What a fool he’d been.
He felt faint and began to sweat profusely. The walls of the telephone box seemed to press in on him and felt claustrophobic.
‘Ring,’ he croaked addressing the telephone. ‘For God’s sake ring.’
But the phone remained silent.
The minutes ticked by and David’s anxiety grew. At one point he lifted the receiver to see if it was actually working. The reverberating burr that emerged from the earpiece told him that it was.
He dropped the receiver back in the cradle as though it had caught fire. He didn’t want the telephone to register an engaged tone and miss the call.
But the call did not come.
He checked his watch. The minute hand was crawling up towards ten past six.
‘Oh, my god, it is a trick’ he cried softly. ‘A bloody cruel joke.’
And then suddenly the door of the telephone box swung open and someone forced their way inside.
‘Good evening, Inspector,’ said Ralph Northcote, a nasty grin plastered on his face. He held up a knife so that David could see it. ‘One silly move and you get this right between the ribs. Is that understood?’
‘Where’s Sheila?’
‘Oh, she’s quite safe for the moment. And will remain so, as long as you do exactly what I tell you to do. Is that understood?’
David nodded, the sweat now running profusely down his face and he felt faint. What, he wondered, had this mad man got in mind – what nasty plan had he got up his sleeve?
‘I trust that you have brought no weapon with you. Nothing concealed somewhere?’
‘No.’
Northcote patted his jacket, coat pockets and felt down the legs of his trousers. ‘Mmm,’ he said, ‘you seem to be telling the truth.’
‘I am, I swear.’
‘Good man. Now when we step out of this box, we shall turn right and round into Thorne Street. You’ll see a Vauxhall car there. We shall stand behind it and I will open the boot and we’ll look inside as though inspecting something in there. When the coast is clear, you’ll climb inside.
‘But…’
Northcote pressed the knife against David’s ribs. ‘No questions, Mr Policeman. Do as I say or else…’
Northcote pushed his weight against the door of the telephone box and with an eerie creak it swung open. ‘You walk before me and, please, don’t try anything heroic. Remember, I have the knife and I know where your wife is.’
David stepped ahead of Northcote onto the pavement and walked slowly in the direction that he had been instructed to take. As he did so, he gazed around him as inconspicuously as he could in the desperate hope of seeing Johnny. There was no sign of him whatsoever,
They turned into Thorne Street and he saw Northcote’s car.
Northcote moved bedside him and opened the boot.
‘Lean forward and inspect the interior,’ he said.
David did as he was told.
Northcote gazed around the quiet street. Dusk was falling and there were no pedestrians or traffic. The time was ripe.
‘Right, get into the boot,’ he snapped
David climbed over the edge of the boot and hunched his body in order to fit in the confined space.
Suddenly darkness fell as the boot lid came down. He was trapped in an airless dark bubble. And he was helpless.
Outside, he could hear the dark satanic laughter of his captor.
THIRTY-THREE
I left Benny’s café just as he was about to shut up shop for the day. He came on to the pavement with me to inspect the motor car. He pulled a face on seeing the vehicle close up.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose,’ he said. ‘But this old crock is like me: it’s seen better days.’
‘It gets me from A to B,’ I said with a smile.
‘But what if you want to go further?’
It was a good question. One that I could not answer.
I clambered into the cab, wound down the window, gave a quick wave and turned the ignition to start up the engine. It resisted my first attempt and indeed my second, but with further coaxing and a little extra choke, it spluttered into life on the third go.
‘I think it’s time you gave it back to the circus,’ said Benny, as I pulled away in a manner far more stately than I had hoped.
I glanced at my watch. It was twenty past five. I reckoned it would take me about twenty minutes to get to Lambeth Bridge. I would be in plenty of time to witness David’s telephone call.
Or so I thought.
