Daisy Chains

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Well, we unfortunately have no car,” said Sylvia. “So either we hire one, or we get wonderfully thin walking and hopping on and off buses.”

  “Morrison had a police vehicle,” Harry explained, “A lovely spacious Rover. But now they’ve been called back urgently to Gloucestershire. Your father’s been busy.”

  “So far,” Sylvia told her, drinking her wine somewhat faster than usual, “they seem to think both the last murder here, and the last murder around the Cotswolds, were committed at roughly the same time.”

  “There’s a copycat.”

  Staring, Tracy gulped down the rest of her gin and orange. “There can’t be.” Her empty glass stood forlorn. “No one is so sick and disgusting as to do what he did.”

  “It seems he’s not alone after all. And look at what happened some months back with that Howard family. The one who did the terrible things was off his head. Really sick in both ways. But it wasn’t him who collected the girls. They were given to him by a psychopath, his loving brother.”

  “And how do you recognise a psychopath from a normal human being.?”

  The phone call peeled through the bedroom and woke Mia in the next room, and Iris in the room beyond. “Bloody Hell,” Kate mumbled to herself. “Piss off.”

  The invasive and repetitious notes did not piss off. Eventually, Kate rolled over and reached out one angry but frantic hand to her phone lying on the bedside table. She grabbed it and pressed the button.

  “It’s me. Maurice. I need to know how Milton is, but I can’t ring directly. And I want to know all about Mia. Tell me everything, and I’ll send money for both of them. For you too.”

  “You tried to kill me.” Kate sat on the floor, leaning back against the mattress. “And I don’t want your money. Mia’s fine. Milton’s sort of fine too. Now go away.”

  “I have gone away,” Maurice pointed out. “I’m in Miami. Great weather. Tell me more about Mia and Milton, and I’ll leave you alone for a month or three.”

  She inhaled loudly and her finger automatically moved to shut him up. “You abused me. You wanted to kill me. I obeyed you for years, and then you nearly killed me. This time I should report you to the police, not help you know things to make you happy.”

  “I’m happy anyway, and the law wouldn’t ever find me. Even the FBI are fools. They care more about getting one up on the CIA rather than catching boring criminals. Now tell me.”

  “Oh, bother and shit,” sighed Kate. “Mia is fine. Loving the new school down the road. Not the one you taught in and certainly not a boarding school. It’s a high ranking primary in Cheltenham. We don’t talk about you. She doesn’t ask. All she wants is help with her homework. She’s brilliant at everything, especially maths. But she loves the guitar. I bought her a good one and she practises every night. I don’t even have to remind her.”

  “OK. Now Milton. Have you even bothered to visit?”

  Her next sigh was less patient. “Yes, I did. He’s in a mental Institution in Gloucester. For the criminally insane. He was sent there by the judge. Found guilty of multiple and premeditated murder. But really it should have been you accused and found guilty.”

  “That’s not telling me how he is.” Maurice was also irritated and impatient. He made no attempt to disguise the anger in his voice.

  “Alight,” Kate said. “He’s learning to read and write. He’s learning fast too, and he wrote me a letter I could easily understand. But the letter said he never saw you or Mark, so he wanted to go to the dead-place and sleep. So I went to visit. At first I couldn’t see him as he was tranquillised. Evidently this happens often. But when he woke and saw me, he cheered up. Actually he was quite bright. I got permission to take him out for a walk in the grounds next month if I visit again – and I intend to. But he’s booked in to have three operations in June. Already he wears funny sort of metal splints on both legs. Not to sleep, but for walking half the day. He likes that though he says sometimes it hurts a bit. So he’s fine. Nothing to worry about and he can’t kill anyone.” She paused. “But you haven’t bothered asking after me, I see.”

  “So how are you?” He sounded bored.

  “The police considered taking me to court too, but then they decided I couldn’t be held to blame for anything as I was nearly as much abused as Milton’s playthings.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Maurice asked, “And that skinny girl he called his lady?”

