The road was quiet. There was no traffic. No motorist chugging by whom I could flag down and persuade to give me a lift. Give me a lift? Where on earth to?
I had no idea.
Then my eyes fell upon the road name plate on the wall opposite. Sycamore Rise.
They lingered on it for a while and then a certain dim recognition came to me. Sycamore Rise.
Sycamore Rise!
The name reverberated in the cobwebbed passages of my memory. I knew that name. Somehow. I had heard it before. Where? How?
I was aware of the phrase ‘to cudgel your brains’ before but I’d never really known what it meant – or the real effect of it until that moment. Here I was on a dark spring evening staring at a road sign, repeating it over and over again, cudgelling my tired brains in an attempt to remember…
Sycamore Rise.
It was a misnomer as the road did not ‘rise’ perceptively and certainly from where I was standing there were no sycamores in view. This was an observation that I’d had before. Sycamore Rise – silly name, I’d thought.
Of course!
The cudgelling had worked. It came back to me. I had been down this road before. And, yes, suddenly I knew that it led into Chestnut Avenue from which one could reach Oak Road and from thence one could turn down Larch Close.
And Larch Close was where Detective Inspector David Llewellyn lived! I could see it now in my mind’s eye: a very smart modern villa situated down a long tree-lined drive. I knew because I had visited him on a couple of occasions in the early days of the war just after setting up as a private detective.
Then the terrible implication struck me. My God, I thought, the fiend was taking David home. He must be holding Sheila prisoner there. As this notion came to me as frighteningly fast and violent as a lightning flash, I felt both excited and horrified in equal measure.
It was then that my natural instincts took over from my brain and within seconds I found myself running – running as if all the devils in hell were on my trail. The neat suburban houses of Sycamore Rise swept past me in a blur as I raced along the pavement heading for Chestnut Avenue, my feet pounding hard on the flagstones. Inconsequently, I chided myself for being so unfit. Fags and booze had certainly taken a toll on my fitness. Nevertheless, I increased my speed, sweat drenching my shirt and my heart fighting to burst free of my chest. I ran that evening as I have never run in my life before.
At least now I knew where I was going. What I would find when I got there I did not know, but the thought filled me with dread.
THIRTY-SIX
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.
David had not expected Northcote to react with such speed and violence. He had thought that the shock of finding the boot empty would have confused his captor and therefore slowed his reactions.
But this was not the case.
Swiftly and with a nimbleness that belied his size, Northcote swung round on the balls of his feet with great alacrity and lunged at David with the knife. To his dismay, David was the one who was caught by surprise and although he pulled back swiftly and dodged sideways in an attempt to avoid the sharp blade, he was not quick enough to go beyond Northcote’s reach. The knife pierced his shoulder, the blade going in deep. David felt a searing hot pain and he dropped to his knees, his vision blurring. Suddenly he was aware that his mouth was filled with vomit and before he could expel it, he collapsed unconscious on the gravel drive.
Northcote stood over him, legs apart like a grisly colossus and laughed.
* * *
When David recovered consciousness, the first thing that he became aware of was the searing pain in his shoulder. Gradually as his vision and memory asserted themselves, he became aware that he was in his own kitchen. He was sitting facing the table on which lay the body of his wife, Sheila. She was dressed only in her brassière and knickers and had tape across her mouth. She wasn’t moving but it was clear from the rise of her chest that she was alive.
David made to go to her. It was only then he realised that he was bound tightly to the chair.
‘Just sit where you are. Don’t try to move, Inspector. I’ve had enough trouble with you already.’
The voice came from behind him. It was Northcote.
‘I’ve arranged a ringside seat for you, Inspector,’ said Northcote, moving round to face him.
‘You swine, let me go.’ David knew that his words were impotent. The man was cruel and he was mad. Nothing but a bullet through the heart would stop him now.
‘Let me explain what I intend to do so that the anticipation of the event will bring you as much anguish, discomfort and pain as possible. Almost as much as the event itself. But I can assure you that it will be spectacularly upsetting. You see, I really want to make you suffer, really suffer. It is because of you I festered away in a little white cell for eight years – eight long years. Have you any concept what that is like? To wake up each morning knowing that you will be staring at the same blank four walls for the rest of the day. There will be no one to talk to or be with. The same – day after day after day. That is your life, if you can call it life. There is no one to talk with. No one to share things with. There is just nothing. The brain atrophies and the bitterness grows. It festers, Inspector and becomes focused. It focused on you – because it was you who gave me that fate and indeed nothing I can do to you can possibly make up for the pain and distress I suffered. They say that revenge is a dish best served up cold. Well, Inspector, this one is going to be particularly icy.’
Northcote chuckled at his own conceit and walked over to a kitchen cabinet near the sink. Here rested an instrument case which he opened and extracted a long shiny scalpel. He ran it gently across face of his thumb causing fine line of scarlet to appear. He sucked it noisily.
He grinned. ‘Nice and sharp. A very efficient slicing tool.’
