‘Well,’ David said at length, draining his glass, ‘I either have another and fall down sozzled or get back to the office and bang my head against the wall.’ He slipped off his stool. ‘See you soon, Johnny boy. Good hunting.’ With a brief smile he turned and squeezed his way towards the door.
I lingered over the dregs of my drink for some time mulling over the case in general and what I had learned in particular. I sketched out in my mind a rough plan of action – a very rough plan – and then I too headed for the exit and some fresh air.
I spent the afternoon visiting another client: a simple marital job that I knew I could clear up within a week. I hated these jobs but they were my main means of earning a living – exposing some poor sod’s infidelity.
As it was growing dusk, I found myself in Benny’s café with a mug of tea and a salt beef sandwich. We chatted for a while in a desultory fashion, but I could see the old boy was tired, so I left him to lock up and made my way home. The lunchtime beer was still sloshing unpleasantly about in my stomach and I had no desire for more.
Arriving back at Hawke Towers, I found a brown envelope on the mat. David had been as good as his word – not that I doubted he wouldn’t be. Inside the envelope were the file notes on Bruce Horsefield aka Lance Corporal Marshall. Here then was my bedtime reading.
FIFTEEN
Mrs Frances Coulson had only just bid one of her gentleman callers adieu and was enjoying a cigarette and a small glass of sherry, when her mellifluous doorbell rang. A frown manifested itself on her carefully made up face. She wasn’t expecting anyone – she had no more appointments that day – and so this could only be some sort of inconvenience. As she made her way to the front door, she hoped it wasn’t that detective fellow with the eye patch. He was too inquisitive and too sharp for comfort.
She could see a bulky shadow through the frosted glass. So it was a man.
With some trepidation she opened the door and on seeing her visitor, her mouth dropped open.
‘Hello Auntie,’ said the man. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
SIXTEEN
‘So what do we know about this Sexton bloke, sir?’ Sergeant Sunderland eased the car into third gear as he posed this query.
‘Not a lot,’ said David Llewellyn, glumly. ‘He used to be a GP but now practises as some sort of psychiatrist. I suppose there’s more money in doling pills out to the nervous and depressed. And he is supposed to be writing a book about the criminal mind.’
‘I could give him a few pointers on that subject,’ grinned Sunderland.
‘I’m sure you could, Sergeant, but I reckon the good doctor is more concerned with the causes of criminal behaviour rather than how to spot a snout at a hundred paces.’
‘You may be right.’
‘But Sexton spent a lot of time interviewing Northcote at Newfield House. He must have got to know him very well. God help us, he should be able to give us some inkling of where the bastard is now and what his plans are.’
‘You would hope so,’ said Sunderland without much conviction.
* * *
Dr Francis Sexton’s surgery was in Bedford Row, a smart thoroughfare situated between High Holborn and Theobalds Road. As Sunderland pulled the car up outside, he asked, ‘Do you want me to stay out here, sir?’
David shook his head, ‘No, come in with me. Four ears and two brains, eh? What one of us might miss, the other should pick up. At least we can dissect things afterwards.’
A rather matronly secretary showed the two policemen into Dr Sexton’s consulting room. He rose magisterially from behind his desk and shook Llewellyn’s hand.
‘I take it you’ve not caught him, then?’ he said easily as he gestured that the two men should take the seats opposite the desk.
He was a tall man, somewhere in his late forties with a prominent nose and grizzled hair, shot with silver strands. He was, thought David, someone who was used to being in command and at complete ease with himself. He was dressed in a well-cut grey double breasted suit and had a relaxed and confident manner. The inspector gazed down at his own old baggy suit and scuffed shoes and immediately felt awkward.
‘No, we haven’t caught him – but I’m afraid that he has already committed murder.’
Sexton pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Sadly, that does not surprise me. The man has an inner compulsion to kill…’
‘And then eat his victims.’