It soon became obvious that the car thought otherwise. I was just passing down Redcliffe Gardens on my way to the Embankment when a strange gurgling and hissing noise emanated from the bonnet. This was quickly followed by a violent jerking motion before the car juddered to a silent halt. I turned the ignition desperately, but the engine did not respond. ‘What the hell!’ I thought, as I jumped out onto the pavement and gazed impotently at the dead animal. What on earth was I going to do? My knowledge of the internal combustion engine was less than nil. I didn’t even know how to raise the damned bonnet. Out of frustration, I kicked the front wheel. This action was not only of no practical use but it didn’t make me feel any better either.
‘A spot of bother?’
I turned to face the owner of the voice who stood a few feet behind me. He was a tall, distinguished looking gentleman in a smart dark overcoat and a bowler hat. He had well chiselled aristocratic features, bright blue eyes and a well trimmed jaunty moustache which was now white with age.
‘The thing has died on me.’
‘Did it splutter, steam and then shudder to a stop?’
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. ‘That’s about the size of it.’
His pale face split into a smile.
‘The old ones often do. These Wolseleys are nice little runners in their youth, but I’m afraid time does wither them and spoil their infinite reliability. But fear not. It will be dirt in the carburettor. It always is. As they get older and worn, these motors let in all sorts of alien smut. I should know; I had one of these for nearly eight years. I was sorry to see it go. Open her up. We’ll soon sort the old girl out’.
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea how to do that. Open up the bonnet, I mean.’
‘My, you are a novice. Are you sure you’re fit to drive this beauty.’
On the evidence so far, I didn’t think I was. But then again, she was hardly a beauty either.
The old gentleman led me round to the driver’s side, opened the door and reached inside. ‘See, here, there’s a lever,’ he said in the manner of a friendly school teacher. ‘This releases the catch on the bonnet.’ He gave the lever a sharp tug and the bonnet responded with a gentle snap.
My mentor lifted up the bonnet and leaned over, peering beneath the canopy. He hummed a little as he inspected the interior and then dipped his hands inside. Heaven knows what he was doing, but he seemed to be doing it with supreme confidence.
‘Just as I thought,’ he said at last. ‘Dirty carburettor. Well, dirty and decrepit, if the truth be known. It really needs renewing. It’s on its last legs. Have you an old rag?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I mumbled and inspected the inside of the car for such an item without success. I dug into my pocket and pulled out my handkerchief. ‘Will this do?’
The old gentleman gave a sad shake of the head. It was clear that he thought I wasn’t fit to be in charge of this motor car – a man who has no idea how to open the bonnet and does not even possess an old piece of rag to wipe up spills and smears.
‘You’ll not be able to use this handkerchief again,’ he said, returning to the task of doing something under the bonnet.
As he did so, I gazed at my watch. It was five forty-five. Time was running out, but I could hardly tell the old fellow to hurry up. He was doing me a great favour after all. A favour to an incompetent ignoramus of a motorist.
After a few moments, he stood clear of the car. ‘That should do it’, he said
, handing me my handkerchief back. It was now thick with soot and grease. I threw it on the floor of the car.
‘Give the engine a try,’ he said cheerily. For a moment I thought he was about to add, ‘You do know how to do that, don’t you?’ and although I suspect he was tempted, he restrained himself. I sat in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. The car whirred and whined for a moment and then remarkably coughed its way into life.
The old gentleman beamed and he slapped down the bonnet. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘They only need a little care and attention and they’ll serve you well. I recommend that you have her serviced pronto and get the garage to replace the carburettor. That done, it’ll keep going for a few years yet.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ I said, reaching for my wallet.
Spotting this gesture, he held up his hand. ‘No, no. I don’t need thanks. It was a pleasure for me to get my hands on one of these old machines again. I don’t get a chance these days. It’s shank’s pony for me now. It was my pleasure.’ He patted the bonnet affectionately. ‘Goodbye, sir, and happy motoring.’
Without another word he walked off stiffly down the street with a jaunty gait.
