Daisy Chains

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Morrison was not in his office. He marched the Briefing Room, stood in front of a wall smothered in clippings, photos and maps, and addressed the Homicide Team.

  “OK, we’re armed and dangerous,” he said, hands stuffed in his pockets. One had a hole in it, and a long finger protruded from the depths. His cardigan looked as though it might have been knitted by one of the kids. “Ariel photography hasn’t produced any results. Endless foot patrols haven’t produced a bloody thing either. The public are sending us sightings from here to John O’ Groats. Lionel Sullivan has avoided recapture for three and a half months. Now it’s us looking like the idiots.” He nodded to Rita Ellis who was sitting by the window. “Anything to add, Rita?”

  “We’ve spent weeks following up every report of stolen vehicles within the area, Darcey. Unfortunately, although it’s helped us return nicked machines to loads of people around here, it hasn’t led to our man. We’ve had reports of other thefts that might have been him too, naturally. Stolen food, cars filling up with petrol and then driving off without paying. A couple of fast food chains diddled at the last minute, and fights started to divert attention. But nothing’s turned up the information we want.”

  “This man’s around and about. He may live secluded and nigh on impossible to find in the woods and countryside around here, but he has to eat. And he must still be looking for victims. I want all of you in the streets, walking and looking. We know this man. Don’t bother with libraries, museums and restaurants.”

  There was general cackling from across the floor. Ruth Ellis said, “Three more reports of cars stolen this morning, Darcey.”

  Someone else called, “Well, guv, there was a morning call from the station up in West Staffs. There’s a sack of human remains found chucked over a hedge. Very decayed. Mostly just bones. They’re wondering if it’s of interest to us. Sounds like yet another copycat.”

  “Tell them we’re interested,’ said Morrison at once. “I want all forensic reports, and I’ll talk to their chief of homicide.”

  “OK, Boss. I’ll get back onto them.” The man looked back. “I want this monster as much as you do, Boss. I won’t forget Tammy and what happened to him. He was a good bloke.”

  “We all feel the same way,” sighed Morrison. “And we’ll get him in the end.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was a small non-stick saucepan, green on the outside, black inside, which seemed apt, and he had the ingredients lined up like little tame soldiers, all ready to do as they were told.

  As his favourite game, this engaged his focus to such an extent that his smile remained permanent. At least temporarily permanent. Occasionally, without knowing it, he licked his lips.

  Kidney beans had actually been a favourite soup at one time. But now he knew all about the vital differences in preparation, and was simmering a small quantity in unsalted water, making sure that the temperature was kept very low. He mixed in a handful of the various herbs and plants he had collected over previous weeks, including the foxglove, the nightshade, and the oleander. He had plenty of others, stored in Tupperware, how useful some of those things were. But he didn’t need anything excessive and wanted to limit wastage at this stage.

  More even than the pleasure of the game, was the fascination of essential learning. Brilliance through experimentation. Progression into a brilliant master. A brilliant expert. Self-taught. And he was both a brilliant teacher and a brilliant pupil.

  Watching and waiting, stirring and picking out the one or two leaves which refused to disintegrate, he sat complacent for the required passing of time, It wasn’t a matter of patience, for each passing tick tick tick was one of pleasure. And the delight as he saw the progress from a few unrecognisable floating items into the rich a dark sludge, which was the reward.

  He sieved the sludge five times, eliminating solids, filtering again, and then pounding the barely discernible grit left at the bottom of the pan, added three teaspoons of cold water, and sieved again. The result, once he was satisfied, he poured into a small enamel bowl topped the bowl with paper, and stuck it in the fridge, pushing it to the back of the top shelf. Then he washed his hands extremely carefully. Again and again. Fun demanded considerable hygiene.

  It seemed a good idea to take a detour. The weather was fine and the only sounds were bird song and the cows waiting impatiently to be milked.

  “I love seeing the English countryside,” Sylvia said, “sometimes it feels so huge with hills rolling into the distance and fields to the horizon. The dips and hollows of the Cotswolds going on forever and ever, with such a variety of trees waving to you in the breezes. But then there’s a cosy little village and tiny little winding streets and cottages that almost meet with the one over the other side of the road. It’s so vast one moment, and so teeny the next.”

