by Karen Long
Toby really needed to get home. He wasn’t due to leave for another three hours but decided that no one would notice if he disappeared a little earlier than usual. To be more precise he didn’t really care if it was observed. Now that Enda had been removed he had all the scope he needed to move around the museum with the minimum of detection. Who would be able to find him or deny his presence in the labyrinthine corridors and vaults of the museum? He had taken a back exit to the staff car park and slid into the Oldsmobile, without attracting a single glance.
Tamping down his excitement, he managed a double check on the garage locking mechanism before heading quickly into the main house. He stood still and listened to the unbroken silence. That worried him. Little Tommy had definitely been alive when he left in the morning, as he could hear his monotonous wails for his mother. He approached the basement with a degree of trepidation. It really wasn’t the end of the world if the boy had passed but it would mean that his plans to start the final stages of Tara’s transformation would have to be put on hold. As he turned on the light he was greeted by a squeal. “Good evening Tommy,” he said warmly. The boy stared at him with dull eyes. “Did you eat your bread?” Toby peered critically at the child’s face. He noted with a sinking heart that the blisters and open sores were little improved, if anything they seemed worse. He tutted. “Have you been scratching your face? I told you…”
“I know who you are,” said Tommy, glaring at him. “You’re the ugly man from the museum.”
Toby bristled and began to prepare the bowl of water and flannel in order to clean the child.
“I hate you,” he hissed. “I hope you die!” Tommy sank back into the crush, his filthy arms wrapped tightly around his skinny frame. Toby was used to being abused but hadn’t expected it from the child. Maybe this was a salutary lesson for him in the essential corruption of the human spirit. Just when an individual should have been striving for some dignity and elevation they were generally bad mouthing, carping and behaving like guttersnipes. He tutted again. “I’m a little surprised by that last remark Thomas. Only really horrible children would say something designed to make another person feel unhappy and uncomfortable.”
“I’m going to chop your head off!” said Tommy, with slow deliberation. His fists were now balled and his mouth pursed with anger. “When I get you, I’m going to chop you into little dead pieces and stamp on your face.”
Toby relaxed and allowed himself a little smile. The child was feisty and determined, just as his son should be. Turning his back on the child he made his way up to the landing, snapping off the light. He noted with satisfaction that the child let out a little whimper of fear.
Tara’s body rotated slowly and gracefully in the tank as he prodded it with a staff. Toby had checked that the pump was working and that the bubbles released by the acetone were sporadic rather than regular, which indicated that the preliminary stage of the process was pretty far advanced. A less impetuous man would have given it a few more days but Toby was feeling a pressure to complete matters. He had long since recognised in himself the tendency to maintain the status quo for months, sometimes even years and then go on into a frenzy of family expansion. It generally followed the death of a family member and their subsequent removal and burial. He would have preferred to continue burying those lost loved ones in the garden but he had filled the small plot years ago and felt that attempting to squeeze in any more would be disastrous.
Right, there was to be no more brooding, he had work to do and it was complicated and technical.. Once the acetone had been drained to the bottom couple of inches of the tank he carefully extracted the body of Tara and laid her gently on several towels. Her body was pliable, her skin toughened and slightly puckered. He examined her carefully, running his gloved hand over her flesh with all the desire and satisfaction that ownership brought. He gazed at her face, the eyeless sockets gave her depth and mystery and the compliant body made him rage inside. Pulling sharply at his belt, he lowered his trousers and pants, letting his hands slowly and firmly work at the tightness between her legs.
Quickly and heavily he pressed himself onto and inside the body of his new mistress.
Laurence spoke quietly and briefly into his phone. “That was Dr Andrews,” he said. “He’s started extracting data from the Miller hard drive and thinks we should probably call in and see.”
“Any hints at the flavour of the data?” she asked.
Laurence shook his head. “He didn’t sound particularly happy though.”
