by Ed O'Connor
Underwood had been right.
49
Mary Colson was afraid and disorientated. She had slept poorly again and had found it impossible to eat anything. She was also discovering that her daily sparring sessions with Doreen O’Riordan were gradually wearing her down. The realisation that this situation was precisely what Doreen was seeking had upset her even more. She had also been switched onto more powerful drugs to control the symptoms of her deteriorating Parkinson’s disease. The side effects were unsettling. Mary sat in her armchair all afternoon. She had begun to feel uncomfortably warm and was finding it painful to swallow her tea. The doctor had warned her what to expect from her worsening symptoms. She could cope with the physical difficulties but found the erosion of her powers of concentration and reasoning distressing. Mary had begun to find herself standing in certain parts of her house with no recollection of why she was there.
Worst of all were the hallucinations. Mostly these came in the form of voices, some immediately identifiable, others curious hybrids born of her imagination. This upset Mary. She was becoming unable to use her gift. She found that the spirit voices she had once heard were becoming absorbed and corrupted by her aural hallucinations. It had become harder for her to distinguish between them at precisely the time that her mental powers had started to wane at an alarming speed.
‘As you know, Mary,’ she heard the doctor say, ‘Parkinson’s is a progressive neurological disorder …’
‘I’m eating your fudge.’ Doreen’s voice swam out of the kitchen.
‘Leave my fudge alone,’ Mary heard herself say.
‘As the nerve cells in the brain degenerate, you’ll find it harder to get around the house … your muscles will feel stiff and uncomfortable …’
‘The natural habitat of the gorilla has been critically eroded by deforestation and hunting …’ said the television that wasn’t turned on.
‘You can’t eat that, Mary,’ Doreen’s voice reminded her of an irritated school teacher, ‘it’s got nuts in it.’
‘The degeneration causes a shortage of a chemical called dopamine in the brain … this makes it harder for your brain to send and receive messages from your muscles …’
‘It’s got nuts in it,’ Doreen insisted.
‘The man who died today was your friend, Mr Underwood.’ Mary remembered that she had said that herself.
‘Yes he was.’ Underwood’s voice floated over from her sofa.
‘I’m prescribing you a more powerful dopamine agonist to compensate for this.’ Mary heard the sound of tearing paper as the doctor had removed a prescription form.
‘Remember the keys?’ asked Underwood’s dead friend.
‘Ready for your box, Mary?’ asked a voice that she didn’t recognize.
‘It’s got nuts in it,’ Doreen said.
Mary Colson tried hard to concentrate the conversation away. She looked around the empty living room and realized that she had to try and keep her brain occupied. However, this time her puzzle brain seized on particular words hidden in the jumble and built conversations out of them. The jumble on the page seemed to become projected into the room, a melange of nonsense broken only by occasional words that she recognized. She put the puzzle book away.
Perhaps she could do something around the house. Mary decided to open the kitchen window: she was sweating beneath her cardigan and felt that a breeze might help her. The shaking in her arms and legs had abated over the previous hour and she felt confident enough to try it. Shuffling the short distance to the kitchen was easier than she had expected and Mary felt her confidence and mood increase. The volume of the voices began to recede and as she fumbled open the kitchen window the cooling breeze on her face calmed her agitation. Then, she noted with annoyance that Doreen hadn’t bothered to take her rubbish out to the front of her house.
‘It’s bin day tomorrow,’ she heard herself say. ‘Don’t you forget, Fatty.’
‘Eat your breakfast,’ Doreen had muttered.
Mary tried to lift the bag. It wasn’t heavy. There was a slight drizzle in the air but she felt strong enough and confident enough to perform the task herself. She dragged the bag through to the front hall and unlocked the door. She peered outside and gingerly stepped down onto her front pathway, after ensuring her door was left on the catch: she had been caught out like that before.
She heard a dog bark. Halfway down her pathway, Mary felt a terrible flash of fear.
