Game Point

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  It would take just one more push from the flat palm onto the elaborately decorated Charles Horner hatpin to send the tip completely through the eye socket and into the frontal lobe of her brain. That movement though, for the moment at least, could wait. There were things that he wanted her to understand fully before that would happen and there was something he wanted to know.

  ***

  Six days earlier.

  Colin Coulson had finished his twelve-hour night shift and was hungry as always. Like every other workday, he had chained his bike to the metal cycle stand situated near the top of Cambridge Street, before popping in to the café for a full English breakfast. On this occasion, he had not got as far as the café nor his breakfast.

  Cyril reflected on the case as he walked to Julie’s flat. Coulson had not turned up for work and there was no sign of disturbance at his apartment. His bike was found where he had left it, apart from a missing front wheel. The café owner seemed surprised that one of his regulars had just stopped turning up and had provided an accurate date and time of his last visit. The CCTV footage from the bus station confirmed that Coulson had arrived on his bicycle before moving off in the direction of the café but there the trail ended. There was nothing else. He had simply disappeared for seventy-two hours before his body was located in Oak Beck down from the Penny-Pot Lane crossing. The corpse had obviously been dumped from a passing vehicle. A thorough search of the surrounding area had found nothing apart from the front wheel of Coulson’s bicycle a hundred metres from the naked body. The wheel had proved puzzling as five spokes had been deliberately, yet neatly clipped and removed whilst leaving the rim and tyre in place; Cyril knew it was significant. The police had requested support from the general public and a photograph of the missing man had appeared on the local news, in the press and on social media. Apart from the usual bogus or inaccurate sightings, there had been nothing. It always amazed Cyril that a person could simply disappear and nobody would really care. Only when a body was discovered and police enquiries were made did people wake up to the fact that there might be a problem. Even Coulson’s having an exemplary attendance record at work made little difference. Yes, his employer had telephoned his mobile on three occasions but on receiving no answer, nothing further had been done. It had been assumed that he had taken time off!

  “It sometimes happens,” were his employer’s embarrassed words. “When’s the funeral?”

  Cyril smiled inwardly at the nonchalant swiftness of the insincere question and wondered just how many people truly cared. The cynic in him wondered if Coulson would be missed at all.

  The rain was persistent as Cyril made his way, umbrella in hand, up the path that led to Julie’s home as he rang the bell. He noticed Julie move the blinds in the bay window of her ground floor apartment. She gave a wave before holding up one finger. Cyril simply pulled a face and shook his head; he’d experienced better welcomes. The door opened and she leaned to kiss him.

  “Thanks for coming out. Been a busy day! Italian?” She smiled and kissed him again.

  Cyril simply smiled and turned. It would take five minutes to walk to the restaurant. Julie linked his arm and moved closer, taking full advantage of the umbrella.

  Chapter Three

  As usual, Cyril placed the cup and saucer onto the mat; like his office, his desk was always tidy and orderly. He tucked the security pass that hung round his neck into his shirt breast pocket. He had thirty minutes before his appointment with Julie regarding Colin Coulson’s post mortem. A small pile of documents had been dropped in a tray to the left of his computer and a number of Post-it notes of differing colours had been attached to his computer screen. To his annoyance they were placed without structure nor order. One, however, caught his eye for two reasons: firstly, it was upside down and secondly it included the word FLASH! He knew who had placed it there and it brought a smile to his lips.

  Flash had been Cyril’s sobriquet during his early career. Many thought it a reference to his impeccable dress sense and appearance but they were wrong; it was the link with Bennett that had brought the attachment. Originally, he was nicknamed Gordon after the philanthropic industrialist with a passion for fast cars and speed, the man who provided the Gordon Bennett Trophy, but then, with the resurrection of the comic character Flash Gordon, Cyril became known as Flash. It would be a brave subordinate who would use it within earshot today though. He was to be known as Sir, neither Boss nor Chief, it had to be Sir. Owen and Julie seemed to be the only two who dared to sail close to the wind.

