by Rob Ashman
‘Yes you did and I’m not the only one you’ve fucked over.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Look all I’m saying is I know that you’ve planted evidence on other cases. People talk and for that you had it coming.’
‘But I didn’t, I swear to you.’
‘People talk, enough said.’
‘But I didn’t …’ She could fight back the tears no longer.
‘Oh, poor little copper going to cry now? You fucked me over the same way you fucked others and you had to be stopped. You had to pay. I’m not interested in you any more, you’re old news. I’ve moved on. You should do the same.’
‘I swear I didn’t …’
The guard entered the room carrying a plastic cup of water. His eyes popped out of his head seeing the two of them standing toe to toe.
‘Wow, you both need to sit down.’ He slopped water onto the floor in his haste to step between them.
‘I’ve had enough of this shit, take me back.’ Rampton flung his hands in the air and made for the door. ‘Oh yes I forgot.’ He turned tapping the side of his head with his index finger. ‘You can’t move on can you? Because you and me will always be connected – I’m the one who put your husband in the ground. Why don’t you suck on that thought while you’re screwing over some other poor shit?’
The officer took Rampton by the arm and led him through the door. Kray stood in the centre of the room still clutching the pen as tears stained her face.
30
I have the day off today, you know how it is, things to do, people to kill.
My car trundles along the country lane flanked with hedges and trees. The road is listed as a B road, but it is only a single lane track for much of its journey through the countryside. I have no idea where it eventually ends up. It probably just comes to a dead stop in a field somewhere.
Dappled sunshine bursts through the trees, forcing me to shield my eyes. It’s a beautiful day to meet up with friends. After about a mile and a half there’s a hard-left turn. It is not signposted, it simply appears as a gap in the hedge. My front suspension complains as it hits the broken tarmac and I slow my speed to a walking pace as I bounce and bang my way along. There are portions of the road up ahead where the tarmac surface has completely lifted off. My car thinks this track is trying to kill it. The road is straight but my view is obstructed by overgrown vegetation, as vines and shrubs scratch at the wings of my vehicle. This used to be a service road that cut a path across the landscape leading to a housing project - forty affordable homes to be built in the middle of nowhere. No wonder it never got off the ground. I continue my journey until the hedgerows run out and the road disappears to be replaced by an expanse of derelict ground. While the developer never got round to building any houses, he did however build twenty-one garages. Three rows of seven. The ravages of nature, and people with a homebuilding project to complete but no materials to build with, are sorely evident. Most of the garages have no roofs, no doors and large swathes of brickwork is missing. At least that description fits twenty of them. Mine is fine.
I roll the car slowly over the rubble to the first line of garages and reverse into position. I climb out of the car, retrieve my kit from the boot and walk over to the door. The small key turns half a step clockwise and when I twist the handle the mechanism springs open. I put the paper mask around my nose and mouth and loop the elastic over my ears. It is more of a ritual than anything else, it certainly doesn’t help.
The other garages occasionally suffer from renewed bouts of theft and damage caused by kids, but mine remains unscathed. That’s because mine reeks of death.
The fetid stench of rotting flesh smacks you full in the throat, it passes straight through the dust mask, that’s for sure. Still, the stomach churning stink is a great security measure keeping unwanted visitors away.
The door swings up to reveal a brick interior and a concrete floor. I’ve been coming here for years to tend to my flock. Truth be told, they look after themselves, I’m more of an interested bystander.
Against each of the walls stands three large glass tanks. Lying at the bottom of each are slabs of pork and chicken. Not just any old meat, this meat is infested with maggots and pupae, gradually dissolving the carcasses into a putrid liquid. The most beautiful sound washes over you, invading your very being. It’s the sound of hundreds upon hundreds of wings beating in unison. Hordes of flies.
I yank down the door, pull a couple of camping lamps from my bag and suspend them from hooks in the ceiling. Their incandescent glow gives the pace a welcoming feel, that is if you ignore the stink of the dead.
The tank to my left is ready for harvesting. I unscrew the top from the large plastic cookie jar and place a metal cup inside. I pour from the thermos flask, filling the cup a third full with boiling water, then leave it to stand. I open the cool box and take out a bag of dry ice nuggets. Using a set of tongs, I drop cubes into the hot water and replace the lid. The dry ice begins to boil, filling the cookie jar with vapour. I then switch on the flat circular fan fitted into the back of the cookie jar. The rubber tube leading from the side of the jar immediately spews cold white vapour onto the ground. I attached it to an inlet pipe at the base of the tank. I sit back and watch the show.
The dry ice blows like a billowing white carpet across the floor of the tank and gradually fills the volume. The flies try to escape the creeping fog but they are inevitably swamped by the chilled mist. The sound of buzzing gradually diminishes until there is silence.
I turn everything off, release the catches at the base of the tank and pull the false floor towards me. The cloud of dry ice vapour falls to the floor, nipping at my legs and feet. At this stage in the process the stink from the rotting meat has been known to make me gag. I lay the tray on the garage floor and wait for the fog to clear.
There at the bottom of the tray lie hundreds and hundreds of flies who have been forced into a state of hibernation by the cold. They are unharmed, it’s a natural process that occurs every winter.
