MOUSE (a psychological thriller and murder-mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘Who’s Alex?’

  ‘Dunno. Can I go now?’

  ‘Where is this Bartholomew Place?’

  ‘In Dorset, near Dorchester, but it’s not used for anything anymore. It’s been closed down years. You don’t seriously think Laura had anything to do with your boyfriend’s disappearance, do you?’

  ‘That bitch seems crazy enough to do anything. So, is that everything?’

  He nodded. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘You never spoke to me, right?’ she said, taking a step towards him. ‘Me, my boyfriend, all of this, you don’t mention it to anyone, you got that?’ She rolled up her coat collar against the fine rain that had begun to fall. Vince reckoned she didn’t look half as pretty as she did when he first saw her. It was almost as if she’d aged prematurely, or the bad inside her was leaking to the surface and contaminating her skin.

  Katherine left the young man and got into her car. She sat there a few seconds, thinking things over. With every day that passed with no news of Felix she feared the worst; she feared him dead.

  She drove out of Langbridge, headed towards Glastonbury. Something inside her was telling her to forget Felix and get the hell out of Somerset. That’s probably what he’d have done, if she were honest with herself. But another part of her refused to let him go. She’d never had these kinds of feelings for anyone before and she didn’t want to lose something she never thought she’d have. When she arrived home something made her check out the empty street after she’d parked and locked the car. This entire thing had made her jumpy as hell. Tiredly she unlocked the front door and flicked on the light. Nothing looked out of place, but something felt wrong. Something didn’t look right.

  The door to the living room was open. She’d closed it when she’d left for Langbridge, she was certain. It was a habit of hers.

  Someone had been inside the house.

  ‘Felix?’ she said. ‘Is that you?’

  She moved cautiously to the living room door, pushed it wider. The room was empty. Next she went into the kitchen, checked over the back door and windows. Everything was in order, no sign of a break-in. The only other people who had keys were Felix and the landlord, and the landlord always arranged a visit. He wouldn’t simply turn up unexpectedly to let himself in, and never at night.

  Her heart was beating a tattoo. She opened a drawer and took out a knife.

  ‘Felix, are you there?’ she called at the foot of the stairs, one hand steadying herself on the banister. She turned on the light. All was silent. ‘I’ve got to warn you,’ she said, ‘I have a weapon.’ She spoke to make herself feel braver, but it didn’t work. She crept up the stairs, the knife before her. Her bedroom door was also ajar, and that had definitely been closed when she left.

  She pushed the door open further, reached in for the light switch.

  The room was in a complete mess, as if a tornado had swept through it. All her clothes had been taken out of wardrobes and drawers and flung carelessly all over the room. The bedcovers had been thrown to the floor and lay in a crumpled heap.

  She gasped when she lifted one of her dresses. It had been slashed repeatedly with a blade of some kind. Everything had. Every piece of clothing had been shredded. Even the bedcovers had been slashed violently into ribbons.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she said under her breath, grasping the knife even tighter. But it was the sight of words written in her red lipstick, in great, angry, angular capitals all over the wall above the bed that caused her blood to freeze.

  YOU’RE HATEFUL. I’LL KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID.

  Katherine felt suddenly very sick. It had to be Laura. How had she gotten inside? How? There was no sign of a break-in.

  Then, amidst the carnage, she saw Felix’s jacket hung over the back of a chair. She went over to it, lifted it carefully from off the chair. He was wearing this the last time I saw him, she thought.

  But what made her legs buckle were the savage, jagged smears of blood on the jacket sleeve.

  * * * *

  26

  Releasing the Soul

  ‘If you want to go far, you have to be prepared to reach far,’ the editor had told him.

