by Wonny Lea
She reasoned that Bristol would be no different to Cardiff, and at the edge of the retail park amongst the parked cars she would be almost certain to find someone who would give her what she wanted for a price. Even if they were personally unable to supply her they would know someone who could – that was often how it worked, and she now knew where she was headed.
Anticipation now raced through her mind, and she told herself that she would just get as much as she desperately needed to be in a better frame of mind to get on that plane with Jack. She wouldn’t ditch him – that would be really stupid, as she realised that it would not only be her that would suffer, but her father, who would be punished in some unspeakable way.
She got to the edge of the car park and quickly spotted the sort of activity she was expecting. She justified what she was about to do by telling herself that Jack would get good value for his money. With her cravings satisfied she would show him the benefits of laying an older woman, and sexual experience was not something she lacked. After that, he would be more than willing to keep her supplied and to her troubled mind this seemed like a fairy-tale ending.
Less than ten minutes later she had found what she was looking for but had been forced to pay well over the odds for extras that included a rather dubious-looking syringe and a couple of needles. The signals she was giving out left her incredibly young supplier in no doubt that she was desperate and he milked the fact for all it was worth. Amy wondered what he would be like in a few years’ time and hoped it would never be her misfortune to find out.
Back in exactly the same cubicle where she had previously counted her money Amy prepared and drew up almost a syringe full and as if she had never stopped injecting, braced her left arm against her body and clenched her fist to force her veins to the surface before inserting the needle.
By now she was shaking badly but her previous years of practice made it easy for her to push in the murky fluid and she waited for the never-to-be-forgotten feeling as the gates of heaven opened …
No, this wasn’t right! The only feeling she was getting was one of extreme nausea and almost instantly as the muscles of her stomach contracted a stream of projectile vomit hit the back of the toilet door.
‘Bastards … bastards’ she tried to get the words out, but instead a second lot of vomit followed the first. She started to imagine what she might have been given – the risks were always there, as every addict knew – but she gave up thinking about anything else as the pain suddenly gripped her.
Her hands could no longer hold on to anything, and everything that had been on her lap fell to the floor and mingled with what had previously been the contents of her stomach. She arched her back as cramps caused the muscles in her legs to go into spasm. Her boots skidded on the slippery floor, and as she slid forward one of her legs shot through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle door.
An elderly woman who was applying very red lipstick to her thin lips looked down at Amy’s leg and then banged on the door of another cubicle to summon the help of her daughter.
The daughter, grumbling at the interruption, opened her door, accusing her mother of talking nonsense.
‘Oh my God!’ she stopped short in her accusations and pulled her mother towards her shouting towards the closed door of Amy’s cubicle. ‘Are you all right in there? Have you had an accident? Do you need any help?’
There was no reply and the younger woman made a half-hearted attempt to open the toilet door. She was almost relieved that it wouldn’t open.
Several more women had now come in to use the facilities, and although some of them just went back out as fast as they could, there were two women who took control, with one ringing the number displayed above the washbasins and the other dialling 999. The first number was answered by the company with responsibility for providing the cleaners for the toilet block, and they promised to get an attendant there as soon as they could. The call to the emergency services provided information that there were paramedics close by and they would be directed to the incident immediately.
The four women stood wondering what to do next and considered looking over the top and into the closed cubicle by standing on one of the adjacent toilets but there wasn’t an obvious volunteer. They were all wishing they had better bladder control and cursing their need for public conveniences when the cleaner arrived.
It was a routine visit, and she hadn’t had a call from the company. She announced to everyone present, as she took out a bunch of keys, that it was no use anyone ringing that number as nobody in the company ever passed on messages. The other women looked at her, and were amazed by the fact that she seemed totally unfazed at the sight of one skinny leg protruding from under the door of one of the cubicles. If this was a familiar sight to her, then she should write her memoirs; just maybe, the Secret Diary of a Bristol Public Toilet Cleaner would be a bestseller!
However, speculation led to revulsion as she carefully opened the door, and everyone wished she hadn’t.
‘Is someone dead in there?’ the elderly lady asked from her corner of the toilet block.
‘Hell, I don’t know,’ responded the cleaner. ‘It’s drugs, that’s for sure, and the police …’
She was interrupted by the arrival of two male paramedics and with expert efficiency accompanied by lots of swearing they had Amy removed to a portable stretcher within minutes.
‘Is she dead?’ again the question from the same source.
One of the paramedics responded. ‘No, but she is deeply unconscious and the sooner we get her to the BRI the better. The police will want to take a look and are on their way so please don’t touch anything and don’t let anyone else in here.’
The cleaner ushered everyone through the main door and from her uniform pocket she took out and unfolded an A4 sheet of card pinning it to the outside. The notice read FACILITIES CLOSED FOR EMERGENCY CLEANING – PLEASE USE TOILETS AT THE FAR END OF THE CAR PARK. The notice was well-worn and had obviously been used frequently – it was the sort one would see attached to countless public amenities up and down the country, but who would guess the degree of human tragedy that could be behind such a notice being posted?
