Except when it is.
Buddy Wailer had locked the doors. Just because he was a psychotic killer didn't mean he wasn't security- conscious. People talk a lot about the old days when you could leave your back door open, as if there weren't mad people roaming the world back then. The difference then was that people would leave the back door open, get raped and pillaged, and then just not talk about it, thus propagating the myth that you really could leave your door open.
I looked around the outside of the house. There were no handy windows open. I would have to kick the back door in, but with my wasting disease, brittle bones, and the metal from the screws of the Latham device they had inserted in my face to offset my cleft palate still playing havoc with my taste buds, it was easier said than done.
I kicked at it three times, but the door didn't seem to notice.
Then I lifted the doormat and picked up the backdoor key.
The kitchen was gloomy, blocked from direct sunlight by the house behind. It was spotless.
I stood listening.
Complete silence.
Nothing.
I moved into the hall. There was a lounge to the left. Neat. Tidy. Walk-through into dining room. Pristine.
I paused at the bottom of the stairs.
'Hello?'
I listened.
Everything about the house felt menacing.
In a movie, the music sets the tone.
No music sets its own tone.
There was probably no need for me to go upstairs. If she was around, she would have answered.
I would be better off getting back to the shop. There were probably customers waiting. Rolo, maybe. What if he returned eager to try something else and I wasn't there and he gave up and returned to a life of crime? I should be there. I had a responsibility.
There was an odd smell.
I couldn't place it. It wasn't horrible. But it could easily be something you spray to cover up something horrible.
Upstairs: gloomier still. Doors closed.
I had wasted my breath warning Alison not to enter a cave, and now here I was, in the cave. I should get out and call for help. This wasn't my game. I solve puzzles. I don't confront. I suffer from arachnophobia. I am also scared of people who suffer from arachnophobia. They haven't invented a name for that yet.
I stood on the first step. Light switch. Flipped on. Brighter, but didn't help much. Buddy could return at any moment. He probably had slippers for walking on gravel so that he could sneak up unawares. He would shoot me and cut off my head.
Second step. Three, four, five, six. I peered between the banister slats. Landing, another flight, hall, four doors off. I made the landing. Three of the four doors were closed. The half-open one was at the end of the hall; the room beyond was sunlit.
I was drawn towards the light. Sunlight ought to be good and pure.
It isn't always.
I recognised the smell. Alison's perfume.
No. Not her perfume. Her deodorant.
I was almost overcome by dread. I wasn't even aware of moving my legs. I was on castors and being inexorably pulled towards the room by a demon's string balls. The half-open door showed me a wardrobe and the corner of a bed.
I pushed the door fully open.
At the foot of the neatly made double bed: a hatbox.
Ribbon on top.
'No,' I said.
I dropped to my knees.
Buddy Wailer had left me a present.
* * *
Chapter 32
Open the box. Don't open the box. Open the box. Don't open the box. Open the box. Don't open the box. Open the box. Don't open the box. Open the box. Don't open the box. Open the box. Don't open the box. Don't open the box. Don't open the box. Don't open the box. Don't open the box. Don't open the box.
Open the box.
I opened the box, and I screamed.
Not because of what was in it. It was empty. But because of the hand that was brought down firmly on my shoulder just as the top came off.
And when I'd finished screaming and hurling myself across the room, trying to hide in a sock drawer, I was stopped in my tracks by:
'Where THE FUCK were you?'
Alison, glaring at me.
'I was ...
'I was stuck in that cupboard all night! All night with that monster in the same room!'
'I'm sorry, I . . .'
'I had to pee in his slippers!'
'I'm sorry, I . . .'
'You're a complete waste of space!'
And then, thankfully, she broke down. She began to cry and shudder and I hesitantly took her in my arms. She still managed to raise her fist and beat it weakly against my chest, which was, frankly, rather ungrateful of her, seeing as how I was there now, and also, just as frankly, rather dangerous, given the paper- thinness of my chest and the combustible nature of my ribs.
