Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  He felt sick and rubbed a hand across his forehead, feeling perspiration. He’d rung the school earlier that morning and said that he wouldn’t be in for a few days. No details. A family bereavement he’d said, wanting to keep it simple. He didn’t want too many questions asked. They’d find out soon enough when the story appeared in the papers. Then would come the questions, the enquiries, the consoling handshakes. He sighed and looked at the door again.

  It opened and Simpson emerged, raising his eyebrows in a gesture designed to beckon Hacket forward.

  He’d been waiting for this moment, wanting to get it over with, but now he would have given anything to sit for a while longer in that grey room in one of those grey chairs. He walked purposefully towards the door and entered.

  The morgue was smaller than he’d imagined. There were no rows of lockers, no filing cabinets for sightless eyes. No white-coated assistants wandering back and forth with hearts and lungs ready to weigh.

  And there was only one slab.

  On it was a small shape, covered by a white sheet.

  As he drew nearer to it, Hacket visibly faltered, he felt the colour drain from his face and his throat seemed to constrict.

  Simpson moved towards him but he shook his head gently and advanced to within a couple of feet of the slab and its shrouded occupant.’

  The coroner, a short man with heavy jowls and a balding head attempted a smile of sympathy but it looked more like a sneer. He looked at Spencer who nodded.

  He pulled back the sheet.

  ‘Is that your daughter, Mr Hacket?’ the DS asked, softly.

  Hacket let out a breath which sounded as if his lungs had suddenly deflated. He raised one hand to his mouth, his eyes riveted to the small form on the slab.

  ‘Mr Hacket.’

  She was as white as milk, at least the parts of her which he could see through the patchwork of cuts and bruises. Her face and neck were tinged yellow by bruises and, across her throat was a deep gash which curved upwards at either side like some kind of blood-choked rictus.

  ‘Why are her eyes still open?’ he croaked.

  ‘Rigor mortis,’ the coroner said, quietly. ‘The involuntary muscles sometimes stiffen first.’ His voice trailed away into a whisper.

  ‘Is it your daughter, Mr Hacket?’ Simpson persisted.

  ‘Yes.’

  The detective nodded and the coroner prepared to pull the sheet back over Lisa but Hacket stopped him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want to see her.’

  The coroner hesitated then, slowly, he pulled the sheet right back, allowing Hacket to see the full extent of his daughter’s injuries.

  Her chest and stomach were also covered in dark blotches and deep gashes. The area between her legs was purple and he noticed that the inside of her thighs were almost black with bruising. The contusions continued right down her legs to her feet. Hacket looked on with lifeless eyes, there was no emotion there. It was as if the shock of seeing her had sucked every last ounce of feeling from him. He looked repeatedly up and down her tiny corpse.

  ‘How was it done?’ he asked, his eyes still on his daughter. ‘Have you done the post-mortem?’

  The coroner seemed reluctant to answer and looked at Simpson who merely shrugged.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ Hacket said, flatly. ‘How was she killed?’

  ‘No post-mortem has been done yet but, from external examination you can see… well, I decided that death was caused by massive haemorrhage, most likely from the wound on her throat.’

  ‘What about the bruising,’ he pointed to the purplish area between her legs. ‘There.’

  The coroner didn’t answer.

  Hacket looked at him, then at Spencer.

  ‘You have no right to keep information from me,’ he said. ‘She was my daughter.’

  ‘We thought that it would save you any more suffering, Mr Hacket…’ Spencer said but the teacher interrupted him.

  ‘You think it can get any worse?’ he snapped, bitterly. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘There was evidence of sexual abuse,’ said Spencer.

  ‘Was she raped?’ Hacket wanted to know.

  ‘Yes,’ the detective told him. ‘There was evidence of penetration.’

  ‘Before and after her death,’ added the coroner by way of thoroughness.

  Hacket gritted his teeth.

  ‘Would she have felt much pain?’ he wanted to know.

  Simpson sighed wearily.

