THE NUMBERS GAME: a gripping crime thriller

by JOHN STANLEY

  ‘God, yes,’ nodded Miles, pointing to one of two darts nestling beside each other in the same narrow bed. ‘Des Creeley was murdered at number 60 Alma Street. Triple twenty.’

  ‘And,’ said Gaines, pointing to the other darts, ‘Penny Hayworth lived at number 36, triple 12, Robert Garnett was found at number 51, triple 17, and Colin Jeavons at 54, triple 18.’

  ‘And Susan Kemley is here at number 60,’ said Radford, pointing to the other dart in the bed, ‘another triple twenty.’

  ‘And assuming you are right and he is playing 301 and out,’ said Miles, the horror clear in her voice, ‘that just leaves him 40.’

  ‘Double top and out,’ nodded Gaines, images flashing into his mind of many a game of arrows played in the smoky atmosphere of his local pub.

  There was silence as the implications of his words sunk in.

  ‘So he’s not finished yet,’ said Radford flatly and his gaze fell on the bedside table with a single dart lying ready for use. ‘Who do we know lives at number 40?’

  Horror dawned on Gaines’s face.

  ‘Perlow!’ he exclaimed, grasping the chief inspector’s arm. ‘That new flat of his is number 40. Kemley detests him and Perlow reckons his house has been watched over recent nights.’

  ‘No one mentioned this,’ said Radford quickly.

  ‘Perlow did not want to make a fuss.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late for that,’ said the chief inspector urgently, reaching for his radio. ‘I’ll tell the lad on guard at the hospital. Perlow may still be there.’

  ‘No, he’s not, he nipped home to get his mobile, forgot it earlier,’ said Gaines and clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘Bloody hell, guv, Kemley’s going to do him there!’

  Chapter twenty nine

  Popping a biscuit into his mouth, Gerry Perlow was just about to leave the flat when his mobile started ringing. With a sigh, the constable dipped into his jacket pocket and picked it out but before he could press the receive button, he caught a movement from behind and, as he whirled round, a stinging blow sent the phone crashing across the room to smash into the wall and shatter. A second blow smashed into his face, sending him staggering backwards, flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to fend off a further attack. Trying frantically to regain his bearings, he slumped onto the sofa and looked up through half closed eyes at his assailant, who stood motionless and silhouetted in the bedroom door. As the constable’s sight cleared, he could see Ernest Kemley, all dressed in black and clutching a baseball bat.

  ‘Ernest, what the hell is happening?’ asked Perlow, the fear knotting in his stomach.

  ‘Don’t play daft,’ said Kemley but this time the voice was different, harsh, grating, twisted. ‘You know.’

  Perlow sat there for a moment, swaying slightly and surveying the young man with some difficulty. This was a side to Ernest Kemley he had never seen before, the side in which festered all the dark fantasies. Only this time, the fantasies had become reality, fact had blended seamlessly info fiction in Ernest Kemley’s world and the detective was not sure his attacker knew which was which any more.

  ‘Why?’ asked the constable, senses still reeling and drawing on all his police training in a desperate effort to buy himself some time. ‘Why, Ernest? Just tell me why?’

  ‘They hurt me, Mr Perlow.’

  ‘Who hurt you?’

  ‘They all did. You hurt me.’

  ‘Not me, I … ’

  ‘You needn’t play the idiot, you treated me like shit as well. You were no different to the others.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. I know what it’s like to…’

  ‘You think you’re like me? Na, you treated me like all the others - crappy Ernest Kemley, that’s what you thought. I could see it in your eyes. You did not even need to open your mouth and say it.’

  ‘In which case I apologise,’ said Perlow, moving to stand up but sitting again when Kemley gestured in a threatening manner with the baseball bat.

  ‘Don’t try the mind games,’ he sneered. ’It don’t work with me. I’ve heard it all before. Seen all the tricks them child psychologists try.’

  ‘I am sure they were just trying to help you.’

  ‘It’s all mumbo jumbo,’ said Kemley, spitting out the words. ‘You know, when I started this, I thought about killing the shrink. Or that silly cow of a head teacher that referred me.’

