“All them oldies,” Francesco had explained, pouring more custard onto his bowl of trifle. “Goes to by-byes early, too wobbly I reckons. Boraccio. Stanca. Ogni uno.”
Ralph, not speaking Italian and not caring anyway, had nodded with agreement. “Poor old souls. But sadly, it’s the poor pretty young ones who catch the eyes of the murderers.”
“Except those folks as kills Nono for inheritanza.” The chef sighed. “These old folks is rich. Ogni uno.”
They helped each other stuff glasses, cups, plates and spoons into the dishwasher. “And now those two are getting wed,” said Ralph, pretending amazement. “Reckon they like acting the detective. Trying to see who did the crime. But they’ve not got it right yet. I’m surprised someone hasn’t arrested them instead. Interfering with the course of justice.”
“Tisn’t justice though, is it?” decided Francesco. “For that bloody cazzo killer still be out there, doing his worst.”
Paul Stoker’s wife Felicity had not left him, although he had expected it. In the initial fury of utter astonishment, she had slapped him, and he’d accepted that.
“You married me under a false name. Are we even married?”
He wasn’t actually sure. “Do you want to get married again with the proper name?”
“I thought you wanted to leave me? And anyway, as if I’d want to marry a man who’s been lying to me for years, and been keeping the most awful secret ever since I met him?”
With two red cheeks, a heavy sigh of long suffering patience, and a piteous shake of both hands, Paul mumbled, “I know. I was wrong. I’m sorry, honestly, really sorry. But it was all a nightmare for me, and it was fresh in my mind back then, and I never thought you or anyone else would marry me if they knew who I was. I’m sorry.”
“But they found you innocent.”
“Because I was innocent. I am. Of course I am. But now that horrid new book is out and mentions me, and the Ripper is at it again, so my real name is even more poisonous. I have to stay Hugh Trumpet.”
“Always was a stupid name. I hate being called Mrs. Trumpet.”
“But we can get a better house and I’ll always tell you the truth from now on.”
She said, “I shouldn’t have slapped you. I’m sorry too. You must have been through the most terrible times. You were in prison for ages just waiting for trial.”
“I thought I’d never be free.”
“Poor bugger. Sorry, Hugh. I mean Paul.” She paused. “What the hell do I call you?”
“I’ll have to stay Hugh,” he said. “But call me something else and if anyone asks why, then you can say it’s a pet name.”
“Alright.” She thought a moment. “I’ll call you Pip.”
“Why?” he demanded, surprised.
“My favourite book when I was a kid and it fits, sort of, doesn’t it? At least I’ll remember it.”
“Call me whatever you want. Call me a silly bastard if you want. Just don’t tell a soul I’m Paul Stoker.” She promised, put her arms around his neck and kissed the cheek she’d slapped.
Chapter Twenty
The man had been waiting some hours. It was a bleak day in mid-December, and Christmas shopping was the only fun available, always supposing you had the money to buy something. He had the money. Neither rich nor poor, he bought what he wanted and the wife, if she wanted something, could get it herself. But his fun was wrapped in very different experiences, and his pleasure, vibrant and frantically excitable, was awaiting the one stroke of scarlet gleaming luck that he needed.
Well wrapped against the cold since he knew that long hours walking and waiting were always the inevitable pattern, he stamped those large flat feet of his, bringing back the sensations of life into his numbed toes. Within the great padded boots were thick socks. Within the fleece hood of his jacket, his bald head was further insulated beneath a woollen hat. The car was parked at a small distance, and the winds blew fast and cold across the open fields. His nose was very pink, but he couldn’t see that, and didn’t care about the cold when the heat of absolute satisfaction felt so close.
She came out of the shadows, head bent over the steering wheel, her small car blowing too much exhaust. He staggered out in front, waving one hopeful arm, the limp pronounced.” Help,” he called, although weakly, fairly sure she would hear him. But she stopped the car. Well, that was a relief.
