A Taste for Blood

by Davies, David Stuart;

  I was just lighting a celebratory cigarette when the telephone rang. Wow, I thought, not another client? I was wrong.

  It was David Llewellyn.

  * * *

  I met him in The Guardsman at noon and we secured one of the little private booths at the rear of the saloon bar. Here, away from the noise and the smoke we were afforded a little privacy. My friend looked terrible. His face was grey as though all the blood had been drained from it and his skin had a damp sheen to it. His eyes blinked nervously as he raised his pint glass to his lips.

  I knew something was wrong – very wrong. I had deduced that from the tone of his voice and his strange manner during the telephone call. He had told me nothing, only that he needed to see me urgently. David never asked to see me urgently.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ I asked casually, eager to get the ball rolling.

  David ran his hand over his face. ‘It’s this Northcote case.’

  ‘Northcote. Mr Cannibal?’

  David nodded. ‘He’s got Sheila.’

  ‘What do you…?’

  ‘What the hell do you think I mean? He’s got Sheila. He’s abducted her.’

  ‘My God!’ I said, my mind filling up with questions, only to ask the one that I shouldn’t.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’ His eyes widened in anger and his hand shook so much, the beer slopped over the side of the glass.

  I touched the sleeve of his coat with what I hoped was a reassuring gesture. ‘Tell me about it.’

  David took a large gulp of beer before responding. ‘He came to the house this morning after I’d gone to work and… took her. Then he rang me at the Yard. He said he’ll let her go in exchange for me.’

  ‘Exchange. A kind of swap?’

  ‘He wants revenge. I was the copper who nabbed him in the first place. I’m the one responsible for getting him locked away for life. Now he intends to get his own back. I’m supposed to be in a phone box down by Lambeth Bridge on the Millbank side at six this evening and he’ll give me more instructions. Where to go. Where to meet him. Once he’s got me, he’ll let Sheila go.’

  Like hell he will, I thought but knew now was not the time to air such an opinion. Instead, I said nothing.

  ‘The problem is,’ he continued after another gulp of beer, ‘there has to be no police involvement. I’ve got to do this on my own or else… or else he’ll slit Sheila’s throat.’

  ‘But you can’t do this without a surveillance team to help.’

  ‘I can’t risk it, Johnny. If he gets a whiff of a police presence… I just can’t risk it. I’ve got to do it on his terms… for Sheila’s sake’. There was a catch in his voice and he turned his head away momentarily while he brought his emotions in check.

  I wanted to say all kinds of sympathetic, reassuring and encouraging words but I was well aware this is not what David wanted to hear just now. Besides, I knew I would struggle to make them sound convincing. In truth, my old friend was in a no-win situation. How can you take the word of a mad killer as gospel? This Northcote creature may well have killed Sheila already; if not, he wasn’t going to release her when he’d got his hands on David. What fun he could have torturing Sheila while David was forced to watch. Or vice versa. My heart sank at the thought of this impossible situation. I knew that David was an experienced and intelligent enough policeman to be fully aware, as I was, of the drastic implications of this terrible scenario. His face clearly indicated that this knowledge was tearing him apart. And there was nothing I could say that would alter the situation.

  ‘I need your help’, he said quietly but forcefully.

  I did not have to think about a reply.

  ‘Of course. Whatever I can do.’

  ‘I need you as my shadow tonight. Even if the bastard gets me, perhaps you’ll be able to get him.’

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I sat hunched over my desk, staring into space, both hands grasping a mug of coffee. I was miserable and I could not believe it. I had started the day with a brightening of the spirit. After the dark months after Max’s death, I felt I was reaching for the light again – normality at least. I had completed the case for Father Sanderson and I’d got myself back on the detective treadmill. Things were looking up. And then came the hammer blow. I had just lost the love of my life and now one of my friends, a man who has been so good to me, was in great danger of losing his.

  Whoever was in charge of our Fate up there needed a good kick in the crotch.

