… as a man trained – qualified – for no other life I know I should not be surprised or sickened by the obscenity of war but I have recently become involved in a legal matter that is beyond belief. It would, of course, be wrong for me to give you any details – and so appalling is the case that I still would not, even if it were possible – but suffice to say that there are evil, despicable men who actually see war and its effect as something to profit from. I believe such men are worse than animals and should be eradicated. Were it possible to recommend the death sentence in this case, in which sick waifs died or were crippled, then I would surely advocate it. It is insufficient for me to know that this inhuman monster is being removed from any civilized society for the rest of his unnecessary life …
He didn’t need the name, to be sure! Didn’t need anything more than the childlike upright script and groping attempt at outrage. It was orgasmic – something close to ecstasy – to know how much he’d affected the fucker. The words and phrases registered as he read the letter again and again. Beyond belief … appalling … evil, despicable … worse than animals and should be eradicated … inhuman monster.
‘All of that,’ Taylor said aloud. ‘All and more. It would be beyond your belief what I am going to do to your precious daughter. I am an inhuman monster and everyone is going to know, very soon. Know more than they think they do already.’
It had never been this good. Never. He’d take the letter, of course. It would be the best souvenir imaginable, something to savour and enjoy, every day. If there had been a God to believe in, Taylor would have literally prayed for the old woman to recover quickly, to be returned home, knowing instantly, totally, what he would do. He’d tell them! With the old woman bound in her wheelchair and Janet naked and helpless – he supposed he’d have to restrain her, too – he would read out the letter, stressing the good parts, and then identify himself. That’s me, an inhuman monster beyond belief. Change his face, to prove it. Find another phrase, from all the crap the old woman had written: the diaries and letters were littered with insistences on how lucky she was. He’d quote her own diary words back at her, about how lucky he considered himself to be. He located a reference almost at once, actually describing Janet’s birth – which made it fitting for her death. Satisfied, he reassembled everything and packed the boxes away precisely as he’d found them.
Carrying his two souvenirs, he moved on to Janet’s adjoining bedroom, in as much disarray as a result of Janet’s hurried departure as that of her mother’s. She’d been wearing jeans and a sweater, he remembered. There was no discarded nightwear. So she slept naked. Just four dresses and a suit in the wardrobe. The pants and bra, three matching La Perla sets, were skimpy and interesting, the pants little more than thongs. The bras were 36, D cup. He really was going to enjoy himself. He’d take pants, as a memento: a special memory. The white pair. In her panic Janet had left her handbag as well as a briefcase. The only letter in the briefcase was from a bank, giving her a month to reduce her overdraft to the agreed £2,000 limit: two weeks had already gone. Her diary was merely an appointments record, blank for the preceding month. The wallet in her handbag held £10, a Visa credit card and a photograph of a fair-haired, smiling man he recognized from his earlier search next door to be her dead brother. There was also a metalled strip of birth control pills, two containers already empty. No risk of her becoming pregnant ever again, he thought.
He accepted that with Janet only being there temporarily he couldn’t expect to find any real secrets and he was so pleased by what he had already discovered that he wasn’t interested in searching much further. He went cursorily through what had clearly once been Walter Hibbs’s study desk. Taylor guessed some of the bottom drawer rubbish – pens, a tattered address book, a military manual and some programmes of military tattoos at Aldershot – had been put there by the man. The upper drawers were cleaner and held evidence of Edith Hibbs’s village work, before her stroke: minutes of Women’s Institute events and church council meetings. There was a letter, dated two months earlier, from her Midhurst bank asking for a revaluation of the house on which her overdraft had been secured. Unless the valuation showed a substantial increase on the previous one, of two years earlier, the manager doubted he would be able to agree the requested increase.
Janet Hibbs telephoned just after nine. ‘It’s a blood clot, in her left leg. But it can be dispersed by thinning her blood with warfarin. She’ll have to stay in for observation for a day or two, that’s all.’