Amy was, at this point, deeply unconscious, and so completely oblivious to being stretchered through the crowds of self-righteous shoppers who tutted and muttered their disapproval as she was carried past them. Had she been a little old man or a pregnant woman she would have had their sympathy, but there was nobody there today who could see past the external appearance of this strange-looking druggie and into the heart of a sad and abused woman.
At the A&E department of the Bristol Royal Infirmary, the paramedics handed her over, and mentioned to the receiving nurse that the bag strapped around her waist contained a large amount of money which would need to be checked in and witnessed by a couple of people. It also contained her mobile phone, and a passport that introduced her as one Amy Wilson.
‘The police will be going to the place where we picked Amy up,’ said the senior paramedic. ‘There was evidence of drug usage at the scene, but I wouldn’t like to guess at what she was using. This is one of the worse reactions I have ever seen. The police may well be aware of any bad batches that are on the street, and will undoubtedly be paying her a visit shortly. They may be able to tell you more –’
‘Let’s hope so,’ interrupted the SHO who had joined them. ‘Knowing what drugs she has injected will make all the difference to the speed at which we may be able to reverse the effects of the poison in her system.’
Their speculation and handover was interrupted as Amy stopped breathing, and with all the drama of a television soap opera the trolley was hurtled towards the Resuscitation Room where a team of real and very experienced professionals were waiting with defib. paddles at the ready and hoping to delay Amy’s date with death.
On arrival at the airport Jack parked his car in the long-stay section, knowing that he would be using it again on Wednesday, when he would have to return to do yet another job for his fa
ther. That one would initially take him back to Cardiff and take his tally to three for that particular city. They had decided that Jack would do no more than three special jobs in any one city in case the police started to make links.
This afternoon’s assignment had taken Bristol to that limit, and so with both Cardiff and Bristol soon off-limits he would have to look to Swindon or Reading, or even the Great Metropolis …
Jack got a buzz from just thinking about his particular projects and remembered the unique details of each. Every one was different and every task undertaken in such a way as to send a particular message to the recipient of his cruel attention. Every successful job also served to raise his father’s status and his father was now one of the top-dogs amongst his fellow inmates. Not surprising as none of the others could offer up a psychopathic son eager and able to sort out their problems on the outside.
He knew his way around the airport very well and went straight to the check in desk where there were still a number of people waiting to be booked onto the Malaga flight.
There was no sign of Amy, her time was running out, and as he held his boarding pass and made his way to the departure lounge he vowed to himself that as far as he was concerned her time had run out – she was history.
Chapter Twelve
Where is Amy?
As Martin drove back to base he reflected on the picture he had developed of Mark Wilson. If they had met, he would probably have liked the man, and he certainly admired him for making the most of his life after such a lousy start.
True, he had been dealt an ace when Norman and Sandy Harding came into his life, but Martin found himself believing that even without their influence and money Mark would have made it. And he definitely didn’t deserve to have been killed, and so brutally.
He had barely got through the door of his office when Matt and Alex joined him. Alex looked smug and Matt had the look that anyone would have after a day of random visits to random people who may or may not be able to help with enquiries.
Martin deduced that the SOC team had come up with something interesting while his DS and their team had little to show from the drudgery of routine detective work. Still, as experience had shown over and over it was often this unsung element of their work that yielded the results.
He turned to face both of them and it suddenly hit him that since an early and bit of an apology for a breakfast he had not eaten that day and the only drink had been the coffee supplied by PC Cook-Watts.
‘If you are about to tell me that the murderer has been apprehended and is languishing in one of our five-star cells, then please, go ahead, but anything short of that will have to wait until I have had something to eat. Join me if you want.’
Martin was already halfway down the first corridor and called the invitation back over his shoulder before the other two reacted and followed the boss on his mission to raise his blood sugar.
The clock on the wall above the serving hatch showed a quarter past four and lunches were well and truly over, leaving Martin with the choice of sandwiches yet again, or what was left of the soup of the day.
The latter, leek and ham soup, had most certainly been bubbling away in the pot-bellied electric cauldron since first lunches had started at twelve o’clock, for it looked well past its best. Nevertheless, he scooped out the last it, rescuing some crisp pieces of ham from the sides of the pot. Looking around for something to go with the soup, he was happy to find a piece of cheese and a baguette, and thinking this would do for now took his tray over to where Matt and Alex were already drinking their coffee.
They started to speak as he approached, but balancing his tray with one hand Martin held up the other to stop them. ‘Just give me five minutes to eat this without any work talk and then I will be all ears. Meanwhile, talk amongst yourselves, or talk to me about anything, but, please, don’t give me indigestion by talking about the case.’
Matt and Alex looked at one another, and then back at Martin, who had already devoured half the cheese and baguette, and was tucking into the soup as if he hadn’t eaten for a month.
‘So what’s this, guv?’ asked Matt. ‘It can‘t be brunch, it’s way too late in the day for that.’
