Retriever of Souls

by Lorraine Mace

  “I was not,” spat his friend. “What about you then? You puked your guts up. You wasn’t so tough, was you?”

  “Well it stank, an’ I nearly fell on it when I went to get the ball.”

  Paolo was put in mind of his daughters, when they used to bicker. His throat closed with the old familiar ache and his guts tightened. His skin suddenly felt clammy.

  “Okay, lads, that’s enough,” he said in a harsher tone than he’d intended.

  Forcing himself to concentrate, he continued to question the friends for a little longer, but it was clear they couldn’t tell him anything else. Paolo asked WPC Start to see them home and make sure there was someone to take care of them.

  He left Dave to question James Smedley, who looked even more shaken than the boys, and headed back to Barbara.

  “First impressions?” he asked.

  “You know I hate it when you do that,” she answered. “This is science, not some guessing game.”

  “I wasn’t asking for details, Barbara, just your impressions.”

  “Ja, well, you always want answers before I’ve even had time to decide what the questions are.” As always when she was upset he could hear a slight South African twang in her voice.

  Paolo watched as she debated with herself whether or not to answer him. Professional pride won.

  “Initial impressions? Cause of death appears to be strangulation. The way the body was left and the black plastic bag used, I’d say we were looking at a repeat of last month’s murder.” She looked up at him, her full lips curved, not quite smiling. “But don’t quote me on that until after the autopsy.”

  She turned back to the body, dismissing him. As Paolo walked away, his mobile phone rang. The display showed his ex-wife’s number and his stomach churned. That was all he needed to make his day complete.

  “Hi, Lydia. Nice to hear...”

  “Don’t forget Katy’s prize giving. It starts at 7.30, so don’t be late.”

  She was gone before he could reply. Paolo sighed. How had he screwed up his life so much that Lydia now hated him? Shaking off the familiar despair, he sighed and continued over to where Dave was standing, grinning broadly.

  “What have you got to smile about?”

  “I’ve got a date tonight. WPC Rebecca Start is about to find out what a lucky girl she is,” Dave answered.

  Paolo glared at his Detective Sergeant. “Let me tell you something right now,” he hissed so that no one else could hear, “you need to change your ways. When you’re on the job, that’s all you think about. Got that?”

  Dave nodded, but the smirk playing around the corners of his mouth riled Paolo.

  “Don’t think being related to the Chief Constable earns you any special treatment in my eyes, because it doesn’t. So stop using my crime scene as a fucking dating agency. And keep your conquests to yourself.” He waited to make sure the message had got through. “Right, drop me off back at the nick. You go over to Lisa Boxer’s place and see what you can find out about our missing witness. I’m going to read through the reports on the last girl who ended up looking like this.”

  ***

  Paolo looked up as Dave entered his office.

  “Any joy?”

  “None, sir,” Dave answered making himself comfortable in the chair opposite Paolo. “Looks like Lisa Boxer has done a bunk. Her neighbours claim they haven’t seen her for over a week. Not that I’d take their word for anything. Definitely a bit dodgy, the residents of that house. I got the impression they wouldn’t let on even if they had something to tell.”

  “Were you able to get into her place and look around?”

  “Yeah, the old bag who runs the rooms let me in. She swore she hadn’t seen Lisa since she last paid her rent. What a dump. I feel as if I need a long hot shower, which I’m now going home to have. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere, sir? I didn’t expect you to still be here.”

  “Shit!” Paolo grabbed his jacket. “I’m off. Call me tomorrow if anything comes up.”

  He searched frantically for a place to park. Finally he found a spot, streets away from the school. Parking the Ford Focus, he slammed the door and ran.

  Sidling into the back of the hall, he was relieved to see Katy still at the side of the stage waiting for her name to be called. As she walked forward, she scanned the rows for him. Her face lit up when she spotted him at the back; the fingers of her right hand wiggled in acknowledgement. His heart contracted at the sight of her. Dark hair and eyes, olive skin and delicate features, she had his mother’s beauty and grace. Katy was a true Italian – petite in stature, but powerful beyond her size when her temper flared. So unlike Sarah who’d been tall for her age; fair-haired with striking hazel eyes – his eyes...

