Frank was not conventionally good looking, but his wavy black hair and dark eyes drew the girls’ interest, if only briefly. His new job as a delivery driver for a local shop helped him keep a low profile, and the old dears loved the person he pretended to be. There were plenty of gossips willing to fill him in on the strange man named Stanley, who liked a drink every pension day. A retired teacher who, rumour had it, had come to Haven after leaving his job under a cloud.
Stanley’s crumbling cottage had an expansive back garden, dense with thickets and briars that scratched skin and tore clothes. It was set back far from the road, having been built long before the development of the town. The only access was via a narrow lane, flanked by low drooping branches, providing homes for the bats that swooped as twilight approached. The rear garden was almost impassable, backing out onto barbed wire-enclosed fields, and nightfall cloaked the house in blackness so thick you could barely see your hands.
Twice a week Stanley trudged half a mile down the lonely road from his house to catch the bus to town, where he bought three bottles of cheap wine. On Thursdays, he picked up his pension and treated himself to a large bottle of whiskey. In his leisure time, he visited anywhere children frequented, and Frank felt a sickness grow in his stomach the day Stanley followed a young child home. It accelerated his plans, and reinforced the justifications for what lay ahead.
Frank chopped back some of the thorny bushes in the back garden for access, but not so much that anyone would notice. Soon it would all be ablaze. He had experimented with fire when he was young, and it had seemed biblical; a ritual purging of the contaminated. Frank recalled the screaming rats from his childhood, their stinking fur ablaze in his father’s wooden shed. It was late afternoon, pension day. The last pension Stanley would collect.
The latch on Stanley’s kitchen window was old and easy to force. Frank inhaled the smell of frying pan grease mingled with tinned cat food. The cat wouldn’t be bothering him tonight. He had seen to that.
The living room was lit by a large gold-fringed lamp, which cast a murky yellow glow on the walls. A gold carriage clock decorated the tiled fireplace, and there were no family photos to be seen. The shabby upholstered brown chair was perfectly positioned in the corner of the living room in front of the ancient television.
Frank smiled at the convenience of it all. Stanley was a hoarder and the house was filled with stacks of newspaper which would serve as useful tinder for the fire. He would be numbed by alcohol, which would prevent him putting up a fight. The thought of touching Stanley’s loathsome skin made Frank nauseous.
Frank rifled through his supplies. He had brought enough rope to wrap around the armchair twice. He wished he didn’t need to use a gag. Listening to his victim plead for his life would have given him immense pleasure, but he couldn’t risk anyone discovering the body until it was too late. Small dust clouds rose as Frank settled down behind the mismatched patterned sofa, and he hoped that Stanley would not smell the canister of fuel he brought along for the party. The scratching of a key in the front door signaled Stanley’s return. Frank ducked his head and steadied his breath, his heart pounding in his chest so loud it was almost audible.
Bottles clinked in a plastic bag as Stanley rattled the door shut behind him. Minutes later the pan sizzled with bacon. Frank bided his time. Stanley hummed tunelessly as he shuffled into the living room and placed his bacon sandwich on a small round table beside his armchair. The removal of his hat revealed a shock of white hair, which he patted into place before turning on the television. Ceremonially, he draped a tartan blanket on his knees as he sat down. He did not need a glass for the bottle of whiskey held lovingly in his right hand. The Blue Peter theme tune filled the air, and Stanley swigged his whiskey happily as it played.
The dirty bastard, getting his rocks off watching children on the television! Frank thought, as he curled his fists, willing himself to stay put until Stanley had downed the full bottle. His legs cramped as the programme ended. At last, the empty bottle fell to the floor, and Stanley breathed a regular, contented snore. Frank flexed his leg muscles as he stretched, waiting for a reaction. Stanley was out cold. All the same, he would not take any chances. The cloth would make a nice wad in the old man’s mouth should he kick up a fuss. Opening his bag, he pulled out his tape recorder, a new tool to preserve the memory. He would enjoy replaying his special time. He would relish every second.
Lying in bed that night, Frank replayed events as he stared at his ceiling. Stanley’s whimpers were playing over and over, a favourite song in his collection of memories. It was by far the richest reward. He surveyed the singe marks to his forearm. He hadn’t expected his jacket to catch alight like that, but the mission had been a success. This was a moment in his life he never wanted to forget. Frank rifled in his bedside locker and pulled out his sketchpad. Poetry was interesting, but he enjoyed drawing more. The image of Stanley tied to a chair with the rag in his mouth was a memento to be proud of. Frank chortled. The dirty old bastard hadn’t known what hit him.
Viv’s long frail fingers turned the pages of the local Gazette, and she tutted in disgust. She rarely left her bed anymore, and made it quite clear that it was Frank’s job to support her, now she was too ill to turn tricks for a living. Years of alcohol abuse had taken its toll, and the haggard looking woman with the wiry hair was but a whisper of who she used to be.
‘I see old Stanley Rogers has gone up in flames. No loss to bad rubbish,’ Viv said.
Frank feigned surprise. He relished being able to talk to someone about the murder, even if he couldn’t take the credit.
