Double Mortice

by Bill Daly

  ‘I decided to let him experience a real high. I gave myself a hit and then I pumped a speedball into his arm. He went berserk. Totally lost his cool. Can you believe it? I gave him few more jabs. He was screaming like a stuck pig, just like my mother, so I had to gag him. But you don’t scream, Philippa, do you?’ He smiled at her coldly.

  ‘I don’t scream.’ Her voice was trembling.

  ‘Then I slit his throat. He’d left me no option. He knew too much. It’s not so difficult when you have the knack – and I’ve certainly got the knack,’ he giggled. ‘I got a screwdriver and burst the lock on the front door of the flat to make it look as if it had been forced from the outside. You’re a lawyer, Philippa. You can see how it all fits together.’

  Her mouth was dry. She was struggling to swallow. She could barely speak. ‘I … I suppose so.’

  Almost absent-mindedly, his hand moved down her neck and slipped inside her jacket, coming to rest on her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t flinch as he fondled her through her blouse. ‘You’re very like Carole, you know. I must say, I have to give my old man credit for his taste in women, if for precious little else.’

  ‘Who’s Carole?’

  He didn’t reply, but continued to massage her breast.

  ‘Would you like to make love to me, Paul?’

  He eyed her up and down. ‘You are a sexy little minx.’ His breathing was becoming laboured.

  ‘Untie me – and let me show you just how sexy I can be,’ she whispered.

  He looked at her in mock amazement. ‘You don’t realise, do you? I can’t untie you. I have to screw you tied to the bed. It’s all part of the plan.’

  Philippa’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What plan?’ Again he ignored her question as he teased her nipple through the thin material. ‘Don’t you like doing it this way? Tied to the bed? Carole did. Isn’t this the way you used to do it with my old man?’

  He picked up the razor and flicked his thumb across the edge of the blade, testing the sharpness. Philippa’s whole body tensed as he tugged her blouse from the waistband of her skirt and started slicing it up towards her neck, the blade coming to rest just below her chin. Folding her jacket and her tattered blouse away from her breasts, he leaned across her body and took her nipple in his mouth.

  Philippa felt something brush against the inside of her thigh. She flinched when she realised it was the razor. Her skirt was already riding up around her waist and she could feel the cold steel as the blade travelled slowly up her leg, grazing her bare flesh, then she gasped involuntarily when she felt it slide inside her pants. She heard a rending sound as the blade sliced through the flimsy material. Paul’s mouth was still clamped firmly to her breast, his tongue pressing down hard on her nipple.

  ‘Paul,’ she pleaded desperately. ‘Why don’t you untie me so we can do this properly?’

  He lifted his mouth from her breast and sat up straight. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I have to screw you tied to the bed. It’s all part of the plan.’

  ‘What plan?’

  ‘You really want to know? Then listen carefully. This is good.’ He sprang to his feet. ‘The only way I can be sure of getting my hands on my father’s money is if he’s dead. But if he’s murdered, that will cause all kinds of complications – it might take years to get things straightened out through the courts. Everything would be so much simpler if he committed suicide. But for that to happen, he would need a reason. And what better reason than remorse after he’s raped you and killed you? So, I’m going to screw you, Philippa, then I’m going to slit your throat,’ he stated casually. Philippa let out an involuntary squeal. ‘After I’ve done that, I’m going to call lover boy and tell him you’re here and that you’re in danger. He’ll come galloping across like a knight in shining armour – nothing in this world is more certain – and when he gets here I’m going to smash his head in with the baseball bat. Then I’m going to daub his clothes with your blood and tip his body over the balcony. Beautiful, isn’t it?

  ‘The police will find the evidence. The message he left on your windscreen enticing you here – painstaking work, that was, forging his handwriting. I don’t think you’ll have destroyed the note. The police will probably find it in your handbag or in your car. Even if they don’t, what does it matter? They’ll deduce that he lured you here, overpowered you, tied you to the bed, raped you and slashed your throat. Then, in a fit of remorse, he leaped from the balcony.’

