Dempsey rattled his head side to side, heaved again and vomited bile over the interview table. He croaked, “It came over her. It wasn’t Clara. Oh those fallen angels!’’ He let out a piercing cry, jolting Tavistock to recoil. He looked over at the shaken Pitkin, mouthed ‘Clara’, who mouthed back ‘wife’. He nodded and loosened his tie.
“I’m sorry Clive. I just want the truth. What came over her? Please, take deep breaths. Slower, that’s it. Close your mouth, breathe through your nose. Look at me, focus on my face. Let the pictures in your mind fade away and look at me. Breathe slower, nice and easy. Better. What came over her? Her illness?”
Clive stared into the dark eyes of Tavistock, a look of anguish that the experienced detective had never seen before. He gulped hard and in a tremulous voice said, “They said it was an illness. Psychosis. She knew it wasn’t. She knew it was a demon. I didn’t believe her, nobody did. And look what happened. Those poor fallen angels!” He roared, and fell back screaming and rocked in the chair. Pitkin waved at his boss, motioned toward the door, got up and was followed out and back into the observation area.
“What do you think, lad?”
Pitkin replied, “Sir, I’m not sure at all, but I’ll tell you he’s putting shivers up my fucking back, and I don’t mind admitting it. Do you believe in all that demon talk?” He asked, blushing and sweeping his blonde fringe from his clean shaven face.
“Nope. Don’t believe in angels either. Fallen angels? What’s that all about? He sounds as mental as his wife. A folie a deux.”
Pitkin frowned, “Sorry?”
“Shared delusions. When lovers start to believe each other’s outlandish beliefs. Fallen angels though, that’s what’s sending him over the edge. If we give him five and then go back in, we can clear this up and have last look at the missing kid’s info. If nothing jumps out we can fuck off home before twelve and I can get all the presents under the tree for the morning. My two are at my sister-in-law’s until the wife finishes her shift at the hospital. She’s going to pick them up and have them in bed before I get home. Otherwise the little buggers will have ripped all their boxes open and left nowt for Christmas Day.” Tavistock said and laughed, a rare glow accompanying his tight smile. “What have you got planned kiddo? A night on the tiles?”
“No boss. Quiet one in front of the telly. Couple of beers. I’ll be doing the early shift tomorrow. Sorting out all the paperwork on this bastard.”
“No bird on the scene?”
“None of them are that serious. I just can’t choose, call me picky.” He smirked.
“You’ll settle down one day. A wife and kids, that’s what makes a man of you sunshine.” Tavistock patted at his suit jacket pocket, “Left my mobile in my car. Bollocks. Doesn’t matter, we’ll be done soon. Come on, let’s sort out this fallen angels nonsense.”
Pitkin led the way back into the interview room. Dempsey was slumped over the table, exhaustion mixed with the pills from the doctor. The screaming had subsided into a low nasal sighing. Tavistock walked over to the killer and again, sat by his side.
“Sit upright please, Clive. Now I want you to listen very carefully. I want you to see those images in your mind for what they are. Images, that’s all. Just images. You can’t touch them. Now I want you to make the pictures smaller, that’s it. Now lessen the colour and send the picture further away in your mind.” Tavistock watched as Dempsey followed his instructions and began to calm. “Now Clive, describe to me what you are seeing. Take your time and remember to keep the images a distance back.”
Pitkin watched from the corner of the room as Dempsey slowly sat upright and again widened his eyes, then switched on the recorder.
“She is there. But she isn’t. It’s not her. It has taken over again. She is ripping up pages from the Bible again. Thousands of little pieces, throwing them around the room as she screams for me to get out. It’s not her voice. It’s not her. I’m scared and I tell her to remember it’s me, her husband. She shows her teeth and I back out into the kitchen to find the number of her social worker to get the doctor again. I can’t find it and my hands are shaking. I turn up the radio to hear Christmas songs and drink some whiskey out of the bottle to stop the shaking, but it doesn’t work. I sit down and turn the radio louder. I rummage in the cupboards for her tablets from the psychiatrist and pop two from the foil into a cup and run a glass of water. I drink more whiskey but my hands won’t stop shaking.” Dempsey spoke with a flat tone and tears ran down his cheeks.
