by Matt Drabble
“Reginald,” she wailed. “Buster, is that you?”
“He is here,” Janet said through closed eyes as she made everything go rock still and silent.
Janet had found during her research that Reginald had mentioned in several interviews a favourite piece of music. He professed a love of Bach’s music, his chosen piece being Brandenburg Concerto Number One. Janet had downloaded the music and run it through a few filters to make it sound haunting with a soft echoing quality.
Janet pushed the third button on the remote and the hissing gave way to Bach. The gentle music floated across the room and Marigold’s face turned ghostly white. Janet nodded to herself in satisfaction; this fish was most definitely on the hook. She would now pull back and leave the rich widow wanting more; always more.
“Can he…, can he hear me?” Marigold whispered.
“Yes,” he can hear you and I can hear him,” Janet said with her robotic monotone voice that she used for this point of the show.
“He can talk to you? He can tell you everything?” Marigold whined.
“That is correct Mrs. Milton.”
“Has he been sending me messages?” Marigold said as she twisted her expensive leather handbag in her hands, the material groaning in protest.
“He says yes,” Janet’s low rumbling voice replied, “He says that beyond your realm he knows all, there are no secrets beyond the grave.” She risked opening an eye a crack and chancing a glance at Marigold. She needn’t have worried; the wealthy widow’s attention was elsewhere as she stared blankly straight ahead, her expression vacant and distant.
“No secrets?” Marigold whispered sadly.
“None,” Janet replied wondering just what exactly this timid mouse might have to hide.
The gunshot boomed amidst the small room. Janet felt the powerful punch knock the wind from her chest and she fell backwards off of the chair. The bell on the table toppled over with her as she fell. The glass dome slipped from the uneven surface and shattered loudly on the floor. Janet lay on her back staring up at the ceiling, unable to understand what was happening. Her chest hitched and wheezed; her breathing was short and she struggled painfully to catch her breath.
“I’m sorry Madam Gamboulie” Marigold said sadly, “My husband was quite the brute you must understand, and he really left me with no choice.”
Janet stared up. She was unable to speak and everything felt numb; the room darkened further and she felt strangely warm.
“It was poison you see. I found it out in one of the garden sheds; there was a picture of a rat I think on the cover,” Marigold said distantly. “He used to beat me sometimes, if he felt in the mood or even if he didn’t I imagine. He used to make me do such things, such unspeakable things and I could only take so much you see. I fed him the rat poison slowly and over time until he wasted away. I kept waiting for the police to arrest me; I thought that they would find the poison in his body. I waited for the doorbell to ring and for the police to be standing on my porch with handcuffs, but they never did. But then I saw his messages and I knew that he was coming back. I should have known that his vengeance would be blacker than a simple arrest and a jail cell. For weeks he’s tormented me; he’s been leaving me messages all over the place, taunting me. And then there was you. I knew that he had sent you and that he must have told you about what I did Madam Gamboulie. I’m afraid that I can’t let you take me to him. I know that he is waiting for me and that he sent you to fetch me.”
Janet tried desperately to speak but her voice was silent. She tried to tell this mad woman that she was a fake; that she hadn’t spoken to her husband, but the gloomy light dissipated and she began to drift. She felt herself slipping away on a warm tide and Marigold’s face faded away into the blackness.
9.
BLACKWATER HEIGHTS
“And that’s Marigold in there?” Martin asked when they were safely outside again.
“Marigold Milton was arrested quietly and without fuss as she stepped out of Madam Gamboulie’s house,” Jimmy answered. “Apparently she surrendered willingly to the officers summoned by neighbors who were alerted by the gunshot. She had obtained the firearm from her late husband’s collection; rumor has it that he was a keen gun enthusiast,” Jimmy explained. “The trial was short and sweet; her expensive assembled legal team put forward a defense built around spousal abuse at the hands of her late husband. It was decided that her culpability in the death of her husband was a necessary admission. A picture was painted of a kind hearted woman driven to desperation by an abusive husband; a woman who was then exploited by a merciless charlatan. It was argued that her extreme actions followed by the terrifying stalking of Janet Marlowe aka Madam Gamboulie had led to a temporary break from reality. Marigold Milton avoided jail and was instead sent to an approved private mental health facility for treatment.”
“But she seemed so quiet and harmless,” Martin marveled.
“The docs figure that whatever violent intent was in her was expunged with the two murders.”
“I can understand her wanting to bump off a violent and abusive husband, but what about the fake medium? I mean if she was fake?” Martin asked, his mind ticking over.
“Oh, she was a fake alright,” Jimmy answered with a smile. “There was nothing otherworldly about Madam Gamboulie. I guess that she was just a little too convincing for her own good. Poor old Marigold was convinced that her late husband was returning from the grave to seek and wreak a terrible vengeance. When all she got was a talented con-woman out to exploit her supposed grief.”
“Man, I don’t know who to feel sorry for, if anyone,” Martin pondered, “I’ve got to admit that after the other tales I was expecting a different ending.”
