The Drunken Frog wasn’t particularly busy yet; there were enough drinkers to make the pub feel lively but not so many that it felt crowded. The clients were a mixture – business people in suits, couples in evening wear sitting cosily together, tourists in loose comfortable clothing, cameras slung around their necks and talking animatedly, fingers jabbing at open maps spread on the table in front of them.
Greg and Elizabeth sat across from each other at a small two-person table towards the back of the pub. Elizabeth sat facing the entrance to the premises, as she liked to be able to see who was coming in and out. Greg sat opposite her and assumed his usual relaxed open-legged posture, one arm draped casually over the back of the chair. They chatted amiably for a few minutes before the conversation came back to the murder enquiry.
‘Did you give Robert an update yet?’ Greg asked, taking a large gulp of cider and smacking his lips together appreciatively.
‘What update? I didn’t see the point of calling him for nothing.’ Elizabeth sighed, ‘Besides, he’s probably buggered off by now, don’t you think?’ Greg shrugged noncommittally.
‘I just wish we’d get some sort of break through. He’s got two young kids you know. What a way to lose your dad,’ she continued.
‘You going soft on me?’ Greg asked.
‘Stop pretending to be so untouched, Hampton. I know you are. I mean, the guy goes to work, tells his wife he’s working late, and then the next she hears is us telling her he’s dead and not only is he dead but he’s actually been murdered. On top of that it looks like he was cheating on her and died strapped to a hotel bed, exposed and vulnerable, and then his sausage and brussels are hacked off never to be seen again.’
Greg spurted cider from the edges of his glass, gagging in mid-swig.
‘I’ve never heard it referred to like that before, but I get the imagery. And you’re right. I’m not untouched, just don’t dwell on it is all I’ll say to you. We have no breaks at the moment, but that doesn’t mean we won’t solve this.’
‘Yeah, I know. Just feeling a bit down is all. One of my lows, you know what I’m like.’
‘A dip in the Great Elizabeth’s bio-rhythms,’ Greg smiled at her.
Elizabeth had struggled with depression for years and after a series of drugs, herbal remedies and counselling sessions, had decided she was better off without them, choosing instead to manage her ‘episodes’ as she called them by talking to Greg and working out. The exercise helped her focus her mind and unleash her inner anger. It did mean she had bouts of melancholy, but Greg was used to them and she had learnt how to control them effectively to keep herself from completely going over the edge.
‘I was thinking, the penis thing is weird, right?’ Elizabeth began.
‘Oh hear we go…’ Greg rolled his eyes in mock boredom. He was also used to Elizabeth’s sometimes random but variably interesting psychological theories. He could feel one brewing; she had that deep-thinking expression on her face.
‘What would make someone remove the genitalia, the male genitalia, of the person they have killed? What fuels that desire? What purpose does it have?’
‘Why does it have to have a purpose? The killer is probably just a total nutter or was spaced out on some form of narcotic…’ Greg dragged out the word nar-co-tic for effect.
‘Don’t be naïve. Everything has a purpose Greg, even if it’s subconscious. And this murder was way to methodical to be the work of a drug-crazed loon and you know it. Look at the lack of clues for a start and the props that were introduced to the scene. It wasn’t random, it was planned. The killer is smart, methodical and obviously disturbed. People aren’t just born like that, they become like that…’
‘Why do you have to theorise everything?’ Greg asked with a sigh, ‘and what are you getting at?’ curious in spite of himself.
‘Well, you know I love reading about psychology?’
‘Trying to work out why you’re such a nut, yes I know.’
Elizabeth shot him an evil look.
‘Quite a lot of importance is put on sexuality in human development and the significance of genitals in this development. Look at Freud… he gave us the Oedipus complex, the Electra complex, the concepts of Penis Envy and Castration Anxiety...’
‘The what and the what? And so what?’
