by Lex Sinclair
‘Are you all right?’
Inspector Reeves exhaled explosively, nodded. ‘I’ll be all right. I just didn’t expect that... I know what we were told before going in there... but still...’ he trailed off.
‘Yeah, I know. Nothing really prepares you for this kind of discovery, does it? Look, stay here. I’m gonna go over and see if I can find out anything else from the boys.’
Reeves nodded in agreement. Seeing the human body in all its explicit, gruesome detail made him think the only way he was going to fully recover from what he’d just witnessed was if he had his brain removed. Also, there would be no more visits to the kebab house on Saturday nights with his wife. Most likely, he wouldn’t be able to eat any meat after today, knowing beforehand that his mind would always conjure the memory of those two unfortunate souls, who had obviously still been alive when their skin had peeled away to reveal their inner layers and the innards excavated.
Sark was also glad that the air was crisp and the sun was shinning and he’d had a drink of water to calm his frayed nerves.
One of the two boys had fainted and still had purple rings beneath his eyes, giving the impression that the thirteen-year-old was much older than his actual age. There was no doubt that today’s events had aged him, ending the innocence of his youth abruptly. Nevertheless, Sark had a job to do. The questioning couldn’t be put on hold. After a few questions on the crime scene, the boys would be escorted to the police station where they would be required to make a formal statement and have to answer more of the same inquiries to this crucial murder investigation.
Crime scene detectives and forensics were busy working, scrutinising the area for concrete evidence. The coroner had just arrived and had begun examining the fly-infested corpses, too.
The boys were sitting on the rutted field in the overgrown grass, too weak to stand any longer, which, of course, was perfectly understandable. Even the most experienced officers, like Detective Sark, were immensely repulsed by what he’d seen. That was most likely multiplied by ten for two young boys, who’d never had a worry or a shock in their entire lives, until today.
Sark loosened the tie on his clean white shirt, lifted the tail of his long winter coat, stooping down in front of the two lads and asked Leigh’s mother if she could give them a moment of privacy, after reassuring her that both boys were not going to be talked to severely or intimidated, and that he merely wanted to question them without the influence of an adult telling them what to say. Reluctantly, Leigh’s mother stepped away from them, but still remained close enough to be able to listen in on their conversation.
The police officer knew she didn’t mean anything by it; that she was just protecting both boys.
‘I’m gonna make this as brief as I can, okay?’ Sark said.
Neither boy answered. Instead they stared at him, expressionless.
‘Did either of you see anyone, wandering in the field or in the barn?’
Leigh and Kyle shook their heads in unison.
‘What were you doing on private property, in the first place? You do know you were breaking the law, right?
The boys flushed.
‘Look, I’m not trying to make you feel bad. God knows, I think you’ve learned your lesson the hard way. I was once young too, you know. From what I can gather, you weren’t merely passing through the field on a casual bike ride; you were up to no good. But I’m not interested in that. I’m just concerned that you could have trespassed when the perpetrator was still in the vicinity... It could have been you two hanging upside down, dead.’
‘Sorry,’ Kyle blurted.
‘The apology isn’t necessary. What’s done is done. But the person or persons whom committed this atrocious crime would have no qualms in killing two young boys.
‘Now, is there anything else you saw that might help with our investigation, besides the two dead bodies?’
Leigh shook his head, unable to answer verbally, having lost his voice.
Kyle said, ‘No.’
‘Okay. That’s all for now.’
Sark made a beeline towards the barn entrance, intent on taking another look at the victims’ to see if he could spot anything out of place.
Not long after, the violated cadavers were cut down from the girders and wrapped up in black plastic body bags, wheeled into the ambulances, parked on the dirt path by the farmers’ gate that had been opened by the authorities, allowing them access in and out of the crime scene.
The blood swam in Leigh’s head, seeing the shrouded bodies rolled past him, once again bringing the horrible image of what he’d seen earlier on to the forefront of his mind.
The emergency vehicles pulled away from the field, crunching the stones beneath, beacon motionless, siren off.
Sark watched the ambulances disappear into the tunnel of trees and foliage, intuition informing him that although he had no hard evidence yet, he would bet a hundred pounds that the two bodies discovered in the barn belonged to two of the missing persons’ from Thorburn Close. Perhaps this was the break he had been looking for, to give him and the other investigating officers a clue as to who or why these civilised people had been made to look like something you would find dangling from a meat hook in your local butchers’ shop.
All of a sudden this wasn’t be a missing persons’ case; it was a serial killer - or killers - spree that could only end with the perpetrator being apprehended or gunned down. At least, in every case Sark had been involved in since becoming an inspector that was the case.
He sure hoped they caught the bastard who had done this, though, before someone else was gutted and had their innards removed. He didn’t think he could bare the sight of seeing something that was definitely human, but looked like something born inside out again and remain sane. It was the sort of thing that haunted you, years after you had retired from the police force, destroying any hope for peace of mind.
