Shadow of Death (9781476057248)

by Ellis, Tim

  There were six boxes – three on each side – plugged into sockets on the walls. Only two of them were occupied with male heads sprouting from the top like coconuts at a fairground. Both men were dozing.

  He strode to Arthur Pocock’s steam-bath, inserted the needle into his neck, and pressed down on the plunger. Pocock’s eyes opened wide, and he began fighting to get out of the box, which had been secured from the outside.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Grell looked up as the large woman’s hand hit him on the side of the jaw like a block of concrete. Only half of the liquid had been injected into Pocock’s neck, but he let go of the syringe to protect himself. The woman hit him again and he felt his nose splinter into a hundred pieces. When she hit him a third time, she ruptured the carotid artery in his neck. He slid down the wall and sat on the floor as his life ebbed away.

  ‘Herr Tremain, are you all right?’ he heard his killer say.

  Stefan Grell tried to grin at the irony of his situation – a woman had killed the famous Stasi Colonel Werner Haack – a man who had killed hundreds, if not thousands, of men, women and children. Most had been innocent, some had been guilty, but very few deserved to die.

  Herr Tremain was far from all right. The unnamed liquid had caused some damage to his heart, which resulted in a blood clot floating free and travelling up to his brain. He then had a cerebral vascular accident, which affected the left side of his body to such an extent that he was unable to answer Porsche’s question.

  Before his thoughts turned to unconnected salmagundi, Herr Tremain realised he was unlikely to get the extra-special massage he had been so looking forward to.

  Chapter Eleven

  Catherine started off in Hopland Chemists where she selected an array of soap, shampoo, deodorant, make-up, perfume and some things in boxes that Parish didn’t even look at.

  ‘That’ll be fifty-seven pounds twenty-three,’ the shop assistant said with a smile.

  He passed his credit card over with a face like a slapped arse. Once he’d paid and tucked the receipt in his wallet, he said to Catherine, ‘Do you really need all that?’

  ‘Do you think I’m buying it all to annoy you?’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

  ‘Not everyone is as childish as you. Everything I’ve bought I need.’

  ‘I was only asking.’

  ‘Here,’ she said when they were outside, ‘you can carry everything.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I thought you were a gentleman.’

  ‘You know how to hurt a guy.’

  Next, she led him into a shoe shop where she bought two pairs of shoes and a handbag at a total cost of a hundred and thirty-three pounds.

  ‘You’re trying to bankrupt me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Stop moaning,’ she said, thrusting the bags at him again. ‘You remind me of a boy I used to know as a child who lost all his favourite marbles.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  They stopped for coffee at Starbucks.

  ‘Have you got much more to get? I’m losing the will to live.’

  ‘Loads yet. Are you ready?’

  They walked up and down Ware High Street like vagrants searching for a place to squat. He followed her in and out of every shop, or at least that’s what it felt like. She bought dresses, tops, trousers, skirts, and a million other things that cost him three hundred and seven pounds. Each time he went in a dress shop he had a feeling of deja vu, and he was certain that she visited one shop and looked at the same dress three times.

  ‘You must have everything now?’

  ‘One last place to go.’ And she shot off towards the other end of town.

  His hands were red raw from carrying the bags, and he felt as though his arms had grown at least six inches with the combined weight of her purchases. After this, people would snigger behind their hands when they looked at him. They’d think he’d escaped from the zoo, or that he was a test subject in a drug trial that had gone horribly wrong. All he wanted to do was lie down on the pavement. Shoppers could trample all over him, he didn’t care.

  At last they arrived in another dress shop, and she led him into the lingerie section. He found a seat and sat down. She was gone for some time, and he stretched his legs out and dozed with his chin on his chest.

  ‘What do you think of these?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, great.’

  ‘You might want to open your eyes and give an honest opinion.’

  He wiped the dribble from the corner of his mouth, sat up and opened his eyes. She was standing outside the cubicle with her back to the full-length wall mirror wearing a pair of red silk French cami-knickers and matching bra.

  His mouth dropped open like a malfunctioning drawbridge. He felt a stirring between his legs, and he thought his eyes might pop from their sockets and dangle from the optic stalks. He wanted to close his eyes, turn away, run from the shop in denial, but he was rooted to the chair like a salt statue.

  ‘Do you like them?’ she said again, twirling round on tiptoes like a ballerina.

  ‘You’re a scheming cow, Catherine Cox.’

  She grinned and fluttered her eyelids. ‘Who, me?’

  ‘If you mention any of this to Angie or Richards you won’t have anywhere to stay, because I won’t be in any position to fight your corner. So, if you don’t want to end up as a body in a trunk, you should keep your mouth shut... And for goodness sake, put some clothes on before you attract the flies.’

  ‘I was right before, Jed Parish- you’re a pig.’ She stomped back into the cubicle and nearly ripped the curtain down as she pulled it across the opening.

