A Taste for Blood

by Davies, David Stuart;

  I moved into the kitchen. It was dark with only one small window by the sink to give illumination. There was a rough wooden table and two chairs. One still lay turned on its side. The one used in her hanging. I shuddered at the thought. How had he done it? (I assume it was a man). How had he persuaded Annie – or forced her up onto the chair and put the noose around her neck? Was the poor woman too terrified to resist or was she resigned to her fate? Seeing the scene of her demise brought the horror of the situation with great force. Surely there was some sign that there was another presence in the room, in the house? I examined every dusty surface, every drawer in the room but it seemed a fruitless task. And then I found something under the sink. An empty cigarette packet. Ten Capstan Full Strength. It may be nothing, but I seemed to remember that Father Sanderson saying that Annie neither drank nor smoked. And, besides, Capstan Full Strength was very much a man’s fag.

  I went up the stairs and found an even more exciting discovery. There were two small bedrooms and a bathroom. The main bedroom was a tidy affair with various religious artefacts adorning the walls, but the other room, a tiny cramped chamber, contained a zed bed which had recently been occupied. And by the side of it was a saucer that had been used as an ashtray containing several stubs of cigarettes – Capstan Full Strength. It seems that Annie had a lodger. Someone had stayed with her one night at least. Now who would that be? Well, whoever it was, he’d long gone. There were no clothes or other personal possessions. No suitcase and no other signs of his occupation. Or so I thought at first, but then I noticed something sticking out from under the mattress; a little flap of paper. Pulling the mattress back, I revealed a crumpled old newspaper: the Evening Standard. Three weeks old to be precise. It was folded over at the accommodation section and there was a portion torn off. This little discovery brought a smile to my weary face.

  I returned to Annie’s bedroom and gave that further scrutiny. There was nothing of any real significance but I discovered a photograph album at the back of the wardrobe which I decided to take with me for further study.

  I reckoned my job here was done. I’d hardly made giant strides in the investigation but it was clear that things were not as cut and dried as the police had believed them to be. Annie had had a man staying in the house and he may have been responsible for her death and even if he wasn’t, he must know something about it. And maybe, the Evening Standard may help me track this fellow down.

  * * *

  I was just locking the front door when a lanky fellow with a wild bush of grey hair came up the neighbouring garden path. He was dressed in a smart oatmeal coloured overcoat with a garish painted tie at his neck. He grinned at me and gave a friendly wave.

  ‘Are you going to be my new neighbour?’ he said in a breezy fashion. This I assumed was the artist Archie Dawson.

  I shook my head. ‘No. I’ve just been doing an inventory of Mrs Salter’s effects.’ The lie came easily and smoothly. I’ve had years of practice at the art of dissembling.

  ‘Oh, yes, very sad business,’ he said, his features darkening. ‘Lovely woman.’

  ‘You knew her well?’

  ‘Not really. Just to pass the time of day with really, but she often did me little kindnesses, like looking after my cat when I had to go away and letting me borrow some milk or tea when I forgot to stock up. I’m awfully absent minded.’ The smile returned. ‘A very Christian soul.’

  I nodded sympathetically and then I tested the waters. ‘She had someone staying with her just before… just before she died…’

  ‘Yes. A friend of her son’s I gather. He died you know, her son.’

  ‘What was this friend’s name?’

  ‘Frank, I think. He was only here a short time. He’d been gone a week before Annie met her sad end.’

  ‘What did he look like? You’re an artist, aren’t you? Could you draw him?’

  Archie Dawson pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. ‘Well, I could I suppose. But why? What’s your interest in him?’

  Good question, chum, I thought.

  ‘It’s a legal matter concerning Annie’s estate. We may need to talk to this fellow.’

  Mr Dawson did not seem convinced. I could tell he was about to refuse.

  ‘It would be a great help,’ I said. ‘I could pay you for your efforts.’

  His eyes flickered brightly at this news. ‘Oh, very well, but it will only be a sketch.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I grinned.

