by Max Hardy
‘Are they eating the rest of their victims, like Bentley was? Is that why there have never been any remains found? Do they believe that this in some way makes them gods?’ Rebecca queries, shaking her head slightly as she takes in the information as well.
‘Who eats their entrails when they come?’ I muse, letting the words run through my mind, reminding me of McFetrich’s broken body and how his gnawed entrails spelt out ‘Even Fallen Angels Have Wings’. Is Gabriel trying to tell us something? Is he trying to draw us in? Or is this Adam and the Angels?
‘It’s great that you are detectiving and all, but it would be useful if you told me what you were thinking. I might be able to help.’ Rebecca sternly says as she knocks my arm hard with her breast, breaking my machinations.
‘Sorry, it’s just habit.’ I say, smiling ruefully. It’s how I work. It’s how my mind works. It picks up a point or a fact or a word –in this case entrails- and throws it back through my recent memory to see what it hits and then explores the potential links between them. In this case McFetrich’s gnawed entrails and what the significance is. Is it Adam or Gabriel trying to tell us something or even trying to draw us in? The other word that’s thrown in there is ‘Cannibal’ and yes, I think they could be eating their victims, but that old lunatic who bit the cocks off people is singing in my mind as well. Did you get a chance to glance at any of the files?’ I ask, swivelling in the chair and unbalancing Rebecca deliberately as I slouch to the floor and grab the closest plastic bag she had dropped.
‘No I didn’t you bastard.’ she says, cuffing me over the head playfully while kneeling down at my side, grabbing another bag and removing the manila folders inside.
I pull the contents of my bag out. It’s not folders. It’s something leather and black with silver studs on it. I look from it, to Rebecca with a curious furrow ploughed on my brow. She is wearing a wicked grin. ‘And what’s this?’ I ask, concerned.
‘A gimp suit. You’ve got a mask as well, and a bit for your mouth, and some reins. Everything you need to be my slave for the evening.’ she teases lewdly, but with a strength to her tone which is intoxicating and dominant. My mind does what it does and links recent memories. Gimp suit screams of Michael Angus. Screams of him fucking Rebecca wearing one, screams of morality gone wrong, screams of the utter hell she went through when she found out it was him inside the suit. How can that association, that memory, not freak her? How can it not take her back to that same suicidal place that the cell earlier managed to take her back to? How the hell does her mind work?
My face must be echoing every one of those thoughts because I see her expression change to concern and then understanding, filling with a curious empathy. She reaches over and takes hold of the gimp suit in both hands, placing it on her lap and then holds my hands tenderly, stroking the stigmata in the palms. ‘It’s all about control John. I can see you wondering how I could possibly be so brazen about a gimp suit when Michael wore one when I fucked him. If I were being a mum, it would upset me. But right now I’m not being a mum. I’m being a Madame. And as a Madame, I have seen many men wearing these. As a Madame, I control how I feel, I control what I do. I relinquished control when I was in that cell. I let myself become a victim. Understandable, as it was with you when Ennis mutilated your body, Sarah died and you thought Jacob and Eve were dead. We both lost control. We both wanted to die. Now we don’t. Now we want to find out why? Data, information, knowledge and wisdom are your control. Being a Madame is mine. Let’s see what wisdom we can find in these files, eh?’
Her beauty is the wisdom of understanding. Understanding herself. Understanding me. Not judging. Just understanding. That is a remarkable strength. I nod subserviently, an apologetic smile arcing over my slightly embarrassed features. ‘Okay, but please, go gentle on my genitals when I’ve got the suit on, they are still a bit tender. Let’s sort these files.’ I finish, squeezing her hands tightly then grabbing another bag with files sticking out of it and emptying them on the floor.
‘I will be gentle, but I can’t promise other people will.’ she teases, starting to flick through the folders. ‘Do we want to sort them into Seymour’s and non Seymour’s, see what we have of each?’ Rebecca suggests.
‘Fine by me.’ I respond, quickly flicking through the ones in my hands and splitting them as suggested.
