Myriad of Corridors

by Stan Mason

  ‘As Humphrey Bogart said in the classic film Casablanca,’ he cooed gently, ‘this could be the start of a beautiful friendship’.’

  ‘I’ll say it is,’ she whispered in his ear before kissing him fully on the lips, her tongue reaching way down inside his mouth.

  As his adrenalin began to surge through his body, he pushed her onto the bed and lay naked full-stretch on top of her body before hesitating.

  ‘Well what are you waiting for?’ she asked urgently spreading her legs outwards.

  He began to kiss her all over her body and then, when he was firm and ready, he moved his hand between her legs starting to excite her with his foreplay and shortly, when she was soft and moist, pressed himself forward into her body. If they intended to have a family together it seemed that now was a good time to start. He ran his hands sensitively over the nipples of her breasts and, as the passion grew inside her, she locked her legs tightly around him scoring his back with her long nails causing red marks to appear, as she began to feel herself lifted towards the stars. He thrust himself forwards and backwards firmly, rhythmically, staring at the ecstasy on her face and the anticipation of unadulterated pleasure in her eyes. For her this was the zenith of perfection which had been a long time coming after the sudden death of her boyfriend in Iraq and she was going to make the most of it. Working like a demon, she moved her body up and down with precision to extract every ounce of excitement from their physical union with surprising power and strength. Eventually, after a long spell of physical performance, she fell everything in life slipping away to experience a full satisfying orgasm, whereby her body shook like an erupting volcano before it came to a halt. At that moment she felt every fibre in her body tingling as her mind came back to terra firma. It was even more pleasurable by the fact that they were both satisfied at the same time and they lay in each other’s arms on the bed panting and puffing at the effort.

  ‘Do you think that’ll satisfy the Lady Dowager?’ he commented jokingly.

  ‘I think she’d have loved to know about it,’ laughed Ellen inspired by the remarkable potency of her lover. ‘You do realise I could be pregnant. We could have started a family.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he remarked, closing his eyes. Why didn’t I ask to come and live here earlier. We wasted all those days and nights away from each other.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she told him. ‘We’ll catch up in due course ... of that I’m certain!’

  They climbed between the sheets hugging each other lovingly. There was never any doubt that they were in the full flight of romantic adoration with each other. Hunter adored her; she was devoted to him, and it appeared that their sex life was perfect. There could never have been a better match!

  ***

  When Hunter went to collect his post the following day, he found a letter sent to him by a psychic of whom he had no knowledge. The woman invited him to a seance at her house and he read the letter with an element of suspicion. There were too many charlatans in the business, each one trying to make money out of their alleged talents. He glanced at the text, reading it sceptically.

  Dear Mr. Hunter,

  My associate, whom you employed a short while ago, told me about your problem and I thought I’d write to you to offer my services. I have a great talent for contact with the spirits in the other world. I ask that you take advantage of it. I would be honoured not to charge you for the first session and, contrary to some rumours, I’m not a charlatan. I do hope you’ll contact me.

  Jessica Harrow

  The architect threw the letter directly into the waste paper basket in his study before sitting back in his large swivel chair to re-examine the pages which had been adhered to the wall showing every aspect of his findings in the case. Then after a few minutes, he bent down to retrieve the letter and re-read the contents. Did he really want to become involved with another medium? He presumed that a session meant joining in a seance. That’s how many mediums operated. Was there any purpose in getting together a group of people to hold a seance? Not really. He was divided whether to take up the offer or deny himself of the opportunity of learning more about what someone might tell him in the spirit world. It was ridiculous. Somehow these charlatans seemed to be able to pinpoint names and incidents like a mind-reading performer on the stage at the London Palladium. He agonised the situation for a while and then, in the end, he changed his mind. Well, he thought, it might help and, in any case, it wouldn’t do any harm. There would certainly be no damage done. Spirits never waged war with the human-beings on Earth. The realm of vampires existed only in the minds of fabled writers. With that thought in mind, he removed the mobile telephone from his pocket and dialled her number.

