Best forgotten.
23
“It’s the son you loathe, or the father, or both?”
“It’s Fletcher I always hated,” sighed Sylvia. “I never wanted Walter as my father, and he was always weak. But he tried to be kind and he tried to be nice to my mother. Now after such a long time, I don’t feel obliged to help him, but I’m happy to give cheques a couple of times a year, and I’m prepared to sympathise with him over Fletcher’s behaviour.”
“Sounds as though he’s better off without his son.”
“Walter’s miserable. Of course he is,” Sylvia explained. “The idiot son went back home as soon as he was released from gaol, and he stayed two whole days. Handed over the money I’d made sure he couldn’t grab himself, and then promptly disappeared. His father has no idea where he might have gone to. Hopefully not starting more fires. But he’s going to stay here at the hotel for a couple of days, so unfortunately, I’m stuck with him. That means I may not have time for shed-searching.”
Harry managed not to look disappointed. “Family is family.”
“He’s not related to me in any way.”
“A step-brother is still family.”
“Oh, pooh,” said Sylvia.
Walter’s two days staying local turned into five, but eventually he gave up and went home. The police offered no help.
“He’s out on bail,” the policeman had nodded. “If he don’t turn up for trial, that’s when we looks for him. For the moment, he can do what he bloody wants. He’s sixty, ain’t he?”
“Sixty four.”
“My word,” said the copper looking at Walter with admiration. “Reckon you must be a right good age then.”
“Only Eighty five.”
“You should be tucked up nice and warm at home in this weather, being looked after by your ungrateful son,” said the police officer. “And unless you wants to retract standing bail, I’m afraid there ain’t nothing I can do.”
Christmas was over but there was no rule that said the pleasure had to stop. Sylvia took Harry to the ballet. He had never been to see a ballet before in his entire life, and was now surprised to enjoy it. Perhaps not something for a weekly outing, but certainly amazing and beautiful for a once in a while type of thing.
He took her to a pantomime. She had seen one a very, very long time previously when young, but she could barely remember it. She enjoyed herself very much and laughed almost continuously.
Without the hassle of either Fletcher or Walter Rankling, Sylvia relaxed and began to look forward to her wedding. Lavender was probably more excited than Sylvia, and Ruby was more excited than them both. Harry said he was full of bubbles, which, he explained, meant both thrilling delight, and considerable nervousness.
“I’ll wear the navy silk.”
“You always wear the navy silk.”
“Don’t you like it?” She was disappointed.
“Of course I like it,” Harry insisted. “But apart from being packaged in wool, it’s the navy silk you wear whenever you want to look beautiful. Which you do. But we’re talking the middle of January. You’d freeze.”
“So you think I should wrap myself in wool?” She smiled. “Or buy something new?”
“I thought I’d get a new suit.”
There was, as usual, a roaring fire and they sat close, the row of windows behind them showing the snow banks outside and the slush down the entrance path to the dark melted swamp of the car park. It had stopped snowing two days previously, but the winds had strengthened and they carried ice. The snow crust had frozen over and everyone slipped, skidded, and soon hurried back indoors. Where the ice had been broken, now the snow beneath was slush but the Rochester gardens remained pristine and only the marks of hoof, paw and claws marked the pure white hush.
“Don’t wear a suit,” decided Sylvia. “Wear nice trousers and a good jumper over a shirt. No tie.”
“Cravat?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I’ll do as I’m told and buy trousers and a jumper,” Harry said, “and you have to get a new winter dress and some sort of woolly top.”
“I’ll have a look around. Come with me. Do I get a ring?”
He laughed. “Come and choose one tomorrow.”
The man sat cheerfully naked on the old stained chair, smiled down at the human excrement and disjointed bones at his feet, and held out his massive fat hands to the little fire in front of him. This was the last hour of peace, and he recognised the usual pattern, a pattern he loved, and intended making the most of it.