  Philippa’s pulse was racing out of control – the nightmare overwhelming her. It was all she could do to hold back the scream that threatened to burst forth.

  ‘I’ve thought of everything. The autopsy will conclude that the blow from the baseball bat was sustained during the fall. And look at this.’ He produced a packet of condoms from his trouser pocket and held it triumphantly in front of her eyes. ‘I’m going to wear one of these when I screw you so there’ll be no DNA evidence available from my sperm. And there’s an upside too – no risk of AIDS – and no risk of you getting pregnant.’ He spluttered with laughter.

  ‘And there’s something else,’ he continued eagerly. ‘You’re really going to enjoy this.’ He ran to his jacket, which was hanging on the back of the bedroom door. He pulled a slim packet from the inside pocket and unfolded it carefully on the mattress, taking out two syringes. ‘Look what I’ve got. One for each of us.’

  ‘No Paul! No! I don’t use that stuff. I don’t need it.’

  ‘Now, now, Pippa. Don’t fib. I bet you’ve snorted a few lines of coke in your time. Probably tried a bit of smack as well, eh? But this is the combo to beat them all,’ he said, lovingly caressing one of the syringes.

  He rolled up his shirt sleeve and slipped the belt from the waistband of his trousers, looping it round his left arm, just below the elbow. He pulled it tight, gripping the loose end of the belt with his teeth and tugging on it until the veins on his forearm stood proud. He selected a bulging vein and lanced it with the needle, then closed his eyes as he pumped the plunger. His head arched back and he gave a long, low moan. He slackened his jaw and the belt fell loose. ‘You fucking beauty! There’s nothing to touch it, I promise you. Your turn now.’

  ‘No, Paul!’ He slid Philippa’s jacket up her arm and unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse, rolling it beyond the elbow. She thrashed wildly when he applied his belt as a tourniquet. ‘For Christ’s sake! I don’t want that!’

  Impervious to her pleading, he started whistling the Dambusters’ theme, smirking as he primed the second syringe. ‘Bombs away!’ Philippa felt a sharp stab of pain as the needle pierced her skin, then the liquid started pumping, coursing into her veins. It was really happening to her. She twisted and jerked violently, her arms and legs flailing against their restraining bonds. Rivulets of perspiration oozed from every pore. All her restraint dissolved as the nightmare imploded. She screamed at the top of her voice, a long shuddering wail that seemed to fly from her body and hover like a mantle round the head of the crazed creature sitting by her side.

  Paul went berserk, slapping her across the face and splitting open her bottom lip. ‘Shut up, you stupid bitch! Stop screaming! You promised!’ Another scream, cracked and half-whimpering, filled the room.

  Paul grabbed the roll of adhesive tape from the bedside table and picked up the razor to cut off a strip. He slammed the palm of his hand under Philippa’s chin to force her jaws closed, then stretched the tape across her mouth. Slicing off several more strips, he used them to criss-cross her mouth before collapsing onto the edge of the bed, panting from the effort. ‘That wasn’t right. You’re spoiling everything. You promised not to scream. Why did you lie to me?’ He fixed her with a wild-eyed glare. ‘Why does everybody lie to me?’

  Within seconds, the speedball started to take effect. Philippa felt wave after wave of hot flushes and the room started to swim crazily, the backs of her eyes throbbing and her brain filling with scrambled images. She was running through a bl
ack void, plummeting head-over-heels into a bottomless pit, her body twisting and turning – spinning and falling. She managed to pull herself out of the vertical dive and was now floating face-up in gravity-free space, her mouth gaping, her limbs dangling limply. Her eyelids grew incredibly heavy and she was consumed by an irresistible drowsiness as she struggled to blink away the sweat from her forehead, which was stinging her eyes.

  She heard him speak. She could make out the words but the voice was detached from his body. It seemed to be coming from another room, another universe. ‘Speedballs are great before sex. They heighten everything.’

