Kane's Scary Tales: Volume 1

by Paul Kane

  “If that’s how you want it, then fuck off and get yourself killed.”

  Be careful what you wish for… Hammond was wishing for something else entirely now, though, wasn’t he? Something he’d asked Foxborough about when they visited him later.

  “Is the vic… Is she still alive, Doctor?”

  Foxborough had looked up at him from his position over the metal table, those bulging eyes rotating in his direction like gun turrets ready to fire; mouth open and poised to shoot him with information that could wound or kill as effectively as any bullet. “She was when the foot was severed anyway, that I can tell you.”

  Hammond closed his own eyes, rubbed his face. Not quite the answer he was looking for, but it would do. It gave him hope. Wasn’t a dead body, just a dead right foot: there on the table, staring up at him as accusingly as Foxborough.

  “Of course, chances of re-attachment now are slim. It’s way past the six to twelve-hour window, and that’s if it had been packed in ice.”

  So, that perfect body was mutilated for life. She’d never be whole again, and it was all his fault. If only he’d got to the bottom of this earlier. If only–

  “There were no clues as to the identity of the person who did this from the foot, the wrapping, or the box. No prints, DNA… Nothing,” Foxborough told them, as if he thought he was being helpful.

  “But we do know who the victim is, thanks to Inspector Hammond,” Balfour had said from his position beside him again. Hammond had told them he’d spoken to a few of the contacts he’d cultivated on this case, asked who hadn’t been seen in a while. It wasn’t a lie, he had made sure she hadn’t been around lately on her usual patch. Said it like he hadn’t known immediately who the foot belonged to, said it as if he hadn’t really known the vic at all, and wasn’t biting back the yelp that almost followed when he spoke her name.

  “And we have a lead on who left the package,” Balfour added. “CCTV outside the station picked up the license plate of the delivery van – driven by one Mr Harry Millard. We’re confident he had nothing to do with it, seeing as he didn’t make any attempt to disguise himself when he left it on the steps. He was just doing his job, basically.”

  “He didn’t think it strange that he had instructions to leave it on the steps?” asked Foxborough, poking at the foot again with one of his instruments.

  Balfour shrugged. “Christ knows. To be honest, after speaking with him I’m not sure the man’s all there.” He tapped the side of his head. “If you know what I mean?”

  “Your average delivery man, then,” said Foxborough without any hint of humour this time; Foxborough didn’t really do jokes, and if he did they were so deadpan they weren’t really recognised as such.

  “Anyway, he checks out – mainly because we have more CCTV from the depot where the delivery was arranged, of the actual person who paid for it.” A solidly built man, wearing a padded coat, jeans and hoodie, which was up; who kept his head turned or tilted away from the camera – had probably scoped the place out beforehand a few times – and paid in cash so there was no card to trace. The woman who’d served him couldn’t remember much more than they’d seen themselves, because they dealt with so many people in a day. Nevertheless, the grainy picture was being circulated around the troops and through the media – the only time they actually were of use. Nothing as of yet.

  Hammond had spent a long time staring at that image, staring at his enemy. The person who had done this to her… to so many others before her. He recalled the first of them now, left in a skip down an alleyway like so much trash; some would argue that she was, that it was where she belonged. But Maggie Graham hadn’t deserved that end – nobody deserved it. Not even animals deserved to be treated so poorly; and some of those same people would put their pets above the human lives in question here.

  Maggie, staring up, glassy-eyed, with her black tongue lolling out – a thin red line around her neck where she’d been garrotted. Staring up from her final resting place amongst the crisp packets, beer bottles and half-empty cartons of junk food; her frizzy hair actually containing bits of that food. They hadn’t noticed the missing left foot until some of that rubbish had been cleared away, each bit taken to be painstakingly examined – the skip itself scrutinised for prints and anything else that might have given the killer away, though they’d yielded the same results as this most recent find. It had been removed quite clumsily really; torn away from the ankle when the saw had nearly finished its job, like a lumberjack hacking impatiently at branches. They had no idea why, until the next body had been found washed up out of the local canal.

