The Handshaker
Page 10
“There’s more,” he went on. “I noticed that The Handshaker changed his notes after the murder of Margaret Griggs.”
“We did too,” she admitted, “but we couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Our psychos figured he was on something.”
Croft snorted. “Despite the fact that there is no evidence of drug addiction? Where do you get your profilers?” He narrowed an intense stare on her. “Every note tells you where he’ll strike next.”
Millie made no comment, merely sighed.
Croft shifted his seat closer to hers, and his aftershave filled her nostrils. Expensive stuff. Lagerfeld? Givenchy Pour Homme? Whatever it was, it beat the hell out of the Gillette and Adidas stuff her colleagues used.
He showed her the photocopies she had left with him and on which he had ringed the letters at the beginning and end of every line.
“They’re acrostics,” he announced. “Remember, Millie, puzzles are my thing. I spotted them almost immediately. On Margaret’s note it spells Warton and on Aileen’s it spells out Pearman’s. At first I thought he was telling us where the women were abducted from, but then I checked the background notes you gave me and they said Aileen was abducted from Warton, not Margaret, and Susan was taken from Pearman’s, not Aileen. In other words, he told you where he was going to take the next victim. Now, on Susan’s note, he’s spelled out Oaklands. That’s where the next victim would be abducted.” He paused and tears sparkled in his eyes again. “And while I was out playing detectives with you, he took Trish.”
16
Victoria ceased wriggling. The bough from which she hung creaked in the high winds, swinging her to and fro.
The Handshaker looked up at her and felt nothing now. When she was alive, awake, she struggled against her bonds and that turned him on. When she was confronted with her doom, the noose slung over the branch, slipped around her neck, she screamed and that turned him on even more. Sufficiently to let him jerk off while she kicked and danced on the end of the rope. But now that the last breath had come from her, he lost interest. It was always the same.
He walked away from her, stepping back into the woods a few paces, from where he turned and looked up at the high wall. The branch could be seen from the house on the other side, and he was certain that anyone keen-eyed enough to look closely would see the rope hanging taut from it, but Victoria could not be seen. She was too low down. Her feet were only twelve inches from the carpet of moss.
He drew a flashlight from his pocket, its beam bobbing ahead of him, and trudged back towards the car park.
During the summer months, it would be risky to hang a woman here, even in the early hours of the morning. Many couples used the woods for illicit sex, but the foul weather, the rain beating down through the trees, ensured his solitude. Lovers would be confined to their cars on a night like this and indeed he had ridden Victoria on the back seat of his car before stripping her completely and bringing her into the depths of the copse. She didn’t protest. He smiled evilly to himself. She couldn’t protest.
As always, the job had gone without a hitch. After picking her up from Fenton Road filling station, he had gone along with the rush hour traffic out of town, and by the time he arrived here, it was already dark. Victoria slept in deep hypnosis on the back seat while he listened to PM followed by the 6 o’clock news on Radio 4. By 6:30, when he had had enough of reports from Iraq and Afghanistan, he switched the radio off, climbed into the back seat, and screwed her.
Now, 7:15 and it was all over. The Handshaker guessed it was a record; for him at least. He picked her up sometime after half past four and by a quarter past seven she was dead. Less than three hours.
It was the way of the world, he reflected as he trod the sodden grass back to the car park. Everyone wanted everything now. Instant gratification. No waiting around. And so it was with Victoria. No hanging about in his back bedroom for days and days, she was hooked, fucked and hanged in a matter of hours; quick, clean and simple. If she had been given a chance, he was certain she would have thanked him for his efficiency.
Up ahead, street lighting permeated the forest. He paused. There was another car on the car park, close to his.
Shit! Just what he needed, a couple shagging in the dark. If they saw him, they wouldn’t think twice about it, but when Victoria was found they’d put two and two together and go to the law with what they’d seen, and if he stepped out now, they may very well get a description of him too.
On the other hand, the car showed no signs of movement and normally when couples were fucking, the vehicles would jiggle on their suspension, so maybe it was someone who had pulled in to take a leak or make a phone call.
An alarm bell rang in his head. Suppose the driver had recognised The Handshaker’s Ford Fiesta? That car – not his regular vehicle, obviously – had been used for every abduction and hanging, and was the most wanted vehicle in the northwest. The police had several registration numbers for it, all false, and according to the media there was a general APB out on it, but he had never yet been stopped in it. Why? Because he stuck to the law when driving, that’s why. He did not draw attention to himself, and when he was not using it, he kept it well hidden. But if this pest had seen it and made the connection, could he now be calling the cops to tell them? If so, The Handshaker could not risk driving home in it.
On a night like this, he didn’t fancy the walk home, either, and it may be that sterner action was required. He hefted the flashlight in his hand. A rubber-cased, heavy-duty affair, made even weightier by its three large batteries. A cruel smile crossed his lips. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to deal with an interfering male; there was a kid near Bristol ten, no fifteen years ago. He’d tried to intervene, stop The Handshaker taking one of his legitimate victims and what did he get for his pains? A solid fist on the jaw a hard foot to the head and a dip in the Avon … while he was still unconscious. The police fished him out somewhere near Avonmouth a few days later, and the girl had to be strangled there and then.
