by Zoe Sharp
Damn it, why do I have to go thinking thoughts like that? I shook myself, annoyed. Just get on with it, Fox. On the other hand, technically I was breaking and entering. Legally, I didn't have a leg to stand on when it came to a right to be there. I knew I should just turn round and high-tail it out of there. I should, but I didn't.
Just plain nosy, I guess.
I edged forwards into the hallway, pausing just inside to let my eyes accustom to the gloom. Right ahead of me was the slant of the stairs. There was another brown stain round one of the bannister rails, which had dripped down onto the wallpaper beneath. A small, three-legged, triangular table was upturned against the skirting board. It was black and modern-looking, like some cast-off from a progressive milkmaid.
I crept further on towards the front door. I could focus more easily now, could see the tangle of jackets half-pulled from the hooks on one wall. There seemed to be debris scattered all over the floor, coats, a strange trilby-type hat, pairs of battered slippers and a single training shoe.
It slowly dawned on me as my eyes scanned the objects that there was something different about that trainer. It seemed to take an awfully long time for me to realise what was wrong.
There was a foot in it.
Not just a disconnected foot, but an ankle as well, leading into a leg. I could see about to mid-calf, before the rest disappeared round the bottom of the staircase. It had to be Terry's foot. He usually wore designer trainers, but he walked with his feet turned in, pigeon-toed, and he always seemed to wear his shoes down at an extraordinary and uneven rate. After a month on his feet a pair of top of the line sports shoes looked like something he'd bought from a market trader.
For a few moments I just stood and stared at the foot, as though expecting it to move. It didn't. Then I realised I could see his other leg. It was stretched out along the bottom of the front door, like a rather ineffective draught-stop. A tumble of mail from the letterbox had fallen on top of it.
I think it was only then I started to realise that this was looking very, very bad. The letters meant he'd been there all day, at least. It could only mean he was badly injured. Or dead.
My heart had the right idea. It was doing its best to make a break for it through the front of my ribcage. I only recognised I was holding my breath when I started going dizzy. I forced myself to relax enough to gulp in some air.
As soon as I began breathing again, the smell hit me. The same smell as a piece of meat that's fallen out of the rubbish bag and been lurking in the bottom of the kitchen bin for a week or so, right next to a radiator.
My feet were taking me forward, but the rest of my mind and body didn't really want to go. I shuffled on until the rest of Terry's body came into view. I was moving a millimetre at a time like someone balanced on the edge of a cliff. This was going to be bad news, I just knew it.
Even so, it was worse than I was expecting.
I never thought of myself as being a particularly hairy person. As soon as I saw Terry, all the hairs on my arms and neck stood bolt upright. I almost jumped backwards away from the sight of him, going, “Oh shit, oh shit.” My voice was a subdued wail.
Terry had always been sensitive about his appearance, but he wasn't in any state to be offended. He wasn't in any state to be anything, come to that, apart from very, very dead.
Unless you go in for the particularly gory sort of horror films, which I don't, most portrayals of dead bodies are pretty tidy, really. They might be liberally sprinkled with fake blood. They might have wide open, staring eyes, but they're usually all together, in one piece.
Terry was only just together, only just in one piece. The same knife that had made light work of his sofa had made light work of Terry as well. He had been wearing a pale T-shirt, but this was almost totally soaked through with blood. His hands were across his stomach, the arms drenched up to the elbows. His forearms were covered with slits and minor wounds. One thumb had been sliced through to the point where it was nearly completely severed.
At first I thought he had something on top of his stomach, a weird blueish, greyish mass of bundled twisted cloth, smeared with blood. It took a few horrible, horrifying moments for me to realise that it probably was Terry's stomach.
He'd been split open right across his gut and the contents had spilled out in a tumbled heap. He must have tried to fight off his attacker in the lounge, then staggered through here in search of help. The telephone sat unmarked on the window ledge above his head.
