by Michael Kerr
“And yours?”
“Felicity.”
“Okay, Felicity, wake Geoffrey up.”
Unable to turn away from the stranger, Felicity reached out a trembling hand behind her, to grasp a sleeve of Geoffrey’s pyjama jacket and shake him into wakefulness.
Bobby smiled. Older people were easier to deal with, as a rule. Most of them had lost the boldness of youth, were less impetuous, and did not have the physical strength to resist. He could not foresee any problems with the couple. He pegged them both as being in their late sixties or early seventies.
“What?” Geoffrey murmured, turning to face Felicity. “Was I snoring?”
“No, Geoff, you were sleeping like a baby,” Bobby said. “I need somewhere to stay for a couple of days, and whether you survive my visit or not is dependent on just how sensible you both are. Are you sensible, Geoff?”
Geoffrey had angina, and the shock of the naked man up close to Felicity on the bed and holding a knife to her throat, brought on chest pains stronger than he had suffered in over two years. And the fact that he had enjoyed a rather strenuous bout of sex less than an hour before did not help.
“We’ll do whatever you say,” he said, pressing the heel of his hand to his sternum, trying to keep calm and slow his racing, diseased heart.
“I had every intention of just killing you both,” Bobby said matter-of-factly. “But there’s no need to have you stinking up the house, if you do exactly what you’re told.”
“We will,” Felicity said. “Geoffrey has a heart condition. We are no threat to you.”
Bobby studied the woman. She was matronly, with greying hair and loose skin at her eyes, jowls and throat. But she had pleasant features, and still appeared shapely beneath the voluminous cotton nightie she wore. He leaned back against the headboard and considered taking her in front of her husband. Would Geoff’s ticker be able to withstand the sight of his wife being raped? He imagined that Felicity let her eyes rove over him to linger for a second on his crotch. Maybe...No, not maybe, he just knew that she wasn’t getting it, or enough of it. There had been the shadow of lust in that look. She may love her husband, but like Tina sang; What’s love got to do with it? Sex and love were two different animals, and she wanted the former. There was no way that she could eyeball his firm body and poker-stiff penis without being turned on. But first things first. She would have to wait. Later, he would see to her needs, and his own.
He asked the couple several questions, and by the time he escorted them downstairs, he knew all about their lives and habits. They were basically homebodies, happy to be in each other’s company, with few close friends. Reading, doing jigsaws, going on Saga cruises and gardening were their main distractions. Sad bastards. They offered no resistance, and obeyed his every instruction immediately and without question.
The cottage had a cellar, reached by way of a trapdoor located under a faded Persian rug in the living room. There were no exits to the dank underground chamber, and so he ushered them down the wooden steps, allowing them to take blankets, pillows, Geoffrey’s medication, and a jug of water. He then left the trembling couple to their own devices, after first warning them not to make a sound. After bolting the trapdoor, he hustled a weighty sideboard over it for extra peace of mind. He had no inclination to harm them, yet. They were not a part of his immediate problem.
Back upstairs in the bathroom, he showered under piping hot water with lavender-scented soap, to cleanse himself of the river, which he imagined harboured countless diseases. After towelling dry he returned to the master bedroom to take his pick of clothes from Geoff’s wardrobe. He dressed quickly in a loose sweater over a casual shirt, baggy chinos, belted tightly, sports socks and loafers. The guy was almost his size.
Downstairs, he made himself a ham sandwich lathered with mustard, and a mug of instant coffee, and began to relax.
Once finished eating, he checked that the answer phone was switched on, then lay down on the settee and drifted off into a deep, dreamless and much needed sleep.
It was a little before seven a.m. when he woke, turned on the TV and watched the early morning news. There was footage of yet more conflict in the Middle East, and then news of a lame-brained suicide bomber who had walked into a school playground in Hounslow and detonated a large nail bomb, killing himself, six children, a teacher, and wounding twenty others. That was followed by the report of a multiple pileup on the M25. After that, the talking head reported that the man known as the Park Killer was believed to have drowned in the Thames, after being located and cornered by armed police. The picture flashed to a previously recorded outside broadcast, and none other than Barney Bear appeared, standing with the houseboat ill-defined at the outer range of the camera’s lighting.
