by D C Macey
‘Get out. Get out of my house!’ John fumbled in his pocket for his phone, pulling it out he frantically tried to speed dial Elaine.
Cassiter had crossed the room before John could key in any logical sequence. He struck the minister a single blow hard to the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground. The phone dropped unused and Cassiter kicked it away to the far end of the kitchen. Stooping, he gripped one of John’s wrists and twisted it behind his back, the minister groaned in pain. Using the twisted arm, Cassiter started to drag John up to his feet; John complied in an attempt to reduce the excruciating pain in his shoulder. John cried out as he got up, protested and started to show signs of resistance. Cassiter hit him again with a tightly clenched fist to the temple, the blow so violent that it caused John’s knees to wobble beneath him. The wafer thin forensic glove did nothing to cushion the attack. The only thing that kept John on his feet was the lurching counter pain in his twisted shoulder joint that became more intense if his body dropped, increasing the torque and ripping his arm further out of the joint.
Cassiter dragged John to the end of the kitchen table and forced him to sit on it. Confused, John looked at his assailant. ‘Who are you? What do you want? What’s going -’ Another fist, this time straight in the face. It stopped the talking as John rolled back onto the table groaning and clutching his face with his hands. Blood streamed from a broken nose, spreading quickly to cover his hands and the cuffs of his shirt.
In those few moments of chaos, Cassiter’s expert hands had cable tied John’s ankles to the table legs. John was so preoccupied with his broken nose and torn shoulder ligaments that for a moment he was not even conscious of the constraints. By the time he started to process events it was too late; he was sliding into shocked confusion and fear. What was happening to him? Lying flat on the table, his legs were bent over its end, beneath which his ankles were now firmly secured to the table legs. Who was this silent attacker?
John struggled to rise, one hand covering his broken nose, the other a lever to help him up. In his dazed and shocked condition he had no defence when Cassiter smashed his fist into the hand John was using to protect his nose. John wailed as his own hand compressed the broken nose in an agonising press. He slumped back on to the table, tried to roll to one side, to escape. His bound ankles held him in place, in pain and confusion he wriggled his hips trying in vain to find the forlorn comfort of the foetal position.
Obsessed with the immediacy of his own pain he was quite unaware of what Cassiter was doing. That a tie had been slipped over a wrist did not register until he felt the pull as Cassiter dragged on the line, steadily, inexorably inching his arm away from his bleeding face, stretching it out beyond his head. The damaged shoulder ligaments meant no resistance could be offered. His head rolled from side to side in a frantic attempt to see what was happening as his arm was tied off to one of the legs at the far end of the table. Stuck on the table with three limbs tied, John was now very frightened, eyes wild with growing panic, his one free hand flew back and forth; now cradling his broken nose then clutching the torn shoulder ligaments of his bound arm.
John wriggled his free hand in futile resistance as Cassiter fixed a tie to it. Firmly, irresistibly, Cassiter drew it tight, steadily stretching John’s arm out above his head and then securing the line to the remaining free table leg. John was spread-eagled on the table, could not move save a little hip movement and his fingers wriggling forlornly on the end of tightly secured wrists. ‘Help! Help! For God’s sake, somebody help me,’ he shouted as Cassiter stood watching in silence.
Cassiter gave a little smile and disappeared from Dearly’s line of sight. The noise was of no concern, double-glazing and detached stone built houses made for excellent soundproofing.
John rolled his head from one side to the other but could see nothing and every roll accentuated the pain in his nose and face. He stopped struggling and let his eyes fix on the ceiling. ‘What in heaven’s name do you want?’ he said, frightened, but he was not a man who would surrender without a struggle. ‘Whoever you are, you’ve made a mistake. Just let me go, you can escape if you do. There’s money you can have, but please stop this. I don’t know what you want…’ The silence continued and fear seeped deeper into his bones. ‘Hello? Hello, are you still there?’