  “How can you ask about her after what you did?” Kate half screeched. “I wrote hundreds of apologies to her, but she never answered. The whole family moved house. The council re-housed them somewhere nicer. She refuses to have any contact with me and obviously not with Milton, though he keeps asking. I just hope she’s recovering as well as can be expected. I went and bought a nice warm pair of pretty pyjamas with a matching dressing gown from Rosebays, but it was returned to me and no message. It didn’t fit me, so I took it back to the shop and they refused to exchange because they said it smelled strange. I’ve no idea what that was about, so I washed it and I’m keeping it for Mia.”

  “You will visit Milton early in May,” Maurice said immediately. “You will tell him I love him and think of him and will visit as soon as I can. Tomorrow you will tell Mia that I phoned and love her dearly and think of her every day. That’s all.”

  “Don’t you order me to do anything,” Kate yelled at the phone. “How dare you. I might say some of those things and I might not, but that’s up to me, not you. And what the hell are you doing in Miami? I thought you were in Dubai.”

  But Maurice had hung up, and the faint buzz of an empty line rang through the earpiece. Kate flung the iPhone onto the bed, threw herself on top of it, and finally fell asleep. She was questioned the next day by both Mia and Iris, and reluctantly recounted what they had partially heard anyway. Kate was fairly sure that Mia had crept out of bed and eavesdropped at the door.

  Six days later the sum of one million American dollars was paid into Kate’s bank account.

  Kate started a trust fund for Mia and named herself as executer. She gave a small but useful sum to Iris. She invested a reasonable sum in the cake and coffee shop and asked the Mental Institution whether she could contribute in some way, and leave some cash as spending money for Milton. Naturally, this was accepted.

  There was an attractive amount left over, which Kate kept for herself. She bought a better car , two weeks of daily driving lessons, and a cream cashmere coat with a huge collar.

  Maurice telephoned once more. “Milton needs those operations. Reading classes. All that stuff.”

  “Yes,” Kate told him, “I’m paying for that out of your money. It’s – been – so helpful. For Milton and for Mia. And – for me too.”

  “A little gratitude, that makes a change.”

  “I have other memories,” said Kate bluntly. “Shall I be grateful for you trying to kill me. For causing that haunting horror for the girls Milton killed? Could anyone ever forgive you for that?”

  “It was mostly Mark.” Maurice’s voice had gone soft, but more obstinate than ashamed.

  “Just remember,” Kate said, “if you ever go broke and want some money back, there won’t be any. Not a penny.”

  “Tell Mia her father’s a millionaire. Because I am. By next month I’ll be a billionaire. I’ll send more money for her birthday.”

  “The Nottingham cops told me you were both here,” said Daisy. “Well, I do phone them quite regularly, you know. Two murders by that horrible killer and almost on my doorstep. I was wondering if we could meet up.”

  Harry was immediately keen. He, Sylvia and Tracy had spent two hours on the previous evening arguing about when they should take the train home again. “Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards,” Sylvia had complained. “Look, we might get back to Gloucestershire tomorrow, and there could be another murder here two days later.”

  “And if we can go backwards and forwards, then so can he.”

  “Dad?”

  “Exactly. Ta
ke the car, take the train, take the bus. It’s not impossible in our little country to be here today and there tomorrow.”

  But now it was Daisy Curzon on the phone, and the daughter of the killer was not likely to be welcome at that woman’s home. “We’re going to meet this couple,” Sylvia explained to Tracy. “Sorry, we’ll come straight back to you afterwards.”

  “I might just sleep,” Tracy said. “I’m bored.”

  “Find somewhere to play on the swings.” They left her room as Tracy giggled and snuggled back down into the warm hotel bed.

  The Curzon household was average, clean, tidy, cosy, and a little dark. On a street of two storey terraced houses without front yards, theirs occupied the corner and so enjoyed an extra set of windows. The curtains were, however, drawn tightly closed. “We don’t like being seen,” Daisy explained as she showed Sylvia and Harry into her front room. “We don’t know how many killers and creeping lunatics there are out there looking for the next victim. They look around first, you know, and target whoever they want.”

