Sweetpea

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘Er,’ I said, studying the pages individually. ‘Well, they’re all dead.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And they were all killed in the town. And all are unsolved cases.’

  ‘Yep, what else?’

  ‘Er…’ I thought long and hard, still studying the pages. ‘They’re all men?’

  ‘Yeah, what else?’

  ‘Well… two of them are sex offenders…’

  ‘Exactly!’ She smiled. ‘I knew you’d be able to see it too.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The pattern. Billy Ryall and Gavin White BOTH had convictions for sex offences. Maybe Jonas and Dan Wells had attacked girls as well but hadn’t been caught. Maybe that’s why Dan Wells’ penis was severed before he went into the canal?’

  ‘So you’re saying there’s a serial killer out there hunting sex offenders? A vigilante of sorts?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I frowned. ‘What about Julia Kidner? She wasn’t a sex offender.’

  She frowned too. ‘No, I know but she was raped. And that’s where my theory comes a bit unstuck. The way they were all killed just seems so similar. I’m going to ask one of the policemen on the case if I can have a look at the case files on these earlier ones. Dig a bit deeper, see if there are DNA links to the ones from this year.’

  ‘But it’s not your job, let them get on with it. You won’t get any extra credit from Ron if you’re right.’

  ‘I’m not doing this for extra credit, I’m doing it because I want to help the police. That’s all.’

  ‘Even so, it’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it? A serial killer who first struck nine years ago, then had four years’ rest, then another two years off before doing three all within months this year?’

  She visibly wilted. Then perked up. ‘Perhaps there are some missing persons in the interim years? Other unsolved cases? Or maybe they never found the bodies? I could check on that too.’

  I smiled at her.

  ‘You think it’s a long shot as well, don’t you?’

  I laughed. ‘This is a county town where welly wanging is an annual event and people have competitions to grow massive sprouts. We’re not cool enough for a serial killer.’

  She frowned. ‘You think serial killers are cool?’

  ‘God, no, not at all. I think they’re abhorrent. I just meant that generally speaking they operate in more famous areas, don’t they? Larger areas – London, Ipswich, Yorkshire. Places they’re not going to be found as easily.’

  ‘Yeah. I spoke to Paul and he said the police aren’t connecting our murders with the ones in London any more – completely different MO. But this… I dunno, it just seems so possible. Probable, even.’

  ‘How long did you live in London for, Daisy?’

  ‘Most of my life, until this year. You think I’m being too CSI about this?’

  ‘I just think it’s a bit unlikely. And look at the methods – they’re all different. This Jonas guy was killed in broad daylight. Billy Ryall was stabbed on the towpath and almost decapitated. Dan Wells drowned, officially. And Park Man was stabbed in the neck. It’s all so… haphazard. Serial killers usually have methods they like to stick to, like bind torture kill or night stalking. Know what I mean?’

  ‘You sound like an expert.’

  ‘I watch a lot of Channel 5.’

  Daisy sighed. ‘I just thought this might be something.’

  I sighed. ‘Bit tenuous. I’d say it’s unlikely any of these deaths are linked.’

  ‘No, the police agree with you.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yeah. And they said Julia Kidner was held somewhere, possibly tortured. She had some fingers missing and her hair had been cut off. She’d even been drawn on.’

  ‘How awful.’

  She nodded sadly and began tidying away the pages from my desk. ‘Thanks for hearing me out anyway, Rhiannon. I appreciate it.’

  ‘No problem. I like your top, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. It’s from Marks. In the sale.’

  I gave her one of my sweet smiles – one with thinning eyes and wrinkled nose. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her about the main story she was working on these days with Claudia – the Van Rapes – but I held back. I didn’t want to lay any cable between me and them, not if I was going fishing for them this weekend.

  I wonder if a little friendship can blossom between me and Daisy now; a friendship based on mutual advice, fashion tips and a deep-seated need to know what’s being said in those damn editorial meetings.

  *

  Something a bit weird’s just happened – I overheard two colleagues talking about me. I was in the Ladies’ – having a poo if you must know. It was unscheduled and rather difficult so I was taking longer than normal because your anal muscles constrict when you’re at work for fear that someone important will hear you. Anyway, I was all cleaned up when the door outside swung open and two female voices caught my ear: Inept Plunket and Claudia.

