by Rob Ashman
The date was set and Christian duly arrived.
We went into the lounge. I remember the roaring log fire in the hearth and the smell of cedar wood. Elsa made it clear she was in a hurry. As soon as they sat down on the sofa she started pawing him and by the time I came back from the kitchen with a tray of drinks they were already upstairs. The sound of Elsa coming like a steam train filled the house. The prospect of killing a Pretty was proving a massive turn on — for both of us.
I sipped my wine and tried to keep calm. Christian’s jacket was draped over the arm of the chair. I fished around in his pockets and found his car keys and phone. Sure enough, it was switched off. I paced around the house trying not to get too pissed.
The sound of the hectic bedroom activities continued for the best part of an hour, then it all went quiet. Elsa came downstairs wearing her towelling dressing gown. She went to the kitchen to get a glass and poured herself some wine.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘I’ve had my fill. I’m going for a bath.’
‘But I thought we were—’
‘Don’t worry, he’s all yours. I persuaded him to try something a little different – you might find it amusing. Give me a shout if you need a hand.’ She disappeared back upstairs into the main bathroom. I could hear water running and the sound of her favourite playlist.
I put down my glass, went up to our bedroom and pushed open the door to find Christian laying naked on the bedroom carpet. He was facedown with his arms tied tightly behind his back with rope; his wrists and ankles secured together. A second length of rope was wound around his neck, it too attached to his ankles, forcing his back into an arch. He rocked back and forth trying to relieve the pressure on his windpipe. He was trussed up like a turkey awaiting the Christmas oven. And I had just the thing.
The sound of Elsa singing to herself, as she sloshed the water to make the bubble bath foam, wafted towards me. Christian heard the door and tried to turn his head. I was standing directly behind him so he couldn’t see me. Another rope was secured around the back of his head and by the grunts and moans it was obviously holding a gag in place.
I walked around and dropped down onto my haunches to face him. He craned his neck and his eyes popped from his face. Then he began to struggle against the ropes, twisting and turning to no avail. The grunting and moaning turned into a muffled scream.
I left the bedroom and went into the bathroom where Elsa was lounging beneath a blanket of bubbles. I leaned down and kissed her.
‘I love you,’ I said.
‘I know you do,’ she replied. ‘Have fun.’
I went downstairs to collect what I needed. Because of the unexpected predicament of Christian, I would have to improvise. Plan A was no longer an option.
I stuffed my pockets, gathered the remaining items in my arms and headed back to the bedroom. Christian had managed to roll onto his side and was trying to pull down the tie holding the gag in place by running the side of his face on the floor. His cheek was red raw from the carpet fibres.
‘Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself,’ I said, rolling him back onto his front. ‘And besides I don’t want you to spoil that lovely complexion.’
He yelled and coughed behind the gag. Tears ran down his face.
I laid out the black plastic body bag on the floor and unzipped it. The buzzing sound sent him into a frenzy of activity. He jerked and writhed from side to side. But with each movement the noose around his throat tightened. His face went from red to purple. I leaned over and loosened it.
‘Don’t kill yourself,’ I said but my advice seemed to make little difference, Christian thrashed around even more. I rolled him over so he was lying on his side in the bag.
I sat on the floor facing him for several minutes, then produced a clear polythene bag from my pocket and tugged it over his head. He went rigid as it covered his face. I wound the bag tight under his chin and it inflated like a balloon as his exhaled breath hissed from his mouth. I could see his eyes staring at me through opaque plastic. He sucked air into his lungs and the bag shrank to his face as if he’d been wrapped in clingfilm. His chest heaved and the bag inflated again.
The inside of the plastic fogged up with condensation. I wound it another turn around his neck. It shrank back to his face, then out again. His whole body juddered as oxygen deprivation assaulted his brain and his muscles. I unwound the bag, allowing air to rush in. Christian snorted through his nose, snot and mucus lining the inside. I twisted it around his neck again.
I wonder how many times I can make this Pretty boy dance?
I lost count.
He passed out half-a-dozen times and on one occasion I thought he was gone, only for him to resuscitate himself much to my delight. One unfortunate by-product of the game was that Christian had pissed and shat himself, but at least he did it in the confines of the heavy plastic body bag, otherwise Elsa would not be best pleased.
The capillaries in his eyes had burst, giving them a horror-movie look and veins in his cheeks had ruptured into purple tramlines. This was not the best method of preserving his Pretty looks, but as the saying goes: I’ve started so I’ll finish.
I was having so much fun… then I misjudged it… and he was dead.
The noise of him choking was replaced with the sweet sound of Elsa singing Over the Rainbow by Eva Cassidy. One of her favourites.
It was time to make my latest work look pretty.
Chapter 22
E lsa wasn’t kidding when she said she hadn’t finished. By the time she pushed me away, my knees hurt and my neck ached.
‘I needed that,’ she said lying back in the chair, her face flushed pink.
‘Was that okay?’
‘It was more than okay.’ She flopped forward, kissed me. ‘I’ll go wake him.’
‘I’ll be up shortly. Remember — yellow. It’s always yellow.’
Elsa nods, gathering the robe around her and walking from the kitchen up the stairs.
