The Eighth Day (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  He didn’t want to risk kerb-crawling, he chose to go on foot. Which was how he came to be in the area in Barker Street and Bird Street that late April evening.

  There was a hint of frost in the air, his breath clouded. A girl spoke to him but he ignored her; she was short and fat. Lynn was big and busty. Ultimately, when he found the tart of his choice, he would be screwing with Lynn how she was twenty years ago and they would do all the things they used to enjoy doing, and none of it would be dirty or unhygienic.

  He had read the piece in the Observer about the Black Mantis with some amusement. If she existed, and he was sceptical of most newspaper stories, then she certainly wouldn’t be interested in the likes of himself. So when the Big Girl stepped out of an alleyway in front of him, he knew that his luck was in. He couldn’t see her features but, in all probability, she bore a facial resemblance to his wife. He chose to think that she did, anyway.

  This was, indeed, his lucky night.

  “Got half an hour to spare, darling?” He had spent some time rehearsing his opening line, he liked to sound confident, slick, a guy who knew just what he wanted. So don’t piss me about.

  “I’m free at the moment,” Kate’s reply was husky, sexy. “I’ve got a place to go. It’s about ten minutes walk from here.”

  “Lead on, sweetheart,” he slipped his hand into hers.

  She had changed her venue, that tumbledown row of houses between Barker Street and Bird Street were quoted in the newspaper report. In all probability they were under police surveillance; the old gas works off Gull Street offered basic shelter. It had been closed down after the city’s connection to North Sea gas ten years ago and was still derelict. A hypermarket chain had tried to buy it but there had been planning restrictions; now there were rumours of it being turned into a sports complex. For the time being it could be used for other purposes if you knew how to gain entrance. Kate’s daytime reconnaissance had revealed a breach in the security fencing, a place where you could squeeze through. Once inside, the choice was limitless, there was even an old office, dirty but unchanged. Privacy was guaranteed.

  Tonight she had varied her beat slightly, soon it wouldn’t make any difference, the police would scour every street in the red light area. She would need to alter her appearance. So far she had had an unrestricted run. From now on it might become tricky.

  Kate glanced at her companion, her skin prickled, she caught her breath. In silhouette, in the half-light, he might have been Doctor Whittaker. No, his voice, his walk, wasn’t right. It was just fanciful thinking. Crazy but exciting. A game that came unprompted, like those she had played at kids’ parties. Pretend. Guess who I am? Actions, an exaggerated mimic that had them all in fits of laughter. Ridiculous guesses, in the end you always had to tell them. Gasps of disbelief, we’d never have known. This guy would never know, she wouldn’t tell them.

  “How much further?” Carl was becoming impatient; his libido was running on an all time high.

  “Not far now,” she checked her pocket yet again, stroked smooth cold steel. “Just round this corner, in the next street.”

  The old gasworks was dark and forbidding, coke was still scattered over the weed-strewn yard, a reminder of a bygone era. Kate found the small side entrance, the door handle hung limp and broken, maybe kids played in here in the daytime.

  Her ‘client’ was eager, apprehensive of his surroundings. “I would’ve brought a torch if I’d guessed.”

  “I’ve got one.”

  “Oh, that’s great.”

  The darkness was menacing in there, he could not even make out her silhouette now, just felt her moving round him. Something scraped the concrete floor, it sounded like castors on some piece of furniture. Dust tickled his nostrils; he would sneeze in a second or two.

  “Sit down,” it came out as a command, a sudden beam of torchlight showed him an old-fashioned office chair. The torch was extinguished.

  “Bit spartan, isn’t it?”

  “Better than a stand up job in a draughty alley on a freezing cold night.” She pressed up against him, began to push him backwards.

  “I’ve been reading about the Black Mantis,” it was meant as a joke, it came out flat and unfunny.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Some woman’s going round circumcising her clients.”

  “I wouldn’t think that’s a very lucrative trade,” she sounded disinterested, began rubbing him through his trousers. “God, you’re ready, aren’t you?”

