If When

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  He gathered up both drawings, and his phone, having recorded her words. “These need to be passed on,” he said, “but I shall be back later today. Thank you,” and strode out without turning, pulling the back collar of his jacket up over his head. The slop and splash could be heard faintly as he hurried to his car. The rain continued to pelt against the windows and muffled other noises.

  “Big feet?” asked Lavender at once. “Both Arthur and David have rather small feet. Though Arthur does wear boots that look too big for him.”

  “I’m phoning Harry,” Sylvia said, and did.

  “Interesting,” he mumbled over the phone. “But I won’t come over today. The car might not survive this weather, and the bottom of my street has turned into a swamp. I’ll come tomorrow.”

  He hung up and leaned back in the arm chair in his own small living room. Isabel cuddled closer. “That woman is always chasing you, Harry. I think she fancies you.”

  “I wish she did.” Harry sighed.

  Thunder pounded as if rocks had crashed on the roof, bouncing and rolling across the sloping tiles. The T.V. had warned folk to stay indoors if possible. Harry was staying indoors but he wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the day.

  Having never left, Isabel now felt at home, and enjoyed the cuddles. Although Harry had found two flats and three snug rooms to let, Isabel had not been interested, pleaded poverty, and preferred to cook for Harry and herself. “My cooking’s not that bad.” She had expected denials and compliments, but Harry simply nodded and closed his eyes. It wasn’t her cooking that bored him rigid, it was her choice of what to cook. Egg and chips, corned beef and chips, fish fingers and chips, crumbed chicken pieces and chips, occasionally a very watery stew with floating beef and carrots.

  Together in agreement for once, they had invited Tony. Time for talking. They hadn’t expected storms, but in spite of the weather, Tony had not cancelled. He turned up looking like a bedraggled scarecrow recently saved from drowning, and stood on the doorstep with sorrowful sniffs, dripping copiously into the hallway.

  Harry said, “Come in, quick. The fire’s on. Come and dry off.”

  Isabel was making tea. Tony sat on the best armchair and soaked it immediately. He held his hands out to the electric fire and waited. Finally, bringing a well-stocked tray clinking cups, Isabel sat on the little hard chair the other side of the fire, and said, “Biscuits, Tony? And tea, just how you like it?”

  And Tony burst into tears.

  Chapter Ten

  “Bloody hell,” said Harry and fetched a box of tissues.

  Voice muffled by crumpled tissue paper, Tony apologised.

  “Don’t lie,” Isabel interrupted. “And I’m not coming home.”

  With the rain, lightning and thunder like another voice in the argument, Tony and Isabel droned at each other while Harry sat silent, only interjecting the occasional complaint. “Isabel, you said he hit you. Hurt you. Pushed you around. You’re not much more than a slave.”

  “I may have exaggerated just a little.” Sniff.

  Tony once again apologised. “I do get a little heated at times, I know I push the boundaries. I have faults. Don’t we all?”

  “We’re talking about you, Tony, not everyone else’s faults.”

  “You slapped me once around the face. You push me all the time.” Isabel was now remembering, clenching her fists and glaring. “Once you pushed me out of bed. Once you pulled me so I fell over. And you squeezed my arm and left a big bruise. And you never help with anything. You’ve never done the dishes in your life.”

  Turning back to his wife, Tony nodded, and crumpled up the wet tissue. “But you do things too. You threw a dinner plate at me.”

  “Because you said you were sick of chips. I spent ages cooking you a lovely dinner and you just complained.”

  “I like mashed potatoes best. You never make me mash.”

  “It makes my wrist sore.”

  “You can’t divorce because of potatoes,” objected Harry, mouth full of biscuits. Isabel had bought the sort of biscuits he disliked, but he was getting hungry.

  Tony was staring at him. “And I’m really surprised at you, Harry, I thought you were my friend. We went to Monte Carlo together and everything. I used to look forward to meeting you in the pub. Now you’ve been so disloyal. How long have you been sleeping with my wife, then?”

