‘Stop now or I will shoot,’ I cried. But as I did so, the screeching gargoyle on my back, released one of her arms and brought it down hard on my wrist. The gun spun from my grip and clattered to the floor by the hearth.
Horsefield dived for it. Within seconds the tables had turned. Now I was the one who could easily end up in the morgue.
With a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat, Horsefield rose to his feet, the gun in his hand, pointing in my direction. I could see from the cold glint in his eyes that he meant to pull the trigger. In essence, I had only seconds to live.
With a concerted effort, I swung my whole body round, heaving my shoulders upwards as far as I could push them in one enormous shrug. This violent revolution caused Mrs Horsefield to billow out, her legs swinging free. As I spun round like a whirling Dervish, her body collided heavily with her son’s, knocking him to the floor. The collision caused my passenger to give a great whoop of horror. Her confusion made her release her grip and thus dislodged, she ricocheted into her son, landing on top of him.
While Bruce still held the gun, he was now flat on his back with his spindly mother spread-eagled across his frame. It was a slapstick routine worthy of Abbott and Costello. Quickly regaining my composure after my bizarre fairground ride, I stepped forward and stamped on Horsefield’s wrist. He gave a yelp of pain and his fingers uncurled from around the handle of my gun.
I snatched it up and pointed it at Horsefield’s head. I fired but aimed to miss. The gunshot reverberated round the room like a clap of thunder, the bullet lodging in the skirting board. My little demonstration had its desired effect. Both mother and son stopped moving and lay still, staring with apprehension at me and more particularly at the weapon I held in my hand.
‘Now if either of you wish to live long enough to have another breakfast, albeit in a cell at Scotland Yard, I suggest you do exactly what I say. Understood?’
Mute nods came slowly in response.
‘Right, sit together on the sofa and please, no funny business, eh? Bullets cost money, you know.’
They did as I asked like chastened children.
I knew that I would not have long to wait. I was certain that the gunshot would assure me of that.
Indeed, a couple of minutes later, I heard a frantic muffled voice calling my name and seconds later Peter burst into the room.
‘Johnny,’ he cried, ‘are you all right. I heard a gunshot.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a little target practice’.
Then he saw the two characters on the sofa and grinned. ‘You got him!’ he cried, his face breaking into a broad grin.
‘Now that you’ve answered my summons…’ I held up the gun. ‘Off you go to that phone box and call the police. ‘Tell them, we’ve got a thief and a murderer for them.’
‘You bastard,’ sneered Mrs Horsefield.
I shrugged. ‘Everyone’s a critic.’
* * *
I got to bed very late that night, but as I lay my head on my pillow, I had a smile on my lips. Horsefield and his mother were in custody at Scotland Yard. Inspector Sullivan had organised a search of the derelict house for the morning and I had deposited the grinning Peter back at home with the Horner sisters who had been reasonably forgiving about his late arrival. A successful conclusion to my case. I hoped Father Sanderson approved.
Strangely, sleep did not come easily that night. In the darkness, my mood of gentle euphoria faded quite quickly to be replaced with an unnerving sense of disquiet. I felt as though some dark cloud was louring over me. Tired as I was, I lay awake for some time wondering why I felt so apprehensive.
TWENTY-NINE
Sheila Llewellyn played idly with her toast. She really didn’t want it, but out of habit she had grilled two slices of bread and smeared them with a thin coating of margarine. Now, as she sat alone at the kitchen table, she had no desire to eat them. Her mind was far from food. She was thinking about her husband. Worrying about her husband. Well, it was part of her ‘job’ she supposed. When you are married to a policeman, you cannot expect to have an easy life. There were the terrible hours and the danger. The job was like a third person in the relationship. And she could read David like a barometer. He rarely discussed his work, his investigations, but she could tell by his demeanour, however much he tried to disguise it, whether things were going well or not. If the smiles were not quite as frequent and the charming worry lines on his forehead deepened, she knew David was dealing with a real stinker. When these came along, she worried all the more, as she was doing this morning.