I stand up, rub the feeling back into my legs and go to the fridge to remove a box of chocolates from the top shelf. Neither of us eat them but it’s useful to keep a box handy. The top flips open to reveal the tray of sweet delicacies. I lift out the plastic tray, set it to one side on the worktop and switch on the kettle.
Under the tray are six glass vials containing clear liquid and a syringe. I swill out the Cafetiere and spoon in two scoops of ground coffee, then I fish two mugs from the cupboard and arrange them on a tray.
I take one of the vials from the box and pierce the rubber membrane with the needle, drawing the liquid into the barrel of the syringe. I picture Callum in my mind’s eye — he’s tall with broad shoulders and a slim waist. I reckon he weighs around fourteen stones, which roughly equates to one hundred kilograms. I tend to work on a dosage of 1.4ml / Kg so I squirt the entire contents of the syringe onto the coffee and repeat the process, only using half a vial the second time. It is notoriously difficult to gauge the correct amount and getting it wrong can have devastating consequences. And that would never do.
The kettle comes to the boil and I pour water into the Cafetiere and make a separate drink using instant coffee.
As I venture up the stairs, carrying the tray, I can hear whispered voices coming from the bedroom. I tap on the door.
‘You can come in,’ Elsa says.
I shoulder open the door to find Callum sat up in bed, Elsa nestling into his naked chest.
‘Elsa said she fancied coffee,’ I say holding up the tray for him to see. ‘I made enough for two.’
‘That’s great,’ Callum says, straightening himself up. The quilt cover slides down to his hips. Elsa peels herself away and props herself up against the pillows.
With my back to Callum I depress the plunger and fill the empty cup.
‘Here you go,’ I take the tray around to Elsa and she takes the red mug. I lean across and Callum takes the yellow one.
‘Is this the same coffee we had last night?’ he asks, ta
king a slurp.
‘No, it’s a different brand,’ I reply. ‘It’s stronger and more bitter. I really like it and it’s Elsa’s favourite.’
‘Wow! That is strong.’
I hover at the side of the bed. Elsa runs her free hand under the covers, it’s obvious what she’s going for. Callum’s face freezes.
‘Good, I don’t want you falling asleep on me again,’ she says, sipping at her drink. ‘You can go now.’ I nod and walk away like an obedient butler. ‘Leave the door open, there’s a good husband.’
My heart is thumping out of my chest. I get half way down the stairs and sit on the step. Murmured voices drift down to me along with the sound of Elsa giggling. I look at my watch. It says, four p.m.
By 4.10 p.m a different sound drifts down the stairs to me. Elsa is softly moaning. Fifteen minutes later she appears naked at the top of the stairs.
‘I’m going to take a bath. Have fun.’ She pads across the landing to the bathroom and closes the door. I hear water flooding into the bath and the familiar voice of Eva Cassidy. I get up and go into the bedroom.
Callum is lying on top of the duvet like a starfish. His eyes are as wide as saucers, his mouth gaping open.
‘Fucking hell, the colours,’ he dribbles the words from the corner of his mouth. I lift his hand into the air and drop it. It flops back with zero resistance. Looks like one and a half vials was spot on. He’s fallen through the K-hole. A state that induces paralysis and hallucinations.
I watch his eyes scan around the room, wild with amazement. His face twitches.
There’s been an explosion of different coffee types available on the high street — skinny late, macchiato, flat white, Mochaccino to name but a few. My coffee of choice is Americano C13H16ClNO, or coffee laced with Ketamine to give it its street name. Strong with a bitter after-taste. And in Callum’s case, it has a very bitter after-taste.
I go downstairs and pull the body bag from under the stairs. The heavy plastic crackles as I roll it up under my arm. Back in the bedroom I run the zip down and lay it next to the bed. I lean over and roll Callum towards me. He tips over the edge of the bed and flops into the bag. He lets out a low groan as the fall knocks the wind out of him. I zip up the bag and pull him across the bedroom, down the stairs, through the kitchen, out into the garden to the shed. By the time I get there I’m out of breath.
I open up the concealed room and heave Callum into place. The butcher’s hooks pierce deep into his back as I stab them through the muscle and out the other side. The chain on the hoist runs smoothly through my hands. Slowly he leaves the floor to an upright position, his feet brushing against the metal grating. Two rivulets of blood run down his back.
I tie his hands behind his back with a leather strap and do the same with his ankles. He begins to move against the bonds. His head lolls forwards and drool runs from his lips. It’s a look that doesn’t suit him, so I ram a towel into his mouth.
I make a noose in a length of string, tug his cock and balls through the loop, and tie it off. Elsa always said Callum had a magnificent penis and looking at the evidence in front of me she had a point. I pick up the scalpel, make a few tentative incisions and imagine how my glaze will look with such a handsome addition. I make sure the noose is tight, I don’t want him to bleed to death… there are other impressive parts that need to make it into the freezer.
I flash the blade and the first packet of joy lands in my hand. Next is his tongue. Apparently, that was pretty special as well.
Chapter 23
M alice and Pietersen had spent the past few hours trawling through CCTV from the Mexborough Hotel along with the footage supplied by British Transport Police. Both were losing the will to live.