  “Oh shit,” said Harry. “Never. That’s not what’s been happening.”

  “Well, it did once,” said Isabel.

  “Shit,” said Harry again. He took a deep breath. “But only once. I mean, Isabel was really upset and at the time, I was too. I apologise, but she said she’d left you. It never happened again. Isabel’s been staying in the spare room and I’m usually out.”

  “And that’s another thing,” interrupted Isabel. “You keep going away without me. Monte Carlo and France and Bournemouth.”

  “I didn’t go to Bournemouth,” Tony admitted. “I went to Blackpool to see my aunty. But you hate her, so I didn’t tell you.”

  Slamming down her cup, Isabel glared. “That woman’s a bitch. She doesn’t like me. And you stopped me seeing my own aunty, so when she died last year I couldn’t even remember what she looked like.”

  “My aunt was the only person I could ask about private things,” mumbled Tony. “I needed advice. About you. About marriage.”

  “As if that stupid woman knows anything worth calling advice. She’s just mean and ignorant.” Isabel bit her lip. “I bet she told you to leave me.”

  “Yes, she bloody did.”

  “Oh shit,” repeated Harry. “I’ll make some more tea.” He wished he’d gone to meet Sylvia after all. Even sitting trapped in his car in a flood would have been more fun than listening to Tony and Isabel’s rubbish. He put the kettle on and sat on the bench and watched the torrential rain wash all colour out of the sky. He took a very long time making the tea and plodded back into the living room to discover Tony in a fury.

  “I’m leaving,” he shouted, raucous. “You can have her.” Harry refrained from saying he didn’t want her. “She’s determined to insult me.” He stamped both feet and the floor boards creaked. “I’ll see a divorce lawyer in the morning.”

  “You wouldn’t know where to find one.”

  “See! Insult after insult.”

  “I do wish,” said Harry, putting down the tea tray, “we could just continue the discussion more quietly. Have a hot drink and a biscuit and let’s see what we can agree on. I’m afraid Isabel really can’t stay here any longer. I mean, I’m more than willing to help, but this house is too small, and we hardly know each other, and besides, there’s actually another woman I’m really interested in. A very good friend, and I don’t want her to get the wrong impression.” He tried to look sorrowful. “Isabel, whether you go back home with Tony or not, I’m afraid you’ll really have to leave here.”

  “Why. What have I done to you?” She promptly cascaded into sobs. “Doesn’t anyone like me anymore?”

  “You’ve made her cry,” Growled Tony.

  “Oh, shit,” said Harry.

  Lying in her many dismal and corrupted pieces on the autopsy table beneath a large white sheet, Pamela Barnstable awaited further examination. Her left leg was detached, having been sawed through at the ankle, and also just above the knee. The bones between had been broken in several places.

  Almost immediately the forensic scientist in charge strode over, pulled off the sheet covering the partially skeletal parts, and pointed.

  “Post mortem,” nodded the tall thin man, almost as pale as Pam in his white coat. “Either to fit the body into the rubbish bag for burial, or as a prolonged entertainment after the killing.”

  Morrison blanched at the word entertainment.

  The groin and pelvis area had been cut, opened and divided in several different ways. Parts had been removed and taken. There was no evidence of cannibalism, but it was the crude assumption of some of the press, considering the pieces of flesh whic
h had been cut away and no longer accompanied the body.

  The stomach was ripped open with a different tool.

  “The claws of a claw-hammer, I believe,” said Mr. Ostopolos through his white paper mask. “An odd choice.”

  “Hilarious.”

  The ribs were broken by deliberate blows, perhaps by the other side of the hammer, and the breasts were cut away. One had been placed within the stomach area, but the other was missing. Both nipples, however, had been laid on the tongue within the open mouth. The head had been sawn off through the neck and had undergone some tortuous destruction. The eyes had been gouged out and the eye sockets left empty. Four front teeth had been removed, and one stuffed up the nostril, although the nose had been struck and broken, also by a hammer. Most of the hair had been roughly cut, some pulled from the scalp, and a screwdriver had been inserted through both cheeks.