  ‘NEWS FLASH!

  Colin Coulson – Please refer to email regarding finds on his computer and phone.

  Owen

  Sipping his tea, Cyril turned on his computer before noting that he had sixteen emails, fewer than usual, the day was steadily improving. Owen’s mail was second from the top.

  ‘Tech Forensics has trawled through Coulson’s IT. It appears that our man is quite a political animal, using social media to voice his political, personal views and prejudices in very strong and somewhat bigoted terms. Very anti drugs from his comments, the plague of the nation! For some of the messages he’s collected a number of ‘friends’ but he’s also attracted a considerable number of, shall we say, people who don’t share his, seemingly extreme and libellous viewpoints. I have a list of these and those who have un-followed. We should have true names and addresses today. Strangely, he always signed off as ‘Little Piggy’. Just wondered if that was the reason he lost his fingers! Symbolic gesture?’

  Cyril glanced at the top file before opening the cover but could not prevent the nursery rhyme from coming immediately to mind. He felt the fingers on his left hand move to the rhyme. The file contained the history of Coulson’s communications on social media. As he thumbed through them it was clear that Owen had been right, they were volatile and at times libellous and vindictive. From what Cyril had gleaned about Coulson’s character, this side of him was obviously saved for his faceless, Internet anonymity. The phone rang.

  “Bennett.”

  “You’re late, Cyril Bennett, by ten minutes!” Dr Julie Pritchett paused. “Not a good start to the week. No point having a bloody expensive watch and then ignoring it.”

  Cyril glanced at his watch, a Rolex, a fortieth birthday gift to himself. How long ago that seemed.

  “Sorry, got carried away with our friend Coulson. Had a strange streak to his character. Owen has a theory that his vindictive Internet communications might explain the reason he was killed and why he lost the ends of his fingers. Without them you can’t communicate using a keyboard! This little piggy didn’t go all the way home either!”

  “Sorry? You’re not making sense but it’s Monday morning, you’re forgiven, Cyril. There’s something else regarding his stomach contents apart from his fingers. We’ve found traces of paper, some of which was only partially digested. It was obviously fed to him in pieces, maybe even wrapped round the fingers like a bun covering a hotdog, nothing would surprise me! The truth is, Cyril, we’re not too sure. But it might corroborate Owen’s theory too.” There was a pause. “Maybe, and this is just thinking out loud after what you said… have they made ‘Piggy’ eat his own words?”

  “What, like pigs in blankets?” Cyril mumbled feeling suddenly nauseous at the possibility.

  Julie pulled an involuntary face reflecting her own disgust. “The samples are still being investigated but it’s doubtful you’ll get much from them. We’ve also taken some samples from around the tape marks and from what’s left of his hands. Toxicology results will take a little time. Are you interested in cause of death?”

  Cyril removed his reading glasses and put his hand to his forehead. He had made the assumption, wrongly he was soon to discover, that Coulson had died from the trauma of amputation and blood loss. “Sorry, I thought it was…” He didn’t finish.

  “We’ve found evidence of damage to the area at the base of the neck hair line. There’s a puncture wound showing entry to the foramen magnum, which yo
u know is at the base of the occipital bone. The fine needle has penetrated the whole brain causing major bleeding and death.”

  “Bicycle spoke?” Cyril asked optimistically and then paused. “Could it be a sharpened bicycle spoke that caused the damage?”

  Julie was taken aback by the swiftness of his response. “Whatever it was, Cyril, it was thin and long, I’d say five to seven inches. It left little external bleeding which tells me that it was very fine.”

  “I’ll bring in a spoke and you can see. We’ve nothing as yet regarding his clothing. Thanks, Julie. And thanks for your company last night.”

  “Just a pity you didn’t want to stay! Had you done so, you wouldn’t have missed our morning meeting. I’ll send across images of the stomach contents within the next ten minutes. Believe me, you’ll never touch a hot dog again.” She giggled and hung up.