  Harry, eyes on the road, passed her the thermos. “Drink your tea while it’s hot. We’ll stop later for lunch. You choose a nice looking pub if we see one in a couple of hours.”

  “Oh, gracious! That long?”

  “You’re hungry already? It’s only eleven, but I suppose that doesn’t matter. Wait till we get into Warwickshire and we can take a break at the castle.”

  Sipping, for the tea was still piping hot, Sylvia nodded and waved a vague hand at the window. “I love old ruins. They remind me of myself. But Warwick’s castle is in good condition.”

  “But I hear they’ve made a sort of Disney toy out of it,” Harry said. “And charge a fortune too.” He scratched his ear lobe. “OK, so we’ll drive on past and find a pub.”

  As the Lexus skirted Warwickshire, the stolen white Honda took the road through Herefordshire, but he did not suggest stopping anywhere for lunch. The girl slept on. Lionel watched her, anticipating all the fun of the game once he got her home. She was a skinny child, but not so small that either her breasts or her arse would deny him pleasure. She had curled, the seat belt almost irrelevant, facing away from him. Lionel’s best view was of her small wrapped bottom, snug in rangy jeans, the filthy bleeding soles of both small feet tucked beneath. She woke with a lurch as the car bounced over a hole in the road. Lionel was sorry to lose the permanent view of the two cheeks in denim.

  “Hi, you woke,” he said, keeping his voice light.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I was so tired. I’ve been walking for miles.”

  “Poor little feet,” sympathised Lionel, sorry that the appetising blood had now dried into a dark sticky mess. “What’s your name? I’m – Harry. Harry Joyce.”

  “Hi. I’m Piper. Yes, I know, a silly name, but that’s what my Mum called me – so – it seems even sillier to try and change it now. I mean – who cares?”

  “I like the name,” Lionel assured her, best behaviour becoming a challenge. He was out of the habit. “Unusual. Has character.”

  “Oh well, it’s fitting in a way since the rats always seem to follow me.” She pulled down the shrunken yellow T-shirt and fitted herself back into the seat belt. Eventually she said, I don’t suppose you got any biscuits or stuff in the car? It’s a cheek, I know, but I never ate since yesterday morning when I left home.”

  “Sorry.” Lionel could have done with some food himself. “You should have brought a couple of sandwiches with you. I got nothing in the car. And I – um – left my wallet at home, so I’m a bit peckish myself and haven’t been able to stop anywhere along the way.”

  Piper giggled. “We’re a right pair. Look, would you be shocked if I said I could nick something from a petrol garage? I don’t mean money – just a bottle of coke and a packet of biscuits or something?”

  It wasn’t often that anything startled Lionel. He snapped his mouth shut and thought about it. Naturally she didn’t know he’d locked her in the car, but she was hardly going to run away when she assumed he was taking her where she wanted to go. If she stole something, not only would he also have something to eat, but he himself would avoid the risk of being seen and captured. Then she’d be back locked in the car again. His sm
ile widened. “Yep, sure. Fantastic idea. Can’t say I approve of stealing of course, but I don’t approve of starving either. I’ll stop at the next decent place.” He chuckled, genuine delight, and pulled into a large petrol station, away from the pumps, and across from the main parking area. He unlocked the car and nodded to Piper. “Get whatever you can, kid. Good luck.”

  There was a somewhat tired looking conglomerate with the pumps central, then over to a line of glass doors leading into a tea shop, a tyre seller, and more usefully a shop selling tins, ready-packaged food in the fridge and a few other things besides taking the payments for the petrol.

  “I never get caught,” she said, jumping from car to sunlight.

  “I could almost say the same,” Lionel said to himself, and sat, waiting.