  She was certainly a good-looking woman, had all the bits in the right places, and then some. He shook his head to try and get the 360-degree image of her out of his brain, but it wouldn’t shift. What would he tell Angie if it came out? Oh, it was sure to come out; he had no doubt about that. Catherine would let something slip and then the whole sordid business would come tumbling out. But he was innocent, had kept his hands to himself and the mouse locked securely in the house. Yes, he’d had a stray thought here and there, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t control the thoughts that popped into his head. He knew that in matters of love, innocence had very little to do with anything. She would feel betrayed, deceived; he would be a cad of the worst kind. And no matter how much he protested his innocence, or told her that nothing had happened, that it had been engineered by Catherine to tempt him, to lure him away – it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. There would be tears, recriminations, and he would probably have to sleep on the sofa. It wouldn’t matter that he had rejected Catherine’s offer in favour of the one he truly loved.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said under his breath. It was a disaster of epic proportions. He should have known Catherine was up to something when she suggested the shopping trip. Call himself a detective? He couldn’t find a hole in a paper bag. He should have seen the juggernaut coming from three miles away. Now he was between a rock and a hard place. Maybe he should come clean as soon as he got home, tell Angie what had happened, laugh it off – ha, ha, ha!

  ‘Come on then, pig,’ Catherine said, flouncing past him. ‘You can pay for these, and then we can go.’

  Another two hundred and forty-nine pounds disappeared from his account. He guessed he’d get a call from the bank soon asking him if he’d like to come in for a little chat – he hated those little chats.

  He followed her back along the High Street to where he’d parked the car, and stuffed all the shopping in the boot. He checked his watch – it was twenty to six, just enough time to get to the Statics Club in Hertford. It was a straight run along the A119.

  On the walk back to the car he’d worked himself up into a self-righteous frenzy. He was innocent after all, wasn’t he? Why should he feel guilty? Nothing had happened. Nothing would happen. Catherine needed clothes and other things if she couldn’t go home. It was hardly his fault that he was irresistible to women, a
nd they paraded around in front of him in their underwear. And anyway, if he said nothing and it came out later he would look guilty for not saying anything. He could argue that because nothing had happened he’d felt that there was nothing to tell, but no one outside of the asylum would believe that. Yes, best to get it over with. He’d tell Angie tonight in a matter-of-fact way, put all the blame on Catherine. Well, it was her fault, wasn’t it? She had tricked him, led him on, and obviously had a hidden agenda. Like most men, he’d simply been a naive gullible fool. Angie would see that, and probably sling the scheming cow - and all her new clothes – out into the gutter where she belonged.

  He rubbed his temples and thought he might be getting a headache.

  ***

  ‘I’m home, dear,’ he said into the microphone.

  Louise Trenchard stiffened, and then began crying and pleading, but he’d already turned the sound off. He didn’t want to listen to her whining; that was not why she was here. Through the monitor he could see her squirming, trying to escape the restraints. But she would only be free when he killed her.

  First though, there was some fun to be had. Work had been long and dreary: teaching Marty the intricacies of butchering; being nice to stupid old people; housewives looking for handouts; young mothers with screaming brats – he hated them all now. If he’d had his way he would chop every last one of them up and ship their carcasses off to feed the third world. At least then their miserable lives would mean something.

  On his way home he’d bought a Chinese takeaway. Now, as he was sitting in his leather chair, he opened the greasy metal trays and scooped the food onto a plate. Salt, pepper... Fuck, no soy sauce! He’d make her pay for that. Somebody had to pay; wasn’t that how it went? Somebody always had to pay the ferryman.

  He took his time eating. There was plenty of time. When a man came home he expected a meal on the table. Then, if he was feeling up to it, his conjugal rights for dessert. Well, tonight he was definitely feeling up to it. Tonight he was going to take full advantage of his right to shag his spouse until both of them were fully satisfied. It was, after all, one of the many rights men enjoyed after they’d taken a woman. He released his penis from its zipped restraint and stroked it. Yes, tonight he was going to make her glad that she’d picked him from all those other useless bastards in the Statics Club. Many husbands wouldn’t take the time to satisfy their wives, preferring instead to drink beer, watch television, or go to the pub with their mates. He was different, had always been different, and now he knew why.

  Tonight he might make her pregnant, implant her with the son Mrs Parsons had been talking about. But it wouldn’t be like that would it? If he did have a son, the boy wouldn’t be Shanks the Butcher – the next in a long line of butchers. No, that train had already left the station. Harry Shanks Senior had been the last of his line, and Harry Shanks Junior didn’t have the DNA of a butcher of animals. He had the misshapen DNA of someone who enjoyed butchering humans.

  Enough eating, enough watching and enough thinking. Now, it was time to act. He flicked the switch to ‘record’ on the DVD, left the room, and walked along the corridor. With each step his erection became harder, bigger and more eager.

  He opened the doors one after the other.

  As he stepped into her boudoir, her head snapped sideways to look at him. ‘Please,’ she said.

  Oh, he was going to please her all right. ‘I see you’ve been waiting for me, dear.’

  He allowed her to use a bedpan and gave her cold food and fresh water. Then, using hot water from the sink, perfumed soap and scented oils, he bathed and oiled her all over, brushed her teeth and her hair. She was ready for him.

