Rock'n'Roll Suicide (Jack Lockwood Mystery Series Book 1)

by Geoffrey West

  I had the overwhelming certainty that it was somehow deeply immoral to be interfering in the circumstances of this poor woman’s death, which was none of our business. The more I saw of Ken’s liveliness, his eager anticipation of what we might find, the more irritated I felt. For a moment I saw him in the unwitting guise of some carrion crow, taking preliminary pecks at a corpse.

  Ken was walking around eagerly, lifting items from the floor, examining the bed.

  “Look Ken,” I said. “We’ve no right to be here. Let’s go. We’ve seen all there is to see.”

  “Come on Jack, Eden gave us the keys. Now we’re here, we may as well look around.”

  “What for?” I shook my head, trying to stifle the growing surge of fury. “We’re not trained Scenes-of-Crime officers, and even if we were, what the hell could we possibly find? This place has already been examined by experts, so raking around her is just ghoulish and utterly pointless. The French police will have taken away anything relevant, run all kinds of tests themselves. I’m not Sherlock Holmes and you’re certainly not bloody Watson. We’re not going to find a lock of hair or a fingerprint on the floor, or a confession signed in blood! And even if we did, what the hell would we do with it? If the police had found any suspicion of foul play, don’t you think they’d have broadcast the fact? The postmortem is inconclusive, but that’s because no one is ever going to know exactly what happened, least of all us. We shouldn’t have come here. It’s a mistake. It’s all a waste of time.”

  “A waste of time?” Ken looked angry, his face flushing to a dark red. “Look, Jack, have you forgotten I’m doing you a big favour here? You lost the contract for Crash and Burn, which incidentally I got for you in the first place, and I’m trying to help you resurrect something from the mess! You agreed that it was worth investigating these unexplained deaths.”

  “Investigating Lucinda’s death? No mate, That was your idea.”

  “So why did you want to come?”

  “I thought there might be some point. But, look around you Ken!” I sighed wearily, trying to placate him, not wanting our argument to get out of hand. “I was wrong – can’t you see that? We were both wrong. This is the end of the road.”

  “So why the change of heart, Jack?” Ken was controlled and bitter. “Haven’t you got the stomach for investigating something like this? Just like you didn’t have the guts to tell that bitch you were finished with her?”

  I glared at him.

  “What do you mean, That bitch?”

  “Shelly Hart, the woman you ran away from! The woman you daren’t even talk to because you were too shit scared!”

  I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to smash his face to a pulp.

  “Face it, Jack, you’ve got no sticking power,” Ken was furious, talking loudly, waving his hands around. “You make a decision then you change your mind, because you haven’t got the bottle to see it through. You were determined to write Crash and Burn with the updated version of how Maggi O’Kane actually died, stating that she was a victim and not a killer. But when Giles put the pressure on, what did you do? You caved in. If Giles hadn’t dropped you afterwards you’d have rolled over to please him, writing up the massacre according to popular legend, and integrity go hang! You change your mind like the weather, Jack, and you’ve got no staying power!”

  “Do you want to know why I came here with you, Ken?”

  “Because, just like everything else, you wanted to try doing this at first, then, when it didn’t look easy, you wanted to give up. Just like you gave up on your marriage.”

  “I came here with you because I thought there might be some point. But also because you said you wanted a break from Natalie and the children. You wanted to come, so I came with you. Underneath it I never really thought we’d find out anything about Lucinda Lee’s death, it was always going to be a long shot.”

  “Really? Well I’m sorry for inconveniencing you, Jack, especially if coming away with me is such a bore!”

  “For Christ’s sake!” My head was throbbing, and the pain in my legs was getting worse. “Just admit it, we’ve both fucked up! All I’m saying is, we’re getting nowhere here and we may as well leave. Let’s just give Eden the keys back, hit a few bars, see the sights, spend another night here and then go home.”

  “Give up? Yes, that’s you all over, isn’t it Jack? Give up, take the easy way out, because you haven’t got the balls to see it through!”

  “Look, Ken, what the hell has brought this on? What’s the matter?”

  “You can be a selfish bastard, Jack.”

  “For Christ’s sake don’t behave like a bloody child–”

  “Just you fuck off Jack! I’ve had enough!”

  He swept out of the flat in front of me, leaving me with the job of locking up. By the time I had done so his footsteps were clattering away at the bottom of the stairs, and I heard the outer door slam.

  I followed him to the outside and took a few deep breaths. The sky had clouded over and it was now dark and ominous. I felt sick, weary and confused. My headache was getting worse, and I started shivering, recognising the first symptoms of flu. I found Eden Langford at the Pompidou centre restaurant as before and gave him back the keys, thanked him, then returned to the hotel, went up to my room, took some of my painkillers and went to bed. I was trembling more now, and felt as if I’d got a temperature. Then I fell into one of the deepest sleeps I can ever remember.

  Was I a selfish bastard? Maybe so. And maybe Ken had a point that I’d given up on things too easily. But I didn’t change my mind about the folly of chasing around after the ghost of Lucinda Lee, that was clearly a hiding to nothing. I had to make allowances for Ken’s behaviour. He had been under a lot of stress recently, with Natalie’s supposed affair, and the misery of failing to find a job, plus of course ever-present money worries. All I could do was apologise when I next saw him.