For the last few days, David had been really low. He had hardly made any real attempt to hide it. For him that was rare, if not unique. At the thought of his tired and worried face, Sheila felt a dark cloud descend upon her. Absent-mindedly she picked up one of the slices of toast, held it for a moment and then dropped it back on the plate.
‘Come on,’ she said softly, chiding herself. ‘This will not do.’ She knew she had to be strong for the man she loved. If she showed that she was down in the dumps too, that would be an extra burden for him to carry. No, she must remain bright, cheerful and supportive whatever she was feeling inside. Surely, whatever was bringing David down would pass and he would return to his usual cheerful self. Surely?
Scooping up the pieces of toast, she dropped then into the waste bin under the sink and set about washing up. While she was drying the few items, left by herself and those much earlier by David before he had set off at dawn for the Yard, the door bell rang.
With a little puzzled frown, she dried her hands and went through to the hall to answer the door. Through the pane of frosted glass she saw the dark frame of a tall man. As she undid the latch, she wondered if it was one of David’s colleagues. At this thought, a slight tremor of fear ran through her. She hoped to God that it wasn’t bad news.
As soon as she opened the door she knew two things. It wasn’t one of David’s colleagues and she should not have opened the door.
The man who stood before her was unkempt, his shoulders hunched in a strange menacing fashion, but what was really unnerving was his rather twisted grin and the fierce malevolence in his eyes.
‘Mrs Llewellyn,’ he said, his voice gruff but polite.
‘Yes,’ she replied hesitantly.
‘That’s good,’ he grinned, the eyes widening in pleasure and he stepped forward as if to enter the house.
Instinctively Sheila made a move to close the door on him, but she was not quick or strong enough. He forced the door back and pushed her inside.
Her instinct was to scream, but she knew that this would achieve nothing. There was no one near to come to her rescue. She did not know who this creature was or what he wanted, but she knew he was dangerous and a threat. She turned to run, but he caught her by the throat and held her.
‘Please don’t struggle, Mrs Llewellyn. I really don’t want to hurt you. Not yet, anyway. It would be best for you and your husband if you did as I tell you.’
‘My husband,’ she croaked. ‘What about my husband?’
‘He and I have a little unfinished business to conduct.’
‘What do you want with him?’
The man giggled obscenely. ‘All in good time. Now if I release my grip, I want your promise not to try anything silly like trying to run away. You can’t run away and if you try I shall get mad and that means I’ll probably hurt you.’
The sentiments were expressed in such a matter of fact way that they filled Sheila with all-consuming dread.
‘Now, are you going to be a good girl?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘’That’s very sensible,’ he grinned, releasing his grip on her throat. ‘Now I’ve got my car outside and we’re going for a little ride.’
He took her arm and pulled her towards the door. ‘Now, no funny business. OK?’
She nodded, her mind whirling with desperate thoughts.
Outside, was an old Vauxhall which he’d driven up the drive right to the front door. Wit
h swift deft movements, he opened the boot. ‘Step inside, my dear.’
Sheila Llewellyn looked at him with incredulity.
‘Do as you’re told, if you know what’s good for you.’ He squeezed her arm until it hurt.
Sheila was tempted to try to break free and make a bolt for it down the drive, but some instinct stopped her, told her that she wouldn’t make it and then, who knows what the brute might do to her. With a sinking heart she clambered into the boot of the car.
‘Lie down and curl up,’ he snapped.
She did as he ordered and then darkness enveloped her as he slammed the boot lid down.
Moments later as the engine revved into life and began to judder forward, Sheila Llewellyn curled her hands into tight fists so that the nails dug into her palms and very quietly she began to cry.
* * *
‘I’ve had word from the fire officer in charge of last night’s blaze,’ said Sergeant Sunderland as he wandered over to David Llewellyn’s desk. His boss was staring at a pile of papers, but not really seeing them. His mind was elsewhere.
