Acid Lullaby

by Ed O'Connor

‘You fucking arsehole,’ she said. ‘You miserable little prick.’

  Willis promptly hung up the phone. ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘You are fucking Otham.’

  Willis shrugged. ‘Amongst others. What’s the big deal? We ain’t exclusive.’

  ‘Yes we are,’ shouted Dexter. ‘I am very bloody exclusive.’

  ‘You need to grow up, Sparrer. You’re a decent time-filler but nothing more than that.’

  His words tore her soul into shreds.

  ‘You don’t mean that. You helped me. You helped me here and with Vince.’

  ‘Must have been fanny-happy. You’re a good squirt, Sparrer, I’ll give you that.’

  She stared at him in utter despair. The man was beneath her contempt and his baby was growing inside her. Dexter turned on her heels and left the office. The rest of Leyton CID had enjoyed watching the showdown. Many of the police officers were caught out by Dexter’s sudden departure and urgently tried to create an impression of business as she walked past. Before leaving the department, Dexter turned to face them.

  ‘Seeing as you’ve all taken an interest,’ she shouted across the floor, ‘that little prick couldn’t make a taxi come.’

  Horton and a couple of male coppers grinned. Two WPCs bit their lips and exchanged ‘oh my god’ expressions. Emerging from his office with DS Read, Paddy McInally laughed out loud.

  It was a small victory. Alison Dexter cried all the way home.

  Willis was getting annoyed. It was 10.30p.m. and she still hadn’t shown. He extinguished his cigarette into his coffee and left the café. He was sick of playing stupid games. He would drive to her flat, kick the door down and beat her senseless until she gave him his drugs. He’d already taken an hour out of his day to place a personal ad over the phone in the East London Advertiser and the Evening Standard. It had simply said, ‘Primal Cut. Alison Dexter, New Bolden, Cambridgeshire.’ He had paid extra to ensure that the details were located in a shaded text box and that the advertisement ran for a month. He wanted the information to be visible. Dexter had left London in a hurry in 1996. He felt London deserved the chance to catch up with an old friend.

  Willis pushed open the door of the gent’s toilet and approached a urinal. He had been desperate for a piss for ten minutes but had been reluctant to leave his vantage point in the café. He unzipped his trousers and stared at the white-tiled wall as he emptied his bladder. The door opened behind him. Willis ignored it, concentrating on the job in hand. Suddenly he sensed someone step up quickly behind him. Before he had time to react, Willis felt his head being wrenched back then slammed forward into the unyielding tiles. His nose broke just as he lost consciousness.

  Willis’ attacker hauled him to the exit and made a quick call on his mobile phone. Two minutes later, Willis had been loaded into the back of a Ford Transit. The white van rumbled out of Norbury Services and headed at speed down the M11 towards east London. Willis regained consciousness quickly: he tasted blood in his mouth and his tongue felt the jagged edges of his broken teeth.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he tried to sit up but fell back sharply after a fist slammed into his face.

  ‘Lie there, you little cunt,’ snarled a voice charged with the fury of a south London council estate.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll tear your tongue out,’ said another voice.

  Willis tried to do some calculations: two men in the back of the van and a driver. At least three people had taken him. A cold and terrible realization began to dawn on him.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘London town,’ said the first voice.

  ‘Why?’ Willis was desperate.

  ‘You owe someone money.’

  ‘Eric? Do you mean Eric Moule?’

  The same fist hammered into the side of his head. Willis felt nauseous, unable to make sense of what was happening to him.

  ‘Mr Moule,’ the voice said. ‘To junkie cunts like you he’s Mr Moule.’

  There it was. Eric Moule had found him. Willis tried to think fast. He knew that unless he found a way out quickly he was dead.

  ‘Tell Mr Moule I can get his money,’ he spluttered.

  There was some laughter in the van.

  ‘It’s too late for that, dickhead.’ One of the men leaned closer to Willis’s face. His breath stank of whisky and cigarettes. ‘Do you want to be cremated or buried at sea?’

