by Shaun Hutson
The words came out flatly with no inflection, and were all the more chilling because of that.
Again a babble of conversation began to grow but the judge silenced it with three sharp blows of the gavel.
'Did you know?' Briggs repeated, leaning on the edge of the witness box.
'I knew,' said Jonathan Crawford, indifferently. 'She started screaming when I cut her.'
'And yet you continued until you had severed both breasts?' said Briggs, now turning away from Crawford for a moment.
'Yes.'
Again the beginnings of a murmur.
Again the sharp report of the gavel.
Silence descended once more like a heavy blanket, with only the voices of the prosecutor and the defendant cutting through the oppressive stillness.
'Why did you choose this particular form of mutilation? Mrs Donaldson had already been stabbed,' he hesitated, consulting his notes again. 'She'd already been stabbed sixteen times to be exact. Wasn't that enough?'
'She had children,' Crawford began. 'Rich brats to suck at rich tits.' He chuckled.
'But you had already killed the children too,' rasped Briggs, his face darkening. He was finding it increasingly difficult to apply his usual detached professionalism to this case. Crawford was almost intolerably arrogant and that attitude was beginning to unsettle even the QC.
'We killed the kids first to shut them up,' Crawford told him. 'You know how noisy kids can be.'
There was a note of condescension in his voice which the prosecutor wasn't slow to pick up.
'You entered the bedroom of the Donaldson children,'
Briggs began, raising his voice, walking towards the jury.
'Where Melissa and Felicity, aged four and two respectively, were sleeping.' The QC pulled a number of black and white photos from a manila file and handed them to the foreman of the jury. 'What did you do then?'
'We killed them.'
'You killed them,' Briggs repeated, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing. 'But fast you cut out Melissa's tongue and removed Felicity's eyes with a kitchen knife, correct?'
'Oh Jesus,' the groan came from somewhere at the back of the court.
'Correct?' snarled Briggs, rounding on the defendant.
'See no evil, speak no evil,' said Crawford, smiling.
'Answer the question,' Justice Valentine said, scribbling something in his notes.
'Yes, we killed them; said Crawford, brushing his long hair from his collar. 'Just like we killed the other fucking parasites.'
'By parasites I gather you refer to the other people who you stand accused of murdering?'
'The rich bastards, yes. How many do you think have died to make them their millions?'
'The Donaldson family were scarcely millionaires. Mr Donaldson owned a small factory complex in Woolwich.'
'From little acorns,' said Crawford, softly.
'So, that was sufficient reason to butcher Mrs Donaldson and her two children? I suppose we should be thankful that Mr Donaldson escaped this bloodbath.' The QC turned to the judge. 'The prosecution will not be calling Mr Donaldson as a witness M'Lord. He is under sedation at the moment.'
Valentine nodded.
'Why did you pick out the Donaldson family?' Briggs continued, turning his attention back to Crawford.
'They had money,' the younger man replied. 'We had to start somewhere.' Again that smile hovered on his lips.
'By "We" I gather you refer to the others who helped you in these murders?'
'There are others apart from me, yes.'
'But you chose to appoint yourself leader to fight this ..."class war" as you call it?' Again the QC raised his voice. 'You declared war on the rich, on, as you call them, "the enemies of the state". Is that correct?'
'We are fighting a class war, yes, but I didn't appoint myself as leader. I was chosen.'
Because of your natural charisma and organisational abilities presumably?' hissed Briggs, unable to control the sarcasm in his voice.
'Very possibly,' Crawford said, smiling.
'And this ... war against the rich, it was to consist of a series of brutal murders of men, women and children whose only crime, in your eyes, was that they were fortunate enough to have enough money to live comfortably. Perhaps how you would secretly like to five yourself, Mr Crawford?'
'They were killed because they were parasites. They made their money by exploiting ordinary people. People who had no way of striking back at them.'
'Oh I see,' Briggs exclaimed, tapping his forehead. 'You undertook the role of avenging angel, you and your followers decided to act as executioners on behalf of all those not as fortunate as Mrs Donaldson. Mrs Donaldson who had begged for the lives of her children. Who had begged that her own life be spared but who ended up like this.' Briggs roared the last sentence and slammed a black and white photo of the dead woman down on the witness box in front of Crawford.
The younger man took the photo and glanced at it, raising his eyebrows.
'It's not a very good likeness of her,' he said, pushing the photo back towards the QC. It fell from the side of the witness box and lay on the floor.
The silence was broken by that insistent burbling of voices which was again stilled by the gavel.
At the back of the room Detective Inspector Peter Thorpe nudged his companion and nodded in the direction of the door which led out of the court.
Detective Sergeant Vic Riley got to his feet and the two men slipped out of the court.
In the corridor outside, Thorpe pulled a packet of Rothmans from his jacket pocket and offered one to Riley who accepted, fumbling for his matches when Thorpe's lighter refused to work.
The two men sucked hard on their cigarettes, Riley leaning against the wall. At thirty-seven, the DS was three years younger than his superior although it was he who had smudges of grey in his hair.