“Detective Inspector Bowen,” an unseen interviewer said. “Can you verify that the Park Killer was drowned while trying to evade capture?”
“No,” Barney said. “I can tell you that during an operation to apprehend the suspect, he dived into the river. We have had police boats and divers searching for him throughout the night, and believe that in all probability he has not survived.”
“What makes you think that?”
“His clothing will have made it difficult to swim, and bearing in mind the freezing water temperature at this time of year, and the currents, it is highly unlikely that he could still be alive.”
“Wrong, Barney,” Bobby said, about to laugh, but frowning instead. A photo of him – stolen from his house by the pigs – suddenly filled the screen. The police were looking for Robert Cain, a thirty-five-year-old white male, balding and clean shaven, with black, menacing eyes.
More chance of finding a pot of gold at the end of a fucking rainbow, Bobby thought. As a kid he had tried to do just that on several occasions, but had never even found the spot where a rainbow met the ground, much less a pot of gold.
“And what can you tell us with regard to the other man and two women that were on board the houseboat?” the disembodied voice continued.
“Apart from the fact that we had a hostage situation, I’m afraid at this time I can give no details that might compromise our ongoing inquiries,” Barney said.
“Just what can you tell our viewers, Detective Inspector?”
“That if anyone knows or has any information regarding Robert Cain, then please contact the police immediately. And though highly unlikely, if Cain has not drowned and has somehow managed to flee the area, I stress that he is extremely dangerous and should under no circumstances be approached by members of the public.”
Bobby switched off the television. He was buzzing. This had to be how all the great ‘most wanted’ gangsters must have felt, living within a society that loathed yet were intrigued and, in some way, stimulated by characters who were at large, still enjoying their reign of terror. He was famous, or to be more precise, infamous, which had more substance than the former. It was poxy pop idols, movie, soap and sports stars, and even the new breed of royals that were famous. He had more je ne sais quoi than all of them put together. What he did was meaningful and real. He was up there with The Yorkshire Ripper, Fred and Rose West, The Black Panther, Harold Shipman, Hindley and Brady, and many other big-name killers that had gripped the nation’s attention in a vicelike grip. But surely it was quality and not quantity that counted. He had found his way into the mainstream conscience. He was the embodiment of the bogeyman, who from childhood was a part of everyone’s deepest inner fears. He was a dark figure of the night that preyed upon and ripped the beating hearts from his prey. Who would not be in awe and terrified of someone like him?
He searched the cottage and, from photographs and the contents of a metal home file, he put together a reasonably accurate picture of Geoff and Felicity Collins. He had picked the best possible car to hide in. This had been a retired couple, living in the sticks. They had one son, Cameron, now residing in Melbourne, Australia. Should anyone call at the house over the next few days, he could always let Felicity out of the ce
llar to allay suspicion. It might just pay to keep the couple fed, watered and in good health for the time being. Yes, this was perfect. He had a roof over his head, a well-stocked fridge and freezer, and had found a large steel gun safe bolted to the utility room wall. A subsequent search for the keys was fruitful. The thoughtful Mr Collins had hung them with other assorted keys on one of several brass hooks that were screwed into a wooden baton on the kitchen wall. The gun safe held a 12 gauge over & under Browning shotgun, two boxes of cartridges, and a cleaning kit. A framed certificate on the wall proclaimed that Geoffrey Collins had been a regional winner of some clay shooting competition.
After cooking and eating a fried breakfast, Bobby took the shotgun out to the garage, and with the aid of a hacksaw, carefully remodelled the weapon, sawing down the barrels and stock to convert it into what looked like a large, bulky pistol that could be concealed easily about his person.
