The Final Alibi

by Simon King

  “Let’s go,” I said, walking around to my side of the car.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, opening her door.

  “Anywhere. I think clearer when I’m moving.” And with that, she started the car, drove out of the parking lot, and headed south, back towards the centre of Cider Hill.

  9.

  I asked Steph to drop me and my baggage off, somewhere along the main street. I wanted to reacquaint myself with some local hangouts I hadn’t seen in such a long time, keen to see which were still going strong and which had fallen by the wayside. I was given a lovely surprise almost immediately after Steph left me standing at the kerb, when I saw that Mrs. Homestead’s Home-style café was still bright, cheery and definitely open, the chorus of voices reaching out to me through the door. The atmosphere inside the establishment was leaking through the open windows in bouts of chatter and giggles. My stomach gave a low grumble as a familiar smell drifted into my nostrils, the unmistakable smell of Mrs. McNorton’s beef pies. Mrs. McNorton was old when I first arrived in the town over twenty years ago and I doubted whether she would still be behind the counter. To my amazement, not only was she still serving behind her counter, she remembered me the minute I walked through her door.

  “Jim!” she cried out when she saw me push through the strip blind, the long strings of beads getting caught around my hat. She looked old, at least 80, but moved with the grace of a lady in her 40s. She came bounding around the side of the counter, wiped her forehead with her apron, then hugged me tightly around the neck, pulling my face down to hers so she could kiss my cheek. It had been routine back in the day to pop in to this café at least once a day, for either a beef pie or a tuna and salad sandwich, both handmade and tasting divine.

  “Hello Mrs. McNorton,” I said as she released me from her hold, feeling my cheeks flush as other customers eyed us from their tables.

  “Beef pie or tuna sandwich?” she asked, grinning a little.

  “You know, it’s been so long, I might just have both.” She laughed at this, walked me to a table and sat me down. She returned not a minute later, carrying a cup filled with hot coffee. I thanked her, took a sip and smiled. Black and one, just as I liked it.

  My lunch arrived less than ten minutes later and tasted just as good as I had remembered. A delicious tuna and salad on soft rye bread as well as a beef and potato mash pie. I practically wolfed the sandwich down in 2 bites per half, then savoured the taste of the pie, the rich gravy still tasty enough to remind me of a Sunday evening roast with all the trimmings. When I finished, I made my way back to the counter, paid and left my hostess a tip for remembering at which she laughed.

  “I haven’t lost the workings of my brain, yet, Jim.” I thanked her again and headed back out.

  Once back on the street, I saw the old Railway Hotel still sitting a bit down the road, its high tin roof visible over the feed shop that sat beside it. I needed a place to stay and as I knew of its more than adequate accommodation, decided to call it home for the next few days. If I needed longer, then I could always move to one of the many boarding houses around town, or even rent a small cottage if one was available. For the time being however, the pub would suffice.

  I was just beginning to cross the street when I heard a loud squeal of tyres and a roaring engine approaching me from behind. Looking over my shoulder, it surprised me to see that it was Steph, her face flushed with concern. I could see genuine fear in her eyes as she came to a screeching halt in front of me, her voice sounding scared.

  “Steph?” I asked, but she cut me off.

  “There’s been another one.”

  Chapter 2: A Horror Revisited

  1.

  As I sat in the passenger seat, Steph punching the throttle, my thoughts were taken back to the night of Lightman’s arrest, and the terror I felt discovering my partner hanging from that rope with the knife embedded in his chest. It was a feeling I have never been able to forget, the fear and the adrenalin that coursed through my body. The total helplessness that overwhelmed me at not being able to do a God damn thing; his executioner still out there somewhere, ready to kill another. It was also a feeling that I had never felt again, save for that one moment on that one fateful night. Not until today, now, this very moment.

  2.

