The Handshaker

by David Robinson

  Croft had seriously researched The Heidelberg Case for over a decade and, in fifteen years of hypnotic practice, he had never come across a case of instant somnambulism, as described in the case, other than where a subject had been previously hypnotised and a post-hypnotic suggestion implanted to the effect that when they heard the trigger word they would fall instantly into a light state which would then rapidly deepen. And yet … and yet, Zepelli insisted it was a possibility and in his discussion on The Heidelberg Case, he maintained that Franz Walter was a master of the Deep Secret, that esoteric means of inducing instantaneous, somnambulist hypnosis without uttering a sound.

  But Zepelli was a performer, not a doctor, and what he did not know about the workings of the human mind would fill volumes. Croft too, knew very little of the inner workings of the mind, but he lived in a more informed age than Zepelli.

  There were, Croft would agree, many ways in which a hypnotic-like state could be achieved instantly. The terror of imminent death, whereby the victim would be immobilised by disbelief, for example. There was also the enchantment of pure joy; a child transfixed by Christmas scenes on TV or in the town centre. None of these produced true hypnosis, meaning, as far as Croft was concerned, that both Walter and The Handshaker must have used tried and tested methods of induction without anyone, particularly the victims, realising.

  Had Trish been hypnotised? If so it could only have been during her recent counselling sessions. Croft made a note on the corner of his newspaper to track down the counsellor concerned.

  Mrs Hitchins arrived, delivered a mute “Good morning, Mr Croft, sir,” and placed the mail on the kitchen table.

  For years Croft had asked her to call him by his given name, but she refused. It would be too familiar. He insisted that she did not call him ‘sir’, but again she would not budge, but she did agree to compromise and address him as ‘Mr Croft, sir’.

  “Sit down a moment, Christine,” he invited, and she baulked. Croft insisted with a grim nod at the chair opposite, and Mrs Hitchins acquiesced.

  Uncertain where or how to begin, Croft cleared his throat. “Ms Sinclair is … er … missing …”

  “Oh dear lord.”

  Her reaction was not entirely unexpected. Mrs Hitchins had never made any secret of the fact that she did not like Trish, but accepted that it was not her place to criticise her employer’s living arrangements and Croft knew that her concern would be for himself first and common compassion for Trish next.

  He was glad of her interjection. It gave him time to pull his thoughts together.

  “At the moment, we know nothing more than that,” he went on, “and it may be that there is an entirely innocent explanation for it, but other factors, which I won’t go into, lead me to conclude that she may be in some danger. Yesterday morning, after I left, was there anything out of the ordinary about her or her routine?”

  “No. Like I said on the phone last night, she was a little early, but only by a few minutes.”

  Croft nodded automatically, his thought processes working through the possibilities. He was no detective. He had no idea what kind of questions he was supposed to ask.

  “All right, Christine. The police may want a word with you later.”

  Mrs Hitchins left the table, crossed to the broom cupboard where she hung her coat and umbrella, and switched on the radio.

  Croft picked up the morning mail, sifting through the usual collection of bills, statements, official letters, and junk, putting to one side those that were addressed to Trish, until he came across a plain, brown DL envelope bearing his name and address produced on a typewriter.

  The second in as many days. He felt as if the anticipated death of a close family member had been suddenly announced: bad news that was both expected and unwelcome at the same time. On the other side of the kitchen, ostensibly setting the volume on the radio, Mrs Hitchins gave it a glance, her elderly features set in a grimace of distaste.

  Croft’s hand shook. Inside, he was a tumble of different emotions; fear, anger, bewilderment, and curiosity, a need to know what this evil man had to say for himself now, an overwhelming desire to understand why he, Croft, had been dragged into this twisted world, and the urgent need to prevent another death, to be with Trish, ahead of the game and ensure that not one more person was hurt by this sadistic individual.

  The 7:30 news burst in on his thoughts.

