by Bill Kitson
He cut the motor and, bereft of power, the boat slipped silently through the water. He was within yards of the other boat when a freak wave hit the bow. The sharp slapping sound of the wave against the side, made the trio of men in the other boat look round. As they did, the fisherman caught sight of one of them, a man he knew well. ‘Hey!’ he shouted angrily. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
The question was rhetorical, for he knew perfectly well. He was about to protest further, but one of the men picked up a boat hook and hit him. The ferocious blow struck the side of his head, knocking him senseless. He fell forward, to land head first in the bottom of the boat.
‘He recognized me!’
The man who had delivered the blow answered. ‘That’s extremely unlucky. Unlucky for him, I mean.’ The speaker’s voice was calm, without the slightest trace of panic. ‘Wrap the rope from one of the lobsterpots around his ankles and tip him over the side. When they find him, they’ll think he tripped, hit his head, and drowned.’
Half an hour later, with the drugs and several lobsters retrieved, they set off towards Whitby. Two of them were silent, dismayed by the enormity of what they had done to the fisherman. The third was unconcerned, whistling cheerfully as he examined their haul. But then, Ron Mason was no stranger to violent deaths, many of which he had been responsible for.
By the time they had offloaded the drugs and lobsters into the waiting fish vans and the drivers had set off inland, out at sea the fisherman’s cooling corpse was already attracting attention from a minor local celebrity. The huge lobster had evaded capture for many years, becoming so well known he was talked about in the pubs where fishermen foregather. He was even given a nickname, one hardly in keeping with his reputation as a voracious predator. ‘Lobby’ the lobster would dine well that night. A fisherman would often eat lobster. It is far rarer for a lobster to dine on a fresh fisherman.
Stanley slept late the second morning. The sun was streaming in through the bedroom window of the holiday cottage when he woke up. It was one of a row of property owned by Kovac. The first intimation of trouble came from the sound. As Stanley got up and blinked, bleary-eyed, he saw the bright yellow flash of something big pass the window. He peered out, the heavy throbbing sound of the Sea King’s engine and the accompanying whirr of the rotor blades reverberating in his ears as the air-sea rescue helicopter passed close by. He watched it head out towards the open sea, wondering what their mission was. Did it concern the boat he and Kovac had sunk two nights ago?
‘You’re wasting your time,’ he called cheerfully to the departing Sea King. ‘They’re already dead.’
It was only later, as he was shaving, that Stanley thought that the Sea King might have been summoned to search for someone else. Even then, he didn’t think to associate it with their courier. That came much later.
During the afternoon, he took a walk down to the harbour. He looked at the line of boats moored alongside the quay. These ranged from privately owned vessels to inshore fishing boats and tiny dinghies. His search was in vain, for there was no sign of the boat he and Kovac had used. Even that failed to ring any alarm bells. The fisherman was often absent for twenty-four hours or more at a time, and given the nature of the catch, was far more likely to return during darkness than in daytime.
It wasn’t until he went into the pub that evening that Stanley heard the news. He listened to the locals talking about the fisherman’s death, and their speculation as to how such an accident could have happened to such an experienced sailor. None of them was able to offer a reasonable explanation, other than carelessness, which they all agreed was totally out of character.
Stanley could have enlightened them, even though he had been nowhere near the man when he drowned. As he listened to the discussion, which had taken on a macabre twist with the recounting of the giant lobster which had been seen feeding off the corpse, Stanley knew the death was no accident, no moment of carelessness.
He finished his drink and strolled out of the pub. Once outside, he hurried back to the cottage. As soon as he was inside, safe from the chance of being overheard, Stanley phoned his boss. As he reported the event, he wondered what Kovac’s reaction would be; although he had a shrewd idea he would be less than happy.
The response was as angry as he’d expected and even Stanley’s comment that at least they had the shipment from the Blooming Rose as compensation failed to placate Kovac. ‘It had to be the Soldiers. How did they know? How did they find out where we were bringing the stuff in? Some bastard has grassed to the opposition. When I find out who they are, I’ll turn them over to you. And you can make them suffer as you’ve never made anyone scream before.’
Stanley waited until Kovac’s stream of invective died away and ended the call. Unlike Kovac, he felt really cheerful as he prepared to drive back to the Park. But then Kovac had promised him a treat. He fingered the tool he carried in a small leather wallet on his belt, the tool that had given him his nickname. Soon, he felt sure it would be time for the Stanley knife to get another outing.
Chapter sixteen
The house on the outskirts of Helmsdale stood some distance from neighbouring properties. It had been derelict for many years. Most of the windows were empty, mere gaping shells. Those panes that hadn’t been totally wrecked were more hole than glass. It had been the target for vandals from time to time, but even they had given up on the place in the end, probably because they thought there was little more they could do to it, other than razing it to the ground. Scorch marks on the exterior brickwork and what remained of the plasterwork in two of the downstairs rooms showed that even that had been attempted. The failure was probably due to damp. Mould and fungus flourished, giving some rooms the impression they had been decorated by some mad surrealist painter.
