A Taste for Blood

by Davies, David Stuart;

  ‘Yes. It had two thousand pounds in it.’

  Sullivan whistled. ‘Nice little horde. So it looks like your mate Horsefield got away with it after all.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said disconsolately. ‘It looks like it.’

  Sullivan gave a wry chuckle. ‘Not your finest hour, then; eh, Johnny? Perhaps you’d better get back to one of those keyholes, watching those naughty married people.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ I replied, for want of a wittier or more acerbic response. ‘Does that mean I can go?’

  ‘Well, I reckon so. We know where to pick up you up if needed. You say it’s Herbert whose handling the Chelmsford robbery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sullivan beamed. ‘Well, it will be my pleasure to dump this little lot in his lap. You may find him on your doorstep in the morning. The grin converted into a chuckle. He rose from the stool. Before he disappeared behind the screens he turned back and gave me a friendly nod. ‘Look after yourself, lad,’ he said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Tired, disheartened and hungry, Peter dragged his weary bones towards the bus stop. It was time for him to return home. His search had been fruitless. His bright hopes had been dashed. Perhaps detective work wasn’t as satisfying as he thought it would be. It was a little devil of a thought and he quelled it. You need perseverance and determination to succeed as a private investigator, he told himself firmly. You don’t give up if at first you don’t succeed. He knew this was true but it was hard to accept when his feet hurt and his tummy rumbled.

  ‘Perseverance and determination,’ he muttered, almost as a mantra. ‘Perseverance and determination. And luck,’ he added as an afterthought. Yes, luck was what he had lacked today. ‘If only I’d had a bit of luck…’

  And then he did. It came out of nowhere and pinned him to the spot. He froze like a statue as he observed a tall thin man turn the corner, walking in a slow awkward fashion towards him. Peter could not see his face clearly because it was shielded by a large grey felt hat.

  His heart almost stopped at the excitement of this encounter. Surely, here was the man himself. The one that he’d been searching for. He rubbed his eyes to make sure this wasn’t an hallucination. It wasn’t. Here was Bruce Horsefield. In the flesh. He was sure of it. He stared at him as he walked past and noticed that there was a dark stain on one of his trouser legs below the knee – the leg that seemed to be giving him some discomfort.

  The man was injured – that explained his rather clumsy gait.

  Horsefield took no notice of Peter as he slipped past him, making slow but steady progress along the pavement. Peter waited only a few seconds before turning and following the man.

  After some ten minutes when Horsefield had led Peter into the maze of small streets lying behind Middlesex Road, he reached a row of down at heel terrace houses. Here Horsefield paused and gazed around him as though he was checking he hadn’t been followed. Peter had the presence of mind to push his body into the tangle of an overgrown privet hedge, some of the prickly branches getting up his nose.

  Believing himself safe from shadows, Horsefield mounted the steps of one house and disappeared inside.

  Peter gazed at the gaunt shabby building, its mildewed façade and blank windows darkened by the blackout shutters which were still in place, and smiled. The villain’s hideout, he thought. He had found it. All on his own.

  He must inform Johnny and how proud he would be in doing so. He remembered passing a telephone box a few streets away and sprinting he retraced his way there. Frustratingly, it was occupied by a young woman with a brightly coloured turban and large dangly earrings. She was in full flow. He could hear her voice in high-pitched moaning mode as her left hand fluttered wildly like a trapped bat. He couldn’t catch her words but one didn’t have to in order to know she was expressing some grievance in a grumpy tirade.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ murmured Peter in frustration, glancing at his watch. He was well aware that it was quite possible that Horsefield would only stay in the house a short time before moving on. The woman in the box sensing his presence and his impatience glowered at him and then turned her back without a pause in her diatribe.

  Seconds ticked by into minutes. Then to his great dismay, he saw the woman put more coins into the slot. God, she was going to tell all the world about her grievance.

  Peter was joined by a tall smartly dressed man outside the box. A queue was forming.