‘Of course you know why he did it. He was a pervo,’ she continued.
‘Really? Who told you that?’
‘The girls on the street told me about him a long time ago. He liked to do it with boys, the dirty pervo. Good riddance, I say.’
‘That’s not very Christian,’ Frank said, taking away the tray of uneaten porridge from her bed.
‘Good job I ain’t no Christian then, isn’t it?’ His mother cackled at the joke. Frank wondered what his father would think if he could see her now, with only a few years of life left in her. It couldn’t pass quick enough as far as he was concerned.
The shrill ring of the hall telephone interrupted their conversation. It had been recently purchased at his mother’s insistence. Frank picked up the heavy black receiver to hear Shirley’s voice, cooing soft and low.
‘Frank, you didn’t come to see me at work last night.’
Frank sighed, wondering why he bothered with a girlfriend at all. ‘I had to stay in, to look after Viv. She had a bad turn. Anyway, you said you didn’t want to see me again.’
‘Oh, you know I didn’t mean it. It’s just that some of the things you do …You know … it takes me off guard.’
Frank cradled the phone against his ear as he leaned against the wall, cracking his knuckles. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in a phone box. Nobody can hear me.’
‘What do you want, Shirley?’ Frank said, his patience running thin. Women his own age were just too immature, and he hated the pouty tone of her voice.
‘That’s not very nice. I thought you’d be happy to hear from me.’
Frank shook his head. It was always the same. Sleep with a girl and then all they wanted was to talk about feelings. It was boring and predictable and always ended the same way. Admittedly, Shirley was more open than the rest. Rough sex was something she was willing to participate in, but he could tell she wasn’t really enjoying it – those pleading wide eyes, her pale face framed by her dark curls. Especially when he put his hands around her milky white throat. Shirley’s frightened face flashed into his memory, and he felt himself become aroused.
‘I’m sorry. It’s been tough balancing work and caring for Mum. I’ll come and see you tonight if you like. When do you get off?’
That should placate her, and it was just enough to make her feel guilty for being so demanding, he thought.
&
nbsp; ‘Oh, I’m sorry. How is she?’
‘Not good, I was up all night with her. Her new medication has kicked in so I should be able to get away tonight.’ There was no new medicine. A double up of sleeping tablets would knock her out cold. Frank smiled at the irony. He was just returning the favour for all the times his mother had drugged him as a child. He could see why she’d done it now. It was a neat trick.
‘All right then, but don’t let me down. I get off at ten, but if you come to the pub earlier, I’ll serve you some drinks on the house.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. See you later, sweetheart.’ The words stuck in his throat, but it would be worth the payoff. This had to be the last time. He couldn’t trust himself with Shirley anymore, and as needy as she was, she didn’t deserve to die. But one day he would go too far. No, his next kill would be worthy; pond scum like Stanley Rogers or Michael Osborne.
As Frank washed the crockery, it all became clear. The reason the killings were such a thrill was because it was his calling. The dirty leeches that preyed on the innocent did not deserve to live, and if the police couldn’t clean up the town, he would. He thrust his hands in the sink of warm water, seeking out the dirty dishes. His life caring for his sickly mother was the perfect cover up. He worked hard at blending into the background, doing all the ordinary things, having a job and occasional girlfriend. But one day he would lead people willing to carry on his good work. The natural order would come to pass, and the world would be a better place for it. His father’s voice pleaded in the recesses of his mind, as it always did when he contemplated murder. Frankie don’t do this; you’re a good boy. But the voice grew weak, and the image of his father’s face blurred. He couldn’t even remember what he looked like anymore. Frank’s thoughts grew strong. He was a man now, and didn’t need to listen to his daddy anymore.
14 Chapter Fourteen
Jennifer hovered her hand over the black porcelain bedside lamp and reluctantly switched it off. She slid into her crisp white sheets, cocooned by the contrasting black baroque papered walls. Slivers of moonlight reflected in the mirror over her white vanity table, and her heart skipped a beat as she glimpsed a darting shadow in the glass. There’s nothing there, she told herself, wishing she had chosen a warmer theme when decorating her bedroom. Laying back on her soft pillow, she closed her eyes as tiredness overcame her. As her breathing slowed, a slight tremble of the mattress pulled her from sleep. Bleary-eyed, she glanced around the empty room before lying back down. She did not hear the faint tinkle of her glass chandelier as a jagged swirl of mist darted overhead.
Jennifer’s muscles burned as she polished the window ledges in her bedroom. She had been up since dawn, mindlessly cleaning as she tried to work things out in her head. Until recently, the work, eat, sleep cycle was something Jennifer had grown used to as one day merged into another. But the comfort of the routine came crashing down around her as her thoughts became filled with her recent encounters. She raked her brain for a rational explanation. It was no secret that Johnny had pissed off some very bad people, but why would anyone want to kill Charlie? The memory of his pleading in the cell told her his death was no accident. What if there were more to come? And if so, who could help her? Their family priest had advised her as a child and for that she was grateful. But there was one thing stopping her from giving him a call to help now. He was a stickler for church attendance and may berate her for her lack of faith. A devout Catholic, her mother would have been horrified that Jennifer had ceased going to church. But for Jennifer, turning her back on her faith was a final act of defiance. She knew in her heart, though, that holding on to her bitterness would only hurt her in the end. She wondered what sort of a person it made her, being angry at her mother who had been taken so tragically. Perhaps the sort of person a dark entity would be attracted to.
