by Guy N Smith
She emerged from the thicket, saw the old stump immediately in front of her. Her approach had brought her right upon it, just as it had her attacker that day. She had trodden the same path down which he had crept stealthily. She quivered with near-orgasmic excitement. Bring him to me today. A prayer to a God who did not exist.
The ducks were quacking; a different note, a protest rather than the alarm call which they had uttered that day when the boys were throwing at them. Unrest, disagreement but not amongst themselves. Her eyes roved the expanse of water and at the far end she saw the geese.
A flock of Canadas, there must have been fifty of them, big black, white and grey birds sailing majestically, long necks outstretched. An occasional honk, they had found a half loaf of bread which somebody had thrown into the water yesterday, had driven the mallards and hybrids off their expected food.
Kate groaned in dismay. The geese had been here last year, had stayed about a month, nomadic birds which moved from lake to lake, usurped the domains of the ducks. And when ducklings hatched next month the geese would drive off the protective mother, peck and drown her offspring. Nature’s law, the survival of the biggest and fittest, the bullies ate, their victims either starved or moved on elsewhere in search of food.
Damn it, that was going to screw her sketching, not that she had come here to draw seriously today. One couldn’t sketch frightened and angry mallards; the picture wouldn’t come out right. She thought about drawing the geese, changed her mind. Because she didn’t like geese, they were aggressive.
It unsettled her, spoiled her sense of anticipation. She had thought on the walk here how marvellous it would be to take her attacker’s flesh with the ducks looking on, listen to his screams with their quacking in the background. She had almost gone back home for her portable tape recorder; she was glad she had not bothered; it wouldn’t be any use now.
But the geese wouldn’t stop him coming, wouldn’t notice anything any different.
Somebody was coming.
She heard vehicles on the main road, way behind the rhododendrons; engines idling, she smelled exhaust fumes. The rattling and clinking of a chain, the clanking and scraping of iron gates being dragged open. Engines revved; cars were driving into the park.
NO VEHICULAR ACCESS. They weren’t allowed to drive in here. But they were and there was no way that Kate would be able to stop them. She lay full length on the sawn off tree bole and waited for them to come into view.
A convoy of four vehicles; she recognised the leading one as a Range Rover, the makes of the others didn’t matter. Suffice that they were cars and that they were pulling off the cinder track, parking side by side on the grass. What the hell was going on.
The engines died, men were getting out. She counted them, a total of twelve. There was something about their attire that was ominous, the predominance of brown and green cammowear, caps to match, two of the strangers wearing Barbour jackets. Three dogs spilled out from the back of the Range Rover, two black Labradors and a Springer Spaniel, leaping about in excitement. One of the men leashed them.
Now the were reaching guns from out of the cars, fastening cartridge belts around their waists; laughing and joking. Kate pressed herself flat on the rough wooden surface, they had the appearance of a band of guerrillas about to stage an ambush.
Which was exactly what they were preparing to do.
They spread out, formed a half moon line, walking steadily in the direction of the waterline. Guns were loaded; she heard the metallic snap of breeches being closed.
Ducks and geese began to swim towards the advancing humans. The birds equated people with food, visitors came in their dozens at weekends to scatter bread upon the water, the first there ate the most. Rivalry between large and small birds was forgotten; there would be plenty for all. Quacking, honking, bunching together. Waiting in anticipation of bread in all shapes and sizes, slices and chunks, baps and whole loaves.
The men had halted, their guns were raised to their shoulders, barrels trained on the mass of plumages; black, white and grey, bottle green heads and blue wing markings.
Suddenly Kate understood. No, oh, please, no!
She had read about it in the Observer last week. Hundreds of Canada geese were being culled in London due to environmental damage to Battersea Park and Wandsworth and Tooting commons; the birds stripped vegetation and polluted the edges of the lakes. In the capital the councils had granted special Environmental Department licences for the birds to be shot at night. In the provinces there was less need for secrecy.
