by Edwin Dasso
His shaking fingers connected with the keys, as he fumbled through them, all the while weaving from side to side as another missile came straight for him. He located what he thought was the correct key, rammed it into the lock and with only a brief glance behind him, opened the door and ran out, his footsteps echoing down the passageway and into the distance.
Helen was left staring at the empty doorway, her mouth open, not sure she could believe he had gone. She kicked her way through the debris, stumbling on a piece of broken glass, and sank down on the couch. Her legs had turned to jelly, her whole body was quivering, the sweat pouring off her, every nerve ending was screaming. She could feel her skin, the nerves, the muscles twitching. And still she clutched the rolling pin, her fingers refused to let go of it, it was her comfort blanket. She put her head down and wept.
She had no idea how long she sat there, sobs wracked her body, then she slid down on the floor in a heap and curled up in a foetal position, her arms hugging her legs.
Sometime later, a blast of cold air from the open front door brought her back to the present and she dragged herself to her feet and went to look for her mobile.
It was still on the kitchen floor and holding on to the counter with one hand, Helen pressed 999 with the other.
“What is your emergency?”
“I’m injured.” She choked up. “That murderer broke in, threatened me and my babies. Please come help me,” Helen blurted. As requested, she gave them her name and address and dropped the phone on the floor. She stared at the cupboard where she kept her bottles of alcohol, but resisted the temptation and then stumbled back into the lounge.
She sat in a stupor, unaware of the passing of time and she had no idea how long it was before there was a knock on the door, which flew open and two police officers walked in.
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Roberts and this is Detective Constable Rachel Brown.” He showed Helen his warrant card.
The moment she saw them Helen broke down again, sobbing, gasping, shuddering as she attempted to tell her story.
Rachel Brown announced she would make Helen a cup of tea if that was okay?
Helen nodded and watched Roberts take out his notebook and pen. “Tell me what happened. Start at the beginning if you can and take it slowly. Try and remember as many details as you can. There’s no rush.”
Helen’s account of events wasn’t too coherent, she kept remembering more details and going back and forwards as she described Andy and his actions. Yes, he was the man in the identikit and no, she had no idea why she was still alive. He had tried to kill her, locked her in her bedroom, but she escaped and fought him off.
Her narrative was interrupted by the arrival of two paramedics, carrying bags, who insisted on checking her out. The younger one who said her name was Mary, insisted on wrapping a space blanket around Helen, ‘to mitigate the shock’ she said.
Helen attempted to get up. “The twins, the twins. I never thought to check!” she shrieked, startling them all.
Roberts put out a hand to stop her flinging herself off the sofa. She tried to fight him off, straining to cross the lounge, but DC Rachel put her arm firmly around Helen’s shoulder and held her back.
“Calm down. I’m sure they’re fine, but let the paramedics check them out first. Relax.”
Roberts nodded to the ambulance personnel and the older one peeped inside Helen’s bedroom, came out, and shook his head. He walked past the hatchway to the kitchen and opened the door to the children’s room and went inside. He appeared briefly in the doorway and beckoned to his colleague who joined him and closed the door behind them. They were gone for several minutes and Rachel kept her eyes fixed on the door.
“Why, why are they taking so long, what are they doing in there?”
“I’m sure they’re just checking the children are fine. Twins you said? Boys or girls?”
“One of each.” Helen’s voice sounded as if it was calling down a long dark tunnel. She had no idea if she was shouting or whispering. She was floating in a big white cloud, unable to see or hear; the world was indistinct, she was not sitting here on her couch but hovering several feet above it.
“Sir, I think she’s going into shock,” whispered the police woman.
At that moment, the elder paramedic came back into the lounge and indicated to the DCI he should come take a look.
Only vaguely aware of his actions Helen tried to stand, and again Rachel fought to keep her on the sofa, pulling the silver aluminium wrap around her. The poor woman was still shaking and her hands felt as cold as ice.
When DCI Roberts walked back into the lounge, he looked shaken, and his face was white. He pulled up a chair opposite Helen and leaned towards her. He glanced down at his notes.
“Mrs Flemming, may I call you Helen?”
She made no response.
“Helen, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your children, they…” He paused, swallowed and added, “they, they are at peace now…” His words trailed away. How did you tell a mother, already distraught, that her young babies had been butchered? Their delicate necks sliced through, their bodies decapitated and left lying in pools of blood, now congealed, never to wake again.
Helen did not react for several minutes. She sat like a church gargoyle and then she let out a shriek that echoed around the room and out through the open door.
DCI Roberts made a call on his mobile, while Rachel did her best to comfort Helen who continued to howl, with her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. She swayed back and forward, her feet tapping rhythmically on the floor.
The sound of footsteps outside made them all look up as Mrs Harris appeared in the doorway, closely followed by Bert, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“What’s going on? What’s happened? Helen?”
Roberts sprang to his feet and ushered them back outside. “Please don’t come in, your presence will compromise the crime scene.”