  LYNETTE: That Priory Gardens thing must explain some of it. Why she’s so quiet and starey all the time.

  CLAUDIA: Yeah. She was in therapy for a few years after that. She couldn’t walk for months.

  LYNETTE: The nation’s sweetheart.

  CLAUDIA: That was a long time ago. She doesn’t have many friends here. I think Ron only gave her the job on Reception ’cos he felt sorry for her. Can’t bloody get rid of her now.

  LYNETTE: Daisy seems to like her. I’ve never taken to her. She’s very weird and the way she just stares at you.

  CLAUDIA: I’ve never been comfortable around her. There’s some people you just never click with, isn’t there?

  LYNETTE: Shame, isn’t it?

  CLAUDIA: She’s very sore about not getting the Junior Reporter role. I mean, she didn’t stand a chance anyway but she puts herself up for it, year on year. Absolute freak.

  The conversation continued as they both pissed in stalls either side of me, flushed, then met at the sinks to touch up their hair. I noticed neither washed their hands because I didn’t hear any water running. Then they both left, one after the other, and the conversation shifted onto Daisy Chan and her hideous lace blouses.

  I sat on the edge of the toilet seat and marinated in what I’d just heard; the odd phrase or word jumping out like a flea from a dirty dog;

  ‘Weird’;

  ‘Never been comfortable around her’;

  ‘Freak’.

  So The Act wasn’t working on them. It was working on Craig and the PICSOs and even Daisy, but not on these two. I’m just gonna have to dial up the nice and dial down the Me.

  AJ seems to like me still, too. He’s not asked me out again and he sat on the end of my desk today and talked about his dreams of travelling round India like some mate of his did for a good ten minutes while I typed up the Over-50s Hockey League results and pretended to be interested. He brought me back a flat white from lunch too and when I took off the lid to stir in my sweetener, I found a little chocolate heart melted into the foam. Bless him.

  Thursday, 21 March

  The new herbs are thriving, shockingly, considering who’s Chief Gardener, but there are still no strawberries on my little plant.

  Craig took Tink to work with him at the town house where he’s putting a new guest bathroom in. Luckily, the lady has a big garden and two chihuahuas of her own. I’m glad she got to play with someone of her own ilk today; someone as into sniffing butts and chasing moths, as she is.

  There was something of the pathetic fallacy about all the articles I had to type up today. Everything was so miserable; the outlook on the world so gloomy, so hopeless.

  Letters about dirt-poor teenagers sucking balloons in the park.

  A new AA support group.

  The problem of dog poo on Town Centre pavements.

  Another flasher on the golf course.

  Two lawnmowers stolen from sheds and the ram-raiding of the laptop shop.

  Drugs. Drink. Shit. Sex. And theft.

 
The film review for this week is of the latest Pixar offering – some crap about a lost shoe. AJ’s going to come with me again and basically write the thing for me. He bought me a gonk today too which we saw in a toy store window and which I mentioned looked a bit like him. I stuck it on the top of my computer. The resemblance is uncanny.

  Oh, and Pidge is up the spout. Imelda texted and said the PICSOs were going out for a celebratory curry on Saturday. Oh, joy. No fishing trips for Van Rapists for me. Instead, I have to endure a few more hours of baby talk, wedding talk (Imelda’s bound to cram it in somewhere) and another fat slice of my life pretending to enjoy the company of people I’d gladly leave screaming under rubble.

  I texted back, saying, ‘Yep, that sounds great. See you then.’

  ‘Meet you at the Shahryar at 7.’

  ‘I’ll look 4ward to it.’ Slurpy-faced smiley. Kiss kiss kiss.

  Ugh.

  Lynette from Accounts came round with the payslips this afternoon – aka, the bitch who thinks I’m ‘quiet and starey’. This month I have no student loan repayment and two pension deductions. The woman is a joke. And I’m the only one who doesn’t find her in the least bit amusing.

  About 8 p.m., I headed out under the guise of a ‘PICSO barbecue’ (it was the first thing that came into my head) and headed for the Old Road, looking for the black or blue Transit van. There are a few lay-bys along that road – I’d heard one of their victims was raped in the van in one of them, but I wasn’t sure which. Another was dragged out of her car into a thicket just off the road down Copperton Lane. No sign of them, but I’ll come back. I’ll come back every night if I have to. I want them. I want them to meet my cleaver.