Farmers on the outskirts of suburban areas complained of grain losses due to grazing by the flocks, which flew to and from the urban lakes daily to feed. Conservationists had protested at the proposed cull but the council of this very city had forestalled any opposition; they had closed the parks and sent in the guns like daytime commando raiders. The killing would be over before anybody realised it had begun.
She stared in horror, tried to shout a warning to the birds but managed only a frightened gasp.
The man in the centre of the semicircle of marksmen raised a hand. Barrels were aligned on stretched necks; fingers took the first pressure on triggers.
“Fire!”
A deafening barrage of shots, a mighty explosion that vibrated the enclosed area. Kate screamed, closed her eyes, pressed her hands to her ears but there was no way that she could shut out the shotgun salvo.
Alarmed honking and quacking, furious wingbeats as the survivors slapped the shot-streaked surface of the lake in a desperate bid to take off to a place of safety. A furious flapping of wounded birds.
Kate opened her eyes because she had to see, had to know what atrocity these strangers with guns had committed. Oh, God it was awful.
The more fortunate ducks and geese were streaking away, attempting to gain height. Shot-pricked birds were planing down like bombers and spitfires from an enemy air raid. Dead birds floated on their backs on the water, wounded ones flapped round in circles. The surface was covered with feathers of various hues.
More gunfire. The men were shooting at injured birds, attempting to put them out of their misery. A Canada goose withered under a shower of lead shot, honked piteously but still swam out towards the centre of the lake. In the distance another goose planed away from the departing group, thumped down on the grass beyond the opposite shore; it stood up, began to walk away.
A ceasefire. Now the dogs were unleashed, racing for the water’s edge. One of the Labradors seized a dead goose, began to drag it back towards its masters. The spaniel was struggling with a wounded bird, wincing at the powerful wings that slapped it, the blows becoming weaker by the second.
Two of the men had returned to the Range Rover, were unloading an inflated rubber dinghy and a pair of oars. Those birds, which were too far out for the dogs, would be retrieved. The injured would be despatched, the dead would be taken away, plucked and dressed, roasted and eaten.
Kate wept, not for the geese, although she would not have inflicted cruelty upon them, but for the few ducks which had been caught in the crossfire. Ducks which she knew, had fed, whose images adorned the paintings in her flat. Alive one second, dead the next. Their immortality existed only with herself.
“You bastards!” She stood up, shouted. A man looked round, turned away again. A professional culler, he was immune to abuse, he expected it, ignored it.
“You fucking Gentile!”
He looked up again, heard her and stared in bewilderment. Then he went back to the task of helping his companion to carry the dinghy down to the lake.
Kate experienced an almost uncontrollable urge to rush down the grassy incline towards the men, to take them one at a time in the way she had already taken three; to collect trophies as they had, to gloat over them. For a different reason this time. For the ducks.
Only their numbers prevented her, they would have overpowered her, called the police. Not only had they killed but with their gunfire they had warned off the very man who otherwis
e might have come here in search of different prey.
In many ways her disappointment was worse than that of last night. Because she did not think she could ever come to this place again. Her plan to offer herself as her own decoy had been killed as swiftly and as surely as had been the birds on the lake.
But she knew, even in the depths of her sadness and anger, that her hunger for male flesh was stronger than ever. It was totally insatiable. Today had proved that to her beyond all doubt.
15.
Ford had broken all the rules. During interrogations two officers must be present; there was just himself. A WPC must be in attendance during the questioning of a female suspect; the vice squad did not have any WPCs and he wasn’t going to call one down from the main police station. All interviews had to be taped; he didn’t switch the machine on.
Fallon would report him to the chief for his blatant disregard of the rules. That was fine. Dawson would turn the proverbial blind eye because he’d told this man to go it alone, play it his way. And, anyway, Loony Liz wouldn’t lodge a complaint.