  ‘But why start killing at all? Surely, you had put it all behind you, Ernest. You were doing well, job at the hostel, you were making something of your life.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ and Kemley laughed bitterly, ‘spending my time being bad-mouthed by scumbags like Ronny Gallagher? Cleaning up their shit from the toilet floor? Changing their fucking bed sheets because they can‘t be bothered to go to the bathroom for a piss? What kind of a life is that, Mr Perlow? You tell me that.’

  ‘Yes, but not everyone was like that, surely. I mean, what about Ginch? I thought you liked him?’

  ‘He was the only one that understood, he always understood,’ and Kemley looked sadly at the detective. ‘Then he took up with that Ronny Gallagher and didn’t want to know me no more. They’d rather knock about with no-hopers like Des Creeley.’

  The name was spat out full of venom.

  ‘Is that why you killed him?’

  ‘Creeley was a scumbag.’

  ‘That’s no reason to kill him. Nothing is a reason to take another life.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ said Kemley and tears started in his eyes. ‘Well, you were not there that night at the hostel when Creeley humiliated me. In front of all the others. They were like my family and he made them all laugh at me. Do you know what that feels like? Do you?’

  Perlow said nothing. There were no words to say. Although he was often the butt of colleagues’ jokes, it was always good-humoured and borne out of affection. In fact, the constable needed the jokes. They made him feel part of something, made him feel … he hesitated over the word and returned his thoughts to Kemley, beginning now to understand the pain he had gone through that night at the hostel. Every night at the hostel.

  ‘Yes, but to kill?’ said Perlow. ‘I mean, did Creeley do enough to make it worth killing him?’

  ‘It was the last straw,’ shrugged Kemley. ‘I’d taken enough. That’s when I decided to start playing the Numbers Game.’

  ‘Which is what exactly?’

  ‘Darts.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Darts, 301 and out. I killed them in houses that corresponded to numbers on the dart board,’ and Kemley’s voice displayed the pride he felt in his actions.

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed Perlow in horror. ‘Where on earth did you get the idea?’

  ‘I read it in a horror comic when I was thirteen and it stayed with me. Then when Creeley … well…’ and his voice tailed off.

  ‘Was he the first?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then you stopped for a few months?’

  ‘I was horrified by what I had done,’ nodded Kemley. ‘Wanted to pretend it had never happened. Besides, I was worried Ginch would say something. Thought if I stopped, he would stay quiet.’

  ‘So Ginch knew?’ said Perlow, edging forwards on the sofa but stopping when Kemley gestured threateningly again with his bat.

  ‘Yeah, he guessed.’

  ‘So what made you start killing again?’

  ‘Penny ditched me,’ and again Kemley spat out the words. ‘Bitch! She just used me, Mr Perlow. I thought we had something going then she ditched me. That’s when I did her. One stab wound, like a dart. Sweet.’

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed Perlow, ‘you’re crazy.’

  ‘Maybe. Anyway after that, it was too late and I needed others to complete the game,’ and he laughed drily. ‘There were plenty to choose from. Garnett first.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘Could have been anyone,’ shrugged Kemley. ‘Found him at the house one night, pissed as usual. The rest was easy.’

  ‘And Jeavons?’

  ‘He
came looking for Ray Gerrard to see if he was still flogging the stuff,’ and Kemley grinned and made a stabbing motion. ‘Found me instead.’

  ‘You’re a fucking nutter!’

  ‘Am I? Am I really? Jeavons was a nasty bit of work. Sacked me in front of half a dozen of them stuck up members at the golf club. Said I was good for nothing. He deserved what he got.’

  Perlow looked at him in horror. Triggers, always triggers, he thought. All it takes are a few thoughtless words, a thoughtless action. And some of them were mine. Am I just as guilty as all the others?

  ‘Then I did my mum,’ said Kemley dispassionately.

  ‘You’ve killed your mother?’

  ‘Yeah, two days ago. She’s in her bedroom.’

  ‘Why for God’s sake?’

  ‘She was a bitch as well,’ said Kemley simply. ‘No one will miss her.’

