Desolate Hearts

by Robin Roughley

  'I can imagine,' she said, lighting two cigarettes and handing one over.

  Taking a pull, Lasser tilted his head and blew smoke towards a ceiling painted with intricate roses, the vines entwining with one another, colourful butterflies and birds hiding in the foliage. He thought about what Odette had told him – the possibility that Plymouth could be back in town wreaking havoc.

  As he had left the churchyard with Mia, he had looked over to where Craig Lanark stood by the cenotaph. It had been the first time he had seen the man and for the briefest of moments their eyes had locked, and then Lasser had turned away with Mia at his side.

  'What are you thinking?' Jackie asked.

  Lasser looked at her and sighed. 'Sorry, I was miles away.'

  'You have a lot on your mind at the moment, it's understandable.'

  The interior of the boat felt warm and snug, the log burner glowed, the heat suddenly making him feel bone weary. Sitting up straight, he shook himself from the stupor and took a drink from the cup.

  'Before I came here, I dropped Dorothy Marsh at the church in town.'

  'Sorry, Lasser, you've lost me?'

  Taking a deep breath, he gave her the briefest outline of how Dorothy had been forced to live, by the time he had finished, Jackie was looking at him in shock.

  'So, she's gone to the carol service?'

  'Yeah.'

  'The first time in decades?'

  Lasser nodded.

  She could see the distress in his eyes, he looked tired out and yet wired, his tie loosened, his shirt hanging out.

  'Plus, we've had a description of a man who was in the churchyard just before Mia discovered the head.'

  'That's the vicar, right?'

  'Mm.'

  'Well, the fact that you have a possible suspect is a good thing, isn't it?' she asked.

  Lasser sighed heavily.

  'Come on, what's the matter?'

  He looked at her, well aware that he should keep his mouth closed, yet his mind felt in turmoil, Dorothy Marsh and the two dead men taking centre stage. Paul Lambert, a kid who should have lived a long life, and Bernard Marsh, an old bastard who had lived longer than he deserved. But it was the thought of Plymouth that filled him with real dread.

  He began to talk, starting with Craig Lanark being attacked in the churchyard, once he started he found that he couldn't stop as he explained about Plymouth and the things he had done.

  Jackie listened, suddenly the temperature didn't feel warm at all and she pulled the woollen throw around her shoulders. 'He sounds like a nightmare,' she whispered.

  'Worse, the thing is, with Plymouth you know he's real and that he's out there, and you also know that people will die and there's bugger all you can do about it.'

  'But why would he target two people who are so different?'

  Lasser paused with the cup close to his lips. 'I have no idea but there will be a reason.'

  'You say he normally kills for money?'

  'Yeah, unless it's personal.'

  'Personal?'

  Lasser explained about Plymouth wiping out two local families, families who thought they were hard and untouchable until the white-haired killer proved them wrong.

  'The truth is, he's saved me from being killed more than once.'

  He saw her eyes widen at his words. 'Why would he do something like that?'

  Lasser shook his head, his face locked in confusion. 'I have no idea, last year I was shot and…'

  'Shot!?'

  'Yeah, and if Plymouth hadn't turned up then the gunman would have finished the job.'

  'So how did he save you?'

  'He shot the other guy in the head.'

  Jackie swallowed. 'That's what the scar is on your left shoulder?'

  'One of them yeah.'

  'And then he just vanished?'

  Lasser clicked his fingers. 'Just like that.'

  'And now he's back?'

  'It looks like it.'

  'Unless it's someone who looks like Plymouth.'

  'Believe me, he's not your average-looking guy.'

  They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, the whippet appeared from the bedroom, her tail wagging as she sat down in front of Lasser.

  'This Craig Lanark must have got close to be able to describe Plymouth in detail,' she said.

  Lasser patted the sofa and Poppet jumped up by his side. 'I guess so.'

  'I mean, it was snowing right?'

  'It never seems to stop at the moment.'

