Myriad of Corridors

by Stan Mason

  ‘What about her father?’

  ‘What father?’ ranted the woman now that she was in her stride. ‘He left when the girl was three. Ran off with another woman. Poor Elsie!’

  ‘Elsie? Who’s Elsie?’

  ‘Her mother. Elsie Chester! She’s had a hard life. Her only daughter raped and strangled at the age of nineteen. How can you get over a thing like that? Mind you, I saw it coming. She was a disaster waiting to happen.’

  ‘Do you know the names of any men with whom she developed a relationship?’

  ‘There was one who knew her from school. She went out with him for quite a while. But being young and free she was too fickle. Far too fickle!’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  The woman sat back to try to recall the name in her mind. After pursing her lips for a while her memory came to the fore. ‘It was Mervyn. I remember that name because it’s Welsh and I came from Wales, but I can’t think of his second name.’

  ‘Which school did they go to?’

  ‘Lampshire Secondary,’ related the neighbour.

  She continued to rant on about trivial matters which were of no help to the architect and, after drinking his tea, he thanked her profusely for the information and left. He would have to pass the day until Mrs. Chester arrived home from work.

  He had lunch at a nearby restaurant thinking about the information the neighbour had given him. So, in Alice Prescott’s opinion, Amy was a wild young girl who flirted with men and she went clubbing most evenings. Well many young woman did the same thing. There was nothing terribly unusual in that. She had a boyfriend whom she knew from school named Mervyn who came from Wales and her relationship with her mother was far from satisfactory which was obviously the reason why she had left home to start up on her own at such an early age. He was now forming an opinion of the girl but it didn’t help him find her murderer. In fact the details indicated that it could have been anyone. He needed to obtain a photograph of Amy and tour the nightclubs to see if anyone could provide further information.

  Just after ten past five that evening, Elsie Chester returned home. She was a short woman with straying black hair who had put on far too much weight for her small frame. Her face was weathered with small pouches under her eyes and she looked much older than her real age. Hunter introduced himself briefly and she stared at him warily.

  ‘I don’t wish to speak to you about my daughter,’ she told him point-blank, unlocking the front door and going inside.

  ‘You have to!’ declared the architect. ‘Don’t you realise, madam, her spirit’s in limbo!’

  Mrs. Chester paused, staring at him strangely, holding the door as though she was about to shut it in his face. ‘What do you mean... in limbo?’ she demanded.

  Hunter shrugged his shoulders aimlessly not knowing whether to reveal his secret to the woman. ‘Her killer’s still out there. I’ve been told that her spirit can’t rest until we find him.’

  ‘She’s spoken to you?’ The words came from her lips in disbelief.

  ‘Not her. My dead wife told me.’

  The woman looked at him suspiciously still holding the door. ‘What kind of man are you, trying to con a woman who’s still grieving over her lost daughter.’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong. I’ve been chosen to investigate the matter. I’ve got to find her killer.’

  The woman continued to show her reluctance. ‘I’ve told the police everything I know. It isn’t easy going to the funeral of your own daughter.’

  ‘Don’t you want anyone to find her killer?’ He shot the question like an arrow from a cross-bow causing the woman to stop and think.

  She decided to admit him, opening the door more widely to allow him to enter. She took him into a similar room to that of her neighbour except for the fact that the furniture was old and decrepit. He sat down and removed his pen and notepad.

  ‘I don’t think it’s worth you writing anything down,’ she told him candidly. ‘There’s nothing much I have to tell you.’

  He grimaced at her response but carried on audaciously. ‘I’d like to know about your relationship with your daughter. I understand the two of you didn’t get on too well.’

  She laughed loudly but there was no amusement in her voice. ‘You’ve obviously been talking to my neighbour, Alice,’ she spat harshly. ‘Yes, Amy was a feisty teenager. Aren’t they all? And, yes, we had our little arguments.’

  ‘I understand she liked the company of men,’ he intruded.

  ‘Doesn’t every woman,’ came the response. ‘That’s life!’

  ‘What were the names of her boyfriends?’

  ‘She never confided in me. That was the problem.’ The woman reflected on the relationship with her daughter with sadness in her eyes. ‘The last one I knew about was Tom Houghton but that was only after the police told me.’ Her eyes glazed over as she went back into the past. ‘She was going out with a policeman once. I saw the police car outside when he picked her up. And there was another man she was going out with. She wanted to marry him. I read it in her diary after she died.’

  ‘What was his name?’ The architect began to get excited at the revelation.

  ‘Antonio Perrera. I’ve no idea who he was because I never met him. But her diary mentioned him as a man she wanted to marry.’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’

  ‘No,’ she replied frankly. ‘I never thought of it until now. That was his name. Antonio Perrera. The police had her diary so they must have known.

  Hunter scribbled rapidly on his pad. ‘Was there anyone else?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. Teenagers are reluctant to tell their parents anything.’

  ‘What about Amy’s father? Is it possible to speak with him.’

  ‘Huh!’ she spat with a tinge of anger in her voice. ‘He left years ago. I hear he’s pushing up daisies so you’ll have to go to the next world to speak to him.’

