The Ladykiller

by Martina Cole

  Kate grinned again. Her mother was not happy unless she was looking after someone. Over the last sixteen years, Kate did not know what she would have done without her.

  Going up to the bathroom a little while later, she lay in the steaming and fragrant water. She had been working for sixteen hours non-stop. She had seen a woman practically dismembered on a mortuary slab, had set up an incident room, and had organised over thirty policemen and women for the door to door inquiry. She had at her fingertips information about anyone and everyone.

  Yet her mother still made her feel like a child. And after a day like this, it felt good.

  George lay in bed with Elaine. He listened to her deep snores and smiled into the darkness. Every time he thought of Geraldine O’Leary he felt great.

  Once more he replayed in his mind what he had done. He took himself through the act step by step, congratulating himself on his cleverness.

  Then he frowned.

  Into his mind’s eye came pictures of his mother. He wiped his hand across his face in the darkness as if that would erase them. He saw his mother as she had been when he was a child. Her bright red hair, naturally red not dyed like Elaine’s, was shining in the sunlight. Her sea green eyes were sparkling mischievously, and George could see himself smiling back at her. He could see the room: the cast-iron fireplace with the dried flowers in the hearth, the Victorian prints on the flock wallpaper and the black leather Chesterfield. He could also see the pipe and the bag and the china bowl.

  George tried to shut out the images but they were too strong. He lay in bed and watched.

  ‘Come to Mummy, Georgie boy.’ Her voice was a caress. She held out her arms to the little boy in front of her. In the distance Georgie could hear the sounds of the anti-aircraft fire. He stood silently in front of her.

  She spoke again, her voice harder this time.

  ‘I said, come to Mummy, Georgie.’

  The little boy looked at the doorway and his mother laughed.

  ‘Come in, kids!’ Her voice was loud.

  George looked at the doorway with frightened eyes. He watched his elder sister and brother come into the room.

  ‘Lie on the floor, Georgie boy.’

  The child shook his head and began to edge his way backwards. He watched his mother’s red-lipsticked mouth twist into an ugly shape.

  ‘Don’t annoy Mummy, Georgie. Just lie on the floor.’

  The child watched the others make a semicircle around him. His elder brother Joseph was so close he could smell the odour of bull’s eyes coming from him.

  He closed his eyes at the inevitable. She had already given them the sweets. They would want this over with as quickly as possible. He felt the familiar sensation of ice water in his bowels as the older children pulled him to the ground. He felt a surge of hatred for his mother as his shorts and underpants were pulled off. He felt the contained violence from the others as they held him, face down on the floor.

  He began to cry. Slowly at first, then violently, painfully, as his mother began pushing the rubber piping into his rectum. He tried to fight but it was useless. He felt the warmth of the soapy water hitting his bowels and then he felt the sick, wrenching feeling as they emptied. He winced as she ripped the rubber tubing from inside him. Then it was all over.

  He lay on the floor looking up into his mother’s smiling face. The sweat was standing out on his forehead, and he felt the waves of nausea washing over him.

  Then he saw his mother’s heavily made-up face approaching his own, felt the coolness of her lips as they sucked at his mouth.

  ‘That feels better, doesn’t it, Georgie boy?’

  Lying on the floor of the parlour, weak and sick, he nodded at her. Fighting back the words.

  Then his mother picked him up in her arms tenderly and took him to his bed. He felt the coolness of the sheets that smelt of Lux soap flakes and then the red pain in his behind.

  He saw her smile again.

  ‘You’re Mummy’s little soldier, what are you?’

  The child watched her through tear-filled lashes and sighed, sending a shudder through his thin little body.

  ‘I’m Mummy’s little soldier.’

  Then he was pulled up from the bed and held against her ample bosom while she rained kisses all over his face and neck.

  George watched it all as if it was a film. He closed his eyes to shut out the sight. But his mother just would not go away.

  She never went away.