  In the morning, at around ten am, I knocked on the door to Ken’s room. There was no reply, and when I asked at the reception desk, they told me he’d checked out early and paid his bill. I thought of phoning him to sort out the ridiculous row that had erupted between us, but there was no reply from his mobile.

  * * * *

  Two days later, Thursday 4th of December, I was at home, just hanging up the phone, having spoken to yet another publisher, in the hope of selling Crash and Burn, the book I’d almost completed, but for the Maggi O’Kane chapter. It was the usual story: send in some chapters and a synopsis, but we’re not commissioning much due to the current economic climate.

  To my relief, just after I’d returned home from Paris, Ken had phoned to apologise, and it was a relief the ridiculous argument was behind us.

  “Look I’m sorry about everything,” he began. “I’ve been an absolute idiot. It’s just the stress and worry and everything else was getting on top of me, and I took it out on you.”

  “Forget it,” I said gratefully. “As you said I have been selfish.”

  I quickly switched the conversation to more general matters, not wanting to dissect our argument. It was a huge relief to be back to normal. Ken had seen the sense in dropping the investigation into Lucinda Lee’s death, and also the other deaths of clients of LoneWolf, that he’d told me about.

  That evening there was an item at the end of the TV news that I almost missed. The female reporter, a trim blonde in a red coat, was standing in front of a white building, holding a microphone:

  ‘This is the Royal Berkshire hospital where this morning convicted mass murderer Edward Van Meer made his escape by killing his guard in the toilets, changing into the man’s clothes, and walking out of the main exit. Police are working on the assumption that he’d faked his alleged heart attack, as a means of being moved to the relatively soft security regime of this hospital, when everyone assumed he was too weakened to make a bid to escape. The police guard, Andrew Holding, was a married man with three children…’

  Oh shit.

  Edward Van Meer was on the r
un.

  He’d already killed once to effect his escape and he’d kill again, because now he had nothing whatsoever to lose. He’d know that with every police force out to find him it would only be a matter of time before he was recaptured. So he’d enjoy himself whilever he could. He’d be hunted down like a wild dog, but he was clever and crafty, and he’d always be one step ahead. He’d lose no time in trying to find me to get his revenge.

  There was a loud cracking noise. It sounded as if it was outside the front door.

  Then all the lights went out.

  Chapter 9

  TOO MUCH PSYCHOLOGY

  Darkness and fear. I froze for a few moments, wondering if Van Meer was out there, having cut the power to my house. Was even now tiptoeing towards a door or window. Breaking in.

  Getting up, fumbling through the door into the kitchen, I tried the light switch in that room. Nothing. I remembered I had a torch in a drawer, groped across the room to find it. The flashlight’s yellow cone of light was some comfort. I was straining as hard as I could to hear but there were no more sounds from outside, apart from the lonely hoot of an owl and the gentle drone of a distant car’s horn. I waited another few minutes then picked up my mobile, asked directory enquiries for the electricity company, was put through and told there’d been a power cut for the entire Glossop Valley area.

  I went to the back door and looked out. All seemed in order, except that instead of the usual vista of lights on the Glossop Valley hillside, there was nothing but moonlit darkness. Maybe the cracking noise had been a car backfiring on the distant road, or maybe timber shrinking and moving in the house, or even the sound of whatever electrical fault had caused the blackout, perhaps some kind of short circuit under the road.

  The outlook was much the same at the front door. The night was clear and bright, I could see the trees at the end of the drive, and there was nothing more sinister than the glimmering flash of moonlight in the surface of a puddle in the lane.

  The news report had said that Van Meer had been on the run for almost a day now. And the homicidal multi-murderer blamed me for his capture. When it came to the people he was going to want to kill, I was probably at the top of his list.

  The landline phone rang and I snatched it up.

  “Hi, is that Jack Lockwood?”

  A woman’s voice, young, educated, chirpy.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Melanie Deeprose. Do you remember, we spoke on the phone a few days ago?”

  Melanie Deeprose? I struggled to place the name.

  “I’m the psychology student who asked you if you’d come with me to talk to Edward Van Meer?” Her words held that irritating ‘question mark’ lilt at the end, as if she was daring me not to believe her.

  “I remember.”

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “Just now. How the hell did he get away?”

  “I’ve heard a few things, but I’d rather not talk on the phone. Listen, Dr Lockwood, I’m–er–I’m actually in Canterbury now, on my way to London. Is there any chance we could meet up?”

  “Just tell me where.”

  * * * *

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you look exhausted, Jack. Have you been ill?”

  “I’ve had a few problems.”

  “And I guess this must be the icing on the cake.”