  And I heard a great joke today on the Internet: How many men does it take to tile a bathroom? One – but only if you slice him veeeeery thinly.

  Saturday, 23 March

  1.The PICSOs

  2.People who get married

  3.People who keep telling you they’re getting married

  4.People who use ancient bridal photos of themselves as their Facebook profile pic, just cos they were thin then (Lucille)

  5.People who have hen parties

  6.People who invite me to hen parties

  7.The person who invented hen parties

  We had every intention of doing the car-boot-sale-we’re-nevergoing-to-do today only it was raining and the draw of a warm flat, takeaway pizza and a re-watch of The Lost Boys were too much to resist.

  Had sex again this morning – all of three-and-a-half minutes of fun. It’s become so regular and organised and I’m getting through lube like Lurpak.

  In/out, shake it all about then work. In/out, shake it all about, then Lidl.

  In/out, shake it all about, then over to Nando’s for a Churrasco Thigh Burger with chips – Gordon Ramsay clap – done.

  ‘Shame we can’t crack the case,’ Craig said this morning. ‘I thought we’d be pregnant by now.’

  ‘Yeah, don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll happen soon,’ I called out from the bathroom as I popped my pill and located my jam jar.

  *

  Curry with the PICSOs tonight was barely edible but the accompanying wine went down a treat and quelled my simmering urge to kill everyone in sight. Pidge held court with tales of previous failed impregnations and what ‘hell it’s been to get to this point’ (failed IVF attempts, couples counselling, Tom walking out on her after an argument in Home Sense when she threw a Yankee Candle at his head) but for the most part she was as happy as an Osmond on speed. The subject all evening should have been Pidge and Tom finally becoming parents – instead, of course, it was all about Mel’s wedding.

  Tonight’s debating subjects: Wedding Favours and How to Arrange Them, Worries About the Best Man’s Speech and Which Take That Song To Walk Back Down the Aisle To.

  ‘I want “Rule the World” but Jack’s adamant he wants “Greatest Day”, but I said that could be our first dance. There’s me trying to be flexible about the whole thing but we had this blazing row…’

  Anni threw Imelda eye daggers as our pickle carousel arrived. She’s currently two weeks overdue and the spiciest vindaloo on the menu is her last resort to push the lil’ sucker out. She tried, admirably, to move the discussion back round to the evening’s main topic.

  ‘So when’s your due date, Pidgey?’

  ‘November twenty-fifth.’

  ‘Ooh,’ said Lucille, ‘that means he’ll be a Sagittarius.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘Yeah, it is good actually. He’ll be a good friend and he’ll live life to the fullest. Loyal and generous souls, Sagittarians. My Alex is Sadgy as well.’

  ‘Aww, is he?’ I said, trying to hop onto the conversation train as I could see Mel waiting for a gap so she could show something she’d found on her phone – most certainly a wedding-related Pinterest board.

  ‘Are you into all that then? Horoscopes and stuff?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she enthused. ‘I always read my stars and I consult my Tarot woman for every big decision – new house, kids, when I switched jobs. She’s spot on.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to have my Tarot cards read. Can you read them?’

  ‘No,’ said Lucille. ‘But my woman in Glastonbury, Lolita Starflower, is fantastic. I’ve got her card somewhere.’ She started rooting in her handbag.

  I turned to Pidge as Imelda began to draw another breath. ‘Do you have any names picked out yet or is it too early to say?’

  But Imelda thrust her iPhone in the centre of the table so none of us could ignore it. It was a picture of a tiny jar filled with Smarties and around the neck was a tag saying ‘Newly-weds’ in italic writing. ‘What do you think about these for wedding favours? They work out at £3.50 each and there’s Smarties, Jelly Tots or Shrimps.’

  ‘Ahh, they’re nice,’ said Lucille. ‘Yeah, go for Jelly Tots.’

  Imelda thrust the phone into my face. ‘How about you, Rhee?’

  ‘Shrimps,’ I said.

  ‘Anni?’

  ‘You’re spending £700 just on jars of sweets?’

  ‘Maybe, I haven’t decided yet. What do you think of them anyway?’

