by Mark Tilbury
‘I wish I had King Triton’s magic trident,’ Chloe said, as Ariel’s father appeared on the screen.
‘Why?’
‘Then I could kill the Tall Man.’
Mel shuddered. She glanced behind her at the window, and then spent the rest of the time alternating between watching the film and listening for signs of intrusion.
49
At the same time as Chloe Hollis was snuggled up to her mother beneath a duvet, King was getting dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. He thought he made a passable police detective. Detective Inspector Norris was inspired in part by the relentless interrogations of Rumble; a man displaying all the hallmarks of a dog with a butcher’s bone. Apparently, the crime scene had thrown up some very interesting clues which needed further investigation. King had felt some of his self-confidence slip. Even more so when Rumble had refused to elaborate, teasing him with hearsay and innuendo.
To make matters worse, if there could be such a thing, he’d made the grave error of taking Purple-five’s head to bed with him whilst under the influence of grief and brandy. The result had been to wake up with a thumping headache and a thawed head lying beside him on the pillow.
Purple-five had not been a beautiful girl whilst alive. Even less so in death. It was fair to describe her as the most gruesome thing he’d ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. Skin hung from her skull in grey rotting clumps. Such was the macabre ugliness of the thing, he thought he’d awoken next to the head of one of Macbeth’s three witches suffering the ravages of advanced leprosy. After the initial rush of horror and confusion, he’d resealed the head in a clear polythene bag and returned it to the freezer in a markedly poorer state than when he’d taken it out.
Never a believer in omens, and even less so in superstitions, King would, however, later reflect that waking up next to a decomposed head was a sign of bad things to come. He should have returned to his bed after returning Purple-five to her final resting place, locked the door and busied himself reading Macbeth or Hamlet until the moon grinned in the black face of the night sky.
Fate never gives warnings. It acts on impulse. So it was with an optimistic outlook he’d met Olivia in a wine bar in Oxford to discuss the terrible events at Gavin Westwood’s flat. He’d been careful to lure her with a snippet of undisclosed information. Dangle some juicy bait for the fish to nibble on. He didn’t have the faintest idea what that information was, because, quite frankly, there wasn’t any, but Rumble the Frog had given him some valuable lessons in how to create an aura of mystery and intrigue based upon nothing but supposition.
After three margaritas, and several trips outside to puff on a cigarette, Olivia had become casual in manner, flirty, deeper of voice, less inclined to talk about Westwood, and, in a certain light, in need of a shave. King had played along, teasing her with his eyes, cajoling her with playful words.
By the time they’d left Henry’s Wine Bar, Olivia had abandoned decorum and gone straight for seduction. It wasn’t any less than King had expected. His natural charm was impossible to resist, even to a human hybrid of such hideous proportions as the delightful Olivia.
King had suggested driving to Waverly Wharf, going for a stroll along the banks of the River Thames and enjoying the peace and charm of the night sky beneath a thousand stars. Once parked in an isolated spot, Olivia had asked King what he’d learned about poor Gavin’s death.
‘That it might have been an accident. Not murder and suicide as first suspected.’
‘Really?’
King treated her to a smile which had cost well over a thousand pounds to produce at Feelham Dental Practice. Whiter than a polar ice cap and capable of lighting the interior of the BMW on its own. ‘Yes. They say it might have been some sort of sexual game that went horribly wrong.’
‘How gruesome.’
King agreed, although it had a certain erotic appeal in the right setting.
‘And you had no idea they were… seeing each other?’
‘It came as a complete shock.’
‘Gavin never talked about him.’
‘People are but mysteries.’
Olivia adjusted her bust. ‘That’s lovely.’
King went for the kill. ‘You have beautiful eyes.’
The complimented eyes blinked rapidly. ‘Thank you.’
Too wide apart to draw genuine praise, King thought. ‘Like mirrors to heavenly thoughts.’
‘Oh, that’s beautiful. Did you make that up?’