  “Been like that for the last hour,” he felt her begin to unzip him. “I don’t get it at home.”

  She had freed him; her touch was sensuous, feathery fingers sliding up and down him. She stopped suddenly, began pressing, pinching.

  “What’s the matter?” Christ, that bloody hurt.

  She didn’t reply. Something metallic clinked, he sensed that she was feeling in her pocket, probably searching for a condom.

  He heard an intake of breath, it sounded like a muttered curse.

  “What’s the matter?” He was beginning to feel decidedly uneasy.

  No answer.

  She was probably going to take him in her mouth. That was fine, for starters.

  She was pulling at him, scraping his tender, pulsing flesh with her sharp fingernails. Now it was his turn to gasp, that was really painful.

  “Hey,” he grunted, “are you some kind of sadist? Almost as bad as being caught by that Black Mantis slut. I reckon she’d be in for a bit of a shock if she picked me out!”

  The torch was back on again, the sudden bright light dazzling him. In its glare he had a brief glimpse of the prostitute kneeling, bent over him, seeming to examine his arousement with keen interest. Three seconds, maybe four, and then she plunged him back into darkness.

  “Like I was saying, I wouldn’t be much good to her because I’m circumcised!”

  The sudden shock, the realisation, froze Kate. This was something which she had never considered; naively believing that every man she picked up would have a foreskin ready and waiting for her blade. This one hadn’t, there was no length of surplus flesh to pull taut, slice through.

  Oh, Jesus fuck.

  She swayed on her knees, thought for a moment that she was going to pass out, she had a man at her mercy, he definitely wasn’t the one she was hunting, that was too much to hope for. That was almost of secondary importance, her lust was overpowering, she was too psyched up just to walk away. Or run. If she stayed then she had to fuck, she had no choice.

  The thought of sex was repulsive to her, the idea of fleeing empty handed a bitter disappointment. Anger, frustration, had her trembling violently. In her mind she saw those three trophies back home, the other jars of white spirit waiting to be filled. A sudden idea; her thumb depressed the catch that extended the knife blade, the hand that held it was slippery with the sweat of fear. No! Yes!

  “Hey, are you going to do anything or are you going to kneel there all night just holding my …”

  Kate didn’t have to make a decision, it was made for her. It was as if the knife in her fingers had taken over, there was nothing she could have done to stop it. The blade pushed downwards, its unerring instinct found the base of that member, cut deep into the soft flesh. Gripping with one hand, pushing with the other, leaning her full weight upon it; slicing, sawing. A fountain of thick, warm liquid jetted into her face, she tasted it on her lips, licked at it. It was in her eyes but in the pitch-blackness it made no difference.

  Heady, pulling and cutting; the organ came away with a suddenness that almost threw her off balance. Shouting her triumph, holding her prize aloft, brandishing the hobby knife in her other hand. Somewhere far away, she could only just detect it through the roaring and pounding in her ears, she heard somebody screaming. Cries of pain and terror, an orchestra of anguish serenading her triumph.

  She staggered to her feet, ran for the doorway, pawing at her blood washed eyes as she went. Not fleeing, because she had nothing to fear,
simply that she craved the privacy of her flat where she could examine her latest prize, gloat over it, savour it. A thought that gave her added strength, speed and stealth, a blood hungry creature of the night flitting through the shadows, clutching its kill. Cradling it to her bosom, oblivious of the blood that soaked into her sweatshirt, grasping it firmly in case it should wriggle free, slither away in the darkness and be lost to her.

  An urge to shout aloud what she had done, but caution prevailed. Her instincts were as keen as ever, she dodged into an alleyway so that the headlights of an approaching car would not pick her out, crouching there until it passed her and was gone. Running, walking, stopping every so often to listen, moving on only when it was safe to do so. Until at last she was home.