  She looked towards him. He was standing by the side of the bed, stripping off his clothes. His body was gaunt and white – a spectre. She thought this cackling, emaciated creature was ogling her but she couldn’t focus – his features were twisted and blurred, his face zooming rapidly towards her then receding at an alarming rate. He climbed onto the bed and lay on top of her. She felt his bare flesh pressing against hers. She watched helplessly as her left nipple stood proud in response to his touch when he rolled it firmly between thumb and forefinger. He clamped his mouth to her breast and started teasing her hardened nipple with his tongue. She could feel his hand creeping up the inside of her thigh, fingernails scratching gently at her flesh.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Philippa couldn’t control the cough building up in her lungs. With no release of air possible through her mouth, she gagged when the cough exploded in the back of her throat. Lathered in sweat from the effects of the speedball, light-headed from lack of oxygen, she was on the verge of vomiting as she struggled to exhale through her nose. Tears of despair streamed down her bulging cheeks.

  Paul was totally indifferent to her agony as he knelt between her outstretched thighs, fumbling with the wrapping on the contraceptive. He winked at her as he dangled the condom in front of her terrified eyes, then he leered malevolently as he slowly unrolled it down the length of his erect penis. Stretching to the top of the bed for a pillow, he plumped it up and thrust it under her hips.

  Philippa imagined she heard a noise – some kind of metallic click. She couldn’t make out what it was or where it had come from. Was she hallucinating? It sounded like a key turning in a lock. Her heart skipped a beat. She realised she hadn’t imagined it – Paul had heard it too. Springing from the bed, he grabbed the razor and moved silently across the room, standing stock still behind the closed bedroom door.

  When Paul saw the door handle start to turn, he flicked off the top light, plunging the room into darkness. He crouched behind the door, razor poised. The door was slowly eased open. Philippa stared across. Through her blurred vision, she thought she could discern the shadowy image of a figure standing in the doorway.

  She wanted to cry out a warning. She tried desperately to push her tongue through her teeth, striving to burst through the gagging tape, but to no avail. She blinked hard, attempting to focus. If she could only warn him with her eyes… Could he see her eyes? Could he see her at all? Looking straight towards him, then switching her gaze to behind the door, she pleaded with her eyes that he might understand. He’s behind the door! He’s behind the door! She switched her gaze back and forth as rapidly as she could – again and again. Her head was reeling. The nausea was overpowering. She passed out in a dead faint.

  As soon as the figure took a step inside the room, Paul launched himself round the side of the door, striking out blindly, stabbing at head height – going for the face. Charlie Anderson had only a split second in which to react. Instinctively, he turned side-on and threw up his arm, grunting as he felt the searing pain of the razor plunging into his shoulder. Letting out a roar like a bull elephant, he crashed into the door, sending Paul rolling and tumbling across the bedroom floor. Charlie winced as he eased the blade from his shoulder.

  Paul scrambled to his feet and crouched, naked, wild-eyed, searching frantically for a way to escape. Charlie didn’t move, his frame blocking the doorway, blood dripping from his shoulder onto the floor. He flicked on the light switch.

  ‘Take it easy, Paul.’ Charlie dropped the razor and clasped his hand to his shoulder to stem the flow of blood. ‘It’s all over. Put on your clothes and come with me.’ Like a cornered animal, Paul’s eyes darted round the room. He yanked aside the curtain and tugged at the handle of the sliding patio doors, leading to the balcony. Dashing outside, he rammed the door closed behind him. ‘Come back!’ Charlie shouted. ‘You can’t go anywhere from there.’

  Paul swung his legs over the railing and slid down as he far as he could, facing inwards, gripping the base of the concrete balcony with his fingertips. He knew there was an identical balcony on the floor below. Charlie wrenched open the patio door. ‘Don’t try it, Paul!’ he yelled. ‘You can’t get down that way.’ Paul swung back and forth several times to build momentum, then with one final outward lunge of his legs, he released his grip as he started to arch inwards. ‘I can fly!’ he cried triumphantly.

  His clawing fingers bounced off the railings of the balcony of the floor below and he made no further sound as his body spiralled downwards, arms and legs flailing like a rag doll. His spinning body crashed onto the paving stones then rolled, as if in slow motion, down the gentle embankment, coming to rest, face up, by the river’s edge.