Jennifer was still thinking of the entity during her suspect interview at work that afternoon. It was a domestic abuse incident in which the suspect had tried to strangle his wife. He had already admitted to the offence, and was recounting the incident in a slow monotonous voice. Will had to kick her under the table more than once to bring her back into the questioning, Doubts had started to creep in, and she had been wondering if she imagined the voice coming from Johnny and Charlie had sounded the same. What if their deaths really were accidents? Or what if they had been orchestrated by someone who knew of her abilities and was making it look like it was paranormal to mess with her head? Will passed a folded note asking if she was all right. He could read her like a book. She gave her most reassuring smile and returned her attention to the remorseful suspect before her.
Jennifer had settled down to the post interview paperwork when Steph marched into the office, closely followed by a suited young man. ‘Ah, here you are. This is PC Ethan Cole; he’s on attachment for a few days. Ethan, this is Jennifer Knight.’
Jennifer nodded an acknowledgement as Steph continued.
‘Everyone else here is tied up, so I’ve allocated him to shadow you. He’s thinking about putting in for his detective’s exam so don’t put him off.’
Graced with a confident presence, Ethan virtually dwarfed Steph at over six feet tall. His crisp white shirt complimented the tones of his almond brown skin, and he gave Jennifer a broad smile as he extended his hand. Jennifer’s eyes flickered over to her colleague Susie, who was positively leering from the far end of the office. Jennifer flushed as she showed Ethan to her desk.
‘I’m sorry you got the short straw. I’m sure you would have preferred Westlea nick to this one.’
‘Not at all.’ Ethan said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. ‘They don’t have much time for one-to-ones. I’m hoping I can pick your brains while I’m here.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Will sniggered, and Jennifer narrowed her eyes in response.
‘Ethan, this is my delightful partner, Will. Ignore everything he says, or better still, do the opposite, and you will be well on your way to becoming a fine detective.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. Just make sure Ethan is included. It should help free Will up to get on with his workload.’ Steph nodded towards Will’s mountain of paperwork that appeared to have reproduced overnight.
Jennifer had mixed feelings about being shadowed. It would be nice to have the distraction of working with Ethan, but having him watch her every move would make it difficult to investigate the police system for clues of Charlie’s death.
‘I’ve got some enquiries to make with regards to a robbery we dealt with this afternoon. I was about to pick up the CCTV. Would you like to help Will with his files, or come with me?’
Ethan grinned. ‘Hmmm, a ton of paperwork or going for a drive?’
Jennifer threw him the car keys. ‘In that case, you’re driving.’
Will pulled a face and Jennifer reciprocated with a wink as she followed Ethan to the back yard.
The beeps of the central locking system directed Ethan to the job car as he pressed the key fob. Disappointed at what awaited him, he pushed back the driver seat of the battered Ford to allow for his long legs. ‘I thought CID would have a decent car.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Westlea nick gets all the decent motors. We’re just the poor relations.’ Jennifer clicked her seatbelt into place. ‘We’re going to Cash Savers Pawn Brokers in the town, on 52 Central Avenue. Their CCTV scans the street outside where the suspects were believed to be hanging about before they pounced on our victim.’
‘I know where that is,’ he said, driving through the rear gates. Ethan flipped on the wipers as the rain began to pelt on the windscreen.
Jennifer tried to cop an eyeful of the cute young officer through a sneaky sidelong glance. He was a definite improvement on most of the old codgers in Haven CID.
‘Have you made an appointment to pick the CCTV up?’ He said, catching her stare.
Jennifer lowered her eyes. ‘No, the storeowner is keeping it for us, he said we can drop by anytime. I thought we could grab it and th
en pop into Tesco’s so I can get something for lunch.’
Ethan hesitated at the junction, tapping his finger on the steering wheel.
‘It’s left,’ Jennifer said.
‘Yeah, I know, but I left my mobile phone at home.’ Ethan turned his dark brown eyes on her. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance, but would it be all right if we quickly go over to collect it now?’
‘All right then, five minutes won’t hurt, I suppose. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of any missed calls.’
‘There shouldn’t be, I don’t know that many people in the area yet.’ Ethan said.
‘I’m sure there’s lots of female officers in Haven that would be happy to show you around,’ Jennifer grinned, smoothing over her skirt.
‘So how long have you been in the job?’ he asked, ramming the reluctant car into gear.
‘Forever. I joined when I was eighteen. You?’
‘Not long, I’ve just finished my probation. I was travelling before that. I thought I should settle down, so I decided to give CID a try.’
Jennifer raised an eyebrow. ‘So you joined when you were …’
Don't Turn Around: A dark, thrilling, page-turner of a crime novel (Detective Jennifer Knight Crime Thriller Series Book 1) Page 10