by Ed O'Connor
Mary smiled.
‘It’s disgusting. There’s no excuse for it,’ Doreen continued bitterly, ‘I shouldn’t have to mop up your mess when you are quite capable of getting it into the pan. It’s just laziness. You should have more self-respect.’
Mary looked down at the tray: two rounds of burnt toast and a cup of tea. ‘I’ve had my breakfast already,’ she said helpfully, ‘you needn’t have bothered.’
Doreen felt a wave of cold hatred crawl through her congested veins. ‘You have to eat breakfast at nine o’clock in the morning. That’s when you are meant to take your pills.’
‘It’s the pills that make me piss the toilet,’ Mary replied.
Doreen sighed a frustrated sigh and returned to the kitchen. She lit a cigarette and took a long, inelegant drag.
‘Don’t you smoke in my house,’ Mary called from the living room.
‘Get stuffed,’ Doreen muttered. She was hungry and looked around the little kitchen for sustenance. Doreen knew that Mary had a box of fudge. She also knew that the old bitch was getting better at hiding it. This time, it took Doreen nearly ten minutes to find it, stuffed inside the microwave oven that Mary never used. She opened the box and took a handful of fudge delighting in the way its hard edges softened to goo in her mouth.
‘What are you doing?’ Mary called through.
‘Eating your fudge!’ Doreen replied through a thick, sweet mouthful.
Mary was upset. ‘You leave that fudge alone, fatty! That was a present.’
‘From your policeman fancy man – I know. So you keep telling me.’
‘You’re too fat already,’ Mary shouted in impotent fury.
Doreen gave Mary the finger from behind the kitchen wall. ‘You can’t eat it anyway. It’s got nuts in remember?’ Doreen spat back.
‘It was a present,’ said Mary sadly.
Doreen took a deep breath. Sometimes it was hard not to walk through and strangle the old bitch. Still, there were other forms of vengeance. First, she collected the money and shopping list that Mary had left for her. Then she placed the remains of the fudge back into the microwave and set it to cook for ten minutes. As she pressed the ‘start’ button, and Mary’s fudge began to absorb 750 watts of radiation energy, the front doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Doreen, walking through the living room. ‘I’m on my way out.’
‘Good,’ Mary replied.
Doreen opened the front door.
‘I’m looking for Mary Colson. I’m from New Bolden police.’ John Underwood held up his ID for Doreen to inspect.
‘What’s she done now?’ said Doreen with a nervous laugh: policemen made her edgy. ‘I’m her carer – Doreen O’Riordan.’
‘Who is it?’ Mary Colson squinted out into the corridor.
‘Another policeman, Mary.’ Doreen touched Underwood’s arm. ‘Will you be needing me, officer? I was off to buy her shopping.’
‘You’re fine,’ Underwood replied.
‘I’ll be off then.’ Doreen left the house as Underwood stepped inside. He walked through the small hallway into Mary’s living room and for a brief second took stock of the tiny, grey-haired woman huddled inside a red cardigan.
‘Hello, Mrs Colson. I’m from the police. There’s nothing to be alarmed about.’
‘I know,’ said Mary, ‘you’ve got a kind face.’
‘You’re the first person that ever said that! Do you mind if I sit down?’
Mary studied her guest with keen eyes. ‘You met Fatty Arbuckle, then?’
Underwood sat on Mary’s sofa. ‘Your carer?’
Mary laughed. ‘I don’t think anyone cares about me less!’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She’s a fat bitch. She steals my housekeeping money. She thinks I’m an idiot. That I can’t add up. But I’m not stupid. I keep records. I’ve got her number all right.’
Underwood was concerned. He hated to see people being taken advantage of. ‘Would you like me to have a word with her?’
‘You know, sometimes she turns all my photographs face down on the mantelpiece. Just so I have to put them all up again. What kind of a person would do a thing like that?’
Underwood made a mental note about Doreen O’Riordan. ‘Mrs Colson, I need to talk with you. It’s about something you told Constable Sauerwine this morning.’