‘The dream always ends the same way,’ said her own voice from inside the house, ‘when the dog-man appears.’
The dog barked again, louder this time. Mary squinted out into the fuzzy near distance. She couldn’t see anyone but then her vision was poor. She struggled to the front of her garden and left the bag by her front gate. Now she could see movement: two shapes walking towards her.
‘The dream always ends the same way …’
One of the shapes was a man, the other was a large dog jumping around him excitedly. Mary felt a rush of panic and terror. She turned and tried to hurry back to the house, her weakening nerve cells misfiring in her agitation. She stumbled and fell against the cold, damp concrete. It struck her face before she had time to put her hands out in front of her.
‘Ready for your box, Mary?’ asked the voice again.
She lay on her side as the world blurred around her. She could see the green fuzz of the grass, the grey sky falling in on her and the face of a dog. She could smell its breath, feel its tongue rough and wet against her face. There was a man standing above her, peering down at her. She could taste blood in her mouth. She accepted the darkness gratefully.
50
Fulford Heath and the surrounding lanes had been closed off. A group of ramblers were watching the police vans and squad cars arrive from the edge of the police cordon. The EC135 police helicopter stood forlornly at the edge of the heath. The rain began to fall with greater strength and regularity. Underwood looked around the desolate land, its rough grass and clumps of entangling hedgerow. It was a fitting site. Mary Colson had been right to have nightmares about it. The scene of crime officers and forensic investigators worked methodically around the ditch that had contained the four bodies. Underwood found their spectral white overalls disturbing.
Dexter joined him. ‘Are you as freaked by this as me?’
Underwood nodded. ‘The old lady was right.’
‘So were you. You figured out the rifle range.’
Underwood didn’t feel any satisfaction. ‘How many bodies?’
‘Four,’ said Dexter, ‘two male, two female.’
‘Any ID on them?’
‘Nothing. All four bodies are naked. None had any personal effects with them. All four have been decapitated.’
‘Jensen?’
‘It’s impossible to say at the moment, but one of the female bodies appears to be of the right build and age. Harrison is convinced that it’s her.’
‘We have her prints on record presumably?’ Underwood asked.
‘In her file. I’ll make sure Leach gets a copy.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Middle-aged male and a younger male of between thirty and forty. Jensen – if it is Jensen – and another woman of approximately same age.’
‘Twenties to thirties?’
‘Right.’
Underwood was curious. The victims were not natural selections. Serial killers tended to prey on groups of similar social, sexual and ethnic background. The two male victims intrigued him. Both were potentially difficult targets: potentially physically strong and experienced. He remembered Jack Harvey was also in reasonable physical condition before he was murdered. Why would the killer choose such potentially awkward victims? Unless …
‘He knew them,’ Underwood said abruptly. ‘He knew all of them.’
‘Jensen?’
‘She was with Rowena Harvey. The killer obviously knew the Harveys. Jensen just got in the way. He’s killing people he knows, for a specific reason
. Identify the bodies and we’ll catch him.’
‘That is easier said than done. Two are badly decomposed. Without the heads we won’t be able to use dental records. We’ll just have to wait for the post-mortem results. Maybe one had some particular disease or surgery that could help us when we cross reference with missing persons. It’ll take time though and it may not produce anything at all.’
‘Fuck it.’ Underwood felt his stomach knot in frustration. He knew Dexter was right but he kept thinking of Rowena Harvey.
‘There’s one other thing,’ Dexter said. ‘This won’t cheer you up but it might give us some encouragement. In the sack containing the middle-aged man we found five ten-pence coins. In the sack containing the female victim – not Jensen – we found four coins. In the sack containing the younger man we found a single coin. Now if you combine that with the three coins we found on Jack Harvey and the two in Jensen’s car …’
‘Five, four, three, two, one,’ said Underwood quietly.
‘It’s a countdown. You were right. That’s something, isn’t it?’ said Dexter, trying to encourage him. ‘Something we can work on.’