At the far end of the kitchen, Cassiter was enjoying the scene. He savoured the moment while he prepared himself for the task ahead. He watched the minister, listened to his cries, the begging for a response, for some acknowledgment that this was reality. Cassiter noted the very slight upward lift in Dearly’s tone as his own silence fed the victim’s anxiety. Then it was time for work. He returned to his victim.
John sensed Cassiter lean over him and rolled his bloodied face to focus on his assailant, hoping to find some sign, to find out who he was, why he was there, why this was happening. ‘Why?’ John asked, ‘What’s this about?’
Cassiter did not answer. He looked closely at John’s broken nose and then stretched out and gripped it, rocked it to and fro, felt the broken bone click against itself and could almost feel the screams of pain that rolled out to fill the kitchen. After a few moments, he stopped and waited, allowing his victim’s surge of pain to subside slowly. ‘Hello John, I’m here for the dagger,’ he spoke in a calm and quiet voice.
‘What? What are you talking about? Are you mad? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just let me go, please. Please.’
‘Now, John, I want you to know that I don’t have to be bad to you. I don’t want to see you suffer, but I’ve been watching you, listening to you. I know you know. So give me what I want and your suffering can end, eh?’ He leant across and squeezed the broken nose again.
Cassiter marvelled to himself at how tough some of these old ministers seemed to be. He thought about old Archie Buchan and now here he was with John Dearly, both supposedly men of peace, but they could certainly take a good beating, even if they didn’t like to give it out. He rather admired them, felt the challenge offered was worthy of his skills. He set to with enthusiasm.
Time seems to pass more quickly when you’re having fun, thought Cassiter. All of Dearly’s fingers and thumbs were broken and twisted, he had rolled them about, used extreme force to twist one or two right round so the finger nails faced the wrong way, the elasticity in the skin was now steadily grinding them back the right way, with no outside help; this self-righting significantly extended the victim’s painful experience. But still this old man was putting up resistance, where did he find the strength? He wouldn’t mind some of it himself. Fair enough, the old boy had wet himself, and urine now soaked his trousers, had flooded the tabletop between his legs and was dripping onto the floor. Nevertheless, Cassiter had to admit that not even trained combatants normally resisted so long. He was quietly impressed, if not a little frustrated.
‘Last chance to tell me, John, before I start to get rough,’ Cassiter leaned back across the table and gripped John’s face, turning his head so he could look into John’s eyes. He spoke quietly to the moaning man. ‘John, nothing can be worth suffering for like this, surely? Just tell me what I want to know and you can relax, we’ll make it all end.’ Cassiter tilted his face down and arched an eyebrow in question. ‘Hmm, going to tell me?’
John Dearly was not a fighter; on the contrary, he was the archetypal pacifist. But he was also a man of honour, and he would not betray his task or his friends. Lying on the table, amidst the glimmers of conscious thought that still visited him, he understood that what had come to him today was what had previously visited Archie, and given the chance would visit his friends next. In his weakened state, he gasped out resistance. ‘I can’t tell what I don’t know. Now please, just end it.’
Cassiter was not happy with the answer. ‘Wrong answer, my friend. I’m afraid it’s going to get a little rough for you now.’ Once again, he disappeared from John’s view. Staring up at the ceiling, John offered a prayer to God, forgave his assailant and begged for release fr
om his torment. He could hear Cassiter rummaging through drawers and wondered what would come next. He did not have long to wait.
Cassiter reappeared. He pushed a heavy meat tenderising mallet and a handful of steak knives in front of John’s face. ‘Last chance, John. I don’t know why you are holding out on me. After all, it won’t benefit you, will it? And don’t think I won’t visit your friends, as many as I have to. Your pretty little assistant, Helen isn’t it? She’s next. She’s going to suffer like you. Worse in fact, oh yes, much worse, I have some special little tricks for young ladies. John, believe me, she’s going to hate it.’ He waved his tools in front of John’s face again. ‘Last chance, John, it’s going to start getting a bit nasty now. So why not do us all a favour? Tell me where the dagger is.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ gasped John, ‘don’t hurt her please, she’s an innocent.’