  ‘And you just keep killing?’ said Perlow with a shake of the head.

  ‘I need to finish the game fast. I’m sure you didn’t fall for all that dark stranger shite and I was pretty sure Ginch would say something eventually. Besides, when it’s finished, I’m away on my toes,’ and he reached into his pocket and fished out a plane ticket.

  ‘And is it finished?’

  ‘Nearly finished,’ and Kemley gave him a look that chilled the detective’s marrow. ‘I need one more. Double top.’

  ‘Double top?’

  ‘Yeah, double top.’

  ‘Is that me?’ said the constable, trying to sound calm but screaming inside.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ and Kemley laughed. ‘Shouldn’t have moved to number 40, Mr Perlow.’

  With a rapid movement, he threw the bat away and produced a knife from his pocket. As he stepped forward, the detective leapt to his feet and lashed out with his fist, striking Kemley in the face and sending him staggering backwards. Perlow dived for the door to the landing, his hands scrabbling frantically on the handle, but a sound made him turn round to see Kemley hurl himself across the room, knife held high above his head. Perlow ducked to one side and Kemley crashed into the wall, giving a muffled grunt. The detective grabbed for him but felt a piercing pain in his side and sunk to his knees, clutching the wound from which blood was already pouring.

  ‘I guess you lose the game,’ said Kemley, turning for the door and giving the prostrate officer a thin smile. ‘See you in the next life, Mr Perlow, although I imagine you‘ll get there before me.’

  At that point the door crashed open and Danny Radford hurtled into the room. Whirling round, Kemley raised his knife but was rocked as Radford shot out a fist, sending him staggering to bump into Gaines as he came through the door. Kemley lifted his knife but a snapping fist from Gaines sent him reeling.

  ‘That’s for attacking me in Alma Street!’ snarled the sergeant.

  Regaining his balance, Kemley glared balefully as Miles entered the room behind the sergeant. The hostel worker held the knife high above him, gesturing as if to stab himself.

  ‘I’ll do it!’ he screeched, ‘I really will!’

  The officers hesitated for a moment.

  ‘Now come on Ernest,’ said Radford, stepping forward and holding out a hand.

  ‘Stay back!’ screamed Kemley, still holding the knife above his head. ’Or I’ll do it, I will. I tell you, I will!’

  ‘Listen,’ said Radford, taking a step forward.

  ‘You stay still,’ said Kemley, momentarily distracted.

  It was enough and Miles threw herself across the room and smashed into the startled young man. He went crashing backwards and the knife fell to the floor. Within seconds, she had disarmed him and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  ‘Good work,’ said Radford approvingly. ‘Bloody good work!’

  ‘Thanks,’ she gasped as Kemley struggled beneath her.

  ‘I hate to spoil the party,’ said a weak voice and they turned to see the ashen-faced Perlow slumped against the wall. ‘But would someone like to save my life?’

  Chapter thirty

  Two days later, Perlow regained consciousness. In the hours after he was rushed to hospital - Miles having administered first aid in the flat - his life had hung in the balance as he underwent emergency surgery. But gradually he stabilised and had now started to show the first signs of recovery so it was a relieved Danny Radford who walked slowly up the hospital stairs to the constable’s room.

  The relief was reinforced by the picture that was emerging of the man who had tried to kill the DC; it had made everyone at Read Street realise how lucky Perlow had been to survive. The revelations had also brought with them a deep sense of irony for the chief inspector: Heron had been established to tackle problems associated with young people who abused drink and drugs but none of the station’s officers had recognised the dangers posed by a man who did neither.

  Walking up the stairs - it kept him fit - Radford reflected on the past two days, deeply troubling as they had been. The more his detectives had discovered about Ernest Kemley’s fractured background, the more Radford could see why he had turned out this way, moulded by those around him. The hostel worker’s continual refusal to answer any questions, electing instead to sit silently in his cell, meant that much of the information had been unearthed through other channels. One was Kemley’s old primary school head teacher who revealed that she became so concerned about his disruptive behaviour when he was nine-years-old that she referred him to a child psychologist.

