The Handshaker

by David Robinson

  Carol had met victim number 4, Sheila Greenhalgh, when they were both attending bereavement counselling five years previously. Sheila had lost her mother and Carol had lost her father, both to cancer.

  Croft’s hopes rose when he read that, but as he worked further through the account, neither Carol Russell nor Sheila Greenhalgh had seen Evelyn Kearns.

  Aside from the mention of Sheila Greenhalgh, there was nothing to indicate that Carol Russell was any wiser than the law when it came to The Handshaker’s identity.

  With the web pages still open, he allowed his mind to freewheel.

  The victims were all hypnotised. Of that he was certain. They had come to their killer via counselling services. During his lengthy time with them, The Handshaker had implanted a post-hypnotic suggestion telling them that when he shook their hands and gave the command, they would fall instantly into a deep state and obey his instructions. When he eventually decided it was their time, he abducted them and kept them for anything up to four or five days. What did he do with them during that time? He screwed them, of course. Where did he keep them? At his home. Hidden in a rear room or possibly a cellar … no, not a cellar. If he was a Winridge resident – and Croft had no doubt that he was – he lived in a council house, like the Lumbs, like Gerry Humphries, and those places had no cellars.

  Hypnosis was notoriously unreliable for acts such as rape. It could break down at any time without warning. Falling into natural sleep would be sufficient to end the hypnotic state, and when the victim woke, The Handshaker would find himself confronted with a frightened and furious, potentially violent woman, ready to begin screaming her head off. How did he deal with that? He had them bound and gagged, obviously, but what did he do about feeding them, letting them use the toilet?

  Simple problems with simple answers to a competent hypnotist. Re-hypnotise them. Croft could do it, so could The Handshaker. A hypnotised volunteer or victim had little or no control over the things he or she did, and getting them to behave while they went to the lavatory, was child’s play. Rather like training a dog to cock its leg on the command ‘empty’.

  The same was true of getting the women out of his car and into the house. It was no problem to the skilled hypnotist. A hypnotised subject was far tamer than the most subdued slave. They would do exactly as they were told, and once he had them in his lair, they would be so physically secured that they would never leave until they went to their deaths.

  Even if they gradually learned what had been going on and resisted the hypnotism, there were other means of getting the victims to behave; drugs, threats of instant death, absolute control with ropes, leashes, even tasers.

  How did he cater for callers such as the gas and electricity meter readers? They needed access only to the hall, not the upstairs, but the window cleaner would use a ladder. How did The Handshaker deal with that? He would keep the drapes drawn.

  Croft congratulated himself on his deduction. Was there any house, possibly on Sussex Crescent, close to Alf and Sandra Lumb where one room had the curtains permanently closed?

  With a sadness, Croft realised it was not the lead he hoped it might be. In this day and age, the fashion was for vertical blinds not curtains, and many people left those closed all day and night. Not counting them, there were tens, possibly hundreds of men and women on the estate who, like Alf Lumb, worked nights, and they would leave the curtains closed all day.

  Croft concentrated on the patterns to the killings. Eight had been mirror images of one another, but the ninth and tenth… Why change his pattern when it came to Victoria Reid? Simple. The same reason he had encouraged Sandra to commit suicide. He wanted Victoria hanged at the back of Oaklands to draw Croft further into the mystery, have him accused of the crimes.

  So where did Trish Sinclair and Joyce Dunn, victims 10 and 11 fit into this?

  Croft was momentarily stumped. Neither was a standard Handshaker victim. Joyce, like Sandra, had not been abducted, but unlike Sandra, she had been assaulted and hanged at home. Why? To incriminate Croft, of course. Leaving the pen under the bed practically shouted the answer.

  So what about Trish? Why had he not yet heard anything? She had been missing two days now, and neither he nor the law had had any note to indicate that she was dead. Could it be that she had not even been kidnapped, but…

  Hope leapt into his heart, and he quelled it instantly. She was not laid in a hospital somewhere suffering from amnesia. She really was a Handshaker victim and she would not remain alive for much longer. The note yesterday had mentioned her. I pail a ricin scart could not be anyone but her.

