by Stan Mason
She nodded, smiling. ‘It’ll be fine. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.’
Hunter was still uncertain whether it was the right thing to do but he recognised that Ellen’s presence might keep the apparition away.
That night, Ellen sat in a chair in Hunter’s bedroom while he made himself comfortable in the bed and fell asleep. It was about three o’clock in the morning when Ellen awoke to find that the room had become icily cold. As it was the beginning of July, she questioned why there had been such a sudden fall in the temperature. The architect was fast asleep in the bed but he suddenly began to twist and turn quite violently. The vortex had returned to him and he felt himself turning round and round fast disappearing into a black hole. Then his eyes opened and he sat up staring at the foot of the bed but no apparition appeared. Instead, the wardrobe began to move as though someone was trapped inside and was trying to escape. It continued to shake violently and a low moan came from inside it. After about three minutes, the noise died down and the wardrobe stopped shaking. The temperature in the room increased rapidly bringing into line with the weather at that time of the year.
‘She knew I was here,’ exclaimed Ellen, adapting herself to the temperature in the room. ‘She refused to show herself because of me.’
Hunter shook his head to clear it and stared at her. ‘I reckon you’re right. She knew you were in this room. Her bedroom. If she’s able to show any emotion she must be furious.’
Ellen went over to him swiftly and pulled the bedclothes away to get into the bed with her clothes on after flipping off her shoes. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea,’ she told him. ‘After that performance, I’m scared from head to toe. I need a cuddle.’ He put his arms around her and kissed her lightly on the lips as they nestled together in the bed. ‘You know, I
could get used to this,’ she cooed pleasantly.
‘There’s no argument from me on that,’ he parried jokingly.
They snuggled up together tightly, kissing each other time and time again. Hunter mused that the situation was far beyond the reach of his dead wife. He had now become comfortable with Ellen both in his house and in his bed.
2
On the Sunday morning, at the end of the second week, he picked up the national newspaper from the mat behind the front door and sat down to eat his breakfast. As he stared at the front page, a jolt went through his body like a hammer striking an anvil. Facing him was the vague photograph of the body of a young woman that had been taken in the darkness of the night on the sands of Vernon Beach. It was almost unrecognisable from the angle at which it had been taken. She had been found raped, brutally beaten and strangled. It was almost like an action replay of Amy’s murder. He read the brief text readily recognising immediately that the modus operandi was exactly the same. Quite clearly, the newspaper had changed the story on the front page at the last minute as the incident was reported to the editor. The situation was now back in play with the police being forced to reconsider all the suspects in Amy’s case. They were now looking for a serial killer... or killers. Who was perpetrating these crimes? And why did they keep leaving the bodies in the same place on Vernon Beach? Clearly there had to be some connection.
He hastened to contact Watson but the police officer was not at the police station. Without delay, Hunter climbed into the Volvo he had bought to replace the red Ferrari and drove directly to Vernon Beach. The section where the body had been found had been cordoned off by the police and they had placed a tarpaulin over the dead woman to hide her from the sight of the public. Watson was standing with two policemen involved in a deep discussion. Hunter waved to him and the police officer cast a bleary eye in his direction trying to pretend that he hadn’t seen the architect although he knew that he wouldn’t escape from the man’s clutches.
‘Looks like you have at least one serial killer, perhaps two,’ Hunter ventured boldly. ‘I think you’re going to have to take me much more seriously in the future.’
Watson looked somewhat distraught. However much he tried to deter Hunter destiny refused to extinguish his ardour. He kept coming back.
‘Don’t think you’re going to involve your investigation with that of the police,’ he uttered irately.
‘Not even if I turn up something of interest,’ exclaimed the architect brightly. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t turn me down.’
‘Keep out of this, Hunter,’ warned the policeman. ‘This is a serious crime. Amateurs are not welcome.’
Watson turned away to speak with the two other policemen as Hunter spotted the reporter for the local newspaper who had a photographer by his side..
‘Hi, Meredith,’ he greeted amiably. ‘What goes on here?’
‘Another murder,’ muttered the reporter. ‘It’s identical to that of Amy Chester. ‘Seems we’ve got a serial killer on our hands. Her name’s Inge Carlson... a Swedish student. Twenty years of age. Raped, beaten and strangled. Bastard! What gets into them to do such things?’ The photographer took a few more pictures before Meredith finished his notes. ‘Murdered last night and left here,’ he went on. ‘I don’t understand why they keep leaving the bodies on this beach. There are lots of places they can hide them in the town.
‘Maybe the murderer wants to make a point,’ ventured Hunter calmly, although his mind began racing with possibilities. What had happened at this spot on the beach that made the killer or killers leave the bodies there? There had to be a reason!
‘Must go and phone in the story,’ related the reporter urgently as he turned to leave the beach. ‘You can read all about it in tomorrow’s issue.’
He left the beach quickly to telephone the details to his editor. The architect’s eyes tried to penetrate the tarpaulin to see the body of the dead woman but he would have to wait for a clearer photograph in the forthcoming issue of the newspaper. She was twenty years old... a young female student from Sweden. How did the perpetrator target his victims? It was a total enigma at the present time but Hunter knew that every criminal made at least one mistake. He had to be patient to wait for it to come to light. In the meantime, everyone was back to square one again.
