by Brian Hughes
Yours regretfully,
Charles Downey
Dr. Charles Downey. MD
Chapter Twelve: The Devil’s Foot
February mornings, as already mentioned elsewhere, tend not to get going properly. The following morning was no exception.
To make matters worse the meeting was being held in the dimly lit annex. The fluorescent lights contrasted numbingly with the struggling daylight making Nesbit’s yawn all the more difficult to stifle.
There would be little point in repeating all of Angus Evesham’s tedious address. Due to his Hebridian accent most of it was indistinguishable from the gurgle of the radiators anyhow.
Fortunately he’d written his speech down. There follows a transcript:
Love, Death and the Mastery of Disguise
An in-depth analysis concerning the characteristics of the Greyminster serial killer, incorporating other related topics, suggested discourse and further reading.
Copyright Professor Angus Evesham, February 17th 1999.
Special thanks must go to Aunt Muriel for her hospitality.
This document is dedicated to the memory of Errol, my hamster. Perhaps one day we shall better understand the causes of spontaneous combustion.
The right to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by Angus Evesham in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Section One: The Debate Opens.
Perhaps the most important topic here is what we should call our killer. Appellations such as ‘The Yorkshire Ripper’ and ‘The Black Panther’ have a particularly descriptive nature.
I came up with the following suggestions in the small hours, over peanut butter on toast washed down with a mug of Aunt Muriel’s delicious cocoa.
The Greyminster Butcher. (This has a menacing ring to it. Suggestive of buckets of blood, dismembered pigs’ heads and screaming children. Worth consideration. 8 out of 10)
The Sasanac Strangler. (This is my personal favourite.)
The Chameleon Cut-throat. (Gets straight to the point, sounds bloody and dangerous, but the word Chameleon adds it own ambiguity.)
The Lancashire Bastard. (Blunt. However it might be confused with Councillor Ordenshaw.)
(Author’s reminder: Compare notes and discuss)
Section Two: The Psychological Profile of ‘The Sasanac Strangler.’
There is no doubt that what we are dealing with here, ladies and gentlemen, is a particularly disturbed individual whose extreme neurosis has been generated through the inability of his Id to relate with his Superego.
In layman’s terms, this man is off his rocker.
The combination of double-barrelled shotgun and blowtorch suggests he was once a member of Her Majesty’s armed forces, specialising in arc-welding.
Numerous witnesses have testified to his mastery of disguise, the implications being that he was probably hounded from the service for cross-dressing.
This is also consistent with the Strangler’s phenomenal strength.
The guise of a clown suggests an Oedipus complex, the painted buffoon representing the transsexual oppressive father figure.
The Strangler needs to express his hurt through mutilation.
He was also bullied by his sisters, whose names were probably Alison and Mary.
The amateur dramatics list found secreted on the unidentified female corpse once again reveals the inner struggle between his sexual deviations towards his mother and the guilt inflicted by his father.
This man wants to be caught.
It is therefore natural to conclude that the Strangler is roughly six-feet-five inches tall, with auburn hair (most murderers have auburn hair), the mental capacity of a child and a wardrobe that connects him to the military entertainment corps. Possibly brown eyes, is unemployed and has repugnant body odours. At some point during his youth he was no doubt strapped naked to a lamppost following an incident with several bastards from the Gorbals called Seth, Slasher and Pug. This sort of thing would have left an impression on his pliable psyche. In order to suppress this trauma he now needs to enact scenes of humiliation in his sexual deviations, leaning towards custard pies and insisting that his Aunt Muriel tuck him up in bed before he goes to sleep.
He also uses bio-gel to wash his clothes.
QED.
“Is that it?” Nesbit tried to prize the pages apart by blowing onto them. He gave up and handed them dismissively to Malcolm. “So the killer’s an ex-army welder who wears drag?”
“I wonder where he got the names Seth, Slasher and Pug from?” Malcolm looked at the page again. “I must admit, Sir, it all seems a bit self-indulgent.”