‘Is there a thingy for a combination of lunch and tea or lunch and dinner?’ asked Alex.
‘What do you mean, a thingy?’ The two men were making small talk, and Martin was making short work of his meal, whatever name they found for it.
‘Well, they call it something, don’t they, when two words are mixed together in some way to make a word that is different but related. Like, we take the “br” from the beginning of the word breakfast and the “unch” from the end of lunch, and come up with brunch. I’ve just remembered – they call the new word a “portmanteau word”. I heard it on one of those radio quizzes. It was a new one on me but some clever clogs even knew that it was first used by Lewis Carroll …’
‘It’s amazing,’ interrupted Martin. ‘No, I don’t mean your never-ending fount of trivia. I am referring to the fact that this soup, despite what it may look like, is not just all right. It is truly delicious.’
He mopped up the remains and left his bowl looking as if it had just come out of the dishwasher. ‘That’s much better, I can think again – so come on, spill the beans.’
On the way from the staff cafe to Incident Room One the group of three turned into a crocodile. Doors were knocked and anyone who was available and involved with the case was invited to join an impromptu team session. Martin hoped that as they were now almost forty-eight hours into the investigation some pooling of ideas and brainstorming would give individual findings a better sense of common direction.
Already sitting at one of the tables and conscientiously writing some notes was PC Cook-Watts, and Martin made the comment that he was surprised to see her there.
‘That GP’s visit was brilliant,’ she told him. ‘Wish I had a doctor like that – our lot don’t even look you in the eye. They just shuffle their attention between their patients’ notes wallets and their ‘how to diagnose’ computer programmes. Dr Perry was a breath of fresh air. She just asked a few questions about Mark’s taste in music and about his design work and it was as if she had pressed a button releasing things they wanted to remember but were being held in by grief and anger.
‘I think Norman will be OK now, and I’m not sure he even remembers his actions earlier, although Dr Perry has talked him through them. She said that rather than him discovering or remembering bit by bit what he had done with the things that especially reminded him of Mark, it would be better to confront his actions. In her view they didn’t demonstrate any desire to burn away Mark’s very existence, but showed that his love for his son was so strong he couldn’t at that moment in time bear to see anything that reminded him of his loss.
‘It seemed to work, and although I remember Sandy telling us that she was always the strong one, I saw a sea change in Norman and I suspect that from now on Sandy will be able to release her own feelings and lean on him a bit instead.
‘Anyway, about three-quarters of an hour ago some friends turned up and after a few minutes of tears and the usual expressions of shock and condolences they were all off on a trip down memory lane, and I agreed with the GP that it was just the therapy they needed so we left them to it. I told them I would go back later and let them know what progress had been made from our end, so is it OK if I sit in on this session?’
‘Of course,’ replied Martin. ‘Well done with the family liaison work, I know the Hardings are appreciating your support.’
Some twenty or so police officers and specialist support staff were now sitting or standing around and Martin began with a recap of the events of Saturday evening and then painstakingly went through the data he had previously written on the board.
‘We have now got a complete report from the Professor following his post mortem examination and tests. Mark had no drugs in his system and there are no signs that he was hit on the head, so he was certainly consc
ious, at some point, when he was lying on that kitchen worktop.’
‘We already know the order in which the limbs were severed but now we are told that this total act of butchery took less than five minutes. Prof. Moore has examined each of the amputation wounds in microscopic detail and has given us more definitive images of the knives that were used – so we now know exactly what we are looking for. Have we found anything?’
He looked towards Sergeant Evans who was already shaking his head. ‘Nothing, guv. We have searched the house, the garden, neighbouring gardens, and outhouses; in fact, every inch of the surrounding area, but nothing. The neighbours have without exception been very helpful, and it seems that Mark Wilson was liked by those who knew him, but in the main the information given was that he kept himself to himself.’
Martin turned to Matt, who had prepared a summary of what he and the other CID officers had managed to gather from their enquiries.
He began by saying that a total of sixty-one people had contacted the police as a result of the initial press conference and subsequent television coverage, although the majority just wanted to say that they had walked or driven past the house during that period of time but had seen or heard nothing.
‘Timewasters,’ muttered one of the PCs.
‘Well, at least they came forward, and the number of people who saw nothing between half-past five and six lead us to believe that the crime was committed after six o’clock, and as we all know placing an accurate time on a murder can be vital – so not such timewasters after all.’
Martin looked from his DS to the constable who had made the comment. There was nothing he could put his finger on, but he had previously noticed some animosity between these two – well, hell, not everyone could like one another, but as long as it didn’t interfere with the job they would just have to live with it. He nodded for Matt to continue.
‘We got the usual, but thankfully not many, out-and-out crackpots, one claiming to have seen Daleks and Cybermen coming down the hill, and another telling us how he had seen the whole thing in a vision. The problem being that in his version of events, Mark is a blonde girl with a ponytail who is stoned to death by a vicar who is really the devil.’