He returned home to sit in his study staring at the pages stuck to the wall. Did this mean that the Swedish student’s spirit was tied up with those of Ruth and Amy? Were they all amalgamated in some sort of strange bizarre manner? His mind went back to the date of Amy’s death. Saturday the third of April. This time it was Saturday the ninth of August. Saturday! Perhaps the date was one part of the missing element. On both occasions that the perpetrator had struck it was on the evening of that day! He recalled the details outlined by one of the psychics. Men in uniform... lots of vehicles... maybe it was something that happened on a Saturday. Football matches, Rugby matches ... no, it couldn’t be. Football and Rugby were winter games. It was July... the summer. What else could it be?
When he met Ellen after school that day and took her to the cafe for tea, he posed a question hoping for a responsive answer.
‘I’d like to ask you something which I’m certain you’ll feel unwarranted,’ he began slowly, staring into her eyes.
‘Go on,’ she replied hesitantly wondering what he had to ask her.
‘I hate to ask it but is it possible,’ he asked mildly, ‘for two six-formers at your school to have raped and killed Amy?’
She burst into laughter before replying. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? I know you’re fishing but you are serious.’
‘Look at it from my angle,’ he progressed. ‘My theory is that two people were involved... one to hold her down, the other to rape her... or maybe they took turns and both did. Now an adult would not need assistance to perform that action. However, two schoolboys may find it necessary to do so.’
She thought on his assumption for a short while and then shook her head. ‘I know all the boys in the senior class. Most of them have turned sixteen, some are still f
ifteen. I can’t think of any of them who would do such a thing, let alone two of them together. No... I think you’re on the wrong track there but it was worth mentioning it.’
He pulled a wry face. ‘Damn... it was a good idea too!’ he spat angrily.
‘Maybe you should stand back from the case for a while,’ she suggested. ‘I think it’s become an obsession with you.’
‘You can say that,’ he rattled sharper than he intended, ‘but you haven’t to face Ruth’s apparition. I can’t sleep at night knowing she’s watching me all the time. Of course it’s become an obsession. I’m haunted until I find the killer.’
It was the first time they had come to a minor confrontation. He was annoyed at himself for having put the question to Ellen but he felt it had been necessary. The theory was a possibility even though she thought it to be absurd. Nonetheless, it was the first argument they had experienced although it quickly faded into obscurity. They were brought tea by the waitress and smiled at each other, although the atmosphere was slightly more chilled than usual.
***
One Friday afternoon, after collecting Ellen from the school, she approached him with a proposition.
‘How about going for a long spin tomorrow?’ she advanced eagerly taking his hand.
‘Where to?’ he countered raising her hand and kissing her fingers like a Casanova.
‘To my folks in Buckinghamshire for the weekend,’ came the ready reply. ‘We can come back on Sunday night.’
He looked extremely concerned at the suggestion. ‘I thought we were going to take it slowly,’ he said, referring to their relationship.
‘We are,’ she responded smiling at the frown on his face. ‘This is simply a one-off. You’re my boyfriend, after all. Surely I can show you off to my parents. There’s nothing more to it than that. And it won’t be that you’re under observation as a future husband.’
‘How can you say that?’ he enquired. ‘Of course they’ll look at me like that. Why else would you take me there?’
‘Oh, don’t be so fuddy-duddy,’ she criticised. ‘Just come along with me. It’s time I saw them again and I’d rather do it with you.’
He dwelt on the matter for a few seconds and then conceded. ‘Okay,’ he told her. ‘As long as it’s only a one-off.’ A thought crossed his mind which made him slightly uncomfortable. ‘What do I call your mother... Lady Dowager something?’
She burst into laughter. ‘Oh, you’re precious, Jeff!’ she guffawed. ‘Just call her Martha. My father’s name’s Todd. They’re ordinary people, you know.’
He smiled as he saw the pleasure in her eyes although feeling less than euphoric about the trip himself. He didn’t really want to meet Ellen’s parents but if it made her happy he was willing to do so.
They arrived there late on the Saturday morning and Hunter’s eyes opened widely as the car pulled up in the long drive. He stared at the stately mansion towering above him.
‘Wow!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is some place! It’s enormous!’’
‘It’s big, isn’t it,’ uttered Ellen in a soft tone as though practically everyone lived in such a stately home. ‘It has eight bedrooms, two lounges, a study, a playroom, two bathrooms, a large kitchen, a dining room, a utility room, a double garage and large gardens front and rear. It was left to my mother in her first husband’s Will.’
‘It’s worth a fortune... maybe over two million pounds,’ he gasped.
‘I hope you’re not the kind of man who dreams about money all the time,’ she teased gently.
‘No,’ he retorted, taking her comment seriously. ‘I’m never worried about money but I’m amazed at this place. By the way, what business is your father in?’
‘He’s the Managing Director of a large building company,’ she told him. ‘You may have heard of them... Traffords. They’re quoted on the Stock Exchange.’