‘And then she’ll be able to come back here?’
‘If she responds,’ said Janet. ‘That’s wonderful news, isn’t it?’
‘Wonderful,’ he agreed. ‘Would you like me to come to collect you?’
‘I left in such a hurry I didn’t even take a handbag, with money for a taxi.’
‘It would cost far too much anyway.’ And you’ve only got £10 in your wallet, he thought.
To prepare himself for her reminding him of his promise to give her stock market advice – determined to overlook nothing in his pursuit – he bought all the newspapers but didn’t turn at once to the financial pages. First he went through the general news sections for the continued coverage of the murders of Beryl Simpkins and Samuel Hargreaves. Only two, both tabloids, re-used the taxi driver’s impression and that was reduced to extend only across two columns, making more ludicrous than yesterday any possibility of his being recognized. An unnamed Scotland Yard spokesman was quoted as saying they were intensifying their inquiries, which he knew to be police-speak for their having made no progress whatsoever.
It was Taylor’s suggestion he wind the passenger seat fully back for her to rest on the return journey, which she did although protesting all she needed was a bath and that he was being far too considerate.
Both the landlord’s wife and the arthritically slow gardener had arrived by the time they got back and Taylor didn’t remain with Janet while she repeated the hospital’s prognosis that her mother would be home in two days, reflecting as he entered the house that now he had an actual date. He’d kill them that first night. He would have tired of the game – and of them – by then. He’d have to think seriously whether to go to France or directly back to America, afterwards. There were still people to deal with in the United States. Maybe it would be better to finish the business and then come back to enjoy a proper vacation, without distraction.
Janet appeared totally recovered after bathing and washing her hair. He liked the cleanliness. She was immediately concerned he hadn’t bothered to make his own breakfast but agreed it was too late by then and that she wasn’t really hungry, either.
‘The ham was good at the pub yesterday. And we did intend laying some flowers on the family grave,’ he reminded her. ‘Why don’t we tidy everything up there, have a snack on the way back …?’ He was proud of the pause. ‘… Unless, that is, you’d rather help the gardener.’
‘You’re supposed to be on holiday!’
‘Vacations are times to relax, do exactly what you want, how you want. Which I’m doing. I also didn’t plan anything for today until I heard how your mother was. If it had been bad instead of good you might have needed someone.’ It was embarrassing listening to himself!
‘I’m going to miss you when you go.’
‘I haven’t gone yet.’
It was Taylor’s suggestion to take a bucket and cleaning things and after clearing twigs and leaves from the vault’s pebbled surround they cleaned the memorial plaques. There was a dried snail’s path marking the previous day’s spittle. Afterwards they went into the church and he stood back while she knelt and prayed, mentally planning what he would make her do on her knees very soon. No spit mark remained on the marbled wall memorial to Major Hibbs. Taylor was disappointed.
They encountered the vicar on their way out. Jeremy Vine was an urgent, prematurely balding young man who responded to the introduction as if he already knew Taylor, and betrayed the village’s intelligence service by asking Janet about
her mother without having to be told of the night’s drama. The young man was glad it wasn’t serious and promised to call as soon as the old lady returned home. Taylor wondered how much more hair the man would lose if he was the one to discover the bodies. Probably all of it.
Both he and Janet had ham, and today there was no-one reading a newspaper with his image on the front page. The same three farm workers greeted him like an old friend and all joined the landlord in hoping Janet’s mother would be home soon. Vera Potter returned from cleaning the house while they ate and there was a whispered, smiling exchange of which they were clearly the object among the group at the bar. I hope I do, thought Taylor, mentally joining in the obvious conversation: I’m certainly going to try.
‘You visiting your mother this afternoon?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I must check the petrol in the car.’
‘With your mother safely in hospital you don’t need to stay around the house, do you?’
‘No?’ she said, curiously.