  More laughter ricocheted around the inside of the van as it bumped at high speed along the motorway.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got money. Turn the van around and I’ll take you there. My girlfriend has it. She’s a copper. She’s been pissing me around. If we go there, you can make her give it to you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the whisky and cigarettes. ‘We’ve got a nice evening planned for you, sunshine. To be honest, I’m quite looking forward to it. Mr Moule will be popping over the water to say hello as well. He takes a personal interest in this kind of transaction. He may even offer you a glass of wine.’

  ‘Why? What are you talking about?’

  ‘When he’s watching you eating your own bollocks off a plate. He might offer you a drop of Lambrusco to wash ’em down!’

  ‘I think you’ll find that Mr Moule is more of a Bollinger fan, Lenny!’ the driver shouted out.

  ‘Yeah! That’s right, mate. What do you say then, Willis? A drop of Bolly to wash down your bollies?’

  ‘How did you find me?’ Willis asked. ‘How did you know I was there?’

  Lenny, Mr whisky and cigarettes, considered the question. ‘Well, I’ll forgive your impertinence given the circumstances. Let’s just say a little bird told us.’

  The van bounced and rattled along the deserted motorway as Eric Moule’s men started work in earnest on Mark Willis with fists and pieces of metal.

  Alison Dexter turned off the light as she left her office in New Bolden police station. She stepped quietly down the stone staircase to the entrance hall and nodded goodbye to the desk sergeant a s she left the building. It was a surprisingly cold spring night and she drew her jacket tightly around her to protect against the grasping fog. Before she opened her car door, she withdrew a piece of paper from her pocket. Feeling nothing other than cold satisfaction, Alison Dexter tore it into small pieces and threw the fragments of Eric Moule’s phone number into the night.

  72

  Five days later, early on a grey morning, PC Sauerwine rang the doorbell of Doreen O’Riordan’s flat in the Morley estate. He heard a creak behind the door, sensing that she was appraising him through the security peephole. He tried to look as unthreatening as his navy blue uniform would permit. He wanted to speak to her. It was important that she let him in. On the other side of the door, Doreen hesitated and cursed her bad luck. It was the first day of her holiday: her flight left in nine hours and she hadn’t finished packing. She had believed that the police had decided to leave her alone, that she would be able to escape into her dream for a fortnight. The doorbell rang again. She slipped the chain onto the door and opened it a few inches.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked Sauerwine through the gap.

  ‘Miss O’Riordan. I’m PC Sauerwine. We’ve met before at Mary Colson’s house. Can I speak with you, please?’

  ‘Is it urgent?’ Doreen asked. ‘I’m very busy. I’ve a plane to catch.’

  ‘It won’t take a moment.’

  With an irritated sigh, Doreen unclipped the chain and opened the door. She led Sauerwine through to the living room. It was cluttered and untidy with colourful magazines heaped in slithering piles. There was a portable plastic foot spa in front of a sofa that was laden with piles of clothing. A suitcase gaped open on the floor: Doreen’s summer clothes were organized inside.

  Doreen folded her arms and stared at Sauerwine. ‘Let’s hear it, then?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘What’s she been making up about me now?’ Doreen had decided to brazen it out, play the outraged innocent.r />
  ‘If you’re talking about Mrs Colson, I’m afraid to say that she died at the hospital a couple of days ago.’

  ‘What can I do for you then?’ Doreen showed no visible emotion other than mild irritation.

  ‘It’s about the receipts that you handed in to Inspector Underwood. I’ve been going through them.’

  Doreen felt that it might help to muddy the waters further. ‘Yes, I couldn’t find them all.’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘I can’t be expected to keep all the receipts I get,’ Doreen smarted. ‘Do you know how many old people I look after?’

  ‘I do, actually.’ Sauerwine checked his notebook. ‘Six.’

  ‘Five now.’ Doreen perched on the edge of the sofa and looked into her suitcase wondering if Sauerwine was about to slam the lid on her dream.

  ‘I’ve been through the receipts, Miss O’Riordan,’ Sauerwine continued, ‘and to be honest I’m confused. There’s all sorts of stuff. For example, there’s one in here for two CDs. Correct me if I’m wrong but Mrs Colson didn’t have a CD player.’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Doreen said flatly.