Vera Harris hovered in the doorway. “Crime? What crime? Tell us what happened? What is it?”
“My babies,” wailed Helen.
Vera’s hands flew to her face. “No, don’t tell me, no!”
“Mrs, your name?” Roberts held out his hand ready to prevent the elderly lady from running into the apartment.
“It’s Vera. Vera Harris and we live just along here.” She pointed along the passageway. “I know Helen, I babysit.”
“Flat number?” The DCI noted her name and scribbled her reply next to it. “We will need to speak to you later.”
“Anything, anything Bert or I can do to help.” Tears were beginning to stream down her wrinkled cheeks. “Only last night I was babysitting while Helen was out.”
“Oh!” The officer looked startled.
Before Vera could reply, three men and a woman wearing white jump suits and carrying large, thick black plastic bags arrived at the door of the apartment. They brushed the couple aside gently and, responding to a nod from Roberts, made their way into the children’s bedroom which was now bathed in light.
Behind the crowd at the front door, Rachel Brown noted early light spilling across the sky as the first rays from the sun threw beams that banished the darkness. She looked over to her boss.
“Maybe Mrs Flemming could stay with the neighbours for a while?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Yes, but we’ll need her down at the station later this morning.”
“Is it all right if I stay with her?” Rachel asked.
“Yes, of course. I need to phone this in and file an initial report.”
The policewoman helped Helen to her feet and, with Vera holding her other arm, walked her the five doors down to the Harris’ apartment. There they settled the grieving mother in the middle of the sofa and Bert fussed around the cocktail cabinet and poured her a large brandy.
“Bert,” hissed Vera. “She drinks vodka.”
He paused, mumbled sorry and, taking another glass, filled it with a generous measure of vodka. The brandy, he s
ipped.
“You’re not allowed drink on duty are you dear?” Mrs Harris tapped Rachel on the shoulder.
“No, no thanks, but a cup of tea would be lovely.”
“Putting the kettle on right now. I bet you’re a bit shaken up as well my dear.” Vera toddled off into the kitchen.
They sat there in silence. Vera was bursting with questions but one look at Helen’s condition and she wisely decided to say nothing. Instead she fussed over making the tea, putting her best lace doily on the tray, opening a packet of biscuits and, having sorted the refreshments, sat close to Helen holding her hand.
The peace was interrupted by a frantic hammering on the door. Bert was closest and flung it open to allow Graham to enter. He rushed over and knelt down in front of Helen.
“God, what’s happened. They told me you’d been attacked and the twins are…”
Helen looked up at him and nodded.
“I told you to be careful. I told you there was a madman around. Why! Why did you let him in?”
“I didn’t,” she screeched at him. “He had a key. He let himself in.”
Graham turned white. “Had a key?” he repeated after a few moments.
“Yes, and he knew my name too! How, how did he know that?”
“Maybe he’s been stalking you.” Vera Harris said softly.
“Say that again!” Graham reached out and grabbed Helen’s hand. “He had a key? A key to your apartment?”
12
Helen walked her fingers up and down the steel table in the interview room. She had no idea what drugs the doctor had given her, but they made her numb. She’d done her best to refuse them. She wanted to keep her mind sharp, but the medics in the hospital where they’d treated her for shock, had been quite insistent.
How long was it now since? A day, two days? She’d spent at least one night maybe more in Mrs Harris’ spare room, the one their son had occupied before he went off to join the army. She’d lain there in a stupor surrounded by cyberpunk posters, old Dandy annuals and pictures plastered all over the walls depicting players in the blue and white kit of Chelsea Football Club.
They had told Helen she could go back to her apartment tonight. They had all the evidence they needed and someone had even arranged for one of those specialised cleaning companies to come in and remove any further distressing remains.
She knew she would have to plan a funeral some time, but there were the formalities of the autopsy, and apparently there was a backlog at the mortuary.
Now they insisted they talk to her at the police station. DCI Roberts and DC Rachel Brown entered and took seats opposite her. She remembered them being there that awful, awful night.
“Has anyone offered you tea?”
“Yes, but no thanks.”
Roberts shuffled through the papers in the file he opened on the table. “We think we might be in luck. CCTV cameras on the corner of your block captured these images at the time you think this ‘Andy’ arrived.”
Helen reached over and twisted the photograph around to look at it. “That’s him!” she hissed. “He’s the one. He broke in and murdered my babies. It’s him.”
“We understand you said earlier that the intruder had a key? He didn’t break in?”
Helen stared at him before saying, “I meant, I mean, not literally.”
“I understand.” Roberts cut her off. “Now I know you have already given us your initial statement, but we’d like to go over it with you just one more time if that would be alright with you?”
Helen nodded.
“Let’s start with Vera Harris. Is she your usual babysitter?”
“Yes.”
“And she was babysitting for you the night of the tragedy?”
“Yes. But you don’t think—”
“We don’t presume anything Mrs Flemming. We are here to find the truth.”