Rebecca’s eyes are darting between the tops of every folder dropped onto their relevant piles, her lips silently muttering numbers and names, until all of them are sorted. ‘So, fifty six files in total, thirty eight with the name Seymour, ten with the name Howard and eight with other names, one of those with my name on it.’ she reels off methodically, reaching straight for the Seymour pile and ignoring her own file. ‘We should start to draw up a family tree for the Seymour’s and see if we can find our cock gobbler.’
Rebecca jumps up and heads over to the incident wall, grabs a pen from the side cabinet, opens the first file and starts scribbling down a name, sex and date of birth. I can see she is distracting her mind on the other files, even though she is curious about her own. I am curious as well. No files for John Saul, no files for Robert or Gabriel Caldwell either. Still no signs of where I fit in this mess. Why would Ennis have her file hidden away? Could he have known she was possibly part of the Seymour family?
‘Interesting. The first three Seymour’s are women born in the 1950’s. Clarissa, Jean and Margaret. Clarissa seems to be the sister that went to Italy. Jean….’ she pauses.
‘What?’ I ask, looking up towards her from the files in my lap.
‘Jean Seymour had a daughter, called Rebecca. The father was Cecil Seymour. I think I’ve found my parents.’
I jump up, the files slipping to the floor from my knee and cuddle into Rebecca supportively, looking over her shoulder at the file.
‘It’s a strange feeling. I’ve wanted to find out for years who my parents were, and here they are, in front of me and I just feel: numb. Is that because I was half expecting it? Is that because they are dead, and I’m never going to meet them now anyway. So know I know.’ she finishes, flippantly.
‘It’s going to feel strange, regardless of the circumstances. I suppose the important thing is that now at least, you do know. For better or for worse.’ I encourage, hugging her tight.
‘Exactly. At least I know. It suggests that you aren’t my brother either, so let’s see what we can find out about you. Let’s crack on.’ she smiles, wryly, and pokes her backside out to dislodge me from her body. Flipped again, from sombre to playful. I flop back on the floor and flick through the files quickly, noting an interesting name. I flip the file open.
‘Freddy The Mangler. I’ve just found our cock gobbler. No notes on here about any next of kin. It looks like that particular line of insanity was well and truly bred out of the family.’ I impart, then pick up Rebecca’s file.
‘I have a feeling Margaret may be the Eve’s mother. There’s mention in her notes of a child with that name. More interesting in all of these notes though, are the psychological techniques that are being used in their treatment. They are following a structured pattern for a wide variety of conditions: paranoia, histrionics, OCD, neurosis, narcissism…’
I interrupt her, continuing the list of conditions, reading them from her file. ‘Psychopathy, schizophrenia, depression, bipolar, dissociative identity disorder.’ as I stand up and walk over to her, closely watching her features fill with frustration, feeling my own simmering as well.
‘Ennis carried exactly the same structured pattern of treatment out on you, which suggests that he knew you were part of the Seymour family. Which suggests that you weren’t there as just Ennis’s plaything. It implies that the Seymour’s or bloody Adam and Eve or the fucking Fallen Angels, whatever you want to call them, put you there deliberately.’
Chapter 19
The gnarled and twisted larger intestine bulbously squeezed through the narrow drilled hole in the oak floor board and snaked off over the lacquered wood to the far side
of the room in an insidious meander. Strange followed the meander, noting the teeth marks and gouges bitten out at intervals along the slimy, stinking tube as it weaved in between the sexual apparatus in the play room. He stepped over a leather whipping bench, pausing for a second to take in the precise positioning of the intestine around the leg of the bench to spell the letter ‘U’. The trail progressed underneath a spanking horse, with an ‘N’ shaped out in the middle of its four legs, before slithering alongside a worship seat, spelling out an ‘A’. From the floor, the tube then bent upwards and was nailed haphazardly to an oak door frame at about head height, before turning right onto the door, the very end of the intestine shaped into a large ‘S’.