  'I don't understand why the two men didn't speak?'

  Lasser took another drag on the cigarette, the fingers of his left hand rubbing the dog's ear. 'Plymouth isn't the talkative sort, he normally keeps quiet unless he has something worthwhile to say.'

  'But someone had just attacked this Craig and yet neither of them commented on what had happened.'

  'Perhaps they were too far away from one another or Plymouth had already left by the time it happened, and then Mia turned up and…'

  'But if they were so far away how could he be so detailed about the description?'

  Lasser looked at her in uncertainty, the flames behind the glass door of the wood burner continued to flicker hypnotically.

  Jackie leaned forwards in her chair. 'You'd need good vision in normal conditions to tell the colour of someone's eyes, it would be a damn sight harder in this weather.'

  Lasser closed his own eyes and suddenly he was back in the churchyard, they had arrived roughly three minutes after receiving the call from Mia. Odette had parked on the High Street and Lasser had pulled in behind and then they had been out of the cars and running down the narrow ginnel that led to the churchyard.

  The attacker had been on the floor, his legs drawn up to his chest, the snow around him had been flattened. Odette had gasped as she saw Mia and the tall man by her side, they had been standing around fifteen feet from the church door where the head of Marsh hung in the hessian sack.

  'You OK?' Lasser had asked in confusion as Odette came to a halt, her eyes wide in shock.

  'Craig!?' her voice had been heavy with confusion.

  The man had smiled, and Lasser had realised that he was looking at the new man in Odette's life.

  Lasser had wiped the snow from his face, before walking over to Mia, while Odette took hold of Craig's arm and led him over to the right.

  The snow had been falling but not as heavily as it had been, then Lasser had looked around the churchyard, the ground from where he stood to the lychgate had been a smooth blanket of white, undisturbed by human traffic.

  Now, he opened his eyes to find Jackie looking at him with concern. 'Are you sure you're OK?'

  'Have you ever been to the parish church?' he asked.

  'Yes, I spent a couple of afternoons there last summer, the weather was lovely, so I sat on the grass and sketched the building, it's a peaceful place considering it's in the town centre.'

  Lasser nodded in agreement. 'The witness said that Plymouth was standing halfway along the path that led from the front of the church to the lychgate.'

  'Doing what?'

  'Just standing there looking at the sky. How long would you say the path is?'

  Jackie thought for a moment. 'Forty, maybe fifty feet or so.'

  'Sounds about right.'

  'What are you getting at?'

  Leaning forwards, he dropped the stump of the cigarette into the push-down ashtray, watching as it vanished into the metal receptacle. 'We arrived at the crime scene about three minutes after Mia found the head hanging from the door, yet the path from church to lychgate hadn't been disturbed, there were no footprints in the snow.'

  Jackie eased back, the throw still pulled around her shoulders, her face thoughtful. 'So, how could Plymouth have gone from the churchyard and left no footprints?'

  'I know the bastard can be light on his feet, but he isn't the second coming, that's for sure.'

  Jackie glanced at him, expecting to see the flicker of a sardonic grin on his face, but he l
ooked uneasy, his eyes cautious.

  'Perhaps the snow covered his tracks?' she suggested.

  Lasser shook his head. 'Like I said, it was snowing, but not hard enough to cover any tracks so quickly. In fact, not long after, I went to the vicarage with Mia to see if the church cameras had picked anything up and we walked down that path and there were no other footprints, no trails at all.'

  'Well, the only explanation that makes any sense is that the witness made it all up.'

  Lasser felt the weight of her words press down on him as he tried to fathom a practical reason for the possible deception.

  He conjured the image of Craig Lanark, standing near the cenotaph, his hands thrust into his pockets, the snow gathering on his thick hair, seemingly unconcerned with the weather, almost nonchalant.

  Deception. The word lodged in his brain and stuck there.

  'You say the description he gave of Plymouth was accurate?' Jackie asked quietly.

  Lasser found himself nodding as the sense of dread increased.