  ‘Jessica,’ he greeted, ‘this is Jeff Hunter. I received your letter. What could you do if I agree to let you hold a seance?’

  ‘You may be surprised at the outcome,’ she told him bluntly. ‘Bring anyone you wish. I’ll provide a few people and we’ll go on from there.’

  ‘How about tonight?’ he ventured hopefully, determined to get the programme under way as quickly as possible.

  ‘Eight o’clock,’ she told him curtly. ‘I’ll be expecting you.’

  The line went dead indicating that the woman brooked no nonsense. Perhaps she was the catalyst to crack the case wide open. On the other hand, even if she was a charlatan, he had nothing to lose.

  He took Ellen to the medium’s house that evening. There were seven people in attendance in all. Other than the medium, Ellen and himself, there were two women and two men, all of whom were strangers. They were told to find a chair, sit around a polished walnut table, and then ordered to hold hands. Before that happened, Hunter passed the photograph of Amy to the medium who placed it on the table before her and then closed her eyes, uttering some strange words to induce a connection with Amy’s spirit. Nothing happened for quite some time and the architect stared in a bored fashion at Ellen who sat quite still. Then the medium began to twitch and utter sounds as she started to go into a trance.

  ‘My name is Amy Chester,’ she began in a high-pitched voice. ‘I work as a check-out girl at a supermarket. My mother doesn’t understand teenagers so it’s difficult talking to her and I’ve got a place on my own. I have many boyfriends... lots of them. I really like boys... young men. Some I would like to marry but they don’t seem to be interested in me.’ There was a long pause and then the medium began to shiver and shake. ‘No! Don’t do that!’ she cried out. ‘You’re hurting me! Stop holding me down! I don’t like it! What are you doing? Oh, no! Please don’t... aaahhhh! You’re hurting me! Stop it!’ The medium stopped at that point and opened her eyes. ‘She’s dead!’ she announced looking stunned.

  ‘We know that, Jessica!’ snapped Hunter angrily. ‘What more can you tell us?’

  The medium looked disconcerted at his comment. She closed her eyes again and clenched the hands of the people on either side of her tightly. Shortly, she gave a low moaning sound. ‘I see the sign of the Maltese Cross on a vehicle on the road beside the beach. Now I see a yellow boat in the sea. Pure bright yellow. I see a body floating out to sea. It’s a woman. A man is in the yellow boat... a fisherman. He pulls the woman out of the sea. He looks at her and then throws her back. She sinks below the surface.’

  ‘Elizabeth Dainty?’ whispered Hunter to Ellen, shrugging his shoulders aimlessly.

  The woman stopped speaking at that point and opened her eyes to stare at her guests. ‘I’ve lost contact,’ she informed them briefly. ‘It’s gone.’

  The group unclenched their hands and sat back in their seats. The medium stared at the photograph of Amy in front of her. ‘I can’t normally tell you what happened after she died,’ she declared, ‘but this time there was another spirit with her.’

  ‘Ruth!’ whispered Hunter to Ellen confirming the connection.

  ‘Someone here had a wife who died a while ago,
’ stated the medium. ‘She was the spirit.’

  ‘That was me,’ answered the architect. ‘It was my wife.’

  ‘She told me that she died in a car crash and was burnt to a cinder. Is that correct?’ Hunter nodded his agreement and the medium inhaled deeply. ‘Shall we try again?’ she asked the group rhetorically.

  She closed her eyes and went into a trance almost immediately. ‘She’s telling me that her name is Ruth,’ she echoed. ‘She’s saying there are injured people all the time. Injured people all the time. She keeps saying it.’ There was a long pause and the medium opened her eyes and released her hold on the two women on either side of her. ‘She’s gone,’ she muttered. ‘I won’t be able to get her back.’ She looked at Hunter with a sombre expression on her face. ‘Does anything I said make any sense to you, Mr. Hunter?’