  Charlie stepped out onto the balcony and gazed down at the crumpled figure – naked – spread-eagled – silent.

  Wednesday 23 March

  Kay Anderson carried a steaming bowl of porridge across to the kitchen table. ‘Would you like me to pour milk on for you?’

  ‘I’m not a complete cripple. I can manage some things by myself. Anyway, I don’t need this damned sling. I’m going to take it off.’

  ‘The doctor said you had to keep it on for a week to give the wound a chance to heal.’

  ‘I don’t need it. It’s just –’

  ‘You’re worse than a bairn,’ Kay interrupted forcibly. ‘If the doctor said a week, he meant a week – not one night.’

  ‘I hardly slept a wink. I can’t sleep lying on my back.’

  ‘I suppose you’d be better off lying on your side and opening up the wound?’

  ‘It’s just a scratch. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘A week,’ she repeated firmly.

  ‘But Kay, I –’ His attempt at further protest was interrupted by the toot of a car horn outside. ‘That’ll be my driver. I’d better be going.’

  ‘He can wait until you’ve had your breakfast. I’ll let him know you’ll be out in a few minutes.’

  When Charlie had finished his porridge, Kay held up his jacket while he slid his right arm into the sleeve. She tugged the left sleeve over his shoulder. ‘I’ll try to get away early tonight, love. Maybe we could have something for dinner that I could eat one-handed?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of shepherd’s pie, by any chance?’

  He grinned and gave her a peck on the cheek before hurrying out to the waiting car. When he saw Charlie coming, the driver jumped out and held open the passenger door.

  ‘Been in the wars, I hear, sir.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Phil. Just a flesh wound, as they say in the movies. Sorry I had to drag you all the way over here, but the quack won’t let me drive for a week. It’s a bloody nuisance.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Would you stop off at the Western on the way? I want to visit one of the patients.’

  Charlie got Philippa’s ward number from the reception desk, then took the lift. He went to the office at the top of the ward where a nursing sister was seated at an oval desk, studying a patient’s chart. Her lapel badge identified her as Sister Tate.

  ‘DCI Anderson,’ Charlie announced, tugging out his I.D. ‘Could you tell me how Philippa Scott is, please? She’s the young lady who was brought into casualty last night.’

  Sister Tate put down the chart. ‘She had a disturbed night. I don’t know the full story but I’m told she was attacked and forcibly injected w
ith drugs, which is probably the truth. Although her blood shows a high concentration of heroin and cocaine, there’s only one puncture mark in her arm. I don’t think she’s an addict.’

  ‘I’m aware of the circumstances. I was involved in the incident last night. Would it be possible for me to talk to her?’

  ‘Yes, but please be brief. She needs rest. She’s in the first bed on the right.’

  When Charlie approached the bed, Philippa was lying on her back staring at the ceiling, her long, auburn hair splayed across the pillow. Her complexion was ashen, her cheeks gaunt and her jaws were blotched with angry red weals where the gagging tape had adhered to her skin. Her eyes, sunken and red-rimmed, had none of their natural sparkle; the cornea cloudy and dull, the pupils dilated.

  Charlie lowered himself onto the bedside chair. ‘How are you feeling this morning, Miss Scott?’

  Philippa turned her head on the pillow and blinked as she adjusted focus. Slowly, she recognised Charlie. ‘Pretty groggy,’ she mumbled. ‘But I’ll survive. This makes it a bit awkward to talk.’ She fingered the stitches in her lower lip gingerly. ‘How’s your arm?’ she asked, staring at his sling.

  ‘It’s my shoulder. Nothing much wrong with it,’ he said dismissively. ‘Just a zealous doctor over-reacting.’

  Philippa attempted a smile. ‘I’m told I have you to thank for saving my life.’

  Charlie felt himself blush. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘I would. Paul would have killed me for sure if you hadn’t turned up. I can still scarcely believe it. I used to see him around the office, you know.’ She paused. ‘Is he…?’