Hunter’s cheeks blew out at the information. ‘Traffords,’ he repeated in a whisper. ‘They’re enormous.’
‘Well Mother helped Dad out at the start. She provided the funds to allow him to take over a number of smaller companies and they amalgamated into a large one.’
‘I’m impressed,’ he managed to say, feeling very much the underdog. He had met a beautiful mild teacher at a local school to discover that her mother once had a title and her father was in control of the biggest building companies in the country. The shock was almost too much to bear and he felt most humble as he stared bleakly at the mansion towering abovee him. At that moment, Ellen’s mother came to the top of the flight of steps which led to the front door.
‘Welcome!’ she greeted, hugging Ellen as she left the car and ran towards her. Mrs. Masters then stared at the architect who looked at her as one would gaze on the face of a goddess. ‘My... you’re handsome, aren’t you,’ she told him, shaking him by the hand. ‘I’m delighted to meet you. Come inside!’
They entered the mansion to be shown into one of the two lounges. It was a huge room, beautifully decorated, with high-classed bric-a-brac placed here and there, expensive furniture, as well as rich paintings adorning the walls. They sat in enormous armchairs staring at each other pleasantly.
‘The tea is on its way,’ explained Mrs. Masters coolly.
At that moment, the door opened and a maid entered holding a silver tray with cups, saucers, bowls of milk and sugar, and a large porcelain teapot. Hunter could not believe his eyes when she came in. They even had a maid to make the tea and cook for them. He had certainly landed on his feet with his new amour. The family was rich... very rich. Nothing was too expensive for them. As the maid bent over to pour the tea, Ellen’s father entered the room. He was a tall thin man with greying hair, sporting a red-veined nose which indicated that he liked to drink a lot. He shook the architect’s hand and sat down opposite him.
‘Nice to meet you, son,’ he greeted warmly turning his attention to his daughter. ‘So this is the man you’ve brought to measure us,’ he teased.
‘Dad!’ she remonstrated gently. ‘We’ve just come here to spend the weekend with you... that’s all.’
‘You don’t bring a man to meet your parents unless you’re serious about him,’ he declared audaciously.
Hunter became embarrassed by the remark not knowing who to look at and turned his attention to Ellen.
‘Of course I’m serious about him,’ she admitted, ‘but that’s besides the point. I came here this weekend to see both of you.’
Her father took a cup of tea from the maid and shook his head slowly acknowledging the comment. ‘What kind of business are you in, son?’ he asked directly.
‘I’m an architect,’ replied Hunter, but at the moment I’m out of work.’ He conceded that his reply was extremely weak and reduced his credibility considerably. ‘It’s all very complicated. Ellen will explain the reason.’
The older man turned his attention towards his daughter as he sought an explanation.
‘It’s a weird situation, Dad,’ she related. ‘Jeff’s wife died in a car accident fairly recently. Now I know this sounds ridiculous but she keeps appearing in his bedroom at night saying that her spirit cannot go forward into the next world because it’s tied up with that of another woman. The other woman’s name was Amy Chester who was raped and murdered four months ago. Jeff’s dead wife has charged him with finding her killer so that both their spirits can move on to the next world.’
‘You can leave the tea,’ cut in Mrs. Masters to the maid deciding that the conversation was not for her ears. ‘We’ll carry on from here.’
The maid left the room and Ellen’s mother turned to her guests. ‘Are you serious, Ellen?’ she uttered in disbelief. ‘Do you realise how impractical that sounds?’
‘I don’t think she would say it if it wasn’t true,’ intervened her father. He looked at Hunter with disbelief showing all over his fac
e. ‘Are you sure you didn’t see the spirit of your wife in your sleep... and that you believed it to be real?’
‘No,’ replied the architect, ‘I was definitely awake.’
‘Can you prove that there was a spirit in your room?’ asked Mrs. Masters equally sceptical.
‘I can,’ claimed Ellen sharply. ‘I stayed in a chair in Jeff’s bedroom one night and the wardrobe kept moving as though someone was inside it... almost like a poltergeist... and there were loud moans from inside. It was really scary but it happened, I assure you.’
‘Where does all this leave you?’ enquired Mr. Masters. ‘You’re an architect not a detective.’
‘Well, for one thing, I had to leave my job. I became a private investigator and followed my instincts, interviewing all the suspects and the family involved with Amy Chester. I dug up some information which the police missed and I employed two psychics who helped me go beyond the enquiries made by the police. Now, only a few days ago, another woman was raped and murdered, left in the same spot on the beach as Amy Chester ... a killer with the same modus operandi. It looks like we have a serial killer on our hands.’
‘You seem to have done very well,’ stated Mrs. Masters, sipping her tea slowly.
‘There are lots of other developments which remain a mystery but, at the moment, I find myself at a dead end.’
‘Well,’ cut in Mr. Masters, ‘when you come to an impasse turn the situation on its head. Do something unusual which is quite the reverse to the norm. I find it works for me.’
‘Such as?’ Hunter was becoming quite bold in the presence of authority.
‘Instead of chasing someone, let them come to you,’ came the enigmatic reply.