‘Have you found anything else on the Von Trapp family?’ Malice asked sliding a cup of coffee in front of her.
She leaned back, stretching her arms up to the ceiling. ‘Nope. But I got bloody square eyes.’
‘Tell me about it. Let’s take stock of what we have.’
‘Okay.’ Pietersen slumped forwards, minimised the current window and opened another. ‘This screen grab shows Belinda Garrett purchasing a train ticket at Paddington. It looks like she’s feeding notes into the machine which would explain why the purchase didn’t show up on her credit card statement. This one shows her arriving at the hotel.’ Another picture flashed up on the screen. ‘She picked up a cab from the rank at the station. The taxi firm that collected her from the hotel for the return journey on Sunday was called AA Cabs.’
‘Have you managed to find that on the hotel CCTV?’ Malice knew as soon as he asked the question he was not going to get a polite response. Pietersen gave him a glare. ‘Okay, what else?’
‘I have nothing which shows Mr and Mrs Campbell arriving at the hotel.’
‘I reckon Robbins would have got them in through a side door to avoid the cameras.’ Malice slurped his coffee and rolled up his sleeves. ‘That’s a great start, move over let me take over for a bit.’
Pietersen slid from her chair and arched her back, groaning as her spine complained.
‘Mally!’ Waite yelled from the corridor as she marched past. ‘My office, now!’
Pietersen closed her eyes and allowed her head to drop in mock surrender. ‘I’ll trawl through the rest of it,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’
Malice stepped into Waite’s office to find her changing out of a pair of high heels and into her work shoes.
‘What bloody difference the height of my heels make to neighbourhood policing I don’t fucking know,’ she said through her teeth.
‘Sorry, boss?’
‘I’ve been in a joint neighbourhood policing strategy workshop.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘I wish. There were three other forces there and we had to share our approach and results.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘The invitation said, smart, business, casual – whatever the fuck that is?’
‘Not sure I have clothes that fit that description.’
Waite stopped what she was doing and looked Malice up and down. ‘I’m not sure you do either.’
‘Thanks …’
‘Apparently, me showing up in my work boots was not the done thing,’ she finished tying the laces and stamped both feet on the floor. She pushed and slid her chair over to her desk.
‘Must have been pretty tough on the male officers attending.’
‘Very funny. How is Kelly doing?’
‘Just fine.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Is it time for her appraisal?’
‘No.’
‘Then… she’s doing just fine.’
Malice took a seat.
‘Don’t sit down, you’re not staying.’ He got to his feet. ‘There’s been a suspicious death on the Claxton Estate. A couple of uniform are at the scene and I want you to attend.’
‘Oh come on boss. We are up to our bollocks analysing CCTV.’
‘I’m not sure Kelly would agree with your assessment.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do. I also know that everyone else is tied up chasing down leads after the raid. Which leaves you.’
‘How come I get the odds and sods jobs?’
Waite fixed his with a stare and leaned forward with her elbows on the desk. A stance that Malice knew signalled the conversation was coming to an end.
‘Firstly, attending a suspicious death is not an odds and sods job and, secondly, you were late for my briefing. Now piss off.’
Malice skulked out of Waite’s office back to Pietersen whose eyes were getting squarer by the minute.
‘There’s been a suspicious death and the boss wants me to attend.’
‘I’ll come along too. It will be a welcome break from this.’
‘I need you to stick with it. Cracking the CCTV is our best chance of getting a break.’
‘Can’t you give this to a junior?’ she shrugged her shoulders and waved her hand at the
screen. ‘We’ve got a good photograph of Belinda, so identifying her wouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Unless something dramatic happened in the time I’ve been with Waite, you are the office junior.’
‘Oh, bollocks.’
‘The body was found on the Claxton Estate, a regular hang-out for druggies and homeless people. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Bring more coffee.’
‘Deal.’
Malice left the station and drove to the estate. Memories of the previous night burst into his head and he thumbed the cut above his eye. He could see a police van parked in a street and pulled up behind it. A uniformed officer approached the car, he got out to meet him.
‘Alright, Mally,’ said the officer.
‘Yeah. What have we got, Steve?’
‘A woman called 999 saying she’d found a body and refused to give her name. It’s male. That’s all I can tell you. A CSI team are on their way.’
‘Any sign of a struggle?’ Malice popped open the boot and climbed into a paper boiler suit and overshoes.
‘I couldn’t tell without moving the body.’
‘Have you sealed off the area?’
‘Yeah, and we’ve marked the path to take.’
‘Good.’ Malice followed behind the officer, cutting across a cul-de-sac and walking between two end-terrace houses. To the right was a property boarded up with metal plates, to the left two people sitting in their back garden on fold up chairs enjoying the show.
‘Fuck me there’s another one,’ the man said as Malice came into view. He was dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a vest, swigging from a can of lager.
‘See, I told you something was going on,’ said the woman sitting next to him sipping her tea.
Malice tipped his head to the side.
‘We got an audience?’
‘Yeah, they appeared shortly after we arrived and set up their chairs to eyeball what was going on.’
‘Have you told them to move inside?’