by Guy N Smith
Her eyes narrowed as she remembered Doctor Whittaker. And her fleeting encounter with the stranger who called himself Jason Ford. Both men were on her list, there would be no reprieve.
Then she made her decision to go down to the police station. It was safe now.
WPC Braithwaite was on the afternoon shift, she was due in about quarter of an hour. Kate accepted the desk sergeant’s invitation to take a seat and wait.
The WPC arrived ten minutes later; punctuality was one of her ‘things’, she explained. She always allowed a margin in case of delays.
“This is absolutely magnificent,” she took the painting across to the window, propped it up against a rack of anti-theft leaflets. “It’s really, really beautiful. Each and every one of these ducks has been painted in minute detail. It’s as if they’re alive, you can almost hear them quacking. I can’t wait to hang it in the lounge at home.” She glanced at the price sticker. “Will you take a cheque?”
“That’s fine.”
“You must really love ducks.”
“I do. I go and watch them most days even when I’m not painting. They fascinate me, I guess it’s become an obsession.”
“And a very healthy one. How are you getting on in the flat?” She ripped out the cheque, gave it to Kate.
“I’ve moved now. To a single apartment in Valley Tower.”
“Oh, dear,” the officer pursed her lips. “That’s not good news. A bad place, vandalism mostly but we’ve had some muggings there.”
“I’ve never had any trouble. Anyway, I see from the news placards that you’ve caught the one you were after.” An opportunity for a subtle cue.
“I hear they’ve charged a woman with the serial killings and mutilations but it wasn’t her I was worried about. There’s still a psychopath at large.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Well, keep your door locked, don’t answer it to strangers, and my advice is if you haven’t already got a telephone, get one installed.”
“I’ll do that,” Kate folded the cheque, tucked it in the pocket of her jeans. “Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure, and just you look after yourself.”
Kate felt herself start to swagger down the police station steps. Head high, she grinned up at the late afternoon sky. Up you! She had fooled them all the way, even sold them a fucking painting, and the bonus was that some slut was going down for it. They’d close the file.
Until she began again.
Maybe next time it called for a slightly different technique, she’d work something out. That was when she got the idea to phone Doctor Whittaker. Not right now, later on tonight. He’d said to call him if she needed him. Too right, she needed him.
And before long she’d go looking up Ford, too.
31.
Kate took her time, savoured every moment, attended to every last detail. The loose floorboard had jammed like it wasn’t meant to lift up any more. She had to find a screwdriver to ease it up a fraction, got a splinter down her fingernail. A hunt for a pair of tweezers; she found them in her handbag, extracted the tiny sliver of wood from her skin. It hurt, made her gasp aloud. She treated the tiny wound with TCP and it didn’t bleed any more. Back to work.
She arranged the jars on a circular drinks tray, set them out in chronological order except for the phallic which she used as a focal point. The set-up was fine, she put it on the three-legged coffee table in the centre of the room, viewed it from every angle, rearranged it several times until she was satisfied. It looked good. Real good. Then she covered it with a tea towel, a visitor might presume that she had prepared some cocktail nibbles, wasn’t chancing any flies settling on the peanuts and twiglets. She found a half bottle of cinzano in the kitchen, an added touch of realism. Would you like to see my collection? Perhaps you’d like a drink first? You might need it.
Then she bathed leisurely, there was no hurry. She soaped her body, it seemed as though she had a thousand different erogenous zones but she fought off the temptation to indulge in pointless pleasures. Tonight she would enjoy the ultimate delights of mind and body, she wasn’t risking impairing them. She tensed, relaxed, tensed again. Come to me, my dearest, for tonight you shall be mine in every way.
Doubts nagged at her. Suppose Doctor Whittaker wasn’t home, he was out on a call or had attended some social function that entailed a late return. No matter, the night was young. Midnight, three, four, he would come if she called.
