by Guy N Smith
“Who did you think it was, sweetheart?” His voice was cultured, sounded muffled; it looked like he was wearing a duffel coat with the hood up like herself.
“Just one o’ me boyfriends.” Liz was apprehensive, she didn’t like anybody sneaking up on her. She was trembling, too, her big teeth chattered.
“I am one of your boyfriends,” he laughed. “A new one.”
He wore trainers that had enabled him to move silently. She was aware, too, of the almost overpowering smell, which emanated from him. Some kind of aftershave; it was sexy. It was the way he stood that was disconcerting, a kind of crouch like an animal about to spring on its prey.
His hand went to his pocket; she heard a clink, it was probably money.
“It’ll cost you twenty,” there was a tremor in her voice. “Straight, no messing about.”
“Lie down on the ground!” A grunted command that was vibrant with lust.
Liz hesitated. She might have fled except that the stranger stood directly in front of her, barred her escape route either way. “Twenty quid, please.”
Something that rustled was pressed into her hand. She didn’t try to examine it; it might have been just a piece of paper. Awkwardly, she lowered her cumbersome body down onto the rough concrete. The sooner she got this over and done with, the better.
There was an urgency about his movements. He was desperate, overcome with lust. She often had clients like this one, at least they didn’t waste time.
He rested his hands on her shoulders, there was no foreplay. He was remarkably strong for his size.
There was a car coming down the street, cruising slowly. It was probably a police patrol. It’s headlights played on the alley wall, reflected. And it was then that Liz saw her companion’s head for the first time. It was impossible to see his face because it was covered by some kind of balaclava helmet.
Fear gripped her; she tensed, tried to raise herself up on an elbow but he was too strong for her.
“What’s goin’ on?” Her head was banged back on the floor, steely fingers closed over her throat.
“Be quiet, please.”
His almost courteous manner was far more terrifying than if he had cursed her, despised her for the slut she was. But his contempt did not detract from his lust.
“Hey, let me go, I’ll give you your money back.”
“I said, be quiet.”
“That’s a police car,” the headlights passed, the vehicle was almost level with the alley. “Look, let me go or I’ll scream, I’ll ‘ave the bloody police on yer. This is bleedin’ rape!”
She had a brief glimpse of something in his hand, knew instinctively that it was a knife.
“All right, I’ll be quiet, I won’t …”
The masked man scarcely paused in his copulative movements, pinned her down with his left hand, his right was raised.
At that point Loony Liz made up her mind to scream. Her thick lips parted, the cry was gathering in her throat but it was choked by the severing of her jugular. A gurgle, her head went back, and then thick, arterial blood was jetting, pumping. Spraying.
Even then the other did not check his movements, thrust with his powerful thighs until he was finished, seemed unaware of the crimson fountain which washed over him, saturated his clothing.
Finally, he was done, easing himself off her, kneeling there with bowed head and shoulders, seemingly remorseful. He had not intended to kill this time, it only happened when his victim enraged him by protesting or resisting. With hindsight, he need not have come masked, could have had what he needed so desperately for twenty quid. Except that she might have recognised him. It was unlikely but he could take no chances.
He wiped the hobby knife on his clothing, retracted the blade and returned it to his pocket. Then he stretched up to the full extent of his short height as though to ease his cramped muscles, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
The urge had come and now it was gone again. He stepped back, stood looking down on the still form whose blood was pumping weakly now.
“I do apologise,”he muttered, and turned back the way he had come.
21.
It was the first time that Ford had seen Doctor Whittaker. Even the name had been unfamiliar until Dawson had mentioned it.
Ford acknowledged the doctor; Dawson might not even have been aware that the detective sergeant had entered the room. Suddenly the chief’s HQ office seemed crowded; there were only two chairs door side of the desk, this was a haven of confidences, the gallery was full. You sensed the tension, even the doctor fidgeted with his hands.