  ‘Right. So how do you suppose it got mixed up with all the others?’

  ‘No idea. Mistake, I guess.’

  ‘There’s lots of others: receipts for sun lotion, t-shirts, wine.’

  Doreen shrugged. ‘I must have muddled them up.’

  ‘Makes it very hard for us to check them doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Doreen smiling sweetly. ‘I suppose it does.’

  Sauerwine had run out of patience. ‘I’ll be straight with you, Miss O’Riordan. I know you have been stealing money from Mary Colson. I imagine you have also been stealing money from the other old people in your care. Mrs Colson kept a rough record of what she gave you in housekeeping. I’ve been through all of these receipts. I’ve discounted all the goods listed that were clearly not for her. I’ve mentioned some of those already. By my calculations, which may be inaccurate of course because you failed to provide the proper receipts, there’s a shortfall of about three hundred pounds.’

  ‘She used to keep cash hidden around the bungalow,’ Doreen responded. ‘She probably forgot she had the money.’

  ‘I found eighty pounds in her flat yesterday. That still leaves two hundred and twenty or so unaccounted for.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’d have a look round there myself but I’m off on holiday this afternoon. I need to get the bus to Stansted at midday. Still, now she’s gone I suppose it doesn’t really matter anyway. So if you wouldn’t mind letting me get on.’

  Sauerwine smiled and put his pocket book in his pocket. ‘Tell you what Miss O’Riordan, I can see you’re busy so I’ll do you a deal. Give me the two hundred pounds now.’

  ‘Why should I? I haven’t got it. Even if I did have, she’s dead.’

  ‘I’ll be frank, Doreen. If you don’t give me the money you’ve taken now, I will be forced to arrest you and take you in to the station for questioning. That is a long and tedious process. We can hold you for a long time before we have to charge you. Your plane will be long gone by the time you get out. There are funeral expenses and Mrs Colson left a will. Her savings are to be divided between two animal welfare charities.’

  ‘I don’t have two hundred pounds,’ said Doreen with an edge of desperation, she was only just holding back the tears.

  ‘I think that you do. We have already spoken to the council Social Services department. If you make life difficult for us, I will be forced to hand over the full details of our accusations. Chances are you’d lose your job, Doreen.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she had started to cry.

  ‘It’s not your money. I’m offering you a deal: a quick fix. Don’t be an idiot.’

  Doreen saw her holiday dream hanging in front of her by a thread. She frantically considered her options. There was only one thing she could do. She reached into her flight bag, which was sitting on her dining table, and withdrew an envelope. Inside was her holiday spending money: four hundred Euros. She counted out three hundred and handed them over to Sauerwine.

  ‘That’s the only way I can do it,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to get it changed. It’s about two hundred quid.’

  Sauerwine took the cash from her. ‘You’ve done the right thing. It’s the easy option.’

  ‘Some bloody holiday I’m going to have.’ Doreen felt her nose running as the tears coursed from her eyes. ‘Two weeks in Greece with only sixty quid to spend.’ She pictured herself sitting alone at the Acropolis bar with only a cold cup of coffee to accompany her through the evening.

  Sauerwine was on his way to the door. ‘We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Doreen. When you get back, of course. Don’t let me find out that you’ve been ripping off anyone else. Next time I won’t be so accommodating.’

  He turned and headed for the door.

  ‘What are you getting out of this?’ Doreen asked bitterly. ‘Who made you her bloody guardian angel?’

  Sauerwine thought for a moment. ‘She made me breakfast,’ he said, ‘I owe her one.’

  ‘You owe her one?’ Doreen spluttered wiping away the snot and tears with her sleeve, ‘You didn’t have to carry her bloody shopping home in the rain. You didn’t have to listen to all her nasty little bullshit. I was cleaning her piss off the bathroom floor while you were having your breakfast. She fucking owes me one.’

  She was shouting now, bellowing her loneliness into the dark corridor.

  But Sauerwine had gone.

