Anyway, that was all background gen. The real meat was this: Nicholas Mallik, later dubbed ‘Count Nikolai’ by the Press, was something of a roué (this despite a rather gaunt and ravaged appearance which even the contrasty photocopies could not disguise) and his list of ‘conquests’ (the early Dispatch, incidentally, was careful not to use such a term but any fool could have read between the lines) was pretty impressive. Interestingly – and this is where Creed had become very excited – Mallik had had a fairly long-standing relationship with Lily Neverless who was, at that time, married to a businessman named Edgar Buchanan (this was the husband who, when finally divorced and on the point of suing Lily for slander, had brought proceedings to an abrupt halt by way of his own heart attack). That had been during the 1920s and there was no suggestion that the relationship had continued beyond that decade.
As Creed had sifted through the sensational newspaper stories, he came to realize that there were very few hard facts about Mallik himself, or his activities; most of the journalists dwelt upon his associations with others, particularly certain dignitaries of the day. Implied rather than stated were his numerous relationships with other men’s wives. One solid fact that was known about him, though, was that he owned an elegant Regency house in Eaton Place and another large but far less select abode in Camberwell, South London.
The beginning of the end, for Mallik, came in the form of a striking young socialite (unmarried, this one), by the name of Lavinia Nesbit, who developed, as had many females before her, an unwholesome and obsessive passion for the ‘Count’. Age difference appeared not to matter as far as the girl was concerned and, according to later evidence, it wasn’t long before she was completely under Mallik’s domination. The relationship lasted for almost three months; then Lavinia vanished without trace. Only the dogged efforts of her father, an aircraft manufacturer whose fortune had been made when he joined forces with a number of other private airline companies to form the government-subsidized Imperial Airlines, had led to the discovery of her body.
To add further to patriarchal distress, the body was found in several pieces.
Now comes the really bad part.
The girl’s father, who had powerful friends of his own, was able to bully, inveigle, or shame (probably all three) the police into making a snap search of Nicholas Mallik’s two homes. It was the one in Camberwell that provided the bloodcurdling surprise, for not only did the police find the various parts of the missing girl there (the head had been pickled in an iron bucket in the cellar), but they also discovered odd bits and pieces of other human bodies. Most of these appeared to be of children.
Although the ‘Count’ never admitted to such, it was the prosecution’s submission that the defendant had a propensity for cannibalism. It was further alleged that illegal and diabolic rituals had taken place inside the Camberwell house, but no one had stepped forward to verify the fact (for obvious reasons, Nicholas Mallik had become persona non grata as far as his wide circle of ‘friends’ was concerned. They claimed they knew him only on a casual basis, in fact, hardly at all; if truth be known, they had met him once perhaps at a social gathering, and what was that name again?), and Mallik himself wasn’t saying. Nor did any of his staff, which he undoubtedly must have had to run such large homes, present themselves as witnesses. Creed assumed these people had flown as soon as the soft stuff had hit the fan.
Reading between the lines, it looked to him as though much of what had taken place at Mallik’s Camberwell home had been hushed up, and because of that he wondered what else had been discovered inside that house of slaughter. The fact that two refrigerators which had been found stacked full of old and fresh foetuses was mentioned almost as a footnote indicated that some editorial censorship had been invoked, and if that was the case, then why? To protect the public sensibility from more gruesome revelations? Or to protect certain parties who had been involved in some way?
Since Mallik would say not one word in his own defence nor offer any explanation, and since none of the other victims could be properly identified (although files on several missing children were closed around this time), Nicholas Mallik, nicknamed ‘Count Nikolai’ and latterly ‘The Beast of Belgravia’, was hanged (by the Home Office’s top executioner no less) only for the murder of Lavinia Nesbit.