  ‘You better come in then,’ he said, producing his front door key

  Half an hour later I was ten bob poorer, but in possession of a nicely detailed drawing of Annie Salter’s mysterious lodger.

  NINE

  He looked down at the street through the grimy window. The outside world carried on in its mundane fashion while he watched on with envy. People passed by, muffled against the chill wind, the odd motorcar purred past and even stray dogs roamed freely. He groaned softly as though suffering from some grinding abdominal pain. But the agony was in his mind rather than a physical ache. He was going crazy cooped up in the attic room like a bloody prisoner. Part of him wished that Marshall would find him and the whole business was over. In essence, he was living on borrowed time as it was. He was dead really. To die again – properly this time – might be for the best. It couldn’t be worse than hiding away indoors during the daylight hours, frightened of noises, shadows, men in black felt hats. This was no life.

  He’d even thought about giving himself up to the authorities, but he knew that Marshall could still get to him, even in police custody. The devil had ways and means, contacts and favours and his tentacles were long and deadly. He knew Marshall would not rest until he was six feet under.

  Perhaps if he got away from London. Into the country somewhere. He’d need money though, more than he had now. Instinctively his hand strayed to his wallet. He knew exactly how much money he had in there. Not much and the rent was already overdue. He’d have to do another flit. It had better be tonight.

  Of course, he had plenty of money. But he didn’t want to touch it. Not just yet. He was too frightened to. He reckoned as soon as he got his hands on it, Marshall would turn up like a bad smell.

  He sighed heavily, left the window and dropped on his back onto the bed. The rusty springs groaned at the pressure he put them under. He didn’t even have a fag to ease his nerves. What he wouldn’t give for a drag on a Capstan Full Strength. He stared at the cracked ceiling, eyeing the brown damp stains in a mindless fashion, waiting for the darkness of night to arrive.

  * * *

  The door of Inspector David Llewellyn’s office opened silently and the visitor, who had not knocked, entered. David glanced up from his paperwork, an irritated frown creasing his forehead. He hadn’t wanted to be interrupted, especially by some ignoramus who hadn’t the courtesy to knock before entering.

  He was about to express these thoughts when he observed that his visitor was Deputy Commissioner Bradshaw.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, David,’ he said with great charm, sitting in the chair opposite his desk.

  ‘That’s all right, sir,’ said David, shuffling the papers on his desk in a nervous fashion. A visit from such a senior officer like Bradshaw was a rarity and more than a little daunting. It usually indicated that some form of telling off was imminent. Suddenly, David felt like a naughty schoolboy facing his headmaster.

  ‘I won’t keep you,’ said Bradshaw, eyeing David’s nervous hands twitching with the sheets of paper. He was well aware what effect his presence was having on the inspector. Such reactions came automatically with the post. He was used to it and often turned it to his benefit. But he liked Llewellyn and had no need or desire perturb him more than necessary.

  ‘I have some disturbing news, I’m afraid,’ he said, getting to the point. ‘Ralph Northcote. He’s escaped.’

  At the mention of the name, David Llewellyn’s stomach churned. Ralph Northcote. Those two words brought back so many dark memories: the cellar, the blood, t
he poor mutilated girl and that mad face with the raw flesh dangling from its grinning mouth. The stuff of his nightmares.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘How? I thought that place was supposed to be secure,’ he found himself saying, while his mind refused to eliminate those dreadful images.

  ‘He’s been playing a long game, it seems. Over the last few months he’s been visited by a psychiatrist who is writing a book on the criminal mind. A fellow called Sexton, Dr Francis Sexton. All seemed quite innocent enough but a few days ago, Northcote attacked this Sexton in his cell and slipped on his hat and coat as a disguise and managed to do a bunk.’

  David shook his head in disbelief. ‘What bloody incompetence,’ he snapped.

  Bradshaw nodded. ‘I have to agree with you there. It’s easy to understand how complacency takes root in these madhouses, but there is no excuse for such slackness. Anyway, it’s no good crying over spilt milk. The devil is out and on the loose. Because of your close connection with the case, I thought you ought to know.’