  73

  After his injuries had been treated, his broken limbs set in plaster, Max Fallon was transferred from Addenbrookes Psychotherapy Unit to Wooton High Security Psychiatric Hospital on the edge of Cambridgeshire and Northamptonshire. Here he underwent a week of psychiatric assessments from David Pike, a Home Office psychiatrist, and two independent psychiatric experts from London.

  Alison Dexter and John Underwood drove to Wooton to hear their conclusions. After passing through security control Dexter parked opposite the main reception area.

  ‘This place gives me the creeps,’ Underwood said as they got out of the car.

  ‘Looks more like a factory,’ Dexter observed. ‘One of those nineteenth-century textile mills.’

  They passed through an extended and tedious signing-in process and two more security checkpoints inside the main building before David Pike met them at the foot of the main stairway and escorted them up to the observation ward.

  ‘Fallon is a curious case,’ Pike said, brushing dandruff from his shoulders. ‘Completely unbalanced.’

  ‘I think we figured that one out ourselves,’ Dexter replied.

  ‘Of course.’ Pike led them into the observation ward. There was only one occupant. Max Fallon lay securely fastened in his arm restraints, staring in a cold unblinking gaze at the grey ceiling.

  ‘He’s sedated now,’ Pike continued. ‘Interviewing him has been a virtual impossibility.’

  ‘Why?’ Underwood asked.

  ‘He seems unable to speak. He won’t reply to questioning. He refuses to eat. We have had to feed him intravenously as he seems incapable of chewing his food.’

  ‘Has he had an episode, you know, a stroke or something?’ Dexter asked.

  Pike shook his head. ‘No. We have run a series of scans and blood tests. His brain chemistry is unusual: he has been eating psychoactive drugs as if they were smarties for months. However, he has not lost motor control. In fact he has started spitting.’

  ‘Spitting?’ Underwood looked at the pathetic figure tied to the bed.

  ‘We had two female nurses working with me here, I have had to move them to a different ward. He became agitated in their presence and started to spit,’ Pike explained with unpleasant enthusiasm.

  ‘Any idea why?’ Dexter asked.

  ‘I’ve read the notes made by Jack Harvey during his consultations with Fallon,’ Pike said. ‘Also the report that you kindly provided Inspector Und
erwood regarding the crime scene at Fallon’s house and his attempt to impregnate the female victim he abducted. Based on that, I would say the spitting has a sexual connotation. The spit represents ejaculate. I’d keep your distance if I was you,’ Pike warned Dexter.

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ she replied grimly.

  ‘Is there an office or somewhere that we can talk?’ Underwood asked.

  ‘Sure.’ Pike gestured towards the steel door.

  Fallon heard noises, snippets and abstractions of conversation wash over him. He had no clear idea where he was. His legs seemed to have fossilized into cold, white stone. His arms had somehow been immobilized. Perhaps he had become a statue of himself: a great, stone devotional colossus of the Soma. Truly then, he was immortal. The stone god: a great conscious, omniscient statue. He would accept fossilization for perpetuity. His dry, staring eyes watched a spider descending from the grey stone sky. It edged ever closer. The Soma slowly opened his great stone mouth and waited to receive the messenger.

  Underwood sat opposite Pike in the small meeting room outside the observation ward.

  ‘What’s the bottom line, then?’ he asked.

  Pike paused before he answered. He was choosing his words carefully. ‘The report that the independent advisors and myself will be handing over to the Crown Prosecution Service will say that Fallon is not mentally fit to stand trial.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Dexter bitterly.

  ‘He has no sense of his own identity. He is unable to form answers to questions. I have to answer two or three basic queries in a case like this. One: is he fit to plead his case? The answer to that is a clear “no”. Two: was the suspect mentally disordered at the time of committing the crimes? The answer to that is a resounding “yes”. Three: Was his mental condition such that he had no conception that what he was doing was criminal or morally wrong? In my professional opinion the answer to that is also “yes”.’

  ‘The point is that he was mentally disordered because he knowingly took drugs that altered his perception of reality,’ Dexter argued.

  ‘No. The point is that the drugs so dissolved his conscience and identity that he had no idea what he was doing.’