‘No,’ Underwood replied quietly. ‘It means we’ve run out of time.’
Dexter turned as Marty Farrell approached them from the direction of the ditch.
‘The bodies are being moved now, guv,’ he said to Dexter, ‘we’re taking them to Addenbrookes. Their resources are better than New Bolden’s. I’ll call Leach and send him there.’
‘Thanks, Marty,’ Dexter replied. ‘Anything else?’
‘We’ve got tyre tracks, pretty good ones, heading to and from the ditch. Mr Bennett, the guy who found the bodies comes here regularly. He swears blind that the tracks weren’t here last week. It’s a good bet they belong to our man.’
‘Anything we can go on?’ Underwood asked.
‘We’re taking photos and casts now. There’s a good impression of the tread. We’ll certainly be able to match tyre type.’
‘What about the car?’ Underwood continued. ‘Will we be able to ID it based on the tracks?’
‘Maybe. It’s early days but given the dimensions we’ve got – you know, the distances between the left and right tyres, between the front and rear axles, and the depth of the tyre impressions in the mud – I’d say we’re looking for one of those fuck-off great jeep things or a people carrier. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be funny.’
‘Didn’t Harrison figure that the killer drove a flashy motor?’ Dexter asked.
‘He did,’ Farrell conceded. ‘Is he all right, by the way?’
Dexter shook her head. ‘Would you be?’
‘No. I guess not.’
‘Thanks, Marty. When you get more on the tyres will you let me know straight away.’
‘No problem,’ Farrell nodded at Underwood and walked back towards the ditch.
Dexter could see Harrison sitting in the passenger seat of one of the parked squad cars.
‘I’m going to speak to Mary Colson again,’ said Underwood. ‘She got us this far, maybe I can get something else out of her.’
Dexter agreed. ‘I should stay here.’
‘Absolutely.’ Underwood looked at Dexter for a moment, remembering his conversation with McInally. ‘Dex, is everything else okay?’
Dexter turned in surprise. ‘You my pastoral carer now?’
‘No. I just wondered. You’ve been under pressure. It can get tough.’
Dexter was taken aback, touched by her former boss’s concern. She was uncertain how to respond: opening Pandora’s box and releasing Mark Willis for Underwood’s assessment was unthinkable to her. She was also aware that Underwood had registered her hesitation.
‘Let’s get going,’ she said eventually. ‘We’ve got lots to do.’
Conversation over. Underwood turned sadly and headed towards his car. Dexter had never been good at hiding her emotions and he could read heartbreak in her eyes.
51
Max Fallon had just given Rowena Harvey her evening bed bath and taken his time applying moisturizing cream to her body. She had writhed violently and screamed into her gag, to his immense irritation. The woman appeared to have no sense of the great task for which she had been chosen. Max was finding it increasingly difficult to contain himself. However, the great day was looming and soon his incarnation would be complete. His eyes lingered on Rowena Harvey’s naked body. She was ripe for motherhood. It could all have been very different. He sat on the edge of the bed as a sunny day a month previously reared brilliantly in his memory.
He had sat in his convertible Porsche 911 outside the main entrance of the Fogle & Moore building. It was 8.30 on a Sunday morning in early April and the streets around Canary Wharf were deserted. He knew where he was but felt strangely disorientated. The buildings seemed unfamiliar, uneasy at his presence.
Under the milky ocean something is not quite right
They were temples of the Gods, thrown out of the water by the churning of the ocean. Their colours were shifting in the brilliant, white light of his divinity. The deserted glass temples still echoed with the screams and laughter of his incarnation.
Max lay back in his seat and watched the sunlight bounce off the windows of the Canary Wharf Tower, race across Cabot Square and ricochet off the mirrored glass of the Morgan Stanley building. He was faster than the beams. He waited for them at each point of their triangulation. He was, after all, a God.