  ‘Amy had her own apartment. How did you feel about that?’

  ‘She was very advanced for her age. Found herself a good job and rented an apartment. She wanted to do her own thing in life and she did at the age of seventeen.’

  ‘Where did she go clubbing? Can you tell me that?

  ‘From the age of sixteen she used to go to the Golden Palm. It’s a night club in Weston Road. Couldn’t stay away from it. Went there six nights a week when she was with me.’

  ‘They must have known her well. Did you mention it to the police?’

  ‘I told them but they dismissed it out of hand,’ she said sadly. ‘They really botched up the investigations.’

  ‘If I may be so bold,’ he ventured, ‘they don’t seem to have done a very good job in finding your daughter’s killer.’

  ‘Well they’ve got dozens of open cases on file, I suppose. Amy was just another statistic,’ came the ready response. ‘There’s a world of evil men out there, Mr. Hunter. Which one of them is the guilty man? I mean to say, does it matter any more. No one can bring my Amy back.’

  Hunter nodded sympathetically, looking round the room noticing a number of photographs resting on the mantelshelf. ‘May I have one of the photos of Amy?’ he asked politely. ‘I’ll get it copied and return it to you.’ He rose and picked up one that was set in a frame which showed Amy in full bloom from her chest upwards. ‘May I take this one?’

  The woman nodded her agreement, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Let me have it back. It’s my favourite picture of her.’

  ‘Is there anything else you wish to tell me,’ he asked in a parting shot.

  ‘Yes,’ she responded quickly. ‘What happened with the tracks of the tyres found on the beach?’

  ‘What tracks?’

  ‘The ones the police found. They took photographs and moulds of them but nothing ever came of it.’

 
; Hunter made a note of the comment on his notepad. There had been nothing in the police files about tyre tracks... nor was there any photograph of it. Surely that was a prime clue if the killer had driven a vehicle on to the beach when he dumped Amy’s body there! What were the police holding back? Why wasn’t it in the file?

  ‘Just one more thing,’ he ventured. ‘May I look at Amy’s diary? There may be something in it to give me a clue.’

  Her voice dropped an octave lower in embarrassment. ‘I threw it away,’ she told him. ‘Didn’t want to read any of my daughter’s ramblings. I got rid of it after the police returned her personal effects.’

  The architect recognised the woman’s grief and nodded, leaving the house with a multitude of thoughts running through his head. He went directly to his car and sat in the driver’s seat reflecting back to his youth. Mrs. Chester was very much like his own mother who was also a short woman with straying black hair who had put on far too much weight for her small frame. Indeed, his mother’s face had been weathered from the stress and strain of having to bring up two children on her own and she had looked much older than her real age. That was the way he remembered her. Not surprisingly, she let herself go after his sister died of leukaemia. It was a very sad day because, as there was no immediate family to look after him, he had been taken into care and fostered out to another family. He shook his head to erase the image from his mind and he looked at his notepad to run through the facts in hand. Amy went out with a policeman, amongst other men, and then she went with Antonio Perrera who she wanted to marry. Strangely enough, his name wasn’t in the police files. Mrs. Chester was right in her assumption. Amy was just another statistic in the police files. They had no idea who had raped and strangled her and after carrying out their investigations they left the file open and walked away. Indeed, the world was filled generally with evil people... and, yes, nothing would ever bring Amy back again. However, that wasn’t his role in the matter. He had to release the spirit of the young woman who was held in limbo. Communication was the thing he had to invoke. He was determined to ask the spirit of his dead wife for information the next time she appeared. It seemed more than feasible that she would be able to fill in many more details. As a person halfway into the next world, surely she could give him some clues, or even name the man who had savaged and killed Amy Chester. If she did, it would save him a lot of time and trouble.

  ***

  He went home to make himself a meal. However, while it was cooking on the stove, he went into his study to secure another page to the wall, adding Mrs. Chester to the investigation. There was a long way to go but the evidence was beginning to build up, albeit very slowly. His next visit would be to the Golden Palm to find out whether anyone remembered the dead girl and, more importantly, with whom she spent her time. The trail had probably gone cold there, mainly because of the effluxion of time, but it was worth trying to find someone who could give him a lead. Hunter had detested the role of investigator when he had first been given the task but now he began to relish the idea of linking people and places to the quest. The task had seemingly been so remote when he started but now he had something with which to work. Even though he considered he might never discover the identity of the killer, he found that the role was very much to his liking.

  After dinner, he drove to the nightclub and made his way past the two hefty bouncers guarding the entrance. It was a nightclub operated with disco equipment and the prime location for young people wishing to enjoy themselves, dance and meet friends. The place was crowded with many youths, most of them dancing to the loudest music he had ever heard. It beat savagely against his eardrums like close thunder in a terrible storm and he wondered how long he would be able to endure the noise. Worst still, it was impossible to engage anyone in a conversation because the decibel value of the sound was too high to hear them. He went to the bar and engaged one of the barmen in discussion as best he could above the blaring speakers, showing the man the photograph of Amy.