‘Oh, yes,’ he looked up distractedly. ‘What’s he got to say?’
Sunderland perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Apparently they did find a body in the shell of the house this morning. Or to be more precise the remains of a body. It’s too far gone to be any use to us. Apparently they can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.’
‘Great.’
‘Just some bones and ash.’
‘So we don’t know if it’s Sexton or not,’
‘Well, it was his house.’
Llewellyn shook his head. ‘That proves nothing. There’s something fishy about this affair. Look at the facts. Sexton visits Northcote on a regular basis in the loony bin on the premise of writing a book about criminal madness or some such. Suddenly Northcote escapes – very easily it seems – and disappears. And strangely Sexton seems unable to explain Northcote’s behaviour or to help us in anyway. In fact, his lack of assistance was in essence a hindrance.’
‘Then the murders begin,’ added Sunderland.
‘Yes… in the same manner as before. And then we find Sexton’s cigarette case at the scene of the most recent atrocity. You know what I wonder, Sunderland, don’t you?’
Sunderland threw his boss a quizzical look. ‘Not sure.’
‘I wonder if these two were in cahoots. I mean it’s a fairly unhealthy pursuit to keep visiting a cannibal murderer, isn’t it? Perhaps Sexton developed a curiosity about the killings… about the ritual of eating flesh. Maybe he wanted to try them out for himself.’
Sunderland grimaced. ‘It’s enough to turn your stomach.’
‘Your stomach, yes, ‘cause you’re a straight forward pie and chips man, but to some twisted minds like Northcote … and maybe Sexton… it’s lovely grub.’
Sunderland grimaced again. ‘You’re putting me right off my lunch.’
Llewellyn afforded himself a little smile at his sergeant’s discomfort. ‘Well, whether they were working together or not, we are still no nearer catching either of them. And, I hate to admit this, but I’ve no idea what we’re going to do next. We seem to be up that creek without a bleedin’ paddle.’
With this dark admission, both men fell silent. At length, Sunderland roused himself. ‘Shall I make us both a cuppa?’
‘Why not?’ sighed Llewellyn. ‘It might help invigorate the brain cells.’
Sunderland had only just left the office when the telephone rang. David casually lifted the receiver, ‘Llewellyn,’ he said.
There was a pause before the caller spoke. ’Good morning, Inspector. This is Dr Ralph Northcote.’
David’s body stiffened and a little electric charge seem to run up his backbone. He sat bolt upright in his chair, gripping the phone hard enough to snap the receiver in two.
‘Oh, yes…’ he found himself saying, his words escaping somewhat muffled from a dry mouth.
‘Oh, I assure you I am Ralph Northcote. This is not a hoax call. Surely you remember my voice… from before.’
David thought he did. ‘What can I do for you?’ he said as casually as he could.
Northcote chuckled. ‘It’s more a case of what I can do for you. You see I have your wife… but I really don’t want your wife, I want you.’
‘Sheila…’ stuttered Llewellyn, fear and apprehension fogging his brain.
‘Yes, little Sheila. Blonde-haired Sheila. I have her.’
David shook his head in disbelief. Was this maniac telling the truth or was it some cruel, wild bluff?
‘I called on her this morning and persuaded her to come away with me. She was not too keen at first, but you know I have my little ways of persuasion.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Of course. That goes without saying.’
‘If you have hurt her…’
‘Oh, please, don’t trot out the impotent threats. If I have hurt her… there is nothing you can do about it, Inspector. However, I have not hurt her. Really, I have no interest in hurting her, although I am sure her flesh is quite tasty…’
David’s stomach lurched and he wanted to bellow a stream of obscenities down the phone at his tormentor, but his wiser nature told him that not only would it not help the situation but it might make it worse.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you. I want to do a swap. You for your wife.’
‘Very well.’