Eleanor looked around the room, reluctant to leave. There was a tentative knock and Isabel opened the door cautiously. “I’m sorry but Toby hasn’t responded to my page. I’ve called up various likely haunts but no one’s seen him.”
Eleanor looked interested. “Did Toby know we were coming here today?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Isabel. “He’s a little… vague and is probably lurking in some dim and distant vault in the basement. I could run another check for you.”
Eleanor thought for a moment. “I’m afraid we’re both rather pushed today but I do want to speak to Toby…?”
“…Adams. Toby Adams. He’s worked here for about twenty years, started before me and I’ve been here since the Ark…” her voice trailed off. “I’ll tell him you’d like to speak to him.”
“Is he working here tomorrow morning?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you could call us when he gets here and keep a tab on his whereabouts.”
Isabel nodded. “Of course.”
Laurence watched, with grim determination, the unpleasant sight of Enda Miller jacking off to a karaoke version of ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’ and hoped that this vision wouldn’t haunt him every time he considered indulging in a similar activity himself. “That is truly horrible,” he said to anyone who was listening. “Dare I ask if there’s more?” he asked Dr Andrews cautiously.
“You bet there’s more,” he sighed. “There’s the section we’ve entitled, ‘Mr Miller with various root vegetables’. ‘Mr Miller and the cat’…Oh, and Mr Miller indulges in ‘water sports’.” Dr Andrews drew air quotes to illustrate the figurative nature of the latter.
“How much and how gruesome?” asked Eleanor deflated.
Dr Andrews sighed heavily and consulted his notepad. “No kids but I suspect the Humane Society will consider bringing a prosecution. Particularly the Small Mammal League,” he grimaced.
“Could there be anything darker in there?” queried Eleanor.
“This guy’s not data savvy in the slightest. His password for both work laptop and home was ‘password’. It could be a double bluff but he doesn’t seem to understand basic encryption either, so I’m guessing what we see is all that’s there. However, I shall extract Mr Miller’ back catalogue and present it to you on the morrow, where I hope you’ve got someone with a strong stomach prepared to sit and watch.”
“No snuff, no necrophilia?”
Dr Andrews held up a hand. “One ground squirrel definitely didn’t make it. Does that count?”
Laurence grimaced. “What an asshole! Where was he posting these Oscar winners?”
“All uploaded onto a site called, ‘Amateur Sexploits’. Well, now we’re all scarred for life, how about you guys leave me to it and I’ll be in touch tomorrow?”
“Thanks,” said Laurence, rising.
“So, you think that was what Miller was so reluctant to let us see?” asked Laurence, as they sat in the office drinking coffee. “His salubrious collection of mono-porn?”
Eleanor grimaced. “I’m not sure. He didn’t seem all that concerned about being accused of theft, which could effectively lose him his position and prevent re-employment.”
“If he didn’t steal anything from the ROM, maybe he felt he had nothing to worry about?” suggested Laurence. “His stuff’s in bad taste but not particularly criminal.”
“Apart from the ground squirrel I’m guessing,” said Eleanor grimly.
�
��Hmm.”
Mo opened the door and smiled. “You chewing over Enda Miller? If so you might like to know that he was about to be appointed as a Methodist lay preacher.”
Eleanor looked up. “Where’d you get that info from?”
“Ah,” toyed Mo, helping himself to a coffee. “It was a good idea letting Smith conduct the interview. Three minutes into Smith’s rant on paedos, sodomists and individuals capturing their abilities on webcams, and Miller wanted to confess immediately and requested the presence of his pastor. But he’s still adamant on not having had anything to do with stolen artefacts from the ROM.”
“So where does that leave us?” asked Laurence. “There’s nothing to link him to any of the murders, or the stolen snake and skulls for that matter. Even if we do prove that he’s been acquiring items from the ROM, there’s nothing to say he’s the direct link. The items could have passed through several hands.”