  Cyril shook his head and smiled before sipping more of his tea. It was now cold.

  ***

  Valerie no longer felt pain from her strapped wrists, this having been superseded by the throbbing, searing agony of what seemed to be a series of electrical discharges; that shot down her left side until they reached the tips of her toes, even though the pain was emanating from the right eye socket. She struggled to breathe, her nasal airway now being partially blocked by the flowing stream of thick mucus. She coughed and choked. As if to alleviate the sensation, she tried to turn her head to ease the throbbing by resting it against her shoulder but that proved impossible. She physically curled her body inwards fighting against the pain and the resulting nausea and then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it ceased. There was no gradual fading but a sudden cessation and her body relaxed involuntarily; it had reached its natural endurance of suffering and her body was closing down. Now, she neither felt the cold, nor heard the sound of cars in the distance, it was as if she were closeted away, cocooned and somehow protected. Images now flooded her mind’s eye as they swam before her bringing a moment’s respite. She neither sensed, nor heard the movements from close by. An invisible hand was raised, its palm flat, inches from the finial at the top of the protruding hatpin.

  “You’ve told me nothing so let’s play a little game. I spy with my little...”

  That voice! Her mind seemed to clear and she smiled behind the tape that stretched over her mouth. It was a sudden recognition, for at that moment she knew who stood near. Suddenly relieved, she turned in the direction from where the voice had come.

  The palm struck hard, driving the pin backwards and upwards into the frontal lobe of her brain. Valerie’s legs kicked spasmodically and her toes buried themselves into the soft, leaf-layered earth as if grasping for false hope. A trickle of urine flushed down her inner thighs pooling round her blackened feet. The voice came again as she was saying the final word to herself.

  “… Eye.”

  She also called out a name but the tight gag muffled the sound.

  As she was dying, she heard the sound of the traffic and somewhere close by, an owl called as a familiar face drifted into her consciousness and then… there was nothing.

  Her clothing was swiftly removed, cut and torn away. A hand was raised holding a blade. It cut through the strong, plastic electrical tie that bit into Valerie’s warm but dead flesh. The now-naked body crumpled to the ground forming a grotesque, unnatural shape on the wet mud. The hatpin was slowly withdrawn having been driven even further into the socket, slitting the tape that wrapped her eyes as she had crashed to the ground. Eyes scanned the scene to ensure that nothing had been left. The headlight was turned off and the figure moved away, wrapped within the protective darkness of the parkland.

  Chapter Four

  Both telephone calls had been received within the space of ten minutes, the first, an emergency call at 06:44, the second was received as a 101 enquiry. Both were about the same person, Valerie Atkins.

  Cyril’s phone rang and he answered with his usual, “Bennett.” He listened and then stood before replacing the receiver. Moving from his office he called out for Owen. David Owen’s huge frame appeared, mug in hand, from the kitchen area. He pointed to the mug.

  “New. A pressie from the Harrogate International Festival.” He smiled proudly.

  Cyril read the words printed around the mug. The two that were prominent were Harrogate and Crime.

  “Appropriate, Owen, appropriate.”

  Owen grinned and took a sip of tea.

  “That is, Owen, apart from the word… Books!”

  Owen lifted and turned the mug to find the word. The twisting manoeuvre allowed some of the contents to dribble down the front of his trousers before hitting his shoes and then the carpet. Cyril just shook his head.

  “You’ve no time for a brew or to dry those. Grab your coat, besides you’re supposed to drink it not shower in it!”

  Owen looked down at his trousers before brushing them with his hand, allowing more tea to splash over his shoes. He then looked at Cyril. He took one sip before placing the drink onto his desk. Cyril watched as he cleaned his shoes on the backs of his trousers. Owen’s body language and facial expression invited the question.

