1998
Russell Shevlane – Throat slit with wine bottle
Cat Shevlane – Throat slit with wine bottle
1999
Jo Smithers – Multiple stab wounds with broken glasses
Erica Willoughby – Skull caved in with clock
2000
Bryan Cairns – Asphyxiation with coffee grinds/coins/boiling water/Spike in brain
Jeanne Young – Thrown off balcony at club
2001
Lisa Bimson – Skull crushed in door
More?He added at the end. Then he underlined it to add emphasis.
Where is the link? If there is a link, he thought to himself.
They all seemed so separate, no real style as such. Frenzied attacks, yes, but no signature. If he had to find a commonality, it would be just that, common things. The banal, the everyday things that we are surrounded by. Is that it? Lentus pondered. Did he have an everyman (or woman) that was killing people with everyday objects?
Despite the regularity of the crimes, over the years there was yet to be a decent bit of footage from a camera in a premises or on the street that had helped. CCTV was becoming more prolific, but whoever the assailant was, they somehow managed to evade it.
Walters was out there now with a small team, but somehow he knew that the pub would either have no surveillance cameras, or they would be faulty. This had been the case at the garage where Polly had worked. He was sure that whoever did that to his sister would have been on the tape from that day. It was the least he could do to not throttle the garage owner when he had foolishly gone there himself to speak with him several months after that fateful day.
That had not been a good idea.
The phone rang. Detective Inspector Lentus sat down in his swivel chair and picked up the receiver, nudging his mouse instinctively to stop the infuriating forever-spinning screen saver.
‘Lentus speaking’ he spoke, with minimum emotion
‘Hey Guv, it’s Mar…DC Walters, sir’ he corrected himself. He was the closest thing that Lentus had to a friend and confidant, but he had to remain cool and aloof in front of the team. They were on first name terms when alone, although Mark still normally stuck with ‘Guv’. It was easier that way.
‘Walters. What’s the status? Any footage?’
‘None, sir. They don’t even have a camera on where it happened’.
Lentus groaned at this and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, closed his eyes and asked; ‘So where did it happen?’
‘The fire exit at the bottom of the stairs by the toilets, sir. No alarm on that either. He smashed the poor girl’s head to a pulp with the door, left her amongst the rubbish bags and then closed the door behind afterwards. It was so dark down there, I doubt anyone would have even seen the blood on the door afterwards, either. Or the brains.’ Walters added unnecessarily.
‘Thanks Walters. Get all the necessary and come back and give me the full report,’ he glanced at his watch, it was already nearly midday, ‘for a three pm status meeting. He knocked on his desk twice. Then he knocked twice more. The more he quelled his external impulses, the more he tapped objects in even numbers.
‘You know what to do for now. Let me know everything at 3pm.’ Lentus said down the phone. And he did, Walters was good. He hung up after signing off and tapped the desk twice more.
Lentus closed his eyes again. Then he opened them and looked up at Polly. She spat out her fingers and thumbs and with wide dead eyes staring fiercely at him said, ‘It’s him Lenny, it’s the same one. You’ll work it out, I know you will’.
(No tears. Bite down on it. Eat it up.).
George Lentus stared at his dead sister for several long silent seconds, then got up, strode over to his glass door, opened it and began to bark orders to his harried team.
None of them noticed his moist eyes as he took command of the room.
Chapter 32
Hand written diary entry
August 18th 2001
Well, dear diary. Here’s the thing. I went out with Paul last night to raise a glass to Anoushka killing herself, or rather to the sadness of Anoushka dying…or whatever.
Basically, I had another blackout. It was a short one, but there’s still a gap. I can’t blame it all on the booze.
I met Paul, we had some shots and some Stellas and some more shots. There was a bit of sharking as well, even though he’s got a girlfriend but we figured he could crash at mine if we got lucky. I’ll get onto that in a bit.
I was getting merry, and approached a girl that had been a right bitch to me on the way in and then thought I could sweet talk her. A bit of the ol’ Manners charm. But she ended up throwing her wine on me AND slamming a door in my face TWICE, once on the way in, and once about an hour before we left. I think that’s how it went. Anyway, how fucking rude. Terrible manners, dear diary, terrible!
Anyway, I have a theory about why it’s happened. I’d had a drink. Not unusual. But the other thing is my temper, I think. Last night that girl really pissed me off. There’s been the other times in the past when I would lose the plot but there’s just a blank. Is this some kind of way that my subconscious is stopping me from flipping out?
God, I never really used to have a temper. There was that time ages ago when I scared the poor girl in that garage, but that was the worst and all I did was freak her out then left. Then I seemed to chill. It’s weird, I’ve been getting less and less angry the more I black (grey) out.
Anyway, it couldn’t have lasted very long as a came back to the real world walking! OK, it was a BIT blurry by that time, but I remember the difference in my stream of consciousness, AND then Paul and I were walking out of the pub with two girls!