Chuckling quietly, Cassiter disappeared from his view. ‘I know that but you’re not innocent, are you? You’re making me do it. When I visit her, which I promise I will, it’s all down to you, and I’ll make sure she knows who to blame. Anytime you want to tell me, John, just sing out. Meantime, I’ve got work to do.’
John heard a thud, then another. For a moment he couldn’t place the sound. Then a fresh tidal wave of pain came rolling up his right arm, overriding that of his brutalised hands, and smashing into his consciousness, hammering him into a hellish present. He did not know what was happening, just knew it was too much to bear.
Cassiter swung away with the tenderising mallet, driving a steak knife through John’s wrist. The sharp point had plunged between the two bones of his forearm while the serrated edge simply sliced through muscle, tendon and blood vessels without resistance. The real pain, the pain that was overwhelming even that from the already shattered fingers, was coming from the blade’s serrated edge as it sawed into and through bone on its journey to the tabletop. Cassiter carried on hammering, pinning John’s wrist to the table.
Satisfied that the knife was fixed firmly in place, Cassiter stopped. Making his way around the table, he paused and leaned over John’s face. Smiling, he waited patiently for his screams to subside into a desperate whimper. ‘That wasn’t so good was it? I think that hurt you quite a bit. More to come though,’ his matter of fact voice took on an almost cheery note and he disappeared from John’s view, making his way round the table towards the unblemished wrist, ‘unless you’ve got something you want to tell me?’
John knew what to expect now and could feel Cassiter pressing the point against his wrist, selecting the place of entry. ‘No. Please, I beg you, no more. In God’s name, man, please stop,’ he muttered the words in desperation, did not really expect any remission.
‘Not good enough, John, you have to tell me what I want to know.’ Cassiter watched the old man’s head rock from side to side and could hardly believe the defiance in him. Accepting his refusal to speak as an invitation to continue, Cassiter drove the second knife into John’s left wrist, crucifying him on the table. He relished the man’s screams, a sound that never failed to invigorate, but Dearly was not breaking. Cassiter could see the blood now flowing over the edge of the table down onto the floor where it was spreading, merging with the urine into a single pungent puddle. Dearly had fainted, he probably would not last another quarter hour. Cassiter’s mind flicked back to Dunbar, he did not want to lose another customer before he had what was required.
Cassiter got a jug of water and threw it into John’s face. John moaned and spluttered, opening his eyes to face his tormentor.
‘Wake up man, I’ve got something else for you now,’ Cassiter was about to step up a gear and time was becoming a key issue.
The doorbell rang. Cassiter froze, and instinctively he clapped a hand over John’s mouth, though John’s tortured mind had not registered the sound.
Then a key turned in the lock and Helen’s voice called out. ‘Hi John, it’s only us.’ She was leaving the porch and entering the hallway. ‘Elaine and I just need the parish contacts list for the new…’ she stopped in mid-sentence, puzzled by a strange moaning sound that came from the kitchen.
They hurried into the kitchen as a white clad figure streaked in bloody red disappeared into the cemetery, slipping unnoticed through the quietly closing gate in the garden wall. They both gasped in horror at the kitchen table, at John and the butchery. They rushed to him. Elaine pulled out her phone and immediately dialled for police and ambulance emergency. Helen was struggling with the awfulness of it all while drawing on her professional training and experience. She could see John was dying, was only moments from death. There was neither way nor time to treat his wounds. She leant over him and gently stroked his forehead then kissed his cheek.
Elaine’s normally impenetrable face was dark, a raging thunder. Her eyes carried tears of angry grief that dripped down onto the tea towel she was now holding against John’s belly, a futile challenge to nature, which was steadily forcing his innards out through the mighty eviscerating slash Cassiter had inflicted with a third steak knife before leaving.
John watched them through blurred eyes, but the presence of his friends registered. ‘Be careful, be careful. Elaine, they want…’ his husking voice trailed off.
Elaine could not bring herself to speak. She could only look John in the eye and nod as his voice trailed away.
