by Shaun Hutson
He paused at the foot of the staircase which would take him up to the first floor, the voices hissing in his ears again. They were calling him and Harold made his way almost eagerly to his room where they waited.
Thirty-Two
Lynn Tyler grunted as she felt the weight of the man’s body on top of her. She sucked in a deep breath but it slowly subsided into a groan of pleasure as she felt his swollen penis slide into her. He bent his head forward, his unshaven cheek scraping her.
“Don’t you ever shave?” she murmured, her complaint dissolving away into another exclamation of pleasure as he began thrusting into her with firm strokes.
She couldn’t remember his name. Barry or Gary. Something like that. It didn’t matter much to her either way. She’d picked him up at a disco about two hours earlier and was now enjoying the consummation of what, for her, was to be yet another notch on the bedstead.
She ran a hand through his thick black hair, wincing slightly as she felt the slick greasiness of it. His breath smelt of beer and, when he kissed her, it was a clumsy slobbering action, rather like being accosted by a Saint Bernard. However, she weathered his attentions, enjoying the sensations he was creating within her. One of his rough hands went to her breast and squeezed hard. So hard that she yelped in pain but all he did was grin and squeeze the other one with equal force. Her nipples rose to meet his strong advances, her hips now beginning to rotate in time to his thrusts.
She felt a glow around her groin which spread slowly to her belly but it was not the pleasant warmth that signals the approach of orgasm. It was an uncomfortably familiar burning sensation which she had experienced two or three times since returning from hospital. Lynn sucked in a sharp breath as a stab of pain jolted her. Her lover took it to be a sign of her excitement and grunted something but she didn’t hear him, her mind was now occupied with the growing pain in her lower region which seemed to be intensifying. The weight on top of her seemed almost unbearable but she gritted her teeth, whispering words of encouragement in his ear, trying by any means she could to drive the thoughts of the searing pain from her mind.
Barry or Gary or whatever his name was, suddenly withdrew his organ, leaving her panting in frustration but that feeling of frustration did not remain long as, a moment later, she felt his hot breath on her left breast then the right. His tongue flicked against her swollen nipples and he drew them between his teeth making them even harder and more erect.
The pain in her abdomen grew more acute. The skin across her belly seemed first to contract and then to stretch, rising in two places in the form of almost imperceptible bumps. Lynn swallowed hard, the burning sensation now even stronger. It felt as if someone had poured a kettle full of boiling water all over her abdomen.
A particularly prominent bulge rose just to the right of her navel, strained against the flesh defiantly for long seconds then vanished.
The man was up on his knees now, looking down at her vagina and she almost screamed aloud as she saw the blood.
Lynn Tyler thrust a shaking hand between her legs and withdrew it slowly to see crimson staining her fingertips. She felt the burning inside her, stared at the blood as it trickled down her quivering digits and, finally, she did scream.
Thirty-Three
It was cold inside the pathology lab and Randall dug both hands deep inside his trouser pockets. The smell of chemicals was strong and the inspector wrinkled his nose, peering around the large room with its green painted, white tiled walls. There were three stainless steel slabs set side by side, the last of which bore a sheet covered occupant. There was a small tag attached to the big toe of the left foot. It bore a name and a three digit number. The number coincided with one of the many lockers that ran the full length of the far wall. A storecase for sightless eyes.
Above the slab dangled a scale, beside it there was a tray littered with surgical instruments, one of which, Randall noticed with revulsion, was a saw. He glanced across at PC Fowler who looked even paler than usual beneath the glare of the fluorescents. The young constable was gazing at the covered body on the far slab. He was shivering and, he told himself, it was not solely, the product of the chill air.
In one corner of the lab there was a sink and it was there that the hospital’s chief pathologist stood. He washed his hands then pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, pressing his fingers together to ensure that they fitted like a second skin. Ronald Potter turned and headed for the slab. He was in his forties, his bald dome hidden by the toupée which he wore. It was a bad fit because flecks of what little hair he retained showed beneath it at the rear but Randall was concerned with more important things than ill-fitting hair pieces at the moment. Both he and Fowler moved forward as Potter reached the slab and pulled back the sheet.
The pathologist eyed the corpse indifferently, leaning over it, inspecting the preliminary damage. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, considering the object before him with the same concentration which a child would apply to selecting a sweet from a chocolate box.
Randall looked at the body for a moment then diverted his gaze towards the pathologist.
Fowler gritted his teeth and looked away, trying to retain his breakfast.
The body was badly mutilated about the shoulders and was, once again, headless. Blood had trickled into the gutter which ran around the rim of the slab, most of it from the turn stump of the neck. The head had been severed much higher up this time, just below the bottom jaw as far as Randall could see. Indeed, fragments of bone and even a tooth also lay on the slab where the head should have been.
Potter reached for a metal probe and began poking about in one of the many gashes that criss-crossed the remains of the neck.
“This is becoming something of a habit isn’t it, Inspector?” he asked, plucking a pair of tweezers from the trolley.
“What?” asked Randall, puzzled, his attention riveted to the stomach-turning sight before him.