  Piper was back in minutes. “Quick, out of here,” she said, breathless, and Lionel started the engine. They glided carefully to the side and then back onto the main road without risking speed. The girl tipped the food she’d taken out of the canvas bag she was now carrying. She was excited, and Lionel wasn’t far behind. It had been many years since anyone stole for him, and this was looking good. Two cellophaned packs of sandwiches, with ham and lettuce poking from one, tomato and some sort of cheese from the other. There was a large packet of savoury crackers and a couple of chocolate chip buns in a paper bag. A cold can of Coke and a tin of pineapple chunks finished the treats.

  “You’ve done well,” said Lionel, meaning it. “We share everything?” He had already grabbed the ham sandwich and one bun.

  They both munched, Lionel drove, and spitting crumbs, they both chatted about inanities. Piper said, “You married, mister?”

  “Call me Harry,” grinned Lionel, “and Not anymore. My wife died, I’m afraid. Just a few months ago. I miss her, but we’d got a bit tired of each other long ago.”

  “Sorry. What was her name, then?”

  “Oh – Joyce.” Then Lionel remembered he’d given his surname as Joyce. “Yeh, I know,” he added quickly. “Joyce Joyce. I used to call her Jo. Made life easier. She liked the Joyce Joyce bit. Thought it was funny.”

  “Yeh – I would too. How did she die?”

  Not the best subject. Lionel shook his head. “Cancer. But it was sad. I don’t want to talk about it.” He stifled a yawn. He’d been driving all night. “I mean, we weren’t in love anymore, but cancer is a long slow painful business.”

  At a slight distance northeast, the Lexus drove a little slower, its passengers enjoying the wide stretch of sun on the crops, the sheep grazing, a horse in a large field galloping towards its owner who had just jumped the gate, holding a bridle, and a school playground with a dozen little girls playing basketball.

  Sylvia said, “Don’t we need petrol, dear?”

  Harry checked, and nodded. “Well, not immediately. If you see a good one where we can eat something too, then OK, we might as well fill up.”

  It was not long afterwards when they saw a large petrol station attached to a low shopping trio, tyres on one side, food and newspapers in the middle, and a little tea shop at the end. “You get the petrol,” Sylvia suggested, “and I’ll order us some tea and salad. Mind you, I’m not sure it looks exactly gorgeous. Shall we keep going and look for this hopeful pub?”

  “I thought it was you who was starving.”

  “Well, yes, but for something nice.”

  “The petrol isn’t urgent,” said Harry. “So we’ll keep going.”

  They passed the place by as they headed for the smaller country lanes off towards the border with Wales. “Good idea,” Sylvia told him. “Nice little inns, We’re sure to find somewhere lovely. But the last time we came to Wales, we found one of Sullivan’s dreadful crimes.”

  “And the last time we went to France, we practically fell over one of his nastiest crimes,” Nodded Harry. “But we also met each other. A mixed blessing.”

  “Well, we could have met in a nicer way.”

  “It was the start of everything,” Harry said, “and ghastly as well as brilliant. But now Sullivan is safely tucked away in some wreck of a ruined cottage down in some forest or other in the Cotswolds.”

  “Unless he’s in Nottingham again,” Sylvia pointed out.

  Now only just ahead, the white Honda veered across the little stone bridge, and sped along the deserted road skirting the borders of Wales. Piper had finished her cheese sandwich, her bun, half the bottle of Coke (just a little more than half), six crackers, and a handful of pineapple chunks from the tin she’d opened. Lionel had eaten about the same and finished the large packet of crackers. He couldn’t stop smiling. The day promised perfection. His new victim was about as willing as they came, and had even fed him well. It was a shame he couldn’t take her back to the cottage, but he couldn’t risk it. She wanted Wales, and driving miles past would certainly set off her alarms. She was too small to escape or fight back, but he didn’t want screaming to alert any neighbours. At least she wasn’t too small to amuse him. He was on the point of one of the best afternoons he’d spent in an age.

  “How old are you, kid?” Lionel asked the girl. “You’re surely too young to be off on your own. Walking to Wales indeed, and without shoes. Crazy.”