He did not like spur of the moment, unplanned killings. They were the kind that could get you nicked if you weren’t careful. He preferred the meticulously planned, well-executed murder, which allowed him time to savour and revel in the victim’s abject terror. However, there were times when, in the interest of expediency, instant action was called for, and this could be one such time.
He could feel the tension rising in his stomach. His grip on the flashlight tightened. One more minute and… the driver engaged the gears and drove sedately off.
The Handshaker breathed a sigh of relief. Probably someone stopping to answer a call on his mobile phone. He couldn’t have been talking to the law because if he had reported the Fiesta, he would have been obliged to wait there until the police arrived.
The Handshaker waited a few moments to ensure the driver did not return and that no other vehicles appeared. He prepared the keys in his right hand and then, when he was happy that all was clear, he stepped out into the car park, hurried across to his car, opened the driver’s door, and ducked in out of the rain, out of sight.
He considered the situation. It was always possible that the driver had called the cops anonymously and decided to clear off before they got here, but he doubted it. Such a nosy parker would be in a hurry and there was nothing rushed about the way he had driven out of the car park. The Handshaker was confident in his safety. Security enveloped him like a comfort blanket.
Using a handkerchief to wipe the rain from his hair and forehead, he congratulated himself. He had done it again. Relieved another woman of the burden of living, ensured that she had enjoyed herself, been sexually satisfied before sending her to meet her god, and he had got away with it. More than that, he had moved his grand plan on one more step.
He reached into the glove box and retrieved a plain brown envelope. It only needed posting on the way home, and the night’s work was done… almost. He needed to check on Sinclair, possibly ride her once more if he could find the energy.
Joining Huddersfield Road, he smiled at the thought of the police breaking in to find Sinclair starved to death under his dead body. It was the only hope they had of ever catching The Handshaker.
17
Millie decided that Croft was right. The Handshaker had Trish Sinclair. Police procedures meant she could not say so to him but they both knew it.
“Technically, legally,” she explained, “we can’t do anything until she’s been missing twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but I’ll make sure the team is informed and I’ll put out an APB for her car tonight. In the meantime, you should try to get some sleep and not to worry.”
Croft’s frustrated features were transformed into a mask of derision. “Wouldn’t you worry?”
Millie retracted her cliché. “Yes. Yes I would.”
“Platitudes are not the answer,” Croft told her. “Hard work is the only thing that will track him down. You do your bit, I’ll do mine. I’ll start with hypnosis, authors like Hammerschlag and Zepelli.”
Millie obviously recognised the first name from their morning interview but the second name had her stumped. “Hammerschlag and who?”
Croft left his desk and crossed to a bookshelf, from which he took a hardbound volume. “The Great Zepelli,” he declared, leaving Millie none the wiser. “I told you about him this morning. The greatest hypnotist this country, possibly the world, has ever seen.” He handed the book over. “He was also a crook. In the mid-seventies, my father was appointed prosecution counsel when Zepelli was charged with fraud.”
Taking the book from him, Millie studied the title, The Great Zepelli – A Life On Stage, and its cover, an open eye staring out at the reader. She thumbed absently through the pages, pausing to study photographs of the performer and his act.
“Your father won?”
Croft nodded. “Zepelli had extorted huge sums of money from some of his clients and volunteers – while they were hypnotised, naturally. Good old dad got him ten years. He died in prison about three years into his sentence. Heart attack.” Croft grimaced. “That’s the trouble you see. You never know what’s round the corner.”
“All the more reason to remain optimistic.” Millie offered an encouraging smile and handed the book back.
“I have Zepelli and my dad to thank for all this.” He gestured at the house.
Again she was mystified. “Huh?”
“I think I was about ten or fifteen years old and I was looking through my father’s old cases when I came across it. He kept cuttings from The Times, too, and it sparked my initial interest in hypnosis. My brain is wired up differently, you see. Later, at university, I found the minutiae, the tedium and technicalities of law too tiresome. You need to be concentrated to get through law. When I flunked it, the old man lost his cool, and I moved into English, which is just as demanding but less rigid. In reality, I was looking for something else, something that would really challenge this acrobatic mind of mine, and it was reading Zepelli’s biography that pushed me towards hypnosis. If it hadn’t been for Zepelli, I probably would not be the man I am today.”
Disregarding his brief, potted biography, Millie stood up, ready to leave. “So what do you think old Zepelli can tell you?”
Croft’s frown returned. “I don’t know. This morning, our man sent me a note pointing out The Heidelberg Case. Zepelli was an expert on it. He was also a believer in what he and Franz Walter called The Deep Secret.” Croft described speech marks with his fingers. “No one knew more about the abuse of hypnosis, than Zepelli. I don’t imagine he’s going to point out The Handshaker’s identity, but he may give me clues as to where we can begin looking for potential victims, which, in turn, may lead us to the man himself.” He sighed angrily. “I will tell you this. If we find him, you had better get to him before I do, because if I get there first, I’ll tear him apart.”
