by Tim Ellis
After putting on the hoodie, pulling up the hood and stuffing her hands deep inside the pockets, she walked over the railway lines on Morley Road, and turned left along Hither Green Lane to Fordyce Road overlooking Lewisham Park. Her parents lived in the opposite direction on Oppenheimer Road near Blackheath Hill.
If it hadn’t been for Inspector Quigg getting the DNA samples re-tested, Rufus Murdoch’s name on the ‘Prisoner’s Released in the Previous Month’ report would have gone unnoticed. Instead, his name had burned right through her eyes, slithered into the darkest part of her brain and popped the lock on the box that she kept the gang-rape memories in like a skeleton key. She knew then that she had to do something.
He had a self-contained flat on the fifth floor of Phoenix half-way house for recently released prisoners.
She walked right in through the front door and up the stairs.
Afterwards, people would recall seeing a thin youth in a dark-grey hoodie. She was that waif-like she could pass for a teenage boy in the right clothes.
She slid the knife out of the plastic bag – it still had the £1.99 sticker on the blade.
Her knock sounded like a big-base drum in church. She looked both ways along the corridor, but either nobody heard, or nobody gave a toss.
She knocked again.
A muffled voice came through the door. ‘All right. I’m coming – for fuck’s sake.’
The door opened.
Rufus Murdoch looked considerably older than his thirty-four years because of the short unwashed matted hair, the weeks’ growth of beard and the preponderance of blackheads radiating out from his nose.
She put the knife to the side of his throat and sliced into the soft flesh. Blood spurted out onto the wall and floor. She pushed him backwards and kicked the door shut behind her.
Murdoch slapped his hand over the wound to stem the flow of blood. ‘What the fuck! You crazy, fucking bitch!’
She stabbed the knife between his legs and pushed the blade upwards.
‘Whoa!’ he grunted. ‘Steady as she goes.’
‘Sit,’ she said, guiding him to a hard-backed chair at a wood table by the wall.
He sat.
‘Let’s be clear,’ she said, cutting through the filthy jogging bottoms and piss-stained boxer shorts so that his penis and testicles were dangling free. ‘If you call for help, cry out, or otherwise attract unwanted attention I’ll slice your dick and balls off and stuff them into your mouth before anyone can get in – understood?’
‘Yes.’
She moved the knife up to his neck again, swung the plastic bag onto the table, took out the duct tape and jabbed him in the chest with it. ‘Strap your ankles to the chair legs and your left wrist to the arm, and then put the tape on the table.’
Once Murdoch had done as he was told, she taped his right wrist to the other arm of the chair.
‘What’s this all about, bitch?’
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
‘Why the fuck should I?’
‘Eleven years ago, you and four of your friends grabbed me off the street and raped me in the back of a van.’
‘No, I wouldn’t do something like that. You’ve got the wrong man.’
She took out her warrant card. ‘I’m a copper now. I know exactly what you’ve done – not just to me, but all the other woman as well. I re-tested the DNA samples the doctors took from me, and guess who’s name spewed out of the database?’
He stared at her.
‘What’s up – lost your voice?’
‘It wasn’t me.’
She wrapped duct tape round his head to cover his mouth up, opened the bag of nails, took one out and picked up the hammer.’
Murdoch began shaking his head and grunting.
She released the tape. ‘You have something to say?’
‘I want my lawyer.’
She half-laughed as she put the tape back on. ‘Yeah, good one. All the slimy defence lawyers are busy today.’ She pressed a nail to the back of his right hand and hammered the flat head down hard until the point appeared underneath the arm of the chair.
Beads of sweat sprouted on his forehead, tears ran down his face and his eyes bulged as if they were going to pop out and dangle from the stalks like a child’s toy.
She released the tape.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘The names of the four men who were with you.’
‘I don’t remember.’
She re-applied the tape, picked up another nail and hammered it through his forearm. Then she helped herself to a third nail and moved round to his other arm.
He began nodding vigorously.
She ripped the tape off again and said, ‘I’m getting bored now.’
‘Danny Bowen, Paul Rundle, Brian Randolph and Clint McCarthy.’
Paul Rundle was the second DNA match, so she had an idea Murdoch was probably telling the truth.
‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’
‘You’ll let me go now?’
She smiled as she stuck the tape back over his mouth and began applying more to his wrists, ankles and mouth. ‘No, I’m not going to let you fucking go. You bastards ruined my life. I had to have an abortion after you threw me out of the back of the van like a piece of garbage. By the time the doctors had finished with me, I couldn’t have any more babies. I’m just an empty fucking shell now.’ A terrible rage engulfed her. She slipped her hands into a pair of plastic gloves from her pocket, reached down and grabbed his penis and testicles with her left hand, and sliced through the skin, muscle and blood vessels with the knife.
He passed out.
She slopped the dismembered appendages in front of him on the table next to an unfinished bowl of chocolate-flavoured Coco Pops.
