The Ladykiller

by Martina Cole

  ‘I . . . er . . . want to lift an engine out of a car. A friend of mine is going to put a new engine into my car, you see.’ George’s voice trailed off. He should have prepared what he was going to say.

  The boy was all the business now.

  ‘I see. You want the Haltrac.’ Seeing George’s confusion, he grinned. ‘The small block and tackle. It will lift about a ton, but it’s lightweight. Not like the old ones of years ago. You just set it up and Bob’s your uncle. Manual lift, the lot. How long would you want it for?’

  George smiled now. This was easier than he’d thought.

  ‘Oh, a couple of days at most.’

  ‘All right. I’d have it for the week, though. If it pisses down with rain then you won’t be doing much. It’s cheaper that way anyhow. It’s eight quid a day, but only sixteen quid for the week. Plus VAT of course. Mustn’t forget Maggie’s curse, must we?’

  George was overwhelmed. The boy could sell, that much was obvious. But at that moment George would have paid any amount for the tool in question, and in fact was shocked that it was so cheap.

  ‘Whatever you think is best. Can I take it now?’

  ‘’Course you can.’

  The boy began to make out the paperwork and George paid him in cash. He left, the Haltrac held firmly in his hands. He drove back home feeling quite lighthearted.

  Once indoors he began the serious work of the day. First he opened the loft hatch and, after cleaning it thoroughly, placed it on his bed. No need to make everything dirty. He hated mess of any kind. Then he brought the block and tackle up the stairs. He walked up the stainless steel, safety conscious steps that led to the square hole in the ceiling of the landing and began phase two of his operation.

  Lifting himself into the loft, he looked around him critically. The roof sloped upwards and running parallel on each side were three sets of purlings, large pieces of wood that supported the roof joists. He went back down the ladder and returned with a length of half-inch-thick polyester rope in a lovely bright blue colour. He lashed this around the left-hand purling, tying it tightly, and did the same on the right-hand side, giving the rope a good hard tug to make sure it was secure. The purlings were eight feet from the floor and he balanced himself precariously on a large packing case to secure the rope.

  He got off the packing case and jumped up, grabbing the centre of the rope to make sure it was secure. He held on to it for a few seconds, swaying, his feet off the ground. It was perfect.

  He let go of the rope and dropped lightly on the balls of his feet. He felt quite gay. It was like when he was a child and they played on the bundle swings, hanging precariously above the ground, then that wonderful feeling of dropping on to terra firma. He smiled to himself and then repeated the whole process again, swinging for a few seconds more this time, swaying from side to side.

  Then the significance of what he was doing penetrated his brain and he was businesslike once more. He went down the ladder and brought up the block and tackle. He placed the hook on the top of the tackle on to the rope, letting the tackle itself drop through the loft hole. He was ready.

  He felt a thrill of anticipation course through his whole body. He went back to the kitchen. Holding Elaine’s body through the plastic, underneath the arms, he began dragging her through the hall and up the stairs. Elaine’s dead weight was more than he had bargained for and he had to leave her propped up on the middle of the stairs while he went for a cold drink. He was sweating like a pig. His euphoria was wearing off now and he was feeling positively disgruntled. Elaine always made everything so difficult. Every time he planned something, she messed it up.

  He pursed his lips together into a hard line, the water forgotten in front of him as he brooded.

  Half an hour later he was startled when the harsh trill of the telephone rang through the silent house. It was probably that nosy bitch again, Elaine’s so-called friend. He pulled himself from his seat to answer the phone. The blood-spattered kitchen had not penetrated his consciousness yet.

  ‘Hello.’ His meek, humble voice was back.

  ‘George?’ His heart sank. It was Renshaw.

  ‘You there, Georgie boy?’

  ‘Yes. Hello, Peter.’

  ‘Bad business that yesterday and I told that cow Denham what I thought about it as well. You’re still on for tomorrow night though? Bugger the lot of them, we’ll have a night to remember, what?’