  'Well, it can only mean one thing…'

  'The witness knows Plymouth and for some reason he wants us to think that he's here in town and responsible for the killings,' Lasser said in a whisper.

  'It's the only thing that makes any kind of sense.'

  Lasser felt his shoulders sag.

  'Listen, Lasser, you can soon clear this up, just talk to the man and…'

  'The problem is that the witness is Odette's new boyfriend.'

  Jackie gasped at the news.

  Lasser sighed heavily as the pressure inside his head increased.

  40

  Placing her knife and fork on the empty plate, Odette sighed in satisfaction.

  'You were ready for that,' Craig said as he took a sip from the glass of red wine.

  'It was delicious,' she replied, picking up their plates and heading to the sink.

  'I'm surprised you managed to eat after what was found in the churchyard,' he commented, turning in his seat to watch her place the plates in the sink and turn on the tap.

  'Well, I dare say it's like when you were in the army, you get used to seeing bad things and you do your best just to get on with life.'

  Craig nodded in agreement. 'I guess you're right.'

  Adding a splash of washing-up liquid, she swished her hand in the water, turned off the tap and made her way back to the table before sitting down.

  'What do you think this Plymouth guy will do next?' he asked.

  'I have no idea, it all depends on the size of the list he's working to.'

  'You make him sound like Santa.'

  Raising an eyebrow, Odette lifted her glass and took a sip. 'Believe me, he never comes bearing gifts.'

  'I wonder what makes a man turn out that way?' Craig pondered, placing his elbows on the table.

  'I have no idea.'

  'Perhaps he does it just for the money.'

  'Maybe.'

  Inside Craig could feel the frustration start to build. 'Do you have any idea why he would target the men in the first place?'

  'Not yet, but we'll find out eventually.'

  'But what if he kills again?'

  Odette looked towards the window, snow fluttered in the darkness, buffeted by the wind. 'Like I said, we're doing all we can.'

  'But what do you actually know about the guy?'

  Odette glanced at him and then sighed. 'I'm sorry, Craig, but I'm not allowed to…'

  'Listen, Odette, I'm just trying to help. When I was in the army we always talked things through, it helps you to work things out in your head.'

  'I…'

  'I want our relationship to work and that means sharing the good as well as the bad and the longer you keep up your guard the harder it gets to let it down.'

  She looked at him and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

  'If you don't trust me then I can learn to live with that…'

  'It isn't about trust, it's about following the rules and regulations.'

  'Do you think the rest of your colleagues keep their mouths shut at home?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'What about Lasser and the woman he's living with?'

  Odette thought of Lasser, thought of the times he had discussed cases in front of other people, seemingly unconcerned about the no-talking rule.

  'Plymouth's a monster of a man,' she said in a quiet voice, the uncertainty still plucking at her conscience.

  Lifting the glass, he took another drink, praying that at last the floodgates would open.

  When she started to talk, he relaxed and almost sighed in relief as he took in every last detail that she revealed. His mind absorbing like a sponge, the fury inside building.

  'Result!' the voice inside bellowed in delight.

  41

  The man walked with hands in pockets, the hood pulled over his face, helping to keep the icy wind at bay, his footfalls sure and confident on the slippery surface. After parking the van away from the town centre, he had headed along Market Street, the snow on the ground illuminated by the colourful bulbs strung across the road from shop to shop.

  The weather seemed to be keeping people away from the pubs, although there were a few diehards dashing from one warm hostelry to another, braving the weather as they tried to get into the Christmas spirit.

  The wooden market stalls that lined the road to his right were closed for the night, heavy padlocks on the doors, one or two even had metal grills in place to deter any would-be thief from breaking in and stealing exotic cheeses.

  Stopping to light a cigarette, he blew out the smoke before continuing on his way, his boots trailing through the snow.

  The cigarette was half-smoked when the thought came to him, perhaps the town centre was quiet because of the murders he had committed? The possibility brought a smile to his face as he imagined people desperate to come out and celebrate the season, but their fear keeping them behind closed doors.

