The Devil Came to Abbeville

by Marian Phair

  Lucas, swaying on his feet trying to stay upright, gave her a cheeky grin.

  “I’ll remember that Vera, I’ll keep it in mind. You gonna be alright getting home, or do you want me and Harry to accompa…accom.” Lucas found his tongue and brain was working against each other, and tried again. “Do you want us ter take yer home?”

  “Nah, I’ll be okay thanks, I’ll see yer around Lucas. See yer Harry,” Vera called out,

  as she left them. Harry couldn’t answer her; he was busy throwing up in the bushes.

  They said their good nights at the corner of Poole Street where bachelor Harry lived with his widowed mother. Lucas burst into song as he staggered along the empty streets towards Chamberlin Way and home.

  Evelyn was halfway up the stairs heading for her bed, a book tucked under one arm, and a mug of cocoa in her hand, when she heard his drunken rendition.

  “Oh! Danny boy- ha, the pipe’s, the pipes are, a call-hall-ling,” as he came through the gate at number seven, and up the path to the front door. There was a moment or two of silence, then the shriek from their cat as Lucas stepped on its tail, and Lucas’s loud,

  “Stupid bloody cat, that’s what yer get for sleeping in the doorway.”

  Muttering to herself, she carried on up the stairs and was almost at her bedroom door, when she heard him calling out to her.

  “Evie, hey, Evie, open the damn door I can’t find me key. EVELYN!”

  Setting down her book and cocoa, she hurried back down stairs before he woke up the whole neighbourhood. She had just reached the front door when she heard the clatter of the rubbish bin as it fell onto the concrete path, and Lucas shouting.

  “What a stupid bloody place to leave a bin,” his voice carrying off into the stillness of the night. Evelyn flipped the Yale lock up, and opened the door, to find Lucas lying across the upturned bin, covered in garbage. Under any other circumstances she would have found this funny.

  “Shut up you silly old sod, you’ll have the neighbours out of their beds making this racket. I’m already the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. I can’t hold my head up around here anymore. Everyone knows I’m married to a drunk. I’ve never been so ashamed in my life!”

  An upstairs window opened in the house next door, and a voice shouted out.

  “Will you pair sod off indoors, there’s folk out here trying to sleep.”

  “Piss off and mind your own bloody business,” Lucas shouted back at his neighbour, as Evelyn helped him to his feet and into the house. Their neighbours had called the police out to deal with him many times in the past few months for his drunken carousing, much to her embarrassment.

  Lucas shook her off the moment the front door closed, and staggered the few steps to the staircase. He managed to mount the first three steps before falling down into a heap at the bottom, where he lay, out cold. Stepping over his body, Evelyn climbed the stairs, and at the top she looked back to where he lay snoring loudly. With a shake of her head she went into her bedroom, and closed the door.

  Lying there in her bed, sipping at her cocoa, which by now was almost cold, Evelyn’s thoughts turned to her lover, Roger Green. Over the past few months, Evelyn had grown tired of living this double life, and had tried many times to persuade Roger to leave his invalid wife, but he flatly refused to do so, saying he couldn’t be that heartless. Claire, his wife, had only a few months to live, the cancer was rapidly spreading through her body, and Roger wouldn’t leave her. Claire had done nothing to deserve such a callous act when she was so vulnerable, and they should wait until she had passed on before starting a life together. He told her this the last time she had brought up the subject of their future. Roger wouldn’t hear of her leaving Lucas, or seeking a divorce before hand either. He told her she would be better to stay where she was for the time being, rather than to draw attention to herself. So far they had managed to keep their affair a secret, although it had been difficult at times, and he wanted it to be just that, for the time being, a secret!

  Evelyn had another secret, one she had shared with no other living soul. She was almost three months pregnant with Roger’s child. Soon she would start to show, what would happen then, when she could no longer hide her pregnancy. Would her lover leave his wife then? According to what Roger had told her of his wife’s worsening condition, Claire should have died two months ago. Yet still she could be seen out shopping, with her husband pushing her wheel chair, and looking the picture of health.