Clem Dawson took his time lighting his pipe, he seemed hell-bent on thickening the existing fog of tobacco smoke. He had come straight from another press conference; the Ripper saga would gain momentum. The papers would exaggerate the gory details, come up with their own theories. It would compete with the Black Mantis for front page space.
The police pathologist was already preparing his report on Loony Liz. Nobody doubted that his findings would link the killer to Amanda Chapman. Doubtless every reporter nationwide was jumping the gun on that. Dawson expected it, there was no point in asking them to hold back.
“It would appear that we have two serial killers on the same patch,” his briar was drawing to his satisfaction, he bit on the stem, spoke through it in barely audible tones. “Technically, we need a third murder to qualify, according to the FBI. Doubtless we shall get one,” he stated a fact, there was no melodrama in his voice. “In the other case, I think we can count circumcisions along with castrations. According to fingerprints, the Mantis has no existing criminal record. We are left with the mode of attack to work from, nothing else. So, Doctor Whittaker?”
Doctor Glenn Whittaker blinked behind his rimless glasses. He had prepared some notes, he glanced down at them. “We have a rapist who kills big women and a big woman who commits genital assaults on small men,” he cleared his throat. “An interesting antipathy.” If it was intended as a subtle joke, nobody laughed. Because these two policemen seldom expressed mirth. “Both use a hobby knife, apparently. I don’t think there is any significance in that, only that they can be bought easily and cheaply and are ideal for castrations, circumcisions and murders. Also they are so common that their purchase would be very difficult to trace.”
“Give us the profiles, Doctor,” there was a hint of impatience in Clem Dawson’s tone. His own men would compile a report on the weapons, he wasn’t accepting one from a GP.
“Of course.” Whittaker’s reply might have been intended as an apology for stepping beyond his psychiatric boundary. “As far as the prostitute murders are concerned, these are usually committed by men with a grudge against women, perhaps a jilted lover. In some cases the killers claim to have heard voices telling them to go out and rid the world of prostitution, as in the case of the Yorkshire Ripper. I do not have enough facts at this stage to be able to comment on this one, only that two large women have been murdered. This smacks of serial killing, the murderer only going for a particular kind of victim. If there is a third,” Whittaker hesitated, “it will be interesting to note the build of the unfortunate woman.”
“And the Black Mantis?”
“I would suggest a revenge campaign, on the lines you mentioned to me on the telephone, Superintendent. At some stage she has been either raped by a small man or sexually assaulted in some way. It might even go back as far as childhood. Doubtless, the man concerned was uncircumcised so her intention is to circumcise all small men. Like all serial killers, she is convinced that she will never be caught. There could be a religious connection but I doubt it. I would say that almost certainly she had been wronged by a Gentile.”
“Why doesn’t she just kill them?” Dawson asked.
“Murder is not her line. Even if … when you catch her, you will only be able to charge her with manslaughter. Even now she might be suffering terrible remorse because her castration victim is dead. She might, in future, spare any circumcised men she comes acros
s. In all probability she was so psyched up when she discovered that her last victim had no foreskin that she took his penis instead. I cannot say. But I would say categorically that her intent is just to circumcise.”
“Have you ever performed a circumcision, Doctor Whittaker?”
“Yes,” he paused, looked up, tapped his nose with a forefinger. “I’m glad you asked me that because it brings to mind another possibility.”
Dawson and Ford watched him intently, every possibility had to be explored.
“Circumcision, on rare occasions, figures in sado-masochist games, either separate from, or allied to, flagellation. I had one such patient come to me for emergency treatment a couple of years back, a game that had gone over the top. His foreskin was three quarters cut through; it could have been stitched but I chose to circumcise him, mainly because it might have benefited him psychologically. A childhood resentment against his parents for not having him circumcised, he had pursued his longing for the operation into masochistic games with a nineteen year old girl. Deep down he was frightened of the operation but once it was done his inhibition was cured. Which was why she broke off their relationship. I’m afraid I cannot give you the name of this man. Patient confidentiality prohibits me. Suffice to say that he now lives a normal married life with his wife, as far as I know. Whatever the ethics, circumcision benefited him. It is a minor operation, even in an adult, but it does need medical supervision. The cut skin needs to be folded back and stitched to stop the bleeding and care must be taken that no infection gets into the wound. Which is why the Mantis could kill by circumcising. The man who was brought to me for treatment would have died from loss of blood otherwise. We were only just in time as it was.”
