The Ladykiller

by Martina Cole

  ‘Come on, Patrick, you’d best get yourself back home now.’ She pulled him gently away.

  ‘I can’t go back to that house, Kate. I can’t talk to all those people.’

  ‘You must. Come on, I’ll drive back with you. You have to face people. It’s just the shock of what’s happened hitting you.’

  Patrick’s sister Grace walked with them. She was about fifty, Kate judged, and looked well on it considering she had been up all night. Her hair was perfect as were her make-up and clothes. She was as fair as Patrick was dark.

  ‘Come on, Pat. Let’s get this over with. I don’t believe we’ve met, dear. I’m Grace . . . Grace Kelly. I know what you’re going to say but I’m used to it by now.

  ‘Come on, Pat, the sooner we get this lot back, the sooner we can get shot of them. Old Auntie Ethel’s pissed as a newt and if we’re not careful she’ll be taking bets on how many cartwheels it would take to go round the church.’

  Kate saw Patrick relax. Grace Kelly was obviously a woman you listened to and nothing else. She kept up a running commentary all the way to the car.

  ‘Look, Pat, I’ll let you go with your sister. I must get back to work,’ Kate said.

  ‘I thought you were going to come to my house with me?’

  ‘I was, but now that you have your sister, I really feel I must get back to work.’

  ‘Will I see you tonight, Kate?’ His voice was so lonely and wretched she could not have refused him even if she had wanted to.

  ‘Yes, you’ll see me tonight. You come to my house, Patrick.’

  She had a feeling he was better off away from home for a few hours at least.

  George walked into Sexplosion on the evening of Mandy’s funeral. He was unaware of it, with more important things on his mind such as how he was going to get out of the blood testing. He had had the germ of an idea earlier in the day and now was about to sound out Tony Jones who was an integral part of it.

  Tony smiled at him and took him through to the back room. George waited until the video was on before he spoke.

  ‘Does this girl die?’

  ‘Yeah. But they still do the business.’ Tony’s voice sounded bored.

  ‘I should imagine that films like this are illegal? I mean, can’t you get into trouble for stocking them?’

  Tony Jones was alert now.

  ‘You can get in trouble for buying them and all, mate.’ His voice was annoyed.

  George smiled.

  ‘I appreciate that, Tony, it was just a query, that’s all. Nothing to get worked up about.’

  ‘Look, do you want the film or not?’ George could hear the aggression in the man’s voice and knew that he was scared. He patted himself on the back.

  ‘Any chance of a drink, Tony? I have a proposition to put to you . . .’

  ‘What kind of proposition?’

  ‘A very lucrative one.’

  Tony Jones licked his lips and stared hard at George for a few seconds.

  ‘What do you want? Beer or a short?’

  George grinned. ‘I think a short is in order tonight, Tony.’

  He waited until they were both sitting down, sipping their drinks, before he spoke.

  ‘I need someone to help me with something delicate. Someone who is completely trustworthy and in need of some money.’

  ‘What for?’ Tony Jones was intrigued.

  ‘I need someone to take a blood test for me. They would have to pretend to be me, in fact.’

  George saw Tony Jones’s face drop. His mind was in a flutter. Blood test . . . blood test, where had he heard that? In the papers. He had read about it in the papers. George Markham came from Grantley in Essex! George Markham was the Grantley Ripper! George Markham had a half a million pound price on his head . . .

  ‘Fucking hell!’

  George felt a prickle of fear.

  ‘You’re the bastard Ripper, ain’t you?’

  George stared at the man and his fishy grey lifeless eyes sent a chill through Tony Jones. For the first time he was scared. He had let go his ace in his shock.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ His voice was quieter now. More controlled.

  ‘I am willing to pay a substantial amount of money for someone to take the blood test for me. If I was caught, you see, I would have to tell the police about my accomplice in all this.’

  ‘Accomplice? What accomplice?’ Tony’s voice was puzzled.