  We drove in silence for what seemed like hours, but in reality, took only five minutes. As we rounded a bend on Jackson Street, I saw a police car with its lights flashing a few hundred yards further up, parked in front of what appeared to be an abandoned storefront. The building was sitting on the front section of an empty paddock with houses scattered every couple of hundred yards at this end of town. The nearest building to this one was on the opposite side of the road and well over a hundred yards away.

  Steph parked her car nose to nose with the police cruiser, as if blocking any would-be escapee. The building stood alone, deserted and almost silent as we exited the car, the windows dirty and dusty, grimy streaks running this way and that. There was a faded sign propped up in the window, but the lettering had faded to such an extent, that reading it proved near impossible. There were high weeds growing on either side of the door, the garden if you could call it that, sat maybe 10 to 12 feet deep from the footpath to the front of the house, although only a small dirt track, devoid of greenery.

  There were two officers on the scene, one standing by the open door looking ghostly pale. His partner was off to one side, bent over and feeding his lunch to the weeds that grew there, a dry retching sound the only one breaking the eerie silence. There were no birds singing, no sounds of distant livestock, almost as if mother nature had flicked a switch, recognizing the horror we were about to find. As we approached the building, Officer 1 looked up, waved, made a heaving sound, then rushed to the other side of the door, also letting go of whatever he had paid good money for. My arms turned to gooseflesh as I heard the pair of them struggling with whatever had greeted them inside. Steph looked at me nervously, then led us in through the faded green paint-flecked door. The hinges groaned in agony as she pushed it open enough to allow us passage and an all too familiar smell snarled through my nostrils.

  3.

  If I had any preconceived ideas about what I might see this time around, they were eliminated from my mind in an instant. Steph actually shrieked as she saw the girl for the first time. She was walking a little ahead of me, the hallway not wide enough for us to walk side-by-side. She turned into a doorway a little ahead of me and the terror on her face, the anguish in her eyes, clearly visible as she raised one hand to her face. For a moment I thought that she too, would allow her stomach to get the better of her, but she was a tough girl. She closed her eyes for a moment, swallowed with a hand to her mouth, then opened them again and walked into the room.

  4.

  It was a lady that looked as though she may have been in her late twenties. I say ‘may have looked’ as half of her face had been torn away. She had an eerie expression, her teeth exposed along the left side of her jaw in an eternal grin, her left cheek, upper and lower lips and most of her nose chewed off. There were bits of skin and sinew dangling from the bones that were visible beneath the flesh. There was a fly sitting on the one finger that remained forced into the eyeball, the other just a hollow socket, a stringy nerve jutting from the darkness, the second finger lying on the floor. Again, all the clothing had been removed and it appeared as if the killer had taken great care to try and invoke as much horror as he possibly could. The flesh from one upper arm was completely gone from shoulder to elbow, the other arm missing its entire lower arm, the elbow jutting out from the meaty gristle, a single tendon left dangling. One breast was gone, the other was missing its nipple, teeth marks visibly surrounding the wound. One thigh had been chewed on, then ripped off the bone, its remains hanging down almost far enough to rest on the calf beneath it. The blood that had flooded the room had dried to a brown crust, the black and white linoleum floor that had once served this bathroom, almost entirely hidden.


  It wasn’t blood that was now filling its stench throughout the house. It was the onset of decay. At a guess, I would say that this girl probably died before the victim from the previous morning, and with the cold days and near freezing nights, the speed of the decay had been slowed considerably, although I was no expert in such matters. Yet the smell of rot was so pronounced that it was thick enough to taste, giving me the indication that she may have been hanging here for longer than a few days.

  “Any idea who she is?” I asked Steph.

  “Pretty sure her name is Rita Hayworth or Hayman or something. Works at the laundry mill by the hospital in Daylesford.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Picked her up a couple of times. She hitched rides to work sometimes.”

  Steph knelt down and looked at the stumpy finger as it lay caked in blood, a tiny insect crawling across it as I felt an all too familiar feeling returning into the pit of my stomach. It was the feeling of recognition.

  5.