  Paolo shook off the memories.

  Katy rushed up and hugged him as soon as the ceremony ended. Following close behind came Father Gregory, her English teacher, yet another ex-classmate from Paolo’s schooldays. It was turning out to be a day for meeting people he would rather not have to deal with.

  “Pizza Hut, Dad?” she asked, eyes shining.

  “Why not, unless your mother minds?” he said, turning to Lydia.

  Father Gregory spoke, distracting Katy’s attention and Lydia moved towards Paolo.

  “We can go,” she said, “but I need to get home early.”

  Paolo took in Lydia’s expression. And you don’t want to spend time with me, do you? He wanted to say something, anything to take that look off her face, but Katy had finished speaking to Father Gregory and turned back to them. The moment was lost.

  “Please say we can go,” she begged her mother.

  Lydia smiled. “I’ve just told your father we can. Come on, I’m starving.”

  As they turned towards the exit, Paolo felt a hand on his arm.

  “Paolo, could I have a word?” Father Gregory said, his usually open face clouded.

  “Yes, of course. You two go on ahead, I’ll meet you inside Pizza Hut,” Paolo said, then turned back to the priest. “You look solemn, something up?”

  “Nothing serious at this stage, but it could develop into a problem. I need to talk to you about Katy’s religious beliefs.”

  “Me? Why? She’s free to believe what she wants,” Paolo said.

  “Well, no, she isn’t, I’m afraid. Not in this school, Paolo, you know that as well as I do. The school board’s views were made clear before we accepted her. I’d hate Katy to be suspended from St Ursula’s, but unless she keeps her disturbing views to herself, that might happen.”

  Sending his girls to St Ursula’s Convent School had been his only concession to his own catholic upbringing – and he wouldn’t have done that if his mother hadn’t left him money and a guilt-ridden obligation in her will. He’d stopped believing in God when he was about Katy’s age.

  “What disturbing views?” he asked, trying not to lose his temper.

  “She told her class today that there was no such thing as life after death. She refused to accept the resurrection of our Lord and tried to hold a poll on the subject. Sister Mercy had to remove her from the class.”

  Paolo tried hard not to laugh, but a chuckle got through.

  “It’s no laughing matter. She’s also insinuating that all priests are paedophiles.”

  Losing all urge to laugh, Paolo glared at Father Greg. “She actually said that?”

  “Not in so many words, no. But it was clear that’s what she meant. Please speak to her, Paolo. She’s too good a student to risk losing her place here.”

  ***

  They’d found a table and ordered by the time Paolo arrived. He didn’t want to question Katy tonight about what Father Gregory had said, but knew he couldn’t put it off for long.

  “I thought I’d come over tomorrow, do those jobs around the house I’ve been meaning to get round to,” he suggested with a smile in Lydia’s direction.

  “Not tomorrow, Paolo. Maybe next weekend.”

  “Oh, Mum, why not? Dad never gets to come o
ver when he wants to. You always make him wait.”

  Lydia sighed. “Katy, that’s not true. Your dad never thinks about my life. He feels he can just turn up whenever he wants.”

  “Well maybe he should be able to. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Katy, don’t speak to your mother like that.” He smiled at Lydia. “Next Saturday will be fine, but maybe Katy and I could do something together tomorrow, what do you say?”

  “Great,” Katy said. “Say yes, Mum.”

  “Why not?”

  Lydia smiled at him, but without warmth. Even now, it seemed she couldn’t forgive him for leaving her to deal with her pain alone.

  CHAPTER 3

  He carefully placed his beloved scourge back in the cupboard, locking the door to keep it safe. He pitied the child he’d been before it came into his life. How old had he been? Six? Nearly seven? It was hard to remember his exact age, but he’d never forget the day he’d been introduced to its exquisite pain.