That evening he would gather up most of the remaining pieces of the body that had once belonged to Rosemary Ingle, stuff them into a sack and deposit the rubbish somewhere. He intended his abandoned work to be found, for he wanted general appreciation, but he was happy if they could be kept hidden for a few days. While still fresh, there was a greater possibility that some clue could lead the police to him.
Not that this would ever happen, naturally, since his power and astute intelligence was too vast, and his games were too important. But the notoriety helped pass the boring days between diversions, when he couldn’t play and instead had to work, build up strength, act the peaceful husband, and occasionally resort to his knife and coloured pins.
Having enjoyed the title of Welsh Ripper, however absurd he thought it, he had decided to continue the decision he’d made more than twenty years ago, when the second stage of his games had started. The first stage had been spasmodic. The first kill had been enacted in fury when he was only thirteen. It had actually frightened – even disgusted him. It had never been his intention to kill again. But then he found he was lying in bed remembering the power that mutilation had given him, and the electric thrill he had felt surging through his loins to his toes.
He’d been given huge hands and fingers, he decided, in order to strangle, break bones and gouge out eyes, tongues and teeth. He dreamt of doing it again. But the fear didn’t dissipate.
The second killing came four years later, and again the death was second in importance. It was the rape he wanted. But then he realised she had recognised him and would go straight to the police. He had no choice. He felt exonerated, and he killed her quickly. But then, it was while she lay naked and dead at his feet, he realised he had the possibility to use the body for many more things, and his first explorations began. There were three more killings after that, but he hid and buried them all. They were never found. The girls were listed as missing, and he was never suspected of a thing.
He had stopped these games when he fell in burning hot love with Jemima. But after several desperate years of attempting to interest her, he realised that she would never even let him kiss her. It was when he offered to have his hands and feet chopped off and pay for small prosthetics, that Jemima had laughed at him. He stopped loving her on the instant. Instead he planned her imminent rape and slaughter. Although he’d started and concluded within just one day, it was the highlight of his life so far.
The enormous satisfaction lasted several months, but then he started again, and no longer hid the bodies. He wanted them found. Look what I can do, and you can’t catch me. And look at how I can reduce these filthy little bitches to rubble. Sex, a little violence, and then throw them out with the rubbish, just like the shit they are.
Including Jemima, there had been six. But again he stopped. He got a job he enjoyed, and he found a woman who liked him. He got married. He was determined to change his ways. He was no longer a murderer, He was a happily married man making a damned good salary. No children. He’d made that clear. He said he didn’t want any kids inheriting his genetic condition. What he didn’t explain was the disgust he felt at raising some pretty daughter who would attract his other side.
Didn’t everyone have two sides? His wife did. She could be placid, or she could be a screaming idiot. He knocked her around a bit when she yelled, but he accepted the Jekyll and Hyde analogy. Indeed, he quite liked it.
More than twenty years passed befor
e the dreams came back. But the job now seemed boring, the marriage seemed boring, the few friends at the pub seemed boring, and his own body had become boring. He was forty eight years old, approaching possible senility, and he wanted a bucket list. There was only one thing he wanted written on that list, although he intended repeating it several times.
Now here was number five of this second batch getting stuffed into the rubbish sack. Once dark, he’d trudge out into the forest and find a place, perhaps up on the hills, to leave it all. But no, that was too close. He’d have to disguise the area and drive further afield to dump the muck. He’d left Leicestershire when he got married. Maybe now it was time to move again. But he didn’t want to lose the shed. That shed was more the love of his life than funny little Janice, the wife.
But he’d come back to the shed for the night, let the fire die out, and go back home in the morning. Then he’d try, unless some opportunity fell into his lap like the second Welsh girl, to wait at least a month before the next.
The games were too precious to make mistakes and risk getting caught. The sack was pushed into the boot of his car, and he set off north towards the Midlands. That would confuse the police. They were a simple lot.
Saturday, 13th January
We celebrate the union of Sylvia Greene to Harold Joyce and we wish them every happiness.