  ‘Why, you, of course.’ George smiled again. ‘If you hadn’t introduced me to snuff movies, I would never have dreamt of murdering anybody.’

  Tony’s face blanched.

  ‘That was nothing to do with me! I sell movies to loads of people and they don’t go out murdering.’ His voice was defensive. He had visions of Patrick Kelly hearing that the films that had triggered his daughter’s murder had come from him. He’d had one run in with him already. He was hoping to use this knowledge to get back into his good books! Kelly would have his throat cut as soon as look at him else.

  ‘How do you know that, Tony? How do you know that the men who buy your films aren’t affected by them in the same way that I am? Death excites me, it excites a lot of people, that’s why there’s a demand for your films. I remember you saying they sold like hot cakes.’

  He saw Tony’s jaw tighten and played his trump card. ‘I have left a diary of every time I visited your shop and what I bought here. I made it sound as if you were in on the whole thing. If you don’t help me, Tony, and I get caught . . .’ George left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to fucking kill you!’

  ‘Oh, now don’t be silly. If I died, all my personal effects would be seen, not only by my wife but by the police as well, I should think. And neither of us want that, do we now?’

  Tony Jones saw his half a million pounds disappearing before his eyes. He watched George drink his whisky, taking little sips and then fastidiously wiping his mouth on his handkerchief, and a tiny spark of an idea entered his head. He was going to play George Markham back at his own game.

  ‘How much can you pay?’

  George grinned. This was more like it.

  ‘One thousand pounds.’

  Tony shook his head dismissively. ‘Not enough. Two grand at least for criminal deception.’

  ‘Criminal deception?’

  ‘That means parading as someone else. Which is what I would be doing for you.’

  ‘You’ll do it yourself?’

  ‘Of course. We’re of an age. I’d need to know some personal things . . . the Old Bill are wily old fuckers when the fancy takes them. You find out what happens at the blood testing and let me know. I’ll work it from there. I’ve not got a criminal record, believe it or not. Never even had a parking ticket. I’ll be George Markham for two grand.’

  George held out his hand but was not surprised when Tony did not shake it.

  ‘Done.’

  Tony stared at the man in front of him and thought, You will be.

  George arrived home a little after eight. Elaine was sitting on the settee and called out to him as he came in the front door.

  ‘I was getting worried about you, George.’

  He took off his coat and placed it and the video he had bought in the hall cupboard. He went in to Elaine.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, dear, we had a lot to do. I finish up in a few weeks and I have to pass over all the information to the man taking over my accounts.’

  Elaine nodded.

  ‘Come out to the kitchen, I kept your dinner warm.’

  George sat at the table and as usual let Elaine chatter to him. He had noticed over the years that her chattering was a defence against the quietness that she hated. She kept up a constant stream of talk, seemingly unaware that George was not really listening.

  Tonight he couldn’t have listened even if he’d wanted to. He had more pressing things on his mind.

  Caitlin was explaining the exact nature of the blood testing to the team in the incident room. Everyone was list
ening avidly as he spoke. Most were aware of the existence of genetic fingerprinting, anyone who read the papers was, but the actual task they had ahead of them was not really clear. Caitlin was hoping to enlighten them.

  ‘The man we are looking for is blood type O, which is about fifty per cent of the population. Now this has been broken down again. Seventy-five per cent of the population is Rhesus B positive. The other twenty-five per cent being Rhesus D Negative. Well, I am pleased to say that the man we are looking for is Rhesus D. That means that we can eliminate the O group males of the Rhesus B positive blood group, thereby cutting down on the amount of men and man hours.

  ‘At the actual blood testing, we shall be asking men for their mother’s maiden name, their wife’s and children’s names, where they work, etcetera. We shall also take fingerprints and obviously they will sign the document saying they agreed to the blood testing and were put under no duress to take it. That should shut up the civil liberty eejits!’

  People in the room began to titter. It was a bone of contention with everyone that the only lead they could follow was being criticised so much. On the one hand the public wanted the man caught and on the other they were making it as hard as possible to do it.