‘Well, look at the circumstances Greg. Male killed and genitals removed. Is it castration anxiety being manifested via the removal of a fellow male’s bits, thereby ensuring the safety of one’s own penis? Or perhaps a latent homosexual who has been bullied or abused for his sexuality? Unable to come to terms with the conflicting emotions, does he resort to chopping off the offending appendages that he craves so much?’
Greg unconsciously pulled his legs together and sat up straighter in his chair.
‘Or, is it a female with penis envy? Chop off the bits because “I don’t have a dick and I want one because people with dicks seemingly ‘rule’ the world.” Although you know my views on that! The penis is a powerful symbol, Greg.’
‘You have truly lost it this time….’ Greg shook his head. ‘Where do you get this shit?’
‘All I’m saying is that this is not our usual murder. It doesn’t seem to have the same sort of motives we’re usually trained to look for, you know? Money, jealousy, crime of passion, honour killing… Where does this one fit in?’
‘Well crime of passion in the non-traditional sense springs to mind…’
‘I think this is motivated by something on our killer’s subconscious level because the usual motivations just don’t seem to be there.” She took a sip of her drink before adding: ‘And I think it’s a woman.’
‘Oh come on! How many female killers do you know other than the ones that are trying to escape abusive husbands or do it by accident?’ Greg scoffed.
‘As you ask I shall bore you with what I do know. Mary Ann Cotton here in the UK back in the 1870s. She killed over 20 people for their insurance money and was hanged in 1873. Then, from the Great U-S-of-A, there was Belle Guiness. She was never caught and she is reported to have killed over 40 people over two decades, usually for insurance money. Good going, huh?’
Greg stared at Elizabeth in amazement.
‘Then there’s Marybeth Tinning, another American. She is suspected of murdering all nine of her own children between 1972 and 1985, all before they reached the age of five. She was only convicted of the murder of one of her kids though as they couldn’t prove foul play with the other eight. Tinning was eventually diagnosed with Münchausen syndrome by proxy so she didn’t really have a motive as such, well, at least not beyond enjoying the attention and sympathy her kid’s deaths brought her. But if you want a really interesting case, look at Mary Bell, and I know you’ve heard of her.’
‘Yeah I have. The 11-year-old girl who killed two little boys in the 1960s,’ Greg said, intrigued.
‘Actually, she was ten when she killed the first boy, who was only four, and eleven at the time of the other murder. It was 1968. Also, not only did she strangle the two boys, she also carved her initial ‘M’ on the second one’s stomach and – get this – mutilated his genitals.’ Elizabeth sat back smugly, having proved her point.
‘Fuck me. You’re bloody scary you are. How come you can remember all this shit, but can’t remember the simple stuff, like where you put your car keys?’
‘Because it interests me, I guess,’ Elizabeth replied.
‘Should I be worried about your fascination with killers?’ Greg asked, only half-joking.
Elizabeth leant forward and looked at him, one eyebrow raised. ‘You’ll never know,’ she whispered, sinisterly. Then she smiled and burst out laughing. ‘Seriously, Hampton! Your face!’
Greg rolled his eyes.
‘So you think we’ve got another Mary Bell-type killer our hands?’ he asked.
‘Well it’s a theory and it’s not beyond the realms of possibility, is it?’
‘I guess not. Why did the Mary Bell girl kill the boys the
n?’
‘That detective Hampton, I do not know, although Bell did allege that her mother had tried to kill her and forced her to engage in sexual acts with men when she was only four. I’m guessing that has to be a pretty big mind-fuck.’
‘Ok, so I’m following the theory, but there is no evidence at all it’s a woman. Women do not do this sort of thing. It could be a bloke with the same issues as the Mary Bell girl.’
‘Except David Saunders is not gay and I doubt would have got himself all stripped off and strung up like that for a bloke,’ Elizabeth retorted.
‘Good point.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Still not convinced though.’
‘Greg, it is just a theory I’ve been running over in my little mind. You know, the whole ‘don’t limit yourself to one hypothesis’ argument that we get taught?’