‘He gave me some fudge last week,’ said Mary, ‘that fat cow’s been eating it.’
‘You told him about a dream you’ve been having. Do you remember? You said it was a nightmare.’
Mary suddenly became concerned, quiet.
‘Why would you want to know about that? Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Sometimes my dreams come true you know. I can see things. I hear things too. The voices are around us all the time. I’m like a radio, I suppose! I tune in and out. Did he tell you?’
‘Something did happen today, Mrs Colson. PC Sauerwine saw it and said it reminded him of your dream: of the things you described to him.’
‘Well, I’m blowed.’ Mary’s eyes suddenly flashed with concern. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s a bit upset, but he’s fine. Could you tell me what you told him? Tell me about your dream.’
Mary’s eyes flicked up at the ceiling as she extracted the nightmare from her memory. ‘It’s a sequence of images, really. A big, old house. A field underwater. There’s screaming. A woman screaming. The screaming is the worst part of it. It gets worse and worse.’
‘What else?’
‘There’s a man tied to a table and a big pile of bodies under a …’
‘The man on the table,’ Underwood interrupted, ‘tell me about him.’
‘He’s tied to a table but his head is in a box.’
‘How is he tied to the table?’ Underwood asked.
‘A rope I think,’ Mary frowned. ‘I can’t remember.’
Underwood looked at his notebook. Harvey had been tied with masking tape. ‘Were his feet tied up, in your dream?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No. His hands are tied beneath him under a table.’
‘What else?’
‘His head is in a box.’
Underwood felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He could see why Jack’s dead body had freaked out Sauerwine. ‘What about this pile of bodies you mentioned?’
Mary rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s just that, a pile of bodies. All of their heads are missing.’
‘How many bodies?’
‘Lots, I don’t know.’
‘A hundred? Two?’
‘Five or six. I don’t know. Maybe more, it’s hard to say.’
‘Where is this pile of bodies?’
‘Outside. There’s always children playing nearby. I can hear them shouting and laughing. And I want to shoo them away. But they keep getting closer to this horrible mess.’
Underwood was writing down as much as he could in his notebook. Elements of the dream certainly reminded him of Jack’s death but much of it seemed vague and he was uncertain whether any of it would be useful: even if Mary Colson did have some strange psychic power.
‘Did he tell you about the dog-man?’ Mary asked.
‘Not really.’
‘The dream always ends the same way. When the dog-man appears. He’s horrible. He always wakes me up.’
‘I don’t understand. What is a dog-man?’
‘He’s got the face of a man. And the face rises from the ground until it’s right over me. But his body is made of dogs.’
‘What does this man’s face look like?’
‘Like a tramp. Dirty.’
‘You said his body is made of dogs?’ Underwood was beginning to feel rather ridiculous and had stopped making notes.
‘It’s like he’s wearing a wedding dress. It sweeps down and away from him but the dress is made of dogs.’
Underwood really wanted to give Mary the benefit of the doubt. He realised that if Dexter had heard the old lady’s comments she would have packed up her stuff
, bitten her lip and left a long time ago. It was all too vague. Crazy nonsense. Sauerwine was correct to mention it but Underwood could not escape the conclusion that he had been wasting his time.
‘Do you mind if I get a glass of water, Mrs Colson?’ he asked.
The old lady nodded and Underwood walked through to the kitchen. As he filled a flower-patterned glass with tap water and took a glug, the microwave oven beeped three times indicating the end of its cooking cycle. He opened it and saw the liquid remains of Mary’s fudge drip out on to the work surface. He felt a cold stab of fury and mopped away the worst of the mess with a tea towel.
On returning to the room Underwood looked more closely at Mary Colson: her eyes were closed and her head was tilted slightly to one side. Her face was screwed up into tight lines of concentration.
‘Mrs Colson, can I ask you about Doreen O’Riordan?’
‘Shush!’ she raised an admonishing finger, ‘there’s somebody with us.’
Underwood felt a bead of sweat trickle down under his shirt collar. The flat felt suddenly stuffy. He wanted to leave.