  Leonard Kimble didn’t need that kind of encouragement. He was born with the urge to go far, but not for a poxy, small-town newspaper like this where the majority of people who read it turned to the births, marriages and deaths section for their world-news fix. He couldn’t wait to dump the job in which they treated him more like an office boy than a trainee reporter. He made tea more than he made news. And let’s face it, he thought as he made tea yet again, this time for his grandmother, there was no news to be made in Langbridge. The Big Flood of 1947, in which three people, five cows and thirteen sheep died, was the last time they made the nationals, and that event, plus the 1966 World Cup Final, were the only two highlights anyone in Langbridge ever talked about. Since then it had to make do with the turning on of the Christmas lights in the town centre for anything approaching excitement.

  He measured tea into the china teapot, called out to his grandmother: ‘Won’t be long!’ That’s another thing about Langbridge, he groused in his head; all they seem to do around here was make tea.

  ‘There are some custard creams in the cupboard by the fridge,’ she called back from the living room.

  The nearest thing that had come to big news recently was Monica Andrew’s disappearance, but no one seemed to be treating it as such, not even the police. That’s because the local pigs were half-baked morons; the same half-baked morons that’d refused him entry into the police force when he’d left school. That’s where his heart lay; that’s what he wanted to pursue as a career, like his Uncle Phil. Become a police officer. Uncle Phil loved the job. He took two holidays abroad a year and was set to retire early on a decent pension. Moreover, Leonard Kimble had been soused in a heady cocktail of police dramas on telly since he was a babe-in-arms – Z-Cars, Kojak, Hawaii Five-O, The Sweeny, Police Woman, Starsky and Hutch. They got the birds, they got the cars and they got respect.

  But as yet it was a career that lay on the other side of a door currently closed to him. So until he managed to find a way through that door he was stuck with the Langbridge Gazette, running around the town hunting out stories on blind terriers, vandalised parsnips down at the allotment and horses that could tell your fortune by counting their snorts. Stuck with all that and making tea for the office.

  What he needed was a lucky break. A story that proved he had what it took to become a police officer; something that had taken investigative journalism to its limits; something that required brain power, acute reasoning, faultless deduction and sheer determination – basically your average Sherlock Holmes kind of thing that lifted him above your average PC Plod down at Langbridge police station. Something he could take as proof of how good he was the next time he applied to the force. He’d slap it on their desks and tell them how lucky they’d be to have him. Well, maybe not the last bit…

  ‘One custard cream or two, gran?’ he shouted. She could be a little deaf, except when she heard something she shouldn’t be listening to, in which case her hearing improved miraculously.

  ‘Just the one,’ she replied. ‘I’m on a strict budget since they finished me at the Empire.’ She did not attempt to hide her vitriol. ‘Did you speak to Martin?’ she asked as Leonard brought in her tea and biscuit.

  ‘Yes, gran,’ he said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He didn’t say much, really.’ He dunked his biscuit into his tea and stared at it disconsolately. ‘Like he says, Monica is probably off seeing friends somewhere and forgot to tell anyone.’

  Mrs Kimble gave a sneer and forced a tiny snort of disdain down her nose. ‘Monica doesn’t have friends; she has various grades of enemies. Her mother was the same when she was alive. Her sister’s just as bad. It’s in the blood. I tell you, Leonard, there’s something strange going on at the Empire and has been for a long while. Ever since Martin Caldwell took over the place. I never did trust him.�
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  ‘Look, gran, I know he gave you your marching orders, but in fairness you were at retirement age. There’s no legal obligation…’

  ‘That’s his excuse,’ she said cuttingly. ‘Don’t dunk, dear; it’s so working-class. Things are not well in the state of Denmark, Leonard,’ she said cryptically. He looked querulously at her. ‘Hamlet, dear. Hamlet. That man Caldwell is not all he appears. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he hadn’t had a hand in Monica’s disappearance.’

  ‘Gran!’ he said. ‘You can’t go around accusing people of those kinds of things.’ He sighed. She’d reached that age when lately any inhibitions or tact had lost all relevance. She spoke her mind freely, which was disconcerting as it wasn’t exactly a mind basking in robust health. Her being angry didn’t help, either. It poisoned her thoughts. And what’s more he got the impression she was trying to use him to get back at Caldwell any which way she could.