  “I can look after meself,” said Piper. “I’m eighteen. I know I don’t look it, but that’s ‘cos I never got fed properly at home. But I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Eighteen. Fully formed then. “No, don’t worry, I don’t want to pry.” He grinned and stuffed the last pineapple chunk into his mouth. His fingers were sticky, and with pineapple juice instead of the stickiness he’d prefer, but he didn’t care. Joy was about to enter his life again.

  “Look,” called Harry. “That’s a pub I like the look of. How about stopping here?” He pulled over to the little lane and stopped in the small car park. The public house looked old, buttressed with beams and the windows were mullioned while the top floor edged out as if eager to topple over. “This’ll do nicely, and we can take our time. Not too far from home.”

  Sylvia was delighted to hobble out of the car, stretch her back, grab her crotch, and hop from parking to the open front door. With a mild sunshine and no wind, the pub was busy, noisy, and perfumed with hot home-made steak pie.

  “Straight out of the oven,” said the hostess as she watched the newcomers find the last vacant table.

  “Two,” said Harry at once. “Any chance of chips? Mash? Baked potatoes?”

  “All of them,” called the woman. “Take your pick, missis.”

  “And a long cold beer and a long cold cider.” Sylvia grinned. “Absolutely lovely. I’ve no intention of rushing.”

  Lionel, Piper and the white Honda were driving approximately two miles ahead, now on the same road, when Lionel asked, “Where are we heading, anyway? This is Wales, more or less. East? West? North? South?”

  “Southwest,” she said. “But I’m OK walking, honest. Especially now we’re so near. I’ve eaten well, slept and me feet are fixed up too. You’ve been great. Besides, I don’t want you turning up at my granny’s house. She’ll be all worried in case I’m in trouble.”

  “Well,” Lionel said carefully, “I suppose, considering you’re eighteen and I’m more than fifty.” He stared ahead, thinking hard. “But I don’t want to drop you too far away. Besides, I need to stop and piss.”

  “There was a nice little pub just back there,’ Piper said. “You should have gone there.”

  “I never thought of it till now.” This was true, since now there was a wide open grassy field with a couple of sheep in the distance, and a large shed on a side lane just a little back from the road. Two trees shaded the shed. He pointed. “There’s a good spot. You want to go too? Go on, don’t be shy. Makes sense. I won’t look if you don’t.”

  “OK.” She thought a minute and decided that after several hours of driving safely together, he wasn’t suddenly going to rape her now. Surely he’d have done it already if that’s what he wanted. She had little idea where the
y were but had seen the signposts saying Wales, and welcome, both repeated in a language that looked suitably terrifying.

  Driving up the narrow lane, Lionel stopped the car just beyond the shed. The pictures already danced deliciously tantalising in his head. Rape first. But he’d have to stop any possible scream, so he’d fill her mouth with leaves and grass, which would certainly be plentiful since the shed backed onto trees. Once raped at least twice, he’d tell her a couple of the things he intended doing to her, and then unfortunately it would have to be a quick death. He’d bundle up the body, shove it in the boot, and then quickly drive back to his own cottage, keeping his hood tucked down over his face and being extremely careful not to break any traffic laws. Climbing out into the fresh air aroused his excitement. He might even see if the shed was open and not too full of livestock, and so he might prolong his pleasures by keeping the girl thoroughly tied up and well gagged. That way he could play for even a couple of hours, if he dared, before the kill and the drive back home.

  She was skipping over the grass towards the shed and disappeared around the back. He waited a moment, hoping to catch her pissing, knickers down.

  Harry and Sylvia had enjoyed an extremely filling lunch of steak pie, baked potato smothered in butter, and lightly boiled leaks. “We’re in Wales,’ Harry said, forking in the last spoonful of leaks. “I expect all the tourists expect them. I’ve no complaints. I love leeks. In fact, I loved all of it.”

  “Me too.” Sylvia was draining the last of her cider. “Everything was lovely. But what’s the time? We ought to get home.”

  “Nearly three o’clock. We’ll probably get home just in time for dinner.”

  “Gracious, I couldn’t eat any dinner after all this,’ Sylvia pointed to her empty plate. Harry’s was so clean it looked a little as though he’d licked it.