‘Yes. In hospital, drugs can sublimate the condition, keep it in check to some extent, but now he is away from any kind of control or restraint his desires will be… unfettered.’
‘Why does he do it?’ asked Sunderland.
‘That is the big question I was trying to answer by talking to him. Cannibalism – the eating of human flesh – has been with us since the dawn of time, but it is mostly a cultural phenomenon. It was often based on the belief that by eating one’s enemy you inherit his power. Humans have also indulged in the practice as a means of self preservation. In many non-European countries, it was not regarded as a sin or a crime to consume human flesh. For example in the Aztec or Mayan culture cannibalism was reserved for royalty. After a ritual human sacrifice to their Gods, they would feast upon their victims. However, in Ralph Northcote’s case, he kills purely for pleasure and celebrates his act by devouring part of the flesh of his victim.’
‘For pleasure?’ said David.
‘Yes.’
‘Then the fellow is mad.’
‘From our perspective, yes.’
‘But ours is the sane one.’
Sexton gave the inspector an indulgent smile. ‘But who’s to say that our perspective is the correct one – the only acceptable one? Northcote just views the world from a different hilltop. As a psychiatrist I have to take the position that the mind controls the man – not morals, laws or customs, which in essence are all artificial codes imposed on us by exterior forces, created by society. I was trying to unlock the door in order to find out why his view of the world differed from the majority.’
‘It sounds as you feel sorry for him.’
‘In a way, I do. Imagine yourself trapped within a psyche that was vastly different from the accepted norm and there was nothing you could do about it. It is so much easier to give in to our natural urges than fight them. We do it all the time.’
‘Natural urges.’ David scowled.
‘To Northcote they are natural. Do you smoke, Inspector?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s bad for the health, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Have you tried to give up?’
‘From time to time.’
‘But you haven’t succeeded.’
‘No.’
‘No doubt the temptation to light up was too strong. You gave way to your natural urges despite the fact that you knew you’d be better off not smoking. The pleasure you receive from tobacco is greater than the concerns you have for your health. The principle is the same. Northcote has given up all attempts to stifle his appetite for murder and blood.’
‘I think perhaps we are wandering a little way from the purpose of this visit. Whatever weird psychological processes control Ralph Northcote, I represent the mainstream law and order of this country. In my eyes he is a violent murderer and it’s my task to find him and stop him before he takes any more lives.’
Sexton nodded urbanely. ‘I understand. And you think I can help.’
‘Well, I hope so. You have spent quite a lot of time with him. I would have thought that he must have given you some inkling about his plans. You got inside his head… knew how he thought.’
‘I was beginning to understand some of his rationale, but I’m not able to think like him, if that is what you are suggesting.’
‘If not think like him – guess what he might do next. Guess what his plans are.’
‘I doubt it. He is a very cunning man. I must admit that he had me completely fooled. I thought he trusted me – saw in me someone who at least could understand
and sympathise with his mania.’
‘Sympathise?’ David could not keep the shock out of his voice.
‘In the scientific sense, of course. It is true that in order to gain his trust I did pretend to empathise with his cravings. In this way he felt safe to confide in me his innermost thoughts.’
‘And…?’ There was a note of irritation in Llewellyn’s voice. He was getting a little tired of Sexton’s mumbo jumbo sophistry. It was as though all this psycho-jargon was a smokescreen. This fellow knew something. Llewellyn had no idea what but he was determined to find out.
‘Well, I learned a fair bit about Northcote’s biography and his early encounters with the tasting of flesh. I began to fathom what triggered off the overwhelming urge to kill and feast.’
David groaned inwardly. The phrase ‘to kill and feast’: it was a conscious, flashy, overly-clever construct which glamorised the subject describing it in a facile way. No doubt, he thought, Sexton will use it as the title for his book.
‘And what was that? What was this trigger?’