  When detectives talked to the psychologist several hours later, he revealed Kemley as a child born into a shattered and violent home, beaten by his father and virtually ignored by his alcoholic mother. Indeed, it was his mother’s heavy drinking that made Kemley resolve never to touch alcohol, something that had driven him away from teenage school friends experimenting with what he saw as the sinful side of teenage life. As a result, Kemley grew up in a solitary world, a lonely, friendless child starved of love and transformed by the brutality of his parents and the cruel taunts of schoolmates into a deeply resentful boy who wanted respect but found only rejection.

  According to the psychologist, Kemley had grown increasingly frustrated as he moved into his mid-teens and had taken more and more to his own company, inhabiting an inner world of which he was the master. Even then, the psychologist had said, there had been signs of a repressed anger and there had always been a danger that one day it would find its way to the surface. What became clear to the detectives was that the hostel’s uncaring residents were the unwitting trigger as they rejected Kemley’s well-meaning attempts to help them. Triggers, always triggers.

  In discussions in the CID squad room, Radford had propounded the theory that Kemley’s efforts on the residents’ behalf were genuine but that their cruel rejection reactivated old insecurities and turned him into someone who hatched plot after plot against those who had made his life such a misery. At some point, reasoned the chief inspector, Kemley crossed the line from fantasy to reality until with the death of Des Creeley they blended seamlessly into one. Suddenly, the Numbers Game had become real to Ernest Kemley.

  At the top of the stairs, Radford headed for the DC’s room.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked the chief inspector, walking in and looking at Perlow with affection as he sat propped up in bed.

  ‘Not too bad. Still in a bit of pain but they reckon I’ll be out in a few days.’

  ‘You got lucky,’ said the chief inspector, dragging up a chair and sitting down. ‘The doctor reckons a couple of inches higher and you would have been in real trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, I feel lucky,’ said the constable ruefully, glancing down at his bandaged side.

  ‘And you’ve gone down in legend, my boy: the line ‘would someone like to save my life?’ is as good as anyone could ever utter. In fact, it would make a good epitaph on a gravestone.’

  ‘Sorry for staying alive,’ grinned Perlow then wincing slightly at a stab of pain.

  ‘I’ll let you off,’ said Radford and glanced at the stack of cards and the bunc
h of flowers crowded onto the bedside table. ‘Besides, looks like quite a few other people are happy you made it.’

  Perlow nodded and felt tears welling up; words were suddenly beyond him. Radford gave him the time to regain his composure.

  ‘Sorry, guv,’ said Perlow at length, voice slightly tremulous. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK, old son,’ and Radford looked at him with a gentleness which his colleagues were unaccustomed to seeing. ‘You’ve been through a lot.’

  ‘It’s just,’ and Perlow seemed lost for words again. ‘It’s just that all those cards and things, well, I don’t know, makes me feel sort of…’

  His voice tailed off.

  ‘Loved,’ said Radford.

  The constable looked at his chief inspector and nodded.

  That was the word I dared not think in that flat, convinced I was about to die, he thought. He glanced at the flowers and the cards.

  Yes, that was the word. Loved.

  There was an embarrassed silence during which Perlow’s thoughts turned, as they had so many times, to Ernest Kemley. Love was the thing he could not find. Instead all he found was rejection.

  Perlow knew how that felt and his mind went back to difficult childhood days.

  There but for the grace of God go I, he thought. His detective instincts returned.

  ‘Any news?’ he asked.

  ‘Kemley won’t talk but we’ve charged him with murder and attempted murder. Mind, the shrinks seem to think he’ll be judged unfit to stand trial. He’ll end up in a mental hospital, I should think.’

  ‘I suppose he will,’ nodded Perlow sadly.

  ‘The shrink reckons it was always going to happen. Just needed the right trigger.’

  ‘I could have done with knowing that.’

  ‘I said that but the guy just claimed patient confidentiality. Got quite sniffy when I tried to argue with him. Threatened to kick me out of the office.’

  ‘Got to be something wrong, there, guv.’

  ‘I’ll let someone else have a go at that one,’ said the chief inspector ruefully. ‘I’ve tilted at enough windmills for the time being.’