  Close connection? I should bloody well say so, thought David, bitterly. I was the one who trapped the bastard, brought him to justice and got him locked away for life. Except he isn’t locked away now, so all my efforts have been in vain. And some poor girl will pay the price, sure as eggs is eggs – powdered or not. With a grimace, he allowed these thoughts to simmer but remain unspoken.

  ‘Have we any notion where he went? Have his old haunts been checked?’

  ‘Of course; checked and double checked. Nothing. For the moment it seems he has gone to ground – biding his time. But leopards do not change their spots, I’m afraid. I do not think it will be long before he will be on the hunt again.’

  David nodded in agreement. ‘We should have hung the bugger.’

  ‘Spilt milk, Inspector.’

  ‘Please, sir, do keep me informed. If he does kill again, I want to be in on the investigation. I must be.’

  ‘Of course. Your previous experience with him would be invaluable. In the meantime, we keep searching and…’

  ‘Holding our breath?’

  Bradshaw gave David a bleak smile. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  The Deputy Commissioner rose from his chair and made for the door.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate the visit,’ said David.

  Bradshaw gave the inspector a brief tight smile and left.

  David slumped back in his chair and swore softly. Whatever wind had been in his sails, on this brisk spring day, had been removed. In his career, the case which he had been most proud of, the arrest that had given him the greatest satisfaction had just been screwed up and dumped in the rubbish bin. It was enough to make a copper throw in the towel. He wouldn’t, of course. That wasn’t his style. Like Johnny Hawke, he was a terrier and would worry at a problem until it was dealt with. But, nevertheless, the news had stabbed him through the heart and he was infused with a mood of desolation.

  After a few moments, he turned his attention once more to the papers on his desk. The top sheets formed the statement of the cleaner who discovered the dead body of Father Sanderson at St Saviour’s Church. This matter seemed small beer compared with the escape of the madman Northcote. ‘Come on, boyo,’ he muttered to himself, ‘focus.’ But his self-chiding was to no avail: his mind was filled with the vision of Ralph Northcote’s horrible bloodstained face.

  TEN

  I read a lot as a youth, especially at the orphanage. Books were my escape from the unpleasant day-to-day reality. Indiscriminately, I gobbled them up: Dickens, Sapper, Conan Doyle, Rider Haggard, Trollope and Edgar Wallace. Other lives, other worlds, other adventures provided a welcome escape route from my dreary institutionalised life. I continued reading avidly until the outbreak of war when events seemed to rob me of my appetite for fiction. And losing an eye did not help. But in my late teens and early twenties I was a habitué of the Marylebone Library, snatching books off their shelves at least once a week. It felt strange, like a sentimental homecoming, to step back through the portals of this building again after a gap of three or four years.

  It still smelt the same, that aroma of old damp books and polish assailed my nostrils as of old. I stood in the entrance lobby, breathed in deeply and let the nostalgia engage my senses and entrance me for a while. Briefly I allowed it to take my back to a time when the world was kinder and my life less damaged. With a sigh, I shook off my melancholy and made my way to the reference section. Low and behold, the little stout lady with the straw-coloured hair wrapped in a tight bun who used to serve me was still on duty behind the counter. She looked exactly the same, her large tortoiseshell glasses perched precariously on her nose and her brow puckered in a permanent state of concentration. I was tempted to greet her like an old friend with a cheery smile and a warm handshake, but I knew she wouldn’t remember me. Nevertheless her presence behind the desk was somehow comforting and reassuring. In these dreadful changing times, there were some things that stayed the same.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she said, the voice was brisk and efficient but tinged with friendliness.

  I pulled the copy of the Evening Standard from my pocket. ‘Have you got this edition in your files?’

  Pushing her spectacles up her nose, she examined the paper and then nodded. ‘We should have. It’s quite recent. Just a moment.’ She disappeared through a frosted glass-fronted door which bore the word PRIVATE in green lettering. While I waited, I gazed around the room, at the desks, some which were occupied by static silhouettes pouring over various volumes and periodicals. They were like figures in a still life that was beginning to fade with age.