  Finished with Carol Russell’s website, Croft noticed a line of links at the bottom, along with the usual disclaimer that the author could not be held responsible for the content of other sites.

  Several led to message boards dedicated to The Handshaker, and on one of those discussion forums, he found a post signed by shark hen death, which he spotted instantly as an anagram of The Handshaker. Further down he found another post signed shade then hark, another anagram, the same one as had been used on Wednesday’s note. When Croft checked the source addresses for both messages, he discovered they were from the Scarbeck Internet Cafe on Union Street, not far from the police station.

  The two messages, the only two he could find after hours of fruitless searching, told Croft nothing. The particular message board was populated by surfers praising The Handshaker’s work, and Croft could visualise the type of men contributing to its 1000+ posts: loners, disaffected misogynists, sadists ... the list could go on.

  The Handshaker’s own posts – if indeed they were from him – were short and to the point. One read, ‘ty’, chat room shorthand for ‘thank you’, in response to a previous message congratulating The Handshaker on the hanging of Aileen Collier, and the other simply said ‘amen’ after a contributor had posted a laudatory note urging The Handshaker to ‘keep up the good work until we have once more taught women where their place is’.

  Croft could imagine The Handshaker’s gratification at such praise, and marvelled at the man’s supreme self-confidence and sheer bravado at surfing this site in a public place like an Internet cafe, and one that was less than half a mile from the police station.

  To Croft, this spoke once more of a man who had led a blameless life and had now planned to demonstrate how easy it all was, while at the same time venting his sexual urges, repressed for god knows how many years. Even hanging Victoria Reid and murdering Joyce Dunn was a part of that plan, designed to have Croft arrested ... arrested but not convicted, for there would be plenty of forensic evidence to prove Croft innocent. So why have him arrested? Why would he need Croft out of the way ... to get to Oaklands? No point now that he had Trish. No. It was something else. A preparatory move, but preparation for what?

  Croft smiled to himself. There was one thing The Handshaker could not have planned. Croft escaping. That could not possibly be a part of the script. Croft was a pillar of the establishment with a distinguished High Court Judge for a father, and such people did not break out of police custody. They did their duty and endured the interrogation.

  Time to let The Handshaker know the score. He attacked the keyboard.

  Hey handy, I fukt up ur plans, man. Meet me tonight at Sandie’s drum. Cliff or Tex.

  44

  The Handshaker switched off the TV and yawned. 6:50 p.m. and total darkness had descended on the town. It had been a busy day and one that did not exactly go to plan.

  Getting rid of Evelyn Kearns and Kathleen Murphy, a couple of items he had prepared in contingency, both went all right, but hardly smoothly . . . well Evelyn’s killing was simple enough, but Kathleen . . . the damned trance broke down while he was screwing her and she put up a hell of a fight. Almost clawed his eye out. In the end, he dragged her from her first floor bed and threw her down the stairs. She must have broken her neck on the way down because when he checked, he could not detect a pulse. Just to make sure, he found a walking stick and clubbed her vicious
ly on the head. He heard the satisfying crack of her skull and concluded that even if, by some miracle, she survived, she would never get her mind back.

  So even though the killings had been scheduled as an ad hoc necessity somewhere along the line, they certainly did not go to plan.

  Kidnapping the wog was a good idea. The police hadn’t even missed her yet, or if they had, it was not mentioned on the early evening local news which he had just watched.

  But Croft escaping. . . He had not planned on that. The stupid bloody police had let him get away and in doing so, they had screwed up everything. Their efforts would be concentrated on finding him, not seeking Sinclair and if they did not get him back by Saturday . . . well the plan was in tatters. The Handshaker would have to dispose of Sinclair, disappear, and start all over again.