“This girl you mentioned?” Dawson’s relaxed posture was gone; he laid his pipe in the ashtray.
“She’s not a patient of mine so I can give you her name,” Whittaker pursed his lips. “I don’t know where she is, she may have left, moved on. The man did not lodge a complaint; his concern at the time was to protect her. She had done it with his blessing even if their game had gone too far. At first he came up with the excuse that he had caught his foreskin in his trouser zip, afterwards he changed his story. It wasn’t a police matter so I didn’t report it. He did, however, tell me about the various games they used to play which might be of help to you, Superintendent.”
“Go on.”
“He wasn’t the type to go looking for prostitutes even to satisfy a strange whim. Up until the time they met he had satisfied himself in a variety of masochistic masturbations. Unknown to his wife, of course. Had she indulged in his fetish he might still have been pursuing a life of marital foreskin games. He met this girl quite by chance, a seemingly nice and attractive teenager. She, too, pursued secret sexual variations, unknown to her parents with whom she still lived. She possessed a full wardrobe of leather gear and whips, and acquired a nazi commandant’s cap from some souvenir shop. When she had the house to herself, she used to dress up. Fantasise about a variety of tortures. An introvert, she had no contacts with whom to share her pleasure. Having met Mister X, as we will call him, their mutual pleasures developed slowly. He told me all about them, it was as though circumcision had finally rid him of a lifelong curse and he wanted to get it out of his system. In the beginning they used to write so-called erotic letters to each other, make phone calls when the opportunity presented itself. The whole thing took a year or more to develop. She made him various implements of self-torture; a couple of miniature whips with which to lash his foreskin, a guillotine that only lacked a blade, various bulldog clips. Innumerable devices which he used and wrote to her at length of his painful experiences. Eventually, they got together and carried out their sado-masochism for real, totally uninhibited.”
“Do you think there was any deliberate intention upon her part to circumcise him?” Dawson asked.
“I think so but only with his express consent. That’s something we’ll never know. Apparently, on the evening when it all came to a head, he was bound and helpless, pleading with her for the ultimate. She was pretty turned on, too. Either she couldn’t stop herself or the knife slipped. He claims it was an accident.”
“What kind of knife?”
“A hobby knife.”
“Go on, please.” Dawson glanced at Ford.
“There is an outside chance,” the doctor continued, “that we are dealing with a minority area of sado-masochism, a woman who is living out her fantasies. Men who share these fetishes are few and far between so without willing participants she seeks out unwilling ones. It matters not to her. But her intention is not to kill; you can take that from me. It is either a revenge campaign or a fetish, we shall not know that until she is caught, Superintendent.”
“What’s her name, Doctor?” Dawson’s eyes hooded.
“Her name is Tanya Mitchell.”
That was one of the few times when Ford betrayed surprise. Only a slight stiffening of the body, a sudden narrowing of his eyes, but the chief saw and understood.
“Know her, Sergeant?”
“I’ll go and talk to her,” outwardly Ford’s voice was devoid of emotion. In this game you resisted the temptation to jump to conclusions. A girl had circumcised an older man in an over-the-top sex game. That, in itself, was no proof that she was the Black Mantis. On the other hand, she might be.
Jason Ford would find out.
22.
Kate saw the placard outside the newsagents at the bottom of the council estate. A passing, disinterested glance was instantly transformed into gut-wrenching shock.
BLACK MANTIS KILLING
NOW IT’S MURDER.
Panic. Fear. But she did not experience remorse. Just an instinctive fear of being caught.