“That’s puttin’ it mildly, Clewes! I’ve seen more realistic portraits on Vision On.”
Nesbit nodded at Brabbon who was talking to Toby Patterson. Toby could best be described an enormous beanbag with arms and the sort of face that would have lost Quasimodo his official title.
“I s’pose she’s had you checkin’ up on all the usual suspects?”
“Oddly enough no, Sir.” Malcolm opened his lunch box, folded the paper and tucked it inside. “However, I ’ave got that list of missing persons she was after.”
“Y’ know, Clewes…I really expected somebody who resembled Geoff Capes on steroids to ’ave a deeper voice than that.”
There was a squeak as Nesbit scratched his nose with his pipe.
“I wonder how much he gets paid for this sort of thing?” Malcolm added.
“Not enough, Clewes. Not if he’s got to travel round with Madam Tussaud everywhere.”
He glanced in Brabbon’s direction and was startled to discover that she’d vanished. Toby Patterson was staring back at them like an orang-utan.
Brabbon apparently had the same turn of speed as Superintendent Hodges. Her face suddenly appeared next to Malcolm’s ribs.
“For your information, Inspector, Angus is an educated man. His approach to criminal portraiture is a derivative of Freud, Klein and Jung mixed with his own psychological interpretations.”
She paused, studying the points of her shoes as though she’d never seen them before.
“Unfortunately, sometimes the layman finds him difficult to understand.”
“Sounded more like he was talkin’ bollox to me, Ma’am.” There was a clack as the pipe found its grey and white nest. “Should we arrest Toby now or shall we wait until ’is mum turns up?”
“There’s no need, Inspector.” Brabbon folded the theatre program and stuffed it in her pocket. “Mr Patterson said he knew nothing about our list.”
Crunch, grind, crunch went Nesbit’s teeth across the plastic stem.
“Without wantin’ t’ sound facetious…”
That should be a good trick, Brabbon thought.
“’Ave y’ considered the possibility that he might be lyin’?”
“Reginald…” Nesbit shuddered at his Christian name. “The man is incapable of lying. He doesn’t have the guile to do anything so sneaky. No…”
Brabbon adjusted her turquoise cravat.
“I think you’ll find that whoever wrote this pamphlet is our serial killer. And he’s wandering the streets somewhere.”
The storm had danced until the small hours.
Throughout the night it had used people as skittles. But now its revelry was over. The last few gusts could barely spin the weather vane on St. Oliver’s spire.
At ten o’clock the night before, the vigillantes had gathered in the Thatch. Their worries were soon overtaken by the influence of Thackery’s brewery.
The drinking grew more ebullient as the evening wore on. By closing time limericks were being sung about women from Bude. There’d been a lock-in. The party had eventually petered out around daybreak.
Beards of moss hung from the eaves of Sword Street. Moss now saturated with drizzle. A waterfall beat its lonely tattoo on Albert Brasswick.
He’d collapsed on Toby’s steps with an orange cone on his head.
Nesbit accid
entally kicked him in the temple.
Malcolm closed Toby’s door and followed Brabbon down the steps.
“Right…so we’re missing two handymen.” Brabbon double-checked the list that Malcolm had handed her. “Or rather one handyman and one handy-woman.”
“P’raps they’ve run off together.” Nesbit grinned, obviously pleased at whatever was coming next. “To ’ave a lot of ’andy children.”
It has to be said that Nesbit and intelligent humour had managed to avoid each other’s company.
Brabbon continued.
“What’s particularly fascinating here, Reginald, is the fact that both disappeared after being called to Dovecote Hall.”
She studied Nesbit’s purpling face. Despite the atrocity of his joke he was struggling to contain himself.
“That’s part of the university campus. We were there yesterday, Sir.” Malcolm turned to Nesbit whose eyes were growing runny. “So where do we go from here, Ma’am?”
“Well, I want you to go home and search through the university files. See if you can uncover anything about this theatrical production. In the meantime, the inspector and I have a choice.”
