by Tim Ellis
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘I’ve given you everything I had.’
‘Weren’t you meant to be doing some research on Paraphilic Psychosexual Disorder?’
‘I’ve made some notes . . .’
‘For the future?’
She ignored him. ‘Paraphilia is when a person experiences intense sexual arousal to atypical objects, situations or individuals . . .’
‘Like you with Luigi and Henri?’
‘Currently, there are 549 types of paraphilias.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Only eight are listed in the Diagnostic Statistical Manual, which makes a distinction between paraphilias and paraphilic disorders. Paraphilias do not require any psychiatric treatment, except when they become disorders and involve personal harm, or risk of harm to others, in achieving their satisfaction.’
‘And the eight that are listed are?’
‘Voyeurism, exhibitionism, frotteurism . . .’
‘Which is?’
Richards checked her notes. ‘Rubbing yourself against a non-consenting person for sexual pleasure . . .’
‘Rubbing yourself?’
‘The pelvic area and . . . you know?’
‘I know what?’
‘You know?’
‘I don’t know anything. That’s why I’m asking you.’
‘A man’s thing.’
‘Thing! What thing?’
‘You know?’
‘It would help if you told me what thing you mean.’
‘His penis.’
‘Why didn’t you want to say that?’
‘It’s a dirty word.’
‘And you call me crazy. What else?’
‘Sexual masochism, sexual sadism, paedophilia, fetishism and transvestism.’
‘What do you think?’
Richards looked at her notebook. ‘I’ve put a line through all of them except sexual sadism, which is experiencing sexual arousal in response to the extreme pain, suffering or humiliation of others. They inflict pain and suffering whether the victim agrees to it or not, which will sometimes result in mutilation and/or death. Also, borderline personality disorder or psychopathy might very well increase the likelihood of a person acting on their sexually sadistic fantasies.’
‘So, where does that leave us, Richards?’
‘We know a bit more about the person we’re looking for maybe, but we’re no closer to catching him.’
‘Let’s go home.’
‘Maybe we’ll get lucky tomorrow and someone will recognise the victim from the photograph in the newspaper or on the news.’
‘Maybe they will,’ he said, but he wasn’t wholly convinced.
Chapter Ten
Shakin’ was nowhere to be seen.
‘Do you think he’s struck oil, Mrs K.’
The corner of Jerry’s mouth creased upwards as she looked left and right along Lyme Street. ‘It depends on what type of oil you’re talking about, Joe.’
‘Maybe I should take some oil with me tonight.’
‘I’d stick to flowers, Joe. Don’t make any assumptions. She might be interested in you for your mind.’
He laughed. ‘That’ll be a first.’
The weather had taken a turn for the worse, and it was beginning to get dark. The dark ominous clouds were moving across the sky like a mounted horde of Mongol soldiers galloping across the steppe. It wasn’t raining yet, but there was no doubt that a torrential downpour was imminent.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Mrs K?’
‘Yes, but if we don’t do it now we’ll have to return tomorrow, and I’m not keen on that idea. Remember, we have until the end of the week. As well as checking out Rebecca’s story we also have to write a report on our findings.’
‘You’re the boss.’
They knocked twice on number 26 Lyme Street, but there was no response. As they turned to go a woman with orange hair wearing a leopard skin fur coat, leggings, red wellies and pushing a buggy appeared.
‘You want something?’ the woman said.
‘Do you live . . . ?’ Jerry began.
‘You’re not from the Council, are you?’
‘No.’
‘What do you want then?’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘I’ll tell you what, lady. You tell me what you want and I might answer your questions.’
‘We’re from Rebecca Hardacre’s legal team and . . .’
‘Is that the woman who used to live in the top-floor flat next door?’
‘Yes.’
‘Killed her partner for beating her up?’
‘That’s what we’re here to find out.’
‘If it’d have been me, I’d have chopped the bastard up and disposed of the pieces all over London. A guy hit me once . . .’ She grunted. ‘After I bit half his penis off he never hit me again.’
Joe’s face contorted into a grimace.
‘Yeah, you may as well pull your face, mate. You hit a woman you deserve everything you get.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Joe said. ‘Did he have the end re-attached?’
‘He might have done if I hadn’t spat it out down the toilet and flushed the chain . . . That’s why I drink bottled water now, by the way. Last I heard was that he’d got himself a transplant.’ Her top lip curled up. ‘I hope it turns black and drops off.’
‘Were you living here when Rebecca and Andrew had the upstairs flat at number 28?’
‘Three months.’
‘Did you see or hear anything that might help us?’
‘Help you in what way?’
‘To understand the type of relationship they had?’
‘He used to beat the shit out of her.’
‘Did you actually see him hit her?’
‘Well no, but I heard the shouting and screaming.’
‘And did it sound like he was hitting her?’
‘That’s a strange question. It was her that did the shouting and screaming, I know that. Christ! That bitch had a voice on her. I’m trying to think if I heard him at all. I don’t know. I suppose I must have done. Maybe he did his talking with his hands. That’s what most of the bastards use to get their message across.’