‘I wouldn’t dream to plunder another man’s work to garner praise.’
‘Are you a poet?’
‘Amateur,’ King conceded. He then spent the next five minutes quoting couplets from Shakespeare’s more obscure work, bathing Olivia’s ego in flattery.
‘You’re so clever.’
King held off strangling her for a minute. Praise was praise, even if it came from someone you were about to murder. He was wishing he’d brought his pad and pen to the meeting, so that he could sit down afterward and see what transpired.
‘Do you like me, Peter?’
‘Of course.’
‘As a friend?’
King waited a few moments before answering. He didn’t want to appear too eager. ‘Perhaps I see something more than friendship.’
‘You know I’m a real woman?’
King almost laughed. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m not a man in drag. People often confuse my sexuality with transvestism, but they couldn’t be more wrong. I might have been born in a male body, but my feelings, my essence, my longing is all female. I am a woman.’
‘I’m bisexual, Olivia. I adore the female form every bit as much as I do the male form. I married a woman once.’
‘Really?’
No, you half-baked bun. Women repulse me, especially ones with porcupine legs and five o’clock shadows. Not to mention false boobs. ‘Yes. Ten years. Unfortunately, she had other ideas about fidelity and ran off with a double-glazing salesman.’
Olivia reached out and rested a hand on King’s thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze, murmuring sympathetic guff about how King deserved so much better.
King swallowed hard and readied himself to kiss the nearest thing he’d ever kissed to a woman. The eyeliner and the false lashes only added to the hideous cocktail. He’d have sooner taken his chances puckering up to a bulldog.
He would later consider the importance of detail. His attempt to throttle Olivia whilst kissing her proved a costly mistake. Buoyed by his ability to seduce anyone, even one so challenging as this, he’d overlooked she was really a he, and, as such, possessed far more strength than he’d given her credit for. She’d fought with all the hallmarks of something begot from a hellcat and a bull.
Nursing a bloody nose, a swollen eye, and a gouged face, he’d watched in disbelief as Olivia had clambered out of the car, fallen to the ground, and crawled away in her laddered tights.
King, driven by pure adrenalin and impulse, started the engine, slipped the car into drive, and ploughed into the kneeling seductress. There was a nasty thud, followed by a crunching noise that made him think of the giant grinding bones in Jack and the Beanstalk. This was followed by several bumps and screams as he ran over the rest of her body.
Not leaving anything to chance, he’d then reversed over the motionless Olivia before colliding with a bollard and leaving Waverly Wharf in a state of high octane paranoia. What if someone had seen? Written down his registration number? Called the police?
By the time he reached the bypass, his mind was ablaze with a pathological hatred of technical advancement. Every action, every word spoken, was instantly recorded by those cursed smart phones. It would only take some courting couple, or an idiot walking a dog, and that would be Olivia’s messy demise posted all over one of those ghastly social media sites before you could say cheese.
To make matters worse, the dent in the BMW would require professional attention. All he needed was an eagle-eyed paint monkey to notice something was amiss
, and Rumble would be on the case quicker than a frog on a lily pad.
He’d stopped on the way home at a local BP garage and used a jet wash to clean the underside of the car. Twice. And then took it through the carwash. Once parked in the safety of his double garage, he’d hoovered the inside and scrubbed the rubber mats. He was neither expert nor fool, but he knew the car would never stand up to a forensic investigation. Perhaps he ought to report it stolen once he’d dealt with the Hollises. Take it to a country lane and set fire to the damned thing. Recover his losses from the insurance company.
Now, in a far more controlled manner than he’d fled the grisly scene at Waverly Wharf, King rolled along the gravel lane and pulled up outside Rose Cottage. He recited his name, Detective Inspector Stephen Norris, and the nature of his business, the terrible loss of Mel Hollis’s husband, over and over in his head like a mantra.