  ‘Not really. I knew nothing about a yellow boat or a fisherman and I’ve no idea why she kept talking about injured people. What does that mean?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ returned the medium. ‘I’m simply a telephone line from spirits on the other side. I’m the telephone operator listening in to the conversation. It’s not for me to attempt any interpretation. The information is provided to you through me, that’s all.’

  The seance broke up very quickly and Hunter and Ellen left shortly afterwards. The architect felt that he had been cheated in many ways. The medium had obviously read all about him and the case in the local newspaper. It was easy for her to put on a show to impress him. But what did she mean about the yellow boat owned by a fisherman? How did that come into the equation? The fact that Ruth was alleged to have told her continuously about injured people left his mind groping through a number of possibilities. How were they injured and where? Was it an earthquake... a tsunami... a football disaster? All of these had happened before but what was she trying to say... if indeed the medium was telling the truth. There had to be an important clue in there somewhere... if only he could find it!

  He discussed the matter in depth with Ellen as he drove home but she failed to be able to assist him or ease his mind. He reminded himself never to contact psychics, mediums or clairvoyants ever again. All they did was to cause him to agonise over the things they told him. When all was said and done, most details were inconsequential and led absolutely nowhere. He dwelt on the matter of the Maltese Cross. He had never found it. And there was the information that the murders took place on the third floor of a building. He had never discovered the location of that either. There was the bloodstained clothing stored in a cupboard in the same building. Whose blood was on the clothes because it appeared that the victims were raped, beaten and strangled. No blood seemed to have been lost by any of the victims... so where did it come from? There was a possibility that the first murder was caused by killing the victim with a knife but that was only supposition. Hunter really had no idea.

  After they arrived home, the architect sat in the lounge with a large glass filled with brandy, contemplating all that had taken place that evening. At least he had one clue to pursue... the yellow boat... but where would it lead him? Probably he would spend a great deal of time chasing a red herring. He laughed at his own joke. A red herring in a yellow boat with the fisherman holding a fishing rod. Ellen stared at him blankly, holding a glass of sherry, wondering what was going through her partner’s mind. As far as she was concerned, he was taking the search for the killer far too seriously. It was beginning to overwhelm him and destroy his life. Naturally, she expected him to concentrate firmly on the quest and challenge every lead and angle but his dedication and devotion to the task was well over the top. It seemed to consume him all the time, diverting his attention away from her. It was something she was beginning to resent. She looked at him across the room noticing that he was deep in thought. Yes... it was definitely something she was beginning to resent!

  ***

  On the following day, the architect went down to Vernon Beach. This time he walked along the strand to the far end which contained a number of fishing boats. He examined those that were moored there, noting that none of them were coloured yellow. He felt an element of anger building up inside him. Was this yet another false lead by a medium? He noticed a fisherman who was mending nets on the quayside and went towards him, sitting on top of the stone wall nearby.

  ‘Ever seen a yellow fishing boat?’ he asked, leaning forward to offer the man a cigarette.

  The fisherman stared at him for a moment before removing one from the packet and took his time taking a box of matches from his pocket to light it. ‘I got a fishing boat to rent if you want,’ he offered, puffing out a plume of smoke.

  ‘I don’t want to rent one,’ Hunter told him. ‘I want to talk to the owner of the yellow fishing boat.’

  ‘Then you’ll be wanting to speak with Tom Pritchard,’ muttered the man, continuing to mend his nets.

  ‘Where is his boat now?’

  ‘She be out to sea. Tom went out at six o’clock this morning. Wanted to get the bream nearest the shore. He’ll be back in about half an hour.’

  Hunter nodded and checked his watch, thanking the man for the information. There was no point in hanging around at the quayside so he went to a nearby cafe and ordered a coffee. As it was a windy day it was far more preferable to sit indoors in a warm environment. The time soon passed and he returned to the area to see a small yellow boat sailing towards the shore.