‘Unas?’ Strange stated as he walked through the half open door into a darkened room. A room dimly lit with subdued up lighting strategically angled from the floor to capture the exquisitely beautiful amputated arms floating gracefully in upright glass tubes. A circular room with its entire circumference, at foot wide intervals, containing delicately carved marble pillars supporting the glass tubes. There were twenty one in total. In the centre of the room stood a black metal instrument stand and on it a black leather violin case with the word ‘Unas’ embossed just under the handle.
‘Yes, it’s on this instrument case as well.’ Cruickshank replied from the centre of the room, next to the case. Trentor was standing next to her, his eyes mesmerised by the hypnotic way the arms gently wafted in the formaldehyde. ‘They are either manufactured by the same firm or perhaps they were in the same club?’ Cruickshank suggested with a slight degree of irritation.
‘I’m not talking about the name on the case. There are four letters snaked into the intestine across the floor. They spell ‘Unas’. I’d suggest someone is trying to tell us something.’ Strange answered, standing back as a look of fury burst over Cruickshank’s face, directed towards Trentor as she stomped back out into the play room.
‘Why didn’t we see that Trentor? Laurent!’ she shouted. ‘Have you got photographs of these letters?’ Cruikshank walked back along the intestine, right to the ‘U’ and sat down on the whipping bench, tapping her patent leather brogue on the oak floor impatiently.
Laurent appeared at the doorway into the playroom from the stairwell, a perplexed look on his face. ‘Pardon Ma’am, letters?’
‘Yes Laurent, letters. A yarking big ‘S’ on the door for a start, all spelling Unas. Thank you Strange, for pointing them out. Gentlemen it’s not good enough. We need to have our eyes open and our wits about us. Missing something like this could put this investigation back weeks. Laurent, get photographs taken immediately. Trentor, get onto HQ and have the team start researching ‘Unas’ straight away. As Strange quite rightly points out, someone is trying to tell us something.’
Laurent unshouldered his camera, muttering obscenities in French under his breath and started to shoot as instructed. Trentor stood rocking, panicked uncertainty overtaking his body.
Cruickshank looked up to him in bemused frustration. ‘Well!’ she stated. ‘Wasn’t I clear enough? Call HQ and get them to look into the name ‘Unas’, it’s not hard.’
‘Sorry Ma’am. It’s just you asked me to tell you about Ettrick’s movements last night a minute ago and I haven’t yet. What’s more important?’ Trentor meekly queried.
Strange saw thunder cross Cruickshank’s features as she started to firmly stand and quickly stepped over to Trentor, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Quickly tell us what you have found out about his movements Barry, then you can ring in to HQ. Thirty seconds will make no difference.’
Cruickshank diverted her visible ire from Trentor towards Strange, her gaze blazing daggers directly into his eyes. ‘As Strange so practically suggested Trentor, which should never have been required, spend thirty seconds telling us what you know.’
‘Given that we haven’t publicly announced Ettrick’s death yet, I called his office just enquiring about his whereabouts yesterday.’ Trentor started, filled with a little confidence from Strange’s support and attempting to ingratiate himself with Cruickshank again. ‘They told me that he had been in meetings in the office in Edinburgh most of the day and left at about five thirty to go to his club for dinner. As far as his secretary is aware, he went on his own. I’ve called the club and they can confirm he was there last night. They Maître Di said he had a drink and left with a woman but doesn’t know who that was. The barman, a guy called Horncliffe, who was working last night is due in imminently and might know more. I was going to go and ask a few questions as it’s only five minutes up the road.’
‘Thank you Barry.’ Strange butted in, not allowing Cruickshank to opportunity for sarcastic comments. ‘Call into HQ now and we’ll go and visit the club.’
Strange nodded towards Cruickshank and then headed off to the stairs, blanking her furious stare. He descended the stairwell, the deliberate thumping of patent leather brogues on the wooden floorboards echoing in his ears as she followed him, her breath and whispered fury inches away from his ears. ‘Strike one Strange. You have had enough warnings about interfering with how I run my team. Two lives left, then you are out of here.’