Over the following days, he made plans. The police and media were now convinced that he was dead, and commonsense decreed that he should move away from the area, perhaps up north, to assume a new identity. But first he needed to deal with Dr Mark and Amy. They had ruined his game, and were now, no doubt, feeling smug in the false belief that he was fish food. They had to pay for the pain and problems that they had caused him. Once he had killed them, Caroline could spend the rest of her life waiting, knowing that he was out there, never able to enjoy a moment’s peace of mind. She would always expect him to turn up, and who knows, one day he might just roll up at her door like a bad penny, to finish what he had started. In fact, he knew that he would.
It was almost ten o’ clock on the evening of the fourth day after his escape that the banging on the trapdoor disturbed him as he packed to leave.
“What?” he said, lifting the door to be faced by Felicity, who was wild-eyed and crying, with snot running from her nostrils.
“It’s Geoffrey. You’ve got to get him help...Please. It’s his heart. I can’t wake him up.”
There would be no help.
“Let’s have a look and see how he is,” Bobby said, motioning for her to go back down the steps.
“But―”
“Just move, bitch. Get your fat arse back down there.”
He followed her, and needed only to glance at the man’s slate grey face to know that he had expired. “He doesn’t need help, you stupid cow, can’t you see that he’s dead?”
Felicity moaned, knelt down distraught and cradled her late husband’s head.
Bobby enjoyed the moment. It was poignant, charged with significance and solemnity. The death experience was profound, and he stood, relishing the incomparable intensity of the woman’s grief, and her outpouring of pitiful sentiments, that were falling on deaf ears.
He was aroused, in the same inexplicable way that being confronted by his father’s body swinging in the garage so many years ago had infused him with an electric fascination. He pushed Felicity down over the still warm body, pulled up the now grubby nightie, unzipped his fly, and forced his cock between her plump thighs.
It was a mercy killing. His strong hands choked her to death as he found relief. She had fought, but with no real conviction. Geoff’s sudden passing had obviously taken all the wind out of her sails; broken her spirit. Now, the couple were together again, and she had been saved the misery that the loss of a loved one evoked. He had been her benefactor, whether she appreciated it or not.
Before leaving the cellar, and after having spent himself once more in the slack body so recently vacated by Felicity, he laid the couple side by side and adjusted the woman’s nightdress to preserve some dignity. After all, this couple had done him no harm. He bore them no malice, but did not have the capacity to mourn their passing. They were just dead strangers. Sitting with them for a while was invigorating. The state of death was so peaceful. For the first time since their birth, these two people were totally still. All of their combined experiences had led to this moment in time; to a point when they ceased to be anything. They had gone, to where he did not know, and didn’t care. To ponder what came next was a fool’s errand. It was the lack of animation of the dead that fascinated him. They were like broken watches beyond repair, totally useless; so much junk to be disposed of.
He was elated as he drove away from the cottage in Esher. He felt totally liberated and, in some way, reborn. He had crawled out of the Thames to a new beginning. All that had gone before was in preparation for what was to come. His every outlandish act would dominate the media, and he would be immortalised in print in perpetuity. He was about to leave his bloody footsteps in history, and determined that he would never be forgotten, and that his deeds would leave a lasting stain on humanity.
There was a sense of urgency within him which, like hunger, demanded to be fed. It was almost impossible to remain calm. His sweating hands were slipping on the steering wheel, and he had to wipe them in turn on the late Geoffrey’s chinos. He needed to be in control, and so took deep breaths, then lit one of the long, slim panatelas’ that had belonged to Geoffrey, who had surely been foolhardy to indulge, knowing that his pump was shot.
Christ, he was up for this. Most of his victims had only been stalked from afar, and were virtual strangers to him. With Dr Mark Ross and the ex-cop Amy Egan it was splendidly different. He had connected with them, and had cause to despise them both on more than one level. Firstly, they had gone up against him, and had nearly brought about his downfall. And secondly, they had a meaningful relationship; a bond of love that he had never enjoyed. Their fullness highlighted his emptiness and alienation. He wanted to belong, to be loved, to experience what they had, and to cease being a man apart. And he might, one day. But in the meantime, he would erase any hopes and dreams that they envisaged fulfilling.
