The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery, crime and suspense)

by Mitchell, D. M.

  ‘Apparently not. The brooch is the only piece ever to turn up in eighty years or so. A mystery to this day. David’s old man never recovered. They say he died of a broken heart and all that old baloney.’ She swigged down the wine and poured another glass. Her alcohol-induced happiness was close to slipping into the morose. ‘It caused one hell of a stink at the time, as you can imagine. It happened just before war broke out; they were hot on the family pride-thing at that time. The shame of it rang for years afterwards – all those society tongues wagging away. I suppose that’s why he never let the matter drop. He’s been searching for the jewellery’s return ever since, maybe to put the affair to bed. Who knows what’s in his sly old head.’

  At that point Randall Tremain entered the dining room. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lambert-Chide, Mr Davies; Sir Lambert-Chide gives his apologies – he has been unexpectedly detained and will not be joining you for dinner. He expresses his wish that you enjoy your meal, Mr Davies.’ He left without saying another word.

  ‘Was it something you said?’ Helen grinned mischievously, a spark in her drunken eyes.

  ‘I think he’s had what he needs from me,’ he returned, picking up his napkin. ‘Or perhaps he didn’t get what he wanted.’

  ‘Yes, he can be like that,’ she observed. ‘I’m famished. Let’s eat.’

  In the morning, before breakfast, Gareth stood at his bedroom window, taking in the grand vista in daylight and thinking about the night before. He bent forward, looking down to the gravel drive below. He caught the sight of Randall Tremain. He was engrossed in some conversation with a man who had his back to Gareth. Does his face ever alter, Gareth thought. But it was only when the conversation was over and both men parted company that Gareth realised who Tremain had been talking to; it was the man from the hospital, the same guy who, if the Cavendish sisters were right, had also said he was a newspaper reporter asking for his whereabouts.

  Gareth was taken aback at seeing the man at Gattenby House. He hurriedly got dressed, found his way downstairs and stepped outside.

  ‘Can I help you, Mr Davies?’ said Tremain at his back.

  ‘I saw you from upstairs, speaking to a man just now. Who was he?’

  ‘A nosy reporter,’ he said shortly. ‘Given Sir Lambert-Chide’s importance we get a lot of them sniffing around. The press is a necessary nuisance.’

  ‘Which publication is he from?’

  He shrugged. ‘I cannot remember. He has gone now. And you, Mr Davies, when are you planning on leaving? I can have a car ready in less than an hour.’

  ‘I’m a little curious; it’s a long way for me to come to be given a reward, don’t you think?’ Gareth said. ‘You’ve put yourself to a lot of trouble.’

  ‘It’s a long way for you to come to refuse it,’ he parried. ‘I hope you enjoyed your stay. Sadly I must leave you to attend to pressing business matters. Goodbye, Mr Davies.’ He turned to go, then spun on his heel. ‘But if you do recall anything, or hear from her again, the offer made last night still stands.’ Gareth expected him to leave, but instead he came over to him. ‘Mr Davies, I sense you too are interested in the young woman who had the brooch. What really is your connection with her? Did you seriously think you’d find some connection here at Gattenby House?’

  ‘Did you think by inviting me you’d find a connection too?’

  He stared into Gareth’s eyes, his gaze unflinching. ‘As Sir Lambert-Chide’s Head of Security, I have a job to do,’ he said shortly. ‘And I’ll do that. Whatever Sir Lambert-Chide wishes and whatever it takes. Goodbye, Mr Davies.’

  * * * *

  26

  Only So Many Ways to Commit Murder

  He had never considered himself ruled by ambition, unlike others on the force. They were in it for the careers. No, in the beginning Detective Chief Inspector John Stafford’s ambitions had been pretty basic; to provide a roof over his family’s heads, enough money to pay for a decent holiday each year, and time enough to spend with his wife. True, the job had given him financial security – same couldn’t be easily said for the younger generation coming through, some already facing redundancy due to the need to make efficiency savings, piling more pressure on the officers remaining, and everyone knowing they were working longer and coming out with less at the end of it all. He didn’t envy the new lot.