Despite its unwholesome appearance and unhealthy atmosphere, the house was the nearest thing to a permanent home for a small group of people who lived there peripatetically.
Mains services had long been disconnected. Lack of a gas supply was almost certainly the principal reason the house hadn’t burned down. Disconnection from the water main, whilst it created severe sanitary problems, had prevented them from being flooded out.
Electricity was another luxury the house didn’t boast. For the residents, this wasn’t deemed a great disadvantage, as much of what went on inside the property was far better conducted under cover of darkness. All four of them were addicts, which was what had drawn them together, and drawn them to this place as well. To pay for their addiction they used the only asset they had, which was why one of the bedrooms in the house contained the nearest thing to an item of furniture in the whole building; a mattress.
With only their bodies as a means of earning money, they traded sexual favours for cash in that room. The disgust and self-loathing others might feel at being involved in this trade passed them by. The substances they ingested had long shattered any remaining respect they had for their bodies and if someone was prepared to rent them by the hour, what did it matter, so long as their money was good?
‘I got extra gear.’
‘Extra? How come? You win the lottery then?’
‘Course I have. How else do you reckon I could afford a mansion like this?’ He gestured at their surroundings.
She laughed. ‘So tell me, if you haven’t won the lottery, how come you can afford the extra? One of your regulars? Mr "I own a car showroom and I’ve got money”?’
‘Nah! He came round pleading the poor tale, so would I let him have a freebie. I told him unless he paid up, no cash, no bash.’
‘So come on, tell me, where did you get the loot?’
‘Your friend “Mr Little Dick” gave me it. You remember, last week, the one who kept complaining how cold it was?’
‘Oh, “you’re tiny and it’s frozen”, that one?’
‘Yeah, well, remember those photos and the video I took with my phone? Those of the pair of you hard at it? The thing is, I saw him yesterday when I was visiting my m
am. He was going into the bank. Turns out “Mr Little Dick” is only manager of the Helmsdale branch of Dales Bank. He went quite faint when I mentioned your name, fainter still when I showed him the photos. Then he took a kind of fit and started throwing money at me. Lots of money. The more photos I deleted, the more he chucked twenties in my direction.’
‘What about the video? That would be worth all the photos put together, and more.’
He grinned. ‘Thing is, with all that money around I clean forgot about the video. I thought it might come in handy another time.’
‘No wonder you bought extra gear. How much did you get?’
‘Wait, it gets better. When I went to buy it, Greasy Palms gave me a whacking great discount.’
She shuddered at the mention of Greasy Palms, their dealer. Part of the bargain when they were really skint, which was often the case, was payment in kind in return for the gear. ‘There’s never such a thing as a freebie,’ the dealer told them. His oily complexion gave rise to the nickname.
‘A discount? What’s up with him? Been converted to Christianity or something?’
‘Hardly. It wasn’t his doing. He told me his boss had insisted on it. Some sort of loyalty bonus.’
‘What’s up with them? They’ll be giving Air Miles next.’
‘I got you a chicken korma and a six pack of Stella out of the change.’
‘Great. Let’s dine, and then we can sample the gear.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘Out and about somewhere. Their loss. Come on, take me to my korma.’
The first thing he noticed as he approached the squat was there was no light showing. He frowned, that wasn’t right. It was early, at least by their standards. And it was Friday night. But from what he’d been told, he expected at least one of them to be in. He’d left the Cock & Bottle earlier than intended, simply because he’d bumped into Greasy Palms and the dealer had told him what was waiting at the house. They had few rules, but one they stuck to was share and share alike. If they’d buggered off out and taken the gear with them he wouldn’t be a happy bunny.
He went inside, reaching with practiced ease for the candle and matches he knew would be on the shelf alongside the hole where the front door had once been.
As soon as he had light, he went inside the front room. It was empty. He tried the other rooms on the ground floor. Equally empty. They must be upstairs. He grinned, that probably meant they’d taken some stuff and been celebrating. He tiptoed as quietly as he could, hoping to catch them at it. Always good for a laugh, that was. He found them in the front bedroom, as expected, but realized he was a little too late. They were lying on the sagging double mattress, stark naked.
The mattress had seen a lot of action in its time, and by the look of it, tonight was no exception. His housemates were totally out of it.
His eyes caught the glint of metal, and he saw the cans of Stella. Two of them were unopened. They would make up for his early departure from the pub. Then he saw the makings.
He wandered over and sat down, his back against the wall, opened a can and toasted the post-coital couple. As he reached for a needle, he murmured, ‘My turn next. Share and share alike, remember. Just got to stiffen up the sinews first.’
Three days later, the smell hit the girl as soon as she entered the house. It filled her nostrils as she moved through the rooms on the ground floor. She called out their names, one by one, but got no response. She heard a faint rustling sound she thought came from upstairs. That must be where they were, and probably out of it. She wondered briefly where they’d got the money. If there was gear to be had, she was keen to share in it, but what was that awful smell? It wasn’t the drains, this stench was far worse. As she climbed the stairs, the foul odour got worse. She clamped her fingers over her nostrils and pinched them tightly, breathing through her mouth in a vain attempt to keep the stink at bay. She paused at the head of the stairs as nausea threatened to overcome her. Something was definitely wrong. Very wrong.