  “Jogger’s discovered a body at the very far end of Valley Gardens near the junction of Harlow Moor Drive and Harlow Moor Road. The area’s been sealed and Scene of Crime are on their way. We’ve also received a missing person enquiry, female, Ms Valerie Atkins, 28. Her partner called, in worried that she hadn’t returned home after a party with her girl friends.”

  “Two and two makes?” Owen pulled a face. “Could be one and the same but then again. Body… male or female?”

  “Female.”

  “Makes four,” chipped in Owen swiftly.

  Cyril and Owen had worked together for a number of years; they were opposites, poles apart, as different as chalk is from cheese, but they were a strong team, each complementing the other. For Cyril, Owen was an amicable colleague, totally reliable and trustworthy and formidable in a crisis. His height and stature made him an intimidating force when required. To Owen, a spade was a spade it was that simple. He was the grit that formed the pearl of their professional relationship.

  Owen drove. He listened to Cyril as he waited for the barrier to lift to allow them to exit the secure parking area of the new Harrogate station. Leaves fell as strong gusts flailed the trees separating the police station from the road. Once at the station entrance, they turned right onto Beckwith Head Road and then right down Otley Road. The morning sky was still a dismal grey but there was an optimistic glow like raw, chapped skin that cracked along the skyline as they headed east. The crime scene was three minutes away. On turning down Harlow Moor Road, Cyril glanced across at St Andrew’s, the Police Treatment Centre. He smiled to himself, secure in the knowledge that with all the pressures the job forced upon his colleagues, there were always professional people there to help put mind and body back together.

  Owen slowed and turned on the blue strobe lights that ran brightly within the car’s grille. The officer controlling traffic had already recognised the car and pointed to a spot on the pavement just before a mini roundabout. Owen parked as directed. A number of police vehicles were already haphazardly parked before the blue and white police tape that had been strung from a street sign to a tree, closing Harlow Moor Drive to the public.

  “Busy!” Owen put on his coat followed by a police fluorescent over-jacket as they made their way to the tape.

  Cyril signed the log held by an officer standing on the periphery of the tape before they entered the crime scene area. It was 07:41.

  A dog handler appeared briefly from the heavily wooded park border before disappearing into the undergrowth further down the road. Without warning the heaven’s opened and the rain swept across the scene. White-suited Forensic Officers moved, alien-like, between their vehicles and the trees, seemingly oblivious to the weather.

  “We’ve a female, cause of death unknown at present. Doctor Caner is on site.” Caner was one of three North East Home Office Pathologists
. Cyril had been expecting it to be Julie.

  “Access is through there.”

  A finger pointed to a gap in the trees marked by red tape as coverall, overshoes and gloves were handed to Cyril.

  “Only one person if you don’t mind, Sir.”

  The smile was forced. “Not much room if you get my drift.”

  Cyril looked at Owen as he stepped into the oversized suit. He then squeezed past two of the Forensic team as he entered the wooded area. Within a minute he came upon another plastic cordon. Illuminated by strong LED lights, Cyril noted the many coloured, numbered markers that were dotted around the outside of the white tent that was tightly positioned between trees, sheltering the crime scene from the weather and potential onlookers. He waited, checking his watch before shaking his wrist and looking again. It was now 08:04. Dr Caner left the tent, saw Cyril and raised a gloved hand.

  “Drawn the short straw, Cyril?” Caner smiled before ducking under the tape, his coverall hood still over his head and the mask now hanging around his throat.

  “Intriguing.” He nodded to the tent. “Female, probably died bound to that tree branch. Appears to have been suspended by her wrists.” His blue-gloved finger pointed to the tree to the left of the tent.

  Cyril’s eyes followed in the direction indicated. He noticed the marks where the bark had been discoloured through the rubbing and a numbered marker was pinned to the left of the abrasions. Below was a further collection of erect, plastic numbers. Cyril recognised Hannah Peters, Dr Julie Pritchett’s assistant, photographing what seemed to be indiscernible. She looked across and nodded.