Creed had been puzzled as to why the awful story was not more widely known to the public of today – after all, such murderers as Crippin, innocuous by comparison, had become part of criminal folklore. The answer came to him when he noticed other headlines and then checked the date of Mallik’s execution: 25 August 1939. The week before the outbreak of the Second World War. The outrage had been over-shadowed by the greater tragedy of world events. And naturally, after the horrors of global devastation whereby millions upon millions had been killed or suffered the most dreadful tortures and deprivations, who would care to be reminded of atrocities that had happened before the great conflict, a period that must have seemed like a lifetime away to the shell-shocked masses? The story – and, apparently, the memory – had been smothered by greater horrors.
Creed had smiled to himself as he had slid the Xerox copies back into the envelope. Perhaps it was time for a revival.
Now, crouching against the rough hedge, he considered the possibilities. The lunatic he’d photographed in the cemetery was no doubt a relative of Nicholas Mallik’s, for their likeness, despite the poor quality of photocopies from old newsprint, was undeniable. Mallik’s son? A nephew? The Press had estimated Mallik himself to be somewhere in his forties when he was executed, although no evidence of his birth date had been discovered. That was fifty-odd years ago. The graveyard crazy, judging by his line-etched features might have been about seventy (Christ, was it possible to practise self-abuse at that age? Creed made a mental note to find out for himself nearer the time), so he could easily have been this monster’s offspring. No mention of Mallik’s son in the newspapers though, nor of any relatives; but then there had been hardly any background information at all.
He could easily understand the man’s desire not to have his father’s(?) grisly past resurrected, but to go to such lengths? There had to be much more to it than just family shame. And why the graveyard desecration? The question Creed asked himself was this: To blackmail (and make a quick financial killing) or to indulge in a little piece of investigative journalism (which could lead to glory and perhaps an even higher financial reward)? No question really. Two birds in a bush was always better than one in the hand as far as Creed was concerned. Fame as well as money was what he was after.
He stashed the Nikon back inside his coat and rose to his feet, brushing damp mud from his jeans as he did so. A smoke right now would have been terrific.
He looked around, this way and that. Silver light rendered the grass flat and the trees black; shadowy bushes could have hidden anything.
To his right was a children’s playground, a surreal landscape of climbing frames and unmoving swings. To his left was a broad tarmac path, a road really, that, like the yellow brick one, led to the unknown. He shook his head in disgust at his own overwrought imagination.
In the distance he could make out Kensington Palace looming in the night like some huge sinister tomb. Shut up, Creed. Christ! He was giving himself the shakes. Okay, the pond, the Round Pond, should be somewhere to the left. Thing to do was cross the road – the strip they called the Broad Walk, he now remembered – and head south. That way he had to run smack into it. Wet feet would tell him when he was there. Not funny. In fact, nothing about this was funny.
For just a few moments he debated on whether or not to get the hell out of the park – after all, he really didn’t know what he was getting into – but inevitably the call of greed and glory prevailed.
He crossed over the road to where cover was better and trudged towards the big pond, using odd trees here and there to screen himself from the main highway, constantly on the lookout for any patrolling police cars, vans or whatever else they made their rounds in.
Better to keep well away from Kensington Palace, he advised himself; it was bound to be guarded at night. Soon he saw the broad expanse of water, moonlight giving its surface an unearthly sheen.
He crouched when he spotted headlights in the distance, the vehicle obviously somewhere near the Serpentine, the park’s great lake. There was no chance of his being seen from that far away, but Creed stayed where he was until the lights faded completely. He tried to remember where the park’s police station was located, not because he was afraid of being caught, but because it might be the place to head for if he got into trouble. He groaned when he realized how far away it was. Not only that, but the lake also cut him off from it. There was the bridge, of course, the one that divided the Serpentine and the Long Water, but even that was some distance.