  ‘Tomorrow night?’ George was puzzled.

  ‘Your leaving do, of course.’

  ‘Oh . . . Oh, yes. Yes, I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good. Meet you in the Fox Revived at eight thirty, OK?’

  ‘Yes. That would be lovely.’

  ‘I don’t blame you for getting on your high horse, you know, George. That bitch needed taking down a peg or two. They all do in the end.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘See you tomorrow then?’

  Yes.’

  The phone went dead and George replaced the receiver. Peter Renshaw was right. They did all need taking down a peg and he was the man to do it!

  He walked up the stairs and stared at Elaine’s grotesque form. She was another one. Ripping the top of the bag he watched, fascinated, as Elaine’s orange hair tumbled into view. Then, taking the long hair in chunks, he wrapped it around his hands and dragged her bodily up the remaining stairs. The action forced her head from the bag and he laughed at her milky eyes. Glazed now and dry, they stared up at him passively.

  With one final heave he had her on the landing. Then, pulling the tackle down, he hooked it into the rope that trussed her in the black bags. Satisfied, he went up the ladder and then, pulling the steps up behind him, picked up the slack rope that was attached to the pulley on top of the tackle and gradually pulled Elaine up into the loft.

  It was easier than he’d expected. She lifted up as easy as pie and when she was dangling, her exposed head hanging sideways, staring at him as if in surprise, he tied the rope around one of the lower purlings and surveyed his handiwork. He felt almost gleeful again.

  Elaine’s body was swaying gently to and fro and he watched her in fascinated amusement. Her skin was a greeny-grey colour now and he thought she looked quite ill. He shrugged. The sooner he tucked her away the better.

  But he had other things to do first. Placing the steps down once more, he climbed down and retrieved the loft hatch from the bed. Then he replaced it carefully, leaving Elaine dangling there in the dark loft. He took the steps and put them back in his shed then he walked purposefully into the kitchen. He looked around at the chaos and made little tutting noises before rolling up his sleeves and filling the sink with hot water.

  He certainly had his work cut out for him today!

  It took him all of three hours to clean the kitchen. The pristine white floor tiles would not come up to their usual standard. The blood left rust-coloured marks and finally he took out a bottle of Domestos and spread it liberally over the tiles. The thick liquid was then spread evenly, ammonia burning George’s hands and eyes. Finally he was finished and the floor looked better. Much better. But the stains were still visible. He tutted again and shrugged. He had done his best.

  He polished through the house and hoovered thoroughly. He changed the sheets on his bed, and the counterpane, then made himself an omelette. He glanced at the clock. It was seven fifteen.

  Washing up his plate, he left it to drain. He went into the lounge, closed the curtains and put on the lamp. He turned on the television and put on channel 3, then page 251 on the Ceefax. He studied the holidays first, imagining himself in Thailand with some little Thai woman. He had read somewhere that you could pick up a bar girl for about two dollars a night. One day he would treat himself to that. It was a pity Elaine hadn’t had a heart attack or something. He could have claimed the insurance money.

  He flicked to the page of cheap flights. He saw what he wanted immediately: ORLANDO FLYDRIVE 21 NIGHTS 23 FEB.

  Friday.

  He would turn up at Edit
h’s house, telling her how Elaine had left him for another man. In her delight at seeing him so unexpectedly, she would soon forget why he was actually there. He would have to box clever this end though, with Elaine’s friends, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. It’s a shame her parents were dead. He could have said she was staying with them.

  He picked up the phone by his side and dialled the number on the screen. People were there to take your calls until nine thirty. Within five minutes he was booked on a flight, had paid with his credit card and arranged to pick up his tickets and visa at Gatwick Airport.

  He replaced the receiver and sat back in the chair. Tomorrow night he had his leaving do. He would go to that. That left tomorrow and Thursday to sort out the final details. He sighed with contentment.

  Busy, busy, that was him. For the first time in his life he was at the centre of things and he loved it. He was in total control.