  It was Saturday and George was alone in the house. After carefully washing up the breakfast things and putting them away, he made himself a pot of tea. While it brewed on the kitchen table he walked down the garden to his shed and brought back his scrapbooks.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, he settled himself down and opened the first book. He felt the anticipation course through his veins as he looked at the familiar pictures and smiled.

  Soon he would have his own album of death with pictures of his victims instead of Peter Sutcliffe’s. He had already started it.

  George took a sip of his tea and began to read, though he knew the words off by heart. After a while he glanced at his watch. It was nearly lunchtime. He had hours yet until Elaine came home from work. He decided to watch his video. He clenched his fists tightly with sheer elation at his good luck.

  No Elaine. No noise. No company.

  Putting the scrapbooks back in the shed, he locked up the house, closed the front-room curtains, unplugged the phone and put on his new film.

  As the pictures flickered before him, George finally relaxed.

  The girl on the video looked just like Geraldine O’Leary and the most violent of the men looked just like him.

  This was what they wanted. This was what they all wanted. Walking around, covered in make-up and perfume. Even the very young girls. He knew all about them.

  In his agitation George started to blink rapidly.

  He had seen films of school girls. The real life ones were as bad. Learning to be sluts, every last one of them. Oh, he had watched them, walking to school. He began to nod his head. Bare-legged, some of them. With bouncing bosoms, emphasised by their school uniforms. Oh, he knew all about women. Dying for it, the majority of them. Just dying for it. Well, he would show a few of them before he was much older. Oh, yes. He would show them.

  The girl on the television screen was dead.

  George cleared his mind. This was the best bit.

  He smiled.

  Detective Sergeant Amanda Dawkins brought Kate a cup of coffee.

  ‘Thanks. I could do with this.’

  The other woman smiled. ‘You look beat.’

  Kate nodded. ‘I feel terrible. I didn’t have a very good night and today isn’t much better.’

  Amanda sat down opposite her.

  ‘Well, we’re gradually collating all the door-to-door info. The thing with this type of inquiry is that everyone with a grudge against their neighbour tries to implicate them.’

  ‘I know. The thing is that for every five hundred screwball accusations, there are normally one or two that are worth following up.’

  ‘Drink your coffee, ma’am. Before it gets cold.’

  She grinned.

  ‘Call me Kate. I only threw my weight around yesterday because I am getting heartsick of this lot.’

  She waved her arm in the direction of the male CID staff.

  ‘Bloody load of know-alls they are. Well, I’m going to make myself felt and heard from now on. I tried the friendly, tactful approach and it didn’t work.’

  Amanda grinned, showing crooked white teeth.

  ‘This lot have never had a woman in charge of them before. It’s galling for them, to say the least.’

  Kate sipped her coffee.

  ‘Shall I tell you something, Amanda?’

  The girl nodded, a slight frown on her face at the other’s tone of voice.

  ‘I don’t give a toss what they think. If they give me any more hag, they’re off the case. I would appreci
ate it if you would be so kind as to set the rumour flying. Know what I mean?’

  Amanda giggled.

  ‘I know exactly what you mean, ma’am.’

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Sorry, Kate.’

  ‘That’s better. Now then, let’s get this show on the road because I have a feeling that this murder was only for starters. Whoever did it is getting ready for the main performance, and I want to find him before he does any more harm.’

  Kate’s serious intention communicated itself to the younger woman. Amanda nodded at her boss, glad that she was going to be working with her and not one of the male officers.

  DS Spencer was watching the two women. He sighed. Nudging his friend DS Willis, he poked his head in their direction, a frown on his ruddy face.

  ‘Looks like the Dolly Sisters are getting better acquainted.’ His voice was disgusted.

  Willis shook his head in exasperation.

  ‘Oh, give it a rest, for Christ’s sake. She’s in charge and that’s that. Let’s just put all our combined experience together and find the bloody nutter who’s on the loose.’

  Spencer’s face closed up.

  ‘Oh, yeah, of course. I suppose your experience with shoplifters and vandals will be invaluable, won’t it?’