Satisfied he could pass muster as an authentic copper, he stepped out of the car into a blast of freezing cold January wind. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets, touching the plastic library card he would produce should Mel Hollis ask for ID. He wasn’t in the least concerned about the authenticity of the card; once she opened the door, all the little piggies would be roast beef.
Surely that should be roast pork.
King scowled. Whilst mostly welcome with its bouts of flamboyant creativity, his inner voice could switch to annoying and pedantic in the blink of an eye.
50
The knock on the door came as Mel was on the verge of dozing off. She jumped up and spilled the duvet onto the floor. Her mind fled in a dozen different directions at once.
‘Who’s at the door, Mummy?’
‘Maybe it’s the police,’ Mel said. But at this time of night? Without prior warning? DI Cartwright had told her to make sure the house was secure at all times. Not to let anyone in unless she knew them or they had identification. He’d even promised to send duty officers down the lane occasionally whilst out on patrol.
‘Mummy?’
‘I don’t know, Pumpkin.’ She stared at the door, as if the letter box were a giant magnet and her eyes were cast from steel. The knock came again, louder, more insistent.
Mel peeled back the curtain. There was a large dark-coloured car parked outside.
‘Mrs Hollis?’ A man’s voice, loud, competing with the whining wind.
Chloe stiffened. ‘Who is it, Mummy?’
‘Mrs Hollis? It’s the police. I need to speak to you about your husband’s death.’
Mel put a finger to her lips to silence Chloe. The finger was shaking so badly it jabbed the tip of her nose.
‘I can see you, Mrs Hollis. I just want to talk with you.’
Chloe stared at the door, eyes wide. ‘It’s him.’
Mel struggled for breath. ‘Who?’
‘The Tall Man. It’s the Tall Man.’
‘My name’s Detective Inspector Norris. I’m from Thames Valley Police. If you want to see my identity card…’
‘Here comers a chopper to chop off your head,’ Chloe chanted. ‘Here comes a chopper to chop off your head… here comes a chopper to chop off your head… here—’
Mel grabbed her daughter from the settee and swung her up into her arms. She walked into the kitchen on legs that felt hollow. As she closed the door, she heard several loud raps on the front door. She checked the back door was locked and bolted for the fiftieth time that evening.
‘What are we going to do?’ Chloe asked, tears streaming down her face.
‘Mummy’s going to put you down for a minute, okay?’
‘What if the Tall Man gets in?’
‘He won’t.’
‘He will.’
‘The doors are locked.’
Chloe didn’t look convinced. ‘What if he sets fire to the house?’
More knocking, muffled by the closed door. His voice still carried through the letter box, but now had threats attached to its initial pleasantries. ‘Open this door, now!’ A slight pause, followed by, ‘Do you think it right and proper I conduct my business standing on a freezing cold doorstep?’
Mel considered running out the back door, but the nearest house was fifty yards away. He would catch them. Her legs felt barely able to stand, let alone run with Chloe in her arms.
The sound of breaking glass made up Mel’s mind. She imagined him coming in through the front room window, axe in hand, glass glittering like jewels on his tall menacing body.
‘He’s coming, Mummy. The Tall Man’s coming.’
Call the cops. Her mind screamed. For fuck’s sake, call the cops.
Good advice if you weren’t stupid enough to leave your bloody phone on the coffee table in the lounge.
Go and get it.
The sound of the Tall Man cursing and making threats put paid to any last acts of bravado. She had only two choices now. The basement or upstairs.
What’s it to be, Smelly-Mellie? Her mother’s voice whispered in her head. Upstairs, downstairs, or in her lady’s chamber?
There was nowhere to lock themselves in upstairs. The bathroom catch was broken, and the two bedroom doors only had latches. She grabbed Chloe’s hand and walked to the basement door. There was a large silver key jutting out of the lock.
Something smashed in the front room. Feet stomped across the floor. ‘Mrs Hollis?’
Mel unlocked the door and stepped into the basement for the first time in over thirty years.
‘Don’t make me search the house for you, Mrs Hollis. I only want to talk to you about how I blew your husband’s head off. It won’t take more than a minute, I promise.’
