The Devil Came to Abbeville

by Marian Phair

  Yesterday morning, after being alerted by a concerned neighbour, the body of Evelyn Bradley, was discovered in her home by local police officer’s. Her mutilated corpse had been disembowelled, both kidneys, and part of her liver are missing.

  The hunt is on for her husband, Lucas Bradley, who hasn’t been seen for several days. When questioned about this latest death, a senior police officer repeatedly replied…‘No comment.’ Somewhere out there, the White Rose Killer, could be stalking his next victim. Lock your doors and windows at night, and stay away from unlit areas. Don’t go out alone, be safe at all times, until this killer is captured and brought to justice. This is Clive Marston, bringing the latest news to your doorstep.”

  Ruth stood in stunned silence as Sally started wailing at the mention of Liam’s name, and that of his killer. Father Patrick had leapt from his seat and was throwing up into the sink beside her, just missing the dishes carefully stacked on the draining board.

  This was the scene that greeted Scott when he came to return a book he had borrowed.

  Scott’s eyes sought out Ruth’s. “What on earth’s going on?” he asked.

  Ruth stood, frozen to the spot, staring off into space. Scott went over to the sink where the priest was running tap water, to wash away the vomit, his face, ashen.

  “Are you ill, Patrick?” His voice held concern as he asked the question. Father Patrick rinsed his mouth under the running water, and then wiped it on a cloth before turning to his friend.

  “I take it you haven’t heard the news this morning.” he said.

  “Hardly, I guess it was on when I was heading over here. Why? Have I missed something?”

  “I will never, eat liver, or kidneys again!” Father Patrick stated. Then proceeded to tell his friend what they had heard on the news, as he leant against the sink for support.

  Sally continued to cry. Scott went over to her, put his arms around her and holding her close, made shushing noises in her ear, and smoothed back her curls.

  “Its okay, honey, I’m here, nothing’s going to hurt you, hush now. He cradled the sobbing child in his arms, and looked over her head at Ruth, wondering why she hadn’t moved to console her daughter; then he realised, she was in shock. Reaching into his pocket he withdrew his handkerchief, and placing it into Sally’s hands, he ordered her to blow.

  “Honey, I want to see your mom for a moment. I want you to sit here until I get back to you, okay? I have to teach you that trick I promised, see, I hadn’t forgotten,” he told her, in an attempt to get her mind onto something else.

  Sally sat sniffling into his handkerchief, but nodded her head in consent.

  Scott went to where Ruth stood gripping onto the worktop, her knuckles white.

  He took her into his arms, kissed her cheek, and pulled her in even closer, as tears began to fall silently down her cheeks. After a few moments he felt her body relax against his, and she let him lead her over to a chair, and sit her down.

  Father Patrick had regained his composure, and pulled up a chair beside Sally. Taking one of her hands in his, he squeezed it gently, to let her know everything would be alright. Looking at their stricken faces, Scott realised just how much they meant to him. They had become a big part of his life, and in such a short time. His heart went out to them. Tears welled in his eyes, and threatened to spill over onto his cheeks.

  He turned his back to them, went over to the percolator and switched it on.

  “I guess now might be a good time to fix us all a cup of coffee.” he said.

  Three miles away, DCI Fletcher was ready to leave for his office. Crossing the room to retrieve the TV’s remote control from the arm of the sofa, he was about to press the cut-off button, when Clive Marston’s face appeared on the screen. Turning up the volume slightly, he paused to light his first cigarette of the day.

  “Well, ass-hole, what little ‘tidbit’ of news have you got for us today?” he muttered through the cigarette, clamped between his teeth. He blew out a cloud of smoke, a smirk on his broad, handsome face. The news reporter had got nothing out of him.

  “What the f…” he exclaimed. Turning on his heel, he hurried over to the phone on the wall and punched in the number of his station. He heard the desk sergeant, Dick Frankton’s weary voice in his ear.

  “’Morning, Abbeville police station.” The officer stifled a yawn.