  Evelyn decided that the time had come to drop her little bombshell on her husband, and her lover. Yes, the time had finally come when she would make their affair known to one and all, and to heck with the consequences!

  CHAPTER 8

  When DCI Fletcher got the pathologists report on Percy Grimes, he was shocked and puzzled by one of Dr Dan Carter’s findings. During the course of his examination of the body, Dan had written.

  ‘The two-pronged pitchfork had missed the body’s vital organs, and whilst he would have been in excruciating pain, this would not have killed the victim. Death was caused by blood loss, due to castration of the entire sexual organs. These had been placed in the victim’s mouth. Further examination of the remains revealed that, what had once been a white rose had been inserted into the rectum, where its thorns had caused lacerations of the anus. I was unable to decipher which had occurred first, the insertion, or the castration. The DNA samples have been passed to forensics for their investigation.’ Dan’s illegible signature was scrawled across the bottom of the report.

  What the hell was going on in Abbeville? They had three murders in the space of as many months, and no real clues to the killer. Just then there was a knock on his door. It opened to his brusque, ‘Come in.’

  Constable, Tom Holmes’ head appeared around the door frame. Jake looked up at him inquiringly as he entered he room.

  “Well?” he said impatiently.

  The officer approached the desk and handed over the sheet of paper he was carrying.

  “Forensics has just faxed this through sir. It’s the DNA report on Percy Grimes.”

  The officer cleared his throat, looking slightly nervous.

  “It matched that found at the crime scene of young Liam Findley. It appears I was right in my suspicions, sir. Percy Grimes was Liam Findley’s killer.” Tom, gaining confidence, looked pleased as he said this.

  “Well done, lad. Keep joining your dots, and you’ll make a sergeant yet!” Jake said sarcastically, wiping the smug look off the young officer’s face. I must be getting too old for this job now, he thought. I didn’t see the connection.

  “That will close the case file on Liam Findley, but who killed Percy Grimes? It still leaves us with a killer on the loose, and two unsolved murders. I’ve asked Scott Holden if he will take a look at the evidence, and see if he can give us an idea just what type of character we are looking for. He’ll be here around ten thirty, so when he arrives, show him into my office. I’m briefing everyone, starting now, NOTHING is to be released to the media about the state of Grime’s body when it was found. I will release a statement when the right time comes, and we know more about what we’re dealing with here. Understood?” Jake turned his attention back to the reports, and the young constable took this as a sign to leave. As he reached the door, Jake called out to him.

  “Oh! Will you fetch me a cup of coffee when you get a minute? I take it black with two sugars. Thanks.”

  ‘I’m a damn tea-boy now,’ Tom muttered under his breath, making his way to the police canteen to get his boss a coffee.

  When Scott Holden arrived shortly after ten thirty, Jake had everything ready for him. Photographs of the crime scenes, and bodies of the victims were attached to a white board along with their details, and the autopsy reports were on his desk.

  “I was just going to get a cup of coffee, would you care to join me?” Jake asked.

  “No thanks, I’ve not long had one. I’d like to take a look at the evidence if you don’t mind. Maybe later.” Jake di
d mind, but ever the gentleman he decided he’d forgo it. “So, where exactly do you start when building up a picture of the perpetrator?” he asked Scott, who was studying the evidence on the white board.

  “Well now that depends on several factors. Each case has its own story to tell.”

  Jake joined the ex-Criminal Profiler at the white board, and Scott pointed to Emily’s photograph.

  “Let us start with the case of Emily Anderson. I have studied the file you gave me. Looking at the evidence, or lack of it in this case, it’s my professional opinion that the murder of Emily was planned. It was possibly a crime of passion, and it was not done by a local for the following reasons. Jake reached for a pad and pen, ready to make notes.

  “It’s as easy as A.B.C.” Scott told him.

  “A. She allowed her killer to get close to her, indicating she knew him. I said ‘him’ rather than ‘her’ because it would have taken someone strong enough to hold her, and prevent her struggling or calling out, while he stabbed her.