I glanced at his face. He'd been cut there as well, the skin peeling back raggedly to reveal the white-ish gristle of his nose. His dull, flattened eyes seemed to be looking straight at me, accusingly.
I couldn't hold it any longer. My stomach revolted. I turned away, stumbling, and retched in long, convulsive heaves on the hall carpet until there was nothing left in my system to chuck. What a hell of a way to diet.
For a minute or so afterwards I stayed clinging weakly to the bannisters. Then I pushed myself away and started to think. Did I call the police from here? In which case they were going to ask an awful lot of questions I didn't want to have to cope with. Like why did I call round to see him? And what about this computer which I'd accepted from him, in the full knowledge that it might be stolen? Oh yeah, I'm sure everyone says they were just trying to return it to its rightful owner . . .
Or I could do what I should have done as soon as I saw that handprint on the wall. I could make a fast exit and ring the police from a call box as far away from home as possible. I looked at the disgusting calling card I'd just left on Terry's floor. That couldn't be helped. I was just thankful I'd kept my gloves on.
Turning my back on Terry was one of the most frightening things. As though he was suddenly going to sit up and reach for me. Too many films, too much imagination. I don't know why, but I wasn't afraid that whoever had rearranged Terry's features was still going to be in the house. He'd obviously been dead too long for that.
I retraced my steps through into the lounge and out into the garden, sliding the patio doors shut behind me. They seemed to close with a terrifyingly loud thunk. I ducked into the shadows by the garage and waited, heart thudding, listening for the sounds of alarm, pursuit.
None came.
I moved down past the side of the garage and along the path, walking back along the street as quickly as possible, trying hard not to break into a run. My back was tense. I expected any minute a voice to shout, “Oi you, stop – murderer!”
It never happened, of course, but I was never so glad as to see the bike sitting waiting for me, like the hero's faithful steed in an old black and white western. Shame I couldn't whistle and have the Suzuki start up and meet me halfway. I dare say if there was the demand the manufacturers would work on it.
I couldn't decide if it would look more suspicious to push the bike quietly out of the road or start it up there as normal. I plumped for the latter, but made sure my helmet was on before I kicked the two-stroke motor into life. It sounded raucously loud. I didn't look, but I could just feel all the curtains twitching in the surrounding houses.
Without waiting for the bike to warm up, I did a wobbly U-turn in the road, abandoning my dignity and paddling it round, feet down. I felt an awful lot better once I was on the move. The solidity of the bike was comforting. I leaned down and patted the bulge of its tank. A ridiculous action, but it made me feel more secure.
Part of the road leading away from Terry's place wasn't streetlit. The cone of illumination thrown out by the bike's dipped headlight seemed pitiably feeble. My eyes were constantly at its outer limit, waiting for the mad-eyed murderer with the bloodied knife, or the accusing policeman, to suddenly step into my path.
The streets of Lancaster were quiet, which was probably a good thing, because I was riding like a first-day learner, fluffing my gear changes and over-revving the engine, riding corners jerkily upright, too tense to be anything like smooth. The Suzuki's gearbox had never sounded so clunky, nor the motor so harsh.
; I reached home in only a few minutes and left the bike parked up in the road outside. I ran up the steps, ignoring the dissent from half a dozen different muscle groups. I was panting as though I'd run a marathon.
I let myself into the flat like it was some sort of sanctuary. Well, they say an Englishman's home is his castle. Yeah, said a little voice in my head, tell that to Terry, lying slaughtered behind his own front door . . .
Fifteen
I slammed the door behind me and spent a few moments leaning back against it, eyes closed. It was only then that the full force of reaction hit me. I made a dash for the bathroom and spent the next few minutes heaving fruitlessly into the toilet bowl.
I needn't have bothered. I'd completely emptied my stomach in Terry's hallway. All I succeeded in doing was make my eyes and nose stream, and leave a vile taste in my mouth. My ribs felt as though the Scouser had been back for a rematch.