'Class war my arse,' said Thorpe. 'The bloke's a fucking headcase.'
'Yeah, him and his followers. Whoever the hell they are, murmured Riley.
'Probably more like the two we've already got locked up,' said Thorpe, taking another hard drag on the cigarette.
'Christ, this bastard Crawford is going to take some cracking.'
'There's no doubt that he'll be sent down, guv,' Riley said.
'Yeah, maybe. But if we get him out of the way we still have to find his followers.' He dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe. 'Before anyone else ends up like Mrs Donaldson and her kids.'
Two
'You sure it's safe in here?'
Danny Weller pulled the blanket around his neck and glanced up at the roof of the building. Through one of the holes he could see the night sky, dotted with stars as if someone had hurled sequins at black velvet.
'What do you mean, safe?' Sean Robson wanted to know. 'If you're worried about the coppers finding us ...'
'No, not the coppers. I mean, the bloody place isn't going to fall down around our ears is it?'
Robson shook his head and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, studying the mucoid smear for a moment before scraping it off on his trousers.
'They're knocking down the tower blocks,' he reassured his companion. 'They ain't interested in this place. It'll do for one night anyway. At least it's better than sleeping in the street.'
He peered through the gloom at the interior of the supermarket. The floor was covered by a thick layer of dust and dirt, parts of the roof were missing and most of the windows had been smashed but at least they wouldn't be disturbed.
Robson regarded the empty shelves and felt his stomach rumble. He imagined the shelves full of food as they once had been but the gnawing pains in his belly convinced him that that was one fantasy best left alone. He concentrated on the bottle of Haig which he held in his hand. Robson took a long swallow then offered it to his companion, who drank deeply. Rather too deeply. Robson shot out a hand to take the bottle from him.
`Take it easy,' he snapped. 'That's got to last.'
Weller regarded the older man warily for a moment then licked his lips and nodded. At twenty-nine he was three years younger than Robson. Both had been jobless for more than five years, alcoholic for a little longer. Homeless for perhaps three years. They had eked out their living by, at various times, begging, stealing and, very occasionally, working in menial jobs where the promise of a meal had seemed more attractive than the prospect of wages. But what money they did come by was hastily spent on drink.
Robson in particular would do anything for the taste of whisky. He knew it was destroying him, eroding his brain cells, eating away at his liver, but he didn't care. It was only a matter of time for him now. Lung cancer had been killing him slowly over the past eight months; it was merely a question of which killed him fast. The booze or the disease. It didn't matter either way to him.
He'd met Weller in Wormwood Scrubs two years earlier. He himself had been given seven days for disturbing the peace while the younger man was serving a two month sentence for aggravated assault. He'd used a Stanley knife on the owner of an off licence who had refused to serve him.
The relationship between the two men was a curious one. There was nothing sexual about it, although, in the beginning, Robson had wondered if his companion was a little dodgy. There was no other word to describe him. He looked dodgy. His face was very smooth, to the point where Robson doubted it had ever felt, or needed to feel, a razor. And his features were soft, almost feminine. But Weller had never made any attempt to get close to his older companion and for that Robson was grateful. Mind you, let him try it. Just once. He gripped the bottle more tightly and took another swig.
Weller knew little about the older man except that he had once been married, the marriage had floundered and Robson had been evicted from the house after repeatedly beating his wife. Weller had always been aware of Robson's capacity for violence and, on more than one occasion, had seen it put to use. He feared rather than respected his companion but was willing to put up with the older man's volatile nature. Weller had suffered enough loneliness to last him a lifetime and even the company of someone like Robson was preferable to the solitude which he had known before they met. He knew that Robson was dying but he did not dare to imagine life alone once the older man was gone. Only now, as Robson coughed and spat blood, did Weller consider him with something approaching pity. When the bottle was offered to him again he wiped the blood flecked sputum from the rim before drinking, the sound of his companion's choking coughs ringing in his ears.
Robson held his chest, gritting his teeth until the pain subsided slightly. He drew breath but even that simple act sent fresh waves of pain through him and he held out his hand for the bottle which Weller reluctantly passed back.
`Fuck,' muttered Robson, rubbing his chest.
He hawked again but this time the thick mucus merely dribbled over his chin, hanging like obscene streamers from his beard.
'You all right?' Weller wanted to know.
'No, of course I'm not,' snapped Robson. 'But there's not much I can do about it is there?' He wiped the crimson saliva away.
Weller could only shrug.
The scream made them both look round.
'What the fuck was that?' murmured Robson, his pain momentarily forgotten.
The sound had barely died away when another split the night. Like the first. A scream yet something more. A howl. A roar of pain. Or rage?
Silence descended for a few seconds and then the sound came again. Louder this time, it seemed to fill the men's heads and Weller felt the hairs at the back of his neck stiffen and rise. An uncomfortable silence descended and both men remained still, as if fearing that their own movements might trigger a repetition of the sound.
For interminable seconds they sat as if frozen. Then Weller got slowly to his feet and moved towards one of the windows on his right. It had been boarded up but there were gaps between the planks which enabled him to see into the darkness beyond. A watery moon illuminated the rubble of the site and cast thick shadows.