  ‘Has she been in long?’ he asked.

  ‘Forever,’ said Peter.

  The man leaned forward and tapped on the glass of the telephone box. The woman turned abruptly, scowled and mouthed some obscenity at him.

  ‘Charming,’ he said.

  At last, the woman put the phone down, but made no real effort to leave the box.

  The man pulled the door open. ‘Have you done?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she returned scowling. ‘This is private in here. You should wait.’

  ‘I have been waiting. I have an important call to make.’

  With a belligerent shove, she brushed past him. ‘It’s all yours,’ she said.

  The man turned to Peter. ‘It is rather important, sonny. I hope you don’t mind if I go before you.’

  Peter’s nerves along with his temper were somewhat frayed by now and he wasn’t going to have this. He had waited his turn and his turn it was.

  ‘Yes, I bloody do mind,’ he found himself saying, swearing out loud in front of a grown up for the first time in his life. Without waiting for a reaction, he yanked the door from the man’s grasp and entered the box.

  As his nervous fingers pressed the coins into the slot, he prayed that Johnny would be in his office. It was teatime. Surely, whatever he’d been dong all day, he’d be back for a cuppa and his usual makeshift evening meal.

  But the phone kept on ringing.

  In his mind’s eye, Peter saw the lonely instrument on Johnny’s desk, the dim shadows of evening falling softly onto it as it vibrated gently in the gloom, but there was no arm there to reach out and pick up the receiver. Eventually, he gave up and pressed button B.

  With a sigh, he dialled another number. This time the call was answered.

  ‘Hello,’ said a voice in a tone that intimated that the caller had interrupted something of vital importance.

  ‘Benny. It’s Peter.’

  ‘Oh, Peter, hello, my boy. What a pleasure to hear from you.’ The voice was sweeter, friendlier now, rich in warmth.

  ‘Benny, is Johnny there at the café?’

  ‘Not unless he’s the invisible man. He doesn’t come here as often as he used to… not since…’ The voice trailed away.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘How should I? Trailing some hoodlum maybe or taking a drink at the Velvet Cage. Your guess is as good as mine.’

  Peter ruffled his hair with his free hand. ‘Look, Benny, it’s important I get a message to him. It’s about his latest case.’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘I’ve tracked Horsefield to his lair. It’s 23 Commercial Street, Houndsditch.’

  ‘Let me write this down. Hey, wait a minute, what do you mean you tracked this horseperson to his lair. Are you in danger? What’s going on?’

  ‘No, no, I’m safe but I don’t know how long Horsefield will stay there. Johnny needs to get here fast.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re safe? You shouldn’t be involving yourself in such activities.’

  ‘I’m fine, Benny; don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Of course I worry. No more funerals do I want to go to this year.’

  ‘Look this is urgent. Please try and get in touch with Johnny. I’ve rung his office but he’s not there. Maybe you could try the Velvet Cage.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Oh, and could you ring Aunt Edith and Aunt Martha with some excuse of why I won’t be home for tea. I don’t want them to worry.’

  ‘A web of lies.’

  ‘Just a little fib. I’d better go I don’t want to leave H
orsefield for too long.’

  ‘Be careful, my boy. Be very careful.’

  Peter replaced the receiver quickly and exited the phone box. The man waiting outside glared at him, but Peter had other things on his mind and did not notice. Breaking into a sprint, he headed back to 23 Commercial Street.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Even before Frances Sexton entered his house, he knew that there was something wrong. It was instinct rather than evidence at first. As he walked up the path, he experienced a strange, irrational sensation as though a shadow had fallen over him and he shivered. When he discovered the front door was unlocked, it was no longer instinct. His heart constricted and a desperate inner panic took hold of him. Flinging down his case in the hall he raced to the cellar, his terror growing with every step. Before he got there, he knew what he would find – the unlocked front door had told him that much. Nevertheless, when he entered the gloomy chamber and saw the empty bed, and the blood-smeared handcuff, his legs grew weak and his body shook with horror. Within seconds of entering the cellar, he found himself leaning against the wall while his stomach retched, attempting to propel his midday meal on to the floor. With Herculean effort, Sexton controlled this powerful reaction, groaning with despair as he did so.

