Degrees of Darkness

by Tony J. Forder

  Frank stood, walked behind Debbie and wrapped his arms around her. He buried his head in the nape of her neck. ‘Some things are best left in the past,’ he said. ‘I scarcely ever think about those days. And I have other things on my mind right now. More important things.’

  ‘Speaking of which, we haven’t talked about the newspaper article,’ Debbie said, looking busy as she did nothing.

  One of the Sunday newspapers had run a small piece on how Debbie had been spotted entering and leaving Frank’s house over recent days. A budding relationship had been suggested, as had nights spent together.

  ‘Do we need to?’

  She turned now. ‘I’m okay with it, Frank. The tone of the article was accusatory, as if we were doing something wrong. But I’m ashamed of nothing.’

  ‘Then that makes two of us. In fact, I’m far from ashamed. What we have right now is a good thing. Nothing squalid, nothing unsavoury. Good.’

  ‘So … fuck ’em?’

  Frank nodded. ‘Fuck ’em all.’

  He pulled her close, took her hands in his and breathed her in. The newspaper article was wrong. What he and Debbie had done was perfectly natural. And even though Janet had been dead for such a short time, their relationship had died long before. He was surprised, yet heartened to realise that he truly felt no guilt or shame.

  ‘How about a kiss instead?’ he said.

  ‘How about a hug and a kiss?’

  ‘How about a hug and a kiss and a bloody good cry?’

  Debbie smiled, her eyes glittering as they lit up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That sounds just about perfect.’

  36

  First came the terror: the man stood in the doorway for several moments, staring at her the way a death-row prisoner might view their last meal. He then motioned with his fingers for her to join him. Laura rose unsteadily, not wanting to go so meekly to her death, yet too afraid to fight such a terribly one-sided battle. When she reached his side, all he did was lean forward and say, ‘Soon, Laura. Soon.’ Then he turned on his heels, closing and locking the door behind him once more.

  Then came the relief: Laura stood by the door, staring at the spot where he had been, scarcely able to draw her next breath. So, what if he had said ‘soon’. Soon wasn’t now. Now she was still alive, all possibilities remaining.

  Followed by the reckoning: on three more occasions over the next two days, he entered her room unexpectedly, and each time he left her teetering on the brink of madness by repeating the same simple phrase: ‘Soon, Laura. Soon.’.

  The last time, late last night, as he turned to leave, Laura’s mind unravelled and her will snapped like a dry twig. ‘Don’t do this to me!’ she screamed at him, fear and dread spilling from her eyes in the shape of warm tears. Laura sank to her knees, head bowed. ‘Please, don’t do this to me.’ Voice softening more with each word.

  And, finally, the pain: Laura now lay face down across a pile of soft clothing, sobbing into her arms. She couldn’t sit. Her buttocks were still striped with thick red welts where the man’s belt had lashed into her tender flesh. The sting of it brought back the memory: no sooner had her words died than the man’s large hand had arced down and slapped across her face with a force that sent her tumbling onto her back. A cry of shock died on her lips as he then stooped and flipped her over as if she were a toy. One hand covered her mouth, while the other yanked back on her left arm until it was up against her spine. She felt his breath wash over her. Her nose wrinkled at its terrible stench. He knelt and pressed his knee into her lower back, grinding it into her spine. She was helpless and in a great deal of pain. Tears glittered on her eyelashes.

  ‘If you shout at me again,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘I’ll get angry. You know how I feel about you, Laura, but you must be good. You really must. So … will you shout again?’

  He released her arm, switched his grip to her hair, pulled it tight and moved her head in a fierce shaking motion.

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ he laughed.

  Laura paid dearly for that one errant outburst. Not satisfied with the level of pain and dread he had already doled out, he rucked up her dress, bent her over his knee, took off his leather belt, and used it with all his strength to beat her.

  Laura cried throughout her ordeal. She sobbed, and offered a silent prayer. She didn’t cry out again, though, even when he discarded her by throwing her to the ground once more. He stood over her and threaded the belt back through the loops on his trousers. Laura kept her head down, hair splayed out across the floor.