  Carl Vallance struggled blindly to find the doorway in a room where there was only crimson-streaked blackness. Tearing at it with his fingernails, his strength ebbing from him by the second, aware of the blood that jetted from him. His feet slipped in it, he stumbled outside, saw the mesh security fence against the murky orange glow of a city night sky. Somewhere there was a gap, just wide enough to squeeze through. He couldn’t remember exactly where …

  Holding on to the wire, pulling himself feebly around the perimeter, letting the sagging fence take his full weight or he would surely have fallen. Bloody step by bloody step, each one slower than the last.

  He tried to shout for help, managed only a hoarse, croaking sound. A side street less than a yard away, a row of tumbledown terraced houses, their unlit windows smashed or boarded up. Sheer desolation, waiting to be razed to the ground so that factory units and supermarkets could be built in their place. Nobody walked these streets any longer, there was nothing to come here for.

  He heard a car, clung to one last hope, barely had the strength to groan his dismay when it turned off at the far end of the street. Mouthing after it, willing it to come back. But it didn't.

  Hanging limply from the galvanised mesh by his fingertips, unable to travel any further. Consciousness was slipping from him, he braced himself for the fall. The pain was gone now, just a numbness that crept upwards until finally he loosened his grip, slid down amidst a clump of dead vegetation.

  It parted to receive his body, closed back over it, as if deliberately to hide his awful mutilation.

  A few minutes later the police patrol car returned, passed by slowly, and headed on in the direction of Barker Street.

  18.

  Any other chief would have gone ape shit, Ford thought. Which was another reason for admiring Clem Dawson. Melton and Fallon were worried, the pressure was on them, but Dawson was outwardly unmoved. The unit could handle druggies and pimps, pull in prostitutes and addicts by the score; murder was routine, par for the course. Circumcisions were almost a joke, the Black Mantis was fast becoming a kind of cult figure who might sort out the red light district. But this was a different ball game.

  Dawson took the briefing himself which would surely piss off Melton. Afterwards he would give a press conference. You had to strain your ears to catch his words, you daren’t risk missing anything.

  Ford’s eyes had roved the central office just once, done a head count from right to left, beginning with the chief. Melton and Fallon, eight DCs. Arnold and himself. A full complement. Down at police headquarters the CID would be conducting their own briefing, much of a muchness. The two units would work together and yet separately; all information would be collated and processed. It gave Ford a feeling of inconsequence. A few hours ago this had been his case, now it was everybody’s. Every cop on the beat would be utilised, house to house enquiries, mountains of paperwork, the most trivial of leads would be followed up until they were exhausted. Nothing would be overlooked.

  He wondered if Dawson would allow him to continue with his previous role. Or would he draft him in on a particular line of enquiry to work with other officers.

  The pathologist estimated that Vallance had been dead for a week, that tied up with when his wife had reported him missing. People went missing somewhere every day of the week for a variety of reasons a few turned up, most were never heard of again. Guys left their wives, went off with another woman, started a fresh life; teenagers ran away from home, found jobs and didn’t go back. Only children and women were taken seriously, full scale alerts and searches investigated. But the police weren’t going to waste too much time looking for the likes of Carl Vallance; missing persons listed him, circulated his details to every force in the country.

  Some kids off the nearest council estate had found him, gone into the old gasworks to look for a football they’d kicked over the fence. Which wouldn’t look good for the cops on the beat who were supposed to check the place.

  It was later that afternoon when the chief phoned down for Ford. Fallon’s expression said, you’re in for a bollocking. That was a strong possibility.

  Dawson’s office was thick with Erinmore smoke, he didn’t look up when Ford entered. Ford sat down because he felt foolish standing up like a schoolboy summoned by the headmaster. Dawson continued writing steadily for a full five minutes. Only then did he cap his pen, return it to his inside pocket, lean back on his chair.

  He said, “This is the big one.” The way he said it, you knew it was. He would never have made a career for himself on stage. His eyes fixed on Ford, maybe seeing if the other would drop his gaze; he didn’t.