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Shush! There’s so many voices. It’s hard to understand. It’s these silly tablets I have to take. It’s difficult to focus.’
Underwood noticed the bottle of pills next to the armchair. He wondered if Mary Colson had any idea what was going on.
‘The man who died today,’ she said quietly, ‘he was your friend.’
Underwood felt his heart flutter. ‘Yes, he was.’
Mary nodded. The raised finger still told Underwood to keep quiet.
‘He’s saying something,’ she said.
‘Where is he?’ Underwood asked.
Mary opened her eyes. ‘Standing right behind you.’
Underwood stood sharply and looked around the empty room.
‘He’s saying something.’ Mary’s lips moved silently, as if reciting a prayer.
Underwood remained standing a few feet away: suddenly unsure of himself.
‘What’s he saying?’
Mary seemed to relax in her chair and her eyes, previously unseeing, located Underwood.
‘He said “don’t forget the keys”.’
Underwood stared at her in horrified silence. It was one of the last things Jack Harvey had said to him.
27
Three miles away, Rowena Harvey sat in shock in the back of an ambulance, her face streaked with tears. Dexter watched her closely. Rowena Harvey was a beautiful woman, much younger than Jack. Was there an angle here? Dexter wondered. Was Rowena Harvey playing them? Had she been humping some tennis coach or her aerobics instructor? Should she check Jack Harvey’s life insurance policy for any irregularities or recent amendments?
Dexter suddenly remembered the brutalizing of Jack’s body and cursed her own suspicious nature. It was too ridiculous to contemplate. Still, Rowena Harvey was an attractive woman. Dexter couldn’t help but picture her in widow’s black and for a single, surprising second imagined tasting Rowena Harvey herself.
Mad shit. Concentrate.
Jensen emerged from the back of the ambulance.
‘Anything?’ Dexter asked. Back to business, Alison.
‘She stayed with a friend last night. Jack called her about ten-thirty to say good night. It checks out. She showed me her mobile.’
‘Who is the friend?’
‘Petra Longley.’
‘The magistrate?’
‘The one and only.’
Dexter knew the fearsome Petra Longley well. ‘So much for my maniac boyfriend theory then.’
‘Mrs Harvey wants to go and stay with her parents in Diss. She’s in a bad way. Can we allow it?’
Dexter nodded. ‘Take her yourself. She’s not much use here. Try to get her talking in the car. Do it gently. See if she knows anything about Jack’s patients, stuff he was working on recently.’
‘Will do.’
‘Call me if you get anything.’
Dexter turned away and headed over to Marty Farrell. One of the senior SOCOs, Farrell was engaged in an earnest conversation with Steve Polk of Cambridgeshire Fire Brigade.
‘What have you got, Marty?’ Dexter asked briskly.
‘Early days, guv.’ Farrell’s restrained manner always had a calming effect. ‘The body will be removed in the next hour. No sign of the head, though.’
‘The president’s brain is missing!’ commented Steve Polk with a grin.
Dexter rounded on him. ‘Stow it. He was a mate.’
Farrell interceded diplomatically, ‘Steve and I were talking about the fire. How it was started, right, Steve?’
Polk took a deep breath and decided to be professional. ‘Fire started in the office – that’s clear from the pattern of heat damage. It’s a guess at this stage but I would say the arsonist, the murderer, used an inflammatory fluid to get things going. Lighter fuel looks likely. Lots of paper in there – woof.’ He mimicked a fire exploding to life with his hands.
‘The weird thing, though, is that there isn’t a single local source for the fire within the room,’ Farrell added.
‘I don’t understand,’ Dexter admitted.
‘Usually, an arsonist will kindle a fire in say one corner of a room,’ Polk explained. ‘You know, a pile of paper or a rag soaked in paraffin, right?’
‘Right,’ Dexter agreed.
‘Well, in this instance, it looks like the arsonist stood in the middle of the room spraying the fuel all around him. Then started chucking matches until one of them ignited the fuel.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Dexter asked.
‘The centre of the room is the least damaged,’ Farrell explained, ‘and we’ve found matches lying around the edge of the room – lots of them.’