John managed the faintest of smiles in acknowledgement, finding strength from an unknown reserve he spoke again. ‘Elaine, take care of them, I’m done now.’ He strained against the pain and rolled his head to look at Helen. ‘Around my neck…, take it.’
Helen still held her face close to John’s, her hands cradling his head. She just nodded at him, gently kissed his cheek again. ‘Don’t worry, an ambulance is coming, we’ll get you sorted out. Just relax, don’t try to speak. You’re with people who love you now. It’s going to be all right,’ she lied.
A fleeting and desperate glint flashed in his dulling eyes. ‘Helen, take it! On the chain. Please, please listen. It should be held by the minister, always. I want you to take it. Take it now,’ he gasped desperate words. His eyes closed, though her hand, which was supporting his head, could still feel a tension in his neck while he fought for the last scraps of life, holding on against all odds.
Helen looked at Elaine. ‘What does he mean?’
Through guarded sobs, Elaine simply pointed unsteadily towards John’s neck. ‘He means you to have it… Do it now so he knows. At least let him die with some little peace of mind.’
Helen could sense just the slightest of nods in John’s neck and head, could feel him urging her on. With her free hand, she pulled open his bloodied shirt and reached in. She stopped, frozen. Around John’s neck was a heavy gold chain. She had seen one just like it before, in the dunes of Fife. On the chain was a ring she had also seen before. The golden Templar signet ring.
‘Take it,’ Elaine barked at her, ‘take it!’
Helen could feel John’s head trying to nod encouragement, feel his desperation. In a blur of confusion and grief she took the bloodied chain and ring from around his neck, felt his neck relax.
John opened his eyes and smiled at her, a sense of relief anesthetising the pain for just a fleeting moment. ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ the urgency in his voice as he tried to speak was quite distinct from the pain that was now reasserting itself fast. ‘Tell no one, promise, tell no one you have it… I’m sorry, but…’ his voice trailed off and his eyes closed for a moment, then his voice came back in an urgent and desperate burst. ‘Elaine, Elaine, where are you?’
Elaine replied in a calm and controlled voice that tried hard to hide her sense of impending loss as John slipped away from them. ‘I’m here, John. I’m here. Hush your voice now, just take it easy, old friend.’
With a huge effort, John turned his head towards the sound of Elaine’s voice. ‘You take care of her, Elaine. Make sure she understands. Support her. You were right, Elaine, I should have listened to you.’ His voice w
as wafer thin and fading. ‘Promise me you’ll help her. Give her a chance…’ his voice trailed off into silence and Helen felt the last vestiges of tension slip from his neck muscles. He had gone.
Helen pressed her lips against his cheek and kissed him goodbye. Then she glanced up at Elaine with a look laden with anger, sadness and a hundred questions. She turned back to John, her face still close to his and blessed him silently. Straightening up, she stepped back from his body as police and paramedics rushed in and came to a shocked halt at the sight of the butchery before them. Without thinking, she slipped the ring and chain into her pocket and moved close to Elaine for mutual support.
CHAPTER 14 - SATURDAY 8th JUNE
Helen and Elaine were taken from the manse to St Leonard’s Police Station on the city’s south side. There they had given statements, been gently questioned, politely pressed and tested while the police tried in vain to understand the inexplicable. Wallace had led the interviews and he could tell the women were in shock. A good guide to murder investigation was that the last person to see a victim alive was probably the killer, but even the wildest fantasy could not put them in the frame for this; they were both completely devastated, traumatised. He believed them - they really did have the misfortune to stumble into a scene from hell. Perhaps, if they had arrived a little earlier things might have been different; on the other hand, this killer was clearly violent and unswerving. If they had arrived earlier, perhaps he’d now be dealing with three corpses instead of one.
Finally, frustrated, the police allowed them to leave in the early hours of the morning. Sam had been waiting to drive them both home. He had Elaine’s daughter Grace with him. The young woman was completely distraught, worried for her mother and crushed at the loss of the nearest she had ever known to a father figure.