  ‘Mr Hacket, why torture yourself like this?’

  ‘I have to know,’ he hissed. ‘Would she have felt much pain?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say,’ the coroner told him. ‘During the rape, yes, probably, she may have been unconscious by that time though, she’d already lost a lot of blood before it happened. The cut across the throat would have sent her into traumatic shock. The rest would have been over quickly.’

  Hacket nodded and finally turned away from the tiny body.

  The coroner replaced the sheet and watched as Hacket strode out of the room, followed by Simpson.

  The body was hidden from view once more.

  Eleven

  The drive from the hospital back to the house seemed to take hours, though Hacket assumed that it was actually less than thirty minutes.

  Spencer drove at a steady speed and Hacket gazed aimlessly out of the Granada’s side window hearing only the odd phrase which the detective spoke.

  ‘…Positive identification of the killers…’

  Hacket noticed a woman and her two children trying to cross the road up ahead, waiting for a break in the traffic.

  ‘…Criminal records as far as we know…’

  One of the children was only about four. A little girl and she held her mother’s hand as they waited for the cars to pass.

  ‘…No doubt that two men were involved…’

  Hacket seemed to see nothing but children during the drive back. It was as if the world had suddenly doubled its population of four-year-olds.

  With one notable exception.

  ‘…Let you know as soon as we have any information…’

  ‘What kind of man rapes a four-year-old?’

  The question took Spencer by surprise and Hacket repeated it.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘Men you’d never expect. Fathers like yourself…’ The DS realised his mistake and let the sentence trail off. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added.

  ‘What are the chances of catching him?’

  ‘Well, we got good dabs from around the house, blood type we know, approximate height, weight and age. We’ll get him.’

  Hacket laughed humourlessly.

  ‘And if you do? What then? A ten-year sentence? Out in five if he’s a good boy’ he said, bitterly.

  Spencer shook his head.

  ‘It’s not like that, Mr Hacket. He’ll go down and he’ll stay down.’

  ‘Until the next time,’ Hacket said, still looking out of the side window.

  Hacket said a brief goodbye to the detective when they reached the house in Clapham and Spencer promised to be in touch as soon as he had any information, then he thanked the teacher for his co-operation, offered his sympathies once more and drove off. Hacket stood on the pavement for a moment then turned and headed towards the front door, letting himself in rather than ring the bell and risk disturbing Sue.

  He found her sitting in the kitchen with the next-door neighbour, Helen Bentine. The two women, Sue a little younger, were sitting over a cup of tea talking, and Hacket thought how much brighter his wife looked. Granted she still had dark rings beneath her eyes and she looked as if she hadn’t slept for a fortnight, but she actually managed a smile as he entered, rising to make him a cup of tea from the recently-boiled kettle.

  Helen beat her to it, handed the teacher his drink then said she’d better go. They both thanked her, listening as the front door closed behind her.

  ‘The doctor said you should rest, Sue,’ he said, sipping his tea, loosening his tie with
his free hand.

  ‘I’ll rest later,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want to keep taking those pills he gave me, I’ll get addicted.’

  He sat down beside her, touching her cheek with his fingertips.

  ‘You look so tired,’ he said, looking at her.

  She smiled weakly at him then took a sip of her tea.

  Hacket knew she was about to say something but, when it came, he was still unprepared.

  ‘What did she look like?’ Sue wanted to know.

  He shrugged, unable to think of a suitable answer.

  Well, she was cut up badly, she’d been raped and the bastard had knocked her about so much there was hardly an inch of skin left unmarked, but apart from that she looked fine.

  ‘John, tell me.’

  ‘She looked peaceful,’ he lied, attempting a smile.

  ‘We’ll have to tell the family, your parents, my family. They’ll have to know, John.’

  ‘Not just yet,’ he said, softly, clasping her hand.

  ‘Why did they pick on us?’ she asked, as if expecting him to furnish her with an answer. ‘Why kill Lisa?’