The ceremony will be held in the principal salon at 1.00 O’clock. Only close friends are invited.
Everybody is invited to the feast that follows. And don’t worry, we know your dietary needs. Vegans and allergy sufferers will be catered for. The party will be held in the main dining room and will start promptly at 2.30. Don’t be late. If you’ve fallen asleep then we’ll come and thump on your door.
No gifts wanted, thank you. Or give to charity. No carnations wanted either. Where would you get them in January anyway? Just come as you are. Nightdresses and pyjamas acceptable.
With best wishes to all, Lavender Dawson.
There was no best man, but both Lavender and Ruby were invited to the actual wedding ceremony, and were the two required witnesses. Afterwards everyone scuttled into the dining room, and the large table set up for the bride and groom also had place settings for Ruby, Tony, Ewan Walker from the pub, and Maureen Ledbetter, who had just come out of hospital after a heart by-pass operation.
Arthur and David were seated at another table and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Every resident of the manor also attended, and they all had an enjoyable time even though Sheila O’Brian could not remember who had got married and Matthew Carson had no idea there had been a wedding and simply thought it was someone’s birthday. Norman Syrett fell asleep, Harriet and Ben Anderson purposefully turned up in their floating nightclothes, Mrs. Amy Fryer got the hiccups as usual, and Andrew Rockwell-Smith drank six glasses of champagne, got thoroughly drunk, had to dash to the loo but was too late and wet himself on the way, hurried upstairs to his bedroom to change, collapsed on his bed, fell asleep, and stayed there until morning when all he remembered was that he’d had a damn good time.
Pam’s mother had been invited but declined. She said she couldn’t face jollity and laughter just yet. Ralph Tanner was present, but although D.I. Morrison was also invited, he didn’t turn up.
It was quite sometime later when Sylvia and Harry finished their day with their wedding night. They cuddled down, almost jumping into each other’s arms. Yet this was for warmth and comfort.
Harry said, “Wedding nights ought to be wildly lustful. But when you’re in your late seventies, that doesn’t always work.” Leaning down, breath hot on her breasts, he kissed her from neck to navel. “Are you too tired? Or waiting for your new husband to do his stuff?”
“He’s doing his stuff very nicely already,” murmured Sylvia. “Anymore would be exhausting. I feel a hundred.”
“It’s been a long day.”
“It’s been a long life.”
“That’s why we’re so intelligent, beautiful and angelic,” said Sylvia into his nearest ear. “And we’ll get better and better with age. For instance, while Ruby was trying to make my hair look better, I read a Google thing on my tablet about something called acromegaly. Fascinating.”
“A cake recipe?”
“Over active growth hormone. Can be a benign tumour, and something to do with the pituitary gland. Sorry, I’ve forgotten most of it already. Thing is – something else surprisingly came along to interrupt my research.”
“Like getting married?”
“Strangely enough, yes.”
It was Percival Fryer who helped on the following morning. He had been a doctor and eventually a surgeon when younger, and considered, at least according to his wife, one of the top surgeons in England. So Sylvia, with Harry dragging a little behind, went to join his breakfast table, and while apologising for the interruption, asked, “Acromegaly? Was this anything you ever had to deal with, Mr. Fryer?”
He dropped the scrambled egg from his fork and looked up in surprise. “Not personally,” he said. “Not my field. But I know something about it, of course.”
“He knows something about everything,” smiled Amy, pouring tea for Sylvia.
“Relevant to the killer,” explained Harry, accepting the other chair and another tea. “The man’s been described as having huge hands and feet, a large mouth and a prominent jaw, a gruff voice and no body hair.”