Resisting the urge to turn and bolt down the stairs, she edged cautiously towards the bedroom. Her conviction growing that something really terrible had happened, she pushed the door back and entered the room, coming to an abrupt halt one pace inside. As her eyes got accustomed to the gloom, she saw movement. Two small, loathsome furry creatures, disturbed by this sudden invasion of their dining room, scurried away, to disappear in a remote corner. The other creatures remained, continued dining, totally oblivious of the room’s only other living occupant.
She recoiled in disgust as she realized the three corpses on the floor were the remains of her friends. Their faces unrecognizable, their bodies bloated and distended beyond belief, the colour of their skin a sickly green, turning black. She was only able to identify them by the clothing one of them was wearing, and those that the other two had tossed on to the floor alongside the mattress. Maggots writhed and squirmed in and around every orifice, their number seeming to multiply even as she watched.
Later, she was never sure, how long she stood there, absorbing the horror of the scene. She forced back the vomit that threatened to overwhelm her and turned, walking slowly but unsteadily across the landing, down the stairs, and outside into the clean, fresh air. She took a large, gulping breath. Mistake! All she could smell, all she could taste, was the foul reek of death. She bent over and was violently sick. After several minutes, when she had recovered slightly, she risked a series of smaller inhalations in an attempt to calm herself. It failed.
The operator on duty in the police control room had difficulty in making sense of what the caller was trying to tell him. Apart from the fact that the signal from her mobile phone was poor, the girl was hysterical. After some minutes and several unsuccessful attempts, he managed to calm her down sufficiently for him to grasp the gist of what she was attempting to report. It was only when the full horror of what she said struck home, that he began hitting panic buttons.
It was fifteen minutes later, following the dispatch of a pair of ambulances and two police patrol cars, when one of the uniformed police officers called in his report. ‘I think you’d better get CID out here,’ he warned the duty officer. ‘You’ll probably want the pathologist and a CSI team as well.’
‘What do I tell them?’
‘You could start by telling them we’ve three dead ones here. All drug addicts. Been dead a few days by the look of them – and by the stink. The paramedics reckon they can’t see any signs of violence, so they may have overdosed. Tell them there’s all sorts of infestation, and it’s getting worse. That should get their arses into gear.’
As the control room officer was relaying the details to DS Mironova, the bitter irony of the address he read out didn’t strike him. But then, he didn’t know that the derelict property was an abandoned police section house.
Experience had taught Clara to come prepared. Before putting on her paper suit and overshoes, she smeared her nose and mouth with a powerfully scented decongestant gel that she hoped would counteract the smell she knew would otherwise overpower her. No precautions she made however, could prepare her for the horrific appearance of the corpses.
She talked to the pathologist who was supervising the scene as the photographer recorded the sickening images. She kept the conversation as brief as possible, so great was her desire to get out of that room.
‘What do you reckon, Professor?’
Ramirez shrugged. ‘There are no apparent marks of violence on any of the bodies, if you discount those made by prolonged substance abuse, so take your pick. We’ll have to wait until we get them back to the mortuary and conduct the post-mortems before we know more, and even those might not be too informative. To me, it looks like either an overdose, which seems less likely, given that it has happened to three victims at the same time, or some adulteration of what they were using. There again, we’ll not know for certain until we get samples tested at the laboratory, however I have bagged several samples of what looks like heroin.’
‘Is there anything else I should know?’
Ramirez gave her a thin smile. ‘Not keen to hang about in here? No, I don’t think there’s much more to add. At a guess, I’d say they’ve been dead around four days or so, judging by the maturity of the maggots. Moving the bodies is going to be a tricky operation, given the gas, the fluids, and the slippage.’
‘Slippage?’
‘The skin becomes loose from the tissue and is liable to slough off the corpse at this stage. It’s very moist and damp in here, which has accelerated the decomposition.’
Clara grimaced. ‘Right, if that’s everything, I’ll leave you to get on with your work.’
‘I don’t blame you. I don’t think even Nash would stay inside this room longer than necessary.’
Once she was outside, she removed her protective clothing and attempted to rid herself of the noxious stench of death that seemed to cling to her hair, even the pores of her skin. She talked to one of the officers who had been the first responders.
‘We came here as soon as we got the triple nine. It would have only been a few minutes, because we were fairly close by when the call came through. Once we’d assessed the scene inside,’ the officer shuddered, ‘my partner and I taped the area off. Another car had also arrived by then, so rather than have them go into the house – for which I reckon they owe us a pint, we asked them to scour the area and try to find the kid who called the emergency operator.’
He gestured to the brightly coloured police vehicle at the roadside. ‘I told them I didn’t think she’d have driven off in an Aston Martin, and sure enough they picked her up only a few streets away. They knew it had to be her because of the state she was in; near to hysterical she was. She’s calmed down a bit now, so I reckon you’ll be able to question her soon.’