  Caitlin lit a cigar. Clearing his throat noisily, he began to speak again.

  ‘Now, you will all be given a set of instructions detailing exactly what you ask, where you are going, etcetera. You will be allocated men to help with any back-up inquiries and we want these carried out in as low key a way as possible. It seems that quite a few known sex offenders have been beaten up since this spate of murders and while I myself have no time for the perverts, they are not under suspicion so are entitled to our protection. Any inquiries we make must be polite and courteous. We are sitting on a potential bomb here and I don’t want anyone . . .’ he glanced at Spencer briefly ‘especially you, buggering it up.

  ‘Now then, most of you are thinking that the man responsible would have to be mad to agree to take the test. I think that too. But the police psychologist thinks that his ego would make him take it. That he gets his jollies as much from fooling us as from the actual attacks.’ He stopped speaking and watched the sea of faces, letting all he said sink in. ‘So if you get a particularly suspect individual I would like you to notify me. There’s more than a few braggarts in this station alone.’ He glanced once more at Spencer. ‘So you know the type I’m looking for.’

  Once more everyone laughed.

  ‘Now then, are there any questions?’

  Spencer’s hand shot up before anyone’s. Caitlin nodded at him.

  ‘What I want to know is, are we getting more help? I mean, it’s going to take ages to reinterview the new suspects . . .’

  Caitlin held up a hand to silence him. ‘We have more than enough man power - everyone is giving up free time from all over South East Essex. That could be social conscience but I think the double time from the Major Incident Fund is probably helping. Also the Specials come in handy at times like this for interviewing. There’ll be more than enough men, don’t worry about that.’ He turned away from Spencer and looked at the faces before him. ‘Now, any other questions?’

  Before anyone could answer he turned away, saying, ‘Good. Pick up your information sheets and let’s get this show on the road.’

  Kate smiled to herself. She had to hand it to him. He certainly knew how to run an incident room. He had answered straight off the most important question and now he wanted it all finished so the real work could begin. As much as he got on her nerves at times, Kate had to admire him. At least he got things moving.

  Everyone was looking at their information sheets. It seemed that now they had a goal they were straining to get to work. It was always the same on these cases. Once a new line of inquiry opened up it renewed everyone’s interest and enthusiasm.

  Kate stared once more at the pictures of the dead women and girls. Her eyes lingered on Mandy Kelly and she thought of Patrick. Then she got on with the work in hand.

  George came home from a particularly trying day at work. His leaving party was the talk of the office and he had felt like screaming at them all to go away and leave him alone. Somehow even some of the men from the warehouse had been roped in and George was annoyed. He had never spoken to one of them, even in passing. The last thing he wanted was to make conversation with a crowd of working-class bullies. All they were interested in was the stripper. Oh, he knew what they were after. Pity they didn’t know about him, that would shut them all up. He didn’t need sluts parading around semi-naked, he could have anyone he wanted. Whenever he wanted.

  He closed his eyes tightly. Elaine as usual was chattering. Sometimes he wished he had the guts to slap her silly face, slap it till it stung and her big fat ears rang.

  ‘George, are you listening to me?’ Her strident voice bored through his skull like a newly sharpened axe.

  ‘Of course I am, dear. I always listen to you.’

  ‘Well, what do you think about what I said then?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t really know.’ George was racking his brains to try and remember one item of gossip that might have entered his consciousness since Elaine started talking at him the moment he’d entered the house.

  She sighed heavily and began to baste the roast potatoes. ‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you? I tell you my manager says they’re thinking of cutting down on staff.’

  George interrupted her.

  ‘But they’d never get rid of you, Elaine.’

  ‘Who said they were getting rid of me? Do you ever listen to me, George? My manager said that I stood a good chance of being put in as supervisor on the tills. Not before time, I might add. So even though they’re cutting back on staff,’ she poked herself in the chest, ‘I will still be employed. And at a better wage as well. And let’s face it, George, now you’ve got the bum’s rush from your job, a regular wage isn’t to be sneezed at, is it?’