  The repercussions of this nightmare situation that the empty room presented were so frightening and impenetrable that at first Sexton’s mind could not cope with them. He just slithered to the floor and placed his head in his hands and groaned again, while rocking to and fro on his haunches.

  Northcote had escaped. Northcote was free. Now Northcote could destroy him.

  And he had no idea what to do.

  He sat there for some fifteen minutes or so, his mind fixated on that one and only fact: Northcote had escaped. The bastard was free!

  Eventually, he dragged himself to his feet and, like a sleep-walker, made his way back upstairs and to the drinks cabinet where he poured himself an enormous brandy.

  He took a large gulp before slumping down in an armchair, clasping the glass tightly between his two hands.

  He had no idea what he was going to do – or what he could do. His tired, ragged brain revealed to him that there were no options. He certainly couldn’t go to the police. He had no idea what Northcote would do next or where he would go and so there was no hope of recapturing him. And, of course, his dream of using him as a scapegoat was in tatters.

  Or was it?

  Oh, God, he didn’t know. He just couldn’t think straight.

  More brandy might help. He reached out for the bottle.

  * * *

  In the shady environs of Cartwright Gardens, Dr Ralph Northcote waited for the dark. He had found himself cheap lodgings in the King’s Cross area and was now ready – more than ready after years of incarceration – to kill. There would be an extra frisson to the act tonight, not just because it would be the first time in years, although this fact was mightily significant to him, but also because he would fatally wound that traitorous swine, Sexton. Sitting on a bench in the shadow of a large plane tree, he watched the moon as it grew brighter while the blue of the evening sky deepened. Soon it was an eerily yellow orb hanging against an indigo setting. A hunter’s moon and he was a very eager hunter indeed.

  * * *

  There was one stretch of the Caledonian Road, about half a mile from King’s Cross Station, that to Sally Hopkins’s mind was darker than the rest. She knew that the blackout was the blackout, but somehow this section seemed to have an added layer of inky darkness. There was a line of tall, blank featureless commercial buildings which towered above the road, standing like grim sentries which seemed to her vivid imagination, as though they were waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting pedestrian. Every night when she walked home after her stint as a barmaid in one of the public houses up by the station, her pace quickened when she reached this part of her route. She knew she was being illogical, but she couldn’t help her feelings. And tonight strangely she felt more frightened than usual.

  She had good reason.

  Suddenly a dark shape stepped out in front of her, causing her to collide with it. Sally Hopkins gave out a little scream but her attention was immediately taken by the sudden pain in her abdomen. She pulled away from the figure, the pain increasing, but the man – she now recognised the shape as a man – came towards her again and thrust something towards her stomach. She moaned with pain and sank to the floor. Feeling dizzy and faint, she gazed up at her assailant and saw that he was holding what appeared to be a knife. As consciousness faded, she became aware of the wetness that was seeping through the material of her coat.

  Blood.

  The man knelt down beside her and without a word, stabbed her again, this time twisting the knife in the wound. She hadn’t the energy to cry out. Her mouth opened, spittle dripped down her chin and then her head fell back on the pavement.

  Within seconds Sally Hopkins was dead.

  With a satisfied murmur, Ralph Northcote dragged the body down a narrow opening between two buildings, to a small area hidden from the road where the dustbins were kept. Here, he lit a candle, placed it on one of the dustbin lids and then undressed the girl. In the pale shimmering light, he extracted the instruments he needed from the bag he had left there and began work.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, he had completed his task, having removed the heart, liver and a section of the left thigh and wrapped them in newspaper before stowing them in his case. For a moment he gazed down at the girl’s face, now gently laced with blood, the eyes and mouth still wide with shock and horror. He felt nothing for her. No emotion touched his heart or mind. She was just dead meat to him.