Putting the book back on the shelves, Croft escorted her to the door, bid her goodnight and Millie drove away from Oaklands just after 7:30, her opinion of Croft revised.
The assuredness with which he had turned the morning’s interview back on Shannon and herself had been thoroughly stripped away by the turn of events, leaving an exposed, distraught and vulnerable man, with only flashes of confidence showing through.
Her initial feelings had been an ambivalent annoyance at his whining, combined, she admitted to herself, with a lusty appreciation of his good looks and innate charm. Now the irritation was buried and her sympathies came to the fore. Like Croft, like Patricia Sinclair, she knew what it was like to lose someone close. Daddy, her beloved father, had passed away slowly a few years previously, and the thought of him still hurt.
The wipers swished back and forth on high speed, flushing away the pouring rain, and taking with it her wandering imagination. She – and Croft – had more pressing problems than themselves. The note this morning had been a warning and now the chase was on to find Trish Sinclair before she became the next Handshaker victim. Given their previous lack of progress on the killings, Millie was not hopeful.
She had no choice but to inform Shannon, and that would lead to an unpleasant interview on her disobedience after he had denied permission for Croft to see the earlier notes.
All she could do was ride out the storm and plead expediency. If she had not shown Croft the notes, he would not have uncovered the acrostics and they would not yet know about Trish Sinclair.
18
The Handshaker rang the bell. The curtains parted, she looked out, and a moment later answered the door.
Sandra Lumb greeted him brightly. “Come in out of the rain.”
He followed her and she closed the door behind him.
“Alf on nights is he, Sandra?” He did not need to ask. He’d seen Alf leave just after 9:30, but it was always better to make sure.
She nodded. “He’s on ten, six this week. Home about half six tomorrow morning.”
The Handshaker nodded. He turned and stared Sandra in the eye. Grabbing her wrist, he ordered, “Combarus,” and took satisfaction from the effect that the 80-year old command had on Sandra: precisely the same as it had had in Heidelberg.
Not that it was any surprise. When he first began to condition Sandra, like any of his subjects, he could have chosen anything as a post-hypnotic prompt but he enjoyed using Walter’s legendary command.
There was little physical change in Sandra. The smile faded and there was a slight glazing of the eyes as the pupils dilated. Aside from that, no one would know that she was under his complete control.
No more orders were necessary. The complex conditioning of combarus told Sandra what she must do. She began to strip off her clothing while The Handshaker feasted his greedy eyes on her.
He enjoyed Sandra regularly. She had small but firm tits, and a tight little cunt. It pleased him to think in terms of tits and cunt. Breasts and vagina were too clinical, too medical. Babies entered the world through the vagina and were fed from breasts, radiographers checked breasts for tumours, gynaecologists checked vaginas for their various problems. Men enjoyed tits not breasts; men fucked cunts, not vaginas.
Laid on the settee, she was naked but for her panties. When constructing the post-hypnotic suggestion, The Handshaker had insisted she leave those on. He savoured the thrill of taking them off. They were her last line of defence, the only thing that stood between him and her sweetness, and when he removed them it was no longer a case of her giving herself to him, but him taking her.
The Handshaker, his erection already pounding, quickly stripped his clothing, and leaned over her, his trembling fingers running over her smooth skin, toying with the tiny breasts, tweaking the nipples into hard corks, running over her warm tummy, hooking into the waistband of her panties, slowly teasing them down, exposing the
dark pubic patch, his excitement growing with every inch of freshly exposed sex. And when he knelt, she automatically opened up for him, reaching for him, dragging him into her, pulling on his backside, urging him deeper and deeper with every fresh thrust.
When it was over, he cleaned himself up, and dressed, staring down at her open vulva, now stained with his semen. The sight turned him on again, but he controlled the instinct. Time was pressing. He had an early start tomorrow and he needed some sleep.
Instead, he spoke to her.
“The illness is getting worse, Sandra. There is now no hope. Soon you will pass from this life in great pain. Here is what you must do to avoid that pain…”
November 16th
19
Breakfast at Oaklands had always been a quiet affair; not sulky but reflective. Croft preferred the silence so he could concentrate on his crossword, an aid to fine-tuning his brain for the day ahead, and Trish’s ordered, legal mind needed contemplation to plan the coming day, anticipate its pitfalls, pratfalls and high spots, and prepare for them.
Now the kitchen was more silent than ever and he missed the quiet period of deliberation they normally shared.
More cloud had moved in from the North East overnight, keeping the temperature up, but bringing gales and torrential rain across the already battered landscape.
He had barely slept. Every time he tried to calm his mind, all he could see were images of Trish; happy times, sad times, their first holiday together, the death of his mother, the death of her father, Christmas, New Year, birthdays … Trish alone, frightened, raped by The Handshaker, pleading for him to come and save her.
A phone call to Mrs Hitchins had confirmed that Trish left as usual the previous morning. “P’raps a minute or two earlier, but that’s all, Mr Croft, sir.”
Zepelli’s biography had been of little help.