  George phoned work at ten on Wednesday morning. He asked politely for Mrs Denham and waited nervously until her voice crackled over the line.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Denham, it’s George Markham here.’

  The line went quiet and he rushed on.

  ‘I want to apologise about the other day. I’m afraid it all came as rather a shock . . .’

  His voice was as sweet as honey.

  ‘I understand. I think we had a communication breakdown somewhere.’ George could hear the smile in her voice. ‘If you would prefer not to come back to work, I can arrange it for you.’ Her voice was hesitant again now.

  ‘Is that really possible? Only my wife is dreadfully ill . . .’

  ‘Of course, I’ll arrange it immediately.’

  George sensed that she was glad to be rid of him and his mouth set in a grim line.

  ‘About the money . . .’

  ‘Oh, that will be paid into your bank account in about three weeks’ time. That’s the earliest I can manage it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s fine. Lovely. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You’re welcome. And good luck.’

  ‘Thank you, ’bye.’

  Josephine Denham replaced the telephone and felt a moment of exquisite pleasure. What she was doing for George Markham was not strictly allowed, but to get rid of that man she would do anything. He gave her the creeps. She wanted him paid off and out as soon as possible.

  Tony Jones was nervous. He had been in Grantley since ten thirty in the morning, acclimatising himself to the place. What a dump! In Tony’s estimation, the Smoke was the only place to be. All these green fields disturbed him. Full of cow shit more than likely.

  He sat in the Wimpy Bar in the town centre and watched people coming and going for the blood testing. He licked his lips again, his hand going nervously to the passport in his jacket pocket. He had paid out a good slice of wedge for it, and had yet to recoup the money from George Markham. He felt an insane urge to walk into the police vehicle nearby and tell them he knew who the Grantley Ripper was. He knew it was the decent thing to do. But Tony Jones loved money more than anything.

  He wanted the three thousand from George and then he would go and see Kelly and do some kind of deal. He knew Pat Kelly well enough to know that if he found out Tony had had the Ripper’s name and had not furnished him with it immediately, then Tony Jones was as good as dead. Besides, there was the money Kelly was offering . . .

  He’d get this blood testing out of the way first, then he would approach Kelly.

  It was lunchtime and Tony noticed that the line of men going in for blood testing was getting longer. In their lunch hour? Tony shook his head in wonder. If he was one of them he would use it as an excuse to skive off for an afternoon or morning.

  People amazed him, they really did. They never had their eye on the main chance.

  He ordered another coffee and watched. It was going to be a long day.

  George had bathed and felt rosy and pink. That’s what his mother used to say. Rosy and pink after a nice hot bath. He dressed himself in a pair of pyjamas that had seen better days, and putting on his slippers set about getting the ladder so he could go once more up into the loft.

  Elaine was still hanging there and George smiled at her. Poor thing! She must be frozen. Then, going to the corner of the loft, he rubbed his hands together and stood staring at the water tank.

  Elaine’s final resting place.

  The houses in George’s street had been built before the war and still boasted the old sixty-gallon water tanks. Most of the houses in the road had been modernised, but George and Elaine had never really bothered with theirs. The water tanks were so big, they’d been put in before the roof of the house went on. Consequently, when people modernised, they had to leave the old galvanised water tank in the loft, as there was no way to remove it. In George and Elaine’s case, it still provided the water for the toilet and bath, and they had a small floor-mounted boiler in their kitchen to run the central heating. George lifted the lid off the tank and stared down into the water. A dead mouse floated on top. He picked it up by its tail and threw it into the corner, shuddering.

  The tank was four feet by three feet and about three feet deep. George felt a moment of panic. Suppose she wouldn’t fit?

  Putting the hatch back, so he could move about more freely, George turned on the lights and began the job of getting Elaine’s body down from the block and tackle. She dropped with a loud thud on to the dusty floor and he began the difficult task of dragging her to the tank.

