Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  And in that moment Sam had a revelation.

  Today was a new dawn.

  He had not been killed. The attackers had murdered Claudette but they had left him alive and in doing so they had made a fatal error.

  Sam realised that rather than crying and feeling sorry for himself, he should harness the pain in his heart, embrace his incredible anger and set about pursuing the murderers himself unburdened by the constraints of the law.

  As his parents’ sole heir, he now had almost limitless resources at his disposal and all the time necessary to track down the six men who had so brutally tortured and killed Claudette.

  And when he found them he would kill them in return; make them suffer as she had. Indeed, he would mete out the justice that no court in the world would ever sanction.

  Sam hoped to find them quickly, but no matter how long it took, no matter the cost, he would find them and Claudette’s murder would be properly avenged.

  Presently, he had no idea how to go about this but as a rich man with boundless time on his hands he vowed to learn. He would make himself stronger, fitter - do whatever was needed in order satiate his wrath and exact his vengeance.

  All he needed was a place to start.

  ***

  By the time Grainy and Coyle arrived, Sam had already decided to tell them as little as possible, although it would not be difficult as the extent of what he knew amounted to not much at all.

  Nevertheless, in return he hoped to glean as much information about the perpetrators as he could; find out what leads the police had, if any, and use them to his own advantage.

  Sam knew it was a risky strategy and that by withholding details he would possibly delay bringing the perpetrators to justice. But he wanted his own brand of justice and if that meant having to play the long game then so be it.

  He was sitting up in bed, thanks to the assistance of a nurse, when the two policemen entered the room and introduced themselves.

  They began by saying how sorry they were for Sam’s loss and apologising for having to question him about such terrible matters but it was vital to their investigation.

  Sam said that he understood. “Anything I can do,” he insisted.

  Next, the lead detective, D.I. Jeff Grainy, a lanky, moustached man in his late thirties, asked if Sam could relate exactly what happened as best as he could remember.

  Sam began from the moment he met Claudette from the train, telling how the pair of them went straight from the station to the river where they had hired a punt.

  Even though he had lived the moment a thousand times since waking that morning, he still found it incredibly hard to describe what happened after that; about the picnic and his proposal and how they had been making love when they were set upon by a gang of thugs. But he did his best.

  However, Sam kept his description of the six men purposely vague saying that his vision had been impaired due to the severity of his injuries and when asked if he would recognise them again, he said that he was not sure. Yet in truth he could do it in a heartbeat. Every single one of them he would know instantly.

  As for Locke, the blonde haired man who had stabbed him in both arms and legs - the same sadistic monster who had actually killed Claudette - Sam could still see the blood lust in his eyes as clearly as if he was standing in front of him.

  But he kept all of this to himself.

  Nonetheless, with his voice trembling and tears pricking his eyes, Sam spoke about the multiple rape and eventual murder of his girlfriend. Aside from actually witnessing the harrowing ordeal, recalling it was the worst thing he had ever had to do in his life and again he had to suppress the volcanic anger boiling inside of him.

  When finally he had finished, Grainy and Coyle respectfully gave him a few moments to compose himself once more before continuing with their questions.

  “Did Claudette have any enemies that you know of?” Grainy asked.

  “No. Everyone loved her. She was probably the most popular person on campus,” Sam replied truthfully.

  “And yourself?”

  “Me? No, I don’t think so. At least none that I’m aware of - we mostly get on with everyone, I guess.”

  “You’re from a very wealthy background, Benedict—” Roper began before being interrupted.

  “Call me Sam, please. Benedict was my father and I am not him.”

  “Of course. I understand.” Nodded Coyle, before starting again. “Do you think your father’s wealth might have been a motive? Jealousy perhaps?”

  “I dunno, maybe,” conceded Sam. “But it’s Cambridge we’re talking about - there’s gotta be hundreds if not thousands of privileged kids here - and a good few make a lot more noise about it than me so I don’t really buy that theory but who knows - it’s possible, I guess.”

  “What about the race issue?” Grainy suggested. “The fact that you’re white and Claudette was black - could that have been a reason you think?”

  It was a reasonable enough question but it conjured up the dreadful image of Claudette hanging from the tree once more and Sam’s anger briefly got the better of him.

  “Well the bastards carved a swastika into my girlfriend’s chest didn’t they?” He snarled, “So, yeah, I reckon it’s a distinct possibility, don’t you?”

  “My apologies,” Grainy offered, “I’m just trying to get your take on things, that’s all. I mean no offence - I know everything is still extremely raw.”

  Sam was immediately acquiescent. “Please, no. It’s me who should be sorry, Detective Inspector. I know you’re only doing your job.”

  Grainy smiled his acceptance, not particularly comfortable with this aspect of his work but it was a necessary part of it. “I understand, sir. It’s not a problem. And we’re certainly exploring a racial motive for the attack.”

  “So that’s what it was then?”

  “It’s one possibility,” replied Grainy, “but yes, it seems very likely.”

  As his superior spoke, Roper reached into his pocket and pulled out a selection of mugshots.