‘It was a long time ago I did my detective’s course… Not sure I even knew the word ‘hypothesis’ back then,’ Greg joked.
‘You are such a buffoon, aren’t you? Bet you twenty quid it’s a woman.’
Greg shook Elizabeth’s hand and then smiled sweetly. ‘I do believe it is your round,’ he said draining the dregs of his glass and placing the empty receptacle on the table between them.
‘Good job I don’t have penis envy eh? Working with all you men! You’d all be wearing metal pants!’ Elizabeth laughed to herself, as she trotted over to the bar, taking the empty glasses with her.
‘Mad as a fucking mongoose,’ Greg said to himself, shaking his head.
Chapter XIV
The flat was dark, shadows crawled across the floor taking possession of the room as the descending sun succumbed to night. The soft strains of Moonlight Sonata on repeat whispered through the living room, a mellow undertone to the increasing gloom.
A figure sat curled up on the floor in the farthest corner of the room, her legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, hugging the limbs close to her body, shrouded in the darkness.
Louise sat, her eyes moist, old tears dried on her pale cheeks, her makeup smudged and messy. She couldn’t feel anything other than a numbness that had settled over her like a comforting blanket. The anger had gone, driven out of her system during the long drive home.
She pondered the turn of events, wondering what she had done to deserve this. She felt as if things had started to fall apart since her promotion six months ago. The hours she spent at work had increased and she had been so focused on her work that during the time she did spend with Steve he had often told her she seemed distracted, like she wasn‘t really there with him. She was in the room, but her mind was elsewhere, he’d said. Was this why Steve had turned to Melissa? Had she neglected him a little too much? Was this all her fault? How many people would tolerate coming second to their partner’s work?
Work. The only place she felt safe and in control. Or at least she had until Ben had asked her to draft up the ‘list of doom’. Was she being punished by God for ruining the lives of others? Except Louise didn’t believe in God. No God would have willingly put one of His subjects through her traumatic life. Her mother sent to a loony bin, separated from her sister as they were ferried off to different foster homes, the years of broken and damaging relationships… Why would any god put someone through that?
The devout would argue it was His plan, but Louise knew you made your own luck in life, you had to account for your own actions, take responsibility for yourself and rely on no one. She’d started to rely on Steve, or at least to trust that she could rely on him, and look at what had happened. He’d gone off with that fucking bitch Melissa.
Now as she sat on the floor musing over her life and the events of the past few days, she felt somehow at peace. It was like a mini-epiphany. She knew now that she would never trust anyone, never let anyone in - ever. From now on, she would be granite, her public face a façade that no one would get beneath, no one would chip away at. Oddly, she felt relieved at her realisation.
‘You’re on your own Lou. Just you against the world,’ she whispered to herself.
Just like always.
Suddenly Louise caught a movement in her peripheral vision, a shadow passing in front of the window. She looked up sharply, but couldn’t see anything. Probably just a bird flying past, she mused. She resumed her former position, head on arms, curled up in a safe little ball.
Then she heard it, a faint laughter, a male’s voice drifting to her ears. She cocked her head wondering where the sound was coming from. It sounded too close to be coming from the street, perhaps it was coming from the communal corridor?
The laughter was getting louder, it sounded like it was coming from within her own flat. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, felt anxiety grip her stomach and her extremities start to tingle in anticipation. Slowly she stood up, her breath catching in her throat.
The laughter was loud now, a deep cackle that sounded more malignant than jovial, sinister laughter that chilled her to the core. Moving slowly across the room she switched off the stereo and listened, trying to work out the source of noise.
The kitchen. It was coming from her own kitchen.
Fear gripped her insides and she began to tremble gently. She was alone in the flat, how could laughter be coming from her kitchen? How had someone got in whilst she’d been sat there? Unless they’d been in the flat all along. It wasn’t something you did upon returning home to your sanctuary, walk through and look for strangers lurking in your wardrobes – or kitchen.