  “With this monster Lionel Sullivan,” Harry said cautiously, “he only seems to kill young women. There aren’t any in your family, are there?”

  “No.” George bustled in from the kitchen. “No young ladies. But he might go for anyone, you see, if he can’t find what he wants. Anyway, I’ve put the kettle on.”

  Daisy patted his shoulder and turned to the rather worn out armchair in the corner. “Come on Dean, my boy. Say hello to our guests. This is Mr and Mrs Joyce. They work with the police to solve these crimes and find the monster who does it.”

  The armchair seemed to swallow him, but the boy looked up with an expression of blank timidity. Skinny and dark-eyed. He looked more like one of the shadows. “Hello,” he managed. He seemed to be reading a book called Anticipating the Next Discoveries In Particle Physics by Rouven Essig. Harry was impressed.

  “Mrs Curzon, the suspicions regarding this serial killer are becoming muddled, I’m afraid, since there’s recently been another vile murder in the west. And, if you don’t mind my asking, how old is young Dean?”

  “I’m seventeen,” announced young Dean. “Seventeen and a half. Why?”

  Sylvia’s smile interrupted. “I doubt I’d have been capable of reading that book at your age.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Dean, keeping the frown. “Because it wasn’t published.”

  George had bustled off again and was making the tea, clunks and jangles echoing from the next door kitchen. “Very true,” Sylvia said. “I see you like to be specific. But you’ve been having a difficult time lately. I sympathise.” She sat on the long hard spring sofa and accepted the mug of hot tea with a melting chocolate biscuit balancing on the saucer.

  “I like study,” Dean muttered. “It takes my mind off things. It was my girlfriend who was killed. We weren’t that close, but we had dates. She wasn’t very clever so we couldn’t talk much, but I took her to see Twelfth Night at the Theatre, but she went to sleep. I told her she was dull, but then she got killed and I felt horribly guilty. A boy at school died too, but that was because he got sick. It still seemed like death all around.”

  “Then his aunty,” sighed Daisy, sipping instant coffee. “I admit she wasn’t our favourite relative, being a bit silly and often criticised us all, but she was George’s only sister, poor love. She had a stroke. And then another horrible murder a bit further away, and I didn’t know her. But it was still terribly upsetting.”

  “Very upsetting,” Dean agreed. “I’m going up to my bedroom.” He clutched his book and scuttled from the room.

  “Poor Dean,” said Daisy. “He’s terribly sensitive.”

  “The problem for us,” said George, both fists thumping both arms of the chair where he sat, “is knowing how to take all this murder and mayhem. We’ve talked to the local parish vicar. He’s a very down to earth gentleman for a vicar, but I am always happy to take his advice. I’ve discussed how we seemed to be in the centre of such bad luck at present. And poor Dean has been affected more than most.”

  “The reverent doesn’t seem to think it’s a curse from God,” Daisy nodded, clutching her empty mug. “And naturally that was a blessing and a great relief. But perhaps a message? A forewarning? Or even a diplomatic punishment?”

  Unprepared for such a possibility, Harry stuttered, “P-punishment for – what?”

  Daisy blushed. “You see, George and I – well, we haven’t always done exactly what was right and proper.” She leaned over towards Sylvia, whispering, “I was already pregnant when George and I were married. Dean was born just seven months later. We had the baby baptised at once of course, but we could see the vicar guessed the truth.”

  “That must be true of half the population,” Sylvia sighed. “And the other half don’t bother to get married at all.”

  “And I’m sure they have relations and friends who die too,” said George with another thump

  “I’m sure they do. We all do,” said Harry, reluctantly.

  “There you are then,” George said. “Case closed.

  It was a couple of hours later on their return to the Black Out pub that Harry said, “I think the Nottingham killer’s a copycat.”

  “We’ve discussed this before,” Sylvia yawned. “The police don’t think so. Lionel’s quite capable of driving up here and back to Cheltenham in one day. He’s used to it, for goodness sake. He used to drive to France and back with the coach.”