  “Dick, Fletch here. I was on my way out the door when I caught the news. I want an officer sent to Clive Marston news office, PRONTO! He’s given out information, known only to ourselves, about the recent murders. I want to know where, how, and who, he got his information from. The shit has hit the fan now, there’s no mistake about that, and if something isn’t done quickly, we’ll have a bloody panic on our hands. If that stupid bastard won’t tell you how he got his info,’ haul his ass into the station, and I’ll deal with him when I get there. And if any of our chaps have leaked anything to anyone, I’ll have their bloody badge, and they’ll be out the door that fast, you won’t see their arse for dust!” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

  Jake Fletcher moved swiftly across the room, the cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, making his eyes smart, as he gathered up his briefcase and jacket. He used the remote control to switch the T.V. into standby mode, then picked up his keys from the coffee table, and headed for the door.

  Outside, he threw his jacket and briefcase onto the back seat of his ancient Rover 416 GSi, and got into the driver’s seat. His cigarette had stuck to his lower lip, and as he went to discard it, his fingers slid down the stub. He swore at the pain, as the hot embers burnt their pads.

  “Just another shitty day in paradise.” he muttered to himself, his temper rising by the minute. Switching on the ignition, he crunched the gear stick into first, and drove off, at speed, without bothering to do up his seat belt.

  CHAPTER 32

  It was seven a.m. in Broadmeath Asylum. Albert lay awake listening to the sounds of the nurses talking, and phones ringing. He turned over in his small bed, and tried to find a more comfortable spot for his head on the one pillow he was allowed to have. He was drifting off to sleep again, when a loud knock on his door brought him out of his doze, and a voice on the other side informed him breakfast would be served in thirty minutes.

  By seven thirty he was washed and dressed and lining up with the other patients for his breakfast. Every day since his arrival the routine had been the same. Breakfast was at seven thirty. Then there was Community Group, where the rules and regulations of the hospital were discussed an hour later, at eight thirty. Albert still maintained the act of silence and the odd bout of violence if touched, which had kept him here.

  The nurses knew if they left him alone, their lives were made easier. He sat quietly with the rest, as the nurses voice droned on and on, his mind elsewhere on other matters. He, like most of the others, had heard the same speech so many times before.

  The senior nurse glanced around at their faces as she spoke to make sure they were all paying attention to her, as she reiterated the rules for the new comers.

  “There are no towels allowed in your rooms, and no food. No physical contact with other patients under any circumstances. From nine fifteen until twelve noon you will be able to meet with Dr Rawlinson, head of this establishment, and our resident psychiatrist. He will be able to answer any concerns you may have during your stay here. Then you will be assessed to see if the medication you are taking is having the desired effect, or whether it needs to be changed. Lunchtime is twelve thirty, and from two PM until dinner is served at five, you have recreational therapy. That means everyone not receiving treatment for one thing or another, is expected to be in the communal room to either watch a film, or to sit and read quietly. Nine o’clock your night medication will be given out, and lights out is at ten thirty,” she concluded.

  Albert had been sent to see Dr Rawlinson several times over the past few months. One day whilst in the psychiatrist’s office there was a Code One alarm.<
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  The schizophrenic screaming of the man simply known to him as Sam, reverberated along the corridor as the poor soul punched at the terrifying monsters that only he could see. A code team rushed to sedate and restrain him, before dragging him away, kicking and screaming. Albert found himself alone for a few moments, just long enough to discover that the two white tablets he had been given since his arrival, were 200mg of Seroquel, to make him sleep, and he had been prescribed Abilify, for depression along with that, the two same drugs being used on Sam, for schizophrenia.

  Just lately, Albert could think of little else, but booze and women. He knew if he didn’t get both soon, he really would go crazy. Images of past conquests, and boozy nights, occupied nearly every waking moment, and just recently, his nights as well.