“That’s the thing about this place Martin; nothing is ever quite what it seems or even quite what you expect it to be,” Jimmy said with a wink as he opened the next door.
10.
LONELY HEARTS
Detective Inspector Daniel Bowden heaved himself up into a sitting position; his head spun and pounded painfully. A clumsy arm reached out and clattered the bottle on his bedside table, sending it smashing loudly to the floor. The shattering glass spiked excruciatingly into his growing hangover. Hangover, he thought blearily to himself. Got to be sober long enough for a hangover to take effect.
His bedroom was gloomy enough to match his mood. The curtains were drawn against the sun’s setting they were musty and in need of a wash. He looked around the room and himself; aren’t we all, he thought bitterly. He swung his feet over the side of the bed; he was unsurprised to find that he was still fully clothed. A cursory investigation of the sniffing kind told him that he could stretch his wardrobe to another day at least.
He staggered blindly to the bathroom and steeled himself before pulling the dangling cord to switch on the overhead light. He braced his eyes shut and opened them slowly into the illuminated room. The face that stared back at him from the bathroom cabinet mirror was barely recognizable anymore. He was six feet two and used to be a detective firm of body and of mind. He had once been a man who had taken great care in his appearance. His steely blue eyes that had once drowned an ocean of maidens were now dull and lifeless. His shoulders that had once been powerful and broad were now stooped, buckling under the weight that he carried. His face was puffy and round; deep creases and lines told a tale of too much hard liquor and not enough sleep. His stomach was no longer the flat toned and honed product of his youth. His flabby waist hung over his belt; another indication of his lack of self-interest. His hair seemed as lifeless as his eyes; the brown was now prematurely grey and it hung lank and greasy and was much longer than he would have normally kept it. His whole persona reeked of despair and abandonment. He knew that she would hate this, hate him for his headfirst fall into the pit, but he could do nothing. He resisted the urge to plant his fist through the mocking image that stared back at him through the mirror. He choked off all thoughts of her before he fell back into the drowning bottle pit aga
in. He knew that he was only ever walking a wobbling tightrope above total self-destruction.
He limped his way down the stairs, marveling at how he ever managed to climb them in the first place. More often than not he would pass out in the lounge, curled up in the old recliner that had seen better days. He worked the night shift and would wake up around 6pm; his face still wet and sticky through the tears that he cried in his sleep. He found that he only cried these days when he slept, it was the one time that he was most vulnerable and his defenses were down.
He opened his fridge and the kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of the interior light. He didn’t dare turn on the main lights as he feared the mess that would await him. The fridge offered little sustenance; a pizza box held a leftover slice that didn’t smell too badly and he snatched it quickly before he changed his mind and looked for a night time breakfast of a more liquid nature.
He returned to the lounge and grabbed his coat off of the back of the chair before stepping out into the darkness beyond his front door. The cold night was the wakeup slap in the face that he needed on a daily basis it now seemed, as his senses still buzzed with the previous day’s alcohol consumption. He took a couple of deep breaths before deciding that he would risk driving to the station. He already had two strikes against him for driving whilst over the limit but he figured what the hell. Somewhere deep in his subconscious he knew that the job was the only thing keeping him tied to this world and a large part of him would be relieved if he could finally sever that last tie.
The drive to the station was around thirty minutes and in the past it would have been a time to separate his mind from the domestic to the professional. His home life had once been a subject of great hope and comfort, but now it was a crushing depression. Jenny had been taken from him slowly, piece by piece and with extreme pain and distress. The brain tumor had gone undiscovered for so long that by the time her headaches and strange behavior had driven her to the doctor’s it had been too late. Daniel had been in his own world that summer; a serial killer had stalked the London streets leaving a trail of bodies and terror in his wake. Daniel had been specially selected to be second in command on the task force put together to find the killer. It had been his major appointment and he had thrown himself into his work at the exclusion of everything else. He hadn’t noticed that Jenny had lost weight; that she slept too much and that she was becoming prone to explosive expletive laden outbursts. He had only returned home in order to shower and change clothes before returning to the case. A killer had stalked the streets and he had stalked the killer. H e became obsessed with finding the man responsible for spreading horror amongst the suburbs. The newspapers loved a banner headline and had daubed the killer “The Surgeon” because of his careful dissection of his victims. By the time that Daniel had finally led the assault on the killer’s home after he had personally uncovered the link to their man, Jenny was already past saving.
Daniel wiped a hand roughly across his face as he drove; his empty reservoir of tears was apparently not quite so empty after all. His descent into borderline alcoholism and suicidal depression was as predictable as it was unremarkable. His career would have been ended by his superiors on the spot if it wasn’t for his public profile. The upper classes that had been targeted by “The Surgeon” had not forgotten their debt to him, and it was seen as prudent by the department to keep him around in some capacity.
He pulled into his parking spot and left the warm interior of his car for the bitter weather outside. He trudged wearily into the building and headed downstairs to his office, ignoring all attempts at greetings and engagements from those on duty or just leaving it.