  I broke my reverie to glance at my watch. It was only three thirty. Time goes so slowly when you are waiting. I had great forebodings about that evening’s venture. I did not know how it could end happily. I chided myself for being so negative but the feeling of dark apprehension would not go away.

  On leaving David at lunchtime, I had gone along to Barry Forshaw’s garage to hire a motor for the evening. If I was going to follow David, I needed my own set of wheels. Certainly shank’s pony would not do and equally the situation was far too dangerous and uncertain for me to rely on the services of a taxi driver. Barry was an old client of mine. I had extricated him from a forged number plate business when he’d gone in too far. With my help, we exposed the gang and I managed to get Barry a reduced sentence for helping with the arrests and turning King’s evidence. He’s been grateful ever since.

  ‘I have a nice little roadster, you can have,’ he said, leading me into the compound at the back of the garage. The motor certainly looked smart and nippy, but just a little too individual and therefore too noticeable. I needed something that would blend in with the stream of traffic and not catch anyone’s eye. An ordinary motor.

  ‘What about the Wolseley?’ I asked, moving over to a shabby-looking vehicle.

  ‘That old thing. It’s been around the block a few times, I can tell you.’

  ‘Just the kind of crock I’m after. It is roadworthy, I suppose.’

  Barry grinned at my impertinence. ‘Certainly,’ he said, with feigned irritation. ‘I don’t deal in any other kind of motor car.’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll take it. How much?’

  ‘Bring it back in the morning without a scratch on it and a full tank of petrol. How about that?’

  ‘You got a deal.’ We shook hands.

  The car was a bit clunky, but so am I as a driver. I’m in control of a car so infrequently that I remain as rusty at the steering wheel as the mudguards on this old jalopy. I hoped that I was up to my duties for this evening. I drove around for about an hour getting used to the controls and feel of the vehicle before heading home. It certainly was a sturdy drive. Driving this for a month would certainly develop one’s arm muscles.

  I drained my coffee mug, lit a cigarette, and glanced at my watch again. The hands had hardly moved.

  Would this evening ever come?

  Suddenly the rumbling of my tummy alerted me to the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and that consisted of a cup of tea, a scrappy piece of toast and a fag. I needed some grub to help sustain me through the ordeal tonight. I decided to pop down to Benny’s and treat myself to one of his specials. I smiled at the thought. Knowing Benny’s cooking it would hardly be a treat and it certainly wouldn’t be special, but at least it would be warm and I’d have a chance to see the old boy. I felt sure that his banter would help lighten my mood temporarily before setting out off on my evening adventure.

  As I pulled up in the Wolseley outside Benny’s café, I saw him peering through the window and he caught sight of me as I got out of the car.

  ‘Up the world we’ve come, Mr Rolls Royce!’ was his greeting as I entered.

  ‘It’s an old Wolseley and it’s on loan for the night. It goes back in the morning.’

  ‘A Cinderella motorist, eh? You got a special date with that lovely Russian girl.’

  I grinned. I knew Benny would cheer me up.

  ‘You could say that,’ I lied. I certainly didn’t want to tell Benny the rea
l reason for hiring the motor.

  I ordered the special of the day and a pot of tea and took a seat by the window. Five minutes later Benny delivered the goods – a plate of liver and onions accompanied by a greyish splodge of mashed potato.

  ‘I must say that you are looking a little more like your old self, Johnny. But you still need feeding up.’

  ‘You said I needed feeding up when you first met me five years ago.’

  Benny chuckled. ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘I’m fine, Benny. I’m back in the saddle and I’ve almost stopped feeling sorry for myself. When you get a blow like I did – losing Max so suddenly in such a terrible way – you think you’re the only one going through hell. It numbs you to other’s pain. So many people are suffering in this bloody war…’ I paused, my knife and fork motionless over the food, the image of David Llewellyn’s drained and tortured face shimmered before me. Suddenly I didn’t feel hungry any more.

  ‘Loss is always with you, Johnny. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t think about my Daisy, but you learn, you learn to cope with it. And you get on with your life. It’s what they would have wanted.’