  Whilst Croft’s escape was inconvenient to say the least, it did have one saving grace. Because Evelyn Kearns had been strangled and Kathleen Murphy battered to death, the police would assume Croft did it, and that would hold them off The Handshaker trail, giving him the opportunity to disappear, but while it was advantageous from that point of view, it meant that he was unable to keep a track on Croft’s progress. Overall, he would prefer it if the law took Croft in again. But even if they did, would they let him go in time to be there on Sunday?

  Years of work, of planning, gone to waste. Looking glumly out at the night, The Handshaker shrugged. He would just have to start again. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Meanwhile, he had other things to think about, like a tasty little black shag hidden in the shed.

  45

  Millie got home in time to catch the local BBC news full of Croft’s escape, showing pictures from the morning out at Allington Woods and Oaklands, followed by live feeds from outside the house where the reporters gleefully reported Croft’s arrest and dramatic escape.

  The news merely put her off her food and fuelled her anger at the way Croft had made fools of them.

  It had been a bad day all round. Beginning with her belief in Croft, ending with his escape and a fruitless journey to see Evelyn Kearns. The bloody woman wasn’t in and several calls to her number had met without reply.

  She switched her mobile on and presently it tweeted twice for attention, signalling a text message. She checked the menu window and saw the familiar envelope symbol. Checking the source, it was one she did not recognise. She opened the message and read with incredulous eyes.

  Dated the previous day, it read:

  Croft 90 mins after my arrest saw the beeb news & Begum wasn’t there i didn’t have time to get her, the hk has her gates of unwe at 11 2morrow i’ll be watching if i see any other cops, u won’t see me

  Millie’s gorge rose again. The cheeky bastard, texting her like that. An idea occurred to her. He had sent the text yesterday, but if she could get a GPS track on the phone he’d used, they would have him the moment he used it again.

  She forgot the idea as quickly as she’d thought of it. Croft was not stupid. He’d know about GPS. Ten to one he’d borrowed a phone to send the message.

  What the hell did he mean where was the cop? What about the BBC? She knew nothing about the BBC.

  Her jumbled, angry thoughts stopped and she stared at the screen. All the local news teams were on stand-by outside Oaklands, and the cameramen were shooting straight up the drive. She could see Croft’s Mercedes and a constable who looked like John Beamish, pacing slowly in the background, bored out of his skull. Either he or Bob Grindley must have taken over from Rehana at two o’clock.

  Thoughts of her Asian colleague, another woman who had endured the inevitable racism of a small town force like Scarbeck, turned her back to the text message: the cop u put on oaklands wasn’t there. What the hell was Croft on about? Rehana was on the door when they all left at ten past ten, and she wouldn’t come off duty until two, so unless she had been relieved, she must have been stationed outside Oaklands at noon.

  It was all so mysterious, but it aroused her suspicions. She rang the station and got Sergeant Simpson. “Ronnie, it’s Millie. Did Rehana check in at all this afternoon?”

  “Nope,” replied Simpson. He sounded as if he were in another of his foul moods. “The cheeky sod left Allington early and didn’t even bother to call here. And she hasn’t got home yet. I’ve had her father on whining that we’re making his daughter work too many hours.”

  “She didn’t wait for a relief at Oaklands?” Millie asked.

  “No. And when she gets in here, she’s gonna know about it. Asian or no Asian, she toes the line or she’s out.”

  The ghost of suspicion haunting Millie’s mind took hold and established its roots. “Ronnie, I think Rehana may have been kidnapped.”

  “What?” Simpson shouted his response. “Are you. . .”

  “No, I’m not kidding,” Millie cut him off. “Get onto Ernie, tell him to meet me at the station. I’m on my way in.”

  She hurried from the house, leapt into the car and tore off towards the town. She hurtled into the station yard a quarter of an hour later, and rushed into a crowded briefing room to find Shannon already briefing not only the evening and night shift, but the day shift too, most of whom had gone home before Millie, but returned on hearing that a colleague was missing.

  “Team spirit,” Simpson told her as she squeezed into the room.

  “Very impressive,” she murmured and began to fight her way to the front.