  “Also mostly post-mortem,” said Mr. Ostopolos without expression. “Although it is impossible to be precise on all parts. The extent of initial bleeding cannot be ascertained where the body has been dismantled. Nor is the initial cause of death clear. I would guess the throat was cut and the victim died immediately before the rest of the neck was sawn through. But there are other possibilities. No stomach contents remain to examine, and I’m not even able to ascertain whether rape occurred, since the vagina is no longer intact, and no semen can be found in that area. No alien body fluids appear in any part and there are signs that much of the remains have been washed. Soap is present in the anus. There are no signs of heavy blows to the back of the head, for instance, nor evidence of drowning. The heart is in several pieces and no longer easy to examine, while the lungs are punctured in numerous places. But most of these attacks show little signs of bleeding and so probably have occurred after death. Although,” he continued, arms outstretched and shrugging, “for the reasons I’ve already explained, I cannot be sure in all cases. For instance, there are signs that the throat was first cut with a carving knife, but afterwards the head removed with an axe.”

  Morrison thought he might be sick. “Go on. What else?”

  “From the amount of decay present, and the small visible signs of animal and insect predation, I would guess that death took place on or around the 4th day of October, but that the body was kept in a warm isolated place afterwards, for up to three and a half days. Then finally removed to the banks of the stream where she was found. But none of that can be entirely precise. A certain amount of educated guesswork is involved.”

  “I’ll pass on your report when you’ve finished,” murmured Morrison. “Anything else major, let me know at once.”

  “Until you discover the secluded place where the victim was held after death and before being abandoned,” Ostopolos said, “there’s unlikely to be anything more I can determine.”

  “So guess. Without anything more positive, educated guesses will do.” He held his guts, bent over, but wasn’t sick. Keeping pride intact, he drove back to the crime scene and shuffled into the larger of the two tents, quickly finding a chair and half collapsing.

  “P.M.?” asked Detective Whitehead knowingly. “It’s a common reaction. I never watch if I can help it.” Morrison nodded. “Well, the DNA result’s through. Rushed result. But it’s her alright. Pamela Barnstable. Confirmed. But there’s the extra foot to deal with. Not the same woman, obviously. No DNA match yet discovered. A younger girl, by the look of things, but I don’t know any details.”

  “There aren’t any details yet,” sighed Morrison. “We have one obscenely massacred corpse, now known to be Pamela Barnstable. But it’s not a three-footed corpse even though we have three feet. We can clearly see which one belongs. And which doesn’t.”

  “The monster that did this isn’t human.”

  “After some years in this job, you learn one thing above all others,” said Morrison. “Humanity unfortunately isn’t necessarily either pleasant or sane.”

  Detective Whitehead was spreading paper, photos and lists out across the central table. “He gets around, this part human killer. The press are calling him the Welsh Ripper. But the original murders were done in or around Leicester.”

  “Too long ago.” Morrison pulled one of the photographs towards him, then pushed it away. “The modus-operandi is certainly the same, but I accept the theory of a copycat. The original murders were too long ago. No crazed killer stops for twenty five years, lives a normal life, and then starts again in the same style.”

  “He would if he was twenty five years in prison.”

  “Um.” Morrison leaned forwards again. “Ostopolos believes the killer has a place nearby where he keeps the victims post mortem, and plays. But he’s killed in Monaco, in Wales, and now here.”

  “He could have rented sheds all over the country.”

  “I’ve been in the force for thirty years. I know when something clicks. Now it’s Harry Joyce and Sylvia Greene. No, no, I don’t think they’re a Hindley and Brady couple. But there’s a connection. The latest victim was a maid at Rochester Manor, and was left precisely where Sylvia Greene goes walking.”

  “Yes, I know. Monte Carlo and Wales. But not Leicester.”

  “Don’t muddle the two.”

  “So it’s someone Joyce and Greene know. And perhaps suspect. And he’s trying to frighten them off.”