  Sure, he’d had a good income, but it came at a cost. He’d missed out on seeing his two kids grow up, and now with them married and off their hands they realised as a couple they had precious little left in common. When he retired in four months he knew it would be a case of painfully rebuilding the relationship with his wife his job had dismantled brick by emotional brick.

  Stafford had allowed events to take him where they would; he’d never driven himself purposely towards promotion. That was just a natural by-product of being good at his job. He had the same feeling about his job as when driving his car and not being able to recount much of the actual journey he’d just travelled. He remembered starting out, and arriving, but the bit in between was almost a blank. Same for his career. He got quite alarmed when he thought about it too long.

  But he wasn’t unhappy. Not entirely. He’d got to the stage when he was glad to be counting down the weeks to his retirement. He had it in mind that, of all things, he’d buy a camper van and they’d spend time touring around. They talked about it when they were younger but never had the money or the time. He hung onto that thought though, even though the time when it would have meant a great deal to them had long passed. But it was the one thing that gave him some kind of hope when he finally quit and they were thrown back together again. She humoured him, he could see that, but beyond that what else was there to look forward to? She said she’d like him to take up ballroom dancing. Ballroom dancing! Jesus, that gave him the shivers.

  He was disturbed in his thoughts by a knocking at his office door. It was DI Styles. The guy had recently been transferred from the Met and the Super had insisted he be part of Stafford’s team investigating the Polish woman’s murder.

  ‘I’ve already got twenty-three good men on the case,’ he argued, ‘I don’t need another.’

  ‘Well you’ve got twenty-four now,’ he got in reply. ‘He’s on for DCI. Treat him good. Old dog, young dog, and all that. No point in kicking up a fuss about it.’

  So reluctantly he had to take on the ambitious newcomer and already they’d managed to rub each other up the wrong way. Stafford nicknamed him Nobby after Nobby Stiles, he of the England squad that won the 1966 World Cup final. That went down badly; Styles loathed the nickname, which prompted Stafford to use it all the more. Though he did concede Styles appeared to be good at his job it didn’t hurt to put the youngsters in their place, let them know who was boss. If only for another four months.

  In truth he felt he needed all the help he could get. The murder case kept hitting dead ends and questions were beginning to be asked about his capability. The murdered Polish girl, Ania Dabrowska, had been working late nights and early mornings, doing cash-in-hand at pubs and clubs for a while. From all accounts she didn’t have a habit, wasn’t a prostitute, but had few friends and kept herself to herself. She had one hell of an enemy though, Stafford thought grimly. They’d had her ex-boyfriend in for questioning, one Heniek Pawlowski, a rather more dodgy character. One-time pimp, pusher, sentenced for carving up a man with a knife; not the sort of guy you’d want as your soul mate. Had she been on the run from him and he’d caught her up? That’s what they initially thought but his alibis appeared to stack up. So too did those of the Davies guy. Never any proof he’d even been to Manchester, and no motive or anything. His background was clear. Not even a speeding ticket. But how to account for the false papers found in the murdered woman’s flat which had his photo on the driver’s licence, and the blasted symbol on his cottage wall was anyone’s guess at the moment. There was some evidence that the Polish woman shared the flat with another woman for a time. Was there really a connection between this woman and the woman whom
Davies ran over and nearly killed that night? So many damned loose ends, he thought.

  ‘Parcel for you,’ Styles said, handing Stafford a box wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘Who is it from?’

  ‘Dunno. Handed in at the desk this morning. Early retirement present? Golf tees?’ he said with a wry grin. ‘Been through the scanner so won’t blow up in your face.’

  Stafford ignored the comment. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Styles leave. He began to take the paper from the box.