‘So you didn’t actually witness him beating her?’
‘If you say so.’
‘It was you who said so.’
‘You think this Rebecca is innocent then?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to determine.’
‘Well, if she killed him, she must have felt that her own life was in danger. He was a bit of all-right though. Used to give me the glad-eye when he passed. I got the impression that if I even looked in his direction I’d find myself with another baby.’
‘Are you saying he went with other women?’
‘You’re putting words in my mouth, lady. That what they teach you on those legal teams? All I’m saying, is that if I’d given him an ounce of encouragement, he’d have wormed his way into my good books so to speak.’
‘Were you afraid of him . . . ? That he might sexually assault you?’
‘Not a chance. I don’t know what he did to that Rebecca, but as far as I could tell he just wanted to wriggle into my leggings. Some couples are like that though, aren’t they?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Like, some people find their soul mates. I mean, I’ve found my Darren . . . It took me a good forty goes on the helter-skelter though, but I found him eventually. What I’m saying, is maybe there’s an opposite to that. You put two normally nice people in a room – or a relationship for that matter – together, and it’s like putting two fighting pitbulls or cocks in a cage with instructions to kill or be killed. Maybe Rebecca and Andrew were just extreme opposites. Anyway, I don’t know about you two, but it’s going to piss down with a vengeance any minute, so me and Brad are going inside. You’re welcome to come in for a hot drink if you want, but make your mind up quickly.’
<
br /> ‘It’s very nice of you to offer, but we have to get on. Thanks very much for your help Mrs . . . ?’
‘Who can afford to get married these days? Nobody gives a toss whether people are married or not anyway. I’m Doreen Myers and Darren’s last name is Mitchell. Of course, Brad has his dad’s last name, but we’ve been thinking of changing our surnames to Myers-Mitchell or Mitchell-Myers . . . You know, like the knobs have. That’d give Brad a leg up. What do you think?’
‘Mitchell-Myers for me,’ Joe said.
Jerry nodded. ‘Rolls off the tongue better.’
‘That’s what Darren says, but I wanted my name first. Oh well, I suppose I might have to let him his way . . .’ She laughed. ‘If you know what I mean?’
She didn’t wait for a response, but opened the door to number 26, jiggled the pushchair with a sleeping Brad in it inside and shut the door behind her.’
‘Inconclusive?’ Joe suggested.
‘That was my first thought,’ Jerry agreed. ‘But I’m getting a distinct impression – with the more we find out – that Andrew Crowthorne wasn’t necessarily the monster Rebecca Hardacre says he was.’
‘I’ve been thinking the same thing, Mrs K.’
They knocked on number 30 Lyme Street and a man opened the door. ‘Yes?’
‘Is it possible we could come in and talk to you about Rebecca and Andrew who used to live in the upstairs flat at number 28?’
‘Never knew them. I’m busy anyway.’
‘Did you live here when they were here?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who did?’
‘No. Anything else?’
Jerry shook her head. ‘Thanks for your time.’
The door shut.
‘He wasn’t very pleasant,’ Joe said.
Jerry looked up at the sky and held out her hand. Spots of rain bounced off her palm. ‘Do you think we can make the tube station, Joe?’
‘I’m game if you are, Mrs K. Although . . . those heels aren’t going to do us any favours.’
‘You go,’ Jerry said. ‘I’ll follow as fast as I can.’
‘Shakin’ might have taken you up on that offer, but I’m not like that. Are you ready?’
‘Let’s go.’
They started running up Lyme Street in the direction of Camden Road station, and just as they crossed back over Regents Canal the heavens opened up.
***
‘Good evening,’ he said, when he opened the door to the young man. ‘Please, come in.’
The man stepped inside.
His name was Jean-Christophe Bouvet. He was a French student who had been studying art at the University of West London.
‘I feel as though all my troubles have been lifted from my shoulders,’ Jean-Christophe said.
‘Yes – there’s nothing to worry about now,’ he reassured the Frenchman as he took his coat and hung it up on a peg in the alcove. ‘Soon, it will all be over.’
‘For both of us?’
‘Yes, for both of us,’ he reassured Bouvet.
‘Have you left a note for the people you love?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘We agreed.’
‘I know, but I wonder whether it would be the right thing to do. My parents, my girlfriend – they’ll ask why?’
‘Why we’re doing it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore. They wouldn’t understand anyway.’
‘No . . . No, I suppose you’re right.’
‘I am right. We’ve trusted each other this far . . .’
‘And don’t think I’m not grateful – I am.’
‘You didn’t leave a note, did you?’
‘No. As you said: We agreed.’
‘That’s good. A glass of wine, Jean-Christophe?’
‘Wine goes to my head.’
‘That’s hardly relevant now, is it?’
‘Of course not. Yes, wine would be good.’
‘Take a seat. I won’t be long.’
He went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of red wine. In the one for Jean-Christophe he stirred in the contents of two capsules of Rohypnol.
Soon.