While she was waiting for him to regain consciousness, she collected up the knife, hammer and nails, and put them in the plastic bag.
He was bleeding out onto the floor, and when he saw his bits on the table in front of him he went as white as a new coat of Dulux paint.
Opening the bottle of white spirit, she threw some of the liquid over him and the rest around the room. Forensic evidence didn’t last very long when it was subjected to temperatures of around fifteen hundred degrees centigrade.
‘Any parting words before you burn in hell?’ she asked Murdoch, as she opened the large matchbox and struck a match.
He struggled to get free, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t even tip the chair over because it was wedged between a chipboard cupboard and the table.
She dropped the match on the floor. The carpet quickly caught light, and the fire began snaking along the wet trails of spirit towards Murdoch.
As the flames licked at his bare feet, she put her hood back up, scooped up the plastic bag and opened the door. There was nobody about as she slipped into the corridor and headed towards the stairs. In the stairwell was a fire alarm – she smashed the glass with her elbow and carried on down the stairs. As she descended, she was joined by dozens of other occupants responding to the deafening noise.
A large crowd craned their necks on the opposite side of the road to watch the flames engulf the top of the building.
It took the fire brigade thirty minutes to arrive, by which time the Phoenix half-way house was living up to its name. As the three top floors collapsed into the lower floors, the crowd cheered and clapped.
***
In the excitement of the moment, he’d promised Lucy a bathing experience to remember, but he’d also told Celia Tabbard – the naughty waitress – that he’d go round to her house at seven. He could have put her off, but he needed to find out what to do about Caitlin and Phoebe. Five – going on six months – was far too long not to have seen his eldest daughter.
He’d just have to do both. Kline was carrying on with the investigation in his absence, Duffy and Lucy would keep the house in order until he got home. Ruth would stay in hospital with the baby for a couple of days. Yes, things should work ou
t fine.
He phoned Lucy.
‘You’d better not be ringing to fucking disappoint me, Quigg.’
‘Definitely not. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘You are?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? I have a beautiful young woman waiting for me at home.’
‘And don’t you fucking forget it. So, why are you ringing?’
‘I thought I’d let you know what was going on.’
‘Go on then?’
‘Are you, Duffy and the kids okay?’
‘Everybody’s as healthy as a shire horse.’
‘Excellent. Don’t cook anything for me tonight, I’ll get something here at the hospital.’
‘Okay. How’s Ruth and the baby?’
‘Luke.’
‘If you say so.’
‘The doctor said that they’re keeping Ruth in for a couple of days.’
‘Why?’
‘As a precaution. Because she suffered from water retention, he just wants to make sure everything is as it should be.’
‘Are they keeping the baby in as well?’
‘Yes, they won’t separate mother and baby.’
‘What time should I start running the bath?’
‘I’d say about half past eight.’
‘Half past eight?’
‘I have to spend some time with Ruth and my new son.’
‘It better not be any later – I’ve had a stressful day.’
‘Have you found out any more about those secret messages?’
‘Oh yes! In-between my baby-delivering duties, my cooking and cleaning duties, my house security duties and all the other fucking duties you’ve got me doing . . . you’re a fucking bastard, Quigg.’
The call ended.
Maybe they should get a maid to look after the house, and probably a nanny for the children, a gardener . . . Yes, it wasn’t right that Lucy should have to do everything – even if it was only temporary. He’d run it by Ruth when the doctors had finished with her.
God, he couldn’t believe how many children he had. Mandy and Kline were right – it was confusing. Had he reached double figures yet? He began counting on his fingers: Phoebe, Dylan, Lily-Rose, Máire, Luke, Evie, Ava and Noah, Cheryl’s baby – whenever it was due – and DI Gwen Taylor’s baby – wherever she was now. That was ten! There was obviously something wrong with him. Ten children by seven different women! He needed psychiatric help. Maybe he should take Doctor Ingrid Solberg up on her offer of therapy.
Well, that was it – no more. Lucy would rather die than have a baby, and after what she’d seen today he was sure that desire had been suitably reinforced. With Celia it was merely a spot of role-playing. She certainly wasn’t interested in children, but it wouldn’t do any harm just to make sure that they were both on the same page of the Karma Sutra. And that was it – no more sex with anyone else. The mouse would remain securely zipped in the house.
He walked up to the cafeteria, bought a mug of coffee and found a quiet table.
What was going on in Bleeding Heart Yard? The killer was obviously a copycat, but why? Why copy a four-hundred year-old murder? What was the motive behind such a senseless and horrific killing? Regardless of what Perkins imagined in his fevered mind – the Devil had not returned to do an encore, although someone was trying to make it appear as if that was what had happened. Who was the young woman? Why had she been chosen by the killer? What did that number mean on her breast? Was it really connected to the Nazi concentration camps? If an animal had escaped from the zoo he’d have heard about it, but if an animal hadn’t torn the victim’s limbs from their sockets – what or who had? Maybe Dr Solberg would be able to provide them with an answer to that dilemma tomorrow morning.