Sark closed his heavy-lidded eyes against the sun’s blaze, wishing in that moment he had opted for a different career when he was younger.
***
Joe switched the TV off using the remote control, regretting putting it on in the first place, hearing the report on the local news regarding the grisly discovering of two unidentified bodies.
He hadn’t long finished an hour workout session, attacking his punch bag in the garage with a ferocity that couldn’t be matched by any of the top boxers in his prime, electric speed and unstoppable endurance, even for someone who had hung up the gloves. His T-shirt was drenched in round patches of sweat under his armpits and clung to him like a second skin. On days like today, when he’d finished his workout, adrenaline pumping through his veins, he sometimes wondered if he’d been a bit hasty deciding to call it a day on the only thing he truly excelled at. But then he wisely reminded himself that he would have to train hard every single day, dieting, preparing for a tough fight drawing closer all the time; not to mention the fact that every good fighter thought they had one more good fight left in them, only to be proven wrong and find themselves on the canvas, head like lead, dazed and stunned as to why they were losing and panting for breath, when they had been the ones dishing out the severe punishment in their previous fights.
Joe finished the ample serving of pie and chips, which he’d forgotten all about, listening with keen ears to the news story, struggling to eat every mouthful because it was cold, and the thought of people being murdered so close to his new, unfamiliar home.
And yet the place he’d once called home sweet home was now occupied by his uncaring, devious ex-wife.
It was a small price to pay, enabling to keep the rest of his earnings.
Joe wiped the crumbs off his bare chest, grunting as he hauled himself to his feet with exertion, then padded into the kitchen, placed the plate in the sink and headed straight for the bathroom upstairs for a much-needed shower.
&
nbsp; ***
Naomi combed her long black hair, wrenching down on the strands that had become tangled. Then she studied her reflection in her make-up mirror, noticing the palpable aging lines across her brow where there weren’t any the last time she’d taken the time to look. The creases on her brow were signs of an evident worry of a past, hopefully now growing ever distant, diminishing in size and impact on both her and her beautiful daughter, Corrie, from the madman, who was Corrie’s father and her abusive, alcoholic husband.
The burn mark on the palm of her left hand, however, would undoubtedly remind her of fleeing their home in a mad rush, heart slamming against the confinements of her chest walls, as though it no longer wanted to live inside her any more, frightened that if it did, it would have to endure more strain, pumping blood around her body at a locomotive speed, before Brian returned home from the pub, irate at being asked to leave the Crown because it was closing time, looking for her, so he could express his aggression, physically.
Really, Naomi ought to be grateful that they were only aging lines on her brow and not scars. She’d read countless true stories in her Women’s Weekly magazine and newspapers of women, victims of domestic abuse, explaining in horrific detail the horrors they’d gone through, inflicted by the men they loved; men they believed they’d love for the rest of their lives; men they’d grow old with, die with.
Reading these accounts never failed to make tears swim in Naomi’s eyes, because she was able to empathise with their ordeals, because she’d gone through the very same thing. And just because she wasn’t living with the woman-beating maniac any more, that didn’t stop the hurting; the feeling of absolute emptiness inside her, so profound it had broken down her defences and made her vulnerable to the world beyond her front door. Beyond Willet Close.
She’d reiterated that she wouldn’t buy those magazines and newspapers any more. But, somehow, she’d always find herself stopping by the magazine rack in the newsagents, riffling through the magazines, stopping at the pages where a picture of a woman’s battered, swollen face, hidden beneath colourful contusions posed with a deadened expression... like the spirit had departed from the injured body long ago. It was the empty look of victims whom had been pushed too far; into the abyss. It didn’t matter if from that day forward your life would change for ever. The spark inside that human being had gone, and would never return.
Naomi consulted her wristwatch, seeing that in half an hour she’d have to take a stroll into town to pick up Corrie from junior school. She glanced at the bedroom window.
Not a cloud in sight. That was a relief, because parking in the town centre, even for five minutes was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, not to mention the unforgiving traffic wardens floating about, scrutinising every vehicle parked alongside the kerb, using any excuse to give someone a ticket. And once that ticket was put behind the windscreen wiper you had thirty days to pay it before the fine was increased.
Her hair was free of knots. The pink blouse she wore accentuated her breasts and slim waistline, which she was quietly proud of. All the washing up had been completed. The beds made. The furniture wiped clear of dust and polished. Now she could finally relax.
Yet the silence that could only be filled by the joyful conversation she enjoyed with Corrie was always foreboding, she thought. At least in her perception, anyway.
The silence flooded her mind with graphic, disturbing images of the days she’d been locked inside the house, her forehead filmed with beads of perspiration, mouth dry, incapable of forming spit to wet her tongue and lips that were parted, enabling her to hear other sounds, save from her own heavy breathing and the resounding thud of her heart in her head, pending the return of the “monster”, which resembled nothing of the man she fell in love with. The only man she’d given herself to sexually. But it wasn’t the excess drinking that had altered her husband’s personality. He was short-tempered to start with. What the alcohol did, though, was fuel his aggression.