She rehearsed her script. I just can’t sleep, Doctor (not, ‘Glenn’ yet), the tablets aren’t working. It’s the dreams that are worrying me; I keep getting this urge to … to do away with myself! That would bring him, all right. Just so long as he didn’t phone for one of the other doctors to come. Even if he did, then he was only postponing the inevitable. There was tomorrow night and every night after that. In the end, he’d come.
But, please, I want him tonight.
She dressed as she always had, the dark Levi’s and matching denim blouse.
The Black Mantis.
It was a shame that she had cut her hair short, wasn’t able to fasten it back in a ponytail. But, no matter. She checked her watch. 9.15. She’d better leave it an hour. She didn’t want to rush the ultimate.
She checked the knife over, ensured that the blade moved smoothly: she couldn’t risk any technical hitches. She made the bed, turned the duvet back, left the lamp burning on a low wattage bulb. It looked romantic. I know you want to fuck me, Glenn.
Strangely, the thought of intercourse was not repulsive to her. Neither was it particularly exciting. It was something that she would do as part of the build-up. And she’d do it well. Fake her pleasure. It was akin to bathing, you cleaned yourself, tried to enjoy it as much as you could.
She didn’t want to think beyond, how soon it would be before they missed him. Men had a habit of walking out of their own lives, even doctors. He wouldn’t record the call out, she was sure of that. His car would have to be removed, parked elsewhere. She had had basic driving lessons but had not taken a test. She thought she would be able to drive it anyway, maybe park it down by the railway station. That way they might think that he’d taken a train or intended to.
Circumcision was not going to be enough where Doctor Whittaker was concerned. What happened afterwards was entirely up to him. The urge was too great for her, an unstoppable driving force. Whatever the consequences, she had to cut him.
She changed some pictures around, lined up a few along the scuffed skirting board like an art exhibition that had been over-subscribed. He liked ducks, he’d told her that. It was he who had warned her of the dangers of feeding them a diet of white bread.
Perfection, she checked the time again. Five minutes past ten. That was near enough, by the time she had walked down to the phone box it would be fine. She let herself out of the flat.
Instinctively she kept to the shadows, that was not difficult in the vicinity of Valley Tower where only three streetlights out of six were working and only a smattering of the flat windows were lit. It doesn’t matter any more, she reminded herself, they won’t be looking for me. They might be after tonight.
Voices, kids playing in the dark, probably vandalising the scrubby play area at the rear. A girl was laughing, somebody shouted. Kate hurried on.
The telephone box was unlit, that could be to her advantage. Only as she approached was she aware of a muffled conversation, stared and made out a vague silhouette through the glass. Shit, somebody was on the phone. Well, at least that proved that the phone wasn’t out of order.
She hung back, hugged the cover of a scrubby privet hedge. Her pulses were racing, God, how much longer were they going to be? It didn’t mater, there was no urgency. Whittaker would come, whether it was now or in three hours time.
A heavy door thudded, she heard footsteps walking away. This was it.
She had the doctor’s number written on a scrap of paper, she had not bargained for there being no light. Oh, fuck! Just at that moment she heard a car co
ming down the road, saw its headlights illuminating the pavements on both sides. A 20p coin went in the meter, she began to press the digits frantically in the sweeping glare which would be gone in seconds, memorised the number as she punched it in.
Thank God, just in time. It was pitch dark again; the car had passed by and was gone.
She heard the phone ringing at the other end.
Oh, come on! She found herself counting the rings; eight … nine … ten. She always counted them; if nobody had answered by the twelfth then it was a fair bet that there would be no reply.
Twelve.
She was on the point of hooking the receiver back when she heard the dialling tone cut out. Her heart seemed to miss a beat, right then there was a constriction in her throat, she could not have spoken a word. She almost dropped the phone, just managed to catch it.
“Doctor Whittaker.”
“Hello!” She blurted out, felt foolish, sucked for saliva.
