by Jay Gill
Vlad got to his feet so she could unfasten his belt. She could see he was ready. They kissed, and he lifted her with ease. She wrapped her legs around him as he gently lowered her to the floor. He’s strong, she thought. Now he was over her, kissing her neck, caressing her breasts and stomach. She unzipped his trousers and pushed them down. His hand moved from her thighs to her lips, then her face and then to her neck.
Clara tried to lift her head to kiss him again, but he held her down by her throat. That’s okay, she thought. He likes to be in charge.
Then he was squeezing. Gently at first, then gradually harder. At first she smiled; then she was confused, then concerned. She opened her eyes and looked at him. There was no mistaking his intention. His eyes no longer sparkled. Now they reminded her of the cold, black, dead eyes of a shark.
Clara tried to move, but he was a dead weight on her. Tears welled in her eyes. She struggled to breathe. Panic overwhelmed her as the stupidity of her situation dawned on her with crystal clarity. No one knew she was there. He’d deliberately asked her to be discreet and to tell nobody. She was helpless and alone in a house with a psychopath.
She kicked and clawed and scratched, but that had no effect on him; he hardly noticed. She felt herself being lifted like a doll and pushed against the wall. Suddenly it all felt so surreal, as though she were an observer who had no control over the situation happening around her.
Over his shoulder she could see the fake microphone stand.
“It’s simply a prop,” he’d said. “Some performers prefer to perform with a microphone. I want to make you feel at ease so you perform at your best. This is all about you. I have a feeling you are going to stir something deep inside of me.”
He’d flattered her, told her what she wanted to hear.
Suddenly being famous no longer mattered. She spoke to God for the first time since she was a child. She promised him that if he’d help her now, she’d be happy to never sing again. Then, at the moment Vlad showed her the knife, she knew for sure God wouldn’t be rescuing her, that in fact it was Satan with his dead black eyes, and not God, who had appeared for her today.
Chapter Twenty
It was 4 a.m. and the streets were deserted, apart from the occasional road-cleaning vehicle and taxi. Jimmy and Chris were under strict instructions to dump the woman’s body in the Thames. It seemed a strange thing to do, as the previous bodies had been found really quickly. They knew better ways to dispose of a corpse; after all, that was their speciality and the reason they were in such demand all over the UK and Europe. Still, he’d insisted, and he was paying for their premium-rate service. So they just did as they were told.
“She’s staying with her mother at the moment,” said Jimmy.
“Your Aggie?” said Chris.
“Yes. Said she had to have a little time to herself,” said Jimmy solemnly. “‘Time to yourself?’ I said to her. ‘I’m out all bloody day. And sometimes I’m gone for days on end. Time to yourself? How much more time to yourself do you need, you stupid cow?’”
“Perhaps that was a little strong, mate?”
“Yeah, it was. I was annoyed. You understand?”
“Of course I do,” said Chris. “And rightly so, with everything you do for her. You don’t think your Aggie is, well, you know . . .”
“No. There’s no one else. It crossed my mind, though, so I followed her, and for a bit I watched the mother-in-law’s house as well. Plus, I went through all her stuff back home. I found nothing to indicate – you know.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“You know, I think she might be menopausal. You know, that thing some people get in middle age. Men go get a sports car or a hot twenty-something, while women become even more emotional but with hot flushes to boot.”
“You reckon it could be that?”
“I’m no psychologist, but all the signs are there. More irrational than normal. Snappy. Crying a lot. Comfort eating. Banging on about romance and surprises and holidays and affection. Talking to her mum for hours on end. Not wanting to go out as much. In fact, I can’t remember the last time we went to the pub together. And you know, not wanting to . . . well, you know what I mean.”
“Blimey. Really? Well, if you don’t mind my saying, she has put on a bit of weight recently. Still very attractive, don’t get me wrong. But maybe a little softer around the edges.”