  “You promised me. You promised!”

  He stood outside his parents’ bedroom, ear pressed to the door. His mother’s voice screeched, but his father spoke so quietly it was hard to pick out the words. He loved his father, nothing ever made him angry. His mother was different, nothing ever made her happy. Not even when he did really, really well in his spelling tests or mental arithmetic.

  “You promised me no more whoring. You stink of that slut’s perfume.”

  “What do you expect? I’m a man, not a monk. I have needs.”

  “You disgust me.”

  He jumped as something smashed against the inside of the door and he stepped back, ready to run if one of his parents came out.

  Now his father raised his voice.

  “My desires are natural. You’re the one with a problem. If you allowed me into your bed I wouldn’t need to go elsewhere to...”

  “I can’t,” his mother yelled. “You know that. I can’t. It’s a sin.”

  “No, it isn’t. How do you think I feel, knowing you whip yourself with that disgusting thing rather than sleep with me? Just because you’re frigid, don’t expect me to stay celibate.”

  “It’s a sin unless it’s to procreate.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start on that again. I’m as good a catholic as you are, but...”

  “No you’re not,” his mother yelled. “If you were, you wouldn’t run around with dirty whores.”

  “I don’t run around with them. I pay because you...”

  “Don’t say it. Don’t say it,” she screeched.

  “Don’t say what? That you would rather whip your own back until it bleeds than do what comes naturally?”

  “Get out. Get out.”

  Footsteps approached. He fled to his room, shutting the door as quietly as he could. Flinging himself on his bed, he reached for Mr Sam, the best teddy in the world. Mr Sam would make him feel better. Tears dripped onto the teddy’s head. He tried not to make a noise, but the sobs rose in his throat and he couldn’t hold them back.

  He heard his father stomping down the stairs and then the front door slammed. Using his sleeve, he wiped his eyes and prayed his mother wouldn’t be in one of her moods when he went downstairs. Maybe he shouldn ’t go down. Maybe he could hide up here until his father came home. Maybe...

  The door crashed open and his mother stood in the opening.

  “Are you snivelling again, boy? Are you like your weak-willed father?”

  The question was always the same and he could never work out what the right answer was. When he said no, she beat him for lying. If he said yes, she beat him to make him stronger willed. This time he stayed silent and it seemed to work because she came to the bed and sat down on the edge, drawing him into an embrace.

  “Poor baby, it isn’t your fault,” she whispered.

  He allowed himself to be held, but it felt awkward. He wasn’t used to being crushed against her like this. He didn’t know what to do with his arms, so left them hanging limply at his side. She pulled him in even more and he found it hard to breathe. The tighter she hugged, the more he struggled for breath. Suffocating, he finally lifted his hands to push against her, desperate to drag air into his lungs.

  His hands connected with the softest flesh he’d ever felt. They seemed to sink deep into her chest. She pulled away and threw him back against the bed. Standing up, she towered over him.

  “I knew it! You dirty little bastard! Just like your father.”

  Not knowing what he’d done wrong, he stayed silent, cowering away from her.

  “Did you enjoy touching my breasts?” She smacked his head. “Answer me. Did you enjoy it? Did you? Did you? Did you?”

  Each question was accompanied by a blow, each one harder than the one before. Then she stopped hitting him and took hold of his hair, dragging him from the bed and throwing him to the floor.

  “Do you know what happens when you touch a woman?”

  He had no idea if it was safe to speak, so shook his head.

  “You burn in hellfire, that’s what happens to dirty little bastards who can’t keep their hands to themselves.”

  She grabbed his hair once more and dragged him from his bedroom. His legs scraped against the doorframe and bounced along the hallway to his parents’ room. She let go of his hair and he fell in a heap at the foot of his parents’ bed. Leaving him sobbing on the carpet amidst shards of broken porcelain, she crossed to the door and locked it.

  “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget,” she said as she turned back into the room.