I did not wait until my mechanical good Samaritan had disappeared into the throng of pedestrians, before revving up my old jalopy and driving off at speed. My watch informed me that I had less than ten minutes to reach Lambeth Bridge.
I could hear the sonorous tones of Big Ben striking the hour as I raced down Horseferry Road, my heart beating like a rumba band and a fine sheen of sweat on my brow. At the junction with Millbank, I pulled in at the kerb and jumped out. I soon clocked the telephone box across the road and there was someone inside. From where I was standing I could not make out whether it was David or not. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I crossed the road and made my way towards the box. As I sauntered past, I saw, to my relief, that the occupant was indeed David. I hadn’t missed him. I sent up another prayer of thanks to my mechanical good Samaritan.
I returned to my car and sat inside watching the box.
Time moved on, but David remained where he was. Was it a very long call or no call at all? Was the whole thing a trick? Only time would bring the answers; all I could do was sit and wait.
And then at about ten past six, a heavily built man approached the telephone box and entered. His actions were so deliberate and calculated, that it was clear to me that he knew that David was in there. My God, I thought, it’s Northcote. He’s come in person for David. There was to be no phone call. My mind was a whirl. What was I to do? Attempting to rescue David from this situation would bring its own problems. Northcote still had Sheila somewhere and we had to find out where.
After a while the door of the telephone box opened and David and Northcote emerged. They walked slowly across the road towards the bridge and then stopped at the rear of a car. Northcote opened the boot, said something to David who then appeared to be inspecting inside it. He leaned forward so that half his body disappeared from view. Then to my horror, I saw that he clambered inside the boot and Northcote with a triumphant gesture slammed the lid down imprisoning my friend.
Gazing around him briefly to see if he had been observed, he got in the car. Immediately, I switched on my engine and revved up. I must not lose this monster: two people’s lives depended on me.
As Northcote pulled away from the curb into the thin stream of traffic, I shot forward at some speed so that by the time we were across the bridge I was only one car away from him.
Luckily for me, Northcote did not seem to be in a hurry and he drove at a moderate speed. This was reassuring for it meant that he had no idea that he was being followed.
We passed the Oval cricket ground and headed in the direction of Kennington and the maze of domestic avenues in this area. Northcote had just turned down one of these streets when it happened. Or to be more precise: it happened again. The strange gurgling and hissing sound under the bonnet returned with even greater ferocity than before. This then was followed by the strange juddering motion of the whole vehicle. Suddenly, I was driving a bucking bronco. These gyrations were a brief precursor to the whole machine gasping to a full stop. Obviously, my mechanical good Samaritan had only managed a temporary repair.
I pulled the little lever to release the bonnet and peered inside. There was no way I was going to be able to repair the fault this time. I could not even identify the carburettor.
I swore. Northcote’s car had disappeared from sight. I had lost him. And I had lost any chance of saving David and his wife from fates that were unimaginable.
THIRTY-FOUR
David lay in the back of the swaying vehicle in a cramped foetal position. He had never felt as helpless in his life. He had no idea where he was being taken or what fate was in store for him. He was fairly sure that Johnny was not on his tail. There had been no sign of him when he and Northcote had left the phone box. Only a bloody miracle could save him and Sheila now and as he wasn’t the least bit religious, he didn’t believe in miracles.
After about fifteen minutes, Northcote’s car came to a stop. David could hear the scrunch of tyres on gravel as it did so. He waited in tense anticipation for the boot lid to rise, for the evening light to flood in and for Northcote to release him from his cramped prison. But nothing happened.
He banged on the boot lid but there was no response.
There was no response, because Northcote had gone into the house. He wanted to check on his prisoner inside first, to be certain that everything was as he had left it. He opened the bedroom door and saw that Sheila was lying on the floor. She obviously had made some desperate attempt to free herself of her bonds and in doing so had toppled off the bed. He found this amusing and chuckled in response.
Sheila, still hooded with the pillow case aware of a presence in the room wriggled and made a gagging sound but because of the tape across her mouth the words were indis-tinguishable.