  Phoebe James was missing that same appendage, except it was the right not the left. While Maggie still had her clothes on, half of Phoebe’s were torn or missing, though whether that was to do with being in the water for so long was debatable. She was younger than Maggie’s 38, but strangely looked older – and that definitely had nothing to do with the canal’s attentions, because Hammond had seen photos of her when she was still alive. Drug and alcohol abuse was to blame, something he suspected she did to take her mind off her job, and which had become a vicious circle; the only way she could now pay for her cravings. Phoebe had been garrotted as well, the same MO. That was when they knew they had a multiple murderer on their hands. When they found victims three and four – Willow Clark and Vera Humphreys (the oldest of the bunch at 45), one in a car park and the other in woods not that far away – they knew they were definitely dealing with a serial killer.

  To begin with, certain resources had been at their disposal, in spite of the fact that recent budget cuts had meant even beat patrols had become a luxury of late. Stake-outs to watch these “ladies of the night” – as someone poetically called them; it was the politest term Hammond had heard during all this time – even an undercover officer posted on a few street corners for a week or two. WPC Charlotte (Charlie) Grant, the subject of many a male fantasy at their station, even before they saw her done up in that plastered-on make-up, wearing a leather mini-skirt and low-cut top. Hammond had winced at the dirty language she had to put up with as she walked through corridors on her way to do her duty – the wolf whistles and propositions, from single and married officers alike. To her credit, she’d given back as good as she got; she’d learned to do that very quickly when she joined the force, rather than running off to report it as so many of her colleagues had done and come up against brick walls. But that still didn’t make it right.

  Keeping an eye on her those evenings in his unmarked car, Hammond had been given a first-hand taster of the life of those women who risked everything out here. Seeing the trouble she’d gotten into a few times; though again Charlie had handled herself well, only having to pull her badge a couple of times. They’d been false alarms, of course, not the guy they were looking for. He never showed on those evenings, or at least he never had a crack at Charlie.

  But Hammond couldn’t help thinking, as he watched her putting her own life on the line for a different reason altogether, that as good looking as Charlie was, she still wasn’t a patch on his girl. On her.

  On his Ella.

  Only that wasn’t what she called herself, wasn’t even what she wanted him to call her… not at first anyway. That name had slipped out when she hadn’t been focussed one night, when she’d had a bit too much to drink. He’d tried to find out more, but she’d clammed up on that occasion. If she’d been with anyone else but him, they might have forced her to tell – forced her to do a lot more besides. But he didn’t; he respected her privacy. Respected her, actually.

  A surprise really, given how they’d met. It had been a private bash thrown by a local “businessman” a year or more ago, to get both members of the criminal underworld and a corrupt police force on side. Hammond couldn’t say that he was entirely comfortable with both fraternities rubbing shoulders at the shin-dig, but was well aware of how it all worked in this town – corrupt politicians mediating between them half the time. Backs were scratched on a regular basis, th
e odd blind eye turned. Checks and balances, was how it had been explained to him. The alcohol had flowed – and probably much harder stuff out of sight – and as part of the evening’s entertainment, “escorts” had been laid on (though it was clear to anyone with half a brain that these girls hadn’t come from any kind of established escort company). A string of them had been paraded in front of Hammond, and he’d been asked to pick which one he wanted: black; oriental; Indian… “Whatever floats your boat,” he’d been told, by the fellow who’d brought them in. A snivelling little man who seemed to live to please.

  Back in the day, back before Ella, he probably wouldn’t have hesitated – just like the married Balfour, pointing out a thin, athletic girl, the exact opposite of himself. They’d then disappeared upstairs in the hotel where the party was being held. If he was being honest, Hammond was about to refuse the offer… when he saw her. She looked stunning, with that golden hair taken up and in that blue off-the-shoulder dress which clung to every curve of her; a choker at the neck completing the outfit (he really hoped now that hadn’t been an omen of things to come).