  He was ready to go, but he still had one task to perform. Taking Francis Sexton’s silver cigarette case from his pocket, he placed it on the ground near the body. This action did prompt a reaction: a gentle, unstable giggle.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When Inspector Bernard Sullivan had departed, I intended to do the same. I reckoned I needed a drink and some thinking time. And, boy, did I have something to think about. However, when I swung my legs around on the camp bed and attempted to stand up, the room began to bend and sway. With a groan, I slumped back staring at the ceiling waiting for it to settle down. Then into my field of vision appeared the face of nurse Ivana.

  ‘You are a naughty man,’ she said in her rich Russian voice, making it sound like an invitation to an orgy. ‘You cannot move just yet. You must rest for a couple of hours at least. Your system has had a very big shock. You lie back. I will bring you a cup of sweet tea.’

  ‘You couldn’t make that a double whisky, could you?’ I grinned, in spite of my discomfort.

  She returned my smile. ‘You really are a naughty man.’

  ‘No ice,’ I added with a chuckle as she disappeared around the screen. She returned a few minutes later with a mug of hot, sweet tea.

  ‘Just as you ordered: no ice,’ she beamed, as she handed it to me. ‘Now drink that and rest for a while.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The tea was good despite the sweetness and I did feel as though it revived me a little, but I still hadn’t the energy or the sureness of foot to get up and leave and so I obeyed nurse’s orders and lay back and stared at the gently shimmering ceiling. In the distance I could hear station noises, the echoing hiss of steam, speaker announcements, the shrill screech of a guard’s whistle and the muted cacophony of the sea of travellers as they ebbed and flowed up and down the concourse and the various platforms. So many lives, so many journeys. It seemed that despite the drama I was involved in, the world was getting on with its mundane business.

  I closed my eyes and ran through the events of the day. It struck me that I’d been lucky. I could be lying on a slab in the morgue now instead of a fairly comfy camp bed being nursed by a very pleasant Russian girl. The mystery surrounding Annie Salter’s death had been cleared up once and for all, but unfortunately the real villain of the piece, her murderer, had escaped. Strangely I
felt sorry for Malcolm Salter. I knew he had been a deserter and an armed robber, (past tense) but I didn’t think he deserved to die in such a manner. Some leopards can change their spots and I’m a strong believer in giving a chap a chance at reforming himself. Well, there was no chance for Malcolm now.

  I suppose my part in the case was effectively over. I had carried out Father Sanderson’s wishes and discovered the truth of poor old Annie’s death. However, I knew I couldn’t let it rest there. I had to find Horsefield and bring him to justice. If only in revenge for the gargantuan headache he’d given me. And besides, surely it is what the old priest would have expected me to do. Well, I was going to do it. Or at least try.

  Mind you, I had no idea how I was going to do it. I reckoned that I would have a go at formulating some sort of plan after a good night’s sleep when I hoped the blitzkrieg in my head had ceased.

  I gave a shrug, closed my eyes and, before I knew it, I had fallen into a gentle sleep.

  I was woken sometime later by my Russian nightingale. She had her raincoat on and seemed to be ready to go somewhere.

  ‘I’ve just come to say goodbye,’ she said with a smile. ‘My shift is over and Nurse Kerry is taking over.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was just after six in the evening: I had been asleep for over three hours.

  ‘You can stay here until you feel fit enough to leave.’

  ‘Oh, that’s now,’ I said, pulling myself up more quickly than I should. My head throbbed as though a small road drill were digging deep into the convolutions of cerebral cortex but my vision, though not perfect, was much better. Every-thing seemed to have a fine double edge.

  Ivana caught my arm. ‘Whoa,’ she said, with a half smile. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this?’

  Certainly am,’ I said with more confidence than I felt, as I pulled myself to my feet. Thankfully the room stayed where it was, but the drills were still pounding away. ‘Perhaps you could walk with me a while, just until I get my sea legs, as it were.’