  “Concern is growing for a Scarbeck woman who went missing from Fenton road petrol station late yesterday afternoon. Eyewitnesses said that Victoria Reid had paid for her petrol and was then accosted by a tall man dressed in a shabby, army style anorak. She climbed into a car with him and was driven off, leaving her car on the pumps. The man fits the description of a man the police want to interview in connection with The Handshaker murders, and speculation is increasing that Victoria may be the next victim.”

  Croft knew different. The Handshaker had already chosen his next victim and it was not this missing woman.

  Picking up a table knife, he slit the envelope along its seal, popped it, and poured out the single sheet. Once again, the lines were produced on a typewriter.

  Mal’s drab un gows over the top

  don’t matter a fag over dice or trivia bint

  I pail a ricin scart won’t be suspended

  going to glory in gr8t big bang not a whimper

  l8r with Cliff or Tex wile rawl tarn fez

  looses number wun spot to shade then hark

  The first thing he noticed was that there was no acrostic, but while it made no sense, it was littered with anagrams. Most of them would need other clues and a lot of work, but Croft recognised two of them right away. Cliff or Tex and I pail a ricin scart were anagrams of Felix Croft and Patricia Sinclair.

  Hands still shaking, he picked up his mobile phone, flipped it open, called up the address book, selected the police station number, and punched the call button. A moment later he was speaking with Sergeant Simpson. “It’s Felix Croft. I saw Superintendent Shannon yesterday if you remember.”

  “I remember,” replied the sergeant, sounding just as surly on the phone as he had in person. “And what can we do for you today, Mr Croft?”

  “Is Shannon there?”

  “No, sir,” replied Simpson. “He won’t be in until about nine.”

  “Inspector Matthews, then?” Croft asked. “I’ll speak to her if she’s available.”

  There was a delay, during which Mrs Hitchins watched him from across the room. Croft smiled encouragingly back to her. Eventually, Millie came on the line and announced herself.

  “Good morning, Millie,” he greeted her. “I’ve received another envelope. I think it confirms our worst fears.”

  Millie clucked impatiently. “You mean you’ve opened it?”

  “Of course.”

  “That was a bloody stupid thing to do,” she berated him. “You may have spoiled whatever forensic it contained.”

  Croft was in no mood to apologise. “It was addressed to me, I believed it may have news about Trish and I was right.”

  “Mr Croft,” Millie said with great formality, “I appreciate your concern, but if Ms Sinclair has been abducted by this man, our best hope of finding her lies with our scientific support service and the evidence they can pick up from his notes.”

  Croft noticed her use of his surname and his irritation rose to match hers. “You mean the way it helped you find Susan Edwards? Well thank you, Ms Matthews, but I prefer my girlfriend alive, not swinging from a tree on Scarbeck Point. Now what do you want me to do with the note? Throw it in the dustbin or bring it along to you?”

  “I’ll be here most of the morning if you’d like to come along.”

  Croft was about to say more, but Millie cut the connection at her end and the line went dead.

  20

  The telephone rang.

  In the bedroom, Alf Lumb opened bleary eyes and grunted. He nudged his wife. “Answer that phone.”

  Sandra stirred and curled up bene
ath the duvet again. “What’s up with you? Are your legs broke?”

  Downstairs the phone bleated for attention. Alf dug her in the back. “Will you shift your lazy arse and answer it?”

  “It’s not my phone, you know,” Sandra grumbled. “It’s ours, and anyway, it’ll be for you.”

  “I’ve only just come to bed,” he snapped. “Now get downstairs and shut the shagging thing up. And if it’s work, tell ’em to piss off. I won’t be in until tonight.”

  Muttering to herself, Sandra rose slowly from the mattress and slipped her feet into furry mules. “Fat idle git.” She hurried from the room before Alf could rise to her insult.

  “And while you’re at it,” Alf shouted after her, “make me a cuppa.”

  Shivering on the landing, Sandra continued to mutter. “Does bugger all in this house. It’s me what does it all.”