His cheeks were now heavily stubbled with beard, and he wore suitably warm winter clothing and a woollen watch cap. He was prepared, like every good Boy Scout should be. Everything he needed was in the Audi, which now had false plates.
Once finished with the couple in Richmond, he would feel free to venture to pastures new, forge a new life and find another perfect woman to live out his dream of domestic bliss with, while at the same time perfecting his art.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“What do you think?” Barney said, looking from Mark to Amy and back to Mark again.
It was the day after the couple, along with Caroline, had miraculously escaped with their lives. Mark was sore from the stab wound that had grazed a rib, but he was otherwise fit enough to attend Barney’s office to give a statement.
“I think that until I see Cain tagged and bagged, then I’ll go on believing that he survived, is out there, and is still a very real threat,” Mark said.
“Caroline has decided to move away from the city and stay with friends in Bristol for the time being,” Barney said. “She feels the same as you. She said that she doesn’t believe he drowned, and is going with her instincts.”
“Thanks,” Amy said, accepting a Styrofoam cup full of milky coffee from Mike Cook. “I have to agree with Mark and Caroline, Barney. I’m not convinced that it’s over. I’ll need to see the creep on a slab before I can get past this and accept that it’s a done deal.”
Barney nodded. “I can understand how you both feel, but I don’t think he slipped the net.”
“Think, doesn’t cut it by a country mile. You’re not on his people-to-kill list,” Mark said. “You can sleep easy at night.”
Barney shrugged and said, “What do you intend to do?”
“Take all due precautions, and watch our backs until he turns up.”
There was no closure. Mark and Amy were uptight, needing resolution. They made Amy’s house their base, and without being conscious of it, kept in sight or sound of each other at all times, as though they were teenage lovers who could not bear being apart for more than a second.
After four days, the pressure of the wait became untenable to Amy. “I can’t stand this, Mark,” she said, pushing away yet ano
ther meal, which she had just picked at and moved around the plate with her fork. “Let’s go away. I need to feel safe, even if only for a couple of weeks.”
“Where do you suggest?” Mark said.
“Anywhere. Let’s just go to Heathrow in the morning and catch a flight out to somewhere warm and sunny. Maybe the Caribbean. A resort in Barbados. We could go scuba diving, sailing, make out on the beach, and drink too much rum.”
Mark grinned. “The making out on the beach sounds good. But what if they don’t find Cain?”
“They will. He’s on borrowed time. Life is like tossing a pebble into a pond, it leaves ripples. And if he doesn’t show up, then I’ll move house, dye my hair blonde and change my name.”
“To Ross?”
“Of course. We’d already decided to tie the knot.” Amy said, looking at Mark with a quizzical expression.
“Being together and being married are two different things.”
“Lots of folk seem to think that marriage is an old-fashioned institution that’s dying out.”
“Not me, Amy. It’s a commitment, in that you are morally dedicating yourself to something permanent.”
“So how come the divorce rate is so high, and more and more couples just shack up together without the need to make it official with a piece of paper?”
“Because they approach it with the same undertaking as if they’re buying a bloody car; something they can trade in down the line. I don’t believe they really get their head around the ‘till death do us part’ vow. They look at the state of the modern nuclear family, and deep down they treat a relationship as a disposable item. I don’t think that enough people realise that anything worth having and keeping needs working at. You’ve got to take the good with the bad and tough it out together when things get a little rocky. What do you reckon?”
“That you’re right. Let’s talk about it when we get on that beach, okay?”
“Okay,” Mark said, more than a little disappointed that Amy now appeared to be reticent. Initially, on one level, he felt rebuffed and wondered if she loved him with the same all-consuming adoration that he felt for her. But the psychologist in him read her body language, and saw a certain underlying fear. Both of them had been lucky to escape with their lives, and the threat may still be out there, ready to pounce and rob them of a future together, in the shape of a homicidal psychopath who they were both convinced was still alive. He knew then that until this episode was resolved, their waking thoughts would be filled mainly with the spectre of Cain.