‘I thought you would agree. But you must obey my instructions to the letter or I will slit dear Sheila’s throat and prepare myself a very tasty snack. Is that understood?’
For a brief moment, David wondered if this were really happening. Was it just a bad dream? A cruel nightmare from which he would wake any second. But as he stared unseeingly at the black telephone he knew in his heart that it was real. Very real.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘You tell no one – no one about this call. Your colleagues must not know. You are in this on your own. Is that clear?
‘Yes.’
‘At six o’clock this evening, you will be on the corner of Horseferry Road and Millbank by the Lambeth Bridge down by the river. There is a telephone box there. I will ring you and give you further instructions. I cannot emphasise enough that no one must know of this arrangement and you must come alone. Failure to comply with these instructions and… well, it’s goodbye Sheila. Is that understood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do as you are told and your wife lives. Act foolishly and… well you know the consequences.’
The line went dead.
For some moments David Llewellyn sat like a frozen statue, his hand still gripping the telephone receiver in his hand, his heart thumping in his chest. Suddenly he became conscious of a trickle of sweat travelling down his cheek from his temple. He slammed the receiver down savagely and grabbed a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped his face.
‘Tea up,’ cried Sergeant Sunderland, breezing into the room carrying two mugs and plonking one down on David’s desk.
Automatically, he picked up the mug and took a sip of the hot tea.
‘So, what do we do next, sir?’ said Sunderland, returning to his usual perch on the end of the desk.
David desperately tried to force his scrambled brain into functioning normally. When he eventually spoke, he found that his voice emerged in a strange mechanical fashion reminiscent of a speak your weight machine.
‘I’m… I’m not sure. Things… are a bit … desperate. Look, Sunderland, why don’t you take a trip to Sexton’s surgery and… have a snoop round his office… his files. See if you can come up with something.’
Sunderland looked at his boss with some concern. He seemed odd somehow. His face was white and damp with sweat and he was talking in an weird way.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘I feel a bit queasy. Probably a dodgy sausage I had for… breakfast. Anyway, you get off and see what you can sniff out at Sexton’s surgery, eh?’
/> ‘I can finish my tea first, can’t I?’
Llewellyn forced a smile. It almost hurt him. ‘Of course. As for me, I’ve got a little lead I’d like to follow up.’ Without a further word, he snatched his hat and coat from the rack and left the room.
Sunderland gazed at the full mug of tea, untouched, on his boss’s desk and raised his brow in surprise.
‘Now what’s got into him?’
* * *
Twenty minutes later, David Llewellyn was in the bathroom at home, his head over the toilet bowl. He had just relieved himself of his breakfast, including the supposedly dodgy sausage. His stomach was now empty, but he was still retching, his ashen face bathed in sweat.
On leaving the Yard, he had telephoned home, hoping against hope that Sheila would pick up the receiver at the other end. But it just rang and rang. And rang. He had then driven like the devil back to his house trying but failing to block out all the dark and despondent thoughts which were desperate to crowd in and taunt him.
On arriving home and finding the door ajar, his worst nightmare was confirmed. He carried out a cursory search of the house but knew he would find nothing. Northcote had been telling the truth. He had Sheila in his bloody clutches. It was then that the overpowering sense of nausea overcame him and he rushed to the lavatory to be sick.
After a while, he rose from his crouching posture and washed his face and swilled his mouth out with cold water. As he gazed at his haunted face in the bathroom mirror, one question above all pounded in his mind, thundered repeatedly in his brain like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer. What was he going to do? What was he going to do?
THIRTY
I was in business again! The following morning after my adventures with the Horsefield family, I was visited by a new client. Time was when such a small, rather sordid case of suspected adultery would have seemed small beer and depressed me, but after the several empty ‘feeling sorry for myself’ months, to get a regular client seemed wonderful. Normality seemed to be rearing its head again. It was a remarkable feeling and I am sure Max would have been pleased for me. I blew a kiss to her picture on my desk.
A Taste for Blood Page 15
