this investigation that you dig up or stumble over must be passed on to me.’

  I saluted. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Yes, very funny. Bu
t I mean it. We’re pals. Let’s stay that way.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, slipping my right hand out of view beneath my desk where I crossed my fingers. ‘I’ll share everything with you.’

  David drained his mug of tea and slapping his trilby back on his head, sighed heavily in such a way that clearly indicated that he thought he was wasting his time with me.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he said as made for the door.

  ‘Of course, you will,’ I grinned.

  * * *

  Within ten minutes of David’s departure, I was leaving my office also. I had a house to search.

  Annie Salter’s terrace cottage was in a row up a narrow pathway at right angles to the main road. Her tiny garden which had obviously been tended with care was showing signs of neglect. The new growths of spring, bulbs and daffodils were in contention with weeds and hay grass. When entering a property illegally, one should always do so with confidence as though what you are doing is natural and official. Never skulk or look around nervously. Those are my rules, anyway.

  As it happened on this bright March day, the coast was apparently clear: there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  Passing through the front door one was immediately in a small hallway and before you knew it, you found yourself in the parlour. It was tidy but cramped and smelt of damp. There was an ancient three piece suite, a mahogany sideboard bulky radio. A large mirror hung over the fireplace which caught my reflection and for a split second sent my blood racing because I thought I had company. I indulged in a quick rummage through the drawers of the sideboard but there didn’t seem anything there of relevance to the case. Of course, I was searching blind. I really didn’t know what I was looking for and as a consequence I had not an inkling what would be useful. I just hoped that something would jump out at me.

  Annie had a secret, a secret that someone was prepared to kill for. Two people had died in order for the secret to remain. Would it be something obvious, if one knew where to look or would it be hidden – this mysterious something?