  The loft had been boarded out and around the sides were boxes of old photographs and clothes, old curtains, even an iron bedstead, unscrewed and leaning gently against the roof joists.

  George dragged her body, his pyjamas already sweat-stained and covered in dust, over to the tank. Then, with a mighty heave, he pulled her up off the floor and pushed her head first inside. The water immediately overflowed from the tank and George cursed. The icy cold shock took his breath away. He lifted Elaine’s legs and tried to push her into the tank. He tried to bend her in two but her fat belly would not allow this and still the water was spilling out everywhere. His slippers were soaked as were his pyjamas. The water was funnelling into the black sacks and making it even more difficult for him to grasp hold of her.

  In the end, in sheer temper, he dragged her out of the tank and dumped her unceremoniously on to the soaked floor. His heart was crashing in his chest and he put his hand on it, feeling the thudding sensation of life with satisfaction.

  Then he heard a low gurgling sound and his heart stopped dead. He flicked his head towards Elaine’s body. Her face was on the floor, the skin squeezed up into grey wrinkles, and water was running out of the side of her mouth. All the gasses inside her and the trapped air were dislodged with the intake of water and she actually sounded as if she was groaning.

  George felt a moment’s sick apprehension before it dawned on him what was happening.

  He prodded her with his slippered foot and she groaned again, accompanied this time by a loud breaking of wind.

  He grinned, all the fear leaving him.

  He had thought she was still alive!

  He knew she would kill him for leaving her trussed up like a chicken overnight.

  He began to laugh, a high cackling sound bordering on hysteria. She made the watery gurgle again and he had to sit on the edge of the water tank, tears streaming down his face. Oh, he hadn’t had so much fun in ages.

  He wiped his eyes with his hands and laughed himself hoarse. Then, finally, he calmed.

  It was a quick change. From roaring good humour his face closed up and a cold calculating look appeared.

  He knew what he had done wrong. He hadn’t drained the water.

  Picking up the ballcock in the water tank, he tied it with a piece of string so it was against the side of the tank. Then he opened the loft hatch and went down to the bathroom, opening the taps in the sink and bath. He did the same in the kitchen. He put the kettle on and had a coffee. His wet pyjamas were making
him feel cold now and he slipped his overcoat over them to keep warm.

  He drank hot coffee gratefully and then went back to work. The tank was empty now. He dragged Elaine up the side and pushed her into it head first. Then he went around the other side and, dragging her under her oxters, sat her upright in it, forcing her legs inside. Then he pushed her head down between her knees and shoved with all his might. She stayed as she was.

  In the process of dragging her inside, the ballcock was dislodged from where he had tied it on the joist and he placed it now at the small of Elaine’s back. It was far enough away from the water line there.

  Finally George picked up the lid and popped it on the tank. He was happy again.

  He tidied up the loft as best he could and then dropped himself down on to the landing. He had better get himself cleaned up. He was going out tonight.

  He put the water back on and ran himself another bath. George’s mind was on the night ahead.

  Elaine was forgotten now as the water tank began to fill slowly, very slowly, because the ballcock was trapped in the small of her back.

  Tony Jones sat in the small Portacabin, nervously practising the answers to the questions he knew they would ask.

  He was so nervous that when they asked him his name he nearly said ‘Tony Jones’. Now they were calling for George Markham and he was sitting there wondering why no one answered. He stood up uncertainly.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ He smiled at the two men.

  ‘This way, sir.’

  He followed them into the tiny office next door and sat down.

  ‘My name’s Doctor Halliday and I will be taking your blood. Would you mind removing your jacket, please?’

  Tony smiled widely.

  She wasn’t a bad-looking sort. Bit on the thin side, but then, educated women always were. Or so he’d found, anyway.

  He removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, sorry now that he had not put on a cleaner one. He was conscious of the smell of stale sweat under his arms. He saw the doctor wrinkle her nose and felt himself blush. The older of the two policemen smiled at him and sat carelessly on the desk. Tony guessed he was enjoying his discomfort and frowned.