I grab my soft brush and gently sweep them into a pan, then deposit them into another container. The flies are perfectly fine. When they warm up they simply wake to find their living quarters are far more cramped than before.
It’s a nice little trick I taught myself after watching a YouTube video showing how street magicians bring back to life flies that appear to be dead. I simply industrialised the process.
When I’m done harvesting, I slide the bottom back into the tank and leave the lid off. Within a week I will return to a new community of flies each one intent on rearing their young in the rarefied environment of ready food and safety. All I do then is replace the top on the tank and I have a new set of pets.
I place the container with the sleeping flies into the cool box, open up the garage and reload the car. My clothes now stink of rotten meat. Soon my car will stink of rotten meat, but that’s okay … it’s almost time.
31
‘What the hell were you playing at?’ Jackson was stomping around his office. His voice boomed down the corridor as Kray came into view. She marvelled at how fast bad news travelled when you didn’t want it to.
Kray had spent the afternoon touring around, catching up with the crèche, after her disastrous meeting at the prison. She couldn’t face going back to the office. She had met Tavener, who was hunting around sports shops looking for a baseball cap that matched their description, and later she tracked down Frost who was having her eyes opened by chatting to the people at the Bosom Buddies Cabaret Bar, where Craig, a six-foot-one-inch former brick layer, was a fountain of knowledge when it came to speaking on his favourite topic – men dressing up as women.
Kray let out a huge sigh and veered off to the left towards the sound of Jackson’s voice.
‘It got out of hand,’ she replied stepping into his office.
‘Out of hand? What was the very thing I told you to do?’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Have a
n officer in attendance at all times. That’s what I said.’
‘He went to get me some water, I was choking to death.’
‘And he came back just in time by the sound of it, before you and Rampton choked each other to death. What were you thinking?’
‘I let him get to me.’
‘That’s for sure. And now the governor has been on my back, tearing strips off me because she’d done me a favour and now she had an incident report on her desk to say thank you.’
‘That lanky shit Rampton must have shot his mouth off.’
‘It wasn’t Rampton, it was the prison officer. He said he could hear you two going at it from way down the corridor. Something about you stitching him up with fabricated evidence and how everything was square. What the fuck happened?’
‘I went there to ask him about Suprane and it all went tits up.’
‘I should never have let you go.’ Jackson was rattled by the complaint. ‘If this gets on the Chief’s desk I won’t be covering for you.’
That’s it Jacko, think about your own reputation. Kray knew she had no choice but to stand there and take it.
Jackson slumped back into his chair.
‘I could do without this,’ he said to no one.
‘The important thing is Rampton had never heard of Suprane so the chances are it is not a drug you can pick up off the street. Our killer must be getting it from another source.’
‘You mean Gorgon.’ Jacko was determined to make his new name stick.
‘Yes, I mean Gorgon.’
‘Did you know that already before you went to see him?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Kray lied.
‘Because it sounds like you went to see him to talk about other things. Did you?’
‘No, I went to ask him if he knew about Suprane and it went pear-shaped after that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have remained in the room after the guard left. That was my mistake.’ Kray needed to shut down the discussion, Jacko tended to stop once people had rolled over and surrendered.
‘Yes it was a mistake. Mis-use of a police interview request with a prison inmate is serious shit. I just hope to God the Chief is busy right now and this fuck-up passes him by.’
‘I got the confirmation we needed, it was a legitimate line of inquiry.’ Kray could feel a swell of anger rise in her chest. She drove it back down, this was not the time nor the place.
‘Got anything else?’ Jacko asked.
‘Still working on the most recent leads, it’s early days.’
‘Okay, keep me posted. Oh, and BT have been onto us asking if they can have their phone box back?’
‘Yes we got what we could from that. They can have it now.’
Kray went to the office to stare at the evidence board and to sift through the influx of paperwork. The niggle wouldn’t leave her mind. If it wasn’t Rampton then what the fuck happened to that clock?
Her mouth smears a half kiss of cherry red across the rim of the mug, her long fingers dancing on the surface of the china to avoid the heat.
She pulls her phone from her bag and flips open the case. Her gel nails peck at the screen, switching images in a blur of captured moments past.
She parades a picture in front of her friends. They peal with laughter. Her head is thrown back and I can see the regular pattern of her glistening teeth. Teeth that have not suffered the close attention of the dentist’s drill. Bright white against the blush of her skin. Her features are perfect. The narrow nose, defined cheek bones and elegant jawline makes her perfect. But her eyes are the clincher - big and bright, set slightly wide apart.
She tugs at the hem of her skirt, struggling to make it decent. It barely makes it to midway up her toned and slender thigh. A consequence of it having spent too much time in the tumble dryer. They shriek like tortured cats as she waves the phone in front of their dumb faces. From my booth in the corner I can see her lips moving. But the clatter of the kitchen behind me ensures I cannot hear her words - I’m sure she is mouthing ‘you need to take me.’ Over and over. I’m sure of it.
She turns her head and stares right at me, placing her fingers in her mouth and sucking hard. Her tongue laps across the tips of her fingers. ‘Not long to wait now,’ she mouths. I’m sure that’s what she does. I’m sure that’s what she says.