  ‘You want a good story, don’t you? Something to get you noticed? Don’t squander this opportunity, Leonard.’ She looked furtively to the window, as if someone was likely to be in earshot, which, of course, was highly unlikely but he guess it added drama for her. She leant closer and said quietly, ‘I met Martin’s wife a couple of times when she came into the Empire. She’s a pretty thing. Nice woman – skirts just the right length. Well one day, when she comes in to the Empire to see Caldwell, I notice she’s got this black eye, a real shiner. She’d tried to cover it up with makeup but you could still make it out. She also had bruises on her wrist, as if someone had grabbed her.’

  ‘Maybe she had an accident. These things happen,’ he offered.

  ‘That’s right, and maybe she walked into a door, like I’ve heard so many women do over the years. Woman, it seems, are very careless – something to do with special awareness being a particularly male ability.’ She raised her eyebrow tellingly. ‘I’ve met many men capable of hurting women in my long life, Leonard, and I tell you, Martin is one of them.’

  ‘Even if it was true, gran, and he beats his wife up, you can’t jump to the conclusion that he did something awful to Monica.’

  ‘No? Well there’s plenty more I know about Mr Smarmy. I know he and Monica were an item.’

  ‘He’s married!’

  ‘Leonard,’ she said patiently, ‘you’ve a lot to learn. He was seeing her regularly, in the Biblical sense, I mean…’

  ‘He was having sex with her?’

  ‘If you want to put it so crudely, yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Do you have proof?’

  ‘It’s hardly likely there are going to be any soiled sheets lying around the Empire, now, is it?’

  He was shocked by what she was saying. More shocked she even knew about such things; he never thought his gran capable of, well, physical stuff. ‘Still, it’s one thing to be having – you know – and another to link it to her disappearance.’

  ‘There’s something else as well. The books were never quite right for a long time. A discrepancy between takings and bankings, if you get my meaning? It wasn’t a great deal, I suppose, but when I questioned the odd-thing he made me balance the books so they looked OK.’

  ‘Fraud? You were involved in fraud?’

  ‘Don’t be so crude, Leonard. It was a case of tidying up the kitchen that had gotten into a bit of a mess, that’s all.’

  ‘Why didn’t you refuse, or report it at the time?’

  ‘And lose my job?’ She pointed a harsh finger at him. ‘That bit stays out of the news, you hear? I only said it to provide context.’ She sipped her tea. ‘The thing is, I’ll bet Monica’s disappearance is all wrapped up together with his other dodgy dealings somehow. We had strange people coming and going, not your average reps. I reckon he was in debt up to his eyeballs – I’ve seen similar cases before – and he drank like a fish, too, as a result of all the stress. There’s a story here, Leonard, a big one, if you only got your finger out and dug a little deeper. Don’t you want to help your old gran?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he said. His soggy custard cream broke in half and plopped into his cup of tea. He fished in the hot liquid to try and retrieve it before it sank but to no avail. It disappeared from sight, like a fish escaping the keep-net and diving deep into muddy water.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ she asked insistently, her brows lowering disapprovingly as he sucked tea from his fingertips.

  ‘I’m going to ask around first; you know, go to people who might know her. I’ve already talked to her sister. I’m also going to ask at the other places where she used to do a bit of cleaning. One of them is Devereux Towers – she did work for them some time ago.’

  His gran gave a tut-tut. ‘The Leach place?’ Her face fell thoughtful for a moment. ‘It’s strange you should say that. I remember taking documents to Caldwell’s office one day, and on his blotting-pad was a piece of paper that wafted accidentally to the floor as I put the files down. I picked it up and couldn’t help but read it. It was in Monica’s handwriting – such a distinctive, almost illiterate scrawl,’ she added with a screwing-up of her nose. ‘Anyhow, it was Laura Leach’s name, address at Devereux Towers and phone number. I remember at the time thinking how odd that was. I mean, she’s not the sort of person Martin would be contacting. Not Laura.’