Weller cupped his hands around his eyes and peered out into the darkness, eyes flicking back and forth for the source of the sound.
Something moved.
A swift almost imperceptible deviation in the mounds of rubble drew his attention.
Before he could focus properly on it, the shape had gone, swallowed by the shadows.
'Probably kids pissing about; said Robson, appearing at his companion's side.
'It didn't sound like kids,' the younger man noted, still scanning the gloom.
When the sound came again it seemed to reverberate inside the shell of the supermarket itself, so strident and loud did it seem.
But, this time the roar did not die away swiftly, it seemed to build slowly, from a low rumble to a deafening bellow which caused the men to shudder.
It finished with startling suddenness.
'Kids my arse,' hissed Robson. 'What the fuck is that?'
His breath was coming in short gasps and, even in the gloom,
Weller could see how pale his face was, as if all the colour had drained from it.
It was then that the doors at the far end of the building began to shake.
Both men spun round, squinting through the darkness towards what had once been the main entrance to the supermarket. The doors were padlocked and boarded up, but the pressure from outside was such that they continued to rattle. It sounded as if heavy blows were being rained upon them.
'Come on,' snapped Robson, tugging on the younger man's sleeve.
Weller needed no second prompting. He turned and followed him towards the back of the building where they had first gained entry. Through what had been a store room, on into an area which still held fridges the size of cars, once used to store meat. They finally reached the back entrance and Robson pulled it open.
Had he succeeded he would have screamed.
As it was, the sight which met him seemed to freeze not only the blood in his veins but also the muscles of his throat.
They seemed to lock tight, catching the cry of terror before it had time to escape.
He was rooted to the spot, only his eyes moving, flicking back and forth, up and down, riveted to the shape which blocked his way. He tried to take a step backwards but there was no strength in his legs. He felt the bile clawing its way up from his stomach but even that seemed to clog in his throat as he finally managed to shake his head in disbelief. A final gesture.
The hand shot forward and fastened itself around his throat, lifting him bodily from the ground.
Weller began sobbing hysterically as he saw Robson lifted off the ground, legs kicking madly. Then, finally, the younger man turned and ran back into the supermarket itself.
By the time he stumbled into the enveloping darkness the front doors had been forced open and he saw dark shapes moving along the dust-filled aisles towards him.
Three of them.
Moving swiftly. Purposefully.
Behind him he heard a loud gurgling sound which he guessed had come from Robson but the noise was rapidly forgotten as he realized his own fate.
They were almost upon him, filling his nostrils with a stench unlike anything he'd ever encountered before, reaching for him.
The moon passed overhead like some kind of massive searchlight, its dull radiance searching through one of the holes in the roof and momentarily lighting the supermarket interior.
Illuminating the faces of the figures.
Weller dropped to his knees, hands clasped before him as if in prayer. As if some gesture to the Almighty would remove the sight before him. Tears of fear and terror coursed down his cheeks and he wailed like a lost child until finally, as they drew closer, that wail turned into a caterwaul of desperation.
Then they were upon him.
Three
The radio hissed and spluttered as Ray Carter twisted the tuning dial. Music and voices filled the interior of the jag as he passed different frequencies, finally tiring of the convoluted sounds. He switched
the set off and sat in silence.
The wind was getting up, bringing with it the first drops of rain. Carter flicked on the windscreen wipers, allowing them to clear the glass. All around him a collage of neon signs above pubs, clubs and restaurants lit the night. Beneath the artificial twilight he could see figures moving. Two men were arguing loudly outside a pub just down the street. close by he saw a tall black woman tugging at the sleeve of a man who seemed intent on getting away from her. He eventually shook loose and scuttled off, pursued by the woman.
A powerfully built man in a suit much too small for him stood in the doorway of a club, a short cigar jammed in one corner of his mouth. He was tapping his foot in time to the music which was roaring from the interior of the club. The doorway was lit by a couple of red bulbs which made the doorman look as if someone had doused him in blood.
The wind whipped some discarded hamburger cartons across the street. They reminded Carter of bizarre tumbleweed in a strange Western. He chuckled to himself. This was no Western town. He doubted if the Wild West had ever been anything like Soho at eleven p.m.
A couple of youths passed the car, shouting. One of them banged the roof and they both looked in, grinning at Carter. Their smiles faded rapidly as they caught the expression on his face. If looks could have killed, the two youths would have been ready for wooden boxes.
Carter continued to glare at them and they moved away quickly, breaking into a run as they reached the end of the road, glancing back, perhaps to make sure they weren't being followed. Carter smiled and sat back in his seat, catching sight of his reflection in the rear view mirror.
He saw the dark shadow across his cheeks and chin and drew a hand across the bristles. He needed a shave.
Harrison was bound to comment eventually. He liked his men to look smart. It reflected badly on him if they didn't.
Carter glanced out of the jag and found that he could see into the restaurant where his boss sat, gazing enraptured at the blonde girl opposite him.
Carter watched them for a moment longer and then began fiddling with the radio again.