‘Dog walker’s got an emergency – took Sammy into the vet yesterday – got him x-rayed – turns out he’s swallowed an entire cob of sweet corn – needs an op.’
DS Leyton now grimaces, perhaps thinking through the corollary of ingesting such an item.
‘Leave you to it – got to get to the bank – catch up this afternoon.’ Skelgill is already heading out of his office, when an afterthought strikes him. ‘She’ll need a walk shortly – visit to the ladies’ – if you know what I mean?’
He winks and is gone, swiftly closing the door to thwart any prospective canine escape bid.
DS Leyton pushes the rug unceremoniously onto the floor. Cleopatra approaches and sniffs at it rather despondently. DS Jones, though shaking her head, looks amused.
‘I could do without this, Emma – I’ve got to meet the door-to-door team at twelve over on that new estate.’
DS Jones stands up and relieves him of the drinking bowl.
‘Why don’t I come with you? I could give the dog a bit of a walk – there’s that big green in the middle of all the houses.’
DS Leyton glances at Cleopatra, who seems to know she is the subject of the discussion and cocks her head on one side, as if she keenly is awaiting his decision.
‘Kills two birds with one stone, I suppose.’
‘It’s better than keeping her cooped up in here. And my team are going to be busy for the next hour or so. I can leave them to it.’
DS Leyton nods decisively.
‘Let’s do it.’ Cleopatra butts his knee and he reaches out to give her a tentative pat. ‘You’re not such a bad old girl, are you?’
DS Jones inspects the bowl, and grimaces as she notices its unsavoury contents.
‘I’ll just go and rinse this and get her a drink.’
But as she reaches to open the door someone from outside beats her to it. It is DI Smart. He smirks at the female officer and casts a patronising nod at the still-seated DS Leyton. Then his gaze falls distastefully upon the Bullboxer, who is cautiously sniffing at the toe of his nearest shoe.
‘I heard Skelly had his dog in – what is this, an amateur bloodhound?’
Before either of Skelgill’s sergeants can fashion a reply in his defence, DI Smart speaks again.
‘Sooner this larking about’s over the better for all of us – when’s his meeting with the Chief?’
DS Leyton fidgets uncomfortably.
‘Close of play today, sir.’
‘Tidy – well, on Friday we can start with a clean sheet.’ He takes a step back, frowning, evidently irritated by the dog’s interest in his footwear. Then he reaches down and brushes at the trousers of his designer suit – although Cleopatra has made no contact with them. ‘Tell you what – to kick things off, I’ll treat you to a curry – a good old Ruby Murray eh, Leyton? Get the professional show on the road.’
DS Leyton nods without enthusiasm. DS Jones is looking stone faced.
‘Won’t be Manchester standard, I’m afraid – but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?’
And with this – arguably double-edged observation – he slides out of the office and pulls the door to behind him.
DS Leyton can’t help himself from letting go an expletive.
‘Excuse my French.’
DS Jones shrugs. She seems pensive.
‘I wonder where he has gone.’ She refers to Skelgill. ‘He didn’t seem too concerned about the meeting with the Chief.’
‘Maybe he’s having lunch with her – he was swanky by his usual standards – salaries go in today – perhaps he’s treating her – trying to win her over?’
The detectives each look at one another – there is an exchange of unspoken thoughts. They both shake their heads. Then DS Leyton adds a caveat.
‘You know the Guvnor, Emma – anything’s possible.’
*
The man parks as directed. It is quite likely that he selects the exact spot in the supermarket lot where Barry Seddon left his pick-up just ten days ago. He vaults easily over the perimeter wall and jogs across the road through a gap in the traffic. Some distance off there is a red telephone box. As he approaches he digs in his pocket for change, and then checks his watch. The kiosk is empty, but he waits a minute or so until it is precisely ten to twelve. Then he taps out a number stored on his mobile phone.
‘Hello?’
It is the same voice that answered yesterday, although there is perhaps an apprehensive note, even in the single word of acknowledgement.