Anyway, this is why I’m doing the diary, for the doc. Track this crap and try to find the common denominator. Time for an appointment to go back.
The girls were good fun anyway. Paul wanted to have a foursome, but I didn’t really want groupage with another man there, too much cock on show for my liking. The two girls would have been great of course. Together. We did swap though, so I managed to fuck both. Paul’s second (my first) passed out on him. Ha!
I do love the naughty noughties, I love how girls are being so decisive about sex and experimenting so much more with fewer stigmas attached. It’s a revolution!
We all parted on good terms, didn’t even exchange numbers. Everyone’s happy. Everyone except Paul, who’s carrying the guilt round like a monkey on his back. Ah well, more fool him. I’m single so I can mingle. Ha.
Anyway, I feel amazing. Not a hint of a hangover. In fact, if it wasn’t for the missing bit of time last night casting a little shadow of doubt on things, I’d say I was feeling better than I ever have.
I’ll have to check back in with Doc Barrett, but otherwise, things could definitely be worse!
Chapter 33
‘It’s all the same rope, it’s who hangs you with it’, Jonathan Crosby shouted at the radio that was currently on its half hour cycle of news snippets, laughing. He really didn’t give much of a shit about politics. How many times had he heard news items on the radio about Labour beating the Conservatives in the election?
‘About a thousand’ he muttered in answer to himself. 1997 could be getting interesting now John Major
‘Gray-jor’
was ousted. Tony Blair at least seemed a bit switched on. Even seemed to like his music as well. Cool Britannia? Yeah, he was up for a bit of that. He may actually have something in common with a Prime Minister, finally. Jonathan loved his music. Indie mostly, and Britain right now was in the process of smashing it to the world when it came to their Indie.
Oasis. Blur. Charlatans. Pulp. Suede. Mansun. The Verve. Ocean Colour Scene…
‘All so fucking good, SO GOOOOD’ he said to himself. Music really did stop him from focussing too much on life. Life was a bit shit right now. He had just lost another job. Today. Bastards! Apparently, he wasn’t pulling his weight and was having too much
unscheduled time off, and no, he hadn’t turned up yesterday. Another Monday sickie.
He knew it was all his own doing, his ridiculous self-sabotaging streak screwing things up as they began to get back on track. It was another miserable stage. His world was shit, the rest of the world was shit.
This news on the radio was depressing. He didn’t need that much reality in his life today, thank you very much.
‘Less news, more music’ he said to himself, rummaging through the CDs on the seat next to him. He selected a CD, and one handedly opened the case, and gingerly extracted the silver disc, carefully manoeuvring it so that the hole lined up with his finger; thusly avoiding and greasy fingerprints. He smiled, pleased with his dexterity.
meeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeep!
His attention came back to the road, as angry car horns lambasted him for his veering across the road, the Doppler effect adding it’s almost comical edge to the noise.
‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry, mate. Music called’ he shouted out of the open window, bringing his Golf GTi back fully onto the correct side of the road, steering with the one hand; skilfully sliding the Blur CD off his finger and into the car’s stereo while he did so. Yes, he was pretty fucking slick when it came to useless things.
The CD player started up, the laser picking up the contents of his chosen disc.
Beetlebum began with its crunching bass, Jonathon’s spirits instantly lifted and he began to tap on the steering wheel as he drove. Nothing else mattered when he was in this state.
He didn’t think about his shitty lost job, his overdue rent, massive overdraft and huge credit card bills. He temporarily forgot he owed his dealer nearly a hundred quid for weed and pills. He’d even managed to put last night to the back of his mind.
Christine. ‘Chris’. His long term girlfriend had gone to work this morning with a lot of make up on and with a sense of betrayal he had been the sole cause of. He had let everything get on top of him, his anxiety attacks and lack of sleep. His comedown from the pills over the weekend which he’d taken and hadn’t even gone out.
Chris, now no doubt unlikely to be the future Chris Crosby, a name that they had laughed about in bed when forming their future back in the past.
He had fucked up. Royally.
Jonathan realised he was thinking about it after all. He’d fucked it all up. Chris had pushed him and pushed him about his spiralling debts, pulling another sick day and his hold on reality; he had snapped. He’d hit her. He had actually punched her in the face.
The flip-flop of his belly, the overwhelming sickness of guilt he felt didn’t take away that fact when he replayed the event in his mind.
He had hit her. He had hit a girl. His girl.
‘Shit…’ he said, as he felt another wave of nausea inducing realisation wash over him, ‘Jon, my son, you have seriously fucked up this time’. Tears washed across his eyes. He blinked furiously, and pictured poor Chris. His Christine…
The screech of tyres could be heard clearly over the first loud verse of Song 2, the angry blaring and very insistent car horn could too. Then the shouting. He realised he had lost his concentration thinking about his poor bruised (ex)
fiancés face and hadn’t stopped at a t-junction. There was a Peugeot 306 inches from his passenger door, stopped, seemingly stalled and with the driver’s door opening whilst the hazard lights flashed.