  That’s the trouble with this job, he thought, the one thing they didn’t really tell him when he started out, not like they do these days. They prepare you better for it. Back then they didn’t tell you some people simply can’t take all the crap that human beings are capable of. It makes them cynical, despairing. Sure, there are nice guys out there, but they’re the ones being dumped on by the bad ones. And that was the dirt he’d had to deal with for decades. Enough dirt and you start to sink into it and never feel clean. Some of his colleagues, well they just let it all wash over them. Came with the turf, they said. Shrugged it off like a filthy overcoat when they got home. But he’d never quite been able to do that. His overcoat got filthier and filthier and in the end he never took it off. He knew closing a camper van door on it would never make it go away when it was all finally over, because it was all he’d ever known. He knew it, his wife knew it.

  He took the lid off the cardboard box to reveal a book. Nothing else in there. He lifted it out. A damp musty smell he associated with second-hand bookshops hit his nostrils. The green, jacketless boards were darkened with age; the title sat in faded gold on the spine – True Crimes. He checked out the publisher: Arrow Press. Never heard of them, he thought. Same for the author, Justin Symons. The publishing date was 1935. He was drawn, however, to a slip of paper sticking out like a bookmark. He opened it at the page and saw the title of the chapter: The Body in the Barn. He frowned, sliding out the paper. He was surprised to see it had writing on it in block capitals:

  TIME IS RUNNING OUT. HE IS GETTING CLOSER. READ THE MARKED CHAPTER THEN TELEPHONE ME ON THE NUMBER BELOW AT 6PM TONIGHT. PLEASE KEEP THIS INFORMATION TO YOURSELF.

  C.W.

  Stafford’s frown went deeper and he began to read the chapter, The Body in the Barn. His eyes widened as he delved deeper into the tale. A short time later he gasped. ‘Christ!’ he said. He went to the door and called Styles in.

  ‘What’s the matter, boss, didn’t they leave you a receipt so you could change it?’ he said, smiling. His smile faded quickly when he saw Stafford’s serious expression.

  He handed the book to Styles. ‘Get me everything you can on this Body in the Barn case. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a copycat killer on our hands.’

  ‘Copycat?’ said Styles, poring over the book. ‘You serious?’

  ‘The two cases are just too similar. Check it out. Someone read this and took it on themselves to repeat the same kind of murder eighty years later. The symbol on the wall, the dismembered body, the arrangement of the limbs, even the quick lime – everything matches.’

  ‘Except that it says here the victim was a man called Jimmy Tate. Ours is a woman. Slight deviation.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a coincidence,’ said Stafford, thinking aloud. ‘I mean, there are only so many ways to commit murder. But it’s too much of a coincidence for my liking. I want you to do a detailed check on everything you can – this Inspector Rayne guy, anything you can lay your hands on.’ Styles made as if to go. ‘And Styles,’ he added, ‘keep it under your hat for now, OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, dashing from the office.

  Stafford couldn’t help but dwell upon the last line of the chapter. It drew attention to the fact that the case became known as Rayne’s curse, partly because the man never solved it, and partly, he supposed, because of his tragic exit from the service whilst working on it.

  Well sod that, he thought; I never did believe in curses.

  ‘So who am I talking to?’ said Stafford at 6pm precisely. Styles was sat on the edge of Stafford’s desk. He nodded to confirm the call was being recorded. For a moment there was silence at the other end of the phone. Then the sound of someone breathing. ‘Who is this?’ he asked. ‘I got the book you sent.’

  Finally a man’s voice replied, ‘No one else knows about this?’

  Stafford looked across at Styles. ‘Just you and I. What’s your name?’

  ‘Carl Wood.’

  ‘Well, Mr Wood, we both know what this is about. I think you ought to explain, don’t you?’

  ‘Not over the phone.’

  ‘The Body in the Barn case – you obviously know there’s a similarity between that and the murder of the woman we’re investigating. What I’d like to know is how you came to know it. Given that very little detail has been released you seem to be quite knowledgeable. Did you kill the woman?’

  ‘What? No! Of course not!’ came the reply.

  ‘My guess is that only the killer and the police know about those kinds of things. If you’re not the murderer then how is it you know so much?’

  ‘There is much that I have knowledge of; things that are dangerous to know. Inspector Stafford, my life is in danger. He is getting closer and I am certain he will send someone to kill me.’

  ‘Who is getting closer?’