I said, 'It's okay,' and patted her back.
She said, 'Where were you? I was so scared . . .'
'I did my best
'All night ... all night ... I saw her ... oh God, I saw her . . .'
'Saw . . . ?'
'Arabella
'Arabella! Where?' She pointed. 'On the bed? In . . . the box?'
She nodded. 'It was horrible, horrible ... I know I shouldn't have come in, but when I saw him leave, I couldn't help myself ... I just couldn't ... He left his back-door key under the mat, if it hadn't been there I wouldn't have . . . but I went in, and it was just like a normal house . . . until I came upstairs . . .
and I came in here . . . and the box was on the bed . . . and I couldn't resist it and . . . Jesus ... I opened it, and her head was in there, smiling up at me . . . and I screamed and I remember . . . staggering back . . . and then knowing I had to get out of there . . . but in my panic I missed the stairs, I ran into the other bedroom ... and the rest of her, fucking hell . . . the rest of her was lying on the bed
'The rest of . . . ?'
'Headless!'
She cried against me, big, heaving, snottery sobs. I held her as tightly as my weak arms would allow.
I've read enough crime fiction to know what Buddy was up to. Arabella had been dead for some considerable time, yet there was no smell beyond Alison's deodorant. Although I knew it offered twenty-four- hour protection, the smell of death is not one that can so easily be covered up. Buddy had murdered Augustine and Liam because he had been professionally engaged to do so. He may or may not have murdered Arabella, but he had indisputably come into the possession of her body. Perhaps he had been ordered to dispose of it and couldn't because he had a thing for women's corpses. For Arabella not to have become a rotting, glutinous, maggot-ridden mess by now meant that he was using chemicals to preserve her. Either he had some training as an undertaker or he had developed an interest in their methods.
As I rubbed Alison's back gently, I became aware that my fingers felt quite sticky. When I examined them over her shoulder, I saw that they were partially coated in some kind of residue. I looked across at the empty box on the bed and saw that there was a similar- looking smear on the lip of the lid. It was, I feared, essence of Arabella. It was all I could do to stop myself from throwing up down Alison's back. Instead I quietly rubbed it off on her blouse and forced myself to focus on the case.
'Which room is Arabella's . . . torso in?' I asked softly.
Alison snorted up. 'She isn't. He was sleeping in here ... all night I was trying not to breathe . . . There was a phone call about half an hour ago ... I couldn't hear what was said, but it seemed to panic him . . . and I could see a tiny bit out of the hinges ... He took her head out . . . Jesus, I saw him carrying Arabella by her hair . . . and then I could hear him dragging something, and the front door slammed and I took the chance to get out and I saw him drive off. I just wanted out . . . but I couldn't help but look in the other room, and she's gone, he's taken her with him, and then I heard the key in the door again and I thought he'd forgotten something and I'd blown my chance to escape . .
. but it was you, thank God it was you . . . He's away now, he's escaped and maybe we'll never
'No,' I said confidently, 'he hasn't escaped. We have him.'
'Have' was, of course, a little wide of the mark. We had a rough idea of where he was because Jeff had followed him, but being in the Mystery Machine meant that he couldn't get too close, particularly when Buddy's route took him out of the city and into the country. Jeff had to drop back, and he almost lost him on several occasions, but now he was back on track. Literally on track.
'You're where?' I asked.
'Tollymore.'
'The forest park?'
'The very one. He paid his fiver to get in, but he's gone off the roads open to tourists; he's on tracks the park keepers and woodsmen must use. I don't know whether to follow or what?'
We were in Alison's VW. She was still badly shaken, but preferred to drive rather than meander along with me in control. Tollymore was about thirty minutes away - with a normal person driving - just outside of Newcastle at the foot of the majestic Mourne Mountains. I say majestic because it says that on the internet, but in reality they're just dark and brooding lumps of rock, and they terrify me. It is mostly their height, but also their past life as volcanoes, and the knowledge that they could, despite what the so-called experts say, erupt at any moment, drowning me in lava. Tollymore itself has hundreds of thousands of pine trees standing so densely that sunlight cannot penetrate, which, together with the plentiful water running off the majestic mountains, encourages the growth of vast carpets of moss on the forest floor. There are also countless billions of twigs. Twigs can put your eye out, and do. A forest with moss and twigs and mountains looming over is my idea of hell.