  “Nothing’s changed,” Dawson went on, struggled to relight his pipe, spoke with it dangling from his dentures. “It’s still your case. There’s others on it, our chaps and CID, but that won’t alter anything. Don’t let anybody tread on your toes.”

  “No sir, I won’t.”

  “I’m linking this to the Black Mantis. Privately. Officially, we’re not committing ourselves. Not just yet, anyway. I checked with Vallance’s wife just now, he was circumcised as a child, had problems with his foreskin not retracting. The Black Mantis picked him up, went to circumcise him and found that somebody had beaten her to it. So she took his penis. She took it with her, probably has it in her foreskin collection. She’ll do the same again if the next guy she picks up is already circumcised. It’s murder now, Ford.”

  “She won’t stop until she’s caught. The first female serial killer on our patch.”

  “Precisely. I phoned the FBI’s Behavioural Science Unit earlier, thought perhaps they might have a profile. They don’t, they have to rewrite the rules. Just two and they don’t help either them or us. A woman known as the Pig Lady at the turn of the century. She lured men to a pig farm, killed them. Recently there was Lee Wuornos, a prostitute who worked the country roads. Men picked her up, drove her to some secluded place for sex and she shot them. All in the torso, and if that didn’t kill them she finished them with a headshot. She murdered five in all. The only thing we can glean from her is consistency, same type of men, same method of killing. Which goes for the Black Mantis. We have to try to establish a motive ...” it was a cue.

  “Revenge, maybe. For Amanda Chapman’s murder. Or a deranged wife whose husband has been whoring and she’s found out, thinks if she kills a few blokes then maybe the rest will keep off the streets. Perhaps a woman who has been abused in childhood seeking revenge against men. Or a sadistic prostitute who feels guilty after a lifetime on the job and wants to get her own back on men. Or a religious fanatic who despises Gentiles. The Big Girl is crazy, whatever, she could just be doing it for kicks. We’ll maybe have to find her to establish why she does it.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way,” which was a compliment from the chief, he was still testing out his man. “Between you and me,” he leaned forward slightly, he rarely risked confidences, “she’s doing us a favour. Just think of it, the guys who go with whores are going to be scared rigid, she might even resort to doing it through contact magazines and advertisements if the police presence gets too heavy for her. It’s like she’s been sent to do a job that the police couldn’t.”

  “I was thinking the same.”

  “But we’r
e policemen,” maybe wishing that he had not hinted at a private opinion, “so we have to catch her and we’ll do everything in our power to do just that. I can’t even advise you how or where to start, like the FBI, we don’t have a profile, we have to rewrite the rules.”

  Ford said, “I’ll find her some way.”

  “Sometimes an officer has to lose all his self respect,” there was a hint of an apology in Dawson’s tone. It was possibly the first time one of his men had ever seen him embarrassed, doodling on his pad, averting his eyes. “I hate to ask a man to do that, Ford. If it were possible I’d do it myself but I’m the wrong build, she wouldn’t pick me up. You’re the smallest man in the unit. But that’s not the reason I’m sending you in; I don’t think any of the others could do it. You know what I mean?”

  Ford thought he did. Because he wasn’t religious, he didn’t go to church. He had his own code of morals but he’d break them if he had to. And he hated whores. Those were the necessary ingredients. If you didn’t have those you didn’t stand a chance.

  “Somewhere in this cesspit of scum Amanda Chapman’s killer is still at large,” Dawson looked up. “We have to get him too.”

  “I know.”

  “I just wanted you to know what the job entailed, the risks, that’s all.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” Ford stood up.

  “I’m meeting a psychiatrist tomorrow,” Dawson’s head was bowed back over his notes. “Just to discuss a few possibilities. A GP, in fact, but he’s had some commendable successes, helped us a couple of times in the past. I want to see if there’s anything we’ve missed in our attempts to build up a possible profile. I’d like you to come along with me. A Doctor Whittaker if you’ve heard of him?”

  “The name rings a bell but I can’t say I’ve ever met him.”