Rolling the window down half way and peeping out, April stared at the silly old man outside, probably drunk, rolling around begging for help.
“What is it?” she demanded loudly. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Mugged,” the man called back. “No wallet, no phone, beaten and left lying in my own blood. Can you help?”
“I’ll call the police.”
The man winced. “No, no, just give me a hand. I need to sit and catch my breath.”
“No police?” She was immediately suspicious. “Why not. Don’t you need an ambulance? I’ll call them for you, but if all you want to do is sit down, then go and do it.”
“If I could sit in the dry,” he whimpered. “I sat on the bank but it’s so wet. Just a few minutes in the car?”
“Forget it,” April said, revved her engine, swerved around the man still in the middle of the road, and drove off. A few miles on, she phoned the police. “He could be anyone. Just a twit. Or pissed. But either he got mugged and needs an ambulance. Or he’s a creep who wanted to rape and rob me. Steal my car. Or he’s the Welch Ripper.” She had pulled into the side of the road, but now she made the usual excuse of being busy, which she was, told the police operator exactly where she’d seen the man, and promptly drove off.
He heard the siren. There was time to clamber into his car and head down the small side lane which he had already marked out as the possible get-away should the wrong thing happen. He was half a mile away once the police car arrived. But they found several things which had not managed to escape. They found two unusually large muddy footprints in the road, a sliding footprint from the grassy bank onto the narrow strip of paving, and at a little distance, the tyre marks leading from under the trees onto the roadside, then onto the road, and then lost in puddles. There were no tracks to follow, but for the first time there were signs to investigate.
Retiring to the shed, he was neither upset nor annoyed. This always happened, and a few failures before the eventual success was the pattern he expected and followed. He would spend the next morning finding another possible country lane, preferably one far from the last, and in the meantime he could spend the night reliving the great cosy success of dear Pam and smell again her memory. He still had the souvenirs. Her underpants, plain white with a thin trim of pretty pale pink lace, a little square of soft flesh including her belly button and the fatty surround, somewhat putrid now but still exciting, and one slightly slimy eyeball, oozing thick liquid. He called this tears, and dabbled his fingertip, tasting the increasingly noxious flavour. He’d have to stop soon, but he’d keep the knickers, which he already counted a particular favourite.
He didn’t rise early, since he didn’t think it necessary but by a little past midday he had parked his car under a willow, tramped a good way up the roadside, and waited. He’d been waiting four bitter hours and was already freezing, but this was part of the game. Twilight was already turning to night, but it had always been easier to abduct a frightened girl in the dark. This time, when he heard a car, he sat down at the side of the road, his hooded head in his very large palms
The little Toyota stopped. A girl’s voice called, “Are you alright, sir? Can I help? Shall I phone someone for you?”
He looked up, smiling. But then a young man’s voice called, “I’ll help you up, if you need help, sir. Do you need a hospital?”
This time the disappointment was pounding. “No, no,” said the man. “Just a bit tipsy after last night, you know. I’ll be fine. I only live around the corner. My son will help me to bed.”
“Shall I call him to come and get you?”
“No.
” The man carefully didn’t limp as he stood. “The fresh air will do me good.” They restarted the engine. “Thanks,” said the man. “But off you go to your own business.” The car disappeared into the rise and fall of the road, and the furious man kicked at the road and said “Shit,” many times into his hood.
Then, with a sudden squeal of brakes, a large black car with no headlights veered, skidded, and ploughed with terrifying speed into the tree trunk just inches from where the man stood. The oak’s branches were bare, but they shook, rattled and broke as the car cracked with a force of lightning. Shaken and nervous, the man scrambled back from danger, and his first thought was that some angry god wanted to punish him after all. Then he realised the opposite. This wasn’t bad luck, it was mighty brilliant good luck.