  The other two officers came back into the house, still as white as a freshly laundered bedsheet. I could see them trying to avoid looking at the girl, instead staring at the floor, pretending to search for evidence.

  “It’s OK, guys,” I said to them, “we have this.”

  “You sure?” the younger of the two asked and my nodding was all the encouragement they needed, both almost running back down the hallway, as if escaping from Death’s clutches itself.

  “Why is this one so messy?” Steph asked me once we were alone again.

  “What do you mean?” I asked in return.

  “The girl from yesterday, she was, what’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Cleaner?”

  “Yes, that’s it. She was killed a lot cleaner, if you can call it that. This looks more frenzied, as if the killer lost control.”

  “Maybe he was out of control and just, you know, went nuts.” I wasn’t sure what to think, other than the fact that this girl had died in the most nightmarish way imaginable. I wanted to find the disturbed individual responsible for this suffering and I didn’t want to be side-tracked by useless distractions. I was about to share my thoughts with Steph when there was a loud crash of the front door and then multiple heavy footsteps coming up the hallway. Judging by the voices, it sounded like the cavalry had just arrived.

  6.

  Steph decided to head off and let the coroner do what they needed to. If they made any significant discoveries, and I was fairly positive the killer would not be that relaxed, they would let us know as soon as humanly possible. This freed Steph and I up to think-tank our next move. We went back outside, the air smelling like a spring morning after a thunderstorm, clean and fresh, my lungs sucking in the big gulps, trying to expel the nastiness from my airways. I passed on the cigarette Steph offered me, having quit a couple of years before. She, however, lit up and drew back hard, expelling the smoke with a kind of relief, judging by the low groan that accompanied the smoky streams emanating from her nostrils. I could see a tear running down the side of her face and took a few steps in the opposite direction to give her space.

  “Where are you going?” she suddenly asked, and as I turned around, saw her wipe the tear angrily away as she took another drag. “We have to find him, Jim. Whatever it takes. That fucking monster…” she hesitated for a moment, looking at her feet, “we have to find him.”

  “We will, Steph, I promise. I will do everything I possib-” Another police car suddenly pulled up beside us. Although I heard it approaching, the urgency in Steph’s voice kept me from registering it fully. It now pulled alongside our car, one window winding down, the officer behind the glass beckoning to us. He simply shouted his message to us before we had a chance to move.

  “Chief wants to see you, Connor.” Steph gave him a gimmicky salute then headed to her own car, turning to see if I was following. The other police car had stopped and three officers were now climbing out and hurrying towards the building, anxiety clearly plastered on their faces.

  7.

  We drove in silence, Steph’s lighter the only sound to break it, as she lit another cigarette. The aroma filled the cabin and for a moment, a very brief moment, I wanted to rip one from her packet, spark it up and pull on it in one long delightful drag. But the temptation quickly subsided, the craving so much easier to control these days, and I wound the window down a little to let some cool air in. Steph figured the smoke was annoying me and butted it out.

  “No, it’s OK, seriously. I just wanted some air after smelling that shit back there.” She gave me a strained smile and turned the car onto the main street, then into the police station car park a minute or so later. I could tell she wasn’t in the mood for bullshit, and to tell you the truth? Neither was I.

  8.

  We climbed the steps to the front door and entered the watch house, one officer bent over the counter, reading a newspaper. He half jumped as we came through the door, saw Steph and gave her a half-arsed wave, his eyes dropping back down to continue reading.

  “He’s in his office,” he mumbled at us as we strolled behind the counter, although he did give me an ‘up and down’ as I passed him.

  “Thanks, Pete,” Steph said. I followed her down a short corridor, then waited as she knocked.

  “Come in,” came through the door and she opened it.

  Frank sat at his desk, his elbows resting on top of it, face cradled in hands.

  “Tell me something interesting, Jim, please,” he said, not looking up.

  “I doubt whether it’s him, Frank.” That did make him look up. Made him sit back and ponder my words for the briefest of moments.

  “You could tell just by seeing one victim?”