Mel switched on the basement light and tried to shove the key in the lock.
The kitchen door opened. ‘Are you in here baking apple pie and sugar dumplings, or whatever tickles your proletarian palate?’
Mel dropped the key. She screamed and beat the door in frustration. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
‘Mrs Ho-llis?’ King called, the word spliced in two like a taunting playground chant.
Chloe scooped the key up, put it back in the lock, and secured the door in one swift movement. Mel sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around her daughter.
King banged on the door. ‘Are you in there, Mrs Piggly-wiggly?’
Mel stifled a sob, pleading with God to make him go away. The handle rattled, followed by a loud thud. ‘Open the door, Mrs Hollis. I only want to talk to you.’
Mel shook her head, clinging to Chloe and biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood.
‘Or maybe you’ve gone upstairs to hide under the bed. Is that it, Mrs. Hollis? You want to play hide-and-seek with me?’
Mel heard him stomp up the stairs. Her heart matched him stride for stride.
‘Coming, ready or not.’
‘What are we going to do, Mummy?’
Mel had no answer to that. She stood up. ‘Let’s go down the steps. Away from the door.’
‘What if he breaks the door?’
Then we’ll die in this stinking basement, just like my mother did. They say life moves in fucking circles. ‘He won’t.’
They walked hand-in-hand down the steps, a mother and her young daughter, trapped, with no means to defend themselves.
The old wooden crate by the wine rack was still in the same place it used to be when Mel had spent endless hours whiling away the time with nothing more than Ruby Rag Doll and a vivid imagination. She sat on the crate and hoisted Chloe onto her lap. She hugged her as tight as she could without hurting her. Chloe’s hair tickled her face. At least with Chloe facing away from her, the child couldn’t see the terror in her eyes. They stayed this way, rocking back and forth, as Mel searched her mind for a way out.
The sewer pipe.
Mel was almost tempted to give it a go. She didn’t have a clue where it led to, other than the main sewer, or if it was even possible to get through it. She instantly dismissed the idea. They would probably drown in a disgusting mire of sewerage if they attempted to use it as an esca
pe route.
She looked at the door. Rotten. A few good kicks and it would break free of its hinges. Shadows played tricks on the walls, casting witches on broomsticks and dinosaurs. She remembered her mother standing at the top of those steps, taking that exaggerated step up before bringing her foot down on Ruby Rag Doll.
An idea. Crude at first, without form. More of a whisper in her head. Make him fall.
How was she meant to do that, exactly. Rescue Ruby Rag Doll from the sewer and sit her on the steps?
‘I’m scared, Mummy.’
‘I know, sweetheart. But I want you to be brave, okay?’
Chloe nodded.
Make him fall.
Mel suddenly remembered the large bottles of cooking oil her father brought home from the navy. There were at least half a dozen stored on the shelving units.
Mel lifted Chloe off her lap. ‘You wait here. Mummy needs to do something.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going to make the steps slippery.’
‘Why?’
‘So he’ll fall if he comes through the door.’
‘Will he die?’
I fucking hope so. ‘I don’t know.’
Mel hurried to the storage rack and grabbed two bottles of oil. She poured some of the contents across the small patch of landing at the top, and the remainder down the first half a dozen steps. She then added the contents of another two bottles.
By the time the task was complete, Chloe was shaking so badly she looked as if she might literally fall apart. Mel picked her up, sat on the crate, rocked back and forth. There was nothing else she could do now except wait.
There was a loud thud, followed by, ‘Looks like the little piggies were hiding in here all along. You could have come clean, Mrs Hollis, instead of wasting police time. You do know it’s a criminal offence to pervert the course of justice, don’t you?’
Mel hugged Chloe tighter, trying not to respond.
‘Are you going to open this door and talk to me, or do I have to arrest you for wasting police time?’
Game’s up, Smelly-Mellie. What goes around, comes around.