“Humph,” said Percival Fryer, scooping the scrambled egg back on his fork. “I can’t diagnose without seeing the patient of course, but since this creature isn’t going to pop in here for an appointment, I suppose I can give a rough idea. Most of the symptoms you’ve listed would be caused by acromegaly, and probably without ever being properly treated. It may have started as a child or it may have started later, but medical treatment wasn’t so easy forty odd years back. He may have been left to suffer. Usually it’s a slow growing condition, but it can be fast in rare cases. I’d say that’s what he has.” He managed a quick mouthful. “The hair loss is something else. Could be from untreated Lupus. Or maybe cause by a badly functioning thyroid gland, whereas the acromegaly is caused by an over-active supply of growth-hormone.”
“Now that,” said Sylvia, “is interesting. Sounds like this killer is a mess mentally and physically. Wouldn’t that make him easier to catch?”
“I’m a doctor, not a detective,” said Percival. “For a newly married woman, you certainly have some odd hobbies.”
“We’ve infected each other,” grinned Harry. “But not with acro-stuff. And I’ve got a reasonable amount of hair still flopping around up there. Actually, isn’t it better to be bald? That means you’re more potent with more testosterone.”
Percival and his wife smiled at each other. “Not a subject for breakfast,” said Amy.
“And who can we contact to find out if someone has this condition?” wondered Harry.
“His doctor. The hospital he attended as a child. His primary and secondary schools. His parents.”
“Oh dear,” said Amy, “that’s not very helpful is it?” but she now had the hiccups, presumably caused by the interruption to the scrambled eggs, and Harry and Sylvia left them in peace.
“I’m going to phone the main hospital in Leicester,” said Harry, sitting back down on the larger couch in the small salon, and reaching out his arms for Sylvia. “If he lived there as a kid, or somewhere near since the first murders happened there, they may have records.”
“Which will be privileged, and they won’t tell you a thing. We’ll have to go and see Morrison again.”
24
“You ought to write a book.”
“Get famous? No thank you.” Paul snorted. “I’ve been trying to hide my identity for years and years, so I’m not going to shout it from the rooftops now, am I? Besides,” he sat down heavily and stared into his lap, “they might arrest me again. Lots of them really thought it was me last time.”
“You should have told me,” Felicity told him. “I’d have been shocked. Well, I
am now. But I’d sympathise too. I know you so well. You never do anything aggressive. You just moan and feel sorry for yourself.”
Paul’s eyes were moist with tears. “Yes, well, I do feel sorry for myself. It was a bloody nightmare. I knew two of the girls, you see, including the first one. But Jemima was nice. She was a friend. I was disgusted she was killed and I tried to help her mother. Then gaol. That was sickening. The police were so mean. I was so miserable. I thought about suicide, but then they’d have been convinced I really did do it. So I just sat and cried.”
“Poor little sod.” Felicity stood behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “It must have been ghastly. How long were you kept in prison?”
“A year and a half. Seventeen months, twenty two days, three hours.”
“Poor sweetie.” She kissed the top of his head.
“When finally I went home, it didn’t feel like home anymore. And I didn’t dare kill a fly.”
Bending over a little, Felicity ruffled Paul’s hair, and he felt the pressure and warmth of her breasts against his cheek. Now she was whispering. “Don’t worry my dearest. We’ll make more money and live somewhere nicer. Scotland perhaps. It’s cheaper and we can have big fires and eat haggis and drink whiskey.”
Although Paul was now crying loudly, he mumbled through his sobs. He didn’t tell her about the affair at Sainsbury’s. “I still have nightmares. But maybe I won’t anymore now you know.”
“Any more nightmares,” Felicity told him, “wake me up and I promise to cheer you up and we can have cuddles. I like cuddles. And I’ll kiss it all better.”
It sounded particularly pleasant. Paul peeped up at her and smiled, rubbing his eyes. “Perhaps I should write a book. I remember all the names, and the pigs in the prison and Ted Raffety who beat me up in the cell we shared until they put me all alone, which was horrible too.” His expression changed. “Yes, you’re right. I could write a really good book about what happened to me, and those murders and how I suffered. Especially about how horrid everyone was to me. And I could sell millions and make a fortune.”
The Games People Play Box Set Page 22