A Taste for Blood

by Davies, David Stuart;

  In a trice I was standing in a dark, damp and rank smelling chamber. I lit a match and the decaying room sprang into flickering relief. This had been the sitting room, I guessed, noting the broken down horsehair sofa and a decrepit armchair, the seat of which seemed now to be the home for a family of mice. As the match dimmed, prior to going out, I heard a movement somewhere in the room and then as darkness returned, a bright light shone in my face.

  ‘Johnny!’ a voice called. It was Peter. I felt a mixture of relief and annoyance.

  ‘Take that torch out of my eyes, will you?’ I snapped.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, lowering the beam.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I followed Horsefield. I saw him enter the house but now he’s disappeared.’

  ‘What do you mean disappeared?’

  ‘I watched him climb through the gap in the boarded up window and come in here just before it got dark but he didn’t come out again, so I came in after him.’

  ‘You little fool, don’t you know the man is very dangerous? He’s a murderer. He wouldn’t think twice of putting a bullet in you.’

  ‘I was careful.’

  I rolled my eyes in angry derision but, of course, in the darkness Peter could not see disdain.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve been around the house and looked in all the rooms and he’s not here,’ he continued. ‘He must have left another way, probably out of the back.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s gone?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘That’s very odd. What made him come here in the first place if it wasn’t to hide out.’

  ‘He might come back.’

  ‘I suppose so, but I reckon that’s unlikely. When you saw him was he limping?’

  ‘Yes. His left leg, I think.’

  ‘That’s my handiwork. I wounded the fellow today.’

  ‘Really!’ In his excitement at this revelation, Peter’s voice rose an octave. ‘How?’

  As briefly and succinctly as I could, I gave Peter a recital of my adventures at Victoria Station.’

  ‘Wow, a real shoot out. That’s terrific.’

  ‘Not all that terrific. The man got away and with the money after killing his greedy partner and giving me a whopping headache.’

  ‘So, what’s our plan of action?’

  A good question. I pushed my hat back on my head and scratched my forehead. I was puzzled and no ideas were coming to my rescue.

  ‘Well,’ I said at length. ‘There’s nothing we can do here tonight. Let’s get you home.’

  ‘Ah, Johnny, we can’t give up now.’

  ‘Oh, yes we can, partner. We have no leads and even if I had, I certainly wouldn’t be involving you in following them up.’

  ‘Why not? I found Horsefield, didn’t I?’

  I couldn’t argue with that point. Then an idea struck me. ‘When you saw Horsefield, was he carrying a bag, like a small holdall?’

  Peter thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I reckon he was. He sort of clutched something to his chest as if he was holding a baby. I suppose it could have been a holdall.’

  I grinned. ‘Holding a baby, eh? His bonny baby: two thousand smackeroos in crisp bank notes. So that’s why he came here.’

  Peter shook his head in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To stash away the money. A nice little hiding place while the heat is on. This is his neck of the woods. He’d know about this old house. An ideal location to secrete the stolen cash. Safe as old houses.’

  ‘So it’s here somewhere,’

  ‘Somewhere. Yes, I reckon it is.’

  ‘So we’d better search for it.’ Peter was getting really excited now.

  ‘Whoa,’ I cried. ‘You’ve heard the phrase ‘needle in a haystack’, well that’s the situation we have here. Old house full of various nooks and crannies. Pitch black and a small torch. How on earth are we going to be able to search for a small bag containing some stolen loot?’

  Peter gave a heavy sigh. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘I need to contact Inspector Sullivan about this – get him to send a body of men to keep an eye on the house and when it’s daylight give it a thorough search.’

  ‘And what about Horsefield? Where do you think he’ll be now? What if he comes back tonight?’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll do that. He needs to rest up… to…’ My mouth stopped working mid-sentence as my brain took over and an idea formed slowly in my mind.

  ‘What is it, Johnny?’ Peter asked after a brief pause.

  ‘He’ll need medical treatment – for his leg. The wound needs cleaning and bandaging. He can’t go to a hospital. They’d ask too many questions. So would a doctor. Where would he go for help and a bit of simple nursing?’

  ‘His mother. He’d go to his mother.’

  ‘Indeed, he would. She lives in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘I went there this morning. To her house.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I pretended I wanted a glass of water. I tried to spy out to see if Horsefield was there – but I got nowhere. She gave me the glass of water but I didn’t get past the front door.’

  ‘Well our man certainly wasn’t there this morning – he had other fish to fry then… at Victoria Station – but I reckon there’s a strong chance that he’ll be there now.’

  ‘Ok, let’s go.’

  ‘Not on your life, Peter. I’m not risking taking you with me. As I’ve told you Horsefield is a very dangerous man. Even more so now that he’s got his loot.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Johnny. Look, I can help you, I know. All we need to do is establish that Horsefield is at his mother’s and then we can call in the police.’ He reached out his hand squeezed my arm. ‘Come on, Johnny, we can do that together, can’t we?’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  In the distance David Llewellyn could see a bright crimson smear illuminating the sky as they turned down the road where Francis Sexton lived.