So Ford knew that he was on safe ground. This time, anyway. Liz was crazy as they came, once she had stripped off in public, not even as a protest against police harassment of prostitutes; just because she felt like it. She’d been fined fifty quid with a tenner costs. She was unpredictable. Which was why he had to talk to her alone.
He left her in the interview room with a cup of tea for twenty minutes, civilised treatment that went against the grain. It would give her time to settle, if her level of intelligence went as far as that. Likewise, he had to adjust to a new approach, had to bury his hatred and contempt for a slag off the streets. Or, at any rate, hide it.
He needed her co-operation, a starting point. It wasn’t going to be easy, not after more than fifty court appearances, at least half of those directly attributable to his own efforts.
Ford had a file on the latest mutilation. Les Weston, self-employed building contractor. Age 32, married with 2 kids. Like Gee, he’d live, the DC’s on patrol had found him in time, rushed him straight to the hospital. Ford smiled wryly to himself; how the hell did you explain to your missus that you’d lost your foreskin at the pub with your mates.
But alibis and excuses weren’t Jason Ford’s problem. This unknown female circumciser was. And Liz was as good a starting point as any.
“Don’t worry, I’m not pressing charges,” he sat down at the small table opposite her. Maybe the sparse, unfriendly surroundings of this cubicle were not the best place to win a whore’s confidence. “I just want a chat with you.”
Her vacant expression changed to a toothy smile. Charges didn’t bother Liz, they were a way of life, an occupational hazard. She smelled strongly of BO and unchanged clothes. Christ, you had to be desperate even on a dark night.
“Where were you last night, Liz, around midnight?”
“Where I mostly am that time o’ night, Barker Street. Waitin’ for me boyfriend.”
“Not Bird Street?”
“No.” She didn’t lie, she had not the guile.
“I see. You’ve got a lot of boyfriends, haven’t you?”
She grinned. “Yes, they love me.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual?”
She stared, her expression was puzzled. “Like what?”
“A man screaming. Or a woman, a big woman, dressed in dark clothes?”
“There were a lot of girls about last night. Prostitutes, I don’t ‘ave nothin’ to do with them. No, I didn’t see or ‘ear anything that springs to mind.”
He nodded, satisfied. Liz always claimed her innocence, probably believed it, too. Boyfriends rather than clients. As daft as a fucking brush! All the same, he knew she would have told him if there had been anything untoward. See, I’m clever, Mister Ford, I don’t miss nothing.
She added as an afterthought, her eyes narrowing, “You mean did I see anybody who might’ve been Amanda Chapman’s murderer?” For Loony Liz that was a shrewd guess.
“Not altogether, it’s a woman I’m looking for right now but any lead on Amanda’s killer would be welcome, too. Let’s forget about that for the moment, though, because right now we’ve got another problem.”
She stared, curious. “It ain’t safe for women to walk the streets alone until you’ve caught ‘im. What else is goin’ on?”
“You’ve got a lot of boyfriends, haven’t you Lizzie?” It needed an even friendlier approach.
“Lots,” her yellowed teeth were on full display again.
“Do you have any preference for circumcised or uncircumcised lovers?”
Her forehead wrinkled, she stared in blank amazement. “Eh? What’re you on about, Mister Ford? What’s that mean?”
Jesus Alive, was she thick! He controlled his impatience, and when he spoke it was like a teacher addressing a class of primary first years. “Let me explain. Some men have their foreskin cut off, that’s called circumcision. Others haven’t. Which do you prefer when you’re … making love?”
“Can’t say that I’ve ever noticed. I didn’t know nothin’ about that. Sommat new, is it?”
“No”, he shook his head. “Older than the bible.” And for Christ’s sake don’t ask me what the bible is.
“What do they do that for?” At least he had aroused her interest, a basic curiosity.
“A number of reasons. Religion. Hygiene, that means cleanliness. The woman we’re after is doing it to men for kicks, we think. Are there any new girls on the job downtown?”