  “I’ll fill you in when I’ve finished briefing them,” Shannon told her. Turning back to the crew, he said aloud, “I want Oaklands watched, we already have the university covered, but I want every patrol on the lookout for Croft. He’s not in his own car, but when he was at the university this afternoon, he was dressed in scruffy jeans, a reefer jacket, wearing a Manchester United shirt and a fisherman’s hat.”

  Millie tugged at his jacket sleeve.

  “Just a minute, Millie,” he snapped. Speaking to the room again, he raised his voice once more. “Those of you who’ve been detailed to the door to door inquiries, get out to Allington, and you don’t miss anyone. Not a single door. If you don’t get an answer, keep knocking. Knock the buggers up if you have to. Right, you all know what you’re doing, get out there and do it. Inspector Matthews and I will be co-ordinating the work from here. If you get anything, ring in right away.”

  The crowd began to break up, heading for the exit. Shannon made for his office, Millie followed.

  “Well done, Millie,” Shannon congratulated her. “I don’t know how you tumbled it, but when we rang Croft’s daily, she told us Rehana wasn’t there when she put the bins out at five to twelve.”

  Millie closed the door behind her. “What’s this about Croft?”

  Shannon frowned. “Do you know of anyone else who could have abducted her?”

  “No, but I’m bloody sure it wasn’t him,” she retorted.

  Shannon waved her objection down. “You’re getting too close to him. Remember who you are and back off.”

  “Ernie –”

  “Think about it, Millie. He legged it from Thurrock, claiming he was innocent and was gonna prove it. I believe he doubled back to Oaklands overpowered her and took her. I don’t think she’s dead and I don’t think she’s in any real danger. I reckon he’s taken Rehana as a bargaining chip. We won’t know for sure until he gets in touch.”

  Millie shook he head. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “You’ve lost the plot, you have.”

  “Millie. . .” There was a warning edge to Shannon’s tone.

  She ignored it. “According to you, he’s already knocked off Sinclair, and now you say he has Rehana but she’s in no danger. What are you gonna do for an encore? Play the fiddle while someone burns the station down?” He opened his mouth to protest, but she did not give him the chance. “Ernie, he didn’t have time to get back to Oaklands. He was on foot after he left Thurrock.”

  “He drew money from an ATM on South Dean Road about twenty minutes after he legged it,” Shannon
told her. “He had enough cash to hire a car.”

  “Then how come no one from the hire companies have rung in?” Millie asked. “They’re not all scammers. Ernie, this is not him.”

  “Prove it,” he challenged.

  “I will.” Millie turned on her heels and marched to the door.

  “And where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  She rounded on him. “Home. I want to help find Rehana, but I’m not going to waste my night on a wild goose chase.”

  46

  “Terminus.”

  The bus driver’s call brought Croft out of his thoughts. A woman sat on the seat opposite folded away her copy of the Scarbeck Reporter and Croft had the unnerving experience of seeing his own face stare out from the front page as she tucked it in her shopping bag.

  Getting to his feet, head bowed, hat pulled low over his forehead he shuffled off the bus into the cold and rainy night.

  He had been watching the early evening news via the BBC website before leaving his hiding place, and it had been full of him.

  “Scarbeck police have issued a warning that a murder suspect remains at large tonight. Felix Croft was being taken in for questioning on the deaths of Victoria Reid, who disappeared two days ago and was presumed to be a Handshaker victim, and prostitute Joyce Dunn, found hanged at her Winridge home, this morning. Croft overpowered the police officer driving him to Scarbeck, and made his escape, handcuffing the officer to the door of his car.”

  A photograph of Croft, one that he had had taken for his university ID card, appeared on the screen.

  “Croft is described as six feet tall, dark haired and outwardly placid and assured, but police are advising members of the public not to approach him. He is considered extremely dangerous. Anyone seeing this man is urged to ring the police.”

  Croft sniggered at that. Dangerous? Only to Superintendent Shannon’s ambitions in clearing up The Handshaker case.