  ‘Tom Pritchard,’ he greeted as the fisherman stepped off the boat.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ rattled the man rubbing his hand across ten days of stubble on his face.

  ‘I’m a private investigator,’ related Hunter bluntly, ‘looking into the death of Elspeth Dainty.’

  ‘Never heard of her!’ grunted Pritchard rudely.

  ‘I don’t suppose for one moment that you have,’ returned the architect, following the fisherman who started to work his way off the quayside. ‘What I want to know is why you threw her body back into the sea after finding it.’

  Pritchard halted in his tracks. ‘Who told you that?’ he demanded angrily, in a reaction for being found out.

  ‘There are satellites moving above our skies, Mr. Pritchard. They watch all the time and see everything we do.’

  The fisherman took a pipe out of his pocket and lit it, puffing the smoke into the air. ‘What’s it worth to you?’ he challenged.

  ‘Ten pounds,’ returned Hunter quickly.

  ‘Do you think I’d sell my soul for ten pounds?’ retaliated Pritchard angrily. ‘More like fifty!’

  ‘Okay, fifty it is,’ retorted the architect without delay, eager to learn more about Elspeth Dainty’s murder. He had come too far to be denied for the meagre sum of fifty pounds.

  ‘Aye, I found a body about two miles out to see but that were months ago.’

  ‘Why did you throw it back?’ questioned Hunter sharply.

  ‘To tell you the truth, it was a shock. I didn’t expect to find someone out there in the water. I pulled her in and then threw her back. But your satellites should have seen me staying in the same place for half an hour trying to find it again. Then, like magic, it came to the surface and I pulled it into the boat.’

  ‘You retrieved it?’ gasped the architect in surprise.

  ‘Yep. I took it to Lopside Island and put it there among the rocks.’

  ‘But you didn’t inform the police.’

  The fisherman spluttered on his pipe at the comment. ‘The police!’ he guffawed. ‘Why should I tell them? Do you know what would happen if I did? They’d impound my boat for a week so I couldn’t do no fishing. Then they’d question me for two days trying to get me to admit that I killed her. They’re only after finding someone to hang murders on. I tell you, it isn’t worth all the hassle being honest with them.’

  ‘You found the body and carried it from the boat to the rocks. Was there anything signific
ant about it?’

  ‘I’ll say there was,’ replied Pritchard curtly. ‘She was in a terrible mess but I could see she’d had her throat cut. Must have bled to death somewhere. She’d been in the water for about two days when I found her. The one who killed her forgot to put weights on her body to sink her to the bottom. She’s still in the rocks on Lopside Island but if you tell the police I was involved I’ll deny it.’ He puffed once more on his pipe and held out his hand. ‘Fifty quid, if you don’t mind!’

  Hunter removed his wallet from his pocket and handed out five ten pound notes which the fisherman took readily before going on his way off the quayside. His revelation was completed; he had been paid; there was nothing more to say.

  In his excitement, Hunter drove directly to the police station and asked to see Roger Watson.

  ‘I’ve discovered the whereabouts of the body of the first murder,’ he explained jubilantly. ‘Elspeth Dainty.’

  ‘This is the Elspeth Dainty you keep talking about,’ retorted the senior police officer.

  ‘That’s right,’ stated the architect. ‘You’ll find the body on the rocks at Lopside Island. She had her throat cut.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ demanded Watson, stunned at the revelation.

  ‘You really don’t want to hear,’ returned Hunter sharply. ‘Nonetheless the body is there... unless it’s been carried out to sea again.’

  Watson looked at him suspiciously. ‘I hope this isn’t a shot in the dark.’

  ‘No... it’s a serious situation. You’ll find her body there, I’m certain.’

  Watson hesitated for a few moments as the information passed through his mind, then he picked up the telephone receiver. ‘Get a police launch at the quayside,’ he ordered as his call was answered. ‘I need to take a trip.’ He replaced the receiver as Hunter leaned forward to speak.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said boldly. ‘After all, it’s my information.’