  “It’s not that,” said Harry. “It’s the details. That boy’s little girlfriend was raped, but no DNA left behind. Must have used a condom. But Sullivan’s never done that before.”

  “He didn’t know about DNA, did he! When he first started killing, no one knew about DNA. Now we all do, so he’s leaving no trace.”

  “The wretched man’s on the run,” Harry said. “We already know who he is. Why bother hiding it if it’s him?”

  “Same reason that he drives north, then south, and kills in both,” mumbled Sylvia. “He wants us to believe in a second killer. I don’t really know why. Just to confuse the police, I imagine. Which is working.”

  “I need to talk to Tracy again,” said Harry, driving into the pub’s car park. The hire car had been rented for two days only. “Wednesday today. Thursday tomorrow. Then the train home, Tracy to London and us to Cheltenham. What a waste.”

  “My cash is running out again,” Tracy frowned. “And it’s all fucking boring. Do I go back on the bloody streets? Or rob a bank? Or just go to bed on my own and stay there.?”

  Feeling much the same herself, Sylvia paused, then admitted, “At my age, I rather doubt I’d have much success on the streets, but otherwise I feel the same. Talking to the people we just went to visit was an irritating waste of time. Morrison and Rita both had to go flying back to Gloucestershire. Well, they took the car. That means this whole trip was utterly pointless and we have to go home by train without even tramping the Nottingham wilds. So – if you really are that bored – come with us.”

  Both Harry and Tracy looked exceedingly surprised. “Sure,” Tracy said quickly before Sylvia could change her mind. “Same train, same place as before?”

  “Yes, I’ll book you into the pub in Woppington very near us.”

  “So tomorrow it’s another dull, plodding, slow rumble home.”

  “It takes hours. It’s not even direct.”

  The train left the following day at 3.05 and having all bundled together into the same place, four seats and a small table between, they leaned back. Harry obligingly stuffed all four little cases on the rack above the window. The voice announced the closing of the doors and the clatter and jiggle started.

  Everyone leaned back, sighed, and didn’t bother talking. A good time for sleep. Harry and Sylvia closed their eyes. Tracy’s eyes were glazed as she watched the world whizz past.

  It was fifteen minutes almost exactly before the disturbance woke them, and everyone else on the train. The explosion was echoingly loud. Enormous. Stones a
nd smoke sprang against the roof and the glass. The train ground to a desperate halt and then, almost in slow motion, began to derail.

  Chapter Nine

  Once again, laid on the gurney in the forensic lab, the dismantled body parts of a young woman lay in the shape she had once assumed. Ostopolis ripped off his gloves and marched off to wash his hands and pull off the white coat, emptying his mind of murder. He went quickly into his own small office and began to write up his notes into a full document. He was desperately tired but had no intention of locking up before he had entirely finished. It would be the Di and the DCI the following morning who would rely on every word he had written.

  Indeed, neither Morrison nor Rita Ellis had yet left the building. Although it was past eight o’clock, they had not yet gone home.

  “Every serial killer,” Rita said, although more of a mumble to herself, “has a way of doing things that matter to him. He may have his own peculiar manner of eating baked beans for all I know. Known as methodical or chaotic, they still have their particular habits.” and she tapped the papers recently faxed to her which now lay on her desk, “so either Lionel Sullivan did not commit the Nottingham murders, or he is experimenting with slightly new methodology in order to trick.”

  “He’s a man who likes to trick,” said the deep voice suddenly from directly behind her.

  She didn’t bother turning around. “Hello Darcey, you still here too? And you don’t believe in a copycat? I don’t either. Sullivan likes tricks. Dashing backwards and forwards to Nottingham, well, that’s absurd unless he had a girlfriend.”

  “No girlfriend. Impossible. But he’s got some money from somewhere. He can’t constantly be travelling by train – too risky – he’d have been recognised by now. So he has a car and a fairly robust one at that.”

  “I have records of eighteen car thefts from our area over the past two months. They’d all fit.”