  He wondered if it was safe now after all this time, to reappear in the outside world again. The strange face reflected in his window at night, looking back at him, was haggard and old, the brow furrowed. There were bags under the eyes that were ringed with dark shadows, the cheeks bore scars, and the nose was crooked. He had let his hair grow long refusing to let anyone cut it, and the beard only added to the picture of a face he no longer recognised as his own. The next morning as he sat on his bed in his underwear, pulling on his socks, the decision to leave Broadmeath was made for him.

  Through the window in his room, Albert watched the police car pull up on the gravel drive, in front of the main entrance to the Reception. Two officer’s got out of the vehicle and strode purposefully towards the Reception doorway. Intrigued, he opened his door, a quick glance up and down the corridor assured him no one was about. Cautiously, he tip-toed past the closed doors, his woollen socks made no sound on the tiled floor, as he covered the short distance to the Reception area, and hid behind the door of the cupboard, used by one of the gardeners to store his personal belongings.

  Peering through the chink in the doorframe, he had a clear view of the reception desk and the main foyer. He had no difficulty hearing what was being said, as one of the police officer’s introduced himself and his colleague, to the girl behind the desk.

  “Good Morning. I’m Officer Karl Pritchard from the Buxton Police Force. This is my colleague, Officer Gary Smith. We are here seeking information, on a gentleman sent here some months back by the doctor attached to our division. We believe this man may be able to assist us in our inquiries, in connection with the deaths of two females a while back, and we would like to speak to someone in authority here.”

  “That would be Dr Rawlinson. If you won’t mind waiting for a few moments, I’ll find out if he’s able to see you.” She lifted the in-house phone, spoke quietly into the receiver, then hung up.

  “If you just wait here, he is on his way to you,” she smiled genially at them.

  From his hiding place, Albert watched Dr Rawlinson greet the two police officer’s. The doctor listened to what the officer’s had to say, nodding his head from time to time.

  “Yes, the gentleman you are on about is still here, we haven’t been able to communicate with him properly. His room is just down the corridor on the left hand side. I think we’d better discuss this in my office. If you’d like to follow me, my office is this way.” The doctor turned on his heel, leading the way, and the police officer’s followed him.

  The corridor that had been empty and quiet just minutes ago, now began to fill, as patients and staff went about their daily business, and Albert realised he was stuck behind the door of the cupboard, in his underwear. He quietly closed the cupboard door, and switched on the light, looking around for something, anything, that would aid his escape. Hanging from a hook behind the door was an old pair of jeans, he quickly pulled them on. They just reached his ankles; otherwise they were a perfect fit. Over in a corner beside an old wooden stool he spied a pair of old, brown leather, boots. He went over to them and tried to put them on, but they were too small and he couldn’t get his feet into them. He sat down on the rickety stool and removed both boot laces, shoving them into the pocket of the jeans. He tried again, and this time managed to squeeze his feet into the boots, and then stood, as he tested his weight on each foot. The fit was tight but they would have to do, until he could make his escape, and hopefully find something better. A quick look around, told him there was nothing else of any use to him here. Switching off the light, he listened with his ear pressed against the wood of the door, until he could no longer hear voices or footsteps outside. Cautiously, he opened the door just far enough to peep through the chink.

  The corridor looked clear, and the receptionist had her back to him, while she chatted on the phone. It was now or never! He slipped around the door and as quickly and as quietly as he could, he crossed to the entrance and out through main door. Hugging the side of the building, and ducking under windows as he came upon them, he carefully made his way around to the back of the building. In no time at all he was over the fence, and using the shrubbery as a shield, he was on his way.

  Totally unaware of his wife demise, he headed in the direction of Abbeville and the Crown and Garter to enlist her aid. He was so sure of the power he held over his wife, that he knew, even after disappearing for all these months, he could win her round. Christine had never been able to refuse him anything.