Every time the front door was opened, Naomi would hold her breath involuntarily. She’d hide under the staircase, in the attic, or in the wardrobe. However, neither of these places - or anywhere else in the house - kept her safe. Sooner or later Brian found her, trembling, whimpering, screaming at him, knowing what would follow once he dragged her from her hiding place and got her in his grasp.
On the night she and Corrie escaped, he’d come at them with a bread knife. Had she not found the spare set of keys to open the back door, leading to the back yard, she wouldn’t have lived to see another day, of that she was certain.
Naomi had to constantly remind herself in these quiet moments, alone by herself, that she and Corrie were safe. Furthermore, her mum and dad lived nearby, as did her closest friends. Also, all her neighbours appeared to be kind, caring people. Although, in comparison to Brian on a warpath, even the most ignorant, obnoxious people didn’t bother her one bit.
At ten minutes to three, Naomi locked the front door behind her and glimpsed the house that had been recently sold. According to Hugh, the resident was a champion boxer, who apparently was a really nice guy.
Naomi felt safer knowing that there was champion boxer and a muscle-bound security guard living on their street.
She didn’t know Michael, only to say hello to, and she didn’t know the boxer at all... yet. But if Hugh was right - and in her experience, Hugh wasn’t prone to telling lies - both men would protect her from her evil husband...
But could they protect her from the evil Acolytes of Doom?
4.
Detective Inspectors Reeves and Sark were standing around the gurney, where the putrefying corpses of a male and female lay. The bulbous eyes and shocked expressions looked up at them, accusingly.
According to the DNA and dental records, the two bodies belonged to Cathy and Paul Sheldon. As Sark had expected the two victims had still been alive when their ribcages had been unthinkably snapped open and their hearts ripped from their insides.
As they stepped out of the morgue, into the illuminated corridor, Sark strode in the direction of the soft drinks’ vending machine. He pushed the right amount of change into the money slot, waited for the clang of his can of Coca Cola to land in the metallic tray below, then opened the flap and collected his cold drink.
‘Whad’ya think of all of this?’ Reeves asked, wishing he too had brought spare change with him so he could purchase a drink.
‘God knows,’ Sark replied, seemingly more interested in guzzling down the fizzy liquid than anything else. When he’d finished his first, thirst-deprived gulp, wiped his lips dry with the sleeve of his coat, he said, ‘Who would want to kill two harmless people, living a peaceful lifestyle, in the only area in town where crime, supposedly, doesn’t exist? At least until the kidnappings it didn’t. The only person who would do such a thing would have to be someone who’s deranged.’
‘Cathy and Paul didn’t do anything that would give someone reason to kill them. Their records are as clean as whistle... I’ll think about your theory. But, personally I think there isn’t one killer - there’s two or three. Maybe more. Not many more, though; otherwise they’d be easily spotted. I’d say five or six of them, tops.’
Sark mused. ‘What I don’t get is, why the killer, or killers, chose to kidnap - most likely murder - the five residents, all from the same street. Is that for some specific reason? Or did they just pick the quietest part of town, believing that they wouldn’t get caught?’
Reeves pushed open a door, allowed the more experienced inspector go through first. Then he said, ‘If they’re serial killers, then they’re doing it because there was less chance of being seen and caught, like you said. Yet, if there is some reason, perhaps it’s because they were going to buy property in Willet Close, only for someone else to come along and buy from right under their noses.’
Sark shook his head. ‘No. That doesn’t make sense. None
of this makes an iota of sense. None of these residents were begrudged by anyone. They had no enemies. Sure, some people might not have liked one or two of them, for the simple reason they didn’t get along, but nothing worth killing them over... This is the work of people intent on killing for the pure fun of it. All you need to do is to look at the desecrated bodies to see that. They are the worst kind... because they won’t stop until either you or they are dead.’
***
Sweeping brush in hand, Joe pulled the folding stepladder down from the hatch, made sure it was sturdy enough to support his weight. Then, gingerly, he began climbing ... stopping halfway to peer down the gap in the landing and the staircase at the ground floor. A chill ran through Joe, as he envisioned himself slipping off the stepladder and falling through the gap, smacking the ground so hard the floor cracked. Crimson blood leaking out of his fatal wound in a pool that’d coagulate by the time someone found his body, lying facedown beneath the stairs, behind the front door.
He shook his head to break out of that harrowing reverie and continued his ascent into the attic. He was relieved when he’d lifted himself through the square gap and rolled onto the floor, sneezing instantaneously at the thick film of dust gathered there.
Joe got up and studied his murky surroundings. The attic was well insulated from the foam and sheets that soaked up any water seeping in through the joist on a rainy day. Spider webs were festooned in every corner. Long strings of cobwebs hung from the ceiling that looked like strange, white dangly snot. He yanked the cord for the light bulb to come on, giving the attic a dim orange-yellow glow. Then he went to work with his sweeping brush.