  “B. I believe her murder was planned. The fact that the murder weapon was not found, indicates that her killer brought the weapon to the scene, taking it away afterwards. No evidence was found by forensics, other than a few hairs that DNA proved wasn’t human, but from a cat. Since neither Emily nor her aunt has a cat, these must be transferral hairs from the killer to the victim.”

  Jake sat quietly, admiring the way the profiler’s logical mind worked. Scott continued.

  “C. Emily wasn’t a local. It was her first visit to Abbeville. I think it was a crime of passion for that reason. A jealous ex-boyfriend or rejected lover. If I were in your shoes, detective, I would start my search in her home town, with her known male associates, especially one who is a cat lover. Now if you wouldn’t mind, I’d kinda like that cup of coffee that was offered to me earlier.”

  While Scott was sipping his coffee, Jake was making a call to Buxton police station, asking for their help in solving the Emily Anderson case.

  “I find you guys amazing,” Jake told him, when he’d hung up the phone.

  “The way you study the evidence and can build a psychological profile of a killer, pointing us in the right direction, so we’re able to track him down.”

  “We all do our part in the scheme of things, to bring criminals to justice, detective. We are all experts in our own field. By coming together and sharing our skills, we get the job done.” Scott paused for a moment to drink from his cup.

  “What a criminal profiler does is study the criminals method. The way in which a building is entered for instance, or a safe broken open, the tools that were used etcetera, and in the case of murder, the way in which the victim is kidnapped, killed, and perhaps mutilated. All these can provide clear indications that a succession of crimes have been committed by the same hand.” Scott set down his empty coffee cup before continuing. “Now, in the case of Percy Grimes, from what I can make of the evidence so far, his murder has a different signature.”

  “What do you mean by a different ‘signature’?” Jake asked.

  “Well, what we call a signature is the way in which the body is disposed of, or some unusual evidence at the scene of the crime.”

  Removing a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, Scott blew into it and was about to take up where he’d left off, but before he could, Jake said, “Ah! The ‘Modus Operandi.’ He was surprised when Scott told him he was wrong.

  “No, detective, the M.O. is learned behaviour, becoming modified and perfected as the offender becomes more experienced in what ever he, or she, is involved in.”

  “I stand corrected. You learn something new everyday, and you’re never too old to learn, so they say.” Who the hell ‘they’ were, he hadn’t a clue, but in the presence of the renowned Criminal Profiler Scott Holden, Jake felt a right Wally.

  “I’ll need to take a closer look at this case; maybe visit the crime scene, if that can be arranged. I want to try and get into the mind of the killer of Percy Grimes.”

  “You seem to be showing much more interest in his murder than you did in the murder of Emily Anderson. May I ask why?” Jake studied Scott Holden, as he in turn was once again studying a photo of the dead Percy Grimes. Jake tried to read his thoughts from his facial expressions, and failed. Scott stood for several minutes deep in thought before he answered him, then, what he said made the hairs on Jake’s neck stand.

  “I think, detective, based on what I’ve seen of the evidence so far, there is absolutely no connection to these murders. What you have are two killers out there!”

  There was a knock on the door. To Jake’s ‘Enter,’ an officer came into the room.

  “We have another one, Fletch. A John Doe. The body was found lying in a ditch just off Canal Street, near the junction to the A47. There’s no ID on the body, no sign of a struggle, nothing to go on, yet. Dan Carter is about to perform the autopsy.”

  “Who found the body?’” Jake asked him. Thinking, as he asked the question, just what the hell was going on? He was fast getting out of his depth here.

  “He was found by Bill Kershaw. He spotted the body from his tractor as he was entering his field.” Jake rose from his chair with an audible sigh.

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll head down now and see what Dan can tell me.” The officer left the room.

  Turning to Scott, he said, “You’re going to have to excuse me, duty calls. I bet you wish you’d never come to this damn town for a vacation now eh?”