  Keeping away from the main road wherever possible, to avoid being seen, he travelled on, ducking out of sight whenever he heard a vehicle approaching. He made a sorry looking sight in his string vest and stolen jeans, as he limped along, his feet almost crippled by the ill-fitting boots. Step, by painful step, he covered the thirty seven miles to his destination. By nightfall, hungry, and exhausted he reached the outskirts of Abbeville. From his vantage point on the hill, the lights of the town lay twinkling below, barely a mile away. He trudged on, staying off the main road and crossing over Bill Kershaw’s farmland. The dark outline of the old, tool shed, loomed out of the darkness, and he knew he needed to rest, if only for a little while, before he travelled on.

  The shed door was stuck tight, swollen by the rain, and after months of neglect it was slowly rotting away. He kicked at the rotting wooden door until it gave way under the weight of his boot, and almost fell inside. He sat on the dusty floor, his back resting against the wall, catching his breath, his feet throbbing painfully, in the tight boots. Reaching down he pulled them off and massaged the swollen, blistered flesh. He felt the dampness where blisters had burst, and turned to raw, sore flesh. His head fell forward onto his chest and despite his discomfort, within minutes, he was fast asleep.

  When he awoke, the moon was high in the sky. Stiff and sore, he forced his feet back into the boots and stood stretching his aching muscles. He forced himself to take a step, wincing at the pain, as he hobbled over to the door, anxious to be on his way again. Half an hour passed before he finally reached his destination.

  As Albert approached the Crown and Garter, he heard the sound of voices singing, and the strains of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,’ wafted on the still, night air.

  Peering through a window, he saw two complete strangers standing, smiling behind the bar, while the singer’s, with their backs towards him, and with glasses raised, saluted the smiling couple. Thoughts tumbled over each other in his head. What was going on? Where was Christine, his wife? Why wasn’t she behind the bar? Who were these strangers who had apparently taken over his public house? Confused, he stepped back into the shadows, and stood watching, his eyes glued to the lighted window.

  After a while, a youth wearing a bright red shirt, came staggering out of the door, and stopped to throw up in the bushes, barely missing Albert, where he stood concealed. Albert stepped out of the shadows, just as the youth threw up again.

  “Are you okay, son?” Albert asked him.

  “Yeah mate,” the youth replied with out looking up. He remained bent double, rubbing his stomach as he swayed on unsteady legs. Albert moved up close behind the lad.

  “Do you know where I can find Christine Brooks, the landlady of this pub?” he asked h
im.

  The youth pointed a finger in the direction of the high street. Even more confused now, Albert asked him again.

  “She doesn’t run the pub anymore,” the youth told Albert, his speech slurred, making it difficult for Albert to understand what he was saying.

  “The Oliver’s manage this place now. They took it over after Christine died, and her old man had run off with the barmaid.”

  “What? Christine Brooks is dead? She can’t be dead!” Albert was shocked.

  “She’d want to be, mate, ’cus they buried her, months ago, in Abbeville cemetery.”

  The youth went to straighten up and his legs crumbled beneath him. He would have hit the ground, only, Albert caught him. He led him over to a bench in the corner, half-carrying him. The youth stank of ale and vomit. As Albert sat him down, he passed out, cold. Albert swiftly removed the lads shirt and put it on, then searched his pockets for money and found a ten pound note and some change. He left the change, and pocketed the note. Leaving the youth stretched out cold on the bench, he took off for the only pub in his scruffy state, he was sure of getting served in. The one known locally as the ‘Pup and Pistol.’ One thing he was sure of, in the Dog and Gun, he would be able to satisfy both his needs. For in that particular public house, he knew he would find both cheap booze, and even cheaper women.

  CHAPTER 33

  Jake Fletcher strode into the station and made straight for his office ignoring everyone. He called out as he crossed the room “Meeting… I want everyone in my office in five.” Entering his office he slammed the door behind him.

  “I see Fletch has a wasp up his arse again.” Sergeant Dick Frankton said to Jim Clarke, who was the duty officer for the day. “Wait until he hears we can’t get a thing out of that news reporter, Clive Marston, and there’s nothing we can do about it. He won’t only hit the roof, he’ll take the bloody thing off,” he chuckled.