“Who’s that speaking?” Terse, annoyed. Few doctors welcomed nocturnal calls.
“Kate Leonard.”
There was a pause; an intake of breath, Kate braced herself for whatever he might say. Everything could fall apart. Don’t get phoning me after hours, ring the surgery if it’s an emergency and they’ll connect you to the doctor on night duty.
“Kate! Are you all right?”
Sheer relief flooded over her, she almost said, ‘Yes, I’m fine’. “I’m glad I’ve got through to you Doctor Whittaker.”
“That’s all right, I was just getting out of the bath, anyway.”
Oh, Jesus, he might be standing there naked; she saw him in her mind. Saw him how she wanted him to be.
“What’s the matter? You sound upset.”
Bloody nervous, you mean. She smiled to herself in the pitch-blackness. “I’m having a bad night, I just needed to talk to you.”
“How bad?”
“Dreams, nightmares. Every time I close my eyes I hear voices. They keep telling me to …”
“To what?”
“To … to do away with myself!” She thought she made a good job of it, blurted it out in a rush like she was afraid to put it into words.
“Don’t be silly.” He was concerned, she could tell, he spoke casually to try to calm her.
“I’m sorry Doctor, I am silly. Now that I’ve spoken to you I feel better already. I’ll walk back up to the flat, go back to bed and everything will probably be all right.”
“Where are you now?” His tone changed, it was one of urgency.
“In the phone box just below Valley Tower.”
“Good God, you ought not to be out alone. Give me your address to save me turning up the file.”
“Number 177, thirteenth floor.”
“Go back home, I’ll be with you just as soon as I can make it over there.”
“There’s really no need …” Act it right out to the bitter end, you’ve done brilliantly.
“Go back and wait for me!” The line went dead and she heard her coin drop down.
Kate sighed loudly, knew that she would have to use some more deodorant before Whittaker arrived. It might take him ten minutes, less if he drove fast. She began to walk quickly.
She was trembling now that it had worked, maybe deep down she was hoping that there might have been a snag, a legitimate let-off. Her mouth was dry, her stomach had balled. She just stood there in the centre of the living room listening to the empty silence. It was like the whole block was deserted, everybody had up and left except herself. Then, in the distance, she heard a car slowing down to turn in off the main road.
She didn’t have to go through with it. Doctors on late calls didn’t drink cinzano; he might accept coffee or tea whilst they talked. She had no reason to unveil … those. You shit of a coward! He’ll see them, every one of them.
Afterwards.
The car turned into the service road below, came to a halt. The engine died. It couldn’t be anybody except Whittaker.
This was it.
He looked different somehow, standing there on the threshold. His hair was damp and lay flat on his head, he had been telling the truth about bathing. And why should he lie? He wasn’t wearing his glasses, he squinted slightly without them. And all that he wore visibly, right down to his suede shoes, was a thick plaid bathrobe, turned up at the collar like a winter overcoat, belted around the waist. He had not wasted time in his urgency to get here.
“Now, we’d better talk this through,” he followed her through to the living room, sat down alongside her on the frayed and scuffed sofa. “What time did you go to bed?”
“About eight, I thought an early night would do me good.”
“Often a mistake,” his hands were thrust deep into his side pockets; his legs were stretched out in front of him. “Even on sedatives, an early bedtime can disturb one’s sleep cycle. Tell me about the dreams.”
They came glibly enough, a hotchpotch of unrelated nonsense that she half-remembered from that bad bout of flu she’d had when she was fifteen. The walls had been closing in on her, the ceiling had been descending. And then voices urging her to take the rest of the pills all at once.
“I’d better take the tablets back with me when I go, Kate.”
Which meant that he wasn’t leaving just yet.
“Oh … fine.”
“It’s always worse when you’re on your own,” he smiled. “It can be dangerous, too. Which was why I stressed the importance of a relationship. A good one, of course. Beds aren’t meant to be slept in alone.”