‘It’s Cliff – you said to call from here to get your address.’
The girl seems to be listening for his distinctive pronunciation. There is a pause before she replies.
‘Thirty-seven Ullswater Place. We’ll be ready in ten minutes.’
‘Okay, shall I –?’
But the woman has rung off.
The man replaces the receiver in its cradle and exits the booth. Ullswater Place is barely two minutes’ brisk walk away. He stands for a moment and looks about rather aimlessly, like someone who has missed a bus and is mentally unprepared for the wait. The morning is blustery, though mild, with scattered clouds and bursts of bright sunshine. He notices a family of swallows resting on a telegraph wire, jabbering excitedly amongst themselves. Then he seems to have an idea, and sets off purposefully back past the supermarket and crossing towards the arcade of shops. Here he slows his pace, and considers each outlet thoughtfully as he passes. They appear quiet – indeed the bookmaker’s has a handwritten sign on its door saying ‘Back Soon’ – though giving no indication as to when that might be. Reaching the corner, he turns into Ullswater Place. Now he consults his wristwatch again: it is five to twelve. He walks the length of the street, on the side of the odd numbers, reaching the row of garages. Turning, he slowly retraces his steps, all the way to the corner, en route stepping off the narrow kerb to enable an old woman pulling a shopping caddy to have right of way. One more about turn and he makes his final half-lap of the stretch of pavement. Arriving at number thirty-seven he knocks and is promptly admitted. At a house opposite, net curtains twitch.
*
While DS Leyton stands surrounded by an attentive cluster of clipboard-bearing uniformed police officers, DS Jones strolls unobtrusively at the far side of the large central grassy area thoughtfully designed for residents of the new housing scheme. There is a fenced-off play zone, where a couple of bored-looking mothers are exercising their boisterous pre-school children, and – at alternate intervals around the perimeter path – benches and waste bins, some of the latter specifically designated for dog owners. DS Jones, though armed with a polythene carrier bag from the supply in her colleague’s car boot, as yet has not had to avail herself of this facility. There are also young saplings ringing the small park, although several appear the worse for wear, vandalised in keeping with the general background haze of graffiti that has colonised most flat surfaces like some inarticulate urban lichen.
Despite the grass being damp, and in need of a cut, Cleopatra seems more content to walk on this than the path, which has dried in the light wind. Being a female of her species, she shows scant interest in the invisible doggy messaging that has been layered upon the various upright obstacles thoughtfully provided by human planners for canine convenience. But she is none the less alert to her surroundings, and deals short shrift to any others of her kind who dare brazenly to inspect her hindquarters. She is not a dog to be trifled with.
Following one such incident she suddenly stiffens, turning to face into the breeze. Her ears are pricked and she strains at the leash. DS Jones appears bemused, as there is no one – human or canine – to be seen; at least not until an elderly lady with a wheeled shopping bag emerges from a fenced walkway between two houses, and continues around the far side of the green (ignored by the dog). Then Cleopatra is obliged to fend off another unwanted advance, and by the time she has made clear her displeasure, whatever raised her interest appears to have passed. DS Jones glances across to DS Leyton – he is
still preoccupied with his debriefing, so she sets off on another lap of the oval. Perhaps the polythene bag will soon be called upon.
*
The man – having requested that he keep on his boxer shorts (initially, at least) – is now spread-eagled upon a PVC sheet in the small dimly lit room on the first floor at the back of the terraced house. The remainder of his clothes are laid over an easy chair, itself draped in a decorative woollen throw. His valuables rest upon a nightstand beside the double bed.
The blonde woman in the dominatrix outfit works assiduously, systematically tightening the bands that restrain him, rather in the perfunctory manner of a truck driver strapping down a load of timber. The wide Velcro cuffs grip his wrists and ankles, yet as she stretches the sinews of his joints, they make little if any impression into his flesh: just the job to avoid taking home telltale signs of an illicit hour’s activity – if indeed one is going home.