In the car, slumped over the driving wheel, was a young woman with long black curls, a lot of make-up, a bewitchingly off the shoulder dress even in this wintry weather, and large breasts bursting from beneath. The man walked up to the driver’s door and wrenched it open. “How are you?” he asked with soft vocal sympathy. But he felt no sympathy since he had never experienced such a thing in his life, except frequently for himself.
The young woman managed to lift her head. She was squashed between the wheel and the seat, for the car’s bonnet have caved in, and the expected air bag had made no appearance. Nor was the woman wearing her seatbelt. Managing to lift her head and peering through the tangles of her hair, she mumbled, “Washt up? Crashed? Where ish I?”
“I believe, madam,” the man told her with mounting glee, “you are drunk and have crashed your car just outside the village of Blogsworth-on-the-Torr. I shall not inform the police about your drunk driving, but I’m afraid you may be hurt since the airbag didn’t go off.”
“Never did work proper,” said the woman, confused.
“My own car is nearby,” said the man, nodding towards its white glimmer under the willow. “I can drop you off at the nearest hospital for a check-up. You seem somewhat dazed.”
“Dizzy,” she mumbled, and tried to wriggle from the car. “But Ish shtuck,” she decided.
“How useful,” added the man. He collected his car and drove it, door to door with the crashed and mangled black mess by the oak tree, and then, with quite gentle and practised accuracy, began to help the drunken woman from her car into his own. His hand slid around her breasts, and he was delighted to feel them as real and not false, her dress increasingly off her shoulder and exposing the first dark swell of her nipple, and her legs white in the early moonlight as her skirt was hitched up under the squashed driving wheel. Thankful and half unconscious, she collapsed in the passenger seat, curled a little, and shut her eyes.
“Thanksh,” she managed, and seemed to fall asleep.
The man locked the car doors from the inside and drove very slowly and carefully towards his shed. It took nearly half an hour, but the woman snored drunkenly and happily as he drove, and his own mind was drunk with delight and anticipation.
He had to drag her bodily from the car when he arrived, and it occurred to him that raping and attacking the stupid bitch while she was drunk, and unconscious was not going to bring as much pleasure as usual. He could, perhaps, wait until she sobered up but that might take all day. So he tied the arms and legs, gagged the mouth, and began to prepare the next stages. The front door was locked, the windows locked and blacked out, the small electric fire was on and the place was warming up. The woman was flat on the ground, asleep, and he started to rip the rest of her clothes off her. The knickers were black lace and he liked them. The first rape was satisfying since it had been quite some time since the last, and then he turned her over and raped her again.
She remained unconscious. Oh well, he decided it didn’t matter. She was warm and wriggled in her sleep, which was more pleasurable than when she was dead, when the experience would be quite different.
Then he began to look for the best implements he could find, which would satisfy the next desires. This promised to be one of the best of all times, and he planned to keep her in the shed for at least three days alive and a week dead. He had phoned in to work to say he had the flu – common enough at this time of year. Besides, work was not at its best in the Christmas season. He’d be off until Boxing Day. It would be a fantastic Christmas present to himself, and he could even nip home to the wife and make her a breakfast on the 25th and a kiss on the cheek before slipping away again. He grinned. He could be a good husband when he wanted, and this little game was going to make him so vibrantly happy, he could afford to be gracious. She’d make a cake and he could bring it back to the shed with him.
The woman still hadn’t woken but she was fluttering her eyes, so he found the thick fire poker and began to heat it beneath his cigarette lighter. Not that he smoked. That would be wicked behaviour and he disliked smokers. It was the thick iron poker that was smoking now.
A couple of hours later he went for a walk through the trees, needing a crap, but in a state of almost delirious upliftment. She had come around and tried to scream her head off, and it was unfortunate he’d had to gag her because the screaming would have amused him. But when he’d given her a rest, and explained a few things, he’d taken off the gag and asked her name. Rosemary Ingle, and she was twenty five. Still pissed out of her head of course, but now reacting to him, she gave him a full three hours of enormous satisfaction before fainting for the sixth time. Now his walk through the trees, mostly pines and firs, gave him time to grin, to re-live and to imagine the next stages.