  “We’ve some photos we’d like you to look at if you’re feeling up to it,” he said.

  “Sure. Who they of?” Sam asked.

  “Local skinheads mostly,” Grainy replied before Roper had a chance to respond. “All with known ties to various supremacist organisations.”

  Roper frowned at Grainy’s candour. Personally he would have held that back, but he was not in charge of the investigation.

  “Local you say?” Sam queried. “I’m surprised. Cambridge is not somewhere I would expect to find skinheads.”

  “And you’d be right in the most part,” agreed Grainy, “but there are undesirable elements in all parts of our society and Cambridge, I’m afraid, is no exception.”

  “So, they’re suspects then?” Sam wanted to know.

  “Just people of interest at the moment,” Roper said, trying to keep it vague. “A line of enquiry, nothing more.” As he spoke, he slid the wheeled table over from Sam’s bedside and positioned it in front of him then placed the twelve photographs down upon it in two neat lines.

  “Any of them look familiar?” Grainy continued.

  As Sam studied the shots, his eyes were immediately drawn to the photograph of a man on the bottom row. Indeed, his face was unmistakable. When last seen, the man was grunting like a pig and rutting Claudette from behind.

  Sam felt his gorge rise and for a moment he thought he might vomit as the image of it flashed bright in his mind, but he fought the urge and determinedly kept his gaze impassive.

  Yet Coyle thought he caught a glimmer of something. “You’ve seen one of them before?” He asked.

  “No.” Said Sam, his tone emphatic but his denial a little too swift.”

  “You sure, Sam?” Coyle pressed, “It looked like you might have recognised someone for a second.”

>   Sam silently berated himself for his lack of subtlety and made a show of studying the photos again. Purposely taking his time but again maintaining an inscrutable expression. “No. I don’t think so, I’m sorry,” he said at last.

  Coyle was still not wholly convinced as he gathered up the photographs and put them back in his pocket.

  “Very well,” Grainy said, the disappointment in his voice clear to hear. “Then we’ll leave you to get some rest.”

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t have been more help,” said Sam, feeling guilty for purposely misleading the detectives yet pleased that he had successfully recognised one of the attackers. Satisfied, too, with the knowledge that the man was local to Cambridge. He now had a place to begin his own search - starting with known skinhead hangouts in the area.

  “Not at all,” said Grainy. “You’ve been more than helpful. Thank you.” In truth, however, the Detective Inspector was wondering where his investigation could go from there. He had no leads, no witnesses and any suspects he thought he might have had just been eliminated from the enquiry.

  His case was as good as dead.

  As Grainy made for the door, Coyle paused for a moment and turned back to look at Sam, almost as an afterthought. “Do the words ‘hare, bulldog, finch’ mean anything to you by any chance?” He asked, carefully watching for a reaction.

  Grainy raised his eyes skywards, clearly exasperated by his young sergeant’s question. He had always assumed those words to be the confused ramblings of delirium, if, indeed, they had been spoken at all. But regardless, he was certain they had no bearing on the case.

  “I’m sorry, sir—” He began but Coyle cut him off.

  “Please Sam, if you wouldn’t mind just answering the question?”

  Again, images flashed up in Sam’s mind of that dreadful afternoon in the glade when he had tried to focus on the things that might help bring Claudette’s murderers to justice. The very same things he had fixated on in the early hours of that morning when he made the oath to himself to find her killers.

  Hare - The skinhead rapist with the harelip whom Sam had just recognised in one of the police photographs.

  Bulldog - The other skinhead with the bulldog tattoo who had taken such disgusting pleasure from Claudette’s suffering as he brutally violated her.

  And Finch - The man Sam knew as ‘Finchy’. The sadistic thug who had so cheerfully carved the swastika across Claudette’s breasts.

  These were the three men to whom Coyle was referring - even though he did not yet know the significance of his question or that the words actually identified the killers themselves.

  But there were also three others whom the detective did not have any such leads on as Sam had not mentioned these in his delirium. However, they were no less despicable and no less guilty.

  And he would recognise them anywhere.

  There was the swarthy man with a gold tooth and a scar shaped like a crescent moon on his cheek who had raped Claudette anally.

  There was also the one whom Sam now thought of as ‘The Albino’ due to his white skin and pale grey eyes. He had held Claudette tightly by the ears as he rammed himself savagely down her throat.

  And finally there was the blonde leader of the bunch whom Finchy had referred to as ‘Locke’. He had been the one to actually kill Claudette and the child growing inside her by thrusting his knife deeply into her belly.

  But Sam made no mention of any of them and instead kept his expression stony. “No. Sorry,” he said.

  “Hare, bulldog, finch - you’re absolutely sure those words mean nothing to you?” Roper pressed.

  “The man’s given you his answer, Sergeant. Now let’s leave him be,” said Grainy.

  “But Guv—“ Coyle protested.

  “Please, it’s alright,” said Sam, looking directly at Coyle. “I appreciate how much the case obviously means to you. Really I do. But no, those words mean nothing to me. I’m sorry.”

