To add to an already alien situation, they had set up a press trailer. It was actually a mobile incident room, but for these purposes, it was a press trailer. Parked up and cordoned off outside the entrance to the shopping centre where the murder had happened. It had a small stage erected out the front made from exactly that; stage parts. On the stage, and therefore elevated for the cameras, were two tables, behind which were the seats that he and the selected few would sit, make a statement and then answer any reasonable questions.
In front of that were 80 folding seats in 2 sections of 40. Of that number, 40 were for the invited by name, and a seat for each of them to sit a techy or cameraman, or whoever. Lentus felt slightly more in control doing it this way, and he kept the amounts in even numbers. This, in part, calmed his nerves.
Walters was backstage with him, and Shanks was stationed out at the back of the seated area with 5 further men. DC Shanks’ capacity for bluntness and straight talking would lend itself for dealing with any untoward gawkers.
He would be the first to step out, but would take centre stage, with 2 either side of him. He didn’t like the odd number, but he felt it neater with him being central.
He knocked 8 times on the wall by the door, breathed very deeply, turned the handle, and walked out on to the stage. Lentus was immediately hit with a wall of voices asking a barrage of questions, and stunned by a myriad bright lights and flashes.
‘Let’s go to woik’ he thought to himself, adopting the faux New York accent for the first time in what seemed a lifetime, then mentally secured his mask and held his hands out flat with palms down. It was the international sign language for ‘calm down’. It worked. Just like in the films.
Inwardly, he allowed himself a smile. This may go better than expected, after all….
Chapter 51
I’ve always viewed Christmas with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it’s utter commercial bollocks and seems to start earlier and earlier every year. I’d swear Woolworths’ TV advert first aired in October, but now it’s December tomorrow and part of me can’t wait for it to be over already.
Then there’s the other part of me, the bit of me that loves the pomp and circumstance, the food and the drink, the family time (for a short while); and then the partying. Oh yes, the party season is a good season when you’re a single bloke.
I’ve been working bloody hard this year and I’m seriously ready to let off some steam. Yes, I let it off anyway whether it’s a week night or a weekend, but having an actual period of time booked off; an actual week or so committed solely to hedonism. Well, that pleases me.
It feels like it’s going to be a good Christmas this year. I’ve got my new Docklands pad, my new M3, plenty of money in the bank; and I’ve even been organised enough to book a Friday off to get my Christmas shopping done. If all goes to plan, I’ll be done before December, which is a first. My life is feeling pretty robust. Not sure if that’s the right word, but it feels like it’s going right. Solid. Together.
There’s just the head stuff that’s a negative, really. Doctor Barrett has booked some more tests in for me, so maybe 2002 will be the year I finally get it sorted. I’ve still kept it secret from the powers that be. Work. Police. DVLA. It’s been a while since it happened when I was driving, so no cause for alarm. Touch wood.
I swerve around a meandering couple, lost in conversation and superstitiously touch one of the periodically placed saplings, set there to add a touch of green to the otherwise mostly concrete shopping area. They’ll be snapped before they can grow. There’s little shits on every corner with nothing to do, ready to dispense wanton vandalism wherever possible. I always say something when I see them do it, and I can’t ever remember any of the little oiks saying anything back to me.
As I grow older, I realise how much importance I not only put upon people being respectful, but also I no longer worry about saying something to them. Whatever they’ve done, I feel someone needs to stand up to the injustices of the world.
Rude people. Aggressive people. Violent people. Ill-mannered people.
Why do they do it? What makes them think the things they do are actually ok? What happened to them when they were younger that resulted in them being such a pain in the arse? There’s just no need for it, life’s too short.
In fact, I was window shopping in this precinct only a few days ago after a few drinks on a ‘Thirsty Thursday’, and ended up in a quarrel with a proper little vitriolic cow.
It was in an area that’s rife with charity muggers, religious freaks and zealots; as well as the people who really do enjoy ramming their views down anyone’s throats. This one, this caustic girl, was one of the aggressive vegans. She had her regular spot by one of the benches and always seemed to be there, banging her proverbial drum.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again; I understand people having different views to me, as long as no one gets hurt, then fair play to them. I do, however, expect that approach to be reciprocated and for them to appreciate that as an adult, I have a right to my views as well; and therefore don’t appreciate being harangued by a stranger about whatever strong view it is that drives them.
She had a stall set up, basically what looked like a wallpapering table. Tablecloth over the top. On one side was a bowl of vegetables with a sign behind with a big green tick on. On the other side, emblazoned with the phrase ‘Meat is Murder’ were picture after picture of animals in various states of duress, distress and stages of slaughter.
I love animals. I love meat. I’m not stupid, and so I know there is a correlation there that is a tad hypocritical. I know this. Therefore, wherever possible, I ensure that the meat I eat is as free range as possible. I wouldn’t wish harm on any animal, but then there’s tempting fillet steak and bacon that will forever stop me going veggie.
