“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.”
Felicity screwed up her nose, and said, “You’d better wait till they find the real killer. Otherwise people may still think it’s you. Try and be one of the first to put in the murderer’s name.”
“I’ll buy a large notebook this afternoon,” Paul decided.
Most of the snow had melted and a pale flicker of sunlight dared show its face over the hilltops. Sylvia said, “Come in and have tea. Or beer. Or wine. We need to talk to you, Inspector Morrison.”
“And I certainly need to talk to both of you,” he said, following Sylvia inside. He immediately approached the great hiss of the burning logs and the great sweep of scarlet heat. “Cold outside,” he muttered, as if no one had noticed the January freeze. There was still a sheen of ice on unused paths, snow on the higher branches of the trees, thick white caps on the hilltops and banks of white along the creeks and streams. Morrison stood, his back to the fire, hands clasped behind him. “You’ve re-titled yourself retired detectives,” he pointed out. “I know of your father, Mrs. Greene, but neither of you have ever worked in the police force to my knowledge.”
“A white lie,” admitted Harry. It was the small salon again, their favourite spot, and the heating was more contained within the cosy privacy.
“Not a lie I can condone,” Morrison said, but since neither of his hosts looked particularly bothered, he continued, “but you’ve certainly been echoing my investigations and you’ve been gathering evidence from the same people.”
Harry stuck out his chin. “Not purposefully. But there’s the obvious lines of curiosity to tread.”
“A little more than simple curiosity, Mr. Joyce.”
“But certainly interesting concerning the acromegaly,” said Sylvia quickly, “Have you followed up hospitals in Leicestershire? It’s rare enough to be remembered. Documented. Records kept. That could actually name the ripper.”
Morrison narrowed his eyes. “I’m impressed, Mrs. Greene. You seem to have discovered some things even more quickly than we have. The diagnosis of acromegaly was only finalised yesterday, and I have my team following that up today. I don’t expect results until tomorrow at the earliest. Hospital staff changes frequently and medical records from the past can easily be lost. It’s also possible that as a child, this suspect was never treated.”
Harry agreed. “Couldn’t have been treated properly or he wouldn’t be in such an advanced state now. But no parents would ignore –”
“It’s often appallingly mistreated or neglected children who grow into criminals, Mr. Joyce.” The detective was relaxing, and finally accepted the proffered beer. “And we have no real idea when this medical condition actually hit. It can be so slow –”
“We know all that,” Sylvia told him. “But there’s two obvious lines of inquiry – firstly the hospitals and secondly the shoe-makers.” She paused, then added, “That very large glove found on the victim in the coach, for instance. Have you re-examined that? Do you know who made it?”
Morrison shook his head. “We have questioned every glove-maker and cobbler in the entire country including those now retired, and also in Monaco, just in case. Not one has traced the glove, and not one admits to making gloves or shoes for anyone remotely similar to our description. Every store has been questioned concerning imports. When we think we have a lead, I assure you, we leave no stone unturned.”
“And do you agree,” Harry asked, “that this creature must have been born and originally grew up in Leicestershire or somewhere in the Midlands, but now lives in this area?”
“More or less,” said the detective with a faint smile.
“And would you consider,” Sylvia’s own smile was dazzling, “telling us the results of the hospital enquiries? I appreciate the difficulties, I mean, telling secret police business to two old dears who have never been detectives – but we’ll tell you everything we discover too. And we do discover things, you know. But asking hospitals about patients’ private medical records – well, they just won’t tell us.”
“I might pass on some of the basic facts during conversation,” agreed Morrison, drinking his beer and enjoying the fire, “but don’t expect every detail, and definitely not names. Should the suspect be discovered, which naturally he will soon enough, that must remain private until we choose to inform the press.”
“Unless you just happen to have it written down on a scrap of paper when we visit you at your desk –?”
“A possibility,” Morrison looked over the brim of his glass, “but only under the condition that you don’t approach him. You do know, I hope, and fully understand, that going anywhere near such a person would be the utmost stupidity and highly dangerous?”
“Of course.”
“And could even lead to a charge of interfering with an investigation?”
“Naturally.”
Morrison sighed, He was not at all convinced by their assurances. “Listen,” he said, sitting forwards and plonking his empty glass down on the low table, “What I’m suggesting is most improper and I could be disciplined.” He sighed, although it looked suspiciously like a disguised yawn, “Until I chose to move my family to a more rural domestic paradise, I worked with the Met in Scotland Yard, the Homicide Squad, where a good deal of more innovative practices were ignored. My acceptance of your involvement is part of that. But a little improper ingenuity is far less easily overlooked. Telling outsiders concerning police business just isn’t acceptable, but I’m agreeing to do it under the circumstances. However, if you compromise the investigation by passing on information to any unauthorised person – and especially if you attempt to approach the principal suspect, once named, then I shall be furious. You may well find yourselves in gaol alongside him. Or flat on your backs in your coffins.”