  She pulled on a thin housecoat. At the bottom of the stairs, near the door, the phone trilled continuously. Sandra clumped down, complaining with every step. “All right, all right. I’m coming.” Reaching the telephone stand by the front door, she picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Sandra?”

  “Yes.” She reached the door and drew back the blind a few inches to look out at another rainy morning.

  “Loxitov, Sandra, loxitov.”

  There was no physical change in her. A barely detectable glazing of the eyes, some dilation of the pupils, but nothing any observer could have put a finger on. But at that moment, the pain returned. A burning, stabbing bite in her lower abdomen, and then came the change. Letting the blind fall back into place, dropping the receiver into its cradle, she clutched at her tummy and gave a small, pained whine, like a whipped dog cowering from a cruel master. It was time.

  She reached up for her coat. No point dressing. Where she was going, dress would be the last concern. Buttoning the coat, picking up her purse from the living room, she decided she would need something to keep others at bay, and moved through to the kitchen to collect a large meat knife from a rack beneath the cupboards. It was part of a set that she got free from her catalogue. That would do the trick. Secreting the knife under her coat, she returned to the front door, and glared up the stairs.

  “I’m going,” she shouted and muffled anger came by return.

  Pain bit into her again. She tried to ignore it and stepped out into the cold as Alf came running down the stairs.

  He stood at the door dressed only in his boxer shorts, with a shabby vest hiding his huge belly.

  “Where the bloody hell are you going?” he roared.

  Still clutching her abdomen, Sandra ignored him and turned left out of the gate, walking towards Avon Way and the bus stop. Behind her, she knew that Alf would think about coming after her, but he had next to nothing on, and he would soon go back to bed confident that she would be home by the time he got up in the early afternoon, and he could beat her up then. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed it. He had gone back in.

  Turning her neck like that hurt and the pain once more doubled her up.

  “Are you all right, Sandra?”

  She looked up into the concerned face of her neighbour, Gerald Humphries.

  “Mind your own fucking business.”

  ***

  Back in the house, Alf grumbled his way into the kitchen.

  Bitch. Walking out like that, after he’d told her to make him some tea. She’d know about it when she got back. Nobody turned their backs on Alf Lumb without payback. Even his boss couldn’t ignore him, so no way would some bitch woman.

  That was her all over, though. It was his wages that kept the house, paid the bills, took them out to the Winridge Inn once a week, kept the car on the road, took them on holiday every year. Yes and it was his wage that made sure the kid got birthday and Christmas presents. And what did she do? Sit around the house all day drinking tea with that poofter, Humphries, or entertained that wanker, Croft.

  With the kettle boiled, he dropped a teabag into his favourite Manchester City mug, and poured boiling water in, his temper bubbling up.

  “All women are the same,” he had once told Nev Baylis, manager at the pub. “They’re only fit for one thing and even then they get one week off in four.”

  And come to think, he hadn’t had much of that out of her just lately. She couldn’t be bothered of a morning and with him on nights…

  He poured milk into his tea, put the carton back in the fridge, and slammed the door. Cow. Wait until she came back.

  He picked up his tea, turned to leave the kitchen and there was a knock on the back door.

  So she was back. Forgotten her keys.

  Putting down the mug, he turned and marched to the door, his temper rising to boiling point. He snatched at the door. Locked. Furiously, he yanked the lock back and dragged the door open.

  It wasn’t her. He glowered at the familiar face. “What the fuck do you want?”

  There was a flash, reflecting the dull morning light, followed quickly by the sickening slice of steel into flesh. Searing pain shot through him. Disbelief flooded him as quickly as his blood spread across his dirty vest. He stared down, clutched the gaping wound in his abdomen. His head was already swimming. Automatically, he clenched his fist to deliver a blow, but the rapid blood loss took his strength. He glared again into a smiling face. His knees turned to jelly and he sank onto them.

  Unconsciousness swept rapidly up on him. The laser-sharpened blade flashed again, this time at the side of his neck. More pain, more blood. He did not cry out. The only sound he could make was a gurgling plea.