He worked the tomb; it was the nickname given to the basement department at the station. It was the place where old cases were sent to die and old useless cops were put out to pasture.
He opened his office door and stepped inside. His main duties here seemed to consist of staying on the payroll, but well out of sight. The room was small; file boxes were stacked up almost to the ceiling and the air was fusty with the odour of discarded memories. His desk was a large dark oak monstrosity that dominated the small room. Filing cabinets surrounded him on all sides and a brass lamp sat on the desk beside a silver computer screen. He flipped his heavy overcoat onto the coat rack in the corner and sat down tiredly in the black leather chair. He opened one of the desk drawers and took out a small whisky bottle; the taste was bitter in his mouth but warmed his system and his hand stopped trembling for a short while.
There was another file box that had been placed on the desk; it was his “in tray”, and his night’s work ahead. The files were the deaths for the last year that had come across the collective police desk. Every scene the police attended - regardless of the need for their further involvement - had a paper trail. Everything had to be logged and reports had to be filed. Because of the modern world’s intrusion in to every aspect of life, it was now Daniel’s job to enter all of these paper reports into the computer system. It was tedious work but it was steady and straight forward and it required little of his attention.
He had been busily typing away for a couple of hours - his mind seemingly motionless and sleeping - when something nagged at him. It was a strange and yet familiar tug on his senses. He had presumed his intellect had been drowned in whisky and grief, but there it was with a gentle pull on his attention.
He looked up at the computer screen, really seeing it for the first time in the last few hours. The black text unraveled itself and became legible to him again as he actually read the words that he had typed. Something had caught his attention; something had registered in his subconscious but he could not immediately tell what it was. He looked down at his fingers and the keyboard. Was it something that he had typed, some word or words that he had typed several times in repetition? He grabbed the paper reports he had been copying from; something in here had poked his natural instinct and he began sorting through the reports.
An hour later he sat back in his chair, his elbows perched on the desk and his hands clasped together. His thumbs rested on his lips and his face was a study in concentration and long discarded thought. Laid out in front of him were twelve reports; all were of heart failure victims, and all showed no suspicious signs of any foul play. All twelve were a mix of ages, races, and sex, and there appeared on the surface to be no immediate link. On the face of it he did not know why the cases had jumped out at him. It was only in the coroner’s reports did he find slight variations of the same phrase, “Heart suffered from unusual internal compression, restricting blood flow and resulting in catastrophic failure”. He felt puzzled; nothing appeared to suggest anything other than natural causes and yet the closer he looked, the more he was intrigued. During the remainder of his shift he amassed enough personal information of the deceased to intrigue him further still. Of the twelve victims, only two - possibly three - were of an age and of a type to suggest that they would have been susceptible to heart disease. Most of the rest of them were young, fit, and healthy. He had found that some of them had police records which listed their statistics, age, height, and weight, along with fairly recent photographs. None of the offences were of a particularly serious nature; motoring offences, a child support arrears and debt problems. There was no immediate link that jumped out at him, nothing to tie the victims together other than the manner of their deaths.
“Hey Danny, you back on days now?”
The voice startled him and he looked around to find DS Declan Toulon standing behind him. Toulon was fifty nine, fat and jowly with a pig-like face and currently slopping ketchup down his already stained shirt.
“Declan, when did you start coming in early?” Daniel asked whilst rubbing his weary eyes.
“Actually I’m late,” Toulon laughed, pointing at the clock on the wall behind him, “But hey, that’s one of the perks of being stuck down here, nobody cares.”
Daniel looked up, shocked at the time. He double checked his watch; both read 9:47am and he marveled at how
the night had gotten away from him so quickly. Normally he sat in a stupor down here, wishing the time away so that he could resume his hobby of destroying his liver. He stared up at Toulon. The detective sergeant was happy in his exile, content to be washed up and wait for his pension. The police officer was a disgrace to himself and the station. He was grossly overweight and poorly dressed, and the former detective was unfit for service. For the first time in a long time Daniel took a long hard look at himself. Suddenly he realised that he and Toulon were not so different; it was a shock to look at himself from the outside. Was this how people saw him? Was he another Toulon in their eyes? He stood quickly and gathered up the files that he had been studying.
“Uh, I don’t think that you’re allowed to take those home Danny?” Toulon said as Daniel moved past him and out of the door wordlessly. Toulon shrugged and figured that it wasn’t his problem.
Daniel sat in the café devouring strong black coffees until he felt his senses begin to sharpen. It had been a long time since he had ended his shift without crawling back into a bottle. The daylight hurt his eyes and his hands trembled worryingly. He splashed a little Irish into the coffee; after all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.
Twelve lost lives spread out before him across the greasy table; twelve deaths that now sat heavily upon his shoulders. He did not know why he felt that crushing weight, but he did just the same. He did not question the instinct that had fluttered briefly in the pit of his stomach; it was a feeling that he had thought long dead and buried, and he grabbed hold of it like a drowning man onto a life preserver.