  ‘Doradus,’ he said.

  ‘Doradus?’ Stafford repeated. He saw Styles raise a questioning eyebrow. ‘Who is Doradus?’

  ‘Not over the phone. We have to meet. I am giving a lecture tomorrow afternoon at the Apollo Conference Centre in Birmingham. Meet me there, alone, at 4pm.’

  ‘A lecture?’

  ‘That’s all I can say for now. Goodbye, Inspector, I will speak with you tomorrow. Remember: come alone.’

  The line went dead. ‘Right,’ said Stafford to Styles, ‘get online and check out the Apollo Conference Centre in Birmingham. There’s a Carl Wood giving a lecture there. Find out everything you can about who he is.’

  Styles nodded. ‘Do you reckon he’s our man?’

  ‘He sounded afraid of someone,’ said Stafford. ‘That someone might be our man. Who knows? I’m meeting him at the Apollo tomorrow. He wants to meet alone.’

  ‘Is that wise, sir? I could tag along, keep a low profile.’

  He nodded. ‘Probably makes sense.’

  He was just thinking how he was still faintly distrustful of computers, even after all this time, when a knock at his office door disturbed his efforts to catch up on paperwork. Not that he couldn’t use them; they were everywhere these days and you couldn’t escape them. You just couldn’t manage without them. No, not that. It was just that he felt all this technology was still something of an interloper in his world. He remembered having to work things out in the head or on paper, not crunch the numbers into a keypad. He remembered having to type things up manually or get one of the typing-pool women to do it. He remembered having to nip into a phone box whenever he needed to make a call, or he’d have to send a letter. Three channels on the box. Needles to play albums. A visit to a cinema to see a film in colour. Too many other things that had once made up his life and had been wiped away. Improved, they said. Improved, my arse, he thought.

  Naturally he’d accepted change, to a degree, but why did he partly feel like he was being swept helplessly along by the rush of it, to a destination not of his choosing? Why, on some days like today, did he simply wish to swim to the bank, clamber out of the flow and let it all gush on by?

  ‘What is it, Henderson?’ he said, realising he sounded brusque and tempered it with a softening of his features. Henderson was a good guy.

  Henderson closed the door after him. He looked decidedly uneasy. ‘Well, sir, I’m not sure how to say this…’

  ‘Say it as it is. I ain’t got the time.’

  ‘He coughed lightly into his hand, took up a seat opposite Stafford’s desk. ‘It’s about Styles, sir.’

  Stafford whipped off an email and put his hands on the
desk, slowly knitting his fingers together. ‘What about Styles?’

  ‘Thing is, and it’s not just me – a couple of the men have noticed it – well, have you? I mean, don’t you think there’s something odd about him?’

  He screwed his eyes up fractionally. ‘Odd?’

  He sighed. ‘Yeah, odd. Little things. Office procedures he doesn’t get right when he should, his lack of basic knowledge about things, which for a man who’s supposed to be in line for a DCI is a bit mystifying. Yet he produces the goods, faster at times than anyone else, like he knows where to look.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That’s just it, sir; I don’t know what I’m saying exactly. But something doesn’t feel right with the man. If it was just me I’d put it down to imagination. But it isn’t just me.’ He paused, Stafford’s hard stare causing him to squirm.

  ‘You’re speaking about a fellow officer here. You’d better be careful what it is you’re implying.’

  ‘I’m not implying anything, sir. Just making an observation.’

  ‘And your conclusions to this observation?’

  Henderson shrugged loosely. ‘I guess I don’t have any.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you, Henderson. It’s not like you. If you’ve got something to say about an officer in my team then make sure you get something substantial stacked up beforehand. I’ll pretend this conversation didn’t happen. Don’t piss on my day with idle gossip and I’ll hang the next man who walks in here spouting crap.’

  The man got up from his chair, nodding contritely, tight-lipped, a sheepish glance from under his brows. Stafford watched him silently as he went out of the office. What really disturbed him weren’t Henderson’s loose observations.

  He’d already noticed it about Styles himself.

  * * * *