Jonathan had instinctively slammed the brakes on when he realised he may have caused an accident and was almost square on the road facing in the direction he was meant to be. He should have braked before being there, though.
It seemed that the Peugeot hadn’t actually connected, probably thanks to the quick reactions of the shouting man climbing out of the car. Two cars inched past the Peugeot and slowly past Jonathan, ensuring they gave cool accusing looks, but driving off instantly so as not to actually clash. He gave them the finger as they drove off.
‘Just us two then’, he muttered as he watched the man walk towards him. The man wasn’t big. He was well dressed, good looking in a yuppie-ish way and didn’t have a face suited to being angry.
With his engine idling, Jonathan pressed the button and wound down the passenger side electric window as the man came up to it. He knew he had about 4 or 5 inches in height over Peugeot Man if it came down to it. If he kept him on the far side of his car, it was less likely to come down to ‘it’. The irony that he may end up punching another human being less than 24 hours after punching his (ex) fiancé crossed his mind. Despite the pressing circumstances, he felt another wave of shame.
‘Fuck’s sake mate. What are you doing? If I wasn’t always looking out for people like you, you’d have a fuck-off dent in the side of your car. What were you doing?’ said Peugeot Man. Already he seemed less explosive, more contained. ‘Are you ok?’ he added, having not received a response from Jonathan.
He didn’t know whether it was the shift in power, the fact that Peugeot Man seemed to be less incendiary and therefore not a threat; or whether it was his self-sabotaging side kicking in. Whatever it was, his mood had changed.
‘Mate’ Jonathan smiled, shouted above his music, ‘I’ve got something in here to say sorry’. He reached into his driver door pocket, and pretended to rummage for something.
‘Don’t worry’, Peugeot Man was saying, ‘nothing’s actually happened, we’re both ok and I did manage to stop. Just keep an eye out, eh? No need to give me….’
He stopped speaking and his mouth made a perfect oval of surprise when he realised that the peace offering was in fact Jon’s middle finger.
‘Fuck. You. Peugeot. Wanker.’
He laughed at the shocked face still peering in his passenger window, no idea why he was doing what he was as he slammed the idling Golf GTi into first gear and sped off in a squeal of tyres. His laugh increased purposely to ensure he could be heard through the still open passenger door window.
‘Crosby, what are you doing?’ he asked himself gleefully, knowing full well underneath that he was deflecting from what was actually happening in his life and creating a drama to temporarily divert his attention. This would do until he could have a drink. Or a smoke.
He looked in his rear view mirror for the reaction from the Peugeot Man, his laugh quickly cutting to nothing and mood changing swiftly as he saw his would-be victim straighten up from his window level crouch, and point at him as he drove away. With a dark look on his face, he continued to point and with his other hand, drew a finger across his throat.
Jonathan tried to concentrate on his driving as he hammered away, only giving fleeting glances in the mirror at the man calmly climbing back into his car, his accusing finger still pointing, murderous eyes burning, even at this distance. He must have surely imagined hearing the car start up, but he heard it nonetheless.
Chapter 34
You can say a lot about old Robbie Manners, but there are a few things that I am good at.
Having fun.
Speaking to girls.
Sex with girls.
Driving.
Selling.
I’m the first to admit, that this wasn’t always the case. Well, maybe it was with the first one and I suppose that could be one of my biggest downfalls. However, the rest came to fruition after several false starts.
Girls. I’d always been fascinated by them, but as a late developer it had taken quite a few knock backs to hone that particular skill. Once I’d mastered that, the bedroom stuff was all a case of practice, practice, practice. And that’s exactly what I did. In abundance. An early relationship with someone who couldn’t orgasm only did me favours in learning as many skills as possible to try and turn that misfortune round. It never happened for her, poor thing, but once we parted and I was set loose on other females; it was apparent that I had some good skills combined with minimal boundaries. Their pleasure before mine, at all times. My reputation got good.
And then there was driving part. Four driving tests to pass and a series of shitty cars before my first hand-me-down comp
any car; all of which managed to make me pretty car savvy. Then, when I’d crashed my second one, my company at the time sent me on the Police Defensive Driving Course. That resulted in me becoming a very well rounded driver, with the emphasis on the ‘defensive’ part.
When I’m driving, even if it’s this diesel Peugeot 306; I will always drive assertively. I like to use that word rather than ‘fast’. I’m decisive, and yes, I am speedy. Here’s the thing, though; I am safe. When I’m driving down a road, the police course taught me to watch everybody else for several cars ahead, and expect the worst. Sometimes they know what they’re talking about.
I’ve lost count of the times that were it not for me expecting idiocy, I would have ended up with dents, scratches, scrapes and even more outrageous insurance. As it is, I always enter a roundabout expecting that fucknugget to my left, looming in the adjacent lane to cross over into my lane on the roundabout and then try to turn right.
Manners Cost Everything (Manners Trilogy Book 1) Page 9