  “On the contrary, I’m intrigued by these deaths. That may sound kinda callous and disrespectful to most ears, but never in my thirty odd years as a criminal profiler, have I been called upon to help catch more than one killer at the same time, especially in the same town. I’ll leave y’all to do your job. Let me know when you have something concrete to go on. I’ll be only too willing to help.” Jake thanked him, telling him he would be in touch, and saw him on his way before heading off to find out what Dan Carter had to say about the John Doe.

  Dr Dan Carter was talking into a microphone when the DCI entered the room.

  Jake stood slightly off to one side, looking down at the dead body.

  The John Doe looked like a tramp with his long, greasy, light brown hair, curling down to his shoulders, much in need of a wash. The dirty, unshaven face, bore several old scars, and Jake could tell at some time in his life the John Doe’s nose had been broken, and poorly set. He noted the tattoo’s on the forearms; at one time sported mainly by servicemen in the armed forces, particularly those in the Army, or Navy. Not so now, it seemed. Tattooing had become quite a big business, and tattoo parlours were springing up everywhere. Now, both ordinary men and women were getting various parts of their anatomy tattooed.

  He remained silent, watching, as the M.E. continued with the autopsy.

  “Rigor Mortis is fully developed, and dark hypostasis is present in the back of the corpse. There are some tattoo marks on both forearms, and there is an old appendectomy scar on the right side of the abdomen.”

  Noting Jake’s presence, he stopped his investigation of the body.

  “I have nothing for you yet, detective. I’ve just started on the preliminary. You’ll have my report on your desk as soon as I have established the cause of death.”

  Jake’s eyes quickly scanned the room.

  “Where are his clothes? I understand there was no ID found either on the body, or in the surrounding area. I wonder if forensics will be able to tell us anything?”

  “They have taken everything away for examination, what little there is.” Dan told him. “He hadn’t much by way of clothing. He wasn’t even wearing a jacket, and considering how cold it’s been this last few days, you’d have thought he’d have been wearing one. That is if he possessed one, of course.”

  Damn! Jake thought. He was getting nowhere fast, going round and round, like a dog chasing its own tail.

  “What was he wearing when you got the body?”

  “Not much really, just a dirty old pair of blue jeans, g
rey underpants, worn dark brown boots, and no socks. He had on one of those string vests that were once popular, and a red shirt.”

  “Ahem, I see. Well, I’ll let you get back to your work. Sorry for the interruption.”

  “You’ll have my report the minute the autopsy’s over,” Dan told Jake’s retreating back.

  Proceeding with his examination of the body, Dan listed thirteen recent pin-prick marks and grazes, all of no importance. Taking a scalpel, he made a Y shaped incision from the chest down to the pubic hair, and began the procedure of cutting through the layers of fat and tissue, to reach the internal organs. He examined the organs in turn, slicing into them, checking for signs of disease, or any abnormality, and taking samples, preserving them in Formaldehyde. Removing the heart for microscopic examination, he noted that the left ventricle was very thick, and there was a patch of fibrosis four inches thick in the posterior wall. The smaller coronary arteries were extremely narrow. It appeared that death was due to heart failure.

  Some instinct told him to proceed with caution. The number of small ‘injuries’ on the body concerned him, they seemed insignificant, but he wondered if they were hiding something. He continued to examine the heart under the microscope. It revealed that the left coronary artery was almost blocked, and the right was half blocked. It wasn’t a complicated case, death due to failure of a diseased heart.

  That is how he would have signed the death certificate, if those small pin-prick marks hadn’t kept popping back into his mind. He returned to the body, going over it again, microscopically. He had been working such long hours these past few days.

  He hadn’t had a full day off in weeks, not since the death of Emily Anderson.

  Stifling a yawn, he went back to work. As tired as he was he knew he was missing some vital evidence with the body of John Doe. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t become an M.E. Especially when it came to examining the dead bodies of children, such as young Liam Findley. Suddenly, it came to him! He had seen marks like these before, some years back, on the body of an elderly gardener he had performed the autopsy on. He now had an idea what could have caused them. With renewed vigour, he set about a thorough examination of the thirteen pin-pricks.