Polk took over. ‘It’s like a normal fire but in negative. Your average arsonist localizes a flashpoint then does a runner. This guy filled a room with fuel and started chucking lighted matches about.’
Dexter was beginning to see their point. ‘You mean he wanted to be in the room when it all started to go up.’
‘Yeah. It’s like after he chopped the bloke’s head off he wanted to be surrounded by fire. It can be quite hypnotic, watching flames crawl up walls, therapeutic even.’ Polk was anxious to restore his credibility with DI Dexter who he had decided was a wriggler.
Dexter was only half-listening. She had remembered the knife wounds on Ian Stark’s neck as he lay screaming in Accident and Emergency two nights previously. Finding a quiet place, away from the fire trucks and the hubbub of the investigation, she called Roger Leach.
28
DC Jensen hammered the squad car out of New Bolden and quickly picked up the A11. The drive to Diss would take her no more than half an hour: A11 to Thetford then the A1066 to Diss.
Doddle.
She watched Rowena Harvey in the driver’s mirror. The tears had stopped and she was staring, in stunned silence, at nothing in particular. Jensen remembered Dexter’s instructions and decided to ask some questions.
‘Mrs Harvey, I have to ask you something.’
Rowena Harvey stared blankly at her.
‘Was your husband in any trouble? You know, did he have any financial problems?’
No response.
Jensen battled on. ‘Had he been under any pressure recently? Any strange phone calls or visitors to the house? Anything unusual at all?’
Rowena Harvey was staring at her wedding ring as if trying to remember what it was. Jensen decided to lay off. It was a waste of energy.
‘He was sad,’ said Rowena quietly and suddenly.
‘Sad?’ Jensen resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. ‘Do you know why?’
Rowena Harvey shook her head slowly. Jensen tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
Behind them, the incarnate Soma kept a watchful distance from inside the light show. He increased the intensity of his masturbation as the squad car turned left out of Thetford onto the A1066 and ejaculated into the empty c
risp packet he had kept handy. He wiped himself and dropped it onto the already litter-covered floor of his Land Cruiser.
Jensen accelerated as the A1066 opened up between Thetford and Diss. Rowena Harvey had drawn her tanned knees up in front of her and sat huddled on the back seat. The car flashed past a couple of stud farms and then out into open countryside. A red triangular traffic sign warned of a sharp right turn ahead and Jensen began to decelerate. Suddenly she noticed the Land Cruiser that had filled her back window.
‘What is this guy’s problem?’ she asked herself.
The Land Cruiser swung out to the right of the squad car and drew alongside. The bend loomed thirty yards ahead of them. Jensen slammed on her brakes as the two vehicles ran two abreast. Then, in a sudden and brutal movement the Land Cruiser swung into the driver’s side of the squad car. Taken off guard, Jensen lost control. The steering wheel slipped through her hands and the car careened off the road, smashing with sickening force into a stone wall. Rowena Harvey was flung between the two front seats, hitting the dashboard in front of the gear stick. Jensen was thrown forward into the driver’s side airbag then felt her neck whiplash as it was wrenched forward then back, smashing against the headrest.
Jensen was nauseous, struggling to retain consciousness. She was dimly aware of Rowena Harvey lying across the gear stick, her head wedged against the dashboard. She was also dimly aware of the green lights of the Land Cruiser reversing back towards her.
Ten minutes later a coach driver called Suffolk police and reported the wrecked squad car. It was empty.
29
At 9p.m. that evening, Underwood crept into the back of a packed incident room at New Bolden police station. A couple of heads turned at the sound of the closing door and registered their surprise. Underwood had not been inside the station for over a year. It felt strange to him: like the first day of school. Alison Dexter and Roger Leach nodded their acknowledgement: nobody else did.
‘Let’s get started,’ Dexter announced loudly and crisply. The conversation ended abruptly. ‘Most of you know what happened to Jack Harvey. You should also know that DC Jensen and Mrs Harvey are missing. Their car was wrecked outside Diss. No trace of them was found at the crash site.’