“I had a bath earlier,” she watched him carefully as she spoke, she felt suddenly uneasy. For no apparent reason.
“Good,” he smiled, “so did I. In fact, I had just got out when the phone rang. I came straight away; I knew you were having a bad time. I didn’t stop to dress even,” he glanced down at himself almost sheepishly. “Please excuse my attire.”
“Of course, it was very good of you to come so quickly.”
“Baths are very therapeutic, Kate.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you. I always drink one after a bath. Tonight I didn’t have time. I really would appreciate a coffee.”
She got up, walked over to the kettle, filled it.
“Baths are also very erotic, Kate. Do you know what I was thinking about as I lay soaking in the warm water?”
“I’ve not the slightest idea,” she stiffened, her spine began to tingle. Her fingers gripped the handle of the kettle, she felt her pulses begin to race. His tone had changed, it was almost a whisper.
“All right, I’ll tell you, then. I thought about you, and I tossed myself off!”
There was a roaring in her ears, a constriction in her throat. She thought she detected a movement behind her as if he had stood up; another sound like that which a coat makes when it falls off a peg and hits the floor.
She began to turn round slowly. That was when she thought she had flipped, that her fictitious nightmares had become reality. That she was hallucinating.
Doctor Whittaker’s bathrobe lay on a heap on the carpet. In any other situation the sight of him standing there, stark naked except for his suede shoes and a pair of short grey socks, might have been comical. It might even have been amusing now had he not been holding a hobby knife with the blade extended in a threatening gesture.
Kate tensed, her gaze dropped below the knife, centred on his navel, travelled on down until she saw that which she knew she would see, that overhang of surplus skin which she would have recognised anywhere, such was its individuality.
“I do apologise,”Doctor Whittaker smiled with genuine regret as he stepped forward. “I really am sorry, Kate, believe me. I’ve been thinking about you ever since the last time, and finally I couldn’t wait any longer.”
32.
Ford did his utmost to keep his visits to the central police station to a bare minimum. This was due in part to his loner instincts because it was crowded by comparison with the vice u
nit building; it was also because of the rivalry that existed between his own department and the CID.
Seen any good dirty films lately, Jason? Going for a kerb crawl tonight? Gawd, it must be one big turn on up the road there, wish I’d got your job. Trouble is, I wouldn’t be much good to the missus if I had and she’d soon rumble me.
The jibes and bawdy jokes were incessant, the majority of them good-natured. But Ford had an aversion to dirty talk, it embarrassed him. Some of the detective sergeants were jealous of him, ‘vice’ was considered an elite squad, simply because it specialised.
He had gone off duty at ten. Or rather, he had left the office then, the chief had not restricted his hours. Yet. He needed to check on some files for the sake of his own conscience. He didn’t expect to find anything new on Tanya Mitchell but he had to try. He had to explore every avenue, he felt personally responsible for her predicament. Which, logically, was silly but it didn’t alter anything.
“Got one over you, didn’t we Jason?” There was a smirk on Detective Inspector Howarth’s broad features. “Beats me, blokes trained to catch sickos, and she gets picked up by a couple of patrolling PCs.”
“They haven’t convicted her yet, Don.”
“Come off it, she’s the one.”
“No, I’m serious. A lot of things don’t add up, I can’t see the evidence holding water. Right now, everybody’s seeing what they want to see.”
“She’s signed a confession.”
“So have hundreds of others over the years and got off on appeal. I just hate to think of that kid having to go through it all.”
“She cut a bloke, he’s made a complaint, she’s admitted it. So where’s the snag?”
“One guy, and I’d stake my pension that it’s unrelated to the other mutilations. He begged her to, never mind what he says now. I know these freaks and how their fantasies work. That’s all they live on, fantasies. Turn one into reality and they scream blue murder just like Rees-Edwards did. The girl fell for it; maybe he enraged her to make her do it. I’d like to talk to her alone if they’d let me.”