‘Gaynor.’ Strange started as they reached the bottom of the stairs and vacated the building, heading off towards her parked Fiesta. ‘You can strike me as much as you like, but this isn’t just your investigation now, it’s our investigation. I don’t deliberately mean to undermine you, but we just have to move on. So, they didn’t see the letters. Neither did you. But I did. That’s what being a team is about.’ he finished with a modicum of irritation entering his calm demeanour. He stood at the passenger door to the car, staring over the roof as she glared back at him from the driver’s side.
‘Being a team should never, ever excuse ineptitude.’ Cruickshank started brusquely. ‘That goes for me too.’ she finished, her tone quieter and reflective as she climbed into the car. Strange climbed in as well.
‘Why are you so hard on yourself?’ he enquired with concern as he fastened his seatbelt just as Cruickshank floored the accelerator in reverse, thrusting the car out of the courtyard and back onto the cobbled street, wheel spinning parallel into the road.
She quickly flipped into first gear, flooring the accelerator, the small car jerking into life and throwing both occupants back in their seats under the force of acceleration. ‘Do you know how hard it is for a woman to progress in the force? Do you know how many female DCI’s we have in Scotland?’ Cruickshank fumed. The car reached thirty and she took her foot off the accelerator, but not off her frustration.
Strange smiled ruefully before answering. ‘Let me guess. Possibly the same number as there are Afro Caribbean black men in the whole of the country. ‘Gaynor, you have to believe me, I’m not doing these things because of your sex, I just have a different approach to people. We motivate in different ways. It’s not right or wrong, it’s just different. Vive la difference as the French would say.’
‘Yes, and as a person, I’ve achieved what I have to date by being strong, by not taking crap and by being able to be blunt and forthright with people. I will never be mumsy and affectionate and I will always feel like I am fighting. That is me. Embrace that difference.’ she lectured as she pulled the Fiesta to a sudden halt directly outside the club.
‘Gaynor, I do, but recognise that works both ways. I will always be tactile, I will always be affectionate and I will always be humble. Embrace that difference. Let’s go and talk to Horncliffe and forget about this lover’s tiff.’ Strange finished, smiling, and trying to diffuse the tension.
Cruickshank glared at him, fury sparking in her eyes at his last comment, then leant across and kissed him aggressively, her tongue sliding into his surprised, willing lips. She broke off the kiss just as soon as it started. ‘No, let’s not forget, let’s discuss it later, in bed. If we are ever going to have any kind of relationship, we have to work this out. We haven’t got time in the middle of a case.’
�
�Okay. Later.’ Strange willingly agreed.
They both vacated the Fiesta and entered the glass revolving doors of the Jing’s club. They crossed the heavy pile burgundy carpet to the deep mahogany reception desk, a uniformed receptionist smiling pleasantly up at them as they arrived.
‘Good afternoon Madam and Sir. What can I help you with today.’ she asked pleasantly.
‘DCI Cruickshank and DCI Strange here to see Horncliffe, the barman. Do you know if he is at work yet?’ Cruickshank enquired brusquely.
‘Certainly DCI Cruickshank. He arrived in about fifteen minutes ago. He will be in the bar of the dining area, it’s the first door on the left down the hallway.’ she informed, pointing in the relevant direction.
‘Thank you.’ Cruickshank replied as they both headed off down the hallway as directed. The hallway was decorated in mahogany panelling, with portraits of old patrons of the club adorning the walls. Sparkling candelabra’s cast a shimmering glow onto the dark carpet as they passed under them and then entered the dining area. The room was empty, save for an older moustached man behind the bar cleaning glasses.
‘Mr Horncliffe?’ Cruickshank queried as she approached him.
‘Yes, what can I do to help you?’ Horncliffe responded. He put down the glass he was drying and leant against the bar curiously.
‘DCI Cruikshank and DCI Strange. We want to ask you a few questions about Douglas Ettrick. We understand that you were working here last night when he was dining, is that correct?’ Cruickshank asked bluntly.
‘Yes, he was in having dinner last night and I was working. What can I help you with?’
‘We understand that he was having dinner with a woman last night. Can you confirm that?’
‘No, he was dining alone. However, he did have a rather expensive whiskey with a woman. Now that was quite a scene.’ Horncliffe imparted, leaning over the bar surreptitiously.