  She took off her blouse and he watched, mesmerised, as the dark blue silk fell to the floor. Then she removed the lacy thing she had on underneath. Coming over to him, she pulled him up by his hair.

  “Touch them. Go on, it’s what you want to do. Touch them,” she whispered.

  He’d never heard her speak so gently. She almost sounded as if she cared about him. He reached up with one hand and stroked the soft flesh. She groaned and he snatched his hand away, terrified that he’d upset her again, but she took both of his hands in hers and guided them to her body.

  “Feel them,” she said. “It’s what men want to do. It’s what you’ll want to do when you grow up. I have to teach you right from wrong. It’s my duty.”

  As he touched her, she groaned again, but kept tight hold of his hands, so that he couldn’t move them away.

  “Kiss them,” she said, dropping to her knees. “Kiss my breasts.”

  Her voice sounded funny, but she’d never been so gentle with him before, so he knew it was okay. He leaned forward to do as she’d asked. The next moment he flew backwards as she let go of his hands and smacked him across the face. He sprawled on the floor, scrabbling to get away as she came after him.

  “Dirty little bastard. You enjoyed that, didn’t you? Well, now you get to find out what the price is for touching a woman’s body.”

  Glaring at him, she moved to the small cupboard at the side of her bed. As she knelt down to open the door, he saw that her back was covered in cuts and scars. She reached into the cupboard and pulled out a thing he’d never seen before. It looked like a handle with lots of thin strips hanging from it.

  “Get up,” she demanded. “Take your shirt off and come here.”

  His hands shook, but he did as she ordered. When he stood in front of her, she grabbed his hand and forced the handle into it. Still gripping his hand tightly, she flicked her wrist and the thin strips flew over his shoulder and cut into his back. She flicked again and the thongs cut into his back over the other shoulder. He cried out with pain and she smiled.

  “Good boy,” she said. “It has to hurt. You have to learn right from wrong.”

  She let go of his hand and the lash fell to the floor.

  “Pick it up,” she said. “Ten lashes this time. Five over each shoulder.”

  When he didn’t move, she leant forward and gently stroked his cheek.

  “Don’t cry. This is for your own good. You must d
o it or I’ll have to whip you and that will hurt much more.”

  He reached down. The handle was too big for his small hands, so he was forced to use both to make the lashes fly over his shoulders. As the spurs bit into his flesh, he cried out, but with each lash he could see his mother’s smile become more tender.

  “You won’t grow up to be like your father. You won’t try to force any woman to defile her body. I’ll make sure of that.”

  When he’d whipped his back for the tenth time he dropped the scourge, tears coursing down his cheeks. She knelt in front of him and drew his body in close against hers.

  “It’s okay. Don’t cry, Mummy’s here. This will be our secret. Our special times together. Just the two of us.”

  She did love him, after all.

  ***

  Barbara Royston and her assistant, Chris, had already started the autopsy when Paolo and Dave arrived. She looked up and nodded in acknowledgement, but didn’t pause in her examination. Why the hell Paolo could never be on time for anything was beyond her. She wondered if he’d arrived late deliberately so he’d miss most of it. She knew he wasn’t particularly squeamish, but he’d told her he felt there was something obscene about watching another person being picked apart.

  She murmured into the dictaphone, recording the trauma the victim had suffered. Only when she’d finished the post-mortem did she again glance up at Paolo and Dave.

  “She was about seventeen or eighteen. I’d say she’s been dead for approximately ten days. The injuries are consistent with those suffered by the victim last month. She’s undergone the same degree of violence to the upper body and head, but no trauma from the waist down. It’s almost as if he hates the upper part of the woman’s body.”

  She gestured to the girl’s breasts.

  “There’s something odd about the way both bodies were treated. They were washed from top to toe, had under their nails cleaned and all stray hairs removed from the pubic region, but were left with semen on their breasts. Now why would someone go to all that trouble to clean the corpse, but leave DNA behind?”