She got herself back under control, resisted the temptation to go into the shop and buy a first edition of the Observer. She didn’t want to read it, she didn’t need to. She knew far more than they did, their wild suppositions would only serve to anger her. Neither did she wish to collect press cuttings. She had her own collection of souvenirs in her bathroom hideaway.
Kate walked on steadily. They would not catch her. Ever. They didn’t stand a chance. They had nothing to go on. But she needed to make certain changes, both in her appearance and method of operating. The city’s red light area would be too dangerous from now on.
There was a buff coloured envelope lying just inside the door, she saw the council’s franking as she bent down to pick it up. A reply to her request to be relocated. We’re sorry but there are currently no available single person flats. We give priority to drug addicts, lawbreakers, unmarried mothers. Fuck the lot of them. She tore at the flap, smoothed the enclosed sheet of paper out. Jesus, miracles will never cease.
There was a flat available. Valley Tower, just off the Oxford Road, those unsightly edifices that had design faults and were scheduled for extensive repairs one day. When treasury funds permitted. In the meantime residents would have to put up with the damp. A freak hurricane might topple the lot, an unforeseen twister came straight from the West Indies. Number 177, 13th floor was available from next Monday. They needed her decision by tomorrow. She would accept. And fuck you, Paul Roden.
Where was Paul? He wasn’t home; she checked the bathroom, the bedroom. He was probably out job hunting. He wouldn’t be looking for accommodation because he couldn’t afford any. And he would not be moving to Valley Tower because they were single person flats.
You’re out on your arse, Paul.
There was a note pinned to her easel, scribbled in red ballpoint. He had a habit of using red ink, because the press supplied biros in that colour. He would not be back until late. That was fine, absolutely marvellous. She needed the time alone for a lot of reasons.
She took a leisurely bath, let her thoughts stray. Her father, the rapist, Paul; they all made her angry. Only Doctor Whittaker did not. Just thinking about him had her skin goose pimpling in spite of the warm water. He was so … understanding. An older man had
so much more to offer. Experience, for a start. They had already begun a kind of relationship; he had told her things he probably had not told anybody else. He admitted to masturbating but not in a lusting way. She felt sorry for him and that was a good thing because it stopped her feeling sorry for herself. The only other time that had happened to her had been a mistake but she was in the process of rectifying it.
Doctor Whittaker was different. She wished that she could call him ‘Glenn’. She wondered what he was like outside his consulting room. Was he easy-going, sympathetic? Or pedantic, short-tempered? You didn’t know until you lived with somebody.
He was good looking in a kind of professional way. Scrupulously clean, naturally. Softly spoken yet masculine. I’m, getting fond of you, Miss Leonard. Call me, Kate, please, Glenn. I like you too. Would you like to come out for dinner with me one night, Kate? This time the prickling went right the way up to the nape of her neck.
I want you to make love to me Glenn. That was when her hand smoothed its way downwards, her sensuous fingers touched herself in a way that they had never before done voluntarily.
Jesus Christ! The thought hit her hard, had her sitting upright like a sea lion surfacing in a zoo pool, splashing water over the side, flooding the floor with puddles. Angry with herself because she had spoiled it all, shell-shocked by a fantasy that was so beautiful.
No, I daren’t, because … She tore her hand away as if the water had suddenly boiled and scalded her.
Because Doctor Whittaker might be uncircumcised and that would leave her with only one choice. And afterwards he would not love her.
Anguished, she wrung her wet hands together. She did not know for sure, that was the awful thing. There was no way she would know until … she tried to console herself with optimistic thinking; 60% of the male population in the world were circumcised, she had read it in that library book. Which gave Doctor Whittaker a 60-40 chance. If he came from a medical family then they would probably have had it carried out in infanthood for reasons of cleanliness. Or if he had been born in a tropical climate. Or if there was any Semitic blood in his ancestry; even high church. Any one of those was a positive sign. That way she could love him, she dared not even think about a relationship until she knew for certain.