But home from home for a demon like Buddy Wailer.
We would follow him into that hell, though I might wait in the car.
'Hello?' Jeff shouted. 'Anyone at home?'
'What does he want?' Alison asked.
'He wants to know if he should follow Buddy into the forest.'
'And what do we think?'
'We think you should keep your eye on the road. This isn't one of those movies where we can have a conversation where you look at me the whole time and traffic just magically avoids you. Keep your eyes ...'
'All right!'
'Will you make your minds up!' Jeff yelled. I held the phone away from my ear, both to protect my fragile drum and to allow Alison to hear. 'Oh, wait - he's stopping. Hold on. Let me just pull in .. . here . .. Okay, don't think he can see me .. . He's getting out .. . looking around . . . Nope, he can't see me .. . He's going to the back of his van, opening up . . . pulling out. . . two black bin bags ... I think . . . something heavy anyway . .. dragging them into the trees . . . He's . . . he's .. . he's disappeared now. Seems like a long way to come fly-tipping.'
'It's Arabella, Jeff,' said Alison.
'What's Arabella?'
'In the bags.'
'Oh. Both the bags?'
'Both the bags.'
We could hear him inhaling deeply. 'Oh lordy. What am I supposed to do now?'
'In an ideal world,' I said, 'you would catch him red-handed, subdue him, get him to confess, and keep him there until the police arrive.'
'Unfortunately,' said Alison, and left it at that. She looked at me. 'Well, MacGyver, you're the expert, what do you think? He's burying the evidence, right?'
'Yeah,' I said. And then: 'Jeff, stay where you are, we'll call you back in five.'
'But ...'
I cut the line. I began to punch in numbers.
Alison said, 'What are you . . . ? Are you chickening out and calling Robinson?'
I shook my head. Before I pushed the call button I said: 'What did I do before we left Buddy's house?'
She began to shake her head, but then it came to her. 'You went to the bathroom to wash your hands, and then when I told you to hurry up, you said you couldn't, you had to use the toilet, your irritable bowel was playing up. How the hell does that . . . ?'
'While I was sitting on the throne I noticed that he had a phone extension in there. I remembered you said he got a call that panicked him. So having nothing better to do while waiting for plop, I called 1471 and got the number of the last person who called. And now I'm about to find out who it was. You see, you think I'm just having a poo, but I'm always working something out.'
I pushed the button. It rang five times. Then it went to answerphone. The message, delivered in a familiar voice, said, 'Hi, you're through to Pearl. I can't talk to you right now, but please leave me your number and I'll get right back to you.'
I chose not to. I cut the line.
'Pearl,' I said.
'As in Knecklass? The trampy vampy?'
'The very one. She calls Buddy, tells him to bury the evidence. Buddy's American. We know he's a professional, he's surely buried bodies before, but he can't know over here that well, so how come he drives straight to Tollymore?'
'Because she told him where to go.'
'Exactly.'
My phone rang. I answered with: 'Jeff, I said give us five . . .'
'Hey, I recognise that voice.'
It was Pearl, with the same trick as mine. It wasn't much of a trick. In fact, it was no trick at all. People did it all the time, every day. It was a useful service provided by a forward-thinking telecommunications company. Useful things can fuck you up pretty easily.
'Is that Pearl?' I said. I made big eyes at Alison. She made them back. Pearl was in a car, somewhere; I could hear traffic, her indicators, a radio. 'Funny, I was just calling you.'
'Yes, I know. You didn't leave a message.' 'Well I hate those things. How's it going?'
'Yeah, great. I haven't heard from you in ages; are we still friends?'
'Yes, of course,' I said.
'Special friends?' she purred.