“It’s alright, Clive. Go on. Shrink the image and keep it at a distance. That’s it. Carry on,” prompted Tavistock, gently.
“I, I, just sat there. Just sat there. If I had have gone sooner. If only I had gone sooner.” He sobbed harder.
Tavistock nudged his shoulder and said, “What’s done is done, Clive. Keep going, you are doing well. What then, Clive?”
“I opened the kitchen door and she, no it, it, it wasn’t her. It had taken them. Taken them down into the floor. Those poor angels. Fallen, fallen angels. I grabbed her, no, no, it. I grabbed it and had to destroy it for what it had done to those poor, poor fallen angels. So I grabbed it and it was so strong. So strong. It wasn’t her, it changed her face, her, her teeth were sharp and fingers were curled with sharp bone, her hair was up on ends and there was blood on her dress. I thought it was dead and went after those poor angels, fallen in the floor and saw the others. It ripped at me from behind, at my arms, it was too late, the angels the poor angels had fallen and they couldn’t come back and I turned and killed it. I pushed its head into the wall with all my strength over and over. That’s all I can see, over and over. Over and over. It won’t stop, help me make it stop. Help me, help me. Please, I beg you!” He screamed and his body bucked in panic. Pitkin and Tavistock struggled with an arm each as Dempsey tried to drive his head into the wall, knocking over the table.
A uniformed officer ran in and took the arm from Pitkin, who stood back and saw DC Iverson beckoning him at the door. Iverson locked the interview room after he exited and ran his fingers through his ginger moustache. “We’ve had a phone call. Two more kids reported missing. Not returned from carol singing since about five-ish this afternoon. Brother and sister, seven and nine.”
“Well, why pull me out? Tell the boss, he’s dealing with the others from the end of October. Could be related Don.”
“It’s got to be you. You’re the most senior on duty. Apart from the boss. He can’t get involved though.”
“What you mean, he can’t get involved?”
“It’s his kids who are reported missing, Pitkin.”
“Jesus Christ. Where are we up to?”
“All uniform scouring the locality. Door to door, every house in the surrounding area. Five mile traffic radius set up and closing in, all the traffic boys with their lights on. Christmas fucking Eve. Like Halloween all over again. Fucking hell, Inspector,” replied Iverson, nausea ripping through him.
“Halloween?”
“October thirty first. The first two kids, brother and sister. Out trick or treating. Vanished.”
Pitkin stared at Iverson and bolted to Tavistock’s office. He flipped through bundles of print outs, tossed them aside and looked up at the wall. Two photographs. School portraits, he guessed both between eight and ten. He looked down at the desk and saw a family photo in a frame. Tavistock with his arm around his wife and the two children in front smiling for the camera. His knees buckled as he looked at the far wall with the map pinned up. He double checked the addresses and ran his finger over the black and grey as his hand started to shake.
“Where does the sister-in-law live, Iverson?”
“Twenty five Piermount View.”
“Oh no. Fuck me, no,” Pitkin spat through a broken voice as he dropped to one knee.
“What? Inspector, what?”
“It’s four streets away from the Dempsey’s. They were dressed as angels, weren’t they? Tell me they weren’t, Don, say they weren’t,” he pleaded
.
Iverson dropped his head, “How did you know?”
“Oh Jesus, oh God.” Pitkin ran back into the observation area and stared through the two way mirror. Tavistock sat next to Dempsey with a concerned arm draped over the man’s shoulder as he listened to him talk. Pitkin then turned and sprinted towards the station car park with Iverson following.
Inside the interview room Dempsey sat, dazed and worn. Tavistock probed again, “Clive, tell us about the floor. What does through the floor mean?” Dempsey stared ahead, blinked hard as his eyes rolled back and his body convulsed. “Clive? Clive? Can you hear me? Get the doc! Now, for fuck’s sake!” He yelled at the uniform.
***
Pitkin floored the accelerator, roaring through the December evening, past the lit windows, fairy lights and snowmen in the gardens. “Iverson, what’s the address of the first two missing kids?”