It had been five days since Hayley Kingdom had sacrificed herself for his pleasure.
Soon, Jean-Christophe would do the same thing.
He took the glass of wine into the living room.
Jean-Christophe reached for it with trembling hands. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and took a long swallow.
‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about before . . . ?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve made my peace with God, if there is such an entity. I’ve called the people who matter. I’ve prepared myself mentally for passing. I’ve sorted out all my affairs, not that I had many affairs to sort out. Now, I’m eager to move on, to see what’s on the other side.’
‘That seems very sensible.’
‘I feel strange. Did you put something in my drink?’
‘In both of our drinks. Something to relax you, take the edge off.’
‘You never mentioned . . .’
‘It’ll be easier – trust me.’
‘Yes, I trust you.’
‘Good. Close your eyes. It will soon be over.’
‘Yes.’
He took the wine from Jean-Christophe’s hand, placed it on the table and began undressing him.
Soon.
‘Are you taking my clothes off?’
‘Yes – trust me.’
‘I trust you.’
When Jean-Christophe was naked, he helped him through into the kitchen.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To where it will happen.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Good. Soon, it will all be over.’
He bent Bouvet over the table, tied his ankles and wrists to the heavy wooden legs and went back through into the living room. It would be a couple of hours before the Rohypnol had worn off. He could do what he needed to do now, but a large part of his sexual excitement was Jean-Christophe feeling the pain, the look of terror in his eyes, the futile struggling against the ropes. Without all of that it just wasn’t the same. If he was to be sexually satisfied, then Jean-Christophe had to suffer the pain and humiliation. He didn’t feel guilty about it – that’s just the way it was. Jean Christophe wanted to die. He was helping the man to do that. As payment, he required a little pain and suffering. It wasn’t too much to ask.
While he waited, he collected up Jean-Christophe’s clothes and possessions and put them in a black plastic bag. He’d burn them in the metal bin tomorrow.
It was close to midnight before Jean-Christophe shouted, ‘Hello?’
He was already naked, and walked through into the kitchen.
‘What’s going on?’
‘What’s going on is that you’re going to make me very happy, Jean Christophe.’
‘But I thought . . .’
‘Oh, don’t worry. You’re going to die . . . eventually. But between then and now there’ll be a lot of suffering and pain.’
He wrapped the material from his mother’s nightdress around Jean-Christophe’s mouth and tied it tight at the back of his neck. Then, he picked up the knife he’d spent fifteen minutes sharpening earlier and said, ‘Shall we begin?’
Bouvet struggled against his rope ties.
As he took hold of Jean-Christophe’s penis in his left hand, he began to feel a stirring between his thighs.
Yes, he had high hopes that tonight would be a good night.
***
Tuesday, February 23
‘What’s this?’ he said, picking up a sheaf of A4 papers that had been stapled together in the top left-hand corner and dropped onto his hairy chest.
‘A post-mortem report,’ Jerry said.
He needed the toilet desperately, but he was willing to forego the pleasure of emptying his bladder to stay under the warm quilt and cuddle his hot wife.
‘You really know how to set my pulse racing, Jerry Kowalski,’ he said, tossing the repor
t on the floor. ‘But as much as a post-mortem report may have warmed my cockles in days of yore, now I have something else in mind to keep out the winds of winter.’ He slid his hand under her nightdress and across her flat stomach.
She gripped his massive hand with both of hers. ‘This is important, Ray.’
‘I know that in any negotiations we have to give a little – take a little. Are you prepared to do what it takes to get the deal done, Mrs Kowalski?’
She released his hand. ‘Go on then, but I hope I’m dealing with the head negotiator and not some minor flunky?’
‘I’m standing in for the minor flunky, but you can rest assured that my word is my bond.’
‘I certainly hope so.’
Afterwards, Kowalski hurried to the toilet.
When he returned Jerry said, ‘You should ask for a promotion to minor flunky.’
‘Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind. However, a vote of confidence from a satisfied client would go a long way towards any future thrust for promotion I’m sure, so please feel free to say nice things about me to whoever’s willing to listen. Now, what’s the story behind this post-mortem report you’ve got your oily hands on?’
‘I have to go for a shower.’
He put the report down. ‘I think we’re telepathically connected, you know. That’s exactly what I had in mind.’
She laughed. ‘No more negotiations today, Mr Flunky. You stay there and read the report. We’ll discuss it once I get out of the shower.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me . . . ?’
‘No. Read it first, tell me what you think and then I’ll give you the background.’
‘It’ll be a struggle knowing that you’re in the shower without any visible means of washing your back.’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘It’s not you I’m concerned about.’
She climbed out of bed, walked towards the en suite and let her silk nightdress drop to the floor. ‘I know.’
The scars were still visible on her back and buttocks from her imprisonment and torture by Rose Needle, but the psychological scars seemed to be healing. Oh, he knew she still had nightmares. She tossed and turned in the night – waking him up on a regular basis. He had to hold her until she realised it was all a nightmare and Rose Needle couldn’t hurt her anymore.