  ‘That was well-quick maths, Anni.’ I laughed, draining my wine and clicking the waiter over for another. He took my empty glass.

  Anni continued: ‘I saw somewhere that a cancer charity’s doing wedding favours for two pounds fifty pence. Badges, key rings, buttons. And something like ninety-five per cent of the money goes directly to a hospice. Jack’s auntie died of cancer, didn’t she?’

  ‘I’m not doing that,’ said Imelda. ‘I don’t want to bring everyone down remembering Jack’s auntie. What do you think about “How Deep Is Your Love”?’

  The waiters cleared our empty poppadum plates and pickle trays. On the opposite table, a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ was in full flow for a little boy. The waiters wheeled out a little hostess trolley and in the middle of it was a small birthday cake with a sparkling candle in the centre. Imelda looked disgusted.

  We were midway through our main course, when Lucille brought up the unthinkable.

  ‘Oooh, I know what I wanted to talk to you guys about – Hen Weekend! The Toppan’s Masseeeve! I need to start booking it. No one’s going to drop out on me, are they?’

  Imelda looked daggers at each one of us in turn. ‘They better not.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ said Pidge. ‘I’ll be past the worst of the morning sickness by then, with any luck, though I won’t be allowed to drink. How many of us are going?’

  ‘Ten,’ said Mel, chewing on a piece of lamb shashlik that wouldn’t quit. ‘Me, Lucille, You, Anni, Rhiannon…’

  Note that I don’t get asked to these things, it’s just assumed I’ll turn up.

  ‘. . . Lucille’s sister Cleo, your friend Gemma, our auntie Steph, and two girls I work with, Jane and Sharon. They’re a right laugh.’

  ‘And what are we doing, exactly?’ asked Anni.

  Lucille lit up. ‘Stags and Slags Week
end: the Over 18s Weekender at Toppan’s. Didn’t you get my text?’

  Ugh. Toppan’s Holiday Park – Where Good Taste and Refined Dining Crawled Away to Die in Pain.

  ‘Oh, that’s for definite, is it?’ I said. ‘I thought a spa day in Bath with cream teas at a five-star hotel was mentioned? Or Legoland?’ I’d take Legoland over Toppan’s at that moment. I’d take crucifixion over Toppan’s. Save me, Legoland Windsor, you’re my only hope.

  ‘No, we decided that could be a bit boring, didn’t we, Luce?’ said Mel, fumbling in her bag for a crumpled-up leaflet. ‘If I’m going to let my hair down, I’m letting it down all the way.’ She giggled and they clinked glasses. ‘I mean it’s the last time I’m gonna have any fun, isn’t it? It’s symbolic.’

  Imelda and Jack had been together fifteen years and had three kids, a fixed-rate mortgage and a joint bank account. Jack had two affairs under his belt (that we knew of) and Imelda had at least three one-night stands in the past year alone (that we were all sworn to secrecy about). So unless marriage was going to cut off his dick or her libido, I didn’t see what was going to change. Jack’s a miserable bastard anyway.

  ‘They’ve got clubs, bars, entertainment all laid on every night,’ said Lucille, ‘so we won’t get bored. And when you’ve had enough of partying all night long, you can just roll back to your chalet and sleep it off.’

  ‘I’m going to get SO wasted,’ said Mel, tucking into her vindaloo, fully back in the Land of the Not-Sulking now. ‘Seriously, we are taking ALL the alcohol.’

  They all shrieked, Anni included. And back I was on the outside, looking into the nest – the cuckoo without a cause. The Toppan’s leaflet came round. There were photos of groups of men and women, bleary-eyed, club-sweaty, glitter cleavage and neon-painted. The men were all in superhero costumes or Where’s Wally outfits; some of the women in naughty schoolgirl uniforms and doing thumbs-up to the camera and rabbit ears above each other’s heads. All kinds of zany hilarity.

  Toppan’s – by day a family water park; by night, a Petri dish of chlamydia. The place looked impressive in the central picture on the leaflet – three large see-through structures, a bit like a square Eden Project except there was nothing exotic growing underneath those roofs. Each building was labelled Club Land, Pub Land or Grub Land. So one minute you’d be grinding up against someone in the Club, then shagging them behind the Pub, and finally eating fried chicken with them inside Grub. Sorted.