Suddenly I remembered again the words I'd half-overheard while I was lying on my lounge floor. The smoker had said, “If you've killed her the shit's really going to hit the fan after last time . . .” I'd initially thought they somehow referred to Susie's death. Now they made chilling sense.
I sat down on the toilet floor, resting my head on the seat. My skin felt cold and clammy and my hands were shaking. I knew I had to pull myself together, but it was a real case of easier said than done.
Finally, I staggered to my feet, blowing my nose on reams of loo paper. I splashed cold water on to my face, and cleaned my teeth. After that I felt almost human again.
I was going to have to call the police, but I made up my mind to do it from the anonymity of a public call box. I know you can dial 141 to stop your telephone number being registered by the person you're calling, but I'd never tried it. I didn't think this was the time to find out the police could override the system anyway.
I searched round for my voice changer device, but I hadn't yet found it among the flotsam that covered the lounge floor. I dithered over searching for it, then decided no. A good old-fashioned scarf would have to do the job of disguising my voice.
I had a complete brain dump about where the nearest phone box was. The marketplace. There were three or four phone boxes in the marketplace, near to the fountain. No, they were too public.
I racked my brains before I remembered the one on Caton Road. Not perfect, but it would do. At least you weren't likely to get loads of people hanging round it while you were trying to cryptically explain the discovery of a dead body to the desk sergeant.
By the time I'd ridden the short distance and parked up at the kerb next to the phone box, I was annoyed to find my hands were shaking again, so much I could hardly get my helmet off. I spent a few minutes just sitting there, trying to relax enough to work out exactly what I was going to say.
Finally, I couldn't put it off any longer. I left my gloves on just in case and fumbled dialling the Lancaster cop-shop, wrapping my scarf firmly round the receiver as I did so. A rather bored-sounding woman answered the phone.
“Listen up,” I said, my voice echoing gruffly in my ear. “You got a pen? Then write this down.”
“Hang on – yep, go ahead,” the woman said. She sounded suddenly more interested.
“There's a body of a guy in a house on Wilmington Avenue, the one with the big van outside.”
“A body? What do you mean?”
I didn't think I could have been much clearer. “What do you mean, ‘What do I mean?’? A dead guy, he's been knifed. Just get there.”
“OK son, don't worry, we're on our way. What's your name?”
On cue, I put the phone down. I hurried outside, cracked the bike up and struggled into my helmet. I expected a squad car to come screeching up at any minute and haul me inside, but there were only the usual few cars and trucks ambling past. I waited for a gap in the traffic and did another of my wobbly U-turns, then rode sedately back towards the middle of town.
In my mind I was going over it, trying to work out if there was any way I could be linked to Terry's place. It was only then that I remembered Terry's business partner, Paul. Shit. I didn't know if he was aware that Terry had given me the lap-top, but he was certainly the first person the police were likely to contact. If he mentioned me, and if any of the neighbours remembered seeing the bike . . .
With rather more urgency than before I dived through the traffic round the town centre and headed out towards Abraham Heights. On my way I passed the police station, lit up like late-night shopping.
There were no signs of undue activity and I wondered briefly if they'd taken my message seriously. I don't know what I expected to see – dozens of cars screaming out with lights and sirens blazing, I expect.
I got lucky with the traffic lights, and it was only a few minutes later that I pulled up on the pavement outside the video shop owned by Terry's partner. Or should that be ex-partner.
When I walked in Paul was lounging on the counter reading a sci-fi novel with an infeasibly well-endowed blonde in a sprayed-on jumpsuit on the cover. It must have been captivating, because he looked up with that slightly irritated expression of someone who really didn't want to be disturbed right at that moment.
Still, when he saw it was me he broke into a smile which did nothing to improve his looks. He and Terry had always made an odd couple. Where Terry had been fat, Paul was thin to the point of gauntness, his hunched shoulders emphasised by the bagginess of his jumper. Where Terry's features were spread across his face like he'd had a hard impact with a fast-moving object, Paul was sharp-looking, almost feral.