Northcote pulled the pillow away from her head and lifted Sheila back onto the bed. Her eyes were wide with fear and wet from crying. This also pleased Northcote. Inducing fear was always a delight to him. He smiled as he ran the back of his hand down her cheek.
‘Not long now,’ he said softly.
Sheila gave a croak of fear.
‘Now you stay there like a good girl and then I’ll give you a big surprise. One I’m sure you’ll like.’
His smile broadened as he left the room. He was pleased with himself. This was all going rather well, he thought. He couldn’t remember when he had felt so happy, so fulfilled. And soon, he was sure, he would feel even happier when he was cutting up the flesh of Mr and Mrs Llewellyn.
* * *
In the sitting room, he poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette. With a sigh of pleasure, he slumped in an armchair. A moment’s relaxation, contemplation before the fun of the evening. But he was too excited to relax fully. He stubbed the cigarette out before it was half-smoked and he abandoned the drink after only a few sips. He really wanted to get on with the show.
It was quite dark out now. The moon was hidden by clouds and there were few stars visible; it was only the lights from the house that dimly illuminated the drive way and the car. Knife in hand, Northcote raised the lid of the boot. The sight that met his eyes made him gasp and almost drop his weapon.
The boot was empty.
* * *
After the car had been standing still for some minutes, David called out. At the top of his voice, he bellowed out the word, ‘Help!’ several times. The word reverberated dully in the airless confined space. There was no response. No rescue. But then again there was no attempt to silence him. Northcote must have left him for some reason – abandoned him.
That was good news.
Somehow David knew he had to take advantage of this hiatus. He reckoned that Northcote would not leave him there for long and so he had to do something quickly. David swivelled his body round in the cramped space so that he had his back against the ins
ide of the boot lid and his feet were pressing on the partition between the boot and the rear seats. With as much force and as much leverage as he could muster he began kicking this partition with both feet. Surely, he thought, it cannot be that secure. At first his blows met with strong resistance, but he persisted, aiming at different portions of the partition to gauge which was likely to be the weakest. Then at last he heard a slick crack, a kind of tearing sound.
Bingo!
In the darkness, he grinned and renewed his efforts.
Slowly but with a pleasing surety, the partition began to give way.
The more he was able to drive it forward, the greater the force he was able to use to break down this barrier. Finally, with a satisfying crack, David’s particular wall of Jericho came tumbling down. The seat fell forward providing a jagged aperture through to the rear of the car.
He swivelled his body round, and like a burrowing mole, pushed his way through. Within seconds he had clambered over into the front seat and was out of the car.
He stood briefly to catch his breath and fill his lungs with the cool evening air. And then, as he gazed around, he was amazed to find himself in his own driveway. He was back home. What the hell? For a moment, he thought he was having an hallucination, but a movement inside the house brought him rapidly to his senses. It was probably Northcote coming for him. He dodged to the side of the door of the house out of sight and waited.
* * *
The boot was empty. Northcote leaned forward and saw the gaping, damaged partition – his prisoner’s escape route.
‘You won’t find me in there,’ said a voice behind him.
THIRTY-FIVE
I swore again and to ease my frustration further I kicked the bumper of the accursed car. Both actions did not really help my sense of despair – and I hurt my foot in the process. Foolishly, in desperation, I looked under the bonnet once more. It was pointless. I certainly couldn’t work the conjuring trick that the bowler-hatted gentleman had performed so niftily and effectively. Clean the carburettor or whatever he’d done. Perhaps I should have watched him carefully and then I could try to mimic his actions. I should have taken Barry Forshaw’s advice and taken the little sporty number. I bet that little thing wouldn’t have let me down, like this old crate. For a few seconds my mind whirled around such stupid thoughts while my heart thumped desperately within my breast. A little confused, I may have been, but I was fully aware how desperate and apparently hopeless my situation was. What on earth was I going to do?
A Taste for Blood Page 17