“I’m definitely too old for him,” smiled Sylvia.
“That’s not funny, Mrs. Greene,” scowled Morrison. “This isn’t a game, He’s one of the most vile creatures I’ve ever had the misfortune to investigate. I imagine he is quite, quite insane.”
“My life hasn’t been all goose-down and cream cakes, you know, inspector,” said Sylvia. “And I’ve faced danger often, although never in such a degenerate and dramatic manner. Don’t worry. I’ve never seen this as a game. I’ve a good idea what my father would have done and said in your place.
“He’s a bit irritating,” Harry sighed after the inspector had departed, and Harry had followed Sylvia back to the small salon. “And he’s a pomp
ous twit with his clichés and patronising speeches. But I suppose he feels he has to lecture us.”
“Actually, he’s amazing,” Sylvia was still grinning. “He’s pretty much promised to tell us damn near everything the police discover. And it would be such a help if we can find out something first and tell him. That would impress him and make him more prepared to tell us. And,” her smiled faded, “just in case you don’t know already, I’ve absolutely no intention of approaching this crazed monster before the police do. I want to find out who he is. Not meet him personally.”
“Goes without saying,” Harry nodded. “I know I didn’t marry an idiot. Well, not this time anyway.”
“Shed searching tomorrow then,” Sylvia said. “But it’ll be cold. Let’s make it just a couple of hours.” She paused, leaning back against Harry’s shoulder. “That just leaves bloody Fletcher. But I’m certainly not going out to hunt for him.”
“I’m sixty four,” he muttered into his pyjama collar. “I’ve lived long enough. Achieving nothing is a common enough practise in this wretched country. My miserable father never achieved a bloody thing either. Even my mother died giving birth to me, so obviously she knew from the start I wasn’t ever going to amount to anything so there was no point hanging around.”
Room service rattled the door knob outside. “Mr. Rankling? A steak sandwich and a bottle of Beaujolais. Shall I leave them outside the door?”
‘I’m coming,” Fletcher called and trotted out to collect his supper. Returning to bed, he poured the wine into the water glass on his bedside table, drank the lot, and refilled it. Then he stuffed the sandwich into his mouth, which meant he couldn’t talk to himself anymore.
It was a small hotel in Stratford. The central heating clunked a bit, but it was warm, and the bed was comfortable. Eventually, brushing crumbs from the quilt, he lay back against the pillows, burped, grabbed the remote control, turned on the television and searched for some average porn. There didn’t seem to be any, which was annoying, but he decided Stratford must be particularly puritanical, and watched some whodunit rubbish instead. Then on the screen someone was setting fire to something, and Fletcher smiled again.
“Not this hotel,” he decided. “But perhaps a shop nearby. Shakespeare’s place is too well watched. But a museum perhaps, or a gallery if there is one. Or maybe just a little house somewhere. A big blaze, and then throw myself into it. Heat. Oblivion. Golden sparkles and crimson caresses. The way I want to go. And if others go with me, all well and good. Not kids, perhaps. But a few adults running around terrified. And me in control. My fire. My decision. My choice. My skill. My absolute control.”
He slept well that night, which was something he hadn’t done for some time. He dreamed, but remembered nothing of it when he awoke, except a faded reminder of ice cold down the back of his neck. Bloody freezing English January. The perfect time to start a blaze.
Once dressed, he ordered breakfast in his room. He wanted to be seen by as few people as possible. He wouldn’t be paying the bill, naturally. He’d be dead by the time they caught on to his disappearance. The silly stuff about life after death was a conspiracy to make people behave and be boring. He had never taken any notice of such nonsense. No need to pack up his miserable case of miserable belongings. No cheque book, no credit card, no smart phone or iPad. Probably the only bloody person in the world not to have a mobile. Even the bloody tribes of head-hunters living on the crocodile infested rivers of Borneo still probably bought their kids iPhones. They probably took photos with their smart phones when their bloody wives fell off the riverboats and got eaten by piranha and smiling crocs. So good luck to the crocs.
Fletcher went out. There was lighter fuel, his large zippo, and folded paper in his pockets. He went looking for a suitable place to start his bonfire and enjoyed the icy walk for the first time in weeks. Wearing ten layers of wool and fleece over wellington boots, he was comfortable enough, and only slipped when he wasn’t paying attention.
Certain things popped unasked into his mind. The girl he once thought himself in love with, but who had rejected him. The other girl he hadn’t really liked who later claimed to have given birth to his child. He hadn’t believed it and told her to piss off. He remembered the job he’d wanted, and the years he’d consistently applied to be a fire-fighter. He’d even doing some of the training but failed. He’d volunteered, but they were suspicious and sent him packing after the first year. He thought of his father. Poor old sod. Never to see his son again. Well, that would probably be a relief. Stupid bugger never did understand him. Probably never loved him either. But it didn’t matter now.