What I don’t need is being faced with gory pictures of animals being harmed. I know that happens, but I don’t need it thrust down my throat. That annoys me.
So of course, I explained this to the girl behind the table, the one chanting ‘Meat is Murder’ whilst wearing a massive sweat shirt with the same ‘Meat is Murder’ slogan emblazoned across the front. Over that she was wearing one of those multi-coloured patchwork jackets that you see in hippy shops. Of course.
She was actually rather pretty. A bit pale and undernourished, but otherwise a good looking girl. Well, would have been if she didn’t look so angry. That can make any person look so ugly, so quickly.
‘What?’ she asked me, her tone acidic and confrontational
‘I just said that I think those pictures are a bit strong to have out in public. There’s kids everywhere. It’s not really fair on them, is it?’ I reasoned, trying to adopt a placating level in my voice. She seemed very much on edge, ready to argue, to fight.
I suppose there is always an element of that with people who feel compelled to go into public areas and shout at strangers about the issues that trouble them. They must just be waiting for an interaction, which let’s face it, is rarely going to be a passer-by having an epiphany and suddenly decided that this person has a point. We have so much more information these days now the internet is here, that our decisions are far more measured than they’ve ever been. The information superhighway allows us to be less ignorant. Well, on the whole it does. It should. Shame people don’t research good manners as much as they do animal cruelty, gossip or porn.
‘Do you think it’s fair on these animals?’ she asks me shrilly, pointing at pictures of geese being force fed and calves covered in blood.
‘No, that’s awful, I love animals, but I’m just sayi..’
‘Are you a meat-eater?’ she interrupts, and she actually points at me with the carrot she’s picked up from the bowl.
‘Yes, I am. And I make a conscious effort to..’
‘MURDERER!’ she shouts at me. Seriously, in public.
‘Listen, I’m not going to stand here and..’
‘You’re a murderer. Plain and simple. You may as well
have cut the heads off these chickens yourself.’ She points at a picture of a line of chickens hung upside down, heads being chopped off whilst still alive by a machine.
‘Now come on’ I respond, levelling my voice. People around us are being typically British and avoiding the whole area. If they’re watching it, they’re doing it from a distance.
‘No. You come on! You’re walking round, blissful in your ignorance while helpless creatures are cruelly being killed in awful conditions so that you can fill your carnivore face!’ she’s shouting now, and I can see that she’s not exactly stable. There is a huge gap around me, the sole recipient of this crazy vegan’s abuse.
‘Listen, you’re scaring kids even more now’ I say as a young child has started crying. I didn’t know if it was actually caused by this crazy lady, but I’m getting pissed off now and I’ll throw anything at her.
‘Fuck the kids! Ignorant little shits spawned by ignorant meat eating parents. All walking round oblivious to the horrific conditions faced by the source of their food’
Swearing. Scaring kids. Verbally attacking people. There’s just no need for it.
Anyway, I can’t properly remember what happened after that. Like I said, I’d had a few drinks after work. I must have just walked away as next thing I know I’m walking home. Again, must have been that self-preservation mechanism kicking in so that I avoid any trouble. She’ll pick on the wrong stranger one day though.
So here I am, wrapped up and walking from one zone of the same old tired Christmas songs played in a shop to another zone with the same songs in a different order. The hot chocolate with brandy I had earlier has given me a bit of a buzz, I’ve got a wallet full of cash and I’m feeling it. I’m feeling Christmas.
For that reason I intend to make a point of avoiding the nutters area where the vegan was. It’s an area outside the main entrance to the shopping centre, by the toilets. An open area with some more shrubbery to be vandalised and a few graffiti covered benches, obviously designed for the shopping-weary to rest their bones. Instead, it’s always filled with beggars and chuggers and nutters.
And flowers. Today, there are none of the normal freaks there, just a little colourful pile.
As I walk in my wide berth around it, I can see that there are not only flowers and cards, but even some carrots and more of the ‘Meat is Murder’ posters.
Shit, is that girl dead? What happened? I think, feeling a cold chill beyond the wintry air. If these tributes are for who I think they’re for, I was only arguing with her a couple of nights ago. I have stopped walking, and am stood, mouth slightly agape, doing that thing that humans do.
Will they think it was me?
Did anyone see me?
It wasn’t me, so I’ve nothing to worry about.
She had it coming from someone.
I was wearing a bobble hat and a big parka.
There aren’t any cameras.
Was it me?
Of course it wasn’t Manners. Don’t be ridiculous.
Activity and raised voices rouses me from my self-analysis. Flashing lights and excited shouting. The other side of the main entrance to the shops and toilets, effectively the opposite side to the benches is a crowd of people and a small temporary building-like structure. I walk towards it to see what the commotion is, others seem to be doing the same.