Two rooms away Vera Harris was sobbing as they continued to harangue her incessantly. They asked her the same questions over and over again. Bert had muttered about getting a lawyer, but people like them couldn’t afford one and, from what they saw on the telly, the ones they gave you for free were worse than useless. No, all she had to do was tell the truth. But she suspected they didn’t believe her.
Was she sure she didn’t creep in and check they were sleeping? Was she certain the children were still alive when she left at half past ten? No, but they must have been asleep, although she didn’t hear them cry or get up to go to the bathroom. She was as distraught as their mother. She’d loved those kids. Yes, she had a key to Helen’s apartment. No, she did not give it to anyone and nor had she lost it at any time. She weighed up whether to tell them of her psychic warnings and quick visit in the middle of the night, and opening the door to see someone, she thought was Graham, Helen’s brother, sleeping on the couch. She was afraid they would laugh at her and, when she’d checked, everything had been fine.
At the beginning of the hours’ long interview the police had been kind and friendly but now they were beginning to sound frustrated, their voices getting louder and louder. Yes, she had the means, the children had been killed with one of the knives from the block in the kitchen. She certainly had the opportunity, but absolutely no motive. Her prints were on the knife she had cut the cake with, Helen had insisted. She’d not used it to kill the children. She loved those twins as if they were her own. Having only had the one son and, so far, no grandchildren and unlikely to as he was gay, Jason and Joanna were surrogate children or, more closely, grandchildren.
Vera, helped by Bert, stumbled down the steps from the police station into the street. She was exhausted, traumatised and couldn’t stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. To think that anyone would consider her killing anything larger than a fly was beyond her. She wrapped her coat tightly around her plump figure and allowed Bert to steer her towards the bus stop.
Monica was also hauled in for questioning. Yes, she had known Helen for years, even before she married and had the twins. She knew Helen had recently met someone and was very keen on him. She hoped it would work out, as the twins could be a handful and run Helen ragged on occasions. Jason especially needed a man in his life. As far as she knew, she was Helen’s only close friend, and they played tennis every Saturday morning. She’d cancelled the court the morning after the tragedy; the Tennis Club were red hot about that sort of thing and went ape if you didn’t show up for any reason. Yes, Helen was an orphan and had only one brother Graham, they had been orphaned when—
The interview was interrupted by loud screams from outside in the corridor. Roberts jumped to his feet and threw open the door. Helen was screaming and yelling.
“It’s him! He’s the one! He’s the killer! He murdered my precious babies!”
Roberts looked to see where she was pointing. A young constable was escorting Graham and Andy, but all were frozen staring at Helen. She lunged towards Andy, and the DCI stepped in to keep them apart.
“It’s not true Helen,” Graham shouted at her. “He didn’t do anything.”
“That’s what you think,” Helen spat back. “You weren’t there. He didn’t lock you in your bedroom, threaten you with a knife, tell you he was going to kill you. It’s him! He’s the murderer.”
It took several members of the police to restore order as Helen, Graham and Andy were kept apart and shown into separate interview rooms.
13
DCI Roberts sighed. So far there was little forensic evidence to go on, and he wasn’t sure who to believe. He’d finish with Monica and then talk to Graham. He ordered that both men be restrained and, once order had been restored, returned to question Helen’s friend.
He noted down the order of events, her belief that Vera Harris often babysat, had done so since Helen had brought the twins back from the hospital and suffered deep depression for months after the birth. It had taken her months to persuade Helen to start living again. She helped her find a job, to play tennis on a Saturday morning, and then encouraged her to start dating
again. She was still young, and it was time to rebuild her life.
Yes, it was a lot of hard work, but that’s what friends do. And yes, Helen had met someone, through an online site. But it couldn’t have been him, as he had flown out to Hong Kong on the night of the murder. And no, she couldn’t prove that.
A few hours after Vera left the station, Monica was released and, they also warned her not to leave the area.
He dragged his head off his arms resting on the steel table bolted to the floor as they walked in and sat down and switched on the recorder.
“Detective Chief Inspector Roberts and Detective Constable Brown entered at ten-thirty on Thursday the fifth of February, interview with… would you state your full name for the tape please?”
“Graham John Trueworth.”
“Let’s start with the night in question.”
“No,” he almost shouted.
Both interviewers looked startled. “And where would you like to start then?”
“Look, I’m an actor, right? Came top in my class at RADA but do you know how hard it is to get a job?”
Rachel was about to interrupt him but Roberts motioned for her to remain silent. If a witness wanted to talk that was fine with him. Often they tripped up, said more than they should and dug a hole for themselves.
Graham paused. “Then I had this amazing break. I met Edward Bean at a party, you can check if you like. He’s well known in the area. He wants me to put on a play in the theatre he’s just acquired, the old Odeon on West Street.”
Roberts nodded. “I know it.”
“I, uh, told him I had a play ready to go, but he wanted something that’s popular right now, a psychological thriller, and I had this brilliant idea of writing one based on this lunatic who is going around murdering all these women and children.”
He paused, put his hands over his face as Roberts sat in silence waiting for him to continue.