  “Frighten them off,’ Morrison agreed, “or egg them on.”

  “And you’re not interested in Stoker anymore?”

  “I’ve left it with Crabb. But Stoker isn’t a realistic suspect any longer. I wasn’t at his original trial, but they found him innocent, and Parker told me it was the obvious conclusion. The evidence was too circumstantial.”

  “But if Crabb finds him –?”

  “I’d still follow up. Presumably he’s had the good sense to change his name. But at present I’m more than interested in Joyce and Greene.”

  “I got the sack,” she said.

  Paul Stoker stared at his wife. “What the hell did you do?”

  “Oh, Hugh, I didn’t do anything. Well, I admit I was a little late this morning, but that was the buses, not me. There’s always bad traffic.”

  “Then you should leave earlier. I’m never late.”

  “Well, you’re just a miracle, aren’t you!”

  “No need to be shitty. And no one would sack a good worker for being late once.” Paul stood in front of the electric glow, warming the back of his calves. His wife was sitting to the side of the pretend hearth. He gazed down at her. “So you’ve been continuously late? Monstrously late? Consistently stupid?”

  Felicity sniffed and nodded into her lap, avoiding her husband’s eyes. “I know we need the money. I’m sorry. I’ll look for another job. Hugh dear, perhaps I could work at Sainsbury’s with you and then we could travel together.”

  “No.” Paul said it before thinking, voice gruff, almost in panic. “Not an option. I mean, we might not get the same hours anyway, Besides, my manager would see you’d just been sacked, and that might go against me. Find something else.”

  “Alright. I’ll just sweep the streets.”

  “Probably all you’re fit for.” And he walked out. Irritation wasn’t good for him. Struggling with his own temper made him exhausted and then he did things he would sooner not have done.

  She called after him, “There’s casserole for dinner,” but Paul didn’t hear and had lost his appetite.

  Walking down the narrow alley to the bus stop, he suddenly changed his mind and headed into the little park opposite. A few park benches, smeared with rain puddles from the early storm, were unoccupied, and Paul sat on one, ignoring the puddle, and wondered whether it was time to get a divorce. He no longer loved his wife and had felt that way for several years. He couldn’t even remember what the initial attraction had been. She’d gone off him too, but having come with him to England, she felt somewhat reliant. Paul didn’t want anyone reliant on him. He thought he might pack a case the next time Felicity wasn’t watching him, and catch a train
to Scotland. Skye sound sufficiently isolated.

  Felicity didn’t know he was Paul Stoker and he’d married her as Hugh Trumpet. If he got away to Scotland he could leave that ridiculous name behind as well. He quite fancied Brian Farmer. Having his iphone with him, he Googled the Isle of Skye. With careful secrecy, his saving’s account was bulging, something Felicity knew nothing about, and if he was as thrifty as the Scots were supposed to be, he could manage for years even without a job. Perhaps he could write a travel book about Scotland. Or about the South of France. He’d enjoyed living there, and now wasn’t sure why he’d left.

  Life was full of regretted decisions.

  Detective Crabb said, “I traced Stoker. Uses the name Hugh Trumpet, and works as a floor manager at Sainsbury’s in Nottingham. Married. Felicity Trumpet. No kids. Been having an affair with some teenage shelf-filler at work.”

  The storm, having blown south from the midlands overnight, was now, by late afternoon, starting to blow out. Roadsides were flooded, streams and rivers had overflowed, and gardens were muddy swamps, their lawns and flowers flattened by wind and water. Someone, said the early evening news, had been struck by lightning while trying to shelter under a tree, and had died immediately. Two others, sitting in their parked car, had been swept into a lake and nearly drowned, while more lightening had killed a poor drenched cow.

  The creek at the end of the parkland belonging to Rochester Manor, was gurgling downhill as if aspiring to be a proper river, and the police working on the crime scene down there had to move themselves slightly uphill.

  Then, slowly at first, a sheen of multi coloured light oozed through the clouds, and within minutes it formed a huge arch and the rainbow shades sang out.