Eleanor rubbed her neck and stretched. “There’s a link, we just haven’t got to it yet. If Enda didn’t do it, someone at the museum did.” Mo tapped his watch and nodded at her, a gesture not missed by Laurence. “Tomorrow, after we’ve interviewed Toby Adams, we’re going to run through their employment records.”
“And we’ll know the perp by his name?” ventured Laurence his eyebrows raised.
“Perhaps by his address,” smiled Eleanor, picking up her bag and neatening her desk.
“Clocking off?” said Laurence.
“I’ve got a therapy session.”
“Ok, so I guess it’ll be tomorrow morning then?” asked Laurence, looking at his watch critically.
“I’ll try and meet up with you afterwards ok?” she said quietly.
“Excellent, well give me a call when you’re done and in the meantime you want me to get a warrant for the records?”
“Prep the DA but so far Isabel Drake’s been pretty co-operative.”
Chapter Twenty
Eleanor sat quietly next to Seb Blackmore and stared at the sea. She let her fingers carve lazy circles in the sand and counted the waves with him, as they lapped around her feet. “How are you feeling?” he asked slowly, his voice coming from a distant point.
“I’m tired,” she heard herself reply.
“Is Caleb here?” asked the voice.
“No, he’s not here anymore.”
“Eleanor, is there anyone else here?”
She heard herself groan as she scanned the horizon. A silhouetted figure stood with his back to her facing a tree. Something was twisting and flailing in the tree but she couldn’t get a clear line of sight. “I can see… him.”
“Is it Lee Hughes, the man who killed you?” asked Seb Blackmore.
Eleanor needed to see what was in the tree but she was afraid. Seb seemed to understand this instinctively. “What is he hiding from you Eleanor?” She could see the dark outline of Hughes flickering intermittently, as the hidden thing flapped and struggled behind him. “You have to take a look Eleanor, it’s your job!” he said firmly.
Suddenly, she felt herself walking towards Hughes. His back was naked and scarred, covered in strange indecipherable markings. As his hand dropped to his side, she could see that it held a small paring knife. Eleanor was beginning to understand now what hung from the tree. She wanted to skirt round Hughes and see the object, without having to pass him but as she tried to clear a distance between them the ground fell away from her step, leaving a rope of sand that lead to where he stood. She placed her foot behind her, in an effort to regain some distance but felt the ground dissolve away. There was only one path and it lead to her death.
“Tell me what you can see?” said Seb anxiously.
“There’s a tree… An oak tree standing by the water and something’s hanging from a branch,” she whispered.
“What is it?”
“I think it’s me.”
“Then you have to save yourself Eleanor,” said the doctor firmly. “You can’t let Hughes murder you. This is your chance to survive. If you fight, you can live.”
Time’s passage was difficult to gauge and Eleanor wasn’t sure whether it was the past or the future that stood with his back to her. Quietly and deliberately she moved towards Hughes, her hands spread, ready to defend herself. As she crept forward, Hughes began to mirror her actions. He twisted round and looked directly at her; his bland features conveying the same fanatical expression he’d worn when he dragged her broken body into the ghost train, ready to present her as a macabre sacrifice to future artistic endeavour.
“You’ve been so brave,” he hissed. “But now’s the time to end it.” As he leaped towards her, he drew his hand back and made a slashing gesture towards her face. Instinctively she pulled back, letting her weight drop onto her back foot. Using the momentum she launched herself forwards, grabbing his right hand, just as he raised his and using her left to create an arm lock. Kicking as hard as she could at his leg, he fell backwards, allowing her to land on top of him heavily. She held firm as he thrashed and bucked beneath her, looking into the empty pits of his eyes. She could kill him. There was so little life left in him; he would expire in an instant. Applying more pressure to his hand, she used his counter-pressure to enable her to press her elbow into his throat. The more he pulled away from her grasp the deeper her elbow penetrated, closing off his windpipe. She lowered her face so she could hear his last breath but there was nothing. He couldn’t be killed because he was already dead. She stood up and stared at him sadly.