‘Why don’t I run you in? I asked around, when I arrived in Midhurst: got some restaurant recommendations. I could pick you up when you leave the hospital and we could have dinner somewhere?’
‘I …’ started Janet but stopped.
‘What?’
‘I get breathless, moving too fast.’ She smiled.
She was making the move! Encouraging, not offended. ‘They write songs about lonely people.’ What crap! ‘Sorry. I’m not trying to take advantage of what you told me yesterday.’
‘I didn’t think you were.’
He had to keep the flirtation going. ‘We’re causing quite a lot of interest among the local population.’
‘I know.’
‘You mind?’
‘Couldn’t care less. What about you?’
‘It’s amusing giving them something to talk about.’ And he’d scarcely started yet.
He chose a beamed and thatched restaurant at a place called Woolbeding – driving there to make the reservation to fill in his afternoon – because of the hopeful significance of the name. Janet emerged from the hospital precisely at their arranged time. She’d heard of the restaurant but not been there and was clearly delighted to be going. Her mother thought the flowers he’d insisted upon buying were beautiful and Taylor nodded to the gift-wrapped package on the back seat and said, ‘Chocolates, for tomorrow. I found a cute shop, while I was waiting. The woman said they were Belgian.’
‘You’re totally spoiling us!’ protested Janet.
‘Spoiling people gives me pleasure,’ said Taylor, amused at the ambiguity she couldn’t understand, and she stayed smiling with him.
They were early and studied the menu in the garden, in an abour by a noisily busy stream shallow enough to see darting fish against its bed. He lightly ignored her protests to order champagne, although only a half-bottle, carefully treading the line between over-impressing and overwhelming. Still tiptoeing, but wanting to relax her as much as possible to win this part of his game, he kept the fish course Chablis to a half-bottle but ordered a heavy Pomerol to go with their duck and urged brandy at the end.
Taylor consciously relaxed, intrigued by the novelty of an unknown social situation. It was surprisingly easy to turn remarks and stories deprecatingly against himself, making her laugh a lot. He remained constantly alert to give way when Janet talked, which she did easily and openly. She admitted she hadn’t properly established herself as a graphic artist (‘certainly not successfully enough to be freelance’) and wondered if she ever would and if there would be an end to their financial difficulties. That led naturally to the previous day’s investment conversation, to which he responded smoothly with everything he’d memorized from the morning’s newspapers he’d pored over while she was bathing.
‘Could you recommend something?’
‘I could certainly try.’
‘We can’t afford to lose any money.’
‘We could go for blue chip: guaranteed government stock, although the return is limited,’ he improvised.
‘Maybe you won’t have time,’ she said. ‘You haven’t said how long you’re staying.’
‘I haven’t decided myself yet. I’m in no hurry.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before. I feel …’ She hunched her shoulders, searching for the words. ‘… Like I’ve known you for ages.’ There was another pause. ‘Even that’s not what I properly want to say …’
More crap, he recognized. Holding her look he said, ‘I don’t think you have to. But I think that I might be feeling the same way.’
There was a long silence.
She said, ‘Shall we go home?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
They didn’t talk at all on the way back, nor when they first entered the house. In the hallway they stood for several moments looking at each other before he put out his hand, which she took. If it hadn’t been so important to him he’d have been screaming with laughter: it was hilarious!
There was a vague gesture towards the drawing room. ‘I think there’s some brandy …?’
‘I don’t want anything else. Do you?’ He mustn’t laugh! Ruin everything.
‘No.’
‘Let’s go to bed then, shall we?’
‘Yes.’
He let her ascend slightly ahead of him, watching the sway of her ass. Not tonight. Not unless she made the move. Didn’t want to frighten her. Everything had to come at her invitation, on her terms. Fuck her without a condom, though. She’d be clean. First time he’d been properly sure. Never sure of those during the war – both wars – who’d done it for food or clothes. If they were as quick to open their amateur legs and sucking mouths to him they’d have been as eager to dozens of others. And Janet wouldn’t expect him to wear anything. She carried that metalled strip in her handbag.