  But he wasn’t looking at her body – not really. It was those equally blue eyes he spotted first, being fanned by huge black eyelashes. That cute button nose and lips which looked naturally red, though he could have been wrong. Her expression, aided by the fair eyebrows that were slightly raised, was one of innocence – at odds with the profession he knew even then she was in. It didn’t so much make him want to have her, as protect her – not that she needed it, as he later discovered. No, Ella was tough, and she’d been through a great deal.

  While he was standing there, gaping, probably even had his mouth wide open, one of the other men in the room came over and approached her. Hammond recognised him as a lowlife called Nichols, involved in hardcore fetish webcam sites and not averse to knocking his performers about if the rumours were correct. “Hi there, beautiful,” he said, practically drooling over Ella. He rubbed a finger down her cheek and across her chin, which made Hammond’s stomach turn, particularly when he saw those blue eyes of hers brush the floor.

  He couldn’t help himself – before he knew it, he was cutting in, grabbing Nichols’ arm and lowering it. “I think you’ll find she’s spoken for,” Hammond had said, as if he was some half-arsed knight of old.

  “That so?” replied the man, snatching his arm away.

  Hammond didn’t want any trouble, not here, so he looked over to the guy who’d told him he could pick whichever girl he wanted. A guy who also knew he was a copper. “Gentlemen, gentlemen… I’m sure we can work something out,” he’d said in those same sycophantic tones.

  “I’m sure we can,” said Hammond, eyes narrowing – a threat he couldn’t really carry out implied. To look a bit more carefully into Nichols’ affairs, perhaps?

  “Look, look… Plenty more to choose from,” said the intermediary, his voice practically begging Nichols to let it go. There was a moment or so, when the criminal looked from Ella, to Hammond, to the toadying man – a moment when it could have gone either way – then thankfully he backed off, hands raised. No harm, no foul. The sycophant led him over to the other girls and he seemed happy enough to go with a brunette who had a chest that looked like it had been inflated with a bicycle pump. Leaving Hammond with Ella…except he hadn’t known she was Ella back then. Back then, she’d introduced herself as:

  “Sindy.”

  “With a ‘C’?” he’d asked her, like that mattered.

  She’d shaken her head.

  Like the doll, then? he’d thought to himself, but didn’t say it. A plaything – from her childhood?

  “I’m Hammond. Patrick.”

  Already, she was gesturing for them to leave, to head upstairs. Hammond went with her, more because he wanted to get away from everyone else than anything, but found himself tongue-tied as they headed for the lift. She pressed the button and stepped inside, so he followed. Would have followed her anywhere, he realised at that moment. As they ascended, he caught her looking across at him, and she smiled, said: “I’m glad.”

  “Sorry?” Hammond replied, eventually finding his voice.

  “Glad it was you,” she explained. “And not him.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  When they got to the room, one of those allocated for use by “guests” at the party, she’d entered first again and he’d trailed her inside. She’d told him to make himself comfortable while she poured a glass of champagne from a bottle provided. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and sat on the bed, accepting the glass gratefully from Sindy. But when she suddenly stepped back and reached around, pulling down the zipper on the back of her dress, he stood up again. “No, no… wait… don’t.”

  She’d looked puzzled then, and he felt terrible. Wouldn’t want her to think he didn’t find her attractive. It wasn’t that; dear God, it so wasn’t that. He just didn’t want to spoil things. The sight of her in that dress, the illusion of her, the… perfectness of her. “Oh, no. I don’t mean… I just…”

  Then a look of realisation washed over her face. “You want me to keep my clothes on? I get it.”

  He shook his head and the bewildered expression returned. “Can we just… I mean, is it okay if we just spend some time together?”

  The concept was clearly alien to her. She was probably used to men grabbing and tearing at her, not being able to wait to get her out of her clothes and into bed. “Okay,” she said, unsure. Hammond wasn’t quite certain what he was doing, either.