Nothing’s going to happen, he reassured himself. You’ll meet the girl, find out a bit more about the necrophilic nut, then renege on the deal, saying you’ll only hand over the film to the man himself. For added incentive, snap off a few frames of Cally so that she’ll also be on record. And if it turns out that the man, himself, is there waiting for collection, well so much the better. Deal with the top dog, that was the thing. Ask him some questions, put it to him straight that he, Creed, knew he was a descendant of Nicholas Mallik no less, wait for a reaction. Then reel off a few more shots before the crazy had a chance to cover his face. When that was done, shift like shit out of there. The guy was over the hill – he’d never catch him. Yeah. Right. Easy.
Creed’s mouth felt very dry.
He got to his feet, did a 365-degree scan, and moved on.
The pond – almost but not quite a lake – looked particularly uninviting when he reached its edge. In the moonlight it appeared more like a great slab of concrete than a refuge for ducks. There wasn’t a ripple on its surface.
His gaze travelled across the still water towards a tall shape on the far side, a light structure that was all but lost in the dark backdrop of trees. That was it, that was the bandstand where he was supposed to meet Cally.
Creed dipped a hand into his pocket and set the switch that would charge the Nikon’s flash. Which way round the pond should he go? Left or right? Or should he just turn round and head back in the direction he’d come from? Might be the sensible thing to do, all things considered. He could always arrange to meet her some place else, somewhere where there were people and lights and sounds. This was too creepy.
Come on, Creed. You’re almost there. You might blow the deal completely if you back off now. She sounded pretty serious on the phone.
‘What the fuck,’ he mumbled to himself as he turned to the left and began the journey around the water’s edge.
The bandstand was set by itself in a clear, grassy area, its tall white posts rising dully from a high black-painted base to support an umbrella-like canopy. Spear railings surrounded the narrow and rather delicate pavilion.
Creed’s approach was not direct: he left the curve of the pond at a tangent, treading a path that was a hundred yards or so away from the bandstand, with the intention of skirting the perimeter to get a good look from all angles. If there was more than one person skulking there, then he wanted to know about it. Unfortunately, because of the high base, it proved difficult to judge; anyone wearing dark clothes would have blended in nicely.
Once on the side that fully caught the moon’s rays, he was able to make out a stairway rising to the rostrum. As far as he could tell, the place was deserted.
Creed walked towards the bandstand with only slightly less trepidation than before. When he was ten or twelve feet away he stopped. He held his breath. He listened.
He heard the creaking of a floorboard.
Creed took one involuntary step backwards, then checked himself. His eyes narrowed as he peered into the darkness beyond the iron railings.
‘Cally.’ He cleared his throat, embarrassed by the shake in his voice.
He heard more movement.
‘Cally, it’s Joe Creed.’ He added, somewhat unnecessarily: ‘I’m here.’
Something caught his eye. Something up there on the bandstand.
That’s not possible, he thought. He’d checked it out as he’d walked round. The rostrum had been empty, he was sure.
A figure moved forward from the shadow cast by the canopy. It was him, the person Creed had photographed in the cemetery. He was wearing the same long raincoat and the same scarf masked the lower half of his face. Creed was certain it was him.
The man stood there quietly looking down at the photographer.
‘Cold night,’ Creed said by way of conversation. Cold as the grave, he thought.
The figure didn’t move.
‘We should talk, right?’ Creed leaned forward a little, whether to encourage a response or to get a better look, he wasn’t sure himself. He cleared his throat again. ‘Seems I’ve got something you want.’
Instead of replying, the figure moved to the top of the stairway and began to descend. Creed resisted the urge to back off more. He wasn’t going to show this fruitcake he was nervous. No way.
‘Maybe you oughta stay where you are,’ he suggested.
The man ignored the suggestion. He reached the bottom step and stood behind the gate in the railing, his eyes on Creed all the time. He swung the gate open, slowly.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said, advancing no further.
Creed shivered. He couldn’t help it. The man’s voice was gravelly and tight, as if squeezed from the larynx. He either had a bad cold or a disease of the throat. But it wasn’t just the sound of the voice that caused his anxiety – there was something more, something he couldn’t define. Some people exuded vitality when they spoke; this one exuded whatever the opposite was. A doctor informing you that you had cancer might induce the same reaction. Creed felt suddenly nauseous.