‘I believe it was connected with sexual arousal. Instead of the need for sexual intercourse and the physical and mental release that this brings, Northcote transferred this natural desire to…’
‘An urge to kill and feast,’ added David pointedly.
‘Yes.’
‘To learn all this, Northcote must have trusted you.’
‘Yes… to some extent. Not enough to reveal any plans to escape, if that’s what you’re hinting at. Well, that would have been foolish. After all I was his means to freedom. I was certainly kept in the dark about that.’
‘But he must have talked about his desire to get out of that place.’ It was Sunderland who made this observation.
‘Not really. He seemed resigned to his fate. I suppose that fact alone should have alerted me to the notion that he was planning something.’
‘Could you explain what you mean?’ asked David, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘Incarceration, drugs, therapy can never fully quell the innate cravings of a patient like Northcote. The desire is forever there, lurking in the shadows. It may be sedated for a time but it is never eradicated. The fact that Northcote appeared placid and in a state of acceptance should have warned me that he was keeping something back from me.’
‘And you’ve only realised this now?’
‘Since I was coshed on the head in Newfield House, yes.’
David sighed heavily. This was going nowhere and certainly Sexton was making no real effort to help. He was wrapped up in his own esoteric psychobabble world and the practical realities of catching a vicious murderer did not seem to concern him in the slightest. He decided to try a different tack with this obtuse medic.
‘Dr Sexton, if you were me, a policeman trying to trace Ralph Northcote, what would you do?’
Sexton seemed amused by the question and stared into space for some seconds before responding. ‘Do you know, inspector, I really have no idea. As I say, he is a cunning fellow. Do not mistake his mania for overall madness. He has a cool, clever rational mind and he would have no difficulty in becoming invisible in this city. Actually that is something that is quite easy to do these days what with the blackout and so many damaged properties where a fugitive could easily hang out without being detected.’
‘In the course of your chats, did Northcote mention any old colleagues, friends – even enemies?’
The psychiatrist shook his head. ‘His past life was a closed book to him. I don’t suppose he could have made his way to his old house, could he?’
‘It no longer exists. It was pulled down. There’s nothing there now.’
Sexton gave an elegant shrug of his well-tailored shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. I have nothing else to suggest. Northcote is now both the hunter and the hunted: there is no template for such a role. Certainly not one that I could fathom. I am sorry.’
* * *
‘That man is an arrogant, supercilious, irritating, pompous smug twit,’ growled Inspector David Llewellyn as he slumped into the passenger seat. ‘No, I take that back. He’s not a twit. He had no intention of helping us and he made that patently obvious.’
‘Why do you think that is, sir?’ said Sergeant Sunderland turning the key in the ignition and revving the engine.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t want to get his hands dirty with police work. Perhaps his sympathies for Northcote were genuine and he’s pleased the bugger’s escaped.’
‘Really!’
‘Well, no not really, I suppose. But during all those visits Northcote must have said something – something however innocent or trivial that could give us some sort of clue as to where he’s hiding out. One thing is for certain, I don’t go along with Sexton’s notion that he’s hiding in some bombed out building. He’s found somewhere much smarter than that. I’m sure of it.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘When he killed that girl, he didn’t touch her purse – he left her money alone which suggests that he has sufficient for his needs. If that is the case, where has the dosh come from? He has secured a supply from somewhere.’
‘Maybe a secret stash that he hid before he was captured.’
‘That’s a bit far fetched. He’s been locked away for eight years. That kind of perspicacity would be remarkable. And then there’s the murder itself. It’s obvious that Northcote used proper medical equipment to cut up and dissect the body. Where’d he get them from?’
‘I could check if there have been any thefts of such stuff from hospitals or surgeries in the last few days.’
‘Yeah, you do that, but I reckon you’ll get a nil result. My hunch is that our friend Northcote is being harboured, given refuge by some twisted sod who sympathises with him.’
‘Sympathises?’ Sunderland’s voice rose an octave.