“Finding headless corpses.” The pathologist looked up and smiled, humorlessly. “How many is this now? Three isn’t it?”
Randall clenched his fists at his side and glared at the older man.
“Someone somewhere must have quite a collection. I didn’t know we had head-hunters in Exham.”
“What are you a pathologist or a fucking comedian?” snapped the Inspector, irritably. “I want to know what he was killed with. I don’t want Sunday Night at the London Palladium.”
It was Potter’s turn to glare. The two men locked stares for a moment then the pathologist returned to his work. He laboured in silence for a good ten minutes then straightened up, wiping some blood off on his apron.
“As far as I can see, the head was severed with the same weapon as the one used on the two previous victims.” He paused. “A single-edged blade of some kind. There’s rust in two or three of the wounds as well.” The older man pulled the sheet further back and regarded the remains of the body. “No other external damage. The pattern’s the same.”
“With the other two you said that there was a lot of blood in the lungs,” Randall reminded him. “What about this one?”
Potter smiled thinly and reached for a new tool. He held it before him and Randall saw that it was a tiny buzz-saw, its steel blade glinting beneath the lights.
“Let’s have a look, shall we?” said Potter and checked to see if the instrument was plugged in. It was. He stepped on a pedal near his left foot and the buzz-saw whirred into action with a sound that reminded Randall of a dentist’s drill. As he watched, the pathologist lowered the spinning blade to a point just below the sternum of the corpse, then, with one expert movement, he buried it in the flesh, allowing the screaming blade to carve a path through dead flesh and bone, opening the rib cage until the lungs were exposed. A foul stench rose from the open chest cavity and both Randall and Fowler backed away.
The high-pitched whine ceased abruptly, to be replaced by a sickening crack as the older man prized open the sawn-through rib cage exposing the vital organs beneath. He pick
ed up a pair of scissors and carefully snipped away at the lining of the chest, finally cutting into the left lung just below the trachea. As the expertly-wielded scissors sliced through the pleura, a clear fluid spilled out to be followed, a second later, by the first dark, almost black, clots of congealed blood. Seemingly oblivious to the thick red cascade, Potter opened the lung from top to bottom finally pulling open the organ with his gloved hands. Randall swallowed hard.
“Exactly the same as the other two,” said Potter.
“What exactly does that mean?” the Inspector asked, trying to look anywhere but at the ruined torso of the corpse before him. He wanted a smoke and his fingers anxiously toyed with the packet of Rothmans in his pocket but he kept his composure as best he could and waited for an answer.
Potter shrugged.
“The killer attacked from behind. That’s easy enough to see from these wounds here,” he pointed to three particularly large gashes on the lower part of the neck. “The blade was used in a type of swatting action. These are cuts, not punctures. The fact that there are no defence cuts on the hands or arms would seem to indicate that the victim was dead after the first or second blow:”
“Could the head have been severed with one stroke?” Randall wanted to know. “By a very strong man for instance.”
Potter shook his head.
“No,”
“You sound very sure.”
“Well, Inspector, for one thing, strength has nothing to do with it.” He smiled thinly. “It’s technique. When beheading was the accepted form of execution during the Middle Ages, right up to the sixteenth century, there was a certain art to it. The headsmen were trained for their job and even then it was common for them to take two or three blows to sever the head completely. And they used axes or large swords. These wounds were inflicted with a small weapon.”
Randall nodded.
“Thanks for the history lesson,” he said.
“Besides, in this case,” he motioned towards the corpse, “As with the previous two, the head was removed by a series of blows. Chopped not sliced off.”
Fowler blenched and decided he needed some fresh air. Randall told him to wait in the car outside. The young constable left, gratefully, his footsteps echoing around the large cold room. The other two men waited until the PC had departed then they spoke briskly, Randall watching as the pathologist completed the autopsy. His mind was brimming over with ideas and thoughts. Harvey. The murder weapon. But, something which Potter had said troubled him, something about strength having nothing to do with it. He turned the thought over in his mind finally dismissing it. The incident at the grocer’s shop the other night had confirmed his suspicions once and for all. Paul Harvey was responsible for these killings. It was just a matter of finding him. Randall chewed his bottom lip contemplatively. Find Harvey. That was what he’d been trying to do for nearly three months now and he was still no closer. As he stood in this cold room his men were out searching Exham and the surrounding countryside, covering ground which they’d already searched months before in a vain effort to find the maniac. Randall exhaled deeply and looked at his watch. It was 10.34 a.m. He’d been at the hospital for over three hours, ever since the corpse had been discovered in the front garden of a house on the south side of town. The Inspector had driven to the scene of the crime and then ridden the ambulance to the hospital to await the autopsy report. He had not intended to stay for the actual event but, he had reasoned, there was nothing for him to do back at his office except twiddle his thumbs and lose his temper trying to figure out just where the hell Harvey was. So he had stayed.