‘Where . . .’ he said, as if to assert himself ‘. . . where’s the girl? Where’s Cally?’
The man lowered his scarf, tucking it below his chin, causing Creed to flinch at the sight of the ravaged face now caught in the shine of the moon. Even though he’d become used to studying those same features on film over the past couple of days, they still came as a shock in the flesh. Strange how the soft light emphasized each corrugation, presenting the deep-etched lines so definitely they could have been rubbed in with soot; the moonlight, like the poor Xerox copies, should have washed his face to blandness.
That awful, dread-making voice again. ‘She isn’t necessary, Mr Creed. I’m the one you have to deal with.’
It sounded so ominous, the way he said it, and Creed began to wonder if he really had made a mistake in coming. Maybe he should have turned the whole thing over to his editor and let the Dispatch get on with the story – if there really was a story. A good idea might be to take the money and run, give the creep what he wanted and forget about the Journalist of the Year Award, which wasn’t his line anyway, he was a snapper, for Chrissake, not a journo . . .
Creed became aware that he was mentally gibbering and, with an effort of will, desisted. ‘Look,’ he ventured, ‘I don’t know who you are, but could be I’ve made—’ He was going to say, ‘made a mistake’, but the other man interrupted.
‘Give me the film.’ It was a command that brooked no dissension.
‘I haven’t got it with me.’ Creed’s response was rapid, blurted out with no thought behind it. He stood there like a weak-kneed schoolboy who’d impulsively confessed to stealing the headmaster’s wallet. He felt badly in need of a lie-down.
The man was silent again. Was there rage building up inside him, was he disappointed in what he’d just heard? Creed couldn’t tell.
‘You’re a very foolish man,’ the tortured voice announced.
But this time – and the photographer couldn’t understand why – the words had less effect. Perhaps it was the weariness in them that weakened their impact, their power. This guy was antiquated, Creed told himself, a little of his usual belligerence slowly – very slowly, it mu
st be admitted – beginning to crawl to the surface. What was he worried about? An old wrinkly who didn’t look strong enough to spit against the wind? He looked scary enough – he sounded scary enough – but think about it logically: What could he actually do? Nothing, that was what. Creed’s smile was forced, but he hoped the old boy could see it.
‘Yeah,’ he admitted, ‘I’m very foolish. But then, you’re not so smart yourself. You know, there’s a law against the kind of thing you were doing at Lily Neverless’ funeral.’
Creed became even more emboldened (although not as much as he pretended) when he saw the dark-coated figure grip a railing to steady himself. Somewhere outside the park a motorist tooted his horn, the anger muted by distance.
‘And listen,’ Creed continued, ‘I don’t appreciate anyone breaking into my home. D’you really think that freak you sent frightened me? Christ, I’ve seen worse in the mirror after a heavy night. Just who the fuck are you anyway?’ He was beginning to work up a steam. ‘The son of Nicholas Mallik, is that who you are? Oh yeah, I know all about him. Ashamed of your old man, want the whole gruesome mess to rest in peace? You shouldn’t have done nasty things at Lily’s funeral, if that’s the case. So let’s have some answers, and then we’ll consider where we go from there. You understand me?’
A bravura performance, you might say, even though he did get just a little carried away.
‘I said, do you understand me?’ Creed repeated, impressed by his own impudence.
If he did understand him, the raincoat man wasn’t saying. Instead he stepped to one side of the gate, then turned to something behind him.
The blackness of the bandstand’s base was not as total as Creed had first thought, for now there was an even greater darkness spreading within it. He stared in dismay, then realised that what he was actually witnessing was the opening of a door; the bandstand itself was obviously built over a chamber of some kind, probably where odd bits of equipment and park deckchairs were stored. The deeper black grew no more.
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