‘Yes,’ said David thoughtfully, lighting a cigarette. ‘Sympathises. There’s that word again.’
* * *
Back in his office, Francis Sexton was also smoking and idly watching the smoke spiral fade while his mind lingered over the interview he’d just had with Inspector Llewellyn and his lackey. In retrospect Sexton believed that he had handled it badly. He had been too smooth, too unhelpful. He’d certainly been in control and had effectively deflected each of the policeman’s questions, giving absolutely nothing away but in doing so he had obviously irritated him. That, Sexton knew, had been a foolish thing to do. He really should have thrown Llewellyn a titbit to chew on to send him off on a wild goose chase; a false clue that indicated that he was trying to help the police instead of being apparently indifferent to their investigation.
Now the policemen had gone away, frustrated and annoyed with him. He cursed softly. He had been so pleased with his smooth performance at the time that he had been unaware of the damage he was doing. Had he, by his mannered performance, aroused their suspicions? Surely not. But the thought lingered like a dark cloud.
SEVENTEEN
Before turning in for the night, I’d sat up in bed and read through the file on Bruce Horsefield, the true identity of Lance Corporal Marshall but had learned nothing of any significance. Well, nothing that could give me a lead. It was a familiar scenario: unruly kid developed into a teenage hoodlum, petty crimes and then in 1936 he’d tried his hand at holding up a jewellers’ shop. It was an amateurish attempt, albeit with a shooter, and he was chased down the street and caught. He was gaoled for five years but released early in order to join the army to fight for his country. Within months he had deserted and disappeared. He was an only child, brought up by his widowed mother. She was still alive, but claims not to have seen him since he went in the army. Her house had been searched and initially a watch had been put on it to no avail. End of story.
With a heavy sigh, I switched out the lights and then just as my head hit the pillow, a thought came to me. It was nothing to do with Horsefield – well not directly – but it amazed me why I hadn’t thought of it before.
I lay in the dark smiling for some time before I slipped into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning I was up bright and early and out on the streets before nine. I had my revolver with me, weighing down the pocket of my raincoat. It is rare that I carry a weapon. I’m not keen on the beasts, especially after what one malfunctioning rifle did to my eye, but in this instance it was a case of forewarned being forearmed. I had worked out in my little brain that Malcolm Salter was not only on the run from the police but also from his partner in crime, Bruce Horsefield. For some reason they had split up, probably some argument over the spoils of the bank robbery and he was desperately trying to lie low so neither Horsefield could find him nor the coppers could feel his collar. He’d kipped out at his mother’s place until her death – that was still a bit of a mystery to me. Then he’d holed up at Mrs Booth’s boarding house, until I turned up on the doorstep and he turned nasty with a pistol. Where might he go next?
Well, I had an idea.
I knocked once more on the shiny knocker of Mrs Frances Coulson’s bijou bungalow. As I did so, the door partially swung open and there was no one on the other side. A little warning voice in my brain went, ‘Oh-oh!’ I knew what it meant. Experience has taught me that when you go to a door you anticipate will be locked but it isn’t, you usually can expect trouble.
I stepped over the threshold and pulled out my gun. ‘Hello,’ I called down the hallway.
There was no reply.
Something was up. Something was very up.
And then I heard it. A faint sound, rather like a groan. There it was again. It was a groan – and it was coming from the sitting room.
Cautiously, I entered the room. The tidy little parlour was in a state of disarray. One of the chairs had been overturned and many of the ornaments were lying haphazardly on the floor. It was obvious that there had been some sort of struggle in here. This deduction was further strengthened when I observed Mrs Frances Coulson stretched out on the couch, her left arm hanging limply to the floor while she clutched a wound to her forehead with her right. Blood veined its way down her pale face making her resemble some kind of bizarre clown. At first she wasn’t aware of my presence. I knelt down beside her and touched her shoulder gently.
A Taste for Blood Page 9