He was the Soma. Created at the churning of the ocean. Deep under the milky ocean he was forged by forces beyond human comprehension.
‘Who are you talking to?’ said a female voice above him. A face silhouetted in the sunlight that he had left trailing in his wake. The face moved away, Max slid down the sunlight and tried to focus.
Liz Koplinsky tried to open the boot at the front of Max’s Porsche.
‘This is locked, buddy!’ she called out.
Max said nothing and Liz eventually climbed into the car and slung her overnight bag into the space around her feet. Max watched her closely for a second, waiting for the lights to recede. When Liz’s face emerged she was just as beautiful as he had remembered.
He would fuck her. She would incarnate his divinity.
‘Are we leaving this place any time soon? I’m on holiday as of now,’ Liz said impatiently. ‘Four weeks! Bring it on, buddy. I hope this sunshine lasts. Danny’s been running the floor since you left. He’s relocating me to head trading in Frankfurt …’
Max floated away as she babbled.
‘… it’s kinda scary I guess but the Krauts aren’t making jack shit. Their margins are way down. I’m going in like the 82nd Airborne to kick some ass. Hey! Are you listening to me?’
Max watched as the lights grouped and accelerated into the air, high above the car, spiralling like brilliant fireworks until they arced down suddenly into the splashless water.
‘Fucked up or what?’ he asked.
‘Excuse me?’ Liz laughed at the unusual comment.
The Porsche roared to life as Max mumbled a reply. They sped out of Canary Wharf and rumbled east past the Millennium Dome. Max realized as they drove past that it was a scrotum dangling between the hind legs of the Isle of Dogs.
‘How long will it take to get there?’ Liz asked as she placed her Armani sunglasses on the top of her head.
Max’s erection was starting to hurt him. It wouldn’t go away and now it hurt. It was as if someone had thrust a hammer into his perineum.
‘An hour. There’s a bottle of champagne under your seat.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Liz reached between her feet and retrieved the bottle. ‘Champagne at nine in the morning?’
‘Who gives a toss? Drink it.’
‘You swear too much, Maxy.’
‘That is not the fucking point.’ Max missed a gear and the car groaned its frustration back at him. ‘The point is it costs two hundred big ones a bottle and I bought it for you.’
‘I’m touched,’ said Liz sarcastically.
<
br /> ‘Besides,’ said Max as they jumped a red light, ‘it’ll help to take the taste away.’
‘What taste?’
The Porsche swerved across the dual carriageway as Max reached inside his jogging bottoms and pulled out his erection.
Liz laughed. ‘You are too much.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘And you can’t ask me any better than that?’
‘I’m a God.’
‘Yeah, the unemployed God of Bullshit.’
Liz peeled the foil from the top of the champagne bottle and flicked the cork out of the car with a gratifying pop. She took a deep swig of the champagne and unbuckled her seat belt.
‘You don’t deserve this,’ she said, leaning over.
‘Just fucking get on with it.’ Max was irritated. The lights rushed past the car and were tap dancing on the road in front of him. He squinted them away, looking for signs to the M11.
‘Hey! Will you stop swearing at me?’ Liz’s smile had vanished.
‘I’m sorry.’
Liz leaned over again. She slipped one hand under his balls and bent down to take his dick in her mouth. She recoiled suddenly. ‘When did you last take a shower?’
Max was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re a little ripe down there, honey.’
He was horrified at this affront to his divinity.
‘I’ve got an idea.’
Liz picked up the champagne bottle and poured a small amount over Max’s penis. He gasped as it fizzed at him. Liz reached over again and this time took him into her mouth.
‘Better?’
Liz grunted her approval. He held her head down on him. The Porsche raced towards the M11, drifting from left to right across the empty street. A few people watched the car as it roared past. Max didn’t care. He was laughing too much, laughing at the absurdity of a god with a genital hygiene issue.
They arrived at the house at 10.30. Liz was impressed.
‘Wow! When was this place built?’
‘About seventeen-fifty.’