He meandered off track collecting wood. A few houses had wood sheds, and here it was mostly dry. He had a large shopping bag with him, and he shoved the stolen timber inside. Twigs, small branches and some larger pieces. No one shouted at him, so he knew he hadn’t been seen.
Finding the perfect place, he fingered the lighter fluid and smiled. It was a large hall filled with market stalls, and a mill of happy shoppers were crammed inside. The stall holders were gossiping and probably making a fortune. Fletcher knew he’d got the ideal spot for his last billowing, enormous and glorious fire. And it would be the moment of sumptuous satisfaction to include himself within it. And to hell with life.
He found the back shadows of the hall outside, snow banked and unwatched. The wall was wood braced, and the old back wall seemed flimsy enough, just plaster and some crumbling bricks. He knelt, feeling the rise of ecstasy and excitement, and began to lay the paper and twigs, having shovelled away the snow and pulled out a couple of bricks. The wall and the ground beneath were clearly wet but he could overcome that with ease. He was experienced enough and this was his moment of glory.
The fire lit. Fletcher moved back. He watched the hesitant colour mount, added more dry wood and paper, and threw the entire bottle of lighter fluid over the top. It sprang into stunning light, turning haze to blaze. He was laughing. Funny! It made him feel so alive, yet he was planning to die. But for the moment, not wanting to be seen, he wandered into the lane at the front. He could smell the burning, but no one inside the hall had noticed it yet.
The flames took hold of the back wall like a hungry dragon in flight and from the wall it licked onto the roof and spun into the clouds like a spitting, spinning storm of heat and swelling noise. Cheering. Singing. Already there was a squash at the doorway as a hundred people tried to race out at the same time. Fletcher ran towards them, grinning. He helped pull a few old souls out, grabbing arms and tugging, hauled a woman out by her coat buttons. It would be good to be remembered as a hero who gave up his life to help others. He had to push in past them first. Everyone was screaming now, except himself.
“I’ve called the fire brigade,” he shouted, although entirely untrue. “Just keep calm.” The roof crashed in, trapping some people beneath it. Fletcher grabbed a couple of kids and threw them bodily outside the danger. “Look. I’ve saved your kids. Where’s the mums and dads?”
Someone else pushed roughly past him. Fletcher pushed back so the young man tumbled. “I ain’t saving you,” Fletcher shouted. “You can go down with the rest of them.”
This was more vivid than anything he’d done before. It was the epitome of exhilaration. And yet, quite suddenly, he felt pain, and gasped.
The heat was growing unbearable. Fletcher was surprised. He loved the flames and had been sure he would love them until the end. But he didn’t, they bloody hurt. He turned, annoyed. “Look, you’re my fire. You can’t hurt me like this.” He yelped, then swore, then screamed. Then he screamed again and fell, his feet no longer supporting him and the pain excruciating, His hair caught fire. His scarf caught fire. The drips of lighter fluid and his Zippo in his pocket flared up and raged in his face. His eyebrows and lashes caught fire, then all his clothes.
Few if any people remained in the hall. Toppled stalls, piles of charred remnants and cascading roof tiles disguised whatever might lie beneath. Smoke now filled every cra
nny and Fletcher coughed, desperately trying to breathe, unable to walk as his boots melted and his legs sizzled. Trying to crawl to the front doors, still open but glazed in raging, thundering scarlet, Fletcher managed a few inches, then couldn’t feel his legs. Only panic and pain surrounded him and the way out was obliterated. He’d never known such pain, nor such hideous fear.
Within moments, he fainted and remained unconscious as the building disintegrated. He didn’t hear the sirens from the fire engines, nor the sudden rush of water.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The man put his clothes back on, lay down on the old bed, pulled the blanket up to his ears, and tried to sleep. The tiny flames of the fire he’d lit on the dirty little hearth had burned out, and that was what he wanted for a smoking chimney was too dangerous. He’d got rid of the last bag of rubbish, and driven all the way back from Melton Mowbray, sleeping in a car a couple of times before arriving again at the shed. There he had played with the pins and relived the delights of Rosemary, and adored those memories. She had thwarted him by dying too quickly but he’d had her alive for some time, and kept her dead for five days. That had been immensely pleasurable and now he was content. He had chosen a pink topped pin for her. For one thing it fitted with her name, and it was special. Not as special as the gold headed pins, but special all the same, and that fitted Rosemary.
Now his thighs tingled with the stinging pricks and that, he knew, would continue to bring pleasure for some time. He had every intention of going home the next morning, and turning up for work in the afternoon when his shift started. Life was safe, simple and satisfying. Cuddling down, he smiled to himself. The fire was out, and that was important, yet the shed, well insulated, had kept warm enough. He didn’t need heat. Other experiences heated him from inside. He just didn’t want to freeze. The smells he loved, the puddles of old blood and the reminders of shit, both theirs and his own which he had made them eat, the splinters of bone and the pans where he’d cooked slices of liver, kidneys, brain and flesh, along with other more intimate parts.
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