“There you go, see? You noticed the signs as well,” said Jimmy. The two men were silent for a while as they contemplated their considerable body of evidence, neither of them really sure what to say next.
“You’ll figure it out, Jimmy. You and Aggie are so good together,” said Chris. He hadn’t seen his mate like this before and wanted to help. Yet, at the same time, he felt ill-equipped and more than a little awkward. Relationship talk of this nature was usually part of the male “no-fly zone.”
“Yeah. It’ll come good,” said Jimmy almost inaudibly.
In an effort to lift the mood, Chris tried to think of something upbeat to say. In the end he just said, “Right, we must be nearly there. Let’s get this body dumped in the river. Then we’ll head over to the Butter Fingers cafe and I’ll treat you to a nice bacon-and-egg roll with brown sauce. How does that sound?”
“Great idea. I might even have a few fried mushrooms.”
“This’ll do. It looks as good a spot as any. There’s no one around. We’ll dump her over the side here.”
“Spot on. Let’s get this done.”
“You know, I decided to put extra sheeting down in the boot. I was worried about leakage.”
“That makes sense. Though you always do such a good job wrapping, I don’t really see leakage as a problem. Then again, it’s always worth taking those little extra precautions. It’s what makes the difference between amateurs and professionals.”
“Of course it is. The prisons are full of amateurs who cut corners. It must be hell waking every day in a cell and knowing you’re there because you got sloppy.”
“Talking of which, you know, I think it might be time to move on, make this our last drop for this Russian. I’m not so sure Vlad the Wolf is the full picnic. I mean, why use us when he has his own men and all he wants is a river drop? It just doesn’t stack up.”
“You know, I was thinking the same thing. This is the sort of thing we left behind years ago. Yeah, the money is good, but any idiot can drop a body in a river, and these days the risks are way too high. We could end up on bloody YouTube.”
“That’s settled, then. I mean, we’ve got all the equipment for making bodies vanish – incinerators, liquidisers, acid tanks, chippers and shredders – yet here we are outside freezing our nuts off at an unsociable hour about to do an old-school body drop.”
Suddenly, the two men were back to their old selves and everything seemed right with the world. Chris felt relieved to hear Jimmy humming a little of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” as they swung the body high over the railings and into the Thames. It was good to see his mate back to his old self again. “I’ll tell you what. After brekky, we’ll swing by Covent Garden and pick up some flowers for your Aggie. She’ll like that.”
“That’s not a bad idea. We’ll make a fresh start,” agreed Jimmy.
“Good man. Right, let’s go get a cuppa and a fry-up. And later I’ll make some calls, put the word out we’re back on the market for some professional work. While you, my friend, are making up with your Aggie.”
“Now that sounds like a plan.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Simon Baker sat in a bamboo chair in the corner of the room. He was sweaty and out of breath, and right now he wasn’t happy.
“Idiot. That was too close,” he mumbled.
He chewed his thumbnail and looked at the bed and the room. In his mind, he went over the events as they should have been. He pictured himself skilfully prizing open the patio door then moving silently through the house. In his planning, he was over her when he grabbed a clump of hair on the back of h
er head and forced her face down into the pillow. It was simply a case of holding her there until she passed out and finally suffocated.
In reality, she’d bucked and kicked like a rodeo horse, and he’d ended up on his backside on the floor. Then like a lunatic she was in his face screaming at him, hitting him and throwing at him anything she could lay her hands on. The whole thing had been a disaster. Having to improvise wasn’t fun at all. He’d ended up having to punch her to the ground, corner her and strangle her with the cable from a bedside lamp.
Baker shuddered. He felt dirty. He felt like a monster. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. This was supposed to be retribution for what she’d done to him, not a scene from a low-budget slasher movie. He kicked the lifeless body lying in front of him.
“Stupid, stupid, woman. Look what you made me do. First you ruin my life, then you ruin your own murder.”