“Four Eight Two Bexley Gardens.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near the Heath. About half a mile from Piermount.”
“Fuck.” Pitkin ran through the red lights and pushed eighty down the bypass, screeching the roundabout and up to the Heath. He skidded to a standstill and exited the vehicle. Approaching the house, a uniform shouted for him to slow. Pitkin clipped the copper on the jaw and headed into Eleven Heath Road. Red brick modern detached. Iverson went in behind, flashing his identification at the prone and stunned P.C.
Pitkin ripped through the blue and white tape, headed through the porch and into the living room. He flicked on the light and took in the scene. Blood spatters trailed the beige carpet and a metallic stench hung in the air. A blue vase lay in shards and a coffee table was upturned, the floor was covered in bits of paper. Crimson smeared down the oak wood archway. He scanned the room again as Iverson caught up with him.
“Don, give me a hand here,” shouted Pitkin as he gripped the edge of the carpet, pulling it free from the tacks. Iverson followed suit and together they rolled it back, revealing bare floorboards. Adrenalin tore through their veins and cold sweat matted their shirt backs. He shook his head and swallowed the vomit that had risen to his throat. Iverson yanked at his moustache as his eyes darted around the room.
Pitkin closed his eyes and replayed the noises of Iverson’s arrival. He opened them and swung back towards the porch as the hollow clops rang in his ears. He pulled back a rectangular red patterned Turkish rug that was soaked in melting grey slush and took a long look at the trapdoor. “You have kids, Iverson?”
He nodded, twitching. “One.”
“Best give me your torch.”
“Pitkin, let me. I’ve seen bad things before.”
Pitkin shook his head. “Somebody has to have a Christmas.”
Together they heaved open the trap door. A set of wooden steps disappeared into the darkness. Pitkin flicked the torch on and made the descent as Iverson lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling, mumbling prayers as the smoke bobbed between his lips.
The screams jolted Iverson and the butt fell from his mouth making a light tap on the flooring.
Slow, heavy footsteps thudded back up the stairs.
Iverson took in the blank stare of Pitkin.
Pitkin looked at Iverson and nodded. “Four fallen angels.”
He walked through the house into the kitchen and snatched Clive Dempsey’s whiskey, swallowing hard as he followed Iverson out the door. “You mind driving, Don? Only I could use some Christmas spirit,” he said as he shook the bottle.
The silence on the drive back was deafening as the unmarked police car cruised through the deserted streets.
They approached the station that rang unusually hollow.
The desk sergeant saw them enter and lowered his head at the sight of Pitkin’s face. They made their way down the stairs and along the corridor, squeezing past a throng of uniforms trying in vain to calm a woman in a nurse’s uniform and restrain her from entering the observation area. “Give me five minutes and then let her in, boys,” shouted Pitkin, as he and Iverson walked towards the two way mirror.
They watched as Tavistock fed Clive Dempsey hot coffee in small sips.
“Pitkin, you want me to tell him?” He watched as Pitkin drained the rest of the whiskey.
“Go home Don, it’ll be twelve pretty soon. Like I said, somebody has to have a Christmas.”
Other Works
If you liked Noir Medley then you might be interested in the following works, published by Near To The Knuckle.
1. Bad Luck City
Matt Phillips
2. One Day In The Life Of Jason Dean
Ian Ayris
3. Marwick’s Reckoning
Gareth Spark
4. Back To The World
Jim Shaffer
5. An Eye For An Eye
Paul Heatley
6. A Dish Served Cold
B R Stateham
7. Too Many Crooks
Paul D Brazill
8. A Case Of Noir
Paul D Brazill
9. Big City Blues
Paul D Brazill
10. Portrait Of An Assassin
Richard Godwin
11. Maurice
B R Stateham
Noir Medley
L A Sykes
Paladins
Various Authors
Down In The Devil Hole
David Jaggers
Rogue
An Anthology
Gloves Off
An Anthology
Tales From The Longcroft Estate Volumes 1,2 & 3
Darren Sant
The Hard Cold Shoulder - L A Sykes Page 7