  The last malicious twist of the knife made his breath come in shallow little gasps. So that was how she was going to play it, was it? Now the sympathy had worn off and the euphoria over the money, Elaine was going to become the one thing she’d always tried to be. The real head of the household. The major breadwinner.

  George had visions of himself getting out of his chair and taking the large breadknife from the worktop and slitting Elaine’s throat with it, cleanly and neatly, and laughing. Laughing his head off while he did it.

  He stood up unsteadily.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  He ignored her and walked from the room, every nerve in his body taut. To George’s mind this was the final insult. He walked up the stairs and went into the bedroom he shared with Elaine. There he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He half expected her to come barrelling into the room demanding to know why he’d walked out on her, but she left him alone.

  Down in the kitchen, it occurred to Elaine that she just might have gone too far.

  George lay still until his breathing returned to normal and he watched as his whole life with Elaine floated in front of him. He saw her on their wedding day - he had been quite proud of her then. Proud that he actually had a wife. It was like a declaration to the world, as if he was shouting: ‘See, someone wants me.’ It had galled his mother that he had married. She wanted to keep him at home with her. Wanted to carry on ‘looking after him’, as she called it. She had called Elaine a red-headed whore. Well, his mother knew all about them, she had been one herself for most of her life. And in spite of everything their marriage had not been bad at first. Elaine had come to him a virgin and he had appreciated that fact. He had never tried it on with her because she was what George termed a ‘good girl’. He knew that she would balk at anything other than a chaste kiss on the lips after an evening out.

  Once married, though, Elaine had turned out to be quite a handful. She’d wanted sex much more often than he had. He had wanted to experiment, but Elaine wanted straight sex and no kissing. George could not keep
up such a boring way of spending evenings and when she had become pregnant he had been secretly relieved.

  It had been then that he had rediscovered his pornographic pastime. Before his marriage George had relied heavily on girlie magazines - or wank mags as he would call them to himself. He had built up a fantasy world of women who did whatever he bid them. He had thought that with the advent of marriage he would not need the fantasy world any more, but instead had found that he needed it more than ever.

  At first, the fact that the magazines were in the house would excite him. The element of risking being caught out had always attracted George. He knew that if Elaine had found the magazines she would have blown her top and he relished that feeling. He had begun to frequent the porno movie theatres in Soho, and the bookshops that abounded there. This was in the days when the naked women had their photographs outside with strategically placed stars to just hide nipples and pubic hair. He had learned a lot from those French films, and from the blue films. That was when he had been introduced to the world of sadism and bondage.

  The first time he had purchased a bondage magazine George had felt as if he had finally been let free. The pictures of the women, exquisite smiles on their faces as they were chained up and degraded, had struck a chord deep inside him. And that’s when he made the terrible mistake.

  He had been to an Electric Blue cinema and was travelling home on the train. They had been living in Chatham in Kent at the time. They had bought an old house and gradually decorated it and made it into a home. George saw a girl on the train. She had long red-gold hair and it had attracted his attention because it had reminded him of his mother’s when she was young. The girl had noticed him looking at her and had smiled at him. A carefree smile as if she was used to being admired.

  As they had neared Chatham the train had begun to empty of people until there were only the two of them. George had been thinking about the film and the girl, and when he had touched her he had only wanted to feel her hair, just the soft springiness of it, that was all. But she had screamed, a loud piercing scream, and he had instinctively pushed his hand over her mouth. She had fallen sideways on the carriage seat and her jumper had risen up, showing an expanse of milky white skin. Then his other hand was pushing inside the jumper and he had felt the jutting breasts. He had experienced ecstasy then, wiping his mind clear of everything but the moment and the sensation. He had no recollection of ripping away her tights and panties, he had no recollection of beating her about the face and head, it had all been too nice. Too warm to be bad.