Baker began to laugh. He laughed, and then he sobbed like a child. After a few minutes he wiped his nose on his arm, sniffed, and cleared his throat.
“I should have drugged you. That would have made things simpler. I specifically chose not to do that because I was going to tell you who I was while you suffocated. You spoiled that. Now, of course, you’re dead and you don’t even know why.”
Baker got to his feet and started dragging Katharine through the house to the bathroom. He turned on the taps and checked the temperature. Odd, he thought. No need to check the temperature, not like she’s going to complain. But it seems the right thing to do. Should have drugged her for sure; it definitely would have made things easier. No distressful fighting. How would I have explained it if I’d ended up with a black eye or scratched face? And look at your neck now, and your face, all bruised and blotchy. It’s not how I pictured this scene, not at all how I pictured you.
Baker stepped over Katharine. “Excuse me a moment. I just need to get a few things.”
Baker went to his rucksack in the kitchen and, while he was there, he flicked on the kettle and put a teabag and milk in a cup ready for later. He grabbed a Tupperware box from his rucksack and went to Katharine’s wardrobe and then to her chest of drawers.
“Aha.” Baker turned off the bath taps and pulled back the shower curtain. He then decided it would be better to remove the shower curtain completely. He grabbed Katharine’s wrists and pulled her completely into the bathroom, then turned her so she was alongside the bath. He was about to lift her when he decided he should take some photographs.
“Won’t be a minute – I just need to grab the camera.” A few moments later he returned with a tripod, a Nikon camera and his rucksack. After taking a few shots from various angles and feeling disappointed with the lighting, he gave up. Instead, he decided it was time to create his scene.
Worried about hurting his back, Baker decided to do the move in three stages. First, he started by lifting Katharine to a sitting position on the edge of the bath. Second, he lifted her arms and wrapped his own arms around her body in an attempt to lower her into the bath water. But he was unable to hold her there and was pulled into the bath as she slumped backwards into the tub. Bath water spilled over the sides and out across the bathroom floor.
Baker took some towels from the heated towel rail. “Don’t want any accidents, do we?”
He got down on his hands and knees and began furiously mopping. “Right. That’s that. Now let’s top up the bath and then we’re almost done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Picking up the silk scarf he’d found in Katharine’s drawer, he gently tied it around her neck. He stood back to look. Satisfied, he opened the Tupperware box.
“Look at this.” He showed the lifeless body the contents of the box. “Rose petals. Just for you.”
He sprinkled the rose petals on the water around Katharine and then placed one on each eye and a few in her hair. “For when the police officers arrive. We want you to look amazing.”
He stood back and looked at what he’d created.
“Katharine, you look beautiful. Just like Ophelia. It’s better than you deserve, if I am being perfectly honest. You were a real bitch. You and the others have got only yourselves to blame. You’re the reason I am doing this. I was perfectly happy. But sadly, you decided to be a bitch, and here we find ourselves.”
Baker caught his reflection in the mirror and saw his wagging finger. “Anyway, now I’m happy. Just in a new way. And now it’s time for a shower and to freshen up a bit. You don’t mind if I use the en suite, do you? Okay, thank you. I think also I’ll have a nice hot cup of tea.”
Baker stood in the hallway for a moment, trying to decide whether to leave the bathroom door open or shut it. He decided on shut.
Back in the kitchen, he flicked on the kettle to re-boil the water to make his tea. While the tea brewed, he walked about the house trying to decide on a suitable memento.
“I am going to take a shower. I just decided I’d have my tea first. And no, I’m not looking for a trophy,” he shouted to Katharine. “I’m not some sort of serial killer cliché who needs to collect locks of his victims’ hair or pieces of jewellery or underwear or a finger. I’m not sick. I don’t have voices in my head telling me what to do, you know. All this is merely transactional. Everything you made me do is payback. You screw up my life, I screw up yours. The difference being, you mess with me, you don’t get to mess again. Ever. The memento? It’s for a friend.”