The immense thrill of power was tingling through his loins like fire itself, and when he finally shoved her under his bed and slept on top that night, he knew he’d have significant dreams.
An owl was calling. He wished it would snow, as that would add to the magic besides covering any footprints. But he felt entirely safe anyway, for no one had ever found his shed, and never would.
He wiped his nose on Rosemary’s knickers, smelled the good rich perfume, and wandered back to the shed, ready for a short episode of the game before bed.
At some miles distant, Sylvia and Harry curled in each other’s embrace, and whispered of their plans, marriage, and searching for the murderer. Another owl was calling outside, its eyes reflecting the moonlight. But all Harry saw was the light in Sylvia’s deep blue eyes.
“I’ve put the house up for sale.”
She was surprised. “And what if you change your mind about marriage? I could easily get on your nerves, you know. I’m no Marilyn Monroe.”
“Just as well. Promiscuous, I think. And fancied JFK who was a ratbag and shagged everyone. They twitch about Clinton’s seedy side, but never complain about their hero JFK.”
“Are we talking about marriage or politics?”
“Marriage, my love. I don’t want a sort of make-shift trying it out first sort of thing. I want commitment. I care about commitment. That’s one of the reasons I’m going to go on investigating these murders until either you and I or the police solve it.” Harry slipped his hand down her spine, rubbing each small knot. “But I don’t intend talking about murder in bed. I want to tell you I adore you, love you, admire you, respect you and desire you. Marriage will have me full of bubbles. It has to be soon.”
“You won’t, I hope,” smiled Sylvia, “have Tony as your best man.”
“Do I need a best man? Maybe Morrison.”
“Let’s be totally casual, hire some sort of celebrant, have it here in the living room, no best men or silly page girls, and then drink a lot.”
He liked the sound of that. “And will you be Mrs. Joyce or stay as Sylvia Greene? I don’t mind and I’m not that old fashioned, but I sort of like the idea of having a Mrs cuddled up next to me. Does that sound sexist?”
She didn’t actually care. “Alright. I’ll be a Mrs. as a gift. I did the whole Mrs. with my first husband, but I gave up his name and went back to Greene after he died. I wanted to divorce him anyway. But I call myself Mrs. Greene because it stopped me feeli
ng like an ancient despised spinster.” Sylvia laughed, smothering her mouth on Harry’s bare shoulder. “Now, I call that pathetic. But I did it anyway.”
“I adore the odd weakness. So I won’t feel I’m the only one smothered by failure. So what’s the date we fix?”
“I’m not going to study calendars in the middle of the night.” She wrapped one warm thigh around Harry’s. “I have better things to do.”
They were still in bed the following morning when Ruby knocked on the door. “Newspaper calling. Do I slip it under the door or tell you myself?”
“Delicious bluebell,” Sylvia’s voice was still half smothered, and the cause was the same, but she unravelled herself and continued, “not another murder?”
“No. But your friend Tony Allen has been released on bail, considering his wife died of natural causes. The charges have gone down to aggravated assault. Poor Isabel. I expect she’d be growling about it up there with her harp on automatic play.”
Harry’s sigh was audible. Sylvia said, “I suppose he’s on his way home. He’ll turn up here looking for Harry.”
“More news, Sylvikins. A distant relative by the name of Fletcher has been arrested for arson. One out – and another one in.”
“Fletcher? Where?”
“Cheltenham,” Ruby sniggered. “Close enough for big sister to visit.”
“Damnation. I suppose I should.” Sylvia looked up at Harry, who was now sitting straight, the covers to his waist. “It seems we know a lot of criminals.” She looked back at Ruby. “What did the wretched man burn?”
“The pub he was staying at,” Ruby said, flapping the front page of the local newspaper. “Seems he couldn’t afford to pay the bill. Thought he’d burn the place down instead.”
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