  In less than five minutes, Miss Tight Bun returned bearing a large cardboard box which she placed on the counter between us.

  ‘This contains the last six weeks’ editions of the Standard. You’ll have to search for it, but the one you require should be there,’ she announced and allowed herself the briefest of smile.

  I thanked her and took the box away to one of the desks, becoming another static figure in the landscape.

  It did not take me long to find the issue of the Standard I was after and to hone in on the page I needed: the page that had been disfigured by Annie’s mysterious lodger. I could see now that the missing portion from the Accommodation Available section contained details of a bed and breakfast establishment at Aldbridge Street off the Old Kent Road: ‘Reasonable Rates. Discounts for ex-servicemen. Mrs Booth, Windsor House’.

  Cheap lodgings, in other words.

  I grinned. Rarely had the following up of a clue resulted in such a perfect result. Perhaps I was a fairly good detective after all.

  I made a note of the address and returned the box to Miss Tight Bun.

  ‘Did you find what you were after?’ she asked, stroking the box as though it was some beloved pet.

  ‘I did. Thank you.’

  This seemed to please her greatly. Reluctantly, I bid her farewell. A figure from my past, my more settled times. I suspected that I would never see her again. It was a sad parting.

  * * *

  The Old Kent Road runs parallel with the Thames on the borders of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe. I made my way on foot across Tower Bridge and down this dusty and shabby part of London. It was shabby before the bombing, but now the rubble and shattered structures added further distress to its features. Travelling east, I encountered Aldbridge Street running off to the right. It was a narrow thoroughfare of down at heel houses with small overgrown gardens. It was a ghost street: there wasn’t a soul in sight, not even an errant child playing out in the gutter or a stray dog or cat loping around. The place was dead and now I was haunting it.

  Windsor House was about halfway along. It stood out from the rest because the door was clean and was not caked in grime and the steps appeared to have been swept. I knocked heartily using the great black knocker in the shape of some unidentifiable animal. I could hear the results of my efforts booming inside the building. I had not long to wait before the door opened an
d I found myself facing a pretty woman, dressed in a fairaisle sweater and slacks. She wore a turban but wisps of hair escaped the tight wrapping giving the effect of an auburn halo. She was short, not much over five feet, but her stance and demeanour suggested she was a bright and lively soul. She greeted me with a smile.

  ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  I raised my hat and returned the smile. It was the only polite thing to do.

  ‘Miss…?’ I saw the ring and remembered the ‘Mrs’ bit in the ad, but a spot of flattery never goes amiss.

  ‘Mrs. Mrs Booth. Cora Booth. Are you after a room?’

  ‘Actually I’m looking for someone and I believe he may be one of your guests.’

  ‘Oh?’ The smile had faded now and she looked at me warily. ‘Why are you looking for this person? Are you from the police?’

  This was a situation I found myself in many times: the ‘who the hell are you?’ query. I was never quite sure what was the best way to respond. Admitting that I was a private detective often caused suspicion or fear or resentment – or all three. On the other hand, if I made up some cock-and-bull story about being a relative or an insurance agent with good news to impart, I was often asked questions that I couldn’t answer and my cover story would be blown apart. In this instance I didn’t even know the name of the person I was looking for. Taking a chance, I avoided replying to the lady’s question. Instead I pulled out the sketch Archie Dawson had drawn for me of Annie’s mysterious lodger.

  ‘It’s this fellow,’ I said.

  There was no mistaking the sense of recognition that passed over the woman’s features on seeing the drawing.

  ‘Mr Bristow,’ she said. It was an unguarded, automatic response.

  I nodded. ‘So he is staying here.’

  Mrs Booth could hardly deny it, but she didn’t admit to it either. ‘What do you want with the gentleman?’

  ‘It’s a private matter concerning his poor brother,’ I said softly, adopting what I hoped was a mournful expression ‘He passed away quite recently in rather sad circumstances.’