  Roper’s eyes met Sam’s as he searched for more; every instinct telling him that there surely was. All he could see, however, was a veil of emptiness which he sensed was hiding a deep well of emotion.

  Yet he could press no more.

  But, as he and Grainy finally said goodbye and went on their way, Roper was convinced that Sam knew much more than he was letting on.

  The question was, how could he prove it?

  Chapter Seven

  It was seven days before Sam was strong enough get out of bed unaided; his body slowly recovering from its seriously weakened state.

  What is more, his blonde hair had not been cut in over three months and was now so long that it hung to his shoulders. His beard had also grown into a thick bush which covered the lower portion of his gaunt face.

  Miriam was not an experienced hairdresser by any means but on occasion, growing up, she had cut her father’s and brother’s hair so had offered to do the same for Sam, thinking a tidy up might make him feel better.

  He had agreed. So, on his first foray out of bed, he sat in the padded P.V.C. armchair that was supplied for visitors and let Miriam have a go at his messy straggle of locks.

  Firstly, she lay a towel around his bare shoulders, noticing, not for the first time, just how skinny he had become; the vertebrae of his backbone sticking out like knuckles and his collar-bones and shoulder blades sharply defined.

  As he set his thin arms down on the armrests of the chair, the livid scars left by the stab wounds looked pink and shiny and again Miriam considered just how lucky he had been not to die from his appalling injuries.

  “Now, Monsieur,” she said playfully, her soft French accent sweetly appealing as she snipped her scissors with intent, mimicking the actions of a professional hairdresser. “What is it that I can do for you today - a perm maybe, perhaps a shampoo and set?”

  Sam smiled at her through the long strands of his fringe which was dangling down over his blue eyes as he regarded her.

  She was slim and pretty with long dark hair and big green eyes. Her figure was similar to that of a fashion model’s - small breasts, narrow waist and long legs that seemed to go on forever. Like many Parisians, she was also effortlessly chic, even standing there in torn Levis, Rolling Stones T-shirt and battered Chuck Taylor’s she somehow managed to look incredibly stylish, although there was little vanity involved as it all just seemed to come naturally.

  “Reckon I’ll just stick with a short back and sides - maybe go for the perm next time if that’s okay,” he joked.

  Miriam giggled. It felt good to see Sam smile again, better still to hear him make a joke but as she stared into his slender face, she could see no joy in his eyes and they remained tragically void of the mischievous glint that had once shone so brightly within them.

  But a joke was progress and she was ever hopeful that one day she would see the sparkle return, too.

  “Very well, if you insist. Short back and sides it is then,” she replied before setting to work with her scissors and comb. “Think I’ll tidy that beard up, too, whilst I’m at it.”

  “Fine. Whatever you like,” replied Sam. “I’ll leave it up to you - just keep away from the perming solution and hair dye and I’ll be happy.”

  Miriam slapped him lightly on the head with her comb to admonish him. “Spoil sport,” she said.

  There was silence between them for a few minutes as she began snipping away, trying her best not to make any obvious mistakes as an ever-growing pile of hair appeared on the floor around the chair.

  Sam thought how cute she looked as she leaned her face close to his, her tongue sticking out between her lips as she focussed her concentration on his long fringe.

  Painstakingly, she sliced her way slowly across it, the long blonde strands gradually falling away as each one was cropped, to reveal Sam smiling at her once more.

  “What are you grinning at?” She asked.
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br />   “Nothing. Just all the concentration, that’s all,” he replied.

  “You’d rather I make a mess of it?” She asked, “So you leave the hospital looking like the dinner of a dog?”

  “You mean, ‘like a dog’s dinner,’” he replied, his smile now even wider. “And no, I wouldn’t. It’s just that you looked so serious for a moment, Miri, I’m not used to it.”

  “Dogs dinner, dinner of a dog - mon dieu, what’s the difference?”

  “Nothing,” Sam replied with defeat. “You’re doing a great job - really.”

  “Good,” said Miriam with a twinkle in her eye, “I’m glad you appreciate it.”

  Again there was silence between them as she finished off his haircut.

  “So the doctor says you’ll need to be here for another week of tests before you can be discharged?” She enquired as she set about trimming his beard.

  “So he says,” replied Sam, trying hard not to move his lips for fear of Miriam trimming them off.

  “And after that - back to university to continue with your degree?” She asked.

  Sam knew that either she or Vasily would ask that question soon enough and he had been dreading it for fear of them not liking his answer.

  But the fact remained that he would not be returning to university.

  Indeed, to continue with his studies now seemed utterly futile as his time would be better spent in pursuit of Claudette’s killers.

  However, with such little information to go on, Sam was painfully aware that this could conceivably take months or even years and staying on at Cambridge to finish his degree would only delay things further, which was not something he was prepared to consider.

  As it was, he was still going to have to wait an excruciatingly long time before he could make a start due to the necessary period of convalescence required to properly recover from his injuries.

  Initially, after emerging from coma, he had been eager to get out of hospital as soon as possible to set about finding the bastards who had killed Claudette - beginning with the harelipped skinhead whose photograph Coyle had shown him.