“Dunno. Like I said, I don’t ‘ave nothin’ to do with the prostitutes, Mister Ford.”
“All right, you’re not a prostitute,” he glanced heavenwards, “you just have loads of boyfriends.”
“That’s right. And they all give me presents. It’s only the police who think I’m a prostitute. They should give me back all the money they’ve fined me by rights.”
“I believe you,” he lied.
“That’s nice. Really nice, Mister Ford.”
“I’d like you to help me, Lizzie.”
She was suspicious again; you didn’t help the police in case it was a trick. “Why should I help the police after what they’ve done to me? They haven’t caught Amanda Chapman’s killer yet. He might kill me next. Then I wouldn’t be able to help anybody.”
“We’ll get him but, personally, I don’t think you’ve got anything to fear yourself Lizzie,” because Amanda was a beautiful girl, whatever else, the killer had taste, even amongst whores. “But it’s me I want you to help. Forget the Police.”
“You’vearrested me lots of times, Mister Ford.” A direct accusation.
“It seems I was wrong because you’re not a prostitute after all. You just have lots of generous boyfriends.”
“That’s right,” she was smiling naively again. “Are you married, Mister Ford?”
“Yes.” Technically. His expression never altered.
“That’s a pity, ‘cause I think you’re really nice. I wish you were one of my boyfriends.”
“Thank you, I’ll remember that if I ever get unmarried, Lizzie.”
“Most of my boyfriends have wives at home.”
“Do they now? Look, will you help me? Please.”
“What do you want me to do?” Her eyelids lowered.
“Nothing very difficult, I can assure you. I just want you to keep your eyes and ears open. We know what she does but not why she does it. We don’t know who she is, only that she dresses in dark clothing and she has fair hair, tied up in a ponytail. Nobody has seen her face but we reckon she’s in her mid to late twenties, a big girl. Big, not fat. We have to find her.”
“Why does she cut off men’s foreskins, Mister Ford?”
“Christ alone knows! Maybe she’s got a taste for them, eats them like sweetbreads.” He tried to make a joke of it but it came over obscene. “Or just collects them. Or perhaps she’s doing it for revenge, a prostitute with a grudge, leaving her mark to scare men out of the red light area. She could
even be doing that to get her own back on other tarts, ruining their trade. That’s what I need to find out. Once I’ve caught her.”
“Why doesn’t she just kill them?”
“A good point.” Out of the mouths of simple whores came logic. “I don’t know the answer to that one, either. But, will you help me?”
“I might. I don’t know. Why should I?”
“Just because you like me.”
“I didn’t used to.”
“You do now, though.”
“I wish you weren’t married, Mister Ford,” she let out a loud sigh. Then she giggled, “And I wouldn’t expect you to give me presents, either, Mister Ford.”
Ford’s mouth went suddenly dry.
“All right, I’ll help you. On one condition.”
“What’s that?” He was on his guard, wary. His negotiability had its limits.
“That you’ll tell me straight away if you get unmarried.”
“It’s a deal.”
“That’s fine.” She giggled again. “And if I see this girl, how do I tell you? I don’t like phoning police stations.”
He reached a notepad out of his pocket, scribbled in it, tore out the page. “Here, that’s my home number. If I’m not there, keep phoning until you get me. Understand?” It was risky letting her have his home telephone number but it was the only way. In this business you didn’t trust people, you just took chances. Calculated ones.
“I’d love to phone you, Mister Ford.”
“Fine, but only if you see this woman. No false alarms. Right?”
“Right.”
“Good.” He stood up, the confined atmosphere smelled decidedly unpleasant.
“Mister Ford?”
“Yes?” He was holding the door open for her.
“What did you say they called it, doing what this woman does to these blokes?”
“Circumcising.”
“Are you circumcised, Mister Ford?” She wasn’t smiling any longer, her big eyes were fixed on him, waiting for an answer as if it was the most important thing in the world to her.