  Willis coloured slightly. He had not been a DS for long and this was his first big case. No one else had mentioned this fact except Spencer. But what more could he expect from the man? He was the most ignorant, bigoted and self-opinionated officer in the whole of the division.

  ‘Well, thanks for the little reminder, Spencer. All this new empathy policing should be just up your street, I reckon. Since we’re obviously looking for a complete and utter pratt, we can all just follow your line of thinking, can’t we?’

  Spencer looked as if he had been slapped across the face. ‘You cheeky little bastard!’

  Willis grinned. ‘And you’re a miserable old bastard. Know your trouble, Spencer? You never got further than DS, did you? Well, if you listened to yourself sometimes, you might find out why.’

  Willis walked away, leaving Spencer open-mouthed with astonishment and rage. But against his will a phrase sprung to mind which he could not ignore: The truth hurts.

  How many times had he said that to other people?

  Too many.

  He forced his mind back to the case, looking at the blown-up photograph of Geraldine O’Leary on the wall.

  It was one of the pictures taken in the morgue. Her greying face with the splintered nose was pinned up beside another smaller photograph taken a few months previously by her husband. In it Geraldine was laughing, her eyes crinkled at the corners. She looked what she was: a beautiful young wife.

  Spencer shrugged. Willis was right about one thing. The man who murdered her had to be caught, and fast. Before he struck again.

  Chapter Four

  1948

  The two small boys walked fast. Driving rain was pelting into their faces. The smaller of the two had red-rimmed eyes and had obviously been crying. A large clap of thunder boomed overhead, followed by a flash of lightning that lit up the sky.

  ‘Come on, George, for Christ’s sake.’ The bigger boy began to drag his brother along by his coat sleeve. As they turned into a small cul-de-sac George tried to pull away.

  ‘I’m not going in there. I mean it.’

  Joseph sighed loudly and faced his brother. He did not like the job he had been given. In his heart of hearts he couldn’t blame Georgie for running off, but their mother’s word was law. He looked into the terrified little face before him.

  ‘Look, Georgie, the sooner you get in there, the sooner it will be over. Now come on.’

  He resumed dragging him along the pavement until they came to the house they both lived in. In the dark stormy light it looked sinister. The brickwork was stained black and the front door, even with its polished brass knocker, looked dingy. Joseph pulled his brother up the garden path and banged the knocker hard. The door was opened almost immediately by a mousy-haired girl of fifteen. She looked at her youngest brother with tenderness.

  ‘She’s a bit quieter now, George. Hurry up out of your wet things.’

  They walked into the hallway and he pulled off his wet coat slowly. His heart was hammering in his chest. The house always seemed to smell of cabbage; the odour hung on the air, making him feel sick. It mingled with the smell of beeswax polish, and the heaviness of it burned his quivering nose.

  ‘Is he gone?’ Joseph’s voice was a whisper.

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘You go on upstairs, I’ll take Georgie in.’ The brother and sister looked into each other’s eyes. Joseph turned away, unable to face his sister any longer. He forced himself to smile at the little boy beside him.

  ‘I’ll wait upstairs for you. Micky Finnigan gave me some comics yesterday. You can read them after me if you like.’

  Georgie nodded and swallowed deeply. His grey eyes seemed to have taken possession of his whole face.

  ‘Pull your socks up, Georgie.’ He did as he was told. Clumsily he dragged the thick woollen garments up his shins. The three stood stock still as they heard a movement from the front room. Then Joseph ran lightly up the stairs as if the devil was after him. George felt his hands begin to tremble as the front-room door opened and a harsh light fell across him.

  ‘So you’re back home, are you?’ His mother’s voice was hard and low. She held the door open for him and at a little push from his sister he walked through. His mother’s fist hit him in the back of his head and sent him careering into the room.

  ‘Mum . . . Mum! Don’t hit him, Mum!’

  Nancy Markham turned to her daughter. ‘Get upstairs now, before I give you more of the same.’