  He sat on the bed.

  ‘You smell lovely, dear.’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  He stroked her cheek, ran his finger tips over her cracked lips, her slender neck and her firm young breasts, leaned over and teased her nipples with his tongue, used both hands and kneaded the flesh as if they were prime beef. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, dear.’

  She was ready for him. He heard her breathing become laboured in anticipation of what was to come – the ecstasy she was about to experience and also that she would give to her new husband. He stood, stripped off his clothes and let them fall to the floor.

  He felt like a superhero as he climbed between her spread-eagled legs and thrust deep into her, but he knew that all too soon she would disappoint him. He had to make the most of the short time they had together. Tonight, especially, would be a night to remember. Racked with sobbing, she writhed under him. Yes, not only was he a Master Butcher, he was also a Master Lover. He felt himself reaching the end, quickened, and ejaculated inside her – the first of many.

  ‘That was wonderful, dear,’ he said, the sweat dripping off his face onto her heaving breasts.

  ***

  Shelley Longhurst – the manager of the Statics Club – was the proud owner of a boob job, more accurately known as breast augmentation.

  When she saw both Parish and Catherine staring at her cleavage, she said, ‘Four thousand pounds, if you’re interested. I used to be a sloppy 32B after giving birth, but now I’m a firm 34D. What do you think?’

  ‘Impressive,’ Parish said, and smiled as if he was an aficionado of breast implants.

  A bulked-up shaven-headed bouncer in a tight black suit, white shirt and black dickey-bow eyed them as if they were troublemakers as Shelley led them through the entrance reception and along a corridor into the main dance hall.

  ‘Did it hurt?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘I’d say it was more uncomfortable than painful, but they give you painkillers just in case. Do you want to see where they made the cut and the type of scarring left behind?’

  ‘That would be interesting,’ Catherine replied.

  ‘I’m sure it would,’ Parish intervened. ‘But we’re here to find out about the night Valerie Nichols was taken by the killer.’

  Shelley Longhurst was an attractive woman with heavily made-up eyes, simple matching pearl earrings and necklace, and hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore an emerald-green halter-neck dress that plunged in a V-shape at the front and showed off her ample new breasts to best effect.

  ‘You make it sound as though we’re at fault for allowing the killer into the club,’ Shelley said.

  Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘Hardly. CCTV from that night?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re from the same...’

  ‘No, we’re carrying out a review of the original investigation, making sure everything that could be done was done.’

  ‘I gave it to a Detective Sergeant Yelland from Hertford Police, but as I said to him it was unlikely to be of much help because it consists of flashing lights, noise and shadows.’

  ‘That’s fine, thank you. Do you know if anyone remembered seeing Valerie Nichols or the man she left with that night?’

  ‘Do you know how many people we get in here on a Saturday night, Inspector?’

  ‘I guess the answer’s no then?’

  ‘Up to 3,000 at any one time, but 5,000 with the turnover during the night. Yes, the answer is no. Nobody could remember two people from 3,000. And anyway, while they were here they were just two clubbers having a good time. If he’d killed her here then someone might have remembered, but the way some of them dance I’m not so sure about that.’

  ‘This is a great club,’ Catherine said.

  ‘It’s a sustainable dance club,’ she said. There are four sections: the main hall with capacity for 2,500, a basement for 500, two rooftops with chill-out space for smoking, and the Zero Café with 20 covers at street level with an all-day menu. It’s designed to reduce energy consumption by 30%, and water consumption and waste production by 50% compared with a typical club. We have a rainwater-flush system for toilets, renewable energy sources and LED lighting, and a zero-waste bar serving organic drinks in recycled plastic cups. But the pièce de résistance is the energy-generating dance-floors. The movement of the dance
rs is converted into electricity by an electro-magnetic generator under the floors.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ Catherine said. ‘I’m a journalist; is it all right if I come back soon and write an article about you and the club?’

  ‘Of course, all publicity greatly received.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Parish said to Catherine. ‘Let’s not forget what we’re doing here.’ He offered his hand to Shelley. ‘Thanks very much for your time.’

  Shelley shook his hand and said, ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’

  Outside he said, ‘We’re not here hunting down stories.’

  ‘You may be able to boss your partner about, but I’m not your partner, so bugger off. I’m a journalist, and a very good one at that. If I see a story, then I’ll follow it up regardless of what you think or say... Are you listening to me?’

  He had moved away and was looking across the street towards the East Hertford Railway Station with its Victorian arches and tall chimney. The Statics Club was located on Railway Street diagonally opposite the station. Separating the two buildings was a roundabout and outside the station – twenty feet in the air on the top of a metal post – was a traffic camera. He checked his watch – it was twenty to seven.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘What?’

  He pointed to the camera. ‘Look.’

  ‘The railway station?’

  ‘The traffic camera.’

  ‘It was over two weeks ago.’

  ‘Records are kept for seven years, and who’s in traffic analysis at the moment?’

  ‘Kowalski?’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately, he’s finished for the day, so we’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Come on, let’s go home. What were you saying before?’

  ‘Oh, nothing important.’