‘What are you going to do?’ David could hardly make his mouth work and these words emerged almost as a hoarse whisper.
‘I am so glad you asked me that. Fear not, it is my intention to explain everything to you in great detail.’
Holding the scalpel aloft, he moved to the kitchen table and stood over the inert form of Sheila Llewellyn. For a moment he looked down at her, lost in dark thoughts his eyes lit with a wild fire and then after a moment he broke his gaze and turned to David.
‘Lovely smooth arms your wife has got, Inspector. And that is where I intend to start.’
David’s stomach lurched and he groaned. ‘Please, I beg you, leave her be. Use me, cut me instead. I’m the one you hate. She hasn’t done you any harm. Please leave her alone.’
‘Oh, yes, you are the one I hate and indeed I will come to you in due course, Inspector. But here’s the beauty of all this. In cutting up your wife, I manage to hurt you twice. As she suffers, so will you. As she screams, so will you. A wonderful chorus of pain and despair, And I haven’t even started on you yet. There’s a beautiful symmetry about it all.’
David’s head slumped down in abject despair.
‘Come, come, Inspector. You have a ringside seat. I expect you to watch. You see I will begin slowly by taking a pleasing slice of flesh from the upper arm – not too deep, not as deep as the bone, but deep enough to provide a tasty piece of meat about the size of a rump steak. A little appetiser before the main feast. Internal organs are the best for that particular course.’
David swore loudly and with all his might he tried to move, to break free of his bonds, but it was to no avail. The more he tugged and wriggled, the tighter his bonds appeared to grow.
‘Once I have secured our lovely slice of arm, so welcome in these days of meat rationing, I do not intend to be selfish. I will devour half and allow you to snack on the rest. Oh, do not look so revolted. I shall insist that you share the tasty morsel. Refusal to do so will mean more pain for your wife. So y
ou see in a way by tasting her flesh you will be doing her a favour.’
‘You bastard!’ David bellowed at the top of his voice, the words echoing dully around the kitchen.
Northcote just beamed. ‘Indubitably, I am a bastard. Oh, yes. But a clever one. You’ve got to give me that. A clever bastard who has the upper hand. Now, I think it is time I begin.’
He leaned over Sheila Llewellyn and with a steady motion brought the scalpel down towards her bare arm.
THIRTY-SEVEN
By the time I reached Larch Close, my lungs were on the verge of bursting. I imagined them, barrage balloon-like inflating beyond their accepted capacity inside my aching chest surging up towards my mouth. Surely they would burst at any time? But until they did, I kept on running. Two people’s lives could depend on me. I just hoped that fate would be kind and allow me to arrive in time to prevent the terrible scenario my mind had conjured up.
At last I reached David’s house. I skidded as I turned down past the gateway and moderated my speed. I spied the car that Northcote had been driving parked by the side of the neat villa at the end of the tree-lined drive. There were lights on in the downstairs rooms and I discovered that the front door was unlocked.
It had been two or three years since I had been in the house so that my memory of its geography was a little hazy. I stood in the hallway and listened. I was still breathing heavily from my exertions and my own breath, for a time, masked any other noises in the house. Desperately, I tried to control my breathing and as I succeeded, I heard voices or to be precise one voice. It was muffled and indistinct. There was no way that I could identify it or tell what it was saying. However I could deduce that it was male.
I opened the door of the sitting room. It was empty, but I could now detect that the noise I could hear was coming from the kitchen beyond, the door of which was closed. I crossed the room at speed. I knew that this wasn’t the time to eavesdrop. Seconds were precious, especially when there was a madman involved. I also thought that a surreptitious opening of the door would be more dangerous than slamming it open. This way, whatever was going on in that room would for a few moments stop, freeze, as it were, and all attention would be on me.
Clasping my gun in one hand, I placed my other on the door handle. As I did so, a high pitched scream rent the air. I slammed the door open and rushed into the room. As quickly as I could in that moment of startled silence I tried to take in the scene before me. To my right, I saw David, pale and drawn, bound to a heavy dining chair, his eyes wide with panic. In the centre of the room, on a kitchen table lay the body of a barely clad woman whom I dimly recognised as Sheila Llewellyn. Standing over her with what looked like a small vicious knife was Dr Ralph Northcote. He had just made a cut in Sheila’s arm, a thin trickle of blood ran down onto the table top.
On seeing me, the madman glared at me with wild animal ferocity and with a roar of rage took a step in my direction. I fired my gun. I did not have time to aim accurately and the bullet whizzed past the devil. He lunged at me. I fired again. This time my aim was surer. It caught him in his right arm. He gave a cry of pain but this did not stop him. Before I knew it, he was on me.
We crashed to the floor, the gun slipped from my grasp. The power and weight of my assailant pinned me down to the ground. He growled and slobbered like a giant bear over me. I couldn’t reach my gun so I punched him as hard as I could in the face but that did not deter the devil either. He seemed to be functioning on some kind of obsessive energy that ignored pain. He raised the knife high above his head ready to plunge it in me. I struggled to break free but failed to extricate myself completely. As I slithered sideways, he stabbed me in the shoulder. In an instant, despite the excruciating pain my hands sought out his throat and squeezed hard against the thick flesh. Still the monster was not deterred. He raised the knife again.