  ‘Remember her?’ he shouted although his words were drowned in the loud music.

  The barman was used to the cacophony and read his lips. ‘Amy Chester,’ he responded without hesitation.

  ‘Know who she met here?’ Hunter shouted at the top of his voice.

  ‘Duggie Prince!’ roared the barman. ‘He was her boyfriend.’

  ‘Duggie Prince?’ repeated Hunter. ‘What about Antonio Perrera?’

  ‘Never heard of him. Are you going to buy a drink or what?’

  ‘Pour me a brandy,’ yelled the architect taking a five pound note from his pocket.

  ‘Six quid!’ snapped the barman, pouring him a double. ‘This is a nightclub not a local pub in the High Street!’ He waited as the architect produced some more money and took it from him. ‘She used to come here practically every night. Bit of a wild one she was.’

  ‘What about drugs and sex?’

  ‘As far as I know, she never did drugs,’ he replied with no expression on his face. ‘Don’t know about sex.’ He passed a glass of brandy across the bar.

  ‘Anything else you know about her?’ ventured Hunter hopefully.

  ‘She danced with a lot of men. Mostly Duggie Prince.’

  The architect looked at the mass of young people dancing on the floor. ‘Where can I find him?’

  The barman pointed to a young man wearing a spiv suit of the 1950s with a fur collar and drainpipe trousers jiving with two women. ‘That’s him.’

  Hunter swallowed his brandy and went over to Prince. ‘Excuse me,’ he intervened, stopping the young man in his tracks. ‘Amy Chester. I’m after some information about her. I understand you knew her well.’

  ‘What?’ shouted Prince above the noise.

  The architect shook his head slowly and pointed to the front entrance. ‘Can we talk outside?’

  He led the way out and looked back to ensure that he was being followed. Outside, in the cool night air, it was as though they were on another planet. Silence seems to cascade down upon their ears like a cataract.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked the young man still allowing his feet to dance as though he could still hear the music.

  ‘I’m after some information on Amy Chester,’ repeated the architect.

  ‘I told the police everything I knew which wasn’t much,’ he uttered at the same time humming a tune as his feet kept moving. ‘I only ever danced with her here. Never took her out. Never went on a date with her. We just danced. That’s all.’

  ‘Do you know anything about any of her boyfriends?’

  He shrugged his shoulder aimlessly. ‘Nah... just danced with her, nothing else.’

  ‘There must be something you know. Something you never told the police.’ There was an element of anger in Hunter’s voice.

  Prince stared at him bleakly losing interest in humming and dancing. ‘I told you, like I told the police. I only ever met her here and danced with her. We didn’t have a relationship. We never met outside the Golden Palm. I don’t have nothing more to say... not to you or anyone!’

  It was quite clear that his association with the dead girl was minimal and he was more interested in music and dancing than anything else in life. He was certainly not Amy’s killer ... that was for sure. Consequently, the architect terminated the interview extremely quickly. Duggie Prince was of no use to him in the investigation. He was a young man who was mad keen on dancing and nothing else ever entered his mind. Hunter wondered how a person of that kind progressed in life... in love and work and with social interests. No doubt Prince would still be dressed as a spiv jiving with young women at the age of eighty, enjoying life in his own sweet way. Maybe, thought Hunter, it was the perfect style. Perhaps the man ought to be envied!

  The notion that Ruth had come to him from the next world terrified the architect. He had always been sceptical about the paranormal, laughing at stories of ghosts and
apparitions. In his opinion, they belonged to the world of fantasists and story-tellers. Now he realised that he was faced with it in reality, perhaps for eternity if he failed in his quest. Ruth wanted him to find Amy’s killer urgently but he was only too aware that it might take him a long time to achieve the aim... if he was ever to succeed. He knew so little about the paranormal that he felt it was time to take steps to appraise himself of more details. He went to his computer, looking up the files on psychics, mediums and clairvoyants on the internet and selected one of them that was reasonably local. After telephoning to make an appointment, he went to the woman’s house and was shown into a fair-sized lounge that was excellently furnished. He sat down on a comfortable armchair upholstered in uncut moquette to face the female psychic.

  ‘First of all,’ he began, ‘I’d like to know how good you are. I’ve heard that some mediums and clairvoyants are charlatans, conning their clients out of money with false readings and predictions. I need to ask whether you’re genuine or not.’

  She smiled although she should have felt insulted. ‘I don’t know how you expect me to answer that,’ she laughed heartily. ‘If I was a charlatan I would still tell you I was genuine. Let me say that my mother was a psychic and it passed on to me as a young child. I worked for the police for two years... not that they appreciated my efforts although I was fairly successful. You may have heard about the Tarrant case. I located the dead body under a bridge in a river for them by psychic means.’

  He paused for a moment allowing the details to pass through his brain and he seemed satisfied with her response pressing ahead confidently. ‘Well if first impressions are right, you seem to be an honest person. You see, I know extremely little about the paranormal,’ he admitted freely. ‘Can you tell me something about it first.’