Baker lifted the teabag out of the cup and dropped it in the bin. He began opening cupboards.
“Have you got any biscuits, Katharine? I’ve got the nibbles.”
In a cupboard over the sink he found a tin tucked away at the back behind gravy granules, stock cubes, herbs and spices. The picture on the front of the tin was of the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus. He lifted it out and looked at it for a moment. “Are you religious, Katharine?”
Inside were family photographs. Little Katharine. Katharine as a baby and as a child. Pictures of her as a little girl holding a baby, probably a sister or brother. He saw a small Katharine sitting on her dad’s shoulders by the beach. Toddler Katharine eating ice cream with a little brother and their mum. Another of little Katharine learning to ride her bike – a bike with streamers hanging from the handlebars.
At the bottom of the tin he saw a silver chain. He lifted out a Saint Christopher necklace and held it up in front of him. He watched it swing from side to side. The patron saint of travellers, thought Baker. I suppose we’re all on journeys of one sort or another, and none of us knows when or how they’ll end.
Baker closed the lid and sighed. He put the tin in his rucksack. He drank half his tea and poured the rest away; he no longer had the taste for it. He showered in silence. He dressed slowly, then collected his rucksack and looked around the house one last time. He stood for a long while looking at the bathroom door. He chose not to speak to her again or to go back in. Closing the front door behind him, he left the house and didn’t look back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was dark out when Baker arrived home. He was exhausted. It had been a long and emotionally draining day. He also ached; he was bruised, and he felt like he’d pulled a muscle in his shoulder. Yet he still had plenty to do and it was likely to be another late night.
A little louder than was necessary, he shut the front door behind him. He hung up his overcoat, took off his outdoor shoes and put on his Wallace and Gromit slippers. They look like they’ve been chewed again, he thought irritably. Bloody rat dog.
He shrugged it off. Not even Beckham was going to spoil this day. Baker looked in the hall mirror and smiled. He tightened and straightened his tie, then brushed his hair. The smile lessened. He could hear her. The rasping and wheezing. He waited in silence, motionless. A different sort of smile came across his face. Just a little fun. No harm done. Come on. Any second now.
“Simon? That you, my love?”
“Yes, Mother. I’m just putting on those Marks & Spencer slippers you got me for my birthday. They’re lovely and cosy.”
“That’s good, sweetheart.”
Baker stood motionless. Waiting. Holding back the laughter. Here it comes. Five, four, three, two, one.
“Simon, sweetheart, did you manage to pick up my cigarettes?”
Suppressed laughter sprayed from Baker’s lips. He covered his mouth with his hands. Instead of replying, he rooted around the pockets of his coat and found what he was looking for. Baker looked at his reflection. He waited again, smiling.
“Simon, love? Did you hear me? I wonder, did you manage to pick up a packet of slims?”
Baker paused just a moment longer and then, with a hand behind his back and a big smile on his face, walked casually into the sitting room.
“Good evening, Mother. I got you something better, something you’ll enjoy much more than a packet of cigarettes.”
“What do you mean?” Disappointment spread across the old woman’s creased and powdered face. “Don’t play your silly games, Simon. I really am not in the mood. It’s been a long day and Beckham is just not himself.” She patted Beckham, who was panting heavily. His large pug eyes glared at Baker.
Simon stepped close to his mother. She smelled of lavender soap, stale cigarettes and dog. Beckham growled. Baker leaned over Beckham and kissed his mother’s forehead.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Simon, what do you mean, ‘something better’? You know I like to enjoy a Friday evening cigarette. It’s one of my last remaining luxuries. A small sherry and a slim cigarette. I am sure that bitch ex-wife has messed with your brain. You used to be so on the ball, and now you forget the simplest of things.”
Not wanting his mother to start on about his ex-wife, he fast-tracked his surprise. Baker rolled up his sleeves and began waving his arms around like a magician. “Mother. Look. Ta-dah! Two packets.”