  Still on his knees, Alf shook in his death throes. The last thing he saw was a boot coming to his face to kick him over onto his back, and the sight of his own blood pooling on the kitchen floor.

  21

  For the second day in succession, Croft made the journey from Oaklands to Scarbeck and found it an even bigger nightmare than it was the previous day. The stop-start progress left him with too much time to worry about Trish’s safety, and by the time he parked on level 5 of the Spinners Shopping Mall, his nerves were frayed almost to breaking point.

  Stepping out of the multi-storey car park and into the mall, he was glad of the short walk to the police station. Although still desperate to find his partner, the stroll would help lower his blood pressure. By the time he sat with Millie, he should be calm enough to apply logic, not emotion.

  The double door entrance to the mall acted almost as a baffle between the November cold and damp of the car park and the constant, controlled warmth of the interior. Coming out alongside Waterstone’s bookshop, he paused a moment, looking down over the gallery rail to where Santa’s Grotto stood silent in the central plaza, not yet ready for the thousands of children who would visit before the day was out. Opposite the grotto, Scarbeck Chinese Herbal Remedies was receiving its morning mop down, and an attendant at Carphone Warehouse yawned his way out of the shop to set up a board detailing today’s special offer. With the time at 8:55, the High Street names were coming to life for another day’s battle with the shoppers and their credit cards.

  Along the upper landing, Dorothy Perkins advertised its ‘New Year Sale’ several weeks early, and the employees of Next were gathered outside the shop door, probably waiting for the manager to arrive, while the staff of River Island looked on from…

  Croft noticed for the first time that the staff of Next and River Island were not simply waiting around. They had formed a large crowd, held back by several security guards and two police officers.

  Intrigued, his errand to the police station temporarily forgotten, he ambled along the opposite gallery to get a better look, and his face paled.

  On the other side, a frail young woman held the police and crowds at bay with a large knife. She was dressed in a shabby anorak, and what looked like a nightdress and housecoat. When she half turned to ward off a police officer with her blade, he recognised her with a shock. Sandra Lumb.

  Heart beating rapid
ly, he ran to the end of the gallery, the leather of his handmade shoes slipping and slurring on the polished tiles. He dashed across a broad footbridge, and scurried along, pushing his way into the crowd, fighting his way to the front, ignoring the complaints of ghoulish onlookers all straining for a better view. He burst through to the front where an Asian policewoman stopped him.

  “Just stay back, sir,” she urged.

  He held the policewoman’s gaze. “I know her.”

  Rehana Begum looked up at him, her dark eyes wide with interest. Croft’s attention was elsewhere. He was studying Sandra.

  She was leaning back against the three and a half foot balustrade that ran the length of the gallery and served as a safety rail. Beyond it was a 20-foot drop to the tiles below. Her eyes darted from side to side, watching everyone, wary of every approach. Her words were hurried, frantic, garbled, but she made her intentions plain.

  “Don’t come near me, stay back, I’ll jump. You, you wanna stop me, but you won’t, because I won’t let you, I’ll throw myself over, stay back.”

  Croft looked down at Begum. “I’m a hypnotherapist,” he told her. “I know this woman. Maybe I can convince her to give herself up.”

  “Just wait there a moment, sir.” Begum began talking into her radio.

  Sandra edged her bottom up so that she was perching on the rail. Croft refused to wait. He pushed Rehana out of the way and entered the space around the agitated woman. Rehana grabbed at his arm. He shrugged her off.

  “Sandra,” he urged, “listen to me. Listen to me, Sandra. It’s me. Mr Croft. I’m not here to hurt you, Sandra. You know me, don’t you?”

  Tears streaked her cheeks. “The pain. You don’t know. I can’t take it.”

  He raised his voice so he could be heard above the hubbub of the crowd’s excited chatter. But even though his voice came through louder, he forced patience upon it. “Sandra, we’ve been through this. Your doctor ran the tests. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “It hurts,” she wept. “All the time. I can’t stand it.”