  He nodded for Sindy to join him on the bed and they sat in silence for a while, until one of them – he could never remember which – broke it with some nonsense. Chit-chat about nothing really, what they’d seen on the TV recently, at the cinema, what kind of food they liked… awkward at first, but then flowing more easily. The rest was just a blur, his mouth working, words coming out, but concentrating, fixated on her face – those eyes!

  Right up until the moment she noticed the clock. “Is that the time? Listen, I’ve really got to go.”

  “But it’s only…” Hammond followed her gaze to the bedside clock and realised it was almost midnight. Not late, but not really early, either.

  “They only paid us till twelve,” she explained.

  “Then maybe we could…” he began, but she was already standing, already walking towards the door. “No, wait!” he called after her. “I’ll pay you.”

  Sindy turned the handle, shaking her head. “No. I really should be going. I enjoyed meeting you, though, Pat. I honestly did.”

  And suddenly she was gone, as quickly as she’d appeared in the first place. Dipping in and out of his life. Hammond raced to the door, but the lift was already descending. He stabbed at the buttons, but it didn’t stop. He raced to the stairs, raced down them, though by the time he reached the foyer, there was no sign of Sindy. Hardly anyone around at all from the party, in fact.

  He’d spoken to the people who’d organised it, however, asked about her. It was as he’d thought, Sindy hadn’t been hired via any kind of agency, but through recommendations. “I’m not surprised you want to see her again, the things she can do,” one guy he’d spoken to had said and Hammond’s lip curled.

  It took him a while to track her down, a week or so and on his own time, but it was what he did – as a detective (can’t track her down now, though, can you? as much as you’d like to). She’d been in an area of town notorious for that kind of activity when he spotted her, leaning back against a wall and having a drag on a cigarette. Her hair was down over her shoulders this time, clothing much less classy than it had been the night of the party. In fact, the coat with the fake fur collar looked positively shabby. Not that any of it mattered to Hammond, not even a little bit. To him, she looked Heaven-sent in the glow from the street-lamp.

  He’d crawled up to the curb, risking all kinds of trouble – risking his career, but not caring. Then she’d kicked back off the wall, gone to engage her next client only to find Hammond leaning across a
s the passenger side window came down. “Patrick?” she’d said, looking left and right – probably wondering if she was about to get arrested, knowing now as she did what line of work he was in. “W-What are you doing here?”

  He found that he couldn’t really answer that, now he’d been asked. So he just said, “I was wondering… if maybe you’d like to get a coffee or something?”

  “A coffee?” She glanced about her again, nervous. “I’m working. You… you really shouldn’t be here.”

  “Then tell me to go away.”

  She opened her mouth to speak and he could’ve sworn his heart missed a few beats until the words came out, fearful that Sindy was just going to tell him to get lost. “Please,” she said then. “I can’t…”

  He was bringing out his wallet then, opening it up – really putting himself in the frame if he got caught. There was a time and a place, and out in public wasn’t it. “If it’s money then–”

  “Put that away, Patrick.” She climbed into the car with him and he drove off, taking her for that coffee. It had been the start of his seeing her on a semi-regular basis; whenever he could, and wherever. He’d taken her for coffees, drinks, meals, even out to see films a couple of times – but hadn’t wanted to rush anything else. Sindy had always refused any offer of cash, which only fed into his delusions that he was… what, dating her? He’d often ask himself just what the hell he thought he was doing. If he got caught, a copper seeing a prossie – and not in the usual way – it would be the end of him, even in this city. But then he’d think of that face again and all would be right with his world.

  He was keenly aware of the age difference as well, Hammond being a good few years older than Sindy, but she never made an issue of it. Then again, why would she? Sindy was used to dealing with men of all ages and making them feel good about themselves. No, it wasn’t just that – couldn’t be that! There was something more between them, he could feel it. Could sense it with that same detective’s sense which told him when things weren’t right, when people – even expert liars – were hiding the truth.