'Fun and games,' the voice inside reminded him with a giggle.
Taking another long pull on the cigarette, he selected second gear and moved forwards through the snow, every few seconds his eyes would flick to the right, the anger inside starting to build as he recalled the last time he had been at the farm.
Marsh thrusting the money at him. ''Take it or leave it, but you'll get fuck all else off me.''
A week's hard graft for a pittance, the money Marsh had offered had barely covered the price of the diesel he had put in the rusted tractor. Over the years, whenever he felt stressed by a job then an image of Marsh was never far away to torment him, the miser's face twisted with malice and a hatred for the world.
Reaching the opening that led to the farm, he turned the wheel gingerly and drove towards the house, his eyes narrowing as he drew closer. The house looked deserted, the roof sagged, the windows filthy; any paintwork had long since been stripped from the doors and window frames leaving the place looking forlorn and close to collapse.
Pulling the van up, he came to a halt before yanking on the handbrake and pushing the door open. Stepping into the deep snow, he took a final drag on the cigarette before tossing it to the floor and getting the delving spade from the back of the van. Leaving the engine running, he walked to the front of the house and peered in through one of the grimy windows. Surprisingly, he saw sticks of furniture sitting on top of a threadbare carpet, moving left he wiped his hand over the glass before leaning forwards.
When he saw the old man lean over to lift a chipped cup from the small table at the side of his chair he felt the fury rise inside. Old man Marsh took a gulp from the cup before vanishing behind the high back of the armchair.
Leaving the front of the house, the man stormed to the end of the building before following the gable end to the rear of the property.
As he turned left, he saw Marsh sitting in the rickety lean-to looking out at the snow, his face a mass of sour wrinkles as he took another gulp from the cup.
Moving to the back door, he clicked the handle down and pushed the door open.
'You're fucking late, you owd bitch!' Marsh's voice blasted out, sounding surprisingly loud in the gloomy interior.
Moving through the room, the man stood in what would have once been a dining room though now it was full of grime, the grotty carpet scattered with mouse and rat droppings.
He could see the back of Marsh's head in the old battered chair.
'Come on, where the fuck are you!? the old man bellowed.
'Fun and games,'the internal voice hissed in delight.
The man moved up to the side of the chair, when Marsh turned his head his spiteful old eyes sprang wide, his liver-spotted hands gripping the threadbare arms of the chair.
'Who the fuck are you?' he barked.
'Get up.'
'I'm going to call the fucking police, I…'
The man shot out his hand and grabbed Marsh by the throat, his large hand closing tight.
'You don't remember me, do you?' he asked.
Bernard Marsh tried to answer but he couldn't manage to drag any air into his lungs as the hand closed with terrifying strength around his scrawny neck.
Suddenly, he was hauled to his feet and his attacker thrust his face in close, his face split by a huge maniacal grin.
'Let's go and have some fun and games in the snow,' he said as he dragged Marsh through the house, the delving spade held tight in his left hand, while Marsh tried his best to scream.
16
Dorothy Marsh sat behind the wheel of the ancient Land Rover, peering nervously along the snow-covered lane towards the house she had lived in for over fifty years. Tears sparkled in her eyes, her freezing liver-spotted hands gripped together in her lap as the engine clattered beneath her.
Closing her eyes, she pictured her vile husband, no doubt he would be sitting in the ramshackle porch that he laughingly called the conservatory, keeping one callous eye on the clock as he waited for her to return.
Dorothy had been out for her weekly shop to the large Tesco in town. Now, she was faced with another week entombed inside the four walls of the decrepit farmhouse. The wallpaper mouldy with damp, the floors peppered with mouse droppings, the furniture – along with everything else – falling to pieces year on year.
Closing her eyes, she felt the tears trickle down her cheeks, trying to recall a time when she had felt any semblance of happiness. She hiccupped a sob as she realised her life had been a constant torment of abuse. She had raised three children on the dilapidated farm and they had all long since flown the nest, all desperate to be escape their horrific father. Bernard Marsh was a monster of a man, and time had done nothing to alter that fact. At eighty years of age, her husband was worse than ever, as if he had suddenly realised that time was running out and he needed to cram in as much vile behaviour as he could in the limited time he had left.
Dorothy shivered in disgust as she pictured her husband, sitting there like a bloated parasite, demanding everything.
She thought back to earlier that morning, Bernard sitting at the kitchen table, his ruddy face like thunder as she placed the plate of bacon and eggs in front of him, the clock on the wall had shown one minute past seven.
'Why's my fucking breakfast late?' he'd demanded.
Dorothy had lowered her head as she waited for the inevitable abuse.
'You know I always have it at seven, so why are you serving it up at one minute past?'
'Please, Bernard, I…'
'Fucking useless old bitch,' he'd snapped, the corners of his mouth white with dried spittle.
She had stood there unable to move, after so many years of cruelty her mind and body were programmed to remain rooted to the spot no matter how bad things became.
Reaching out a hand, he had lifted his walking stick from the table, before jabbing it into her midriff, his face twisted with a dark sneer.
Dorothy had kept the gasp clamped behind her lips, well aware that to make any sound could enrage her animal of a husband into even more violent action.