The subdual completed to her satisfaction, the woman turns to the various accessories arranged on the bedside table. She selects a black rubber ball-gag and, as the man opens his mouth to protest, pops it into place and reaches behind his head to secure its straps. Now she stands back to admire her handiwork.
‘Time to fetch Alanna.’
Throughout this preparatory procedure, her expression has been businesslike and aloof. But now her features soften and – despite her stated intent to the contrary – she does not move away. Instead she regards the man with a certain desirous curiosity. Then she turns and picks up a bottle of oil. She flips open the lid and, reaching over him, in an almost experimental fashion squirts a jet of liquid in a zigzag pattern, working from his chest, down to – and in fact carelessly over – the fabric of his close-fitting boxer shorts. Carefully she re-seals and replaces the bottle. Now she begins to smooth the oil over his well-formed pectorals, dwelling on his nipples with the heel of her hand. Gradually she moves her attention to his abdominals – he has a distinct six-pack and no obvious fat – and thence slides her fingers slowly and deliberately beneath the waistband of his underwear. So far the man has not reacted – despite her attention to his impressively toned muscles, he has not moved one of them. But now his body visibly tenses, and for the next few moments he closes his eyes as the woman explores freely.
Suddenly there is a single tap on the door. It might have been a draught – but the woman reacts instantly, withdrawing her hand and stepping back from the bed. She picks up a small towel and, wiping away the oil, she bustles around the bed. The man watches dumbly as she opens the door a fraction, and then steps back to admit a tall brunette, similarly attired.
This second woman – ‘Alanna’ – is considerably taller, certainly younger, though she has an altogether different build; when it comes to feminine curves, it is the elder that has the advantage. As she enters the room she pauses to slide a small bolt, before turning to take in the scene before her. She notices the glisten of the oil in the candlelight, and perhaps more than that.
‘What’s going on?’
There is an accusing note in her voice, which is throaty in tone.
‘Just teasing him.’
The blonde – ‘Anna’ – looks a touch abashed.
‘Time for teasing’s over.’
The brunette steps forwards purposefully, and clambers onto the bed, kneeling between the outstretched legs of the man. As she gains her balance, in her right hand she brings into his line of sight a length of climbing rope, wound into a coil. He eyes this keenly, and makes an unintelligible sound through the gag.
‘Clifford.’
For a moment this is the only word she says. She stares acutely at his strained features.
‘It’s been a long wait, Clifford.’
Again there is a stifled response.
‘I probably wouldn’t know you if we passed in the street. Maybe we have. I was too young to remember much at all. But there are some things you never forget. I wonder if you remember me, Clifford.’
The woman drops the rope and with both hands rips back her long dark wig. Beneath is short-cropped blonde hair. Then she gestures to the blonde, who passes her the hand towel. Roughly she wipes away her crimson lipstick, and much of the make-up from her face. Then she tears open her black PVC basque and tosses it aside. Beneath is a distinctly male torso.
‘You liked little boys, didn’t you, Clifford?’
The man seems fascinated, staring, transfixed – at the moment stunned by the revelation.
‘You liked the girls – you liked my sister, especially – but really you preferred the boys. You and your disgusting friends.’
Now the young man – for that is what he is – holds up the rope close before his captive’s eyes. The man seems to be gulping, swallowing the saliva that must be building up behind the gag.
‘But your pals have gone, Clifford – we’ve seen to that – they took our bait – just like you have. Fancy choosing your old nickname – Cliff Edge.’
The young man begins to wave the coil of rope to and fro, close to the older man’s face.
‘We’ve saved the best until last – the ringleader. Now it’s your turn to feel powerless – unable to resist – how do you think that felt – not daring to tell?
He giggles rather manically, and glances at the blonde; she looks on implacably.
‘Not that you’ll be able to tell – we don’t take prisoners – at least, not for long – you’ve made us what we are, Clifford.’