  “No not exactly. This one just, I don’t know, it felt different. It was too messy, too angry. If it was a copycat, he lost control.”

  “Too angry?” he asked. I wasn’t even sure what I meant by it, let alone trying to explain it.

  “I’m not sure how to put it any other way. Every victim that I had ever seen of his, was controlled, precise, almost surgical. This victim. Frank,” I paused, thinking of the right words that would convey my gut feeling, “she looked like whoever had killed her, was in such a frenzy that he nearly tore her completely to pieces. It was a feverish attack.” Frank just sat and stared at me, mouth slightly open, looking like he wanted to mouth something.

  “Jim and I’ll be canvassing all the houses in the neighbourhood, Chief,” Steph chipped in. Frank didn’t even look at her, or acknowledge her comment.

  “And what do you think is the next logical course of action, besides door-knocking,” he said, finally shooting a glance in Steph’s direction, as if to highlight her lack of direction, then refocusing on me. “I don’t want you two knocking on doors. I’ve got other officers for that.”

  “We’ll get him, Frank. Just give us a moment to catch our breath.”

  “Just make sure you keep me informed, guys. Please.” We agreed, bid our farewells and stepped out of the office, Steph closing the door behind us. We walked back down the hallway to see Pete still bent over his paper. He looked over his shoulder as we came back in, ignored us and continued reading. Once we reached the relative safety of the car park, Steph turned to me.

  “What was the point in that?” she asked with annoyance.

  “That’s Frank showing you who’s boss. Let’s get this done, kiddo. I think we both know what the next step is before we even think about doing anything else.” I looked at her, hoping for confirmation that she was following me.

  “We have to talk to Lightman,” she said, grabbing for her pack of Viceroys again.

  “No.” She stopped and looked at me curiously.

  “No?” I could feel her temper rise, her eyes drilling little bore-holes into mine.

  “No. I think for the moment it might be best if I see him alone.”

  “Why?” She almost turned on me.

  “Steph, I have a history with him. I’m the one that
ultimately put him away. I think

  after all these years, if he is going to open up to anybody, it might just be the guy that he is pissed off with the most.”

  “I understand, but I really think-”

  “Hey, I’m on your side, remember? Look, come with me, but if it’s OK, please, let me speak to him first.” I could see she was still pissed, but my reasoning made sense to her and she was, as I would find out in due course, an excellent officer. She finally nodded, dropped her butt to the ground and walked to her car.

  “Want a ride back to the hotel?”

  “Sure, if that’s OK. We can head to Crab Apple first thing in the morning if you like.”

  “Definitely,” she said and hopped into her side.

  9.

  Crab Apple Hill had been named so because of an orchard that used to occupy the site for the last half of last century. A young Walter Hancock and his wife Thelma had made the crossing from England to Australia and looked for a place that not only reminded them of their homes back in England, but also a place that would bear rich fruit. Walter had been raised on a farm that grew apples and so the newly married couple had settled in these parts back in 1855 after purchasing a thousand acres. Walter’s parents had both passed and once he was able to sell the family farm back home for a very tidy sum, it provided the financial security him and Thelma would need to re-establish a new life in Australia, then known as “the land of opportunity”.

  The trees had begun to yield sweet and juicy apples within 5 years and the couple enjoyed tremendous success, eventually employing permanent farm hands to help with year-round labour. They enjoyed the views from atop the solitary hill that occupied their land and around 1860, built a permanent stone cottage, now home of the prison hospital wing. It was around 1865 that Walter began to toy with the idea of planting some Crab Apple trees in a plot off to the side of the cottage, as a side project, so to speak. He chose Dolgos, a variety imported from Russia, as the tartness of the fruit proved the perfect taste he was hoping to adopt in a new line of Ciders. A local field, about 15 miles to the south of their property, had been adopted by locals as the perfect location for a farmer’s market the previous year. It was still classed as crown land back then and had three of the biggest farms flanking it on all sides, the main road from Daylesford to Clunes running through its middle.