  ‘There’s been no bombing tonight, has there, sir?’ asked Sergeant Sunderland as he manoeuvred the car slowly towards the fiery glow.

  ‘No,’ David replied slowly, as he peered ahead of him and caught sight of a fire engine and the darting silhouettes of firemen. ‘But it looks like our suspect’s house is blazing away nicely.’

  Sunderland parked the car some hundred yards from the conflagration and the two men walked slowly towards the burning house. Even from this distance, they could feel the heat of the conflagration blowing towards them in waves. However, the flames were beginning to surrender to the force of the water and a mixture of steam and smoke were beginning to envelope the damaged building like a surreal bank of fog. Llewellyn made his way through a small knot of onlookers and approached one of the firemen who seemed to be in charge.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ he asked.

  The man turned abruptly, his sweaty face tinged red from the reflection of the flames.’ Stand well back, sir. It’s not safe for you.’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ said Llewellyn drawing out his warrant card. ‘I need to know.’

  ‘Oh,’ responded the fireman, a little nonplussed. ‘Well, I can’t tell you much. A neighbour called us when she saw the flames. We think there’s a body in there but we couldn’t reach it. The heat was too intense by the time we arrived. We’ve got it under control now, but there won’t be much left of the house when it’s over. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He moved forward and began issuing orders to a group of men wielding one of the hoses.

  Llewellyn passed a knowing glance at his colleague. ‘This is a funny business. If there is a body in there, I’d like to know whose it is.’

  ‘Well, if it’s Sexton, that saves us a lot of work.’

  ‘Indeed. That might be too convenient though.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Still, I’m a cynical old bastard.’

  Slapping Sunderland on the back, he turned to go. ‘Come on. We can’t do anything here for the moment. I have an appointment with a pillow.’

 
The two men began walking back to the car. They were oblivious of a tall, bulky man standing amid the throng of onlookers who studied their every movement.

  It was Dr Ralph Northcote, who had stayed behind to watch the resulting finale of his handiwork. He had been shocked to see Llewellyn turn up on the scene. David Llewellyn, the man responsible for his foul years of imprisonment in Newfield House. He had forgotten about him. Something in his psyche had blanked this cursed policeman from his consciousness. He had not thought of Llewellyn for years. But now, seeing him again, suddenly all his anger and hatred for the man welled up inside him once more. If ever anyone in his life deserved to die, Llewellyn did. He had been the one that had done for him. Had exposed him. Had consigned him to a life of ignominy and imprisonment.

  Northcote had to control himself from rushing forward then and there and grabbing the bastard by the neck, throttling the life out of him. He could feel his fingers sink into the soft flesh of the policeman’s throat. He saw the eyes bulge in terror as he tightened his grip. He could hear that strange thin reedy death whistle as Llewellyn’s lungs gave up the ghost. He felt the body slump against him, the dead mouth damp with spittle…

  But Northcote didn’t move. Some instinct of self-preservation stopped him. It can wait, a voice told him. He can wait. The anticipation would add further pleasure to the deed. But Northcote knew that the death of David Llewellyn was to be his next project.

  * * *

  Northcote waited until the two policemen had returned to their car and driven away before he moved. Giving one more glance to the glowing ruins of Sexton’s house, he turned and walked with slow deliberation back down the road, away from the blaze that he had started, the furnace in which lay the blackened remains of the man whom he had thought was his saviour but who turned out to be his cruellest enemy. Now he just regretted that he didn’t have the time and opportunity to take a piece of Sexton’s flesh as a tasty souvenir. But this was not a time for regrets or for dwelling on the past. He was free – the shackles of Newfield House and Sexton’s cellar had been severed. He really was free now – and he had a new passion to make his pulses race. The destruction of Detective Inspector David Llewellyn.

  * * *

  Sheila Llewellyn heard her husband climb the stairs and sigh heavily as he reached the landing. She glanced at the phosphorescent numbers on the alarm clock on her tiny bedside table. It was nearly three in the morning. David’s shadowy figure appeared in the bedroom.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she murmured.

  ‘I’m fine,’ came the weary unconvincing response from the darkness.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea or anything?’

  ‘No, love. You don’t disturb yourself. Get back to sleep.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’

  ‘In a while. I need to calm down a bit.’

  ‘Bad night?’

  He did not reply but bent over the bed and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, love. You get your beauty sleep.’

  Sheila knew it was David’s way. When he was really depressed about a case, he would keep it all to himself. He would not bother her with his troubles. It was part of his chivalrous nature. She had learned to live with it. Matters would not be improved if she started to probe. From very early on in their relationship she had realised that he compartmentalised his police work, never letting the detail of it spill over into his private life. It was his way of protecting her from the darkness in his life.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ she murmured sleepily.

  He kissed her again. ‘I’m sure, my lovely.’