  Half an hour later, he was back in the van, more snow had gathered on the windscreen, but he left the heater on full, the wipers managing to shift it as he lit another cigarette.

  The need to find a fresh victim had, along with the dull throbbing inside his head, lessened as he had walked the town centre, besides, taking someone on the well-lit street would have been foolish to say the least. What he needed was somewhere quiet, somewhere without cameras and drinkers wandering from one watering hole to the next.

  Dragging off his gloves, he tossed them onto the dashboard before pulling away from the kerb, the wheels crunching through the snow, the wipers swishing slowly over the windscreen.

  Taking his time, he drove onto the ring road, sticking to the speed limit as the occasional taxi went flying past.

  Reaching the roundabout, he slowed to a stop, a slight frown on his face, right would take him back towards home, left would lead to his sister-in-law's fancy four-bedroomed house, no doubt exactly like the one his wife pictured herself in with his son.

  When he saw the headlights in the wing mirror, he indicated and turned left, the wheel felt light beneath his hands and he kept to second gear to be on the safe side.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up at the end of the street, some of the houses had garish lights in the gardens, complete with ''Stop Here, Santa'' placards.

  Others sported huge inflatable reindeers, with the occasional elf thrown into the mix.

  Sneering at the gaudiness, he turned the engine off and climbed from the van, his feet sinking in the fall of fresh snow. He set off down the street, head lowered, peering out from beneath the hood of his jacket, his eyes raking left and right.

  Some of the houses had the blinds drawn over the windows, most had two snow-smothered cars on the wide driveways.

  He counted half a dozen snowmen on the front gardens and felt the anger eat away at him as he thought of the one he had built with Sam, standing sentinel-like at the front of the empty cottage.

  His son should be with him, it was two days from Christmas and his wife ha
d decided to bring him here to this tacky hellhole, with the cheaply-built houses, the occupants pretending they were on the ladder to success, though he imagined the mortgage would be crippling, forcing them to work all the hours God sent just to keep up with their repayments.

  As he approached his sister-in-law's house, his anger mutated into fury.

  'Stuck-up bitch,' he mouthed the words as he squinted through the snow.

  When he saw the sleek black Jaguar pull up at the front of the house he slowed his pace, smoke trailed from the exhaust, the tail lights flashing. The front door of the house opened, and his wife appeared, dressed in a knee-length black dress he'd never seen before. He felt his heart lurch.

  Moving quickly to the left, he watched from the shadow of a huge privet hedge as she tottered down the drive, her hair – done just so – cascading down her bare shoulders, a black jacket draped over her left arm.

  The driver's door opened, the man snarled as he recognised her boss who leapt out and took her arm, leading her around the vehicle to the passenger door. When he kissed her on the cheek, the man almost broke cover, the fury spilling over, his hands closing into rock-hard fists as the pain lanced through his brain.

  'Cheap　fucking　tart!'　the interior voice roared.

  He caught a flash of leg as she slipped into the passenger seat, seconds later the car drove away.

  Spotting movement to his right, he turned to see his son waving from the front window of the house as the car vanished.

  When the security light came on behind him, the man spun away and stalked back the way he had come, his teeth grinding together, lips drawn back in a snarl of ferocious hatred.

  Back in the van, he lit a cigarette with a shaking hand, his heart thudding, sweat standing out on his feverish brow.

  His wife had talked about the ''big picture''. Now, he knew what she meant, her intentions at last became crystal clear. She would force him to sell the house and take half of the proceeds, then she would move in with her bastard boss and take Sam with her.

  He imagined a life where he never saw his son, his wife would throw every obstacle in his path, court orders would be issued preventing him from going anywhere near Sam. His son would gradually forget about him, forget that he had ever existed, his wife and her lover would see to that, and all the time she would be laughing at him, taking the piss as she screwed him into the ground.