'Fifty years I've been wed to you and you still can't tell the frigging time.' The stick was thrust forwards again and this time Dorothy couldn't stop the yelp of pain that escaped her mouth.
Opening her eyes, she looked down the lane, the view blurry through the tears.
At seventy-five years of age, she prayed for death, desperate for her life to be over, frantic to be free from the nightmare that lived within the four crumbling walls.
Checking her watch, she swallowed the fear as she realised she was over twenty minutes late. Her husband wouldn't be interested in excuses, wouldn't consider the fact that the snow was over six inches deep on the lane. On shopping days, he demanded that she arrived back at the house exactly at eleven thirty, ready to have his dinner on the table by twelve.
More tears slid from her eyes at the thought of what punishment he would dish out. If she were lucky then it might be a few cracks with the belt, if he decided to take it further then he would order her to the bedroom and…
Dorothy cried out in anguish as she pictured the back bedroom that contained nothing but an old metal bed, no mattress, the springs rusty, the floorboards crawling with mould and droppings, the handcuffs fastened to the bedstead.
Trying to shift the painful and repulsive memories from her mind, she lifted her hands and gripped the wheel tight. She had been married in her mid-twenties, and any thought of joy had evaporated on her wedding night when her new husband had all but raped her before demanding that she sleep on the floor by the side of the bed.
She had lain there in the darkness, tears streaming down her face, her thighs wet with blood. When she had cried out that he was hurting her, he had laughed before withdrawing from her shaking body.
'Other holes to choose from,' had been his reply before thrusting forwards again.
The agony had been immense, and Dorothy had bled for over a week.
The years of torment had ro
lled on, and any self-worth had been crushed by her demonic husband. Three children had eventually been allowed to survive, though Bernard had never acknowledged their existence, apart from when he chose to get the strap out. Then they would scream as he lashed at their bare behinds, his eyes alight with a perverted sense of justice.
Dorothy would stand in the corner of the kitchen, crying silently, watching her children fall prey to the monster who grinned with relish as they screamed.
One by one they had left home, each one in part blaming her for the way they had been treated. Her daughter had even spat in her face the day she left the house for the last time.
'Your fault, all your fault!' she had screamed, before slamming the door.
Bernard had been sat in front of the coal fire, smiling as if he found the whole experience pleasurable.
Over time she had come to realise why her husband had chosen her, he had somehow fathomed that she could be manipulated into what he wanted her to be. Like some animal on the hunt that can detect the weakness in their prey.
Gradually, the farm had fallen into rack and ruin and Bernard had been forced to sell off chunks of land to keep the wolves from the door. Though Dorothy had never seen any of the money. Every Thursday, she would walk into the kitchen to find the shopping allowance on the table, along with a list of the things he demanded she buy. The amount of money had remained the same for the past ten years, and Dorothy had tried her best to meet his demands, but now things were getting harder. She quaked at the thought of asking for an increase, knowing it would lead to more abuse, more pain.
When she saw the nondescript white van drive past the front of the house she frowned in surprise. Wiping the tears from her eyes she looked again, but the vehicle had vanished, no doubt back to the small B-road that offered another route to and from the farm.
She tried to recall the last time anyone had come to visit the house; the postman always left any letters in the box at the end of the lane and they never had anything delivered to the property.
For once, the fear of her husband faded into the background as she tried to fathom the riddle of who could have been in the van and why they had visited the house?
Selecting a gear, she pulled forwards, the tears still wet on her cheeks, her abuse-ridden face furrowed in confusion.
17
Shannon sat behind his desk, waving a half-eaten Granny Smith's in the air as he waxed lyrical about the severed head.
'You're saying he was only a young lad?' Lasser asked in surprise, while Spenner sat ramrod straight in his chair trying to concentrate and push the news of his one-man dancing display to the back of his mind.
'Well, it was hard to tell at first, especially with the lights flashing on and off the Christmas tree, but yes, I'd say he was in his early twenties perhaps, but not much older than that.'
'What about the wound to the head?'
Shannon took another huge bite from the apple, his beard quivering as he chewed the pulp. 'As far as I can tell it was a single blow, something wide and flat was used, shattering the skull, the victim would have bled to death in a matter of minutes.' Shannon glanced at Spenner's shocked face. 'By the way, it was a wonderful display of dancing the other night, Spenner, you put some of those buggers on Strictly to shame.'
Spenner's cheeks flushed red. 'Christ, did everyone see it?'
'Loved it so much I recorded some on my phone,' Shannon said.
'Oh God no, I…'
'You were telling us about the head wound,' Lasser interrupted.
Dropping the core of the apple into the wastepaper bin, Shannon nodded. 'The poor lad was clubbed with enough force to leave the brain exposed.'
'Christ, how can you do your job?' Spenner asked, his face pale with shock.
Shannon looked at him in surprise and then shrugged. 'I could ask you the same thing. After all, by the time I get to work the individual is already dead, whereas you come across them first hand, you see the blood and the gore and…'
'What else can you tell us?' Lasser interjected.
'To be honest, without the body, not much, the wound to the head could have been only the beginning, but I have no way of knowing without the rest of the cadaver.'