He had a small compressed line of a mouth, and a long narrow pointed nose. His chin was a good match for his nose, with a cleft. That would have been all right on Michael Douglas, but regrettably on Paul it looked like he had a small pair of buttocks hanging off the bottom of his face. I'd vaguely wondered once if the two men had been initially drawn together because each thought the other made him look more attractive.
“Er, hi Charlie,” he said. “What's up? You look like you've seen a ghost.”
I made sure the shop was empty before I launched straight in. “I've just been round to Terry's place.”
“Oh, right. I've been meaning to go round there myself. He's been off the last couple of days and I've had people from his normal round phoning up because he hasn't shown up. Did you find him?”
“Yeah,” I said grimly, “I found him all right.” I paused awkwardly. “Look, there isn't an easy way to say this, but Terry's dead.”
Paul took the shock well, but his skin actually turned slightly grey. In that moment I believed completely that he had nothing to do with his partner's death. Not that I had Paul pinned as much of a suspect, in any case. I don't know anyone who can change colour at will without the aid of a bottle. It had to be a genuine reaction.
“Poor bastard, what happened? Did he have a heart attack? I mean, is he in hospital? Are you sure he's dead?”
I nodded to the last bit. “I saw him and I'm quite sure,” I said. “And he didn't have a heart attack, he was stabbed.”
His head snapped up at that. “Shitfire, when did this happen?”
I shrugged, leaning on the counter and suddenly feeling unutterably tired. “I don't know,” I said wearily. “It must have been at least a day or so ago.”
He blanched at the implications. “Hang on.” He moved round the counter towards the door, turning the open sign to closed and flicking the catch. “Come on,” he said. “You look as though you could do with a drink.”
He led me through to the back of the shop where they had a small, untidy kitchen. There was an odd assortment of cracked but neatly washed up mugs on the scarred stainless steel draining board next to the sink. Paul cleared a load of scrap posters off a rickety, paint-splattered chair and motioned me into it.
He mentioned that he still had a bottle of leftover Christmas brandy about somewhere, and set about making coffee with generous slugs of the spirit in it for us both.
“So,” he said whe
n we were sipping the steaming, biting liquid, “you want to tell me exactly what happened?”
I went through the whole tale of going round to Terry's and finding the body, not skimping on the details. Paul made me feel better about my own weakness of stomach by turning quite green when I described the state Terry was in.
“I don't suppose there's a chance that it was suicide, is there?” he asked, almost hopefully.
I shook my head. “Disembowelment's not a common method of suicide these days, unless you're a Samurai, I suppose, but in that case he wouldn't have had cuts all over his forearms from trying to fight the guy off, and there was no knife next to the body. Whoever did it came and went with his own equipment.”
“Shitfire. Poor bastard,” Paul repeated, nose in his cup. He looked up at me. “How can you be so calm?” he demanded. “I'm gibbering and all I'm doing is hearing about it.”
“Swan syndrome,” I said, taking another swig of coffee and trying not to chip my chattering teeth on the enamel of the mug. “Unruffled on top and paddling like hell underneath.”
He gave a half smile, which disappeared as a sudden thought overtook him. “Did you call the police? I mean, they'll have to be involved, won't they? If Terry's been murdered, there's no way they won't be.”
“I rang them before I came here, from a call box.”
“Shitfire,” he said again. “I could be in big trouble.” He saw my raised eyebrow and went on, “I suppose you know Terry runs – was running – a little sideline in videos that are, well, for a slightly more specialised taste.”
“Hard porn,” I supplied helpfully, amused at his discomfort.
“Well, yes, but the thing is, if the police start nosing around, they're going to find out about it and I could end up in prison. Terry was the one behind it, not me.” His voice sounded aggrieved.
“So claim you didn't know anything about it,” I said. “Did he keep anything here, or was it all on the van?”