  ‘Perhaps Caldwell needed a reference from her for Monica,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘Monica had already been at the Empire ages; it would have been far too late to be asking for a reference. Still, I never paid it much heed. Who knows what Martin Caldwell is up to? My one piece of advice is to be careful when approaching and talking to Laura Leach.’

  ‘Why? She’s peculiar but harmless, is what I hear.’

  Mrs Kimble folded her arms as if to fend off the cold. ‘I’m not so sure about that. I knew her mother and father, as much as anyone could know them. I was working for the town council when Mr Leach sat as a councillor. A strange man, quiet but determined but very domineering with it. He used to look at you as if he didn’t trust you. I don’t think he particularly liked women. His wife was the same; fragile, reserved, distrustful of everyone and everything, a regular reed of a woman, but we saw even less of her. For the most part they kept themselves to themselves, locked inside Devereux Towers. Closed books all, you might say. They were very suspicious of anyone, unless they came from London, and even then only from select parts of the city. A queer old bunch, the Leaches. Did you know Laura Leach had been sent away to an institution?’

  ‘I heard something, yes. I don’t know any details. I thought it might just be a tall story to embellish the old tale of the Witch of Devereux Towers and all that.’ He gave a little laugh but his gran didn’t crack the faintest of smiles. ‘What are you saying, that she’s loopy?’

  She gave a twist to her head and raised that knowing eyebrow again. ‘She was involved in the death of someone, what does that say about a person?’

  ‘Laura Leach? I’ve seen her; she’s a quiet, harmless little thing.’

  ‘Nothing about the Leaches is straightforward, Laura in particular. Her father tried to disguise the fact she’d been sent away, but things get out in a small town like this. And I heard it from a reliable source,’ she continued. ‘The man that died was a driving instructor, and because of it Laura was put into a mental institution for years. Work it out for yourself.’

  He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are you saying Laura actually killed someone?’

  She shrugged. ‘Whatever happened she’s free now, isn’t she? But just be careful when dealing with her. I never did trust Londoners. All that prolonged exposure to traffic fumes has got to have an adverse effect on the senses, hasn’t it?’

  It was here, in his study, where she felt her father’s presence was the strongest. She could almost hear his breathing. He had a distinctive, whining sound to his exhalations.

  Everything in the room was exactly as he had left it. His large mahogany desk by the window, still laid out with pens and paper;
his night-black telephone with its thick, brown cord; his family’s photographs lined up so that they faced his luxuriously padded chair, forever under his scrutiny. The bizarre and often grotesque wooden tribal masks watched her suspiciously from their place on the walls, as if they stood guard over the room in his absence. Statues, many carved in wood so black they looked like coal, stood in serried ranks on cabinets and above the fireplace, like an army of goblins from some mythical underworld. And interspersed amongst all this was her father’s collection of ancient weapons, both practical and symbolic. His Fijian war clubs, Zulu assegais, Australian aboriginal spears, South American obsidian knives, all designed to stun, to kill or to maim.

  She shuddered when she remembered her father lifting down a Zulu assegai, purported to have been used at the battle of Rorke’s Drift in 1879. He held the leaf-like blade close to her eight-year-old face.

  ‘See, Laura, this had special significance to the Zulu. Each of these objects is significant in its own way. Did you know that the British soldiers found massacred after the battle of Isandhlwana had been eviscerated- that is, disembowelled – by such weapons? Naturally, our Victorian forefathers put it down to an expression of extreme barbarianism on the part of the Zulu, evidence of their inherent savagery. But they did that to be kind. They slit open the bellies of the dead in order to release the souls, so that they could pass freely to the next life.’

  Laura shrank back from the weapon. ‘Has that spear killed a man?’ she said, terrified.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ he said matter-of-factly as he hung the short spear back on the wall. ‘The war clubs have staved-in people’s skulls, and the black obsidian knives have been used by the Aztecs to slice open the chest and remove the still-beating hearts of sacrificial victims.’

  ‘That is so awful,’ she said. ‘To kill…’

  ‘Sometimes people believe it is alright to kill, when if fulfils a greater object, a spiritual need, for instance.’