  ‘O.K.’ Within minutes Sheila Llewellyn was fast asleep again, while her husband sat in his favourite armchair downstairs, with only a small table lamp for illumination, puffing discontentedly on a series of cigarettes.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Peter and I stood in the shadows on the opposite side of the road from Bruce Horsefield’s mother’s house. Like all other dwellings in the road it seemed to be in total darkness. This was a result of the blackout curtains or shutters which not only deceived the Hun, but a weary private detective and his eager young assistant also. The problem was how to ascertain whether Horsefield was inside the building, resting his wounded leg and receiving succour from his mother without alerting the occupants of the place – whoever they may be.

  ‘I could go and listen by the front room window and at the kitchen round the back,’ said Peter. ‘I might be able to hear voices.’

  ‘You might hear voices, but it’s unlikely you’ll hear what’s being said and whether Horsefield is one of the speakers or not.’

  Peter shrugged in response. ‘Well, have you a better idea?’ he said with an air of petulance.

  He had me there. In truth, I really didn’t want Peter with me. He was too young – and to be frank – too inexperienced to be involved in such a job. He was more likely to be an encumbrance than a help and I was concerned for his safety. But I was stuck with him.

  ‘Let’s make our way around to the back of the house and see if there is anyway of getting inside without being detected.

  Peter’s eyes lit up. ‘Great,’ he said.

  To approach the rear of the building we had to make our way down a narrow track which cut between the row of houses three doors down. This gave us access to the lane that ran behind all the dwellings along that stretch.

  Once we had reached the rear of the Horsefield dwelling, I pulled Peter to me and whispered harshly in his ear: ‘You are to stay here on guard…’ I held up my hand and placed it over his mouth before he could protest. ‘No ifs or buts, my boy. This is important. Listen! I am going to try and gain entry and see if I can locate Mr Horsefield. You are to stay here and wait. If I am not out of there within fifteen minutes, you must go for the police. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to come in after me. Do you understand?’

  In the dim starlight, I could see the disappointed look on Peter’s face deepen. He wanted adventure and excitement; standing guard outside did not quite fit in with his concept of thrilling detective work.

  ‘Don’t let me down. It’s very important that you do as I ask. Understood?’

  He gave me a reluctant mute nod.

  I had to trust him – but I knew that he could be reckless and impulsive.

  ‘Now hand over that little torch of yours. I reckon that’ll be very useful.’

  He did so without a word.

  Good lad,’ I said. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ I repeated, as I slipped over the garden wall and made my way to the back door.

  With the small pencil torch, I examined the lock. It was old and rusty. And easily dealt with. Within a minute, I had manipulated the fragile workings with my nail file and gained entry. The beam of the torch informed me that I was in some kind of laundry room. The finger of feeble light picked out a large sink, a tub and posser, and a mangle, while a drying cradle laden with damp greying garments hung menacingly over my head like some giant surreal spider waiting to pounce. I stood in the darkness and listened. A muffled sound from some far room came to my ears. It sounded like a radio playing.

  Pulling my gun from my coat pocket – my fingers clasping the cold handle was a real comfort to me – I opened the inner door and quietly moved into a darkened corridor at the end of which was the room where the radio was playing. The door of the room was slightly ajar and a thin yellow strip of light fell onto the dusty linoleum on the floor. As I stood and listened, I could clearly hear the voice of Jack Warner. The occupant or occupants were obviously listening to Garrison Theatre. At that moment I wished I were at home in front of my own hearth doing the same thing.

  Stealthily I moved down the corridor towards the lighted room. On my left was the staircase leading upstairs. I heard the laughter of the radio audience supplemented by a hoarse chuckle which I deduced must belong to Bruce Horsefield. Or at least I hoped so. At this thought, my heartbeat quickened.

  With gritted teeth, I swung the door open gently and surveyed the inter
ior. It was a shabby but nonetheless cosy sitting room. Bruce Horsefield was sitting by an electric fire with his injured leg up on a stool and a glass of beer in his hand smirking away at the radio banter. So enamoured was he by the radio show that he did not at first realise another person had entered the room. Then some sixth sense made him twitch and he turned awkwardly and saw me. I held my gun clearly in view.

  ‘Don’t do anything foolish, Bruce. I want to deliver you breathing in one piece to our friends at Scotland Yard.’

  Horsefield was shocked by my sudden appearance and he dropped his glass of beer, the liquid spilling on to the hearth rug. However, he soon recovered his equilibrium and shifted his wounded leg off the stool as if he intended to rise from the chair.

  ‘Stay put,’ I barked.

  His eyes flamed and for a moment I thought he was going to ignore my order and that I was going to have to use my gun. My stomach juddered. I didn’t want to shoot him. I didn’t want to shoot any man. It’s not my way.

  But then strangely, he relaxed and I could almost swear that a ghost of a smile touched his lips. The odd flickering of his eyes, as though he were watching something over my shoulder, should have warned me that there was danger but it all happened so quickly that I really had no time to react.

  There was a sudden violent cry worthy of a weird horror film harpy and then someone jumped on my back and clamped their scrawny arms around my neck. It did not take me long to realise that this was Mrs Horsefield – the mother.

  She screamed obscenities as I swung myself round in a desperate attempt to dislodge this creature who like some fearsome piggy-backing child clung on tenaciously. Meanwhile Horsefield had risen from his chair and was advancing on me. I raised the gun.