  She heard the man’s breath slow and become more regular. Then he spoke, seemingly from a great distance. ‘You shouldn’t have made me do that, Laura. I didn’t want to hurt you. But you let me down, let us both down. You’ve been so strong … so right. Then you had to go and spoil it. You can’t do it again, my love. I couldn’t stand it if you ruined everything now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Laura’s voice was muted, so terribly sincere.

  ‘Of course, you are. They all are after they’ve been punished. I thought you were better than that.’

  Laura looked up at him for the first time since she’d been beaten. Her eyes were puffed and raw. Both cheeks glistened still. ‘I am. You have to believe me. I am better. I am right for you. For you both.’

  The words almost choked her. Mere words, yet they were so hard to say. For a child still shy of her teens, Laura was extremely bright. She recognised that the beating was only a first step. The next time would be so much worse. After that … there may not be a third chance at all. The man was furious with her, his mood dark and oppressive. Unlike other such moods, it had not fizzled out quickly. She could still see the anger etched into his angular face, raging within him, able to erupt at the slightest provocation – real or imagined. She had to appease him. Appease him or die. It was that simple.

  ‘I really am so very sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I won’t do anything to upset you again. I promise.’

  ‘You do?’ He said it breathlessly. A voice full of wonder.

  ‘I do.’

  As he rested on his haunches, a smile spread across his face. He stroked her thin and dirty hair, coiling strands between his fingers. ‘Good girl. Good girl.’

  He cooed to her. Stroked. Cooed and stroked. The touch and the whisper of his words soothed her. Her eyes grew heavy, flickered briefly, and closed. Mentally and physically exhausted, Laura slept. When she awoke several hours later, he was gone. Laura instantly recalled the feel of his fingers slipping through her hair. Stark contrast against the pain from the beating. A pain she could still feel. She shuddered and bit her lip. She felt repulsed. But at least she was still alive.

  Now that knowledge brought fresh tears from her eyes.

  37

  Monday was over. The saddest day of Frank’s life up to that point, and one he would never forget. But now it had to be part of the past. Frank was reminded of a scene from one of his favourite films. In The Shawshank Redemption, the main character, Andy Dufresne, considers the time he has wasted in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, and says to his friend, Red: ‘I have a choice to make. Get busy living, or get busy dying.’ Frank considered that he, too, had that same choice. It would be easy to lie down and let life happen around him. But it was better to make it happen.

  When Frank was first told that their suspect lived in a place called Grange Hill, he immediately thought of the old TV show, and imagined Nicky was pulling his leg. Frank had lived in London his entire life, a good deal of it in the East End, yet had never heard of this area tucked neatly between Woodford Bridge and Hainault. But he had located it on Google maps, and now here he was.

  The narrow road was busy, crowded with cars parked on both sides, the residents obviously choosing to use public transport in order to get to work. Frank had found a space some way down the road from the official team’s vehicle – the other two sat in nearby roads, pointed in opposite directions and ready to roll at a moment’s notice. He could just about see the suspect’s h
ouse, though, and this gave him a small measure of comfort.

  He had been there for little more than ten minutes, when his car door was wrenched open and Nicky got in beside him. The car was instantly filled with the thick aroma of cooked food.

  ‘Cup of rosie,’ Nicky said, passing across a plastic cup. He waggled a small paper-bag, now spotted with grease. ‘And one sausage sarnie.’

  Frank nodded appreciatively. ‘Brown sauce?’

  ‘Of course. It’s HP, too.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Frank asked. ‘How did you know I’d be here, where I was?’

  Nicky regarded him closely over the rim of his own cup, steam rising up before his eyes. ‘This is you we’re talking about. I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep away, and I also knew you’d be in a position to see the house.’

  ‘You know me too bloody well. Smart arse.’

  They ate their food in silence. It was an unwritten rule when on a stake-out together that the last one to arrive found a nearby café and forked out for breakfast. Two teas, one sausage sandwich with brown sauce, one egg and bacon roll. Stake-out vehicles were imbued with many odours, several of which could be unpleasant, but that injection of greasy food of a morning always set the standard.