‘Hello?’
He looked up to see an old waitress with gaps in her teeth and what looked suspiciously like a glass eye.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘All right if I wipe your table, Mister?’
‘Oh! Yes – by all means.’ He swilled down the last of his coffee. ‘Time to go now anyway.’
They’d taken Ruth and Luke up to the maternity ward, which some bright spark had named Stork Ward.
‘Never again,’ she said.
He leaned over and kissed her. ‘You look beautiful.’
‘I look like an old hag.’
‘You look like the goddess Aphrodite in her prime.’
‘You are a crazy man, Quigg.’
‘Crazy for you.’ He held her tight.
She began sobbing.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘I don’t know.’
Chapter Four
‘And you are?’ she asked, showing her warrant card to the slick-haired man wearing a black suit, starched-white shirt and multi-coloured dickey bow in the Yard Restaurant and Bistro.
She’d ditched the hoodie and the plastic bag on her way back to the shopping centre where she jumped in a taxi to the tube station. From there, she made the return journey to Farringdon like any normal commuter. Except . . . she wasn’t a “normal commuter” was she? So far she had killed two men, and planned to kill another four. Was she an evil person? DI Caesar would have killed her if she hadn’t killed him first, and those fucking rapists deserved everything they got for ruining her life and God only knew how many others – she’d kill them twice over if she could.
It was four-fifteen when she reached Bleeding Heart Yard, which provided her with enough time to give everyone the impression that she’d been there all afternoon. Perkins had gone, but there were still a couple of white-suited forensic officers picking over the cobbles.
‘Joseph Calleja,’ the man said.
‘You’re the manager?’
‘I am.’
‘Did you see anything last night or early this morning?’
‘We closed at two this morning and then I went home.’
‘You don’t live on the premises?’
‘No. I have a wife and four children. We live near the river in Blackfriars.’
‘Does anybody sleep in the building overnight?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see anything suspicious before you went home?’
‘Not really.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, at about eleven thirty a man forced his way into the restaurant. There was an altercation between him and a woman dining with another customer.’
‘Altercation?’
‘The man did a lot of shouting, called the woman a slut, slapped her face and she fell off her chair onto the floor. A waiter and another guest then grabbed the man and escorted him off the premises.’
‘Do you know who the man was?’
‘Sorry.’
‘What about the woman?’
‘No, but the customer she was with paid by credit card. Would you like me to provide you with the details?’
‘Yes, please.’
She followed him into a back office where he quickly found the payment slip attached to a copy of the bill. ‘Yes, here it is. They had the oysters, roast pheasant, plum and almond dessert, and washed it all down with a bottle of Guado al Tasso.’ He photocopied the two pieces of paper and passed them to her.
‘A hundred and twenty pounds for the wine?’
‘Ah yes! A quite delicious, grown-up wine from those Tuscan upstarts at Antinori.’
‘And another hundred pounds for the food?’
‘This is a popular London restaurant.’
‘So you triple the prices?’
‘People are happy to pay for excellent service, superb food and good wine in a convivial atmosphere.’
‘Through the nose you mean.’
He screwed up his face. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Constable Kline?’
‘Can you give me descriptions?’
‘The two women . . .’
‘Two women? I thought . . .’
‘No, the customers dining were two women.’
‘So, they were . . . ?�
�
‘I have no idea concerning their sexual preferences or orientation, but I do recall a lot of hand-touching.’
‘I see. Go on.’
‘The woman who paid the bill had shoulder-length dark hair, and was slightly older than the other woman who was a blonde. Both were in their early to mid-thirties, slim and attractive.’
‘What about the man?’
‘He looked the worse for drink, I’m afraid. Mid-thirties, dark brown hair in desperate need of a style and a trim, dishevelled, unshaven . . . I would say a spurned lover.’
‘Had you seen any of them before?’
‘I didn’t recognise any of the three.’
There was certainly a similarity between Calleja’s description of the female dark-haired customer and the murdered woman. She wondered if she’d found the identity of the victim. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Calleja. You’ve been very helpful.’ She passed him one of her cards. ‘If you think of anything else that might be helpful.’
He led her out through the bistro. There were a few “early bird” customers eating at tables, but most of the noise was coming from the “going-home” and “happy hour” crowds filling up the spaces at the bar, and taking advantage of the cheap booze and free peanuts.
She phoned Perkins.
‘Hello, DC Kline.’
‘I’m still here.’
‘I see. What can I do for you?’
‘I have a credit card number.’
‘And what are you thinking of buying?’
‘It’s funny you should ask that. I was thinking of buying a pair of brass nutcrackers, and then I was going to come . . .’
‘I don’t think you need to elaborate, Constable.’
‘Well, don’t piss me off then.’
‘What’s the number?’
‘5630 9821 4054 5562.’
‘And you want us to find out who the owner is?’
‘You never said you were psychic.’
‘I have many abilities of which you are unaware.’