  I prayed that this wasn’t a lesson that David would have to learn.

  THIRTY-ONE

  In her dark tomb, Sheila Llewellyn had lost track of time. She had no idea how long she had been incarcerated in the boot of this maniac’s vehicle. Initially, she had curled up foetal-like – like a frightened child, but gradually her fear had subsided and a kind of numbness of mind came to her, almost an anaesthetic, removing the pain of reality. At one point, when the vehicle had parked, she had actually fallen asleep.

  The car was on the move once more, and it swayed and shook violently as though it was being driven at great speed. And recklessly. Suddenly a thought struck Sheila, Perhaps he never intended to let her out ever again. She was meant to die here, to lose consciousness through lack of food and water and then rot. She would be found months later – a rotting corpse. She shuddered at the thought but somehow she was glad to have considered such an outcome. Facing the worst in some strange way gave her courage and hope.

  The vehicle slowed and ground to a halt. After a moment, she heard the driver’s door slam and then the key in the lock of the boot. Seconds later, the boot lid was raised slowly. Sheila screwed up her eyes as the blinding daylight flooded in.

  And then a shadow fell over her.

  ‘The circular tour is over,’ her captor observed. ‘Time to leave’. He reached into the boot and grabbed Sheila’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said gruffly.

  Her body was stiff and awkward and her limbs failed to obey her. He dragged her over the edge of the boot and she fell forward, her hands hitting the harsh gravel. With some effort, she pulled herself forward until her legs flopped to the ground also. She lay there like a landed fish on a riverbank.

  ‘Welcome home,’ sneered Northcote, once more clamping his hand around Sheila’s right arm and hauling her to her feet. Her vision blurred, she felt nauseous for some moments and then gradually her surroundings came into focus. Her mouth opened in shock. Sheila couldn’t believe it. She was back home. She was in her own drive. The car was almost in the same position it had been when she had been bundled into it those long hours ago. Was this some kind of cruel hoax?

  Her eyes and expression must have clearly mirrored her thoughts and Northcote laughed at her confusion.

  ‘I’ve brought you back home, to wait for hubby to return. We’re going to have a cosy evening together.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Sheila was surprised at the ferocity and the volume of her retort. Frustration, confusion and desperation had commingled to make her very angry. So angry in fact that she lashed out with her foot, kicking Northcote in the leg.

  He gave a cry of surprise and staggered back. Sheila was tempted to kick him again and this time aim at somewhere more vulnerable, but instead she turned and ran. Passing down the edge of the car, she headed down the drive for the gate.

  She hadn’t been prepared for the awkwardness of her body. Cooped up in virtually one position for many hours, it was learning to function again. Her limbs were stiff and did not automatically obey her. She ran like someone who has severe arthritis travelling over a bed of hot coals.

  Within seconds, Northcote was upon her and brought her to the ground. She crashed onto the hard gravel.

  ‘Naughty, naughty,’ he gasped. ‘I see that I shall have to watch you. Now get up.’

  Reluctantly she did so.

  ‘That’s a good girl,’ he said, and marched her back down the drive. After retrieving a small case from the back seat of the car he dragged Sheila into the house.

  ‘Can I have a drink of water, please?’ she asked.

  ‘Another trick?’

  ‘No, no. I am very thirsty.’

  Northcote pulled a knife from his pocket. He held the shiny bright blade in front of Sheila’s face. ‘I don’t want to cut you just yet, Mrs Llewellyn, but if I have any more trouble from you, I’m afraid I will have to slit your throat. Is that understood?’

  Sheila shivered with fear and nodded vigorously, words failing her at this moment.

  Northcote took her into the kitchen where she filled a glass of water from the tap and gulped it down eagerly.

  ‘Now it’s time to secure you for the evening. We must have you ready and nicely trussed for when hubby comes home.’

  ‘What… what are you going to do?’

  ‘Oh, that’s a surprise. You like surprises, don’t you?’