“Is he dead?” asked Dr Blackmore from somewhere close by.
“He always was, wasn’t he? I kept him alive.”
“It’s time to wake up now Eleanor. You’re going to hear me counting back from twenty…” His voice began to grow distant as she turned to look at the body wrapped in plastic that hung from the oak tree. She had believed absolutely that the figure swinging lazily from a meat hook would be hers; with horror she saw it was too small. She took a step towards it, her feet sliding deeply into the loosening sand. Desperate to see the face of the child, she tried to cut out the steady count down that brought her back. In the moments that straddled her dreams from the reality of the therapy room, she saw the dead face of Tommy Banks pressed against the plastic shroud.
As she opened her eyes she could see Seb Blackmore’s smiling face. “You have done incredibly well Eleanor… How do you feel?”
What she felt was a deep well of anxiety and desperation but couldn’t face analysing these feelings. “I feel… tired but okay,” she answered lamely.
Blackmore narrowed his eyes. “Go on…”
She shook her head and tried a smile. There was a pause while Seb Blackmore’s body language changed. He folded his hands onto his lap and straightened his back, then, realising she was watching and assessing this, he modified his position. Eleanor looked at him critically and waited.
“There’s something we need to discuss,” he said carefully.
She stared at him, wondering what he was preparing himself to say.
“I noticed your wrists,” he said. “The first time you came in.”
It took her a split second to understand his implication. She felt her face tighten and her chin lift.
“I think you are…self harming,” he said cautiously.
She relaxed a little at this surmise.
“And…I think you have someone that helps you.”
“Why do you think that?” she answered.
“Because you had, what appeared to be, rope burns on both wrists. Something that is difficult and…unsatisfactory for one person.”
“My sex life,” she said coldly, “is consensual and nobody’s business but my own.”
“I am not judging you Eleanor. I’m trying to enable you to forgive yourself.”
“I’ll call your secretary.” Eleanor stood up and grabbed her bag, turning to him as he stood. “Thank you.”
Eleanor lay in the bath and tried to work logically through the unconstructed emotional narratives her brain had flung
up during the therapy session but felt frustrated and confused. Seb Blackmore appeared to be working on the premise that once faced, fears could be conquered but did she really fear Lee Hughes? He was dead, cremated and dumped in Potter’s Field. Her eyes strayed to the images of Tess, and Rosalia Lombardo and wondered to which category Tommy Banks’ picture should be added. She poured herself another glass of wine and closed her eyes. Tommy was dead and they wouldn’t find him for years probably, because she’d managed to alienate the whole department by not processing her statement on The Collector being the likely kidnapper, through any rational section of her brain. She groaned, what the fuck was wrong with her? She stepped out of the bath and, snatching a towel, walked into her sitting room and began to pace. She felt stifled and a steady sense of outrage began to well up inside her. What she needed was not for some patronising asshole to help her find an inner forgiveness but for everyone to back the fuck off, stop judging her and let her get on with solving her caseload.
She reached for the card.
The man was early and this threw Eleanor slightly. She had expected sufficient time to prepare and control the environment but the knock came before she’d had time to compose herself mentally and physically. She hesitated before opening the door to a man, whose jumpy demeanour did little to assuage her own nervousness. For a moment she considered calling it off but on closing and locking the door he notably relaxed, even rewarding her with an apologetic smile. He was tall, expensively tailored and had a band of pale skin on his fourth finger. This made her uncomfortable; it had always been an unwritten rule of the club that members were single and no other person would be harmed, other than those seeking it.
After scrutinising him for several seconds Eleanor handed him the sheet of paper, which listed the tolerances of the encounter. All equipment used was to be hers and a blindfold would only be permitted after a verbal agreement from Eleanor herself. He read the list a little too quickly but redeemed himself by asking her to repeat the ‘safe word’ to him. She cleared her throat and articulated the word carefully. “Caleb.” She wondered if he was going to question her choice or comment on its relevance but he didn’t.