Potter completed his work and pulled the sheet back over the body, calling in one of the lab technicians to complete the task of sewing the corpse up again. Randall watched as the older man washed his hands at the sink, humming happily to himself as he did so. When he’d finished he turned to face the policeman.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Inspector?” he said, sardonically.
Randall shook his head.
“I do have other work to do,” the pathologist reminded him, motioning towards the door.
The policeman shot him an acid glance and headed towards the exit, glad to leave this foul place. He slammed the door behind him and headed for the lift, jabbing the button which would take him up to the ground floor. He closed his eyes as the car rose the short distance to the upper level. It smelt of plastic and perspiration in there and Randall was pleased when he could step out. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and retrieved his cigarettes, hurriedly lighting one up. He’d taken two drags on it when a voice called to him and he turned to see an attractive woman walking towards him. She wore a long white coat, open to reveal a green blouse and grey skirt. But, as she drew closer, Randall found himself captivated by a pair of piercing blue eyes. They gleamed like chips of sapphire but there was a warmth to them.
She pointed to a sign on the wall to his left which said “NO SMOKING” in large red letters. He took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it, grinding it out beneath his foot.
She had seen him emerge from the lift and, immediately, her curiosity had been aroused.
“You’re not a member of staff are you?” It was a statement, not a question.
“No.” He smiled, still gazing into those gleaming blue eyes. “You could say I was here on business.”
She looked puzzled but Randall fumbled in his pocket for his ID. He flipped the slim wallet open and showed it to her.
“Police,” she said.
He nodded.
“It’s not a very good photo,” she said, indicating the small snap in the wallet. Their eyes locked for brief seconds and Randall detected the hint of a smile on her lips.
“Is it about the murders?”
He snapped the wallet shut, his expression hardening.
“What makes you think that?” he asked, sharply.
“Because we don’t have too many policemen calling here at this time in the morning.” She studied his face, hard and lined, puffy beneath the eyes from lack of sleep. He still had some stubble on his chin from his hasty shave. “Don’t look so alarmed,” she told him. “Word does travel you know. Three murders in less than a week is bound to be news.”
Randall nodded.
“So who are you?” he wanted to know.
She introduced herself and, as he held her hand he found his gaze drawn once more to those blue orbs. She was, indeed, a very attractive woman. He looked for the wedding ring on her left hand but didn’t see one, something which surprised him. They exchanged brief pleasantries then Randall announced that he should be going.
She called him back.
“Have you got any idea who you’re looking for?” she asked.
Randall eyed her suspiciously.
“That’s police information, Miss Ford,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, it’s probably nothing. . .” She allowed the sentence to trail off but Randall’s curiosity was suddenly and unexpectedly aroused.
“What is it? If you’ve heard anything, tell me.” There was a note of urgency in his voice now.
She explained about Harold. Falteringly, not sure whether she was making a fool of herself or not, she told Randall about the ex-porter’s background, about the examination she had carried out, and about Harold’s apparent regression. Randall listened but was unimpressed. She mentioned her search of the hut, the discovery of the blood and finally, almost reluctantly, the incident with the foetuses’ grave.
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Randall. “Where is he now?”
“No one knows,” said Maggie.
The Inspector ran a hand through his hair.
“Everybody seems to be disappearing,” he said, wearily.
“Maybe it’s just my imagination but, well, he was disturbed,” she said.
Randall nodded.
“I don’t think this. . .” He asked the porter’s name again and she told him. “I don’t think Pierce is tied up with these killings. The
severed heads, they’re like Harvey’s trade-mark. I can’t see that it’s anyone but him.” He hesitated. “But I’ll check “out this Pierce anyway.” He turned to leave but paused. “Thanks, Miss Ford.”
“Maggie,” she said.
“Thanks, Maggie,” he said, smiling. “You know, if every doctor looked like you the Health Service would have an even longer waiting list.” He winked and headed for the exit.
She watched him go, wondering if she had done the right thing. She doubted that Harold was connected in any way with the killings but if Randall could find out where he was she would feel a little easier. She took the lift to her office, the vision of Randall’s hard but appealing face still strong in her mind. It was a vision that would not fade easily.
Randall slid into the passenger seat beside Fowler and nodded for the constable to start the car. He told the young PC to drive out to the new psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Exham and the journey was completed in less than twenty minutes. Neither of the men spoke, each wrapped up in his own thoughts. Fowler still felt queasy at the thought of the autopsy and Randall’s mind was trying to digest the information which Maggie had given him. However, there was something else on the Inspectors mind, something not directly linked with police business. It was the doctor herself and, as he allowed his head to loll back against the head-rest he thought about those sparkling blue eyes and that soft brown hair. He even afforded himself a smile.
Messages came through over the two-way as they travelled as other cars reported in. The news was the same every time – not a trace of Harvey. Randall hooked the receiver back into place and looked up as Fowler swung the Panda into the driveway which led up to the new psychiatric hospital. What a contrast to the old place, thought Randall as he got out. Where there had been granite there was now glass. Where there’d been barred windows there was now double glazing. The entire structure looked light and airy, a marked contrast to the forbidding monolithic bearing of the old asylum.