Pursing his lips, Lasser nodded in understanding.
'I can however tell you that there was some soil in the mouth and eyes.'
Lasser found himself frowning. 'Did you manage to pinpoint the time of death?'
'Again, it's been difficult with the weather being so cold, but I would say he was killed in the last forty-eight hours.'
'But the snow's been down for over a week,' Spenner said.
Shannon shrugged. 'I know, but the soil's there, I've had it sent off for analysis to see if they can give us any more information.'
Lasser rubbed at his chin, feeling the stubble beneath his fingers. 'The fields are covered with deep snow, at least six inches, so how did he end up with soil in his mouth and eyes?'
'No idea,' Shannon replied, pulling a banana from his desk drawer and peeling it with relish.
'What if the killer started to bury the body?' Spenner suggested.
Lasser felt the spark catch hold. 'You could be right, the prick buried the body, but saved the head as a Christmas tree decoration.'
Taking a bite of the banana, the doctor nodded. 'Good thinking, Spenner.'
'Trouble is, the longer it keeps snowing the less chance we have of finding the rest of the body,' Lasser said, his face settling back into a frown.
When his phone started to ring, he pulled it from his pocket and tapped at the screen.
'Lasser, where are you?' Bannister demanded with his usual diplomacy.
'At the hospital, getting the low down on the head.'
'And?'
Lasser filled him in on what Shannon had discovered, at the end Bannister gave a huge sigh that sounded like a fart as it came through the speaker.
'Meadows just took a call from a woman reporting her son missing. Paul Lambert aged nineteen. His mother works long-haul flights out of Manchester, she arrived home late last night and when she checked her son's bedroom this morning she found it empty.'
'Getting close to Christmas, he could be partying,' Lasser offered.
'According to his mother he's not the partying type. It's over forty-eight hours since she spoke to the lad and he told her he was going for a walk in the snow. She lives in Aspull, number forty Heath Drive, you're the nearest and the weather is getting worse, so I want you over there to check this out.'
'Do we know the colour of Lambert's hair?'
Bannister sighed again. 'Yeah,' he paused, 'the lad's a carrot top.'
Lasser felt the dread close around his heart as the DCI ended the call.
18
Dorothy stood in the ramshackle conservatory looking at the familiar dent in the overstuffed chair, the padding poking through the holes in the arms, the leather cracked and perished.
Her husband's walking stick lay on the floor, along with a half-eaten digestive biscuit nestling amongst the mouse droppings.
With a grimace, she turned and stared into the room, her eyes looking around the familiar hated space, the furniture falling to pieces, the window frames rotten, snow piled up against the glass that rattled whenever the wind blew, the putty that held them in place had long since crumbled to dust.
Bending slowly, she lifted the walking stick, her face twisting with remembered pain as she slowly walked across the room to the foot of the stairs.
Pausing, she looked up into the gloom, her heart starting to beat faster as she thought of all the times Bernard had ordered her up to the bedroom with the warped floorboards and iron bed.
The fear trembled inside and yet she placed her booted foot on the first step, walking stick in her left hand as she grabbed the rail with her right. Slowly she started to climb, the familiar grinding of her hip making her groan in pain as she made her way up the stairs. The hospital had told her that she needed an operation, a replacement hip that would
give her a brand-new lease of life, the doctor had said.
When she had told her husband, he had shaken his head.
'No bloody way, I want you here, not in some bastard hospital getting waited on hand and foot.'
Over the course of the next twelve months, two letters had arrived from the hospital with appointments to see the specialist and Bernard had thrown them both on the fire with a snarl.
Reaching the landing, she hesitated in an effort to regain her breath, though there was nothing she could do about the jittering thump of her heart.
Her hand fumbled along the wall until she found the old-fashioned toggle switch, meagre light fell to the bare floorboards in a pitiful splodge. Licking her dry, cracked lips, she turned right and hobbled along the landing. When she passed the closed door to her left she shivered in disgust, managing to quicken her pace, her boots shuffling on the boards. Coming to the one on the right, she turned the handle and pushed it open, the faintest hint of the flower-scented room spray drifted out as she stepped into her bedroom before closing the door quietly behind her.
The bed was neatly made, the floor clean, she even had a pair of flowered curtains at the window and a small cupboard against the left-hand wall with a pink wicker chair placed in front.
This had been her haven for the past fifty years, the one place she could come to get away from her appalling existence. When they were first married they had shared a bedroom; after less than twelve months, Bernard had banished her to this room. By that time, Dorothy knew the regime, the times she had to have the meals on the table and the times she had to walk across the landing to service the animal who would be waiting in the bedroom dressed in women's clothing. She shivered at the image, the first time it had happened she had stood in the doorway struck dumb with shock as he stood there, his squat, wide frame crammed into a flowery, knee-length dress, heavy work boots still on his feet. What followed had left her feeling sick to the stomach and now she looked around her small neat bedroom, the tears once again sliding from her eyes. Every night before she climbed into bed she would kneel beneath the window and say her prayers. When she was younger her prayers would be for salvation, now she prayed for death.
Desolate Hearts Page 6