Reaching into her bag again, she draws out a set of keys. I imagine the sound as she drops them onto the table, striking the Formica. A Vauxhall Micra car fob, a Sea World charm, a photo-booth picture of her sister and a silver Yale key. The same shaped key I have tucked away in my pocket.
Her flat is a fifteen-minute drive from here. On average it takes her eight minutes to say goodbye to her friends. That gives me at least seven minutes of bliss as I wait in the darkness. Dressed in her clothes. I’ve chosen carefully.
It could have been the silk top from her aborted date with the guy from HR, or the skirt she wore at the birthday bash when she fell off her high heels in the street, or the underwear from her hectic date with Mr Right. But in the end, there was only one choice. I have to go now.
I slide a five-pound note onto the table, gather my coat in my arms and head for the door. As I pass, I glance her way and the whole world goes into slow motion. She tosses her head to one side, her tongue wetting her lips, she looks right through me.
I’m the invisible person, with the invisible life and invisible needs. You would never think tonight has been almost a year in the planning and she’s stared right through me more times than I’ve cut myself.
All that is about to change. She will stare at me tonight, as I cut her.
32
I scrub the tyres tight against the kerb, the road is narrow and I don’t want an accidental bump to draw attention to my presence. The car door swings open and I step out into the cool evening air. The indicator lights flash orange as the door locks and I walk down the uneven pavement towards Rothschild Avenue. A grand name for a place that is such a shithole. It suits her. She fits in perfectly with her cut-price dresses, tatty shoes and supermarket make-up. I suppose people gravitate to their own level.
I slide the plastic key into the lock and with a soft click the door opens to welcome me in like an old friend. My senses are coated with the familiar scent of Yankee candles and hairspray. The hall is dark but there is no need to fumble for a light, I know where I’m going.
In the semi-darkness, I see the collage of pictures strewn across the lounge wall to my right. Even if I close my eyes I can see them. I see them in all in their pathetic glory. The drunken university photos crammed with too many faces and the cringing snaps from the year abroad. At Niagara Falls she is surrounded by like-minded fuckwits. And then there is the scrum of pictures taken in a pretend jungle. South America is so overrated. What a waste.
I skirt around the sofa, to the bedroom. The smell of White Linen gives way to the gagging reek of perfume. A double bed, wardrobe and dressing table are crow-barred into the poky space. The carpet is threadbare from a hundred casual occupants. Some of them bringing protection, most of them making use of the condom slush-pile lying in the bedside table.
I close my eyes and see her lying on the duvet, the guy from HR pawing at her naked body. She’s not enjoying it - I can tell. Then his phone bursts into life and it’s all over as fast as you can say ‘Shit that’s my girlfriend’. Clothes are hastily pulled over sweating bodies as the headlights of her car swing into view and she arrives early to pick him up. She should learn to pull her curtains shut tight. Too late now.
I open the wardrobe and lift the hanger from the rail. The dresser drawer holds a multitude of soft delights. I strip naked and choose carefully.
The silk feels cool against my skin and the shoes pinch a little. I’m laying out the toys for tonight as I hear the key in the front door. She’s made good time.
The clip-clop of heels on laminate flooring echo down the hallway, then the bouncing clatter as they are discarded in the corner with the others. A moment of silence is broken by the fir
st strains of Adele booming out from the living room. Her shrill voice screeches to the music as she demonstrates that even after five months, she still can’t get the words right.
I wait in the dark. Tucked between the wardrobe and the wall. My breath is shallow. It needs to be. Listening.
I hear the padding of poorly manicured feet approaching and the slam of the bathroom door. It’s time for her to discard the clothes of the day into the pale-yellow basket at the side of the sink. The wailing continues.
The sound of water cascading into the sink fills my head louder than the rush of blood thumping in my temples. All of my senses heighten to bursting point.
She squeezes toothpaste onto a frayed toothbrush she should have changed months ago, her nightly routine playing out for the last time. I hear the bathroom door open and the sound of disappearing footsteps. The music stops.
Any moment now.
My head spins as the lack of oxygen fogs my brain. Water droplets blur my vision. The plastic bag doing its job. I tighten the cord around my neck. The door swings open and she is in the room. She sits at the dressing table and layers night cream onto her face. A futile routine designed to make her more beautiful for tomorrow. I feel the cold liquid soak through the cloth in my hand. She’s running a brush through her hair, the colour of burnished bronze, and wiping dark make-up from her eyes. She’s naked in front of the mirror. The curves of her waist and breasts are plain for everyone to see. Slut. She draws the soft pad across her face and sees my reflection in the mirror. She screams and half turns.
My right arm wraps around her throat while my left arm locks it in place. My left hand pushes hard against the back of her head and I squeeze. She seizes my upper arms with her clawing fingers and I drag her from the stool onto the floor. She kicks out, toppling it over. I lay back, wrap my legs tight around her waist and wait. She bucks and twists like a rodeo bull. I lock in tight and enjoy the ride. She’s strong and she’s a fighter. Any second now. Two, three, four – and she’s out.