  George lay on the cold lino, terrified. He watched as his mother knelt beside him and pushed her face close to his.

  ‘Run away from your mummy, would you, Georgie boy?’ She entwined her fingers in his hair and pulled his head towards her.

  ‘Where was you running off to this time?’

  The child’s trembling communicated itself to her. She brought her red-stained lips back over her teeth and then, closing her eyes, began to lay into him. His skinny little body was unable to cushion the ferocious punching and he lay with his hands covering his head.

  Upstairs Joseph lay listening to the muffled sounds of his brother’s beating. His mother’s foul-mouthed shouting reaching a crescendo.

  Nancy stood up, her breathing laboured. ‘Now you go and apologise, Georgie boy.’

  The child was sobbing, every so often gulping large draughts of air into his aching lungs. His nose had a thin trickle of blood running from it. He stood up unsteadily, grabbing the table for support.

  ‘You heard me, boy!’ She slapped the child hard across the face. He stumbled from the front room and through the connecting door to the kitchen.

  He felt his mother stand close behind him and looked into the big man’s face.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Bert, I’ve given him such a larruping he won’t be so quick with his tongue in the future.’

  The man looked at George with tiny dark eyes. The boy could smell the rancid odour of stale sweat and swallowed down the urge to vomit. The man’s belly was quivering as he moved to make himself more comfortable in his seat. His string vest was stained with tea and food. George tried to concentrate on the man’s red-veined, bloated face.

  ‘He ain’t saying much, Nance. What’s the matter, you little bastard? Cat got your tongue?’

  George bit on his lip for a second.

  ‘I’m very sorry . . . I’m sorry.’

  Nancy Markham put her face so close to her son’s he could smell her breath. ‘You know what else to say, Georgie boy.’

  He swallowed and took another deep breath. ‘I’m sorry . . . Dad.’ The last word was barely audible.

  ‘Speak up, lad.’

  ‘I’m . . . sorry, Dad.’

  The man saw the hatred in the child’s eyes. It was u
nmistakable. For one second he felt frightened, then pulling himself together he grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. This little runt was no more than five stone! He screwed up his eyes and made himself look as ferocious as possible, wanting to intimidate the child.

  ‘You remember to call me that, boy.’ He poked his finger at George. Then he looked at Nancy and bellowed: ‘Where’s me fucking tea, woman? Get this little shit out of me sight and get yourself sorted!’

  Nancy pushed George out of her way and stood in front of the man.

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Bert Higgins . . .’

  He pulled his enormous bulk from the chair and brought his fist back.

  ‘You want a right-hander, Nance, or what? You might be able to sort out little kids but don’t ever think you can order me around!’

  George watched his mother’s face as she battled with herself as to whether to carry on fighting or whether to retreat. As usual her fighting temper came to the fore and George bolted from the room as her hand went to the teapot on the table and she flung it at Bert.

  George took the stairs two at a time, his injuries forgotten in the panic to get away from them. He rushed into the bedroom he shared with Joseph, straight for his sister’s arms. He began to sob again as he heard the crashing from below. Edith caressed the short-cropped head, wincing every time a loud crash thundered up from below. She saw Joseph lying on the bed staring at the ceiling and felt a sense of futility.

  ‘Oh, please God, make them kill one another. Please make them both die.’

  Her anguished voice was muffled with tears. Since Bert Higgins had moved into the house eighteen months earlier their lives had been even more disrupted than usual. Nancy had found in him a bully who was even more violent than she was. They had been alternately loved to death or beaten within an inch of their lives ever since they could remember. But since the advent of Bert, things had gradually grown worse. Their mother had never been stable; now she was positively deranged. Her main outlet for her frustrations was George. Edith did her best to keep him from her mother’s rages but lately it was getting more and more difficult. Bert drank, her mother drank, and the children, mainly George, took the brunt of it. Edith had been given the task of cleaning the house. Nancy Markham had pretensions to respectability, even blind drunk.