She stared at the slumbering butcher overhanging the railings.
“We could either check out Molly Pippin, make sure she’s still alive…”
A pause, during which Nesbit caught his breath.
“Or…?”
“Or we could check out the university again…”
That cheered him up. He’d had his suspicions about those students since he’d clapped eyes on them.
“Odd, isn’t it?” Brabbon mused to herself. “How it all keeps coming back to the university. Right!”
She span round and fired off an unexpected question.
“Got a coin there, Reg?”
“A coin, Miss?”
“Yes, you know? One of those things the rest of us buy decent clothes with?”
Oddly enough that was the first charge she’d levelled at him this morning. Something about her attitude had altered. It was more temperate.
“Would y’ like a tuppence or a p…p…pound coin, Ma’am?” The word pound seemed reluctant to leave his lips.
“Doesn’t matter.”
With obvious relief, Nesbit dug into his mackintosh. Seconds later he pulled out a grubby copper disc.
“Okay boys…heads it’s the university. Tails it’s Molly Pippin.”
And with a flick of her thumb the old ha’penny span towards the rooftops.
Mrs Evesham ran the highly selective ‘Dancing School’ on Applegate. The building was slightly bulging round the first floor where thousands of protégés had abused the foundations. It was reminiscent, in many respects, of Mrs Evesham herself.
Come rain, hail or shine, piano music burst from the lofty windows. Musical staves that represented elephants, chaffinches and chocolate boxes.
In the lull between these movements the great dame’s voice would swell from the shutters. It contained the authority needed to bring unruly children into civilised society.
Here’s Mrs Evesham now, inspecting her ranks in their tutus and ballet shoes. A colossal turnip of a woman with a bust so magnificent that she has to peer over its summit. Haughtily she wanders amongst her troops. Moulding them into an artistic battalion.
Thomas Riley walked up the path. He clutched a carrier bag in one brown hand. He pushed his bobble hat across his forehead and knocked on the front door.
“Daphinia Pugh, lift those horrid, scabrous knees. Hi have never seen such lackadaisical pirouetting. If it wasn’t for yhour mother’s generous contributions to the church hall hi would have expelled yhoo long ago!”
Another pounding of ivories was promptly followed by, “Jemimah Prim! Is that a humbug yhou’re chewing?!”
Thomas slid the grubby hat from his head and knocked again.
This time the door opened. Angus Evesham looked out.
“Top of the mornin’ to y’, squire.” Thomas tugged his forelock. “Now, what I ’ave ’ere see, is most important.”
He opened the carrier bag.
“You are Angus Evesham, criminal profiler, aren’t y’?”
“Aye, that I am…”
What a surprisingly high-pitched voice he had. Especially for someone who looked like the abominable snowman. It was the sort of voice you’d expect from a hamster being hit with a mallet.
Thomas gathered himself together and continued.
“Constable Parkins, see, down at York Street station…’ee told me t’ bring this to you.” He offered the carrier bag to Angus. “’Ee said that Nesbit was out huntin’ the killer, so I’d better bring it ’ere.”
Angus sniffed at the rank smelling bag. Several bluebottles buzzed around the handles.
“What exactly is it?”
“Evidence.” Thomas tapped one temple. An unpleasant sound came from the bag as its contents slid about unpleasantly inside it. “I’ve sin the killer me’self, see? Saw what ’ee did with me own two eyes.”
“Very good, Mr…?” Angus cast him a questioning look. As there was no rejoinder, he stumbled on. “You’d better come inside, I suppose.”
Mrs Evesham’s dancing school sounded a bit like an empty box, every squeak of heels being amplified around the walls.
Children studied themselves in the large mirror occupying one wall, gripping the wooden handrail. The smallest tots clumsily performed their routines resembling shuttlecocks. Mrs Evesham moved through it all like an iceberg on rails, toying with her necklace.
Thomas watched through the door in the entrance hall. Angus removed a pair of pince-nez from his pocket.