  When I’d first met ‘Just call me Mel’ Deeprose I’d had quite a surprise. I’d been expecting a woman in her twenties, an eager academic type, perhaps because her voice on the phone sounded so enthusiastic and eager. But the Melanie Deeprose sitting opposite me was nearer 50 than 30, and she had a somewhat emaciated, parchment-pale face, with a tight, thin mouth that had a network of fine lines around its edges. I noticed the way that her smiles were transient flickers of the lips, leaving her pale blue eyes full of their perpetual angst. Strands of her short wispy blonde hair splayed out across one eye every time she nodded her head, and she continually swept them backwards with a fidgety bony-fingered hand that was decorated with several jewel encrusted rings. She was wearing a mauve rollneck jersey and black trousers, and each time she leaned forwards to talk, a fresh wave of sickly sweet perfume cut the air, and I was morbidly intrigued by the smudge of red lipstick that decorated a front tooth. Oddly enough I had the feeling that I’d seen her face somewhere before, but I couldn’t think where. Several times I was on the point of remembering who she reminded me of, then the moment was gone. Was it the eyes? An expression? The set of the mouth? However hard I tried, I couldn’t catch the memory.

  The public house was crowded, a large place situated almost opposite The Westgate, a grand castle-like structure that formed an arch over the road, what had once been one of the medieval Canterbury’s gatehouses in the old city walls. Our table was beside a party of young men who kept erupting into enthusiastic laughter, their guttural barking mirth grating on my stretched-to-the limit nerves.

  “So where do you think Van Meer will go?” she asked, with the breathless urgency I wished I hadn’t had to get used to.

  Again the perfume wafted across, making me feel nauseous. I noticed a tic under her left eye, one more jerky movement to add to her frenetic voice and those wild fluttering hands.

  “You’ve made a study of him over the past weeks,” I said. “So your guess is better than mine.”

  “The police think he might contact me.” A sullen pout, stretching the lines around her mouth. “They’ve given me a special number to call if that happens. What do you think I should do?”

  “There’s nothing you can do except wait for the police to recapture him.”

  “He doesn’t know my address, of course. But he’ll find it.”

  “Why would he want to trace you?” I asked.

  “He was interested in me, I could tell.”

  “Interested in you? You mean sexually?”

  She nodded. “I had that feeling he fancied me. The way his eyes lingered on my chest, furtive little glances at my legs.”

  “I thought he was homosexual.”

  “Bisexual.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what he told me.” She speared a leaf of lettuce on her fork. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, Jack, but whether his homosexuality is relevant or not, Edward certainly has some kind of a, well a fixation about you. He blames you for getting him captured. I don’t want to worry you even more, but he actually told me he’s set his heart on killing you. Obviously a meaningless fantasy while he was locked up. I think his obsession with you is actually a bit weird, as if it’s something almost sexual with him.”

  “You’ve made my day.”

  “Sorry. It’s just I felt I should–”

  “It’s okay – it’s something I was already aware of. Look…” I cast my mind back to that nightmare time when I was trapped in the attic with him and the corpses of the two women. “Obviously Van Meer’s sadistic urges are sexual to some extent, of course they are. All the time he was torturing me I had the feeling that he was building up to some kind of climax. Killing me was going to be the pinnacle of his pleasure, and at the last moment he was cheated of it – small wonder he’s determined to recapture the thrill if he can. Plus of course if he kills me now he has nothing to lose. That was why I knew your idea of me meeting him would have been a monumental mistake.”

  “How right you were. I realised it the first time I mentioned your name to him, and, my God, you should have seen his face!” she agreed. “He went on and on talking to me, getting more and more excited, telling me how he blamed you for everything that had happened to him. One day he actually said that he was determined to somehow escape, just so that he could kill you and then, he said, oh God, I don’t quite know how to say this…”

  “Go on.”

  “Well he was excited. He had this manic look in his eyes. He said he was going to tie you up, then kill you very slowly indeed – something about slicing little cuts all over your body, and letting your blood drain slowly. And then h
e said that…” She closed her eyes in distaste. “I don’t like to say it.”

  “For God’s sake tell me!”

  “Well, I’m sorry Jack, but he said he was going to cut open your abdomen while you were still alive. And… And disembowel you.”

  There was a silence. I felt sick. “So how did he manage to escape?”

  “You must’ve heard on the news about his heart attack? From what I’ve gathered it was self induced. They originally thought he’d taken a drug that accelerated the heartbeat to a dangerous level, but of course the mystery was how on earth could he have got hold of it, when every visitor is searched and the guards wouldn’t even be able to get hold of medications like that. The latest theory is he did it himself. He was taking yoga lessons in prison. Apparently he was a highly skilled yogist already – that he knew almost as much as the teacher did. The idea of yoga is to be able to control every organ in your body. The theory is, that he was able to go into a trance and self induce the symptoms of a heart attack. So of course he was rushed into intensive care in the nearest major hospital.”

  “The symptoms being?”

  “Sky-high blood pressure, which he could induce using his yoga techniques. He could claim chest pains, arm pains that couldn’t be clinically verified. He could hardly falsify the blood tests, but they’d only be done once he was in hospital – the priority was to rush him there. The clever thing is that since they initially assumed it was a heart attack – which is incidentally quite hard to diagnose anyway – they’d also assume blood vessels could be occluded, possibly having caused damage to the heart muscle, meaning he’d be in no fit state to even walk, let alone escape. So he wasn’t handcuffed, or chained to the bed.”