Twisted

by Robin Roughley

  'Well, perhaps some of them do.'

  Lasser eased up to the traffic lights and looked at her. 'You're not a member of the young Tories are you?'

  'Don't be daft, but I bet you're a labour man?'

  'I don't vote.'

  Coyle looked at him in surprise. 'I don't believe that.'

  'As far as I'm concerned they're all lying bastards; all they want to do is feather their own nest and then it's fuck the rest of you.'

  The lights changed and he turned left, past the huge local library, a concrete monstrosity, but at least it was still open. Then right at the Boars Head pub and down a long tree-lined avenue, the houses on either side were huge, three-storey Victorian properties though most had been converted into flats to house the town's waifs and strays.

  At the end of the road, he turned left onto the infirmary car park and drove around looking for a parking space. Spotting a car pulling out Lasser slid into the gap, before turning off the engine.

  'Right come on; let's see if anyone can name the bastard.'

  32

  Robert was in the process of mixing a Pot Noodle when the letterbox clattered and the free paper dropped to the bare asphalt floor. Pulling the boxers from the crack of his arse, he shuffled along the hallway and picked it up. When he saw the picture on the front page his fingers sprang open and he dropped the paper, making a snatch for it as it fell.

  Blinking in confusion, he shook the paper straight, it was the bitch, and she was on the front page looking out at him with a smirk on her face. Standing in the hallway in his bare feet, Robert started to read. When he saw the words 'Pembroke Avenue and Warwick Road', he smiled. It was unbelievable, he'd tried to think how he could hunt her down, but his brain had been unable to fashion a plan. Now this, it was as if someone were helping him, delivering her on a plate, validating his actions. Robert lifted the paper and kissed the print. He'd never heard of Mike Brewster but it was as if they were on the same wavelength, kindred spirits.

  'I told you, Robert, all good things come to those who wait.'

  'You knew about this?' he asked.

  'I know everything.'

  Walking back into the kitchen, he began to stir the Pot Noodle, making plans.

  Tonight was going to be fantastic – the best yet – the voice had promised him and the voice didn't lie.

  33

  'It's not particularly lifelike is it?'

  The doctor's name was Rowbottom, to Lasser he appeared more like one of the patients. Long straggly hair that looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in weeks, a pathetic goatee dangled from the end of his gaunt face, he looked like the bastard offspring of Fagin.

  'Sorry about that, I think the artist is keen on the abstract, still at least this one has two eyes, which makes a refreshing change.'

  Rowbottom looked up, his face set in a frown.

  Lasser sighed; he might look like a hippy but it appeared that beneath the bedraggled exterior beat the heart of a bureaucrat.

  'Well, I'm sorry, but I can't help you,' Rowbottom slid the photograph back across the table.

  'So, he doesn't look familiar?'

  'Well, I could probably show you around the wards and pick out half a dozen patients who would fit this lamentable description.'