“Now then, Mr…what exactly have you brought me?”
Criminal psychology should not be confused with forensic science. It is rare that a psychologist is confronted with post-mortems. As Angus Evesham shoved his nose into the bag the first thing that struck him was the stench. Against this eye-watering onslaught he blinked.
Moments later he keeled over like a harpooned grizzly. The crash sent a shudder through the building.
“What in God’s name is going hon?” Mrs Evesham appeared, towering over Thomas in the way that a steam ferry would tower over a dinghy. “Who exactly are yhoo, yhoo vulgar little man? Girls! GIRLS! Go back to yhour lessons.”
Despite her protestations a collection of wafer thin ballerinas had appeared. Thomas opened the bag. A pall of yellow smoke rose from its depths.
“What is this?” Mrs Evesham expanded haughtily.
“It’s a leg, see. Evidence! I was told t’ bring it ’ere to Mr Evesham.”
The girls gasped with horrible pleasure as Henry Jacob’s leg was removed from the bag. It was like some ghastly treasure.
“Jemimah Prim! Don’t touch that! Yhoo don’t know where it’s been.”
Muriel Evesham placed one hand on Thomas’ shoulder. Taking hold of the handles she stuffed the leg back inside. Then she steered her visitor towards the back room.
“Yhoo were quite correct to bring it here, my grotty ruffian. If yhoo’d like to accompany me we can place it in the fridge. When Angus comes round he can study it more closely.”
Darkness! And the stench of a rotting carcass.
Once again we find ourselves inside the Fleapit. These are the doors that serve as the fire exit, rusted and locked from within. A wrench, a groan and a deafening shatter. Tiny shards of iron spin into the isles. Then the doors swing inward, revealing Brabbon and Nesbit in the ginnel beyond.
“Mrs Pippin…?”
Mrs Pippin didn’t reply.
Two beams of torch light swept the theatre. The two figures moved inside. The door swung closed, plunging the room into darkness again.
“Mrs Pippin?” Brabbon’s eyes tried to compensate for the absence of light. Her torch beam came to rest on what resembled a collection of clothes bedecked with rubies.
“Reginald! Over here…”
Nesbit bumped his shin against the end of the row as he stumbled towards her.<
br />
Moments later, lit from underneath like some polystyrene pumpkin, his face appeared alongside hers. He stared down at the body decorating the seats.
“Looks like we’re too late…” He prodded the corpse with his oxford. “’Oo’s next on the list?”
“Damn! I’ve no idea.” Brabbon shook her head at her own stupidity, wondering whether Nesbit’s incompetence was beginning to rub off. “I gave the pamphlet to Malcolm. What was that noise?”
“Sorry ’bout that, Ma’am. ’Fraid Thackery’s Old Bastard doesn’t always agree with me.”
“Not that noise, Reg. The other noise! Listen…”
A rumble vibrated the dome above them. It was reminiscent of a gathering storm.
From the orchestra pit a violent shudder suddenly started. It became a groan and then a roar.
“P’raps that’s not Molly at all.” Nesbit prodded the small mound of chunks again. “P’raps she’s in the projection room.”
He looked at the patchwork blanket used for the cinema screen.
“At any rate, someone’s got a film goin’.”
Brabbon squinted.
“Reg, that’s not a movie. Does it look like a demon’s head to you?”
“I’m not sure, Ma’am. But I think it’s time we left.”
There’s many a word of warning delivered too late. Almost as though the demon had heard them, it pulled its sinewy form from the screen. Then it lunged forwards.
“Get out of here!” With exceptional strength Nesbit hurled Brabbon’s paralysed body out of the demon’s path. A funnel of foam spewed into the air as the rows of seats detonated. “Run like buggery!”
THWACK! A collection of knuckles brought him a crack beneath his chin. He was lifted off his feet.
Brabbon landed, bent up double. A dark shape tumbled past overhead. Although he was a just a blur, Nesbit’s mackintosh was billowing out behind, his pipe still in his mouth.