  ‘Just like the old days,’ Frank observed, using his nail to dig out a sliver of trapped food from his back teeth. ‘I’d forgotten the simple pleasure a sausage sandwich could provide.’

  ‘Nothing like it,’ Nicky said around a mouthful of food. ‘Forget all your nouvelle cuisine cobblers. Let that fat-tongued mockney produce something this good.’

  Frank chuckled. ‘Jamie Oliver, you mean? Hard but fair, Nicky. Hard but fair.’

  Nicky’s two-way radio hissed static. ‘Barcode One. Suspect is on the move. I repeat, suspect is on the move. Heading … north towards Chigwell.’

  Frank looked up, but failed to see the suspect’s van in amongst all the other vehicles. Nicky summoned the fourth team as Frank fired up the Renault and navigated his way out of the space and into the flow of traffic. He hung well back, allowing the stream of information emerging from the mobile watchers to guide their way. They slipped onto the A113, then turned and headed towards Junction 5 of the M11. Nicky’s radio was alive with activity now.

  ‘He’s gone straight over,’ Nicky said, intent on following the directions given by each team as they took it in turns at being the lead vehicle. ‘Ignored the motorway and is heading towards Loughton. No, wait, he’s cut back towards Buckhurst Hill.’

  Frank was frowning. ‘What’s he up to? We just passed a road back at Chigwell that takes you straight to Buckhurst Hill.’

  ‘I can’t imagine he’s spotted his tail, but he could just be taking precautions. If it is him, we know he’s damn clever.’

  ‘And if so, it suggests he could be headed for wherever his hideaway is.’

  As Frank followed at a safe and steady distance, Nicky suddenly shook his head. ‘No, he’s turned right onto a narrow back road. Now crossing the A121 and pointing towards High Beech.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Frank sucked in a deep breath. ‘I was there with Laura and Gary just the Sunday before last.’

  ‘Several out-of-the way places in that neck of the woods,’ Nicky said. ‘We may be getting warm.’

  They began winding through Epping Forest, the dense and tightly packed trees grouped around them like armed guards in camouflage, staring down implacably. The sun occasionally pierced the overhanging canopies of branches, slanting into Frank’s eyes – diamond-like slivers of light, mottling the windscreen. Frank said nothing, his stomach a tight knot of anxiety. He still wasn’t convinced about Stevenson, but this was one time he hoped to be proven wrong.

  Nicky abruptly raised a hand. ‘He’s stopped. He turned off towards Waltham Abbey and the M25, but pulled up at a large house about a mile or so along the road. Barcode Two had to drive past and keep on going until they were round a bend and out of sight. Barcode One shot around to come the other way. They spotted our suspect lugging tools out of the back of his van. A middle-aged woman stood by the front door, a dog running around by her heels, yapping.’

  Frank pulled the Renault over to the kerb and stopped. The road here was narrow with a grass verge on either side, little traffic on its smooth tarmac surface. He yanked on the handbrake, but kept the engine idling.

  ‘He’s at a job,’ he said, resigned to the fact. ‘Have someone check out the house, see who owns it, but my money is on a working day in store for our man.’

  ‘You want to get closer?’ Nicky asked. ‘Get a look at him?’

  ‘No. I can’t risk him getting a glimpse of me. I want to, believe me. Seeing him might just give me a better feel for this. But I’m not willing to take a chance.’

  ‘You don’t think Stevenson’s our man, do you?’

  Frank felt the weight of his friend’s scrutiny. He looked at Nicky and shook his head. ‘He’s been under surveillance since Saturday night. Sunday, he went nowhere, other than the pub for a few drinks. Yesterday he went to what turned out to be a job in Ealing, then straight back home at the end of the day. I can’t believe he’s holding his victims at home, in a house shared by a wife and two young children, which would mean he hasn’t visited his victims in two whole days, and that’s just not right. The man I’ve spoken to needs to be with them as often as he can be. It’s what he lives and breathes for.’

  ‘But he was inside the Redbridge home. He was in their street just a few days before someone let himself into Karen’s bedroom. And for all we know his victims could be tucked away in a basement at his house.’