  ‘Sue, I don’t know. Would knowing the answer make it any more bearable? She’s still dead, knowing why she was killed isn’t going to bring her back.’

  ‘But it isn’t fair.’ There were tears in her eyes now. ‘My Dad’s dying - that’s hard enough to take - and now this.’ She laughed bitterly and the sound caused the hair to rise on the back of Hacket’s neck. ‘Perhaps God is testing our faith.’ She sniffed, wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘Well if he is he’s going to be unlucky.’ Hacket gripped her hand more tightly, watching as the tears began to course more freely down her cheeks. ‘God is a sadist.’ She looked at Hacket, her eyes blazing. ‘And I hate him for what he’s done.’

  Hacket nodded, got to his feet and put his arms around her. They stayed locked together for some time, Sue sobbing quietly.

  ‘I just wish that I could have said goodbye to her,’ she whispered. ‘To have held her just one last time.’ She looked up into his face and saw the tears in his eyes. ‘Oh, John, what are we going to do?’

  He had no answer.

  At first he thought he was dreaming.

  The ringing sounded as if it were inside his head, but, as he opened his eyes, Hacket realised that it wasn’t make believe.

  The phone continued to ring.

  He rubbed his eyes and eased himself from beneath Sue’s head. She had taken two of her tablets and been asleep for the last hour or so. He had dozed off as well, the strain of the last twenty-four hours finally catching up with him.

  Now he stumbled towards the hall and the phone, closing the sitting room door behind him. He picked up the receiver, blinking hard in an effort to clear his vision.

  ‘Hello,’ he croaked, clearing his throat.

  ‘Hello, John, it’s me, Nikki. Look, I’m sorry to ring your home.’ Her voice was low and conspiratorial.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said, wearily.

  ‘I needed to speak to you,’ she said. ‘Someone at school said you weren’t going to be in for a few days.’

  ‘That’s right, why is there a problem? Are you keeping a check on my movements or something?’ The acidity of his tone was unmistakeable.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Look, is this important? Because if it’s not will you get off the line now.’

  ‘I said I was sorry for phoning you at home,’ Nikki said, both surprised and irritated by his aggressiveness. ‘Is your wife there, is that why you can’t talk?’

  ‘Yes she is but that’s not the reason. You shouldn’t have called me.’

  ‘We were supposed to meet tonight, I was waiting…’

  He cut her short.

  ‘Don’t call me here again, all right?’

  ‘I cooked us a meal.’

  ‘Eat it yourself,’ he rasped and slammed the phone down. He stood in the hallway, his hand still on the receiver, the residue of that soft Irish accent of hers still lingering in his ears.

  He couldn’t tell her the truth. How could he?

  From behind him in the sitting-room he heard Sue call his name and he turned to rejoin her.

  As he did he cast one last glance at the telephone, as if expecting it to ring again.

  Twelve

  The banks of black cloud which brought the rain also seemed to hasten the onset of night.

  Like ink spreading over blotting paper the tenebrous gloom slowly seeped across the heavens above Hinkston. Icy rain came down in sheets, driven by a wind which cut into exposed skin as surely as a razor blade.

  Bob Tucker pulled the scarf tighter around his chin in an attempt to protect himself from the elements and looked down into the grave.

  The coffin was already hidden beneath a thin layer of muddy earth but the rain was rapidly washing it away, exposing the polished wood beneath. Bob shovelled a few more clods into the hole, paused to light a cigarette, then continued in earnest. The rain quickly extinguished the cigarette and he stuffed the sodden remains into the pocket of his overcoat, cursing the weather, his luck and anything else which came to mind as he toiled over the open grave. He knew he had to work fast. The rain falling on the excavated earth would rapidly transform it to mud. The soil in Hinkston was like clay at the best of times, but when it rained some parts of the town resembled Flanders in 1918.