Then there was a shot. It sounded like a thunderclap in my ear.
Northcote grimaced and his body froze. The blade only inches away from my face – from my good eye!
As he faltered, I pulled myself from under him and rolled aside on the floor out of his range. Then I saw blood suddenly fountain from his throat. It frothed and bubbled around his Adam’s apple. He had been shot in the back of the neck. With an obscene gurgle, he fell face downwards on the floor where seconds earlier I had been lying.
I gazed up and saw Sheila Llewellyn. Her face was ashen and haunted, her eyes wide and blank as though she were in some kind of hypnotic trance. She was standing by the kitchen table, one arm resting on it for support. In the other hand she held my gun. Fine tendrils of smoke were still emerging from its muzzle.
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘Well, boyo, this is a turn up for the book,’ observed my friend David Llewellyn without a trace of irony. ‘I never expected to wind up in a hospital bed next to you. And we’re both suffering from the same complaint: a wound to the shoulder.’
‘Life is funny that way,’ I mused.
It was the morning following the night before. The horrendous night before when I had tackled Ralph Northcote and Sheila Llewellyn had shot the demon in the back of the neck, killing him. In the end, apart from being terribly shaken and no doubt the inheritor of ghastly nightmares for some months to come, Sheila was the least physically damaged of the three of us. Luckily, Northcote had only just begun his butchering work and the scalpel had only broken the skin. She had just a nasty little cut on her upper arm. However, David and I had both been badly wounded in the shoulder by Northcote’s scalpel: almost an identical twin branding, as though we were initiates into a very brutal and bloody secret society.
After the police had arrived and taken Northcote’s corpse off to the morgue at Scotland Yard, we had been scooped up by ambulance and taken to Charing Cross Hospital for treatment and an overnight stay. The injuries were not life threatening, just painful and inconvenient. At least we were alive, as David had reminded me on more that one occasion. He had revived both in energy and outlook with remarkable resilience and as the morning light streamed through the windows of the small ward in which we were incarcerated, he seemed to have metamorphosed back into his old cheerful self. I suppose the fact that Sheila was alive and no longer in danger and that Northcote was on a slab in the police morgue had a lot to do with his revived demeanour. His nightmare had evaporated. I was delighted for him.
The door opened and a pretty nurse entered carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and two plates of biscuits.’
‘Our elevenses, eh, nurse? I could get used to this pampering,’ said David brightly.
The girl smiled. ‘I don’t think you’re going to get a chance. Once the doctor’s has a look at you, I reckon he’ll be sending you home. You’ll just need to take it easy for a few weeks and you’ll both be as right as ninepence.’’
‘That’s a shame. I was counting on a long stay in here,’ grinned David.
After the nurse departed, we drank our tea in silence. I could not get the images of the events of the previous night from my mind: my race along the darkening streets; my dramatic entrance into the kitchen and the dreadful sight that greeted me; my desperate tussle with Northcote; the shot and the terrible frothing wound at his throat. I shuddered as these dramatic pictures flickered before me as though they were projected on a screen. I looked across at David and could see from his furrowed brow and staring eyes that he too was experiencing his own private horror show. At least his loved-one was safe and sound. If only I could have done the same for my sweet Max. If only I could have saved her. With a determined effort I shut down that avenue of thought. That way madness lies.
The door opened again and three individuals bustled in. We had visitors: Sheila, Benny and Peter.
‘We’ve come to see the heroes,’ chimed Benny.
‘Survivors more like,’ grinned David as Sheila embraced him and then planted a large kiss on his cheek.
‘I’d hug you, my darling, but I’m afraid my arm isn’t up to it yet,’ she said.
‘I can
wait,’ said David, returning the kiss.
She stroked her husband’s face affectionately. Although her face was pale and she looked tired, Sheila seemed remarkably robust for a lady who had undergone such a terrible ordeal less than twenty-four hours earlier.
‘In the wars again, eh, Johnny,’ said Benny, pulling up a chair by my bed.
‘I’ll do anything for a cup of tea in bed and being fussed over by a pretty nurse.’
‘You know, one of these days, I’ll be coming to the morgue to identify your body, Johnny Hawke.’
‘More than likely.’
‘You need more protection,’ piped up Peter. ‘An assistant to help you. To watch your back.’
‘An assistant like you, you mean.’
Peter’s eyes brightened. ‘Exactly. I could leave school this summer and come and work for you.’
‘I don’t make enough money to keep myself from teetering towards the breadline, let alone support an assistant.’
‘But with the two of us, we could double the business.’
‘You wouldn’t let him, would you Johnny? He’s too young to be involved in your nasty line of work.’
‘I’m already involved,’ asserted Peter. ‘I helped Johnny catch Bruce Horsefield. He couldn’t have done it without me.’
A Taste for Blood Page 18