She went directly to his room, turning to face him again. Kiss her! She’d expect him to kiss her! Couldn’t remember kissing anyone. Ever. Whores didn’t kiss: thought a tongue, not a cock, was an obscene invasion of their bodies. Janet came to him, leading, because he was hesitant in his uncertainty. He didn’t like it. It was filthy – disgusting – putting his tongue in her mouth, having hers in his. Had to do it. Do it and not gag. Whores were right.
He pulled away, feeling for the buttons of her blouse and she felt for him, undressing him and they let things lie where they fell. Her breasts were spectacular, the perfect size, dropping just very slightly when he unclipped the bra, her pubic puff the perfect wedge, a pointing arrow directing him where to go.
It was Janet who led him to the bed, lying to receive him. She pulled his head to her, to be kissed again, and he closed his eyes against the nausea of it. He hurriedly pulled away, mouthing her nipples, and she moved to make it easier, feeling for him.
It was only when he felt her fingers – those soft fingers that he’d wanted so much – upon his penis that he realized how flaccid he was, limp and unresponsive. He put his hands between her wet legs, ready for him, but still nothing happened and in his desperation he gouged into her, making her wince.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘So sorry … not right … didn’t mean to …’
‘It’s all right,’ she said, easing herself further across the bed, for them to lie side by side, stroking his cheek, kissing his cheek. ‘It doesn’t have to happen first time … doesn’t mean anything. We’re both tired. Let’s sleep. Both of us go to sleep.’
But he didn’t. He stayed awake, furious again. Her fault. It had to be her fault. Couldn’t be his. Wanted to kill her now, for doing this. Wouldn’t, though. Better control than this morning. Important he wait for the old woman. Both had to know more pain than they’d ever imagined possible. Just forty-eight hours. Do it all then. That’s when he’d fuck her. Fuck her until she screamed for mercy. She was going to scream a lot for what she’d just done. Never stop screaming. Being sorry.
Wesley Powell got in to the incident room early, to check and deal with everything quickly so
that he could pick Beth up as closely as possible to his normal collection time. Although it was Saturday he was surprised that Amy wasn’t already there. Or that she still hadn’t arrived an hour later.
Chapter Nineteen
There was nothing to take the investigation substantially forward. The very full overnight report from the Manhattan office on James Durham’s reaction to the murder complicity accusation seemed convincingly to destroy an already flawed theory. The lawyer had reminded the local FBI team that as he was legally still Myron Nolan’s executor he had the right to oppose the intended exhumation – but that he would, in fact, support it – and unprompted offered to take a polygraph test on condition that the questions were entirely restricted to the murder and his identification of the body and in no way infringed upon the crimes for which he had immunity.
The telephone records of the Belmont house merely acted as further confirmation that Harold Taylor was the killer. There were two outgoing calls to James Durham’s New York apartment, one to a Delta flight reservation desk that fitted their estimate of Taylor’s arrival in E! Paso, to pick up Billie Jean Kesby on his way to San Antonio, and another to Amtrac train reservations which coincided with the murder in Pittsburgh of General Marcus Carr.
There were also calls to a local taxi firm which had already been checked out. All journeys were to Reagan airport, connecting not only to the El Paso flight but convenient to the New York shuttle the days they knew Taylor to have been in New York, pressuring James Durham. The drivers were being traced that day to be shown the video freeze frames to establish if only one man – and which man that was – had been the customer.
There had been no reply to Amy Halliday’s Social Security search or credit card checks and the judge’s hearing to determine the Bureau’s legal access to Taylor’s bank records and safe deposit box was not scheduled until later that day.
‘A lot of time for Beth,’ suggested John Price. The New York bureau chief, divorced and unattached, had volunteered to be the weekend watchman.
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