Instantly the noise coming from the area is recognisable. We have all seen it on the small screen, on the news. We’ve seen it in films and even heard it on the radio. It is the unmistakable sound of a press conference.
There is a voice being amplified through speakers and any other voices are being shouted, often at the same time as others. The voices are like barks of dogs and the amplified one is hesitant, and lacking confidence. I can’t quite make out what they’re saying, until I move away from the blare of Christmas music being pumped from the speakers at the shopping centre entrance.
As I start to walk through the outer reaches of the small assembled crowd, Slade fades and I can begin to make out the words.
‘….name was Elizabeth Churchman, known as Lizzie. She was murdered this Tuesday the 27th by someone who we believe to have struck before..’
I move through the forming crowd, it is still only 3 or 4 people deep and not tightly packed, but people are approaching from all angles, drawn by the noise and the flashes. There are uniformed police ahead, creating a human cordon around the seated throng of press inside. Not many are seated, and cameras are being pointed, flashes are popping, microphones held aloft and questions being shouted.
‘…how did she die?’
‘…do you have any leads..’
‘..what are you doing to catch this monster..’
Having gently eased my way through the assembled gawkers, I am now only a few feet away from the side of the stage. My left view and front view is taken up by the baying crowd that is the press. Their urgency and franticness rolls off them en masse. If I look to the right, I can see the stage with the tables facing the pack in front of them. I can see the man that is speaking over the microphone, his left side is facing me as I look over the shoulder of an official looking individual, stood with legs apart and back to the crowd in a ‘don’t mess with me’ stance. He has an old fashioned haircut and is endeavouring to look powerful, with his chin up and frowning as he surveys the people around him.
The speaker looks harassed, hollow eyed and dishevelled. He has a sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip that glints in the light of the cameras and the flashes. His hair is messy, receding and slightly ginger. His suit is slightly too large. He is repeatedly knocking on the table in front of him as he tries to control the questions being aimed at him.
He looks over to where I am stood and my heart jumps.
No, he is looking at ‘don’t mess with me’ man. I see the man in front, the one in plain clothes tip a nod towards the speaker, as if to say ‘I’m here, I see you’.
He seems to absorb some power from this, turns to the front and shouts over his microphone ‘ONE AT A TIME, PLEASE, OTHERWISE WE’LL CALL IT A DAY NOW’.
A hush descends, long enough to hear the drunken slurring cries of some people pushing to the front behind me. There is a surge that pushes me, accompanied by a waft of booze, and I slam into the plain clothes official in front of me.
He falls forward, I fall with him, the momentum from the weight behind me too much to fight, too much to control.
‘You fucking muppet! What the HELL do you think you’re doing’ he shouts beneath me.
Chapter 52
Lentus knew that he’d underestimated the energy harnessed in a group of reporters, journalists and cameraman. Their craft, their living, was made or broken on whether they got the answer to that burning question. If they got that picture worthy of a million front covers.
This story was massive. The first British serial killer in years and they had a new murder, another victim by his hand; as well as a letter and now a calling card. Why had he thought this would have gone any other way?
He felt out of control. All he could see were frantic eyes, shouting mouths, the pop of flashes and the burn of lights. Lentus knew Walters was behind him, silently urging him on and Shanks out in front to his left. Polly was popping up here, there and everywhere; with a supportive look in her eye and a mouth full of digits.
Questions were being thrown at him. He could make out only some of them in the wall of noise he was facing.
‘…how did she die?’
‘…do you have any leads..’
‘..what are you doing to catch this monster..’
One of the camera lights moved or changed direction, and suddenly he was able to see DC Gavin Shanks. What he wouldn’t do for a bit of that bravado of his right now. They locked eyes, and Shanks nodded and winked at him.
It was an action that was probably not suited for their professional relationship, but Lentus took the strength in it and felt slightly bolstered. Right, get that mask on.
He took a bre
ath and shouted over the microphone ‘ONE AT A TIME, PLEASE, OTHERWISE WE’LL CALL IT A DAY NOW!’
It temporarily did the trick, like throwing water over fighting dogs, they visibly and audibly calmed. So much so, Lentus heard the feedback in the short lull, almost comical.
He looked over to where DC Shanks was in time to see a surge of bodies and Shanks hit the floor with someone seeming to be on his back. At that exact moment, the calm before the storm ended, and all reporters seemed to renew their barrage of questions with fresh aplomb.
‘…how many murders have there been now…?’
‘….people are calling him the Manners Murderer. Do you also call hi…’
‘ONE AT A TIME’, Lentus shouted into the mob. It was no use. He realised that the hand not holding the microphone was knocking continually on the table.
Manners Cost Everything (Manners Trilogy Book 1) Page 16