'Definitely.'
Alison's ear couldn't have been any closer.
'You calling about the case?' Pearl asked.
'What case?'
'Hey, stop messing! The case. Augustine!'
'Oh, that, no, I wasn't calling about that. Just wondering how you were.'
'Aw, isn't that sweet? You know me, busy as ever, out on the road. Clinic business.'
'Really? I thought you were just the receptionist.'
'Oh, you're so cheeky. I am, but I do sales, and give talks to women's groups. Times are hard, sometimes you gotta drum up business. They even call me a director, but do you think I have shares? Not a chance. What about you? You sound like you're driving too.'
'Yeah, out on the road, looking through some book collections down Newcastle way.'
Alison looked at me. She could look all she wanted. I was immune.
'Newcastle . . . really? A long way to go for books.'
'Yeah, I know. There's thousands of them to go through. Sometimes you can't see the wood for the trees, but if you stick with it, usually you find exactly what you're looking for.'
Her voice had lost a little of its chirpiness. She said, 'I thought we were going to work together on this case.'
'So did I,' I said. 'Been kind of busy.'
'I get the feeling you're avoiding me.'
'Me? Never. Didn't we just agree we were special friends? You know I'd give you my last Rolo.'
Under her breath Alison said, 'Jesus, subtle as a brick.'
'Anyway,' I said before Pearl could come back, 'gotta go, traffic's a bit mad, not even out of Belfast yet. Sure, call in and see me some time; now I know the type of books you like, I can keep you well supplied.'
She was just starting to say: 'Maybe we could meet ...' when I hung up.
I looked at Alison. She gave me her disgusted eyes, which were just like her normal eyes, but disgusted.
'You got rid of her pretty quick,' she snapped.
'Yes, I ...'
'Something to hide?'
'What?'
'She's the one you really want.'
'What are you talking about?'
'I see the way you go
all gloopy when you speak to her, and your cheeks go all red.'
'Would you ever wise up?'
'Don't tell me to wise up!'
'Okay, okay! I wasn't . . . she isn't . . .'
Alison took a deep breath. We picked up speed.
'It's just the case,' I said.
'Uhuh. Whatever you say. So why did you have to tip her off? The first thing she's going to do is phone Buddy and warn him we're in the area. It sounds to me like you're in league together.'
'She's not going to warn Buddy about anything.'
'You know her that well, do you?'
'Yes. No. Just think about it, Alison, would you? Buddy could bury the evidence anywhere, but she's directed him to the most out-of-the-way place you can imagine. Why?'
'Because it's out of the way, knucklehead; nobody will ever find the body!'
'Yes, granted, partly. But there's more to it than that. As soon as I mentioned Newcastle, you could hear it in her voice. She's on her way to meet him, and I don't think he's digging a hole for just one body; I think he's digging it for two.'
'For Pearl?'
'No! For himself, though he doesn't know it yet. He's killed Augustine, he's killed Liam, but he didn't kill Arabella. Instead of getting rid of her, he's preserved her, and worse than that, he's left her lying around the house. They must know he's a liability and they know we're closing in and the police are sniffing around, so they're having to act fast. They've sent him down to Tollymore to bury Arabella, and Pearl comes down to supervise and pay him off, maybe lull him into a false sense of security by throwing in a little action as well. She's a femme fatale, Alison, that's what they do. One minute she'll be puckering up, thanking him for a job well done, next she'll be sliding a blade between his ribs.'
'You're always thinking about her and sex.'
'I'm just saying
My phone rang. Before I could answer it, Alison let go of the steering wheel, grabbed my hand and bent my fingers back until I screamed and released it. She swapped it to her right hand, but as I lunged after it, she pushed her left hand into my face. I peeled her fingers away from my eyes and twisted them back until she yelped. I made another grab for the phone but she slapped my hand aside and elbowed me in the face. As I cradled my already damaged nose, Alison answered the still ringing phone by yelling: 'Keep away from my man, sugar tits!'
Dr. Yes Page 18