Mustering up all her courage, she moved slowly towards the sound, picking up a heavy, ceramic vase from the small glass table at the end of the settee, thinking that she could use it as a weapon if she had to. She tried to control her breathing, afraid the sound of her gasps would alert the intruder. She approached the threshold to the kitchen and with a deep breath, peered around the door frame, one hand holding the vase high above her head.
She saw a man stood with his back to her. He was tall, over six feet and looked muscular, she could see the swell of his biceps, the outline of his shoulder blades through the tight white t-shirt he was wearing. His legs were clad in dark blue jeans and his body moved in time with his laughter, large shoulders rising up and down as he cachinnated.
He turned suddenly to look at her, causing Louise to step back with a gasp. His eyes were pale blue and cold as ice, his hair thick and black, sprinkled with grey around the sides, his lips full and drawn back over perfect white teeth. Louise guessed he was in his thirties, probably the higher end.
Finding her voice she demanded: ‘Who the fuck are you and how the fuck did you get in here?’
The man just looked at her and continued to laugh. Louise was spooked and took another step back.
‘Get out! Get out of my home!’ she shouted at him, her voice trembling, belying her fear, her hand still raised, gripping the vase tightly.
He stopped laughing and just stood looking at her. She decided she preferred the laughter to this creepy silence.
‘What do you want? There’s nothing here worth stealing. Who are you?’ she asked again.
The man smiled and opened his hands showing her palms that were scarlet.
Oh my God. Is that blood?
He stepped towards her and Louise closed her eyes aiming the vase at his head. She heard the vase crash to the floor and felt shards of ceramic skitter across the linoleum, skipping over her bare feet. She opened her eyes. The man was gone. The kitchen was empty except for the shattered vase.
Louise shook her head in dismay and walked slowly into the kitchen, oblivious to the broken shards cutting the soles of her feet. She turned around full circle. He had vanished. Her breath escaped in a long, drawn out exhalation. What had just happened? Had she just had another full blown hallucination?
As the adrenaline seeped away she felt the pain in her feet, saw the small trail of blood she was leaving on the floor as she moved around the kitchen. She grabbed a chair and sat down looking at her bloody soles.
Tears burst from her eyes in a sudden unexpected torrent; she felt so alone and broken. She wanted to speak to Steve, to tell him what had just happened, to hear his reassuring voice. Instead she ran into the living room and grabbed her car keys not knowing where she was going, but just knowing she needed to get out of the flat.
************************************************
‘For God’s sake Hampton. How many times? Read my lips - I - do - not -want - a -curry!’ Elizabeth mouthed exaggeratedly.
For the past hour Greg had been dropping hints that he wanted to go to one of their favourite curry houses to finish off the night and he was still pestering Elizabeth to go with him.
‘Now stop going on about it. You’re getting on my nerves!’
After steadily drinking for the past five hours, the two detectives had decided to call it a night, both feeling decidedly merry. They had drunk copious amounts of vodka and cider, eaten bar snacks and dissected the case, discussing possibilities and options, Elizabeth devising and making up new theories as they went along. All in all, it had been a good night, a good occasion to unwind. Neither of them had realised how uptight they had been until the alcohol had kicked in.
‘So you’re not coming then?’ Greg asked, adopting the tone of a petulant child.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Fine, I’ll go on my own then, like a poor, friendless, rejected man…’
‘If the cap fits,’ Elizabeth giggled.
‘Yeah, right! Well, I’m off then.’
‘Good idea Hampton.’
‘Oh come on Elizabeth!’
‘How many times! I am not coming for curry.’
‘You’re such a bore!’
‘And you’re such an annoying twat, now bugger off and leave me in peace!’
‘Fine. You going home then?’
‘Yep. I’m going to jump on the tube and then get the mainline. I’ll get the twenty past midnight train probably. Might grab a pasty - oooh or a hot dog!’ she replied, happily.
Sweet Oblivion Page 10