  Frank was nodding. ‘I admit there’s some questions we need answering, and I understand that Stevenson can’t be ignored – why else would I be here now? But there isn’t enough to convince me, Nicky. Stevenson is not behaving like a man responsible for murder and abductions. He doesn’t smell right to me.’

  Nicky set his jaw. ‘I think you could be wrong on this one, Frank. I think you’re reaching for something that’s not there. Stevenson is a solid enough suspect for the time being, and we know these bloody maniacs can act as normal as you and me half the time. We’d have had him in for questioning before now if it weren’t for the fact that we need him to lead us to Laura. We’ll have to agree to disagree on this one, mate. I think he’s our man, and this surveillance op continues. Speaking of which, I’d better call the others.’

  For a few moments after Nicky had issued several instructions to his teams, both men were silent. Then Frank glanced across at his friend, gaze narrowed, and said, ‘Barcodes? What the hell is all that about?’

  Nicky grinned. ‘Just keeping it light. The surveillance liaison officer I spoke to in order to get hold of the team in Barcode Two, a DS by the name of Jarvis, is a Geordie. Newcastle play in black and white stripes, so they’re known around the country as the …’

  ‘Barcodes. I know. They hate it.’ Frank shook his head in mild amusement. ‘But ten quid and my left nut says your Barcodes aren’t moving anywhere until around four o’clock this afternoon.’

  He was out by thirty minutes.

  When their suspect finally appeared at just shy of four-thirty, he headed back south down the A104, bought some plumbing supplies from a specialist retailer in Woodford, then went home.

  He didn’t appear again that day.

  Long before then, Frank dropped Nicky off with Barcode Three, then headed home. On the way, he stopped only to pick up some groceries. Remembering something from his To Do list, Frank spoke to Tania Penny and arranged to meet her at the family home in Peterborough around one the following afternoon. Then he called Nicky and told him where he was going.

  ‘I gather you don’t want your trip on record,’ Nicky said.

  ‘You gather right. This is off my own bat. It probably won’t get me anywhere, but you know me.’

  ‘Yeah. You like to cover all the angles, leave…’

  ‘No stone unturned. Right. They may be clichés to you, Nicky, but they’
re in my book of rules.’

  ‘And I’d rather follow your rules any day, pal. Oh, by the way, Warren Capel spoke to a taxidermist as well. Judging by what we found, he agrees that someone is trying to carry out human taxidermy. But so far, they’re making a real pig’s ear of it. It seems to be a case of trial and error with each one.’

  Frank thought about that. ‘Would he have stopped if he’d got the first one right?’

  ‘Exactly what I was wondering. And if so, then can we assume that he’s still not got the knack. The taxidermist agreed that some people would use formaldehyde, but might not do other things such as scrape the inner skin off, take it off the bones, boil the bones, that sort of thing. Then it doesn’t matter how cured the skin is, the rest will still rot.’

  Frank immediately thought of Laura. He fought a constant battle not to imagine his little girl suffering the same fate as those already found, but there were occasions when the image came bursting through his defences. Now he saw his daughter’s skinless body rising up before him, red and raw and inhuman, head thrown back in a silent scream. He saw birds and small animals, frozen in place forever, glassy-eyed, mounted on a wooden plaque. He saw Laura, frozen in place forever, glassy-eyed, mounted on a wooden plaque.

  He shook his head. Nicky had said something that he’d missed.

  ‘What …? Sorry, mate. What did you say?’

  ‘I said we’re checking suppliers to see how easy it is to get hold of formaldehyde in large quantities. I also told you to take care.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I will.’

  ‘I’ll give you a buzz if anything dramatic happens at this end.’

  ‘Yeah. You do that.’

  There was a slight pause. ‘Frank, are you all right? Not about to do something stupid, are you?’

  ‘Me? No, not at all. I’m just getting busy living.’

  The Swan in Wood Street, Walthamstow, was a typical East-End pub: big on atmosphere, small on frills, with watered-down beer and wall-to-wall villains, mostly minor, mostly legends only in their own simple minds. The kind who think selling stolen sports goods from holdalls made them gangsters.