  Bob paused for a moment, straightening up, groaning as he felt the bones in his knees click. His back was beginning to ache as well. Occupational hazard, he told himself. He’d been gravedigger at Hinkston cemetery for the last twelve years. He liked the job too. Bob had never been much of a mixer, he enjoyed his own company and the job certainly gave him plenty of time alone. He had never married. Never wanted to. Approaching his fortieth birthday he was happy alone. He had a couple of friends who lived in the town, men he could share a drink with if he felt the need for company, but most of his time was spent in the small bungalow which overlooked the cemetery. It came with the job. He’d converted one of the sheds in the back garden into a workshop and he did his most precious work there. Carving shapes from lumps of wood he picked up in the cemetery. The thick growths of trees which populated the graveyard offered him plenty of raw material. The walking sticks he made from fallen branches he’d often sold at Hinkston’s twice-weekly market. Some had fetched upwards of fifty pounds each, but it wasn’t the monetary rewards which interested Bob, it was the craft itself.

  He stood at the graveside a moment longer, peering through the rain towards the lights of the town. The street lights looked like jewels twinkling on a sheet of black velvet. The cemetery was about half a mile from the town centre, on a steep hill designed to help drainage, but some of the older graves had begun to break up and sink and Bob feared that there might be some subsidence. However, the damage to the graves was not all attributable to natural causes.

  There had been a spate of vandalism during the last three weeks. Gravestones had been smashed, flowers scattered from new plots, paint sprayed on headstones and, in the worst case, a grave had been tampered with. About two feet of earth had been excavated but, fortunately, the vandals had not dug down as far as the coffin.

  Bob wondered what kind of people found pleasure from disturbing the dead and where they rested. The consensus of opinion in Hinkston itself seemed to point to youngsters. Bob had caught a young couple about a fortnight ago, laid out naked on top of one of the older graves but vandalism had been the last thing on their minds. He smiled at the recollection. Of how the boy had tried to run with his trousers round his ankles while the girl screamed and scuttled along beside him waving her bra like some kind of white surrender flag. Bob hadn’t reported that particular incident to the police but the vandalism itself worried him. Many nights he’d left his bungalow and walked the tree lined paths through the cemetery in an effort to catch the vandals but his vigils so far had proved fruitless.

  He continued to shovel earth into th
e grave, anxious to finish his task and return to the warmth of his home, to get out of his wet clothes.

  The flowers from the funeral lay in a heap to one side of the hole, he would replace those when he’d finished. The rain tapped out a steady rhythm on the cellophane which covered the blooms, running off the clear covering like tears.

  Bob shovelled more earth, trying to ignore the growing ache in his back.

  The noise came from behind him.

  At first he wasn’t sure whether or not it was merely the rain pattering through the thick branches which hung overhead but, when it came again he was sure that the sound was coming from beyond the cluster of bushes which gathered around the grave like camouflaged mourners.

  Bob stopped immediately and looked round, shielding his eyes from the rain and attempting to see through the darkness to the source of the noise.

  He stood and waited but heard nothing.

  After a moment or two he continued with his task. Another foot or so and he would be finished, he thought, thankfully.

  The noise came from behind him again, this time slightly to the left.

  Bob dropped the spade and spun round, almost slipping on the wet earth.

  It could be an animal of some kind he reasoned, taking a step towards the bushes. He’d found squirrels, even a badger during some of his nocturnal strolls through the cemetery. But, it was too early to be a badger. Despite the darkness his watch told him that it was only just 7.30 p.m.

  Vandals perhaps? No, surely they’d wait until late, until they were sure no one was around.

  He parted the bushes and eased through the first clump, surprised at how high they grew.

  No one hiding behind them.

  The rain continued to pelt down.

  He felt something touch his shoulder.

  Bob almost shouted aloud, his hand falling instinctively to the Swiss Army knife in his coat pocket.

  The branch which had slapped against him had been blown by the wind.

  The lower, leafless, branches were flailing about like animated flagellums and Bob shielded his face from the stinging twigs which whacked into him as he turned back towards the grave.