  At knife point, he took her upstairs. When he led her into the bedroom, she feared the worst. She determined that if he was going to try and sexually molest her she would kick, scream and bite like a demon. She would rather be knifed to death than succumb to his advances. He would not violate her without a damn struggle.

  But it seemed that Northcote had other ideas.

  Opening his case, he took out several lengths of rope and a reel of strong tape.

  ‘Time to truss up the turkey,’ he observed with a grin.

  Sheila actually felt a sense of relief when she realised that this maniac only intended to tie her up rather than rape her. She offered no resistance as he bound her feet and tied her hands behind her back. Then he rolled off a strip of tape, cut it with his knife and placed it across her mouth. As he did this she tried to scream but the tape prevented the sound escaping.

  ‘You’ll have to breathe through your nose for a while, my dear.’ Northcote chuckled to himself. He was really enjoying this grotesque charade. ‘And now a final touch,’ he added as he thrust her onto the bed. Snatching up a pillowcase, he detached the pillow and slipped the empty case over Sheila’s head.

  ‘That should keep you nice and quiet until your hubby arrives,’ he said, standing back and admiring his handiwork.

  Sheila lay on the bed, engulfed in darkness and began to sob softly.

  Northcote left her to her misery. Locking the bedroom door he went down stairs and checked his watch. It was almost time to set off. His features broke into a broad smile. He was going to enjoy this evening. Who was it who said revenge was a dish best served cold?

  THIRTY-TWO

  David Llewellyn arrived at Lambeth Bridge early. He was terrified that if he did not obey Northcote’s instructions to the letter, he would be placing Sheila’s life in jeopardy. Or, as he grimly reconsidered, more jeopardy than it already was – if that were possible. His mind was all over the place and his stomach was spinning like a top. He was sure that he was going to be sick at any moment.

  The day was on the brink of evening and a stiff breeze blew off the river. Instinctively, he pulled his overcoat around him, although he was fully aware that it wasn’t the cool air that was making him shiver. It was fear. Fear that whatever he did this evening, the outcome would be tragic.

  At a quarter to six, he approached the telephone box, which was on the opposite side of the road to the bridge. As he did so, he gazed around him as casually as he was ab
le in order to see if he could spot Johnny anywhere.

  He couldn’t.

  This did not dismay him too much. He that knew Johnny wouldn’t let him down. Would he? No, of course not. He prayed that he wouldn’t anyway.

  The phone box was occupied. A large woman with a shopping bag was in full flow. David checked his watch. Still ten minutes to go. That was all right. As long as this woman finished soon.

  For a moment, he had a vision of him swinging open the door of the box and hauling her out mid-sentence, so that he could receive his call on time.

  Crazy thought. He mopped his brow. He hoped it was a crazy thought. God, he could do with a drink, but that was the last thing on earth he should have now. He knew that he needed a clear head to deal with the unknown events ahead of him; at least as clear as he could make it. Alcohol would only slow his reactions, muffle his thinking and take the edge off his reactions.

  He mopped his brow again and stared into the box as the woman oblivious of his presence rattled on. Once again he gazed around him as casually and as nonchalantly as he could, hoping to catch a glimpse of Johnny. He still couldn’t. In his fraught state he didn’t know whether this was a good thing or bad. If Johnny was performing a brilliant chameleon trick, that was fine. He just hoped that he was actually out there watching, for without his aid, he was a goner and indeed so was Sheila. At the thought of his wife, David’s stomach lurched once more.

  He was just about to reach inside his jacket for a cigarette, when the large lady emerged from the phone box. She passed him without a glance and crossed the road and headed for the bridge.

  David hauled open the door and squeezed himself inside. It was like being in an acrid smelling womb… or coffin. Now he just had to wait. Just had to wait for the next move in this deadly game. He stared at the black bakelite telephone crouching there like a wary spider. How long would it be before it rang?

  God, a thought struck him. What if it didn’t ring? What if this were some cruel hoax? What if Northcote had set this up, just to buy himself some time? What if he’d already murdered Sheila and was now miles away from London?