He slips off the end of the bed and moves around to one side. Seen now as an overtly masculine figure, half-naked yet wearing women’s thigh-length boots and a matching black PVC thong, he is like a demonic satyr in a distorted burlesque version of a Greek drama. He shakes out the rope from its coils and slides one end beneath the man’s neck, then growls with satisfaction as his sister pulls several feet through and they exchange the loose ends. Then the pair crowd over their victim. Gradually they draw in their respective sections of the rope until it begins to tighten around his neck, compressing his prominent Adam’s apple.
Now, for the first time, the man begins to protest. His limbs are stretched to the extent that his whole body is immobilised – resistance as such is futile – all he can move is his head, but turning it from side to side serves little purpose other than to create painful friction against the tightening rope. Instead, he resorts to what limited vocal options are available to him – unintelligible moans as they might be. And yet, they appear to win him a moment’s respite, for the young man releases the tension upon the rope and nods to his sister to do likewise.
‘What is it, Clifford – trying to say sorry? It’s a bit late for that.’
But nevertheless he reaches behind the man’s head and rips open the strap that retains the ball-gag; he drags the object from the man’s mouth.
‘I’m a police officer! – let me go! – my colleagues are on their –’
Before the gasping man can complete the final phrase his captor jams the gag back into his mouth, forcing it crudely between his bared teeth with both thumbs. He sneers malevolently.
‘Nice try, Clifford – but it’s only you that likes a little bit of wope, isn’t it Clifford?’
As he imitates the man’s distinctive speech impediment, and then places the stress on his name, he gives the rope a sharp tug, catching his sister unaware, and dragging the man’s head to one side. If she has experienced a fleeting doubt, he does not allow her to dwell upon it. With malign intent he stares across his prone victim until – as if she is under some hypnotic spell – she takes up the slack.
‘Last one, sis – and then we’ve done it.’ The muscles of his arms contract as he tightens his grip. ‘Goodbye Clifford Stewart.’
But it is not Goodbye Clifford Stewart, for the man about to die really is a police officer, by the name of Detective Inspector Daniel Skelgill.
At this moment, there is a faint sound from beyond the bedroom door. Perhaps the rattle of a letterbox as the midday mail is delivered. The assassins pay no
attention to this, immersed in their gruesome ritual, their eyes fixed snakelike upon their victim. There is a louder sound and the blonde girl glances up. Her brother shows no sign of response – he is yet too engrossed in the task. But then, all in a rush, there is the clump of rapid footsteps on the stairs, the rattle of the bedroom door – which of course is bolted from within – and then an almighty crack as it flies open and simultaneously the athletic figure of DS Jones follows through with the karate-style kick that has broken it down. The door swings around and slams against a mirror, sending shards scattering about the room. The two siblings release the rope and back away on either side of the bed. DS Jones takes in the scene and cries out the name of her boss. A second later, DS Leyton, preceded by Cleopatra straining violently at her lead, lurches into the room, his boots heavy on the bare boards. The young man bends down and picks up a shard of the mirror, he steps towards the two police officers, wielding it like a knife.
‘Drop that – and get down on the floor!’
DS Leyton’s command, peppered as it is by a string of East End superlatives, stops the young man in his tracks, but he shows no sign of obeying the command.
‘You’ve got three seconds, sonny boy! – then I release the pit-bull! – when I give the code word, she’ll rip out your throat!’
The man glances down at the dog – certainly she is straining hard and apparently preparing to spring in his direction.
‘Drop it – and get down! Three! Two! One–’
And at the count of one the man does as ordered. Whether it is from fear of what fate is about to befall him (for he cannot know that Cleopatra’s only interest is in leaping upon the bed to greet her master, whose scent she detected so frustratingly from the park only a few minutes earlier), or because the realisation strikes home that the captive cannot be their intended victim; either way, he yields.
‘And you – down – flat on the floor!’
DS Leyton points to the blonde woman, now almost exhausting his lexicon of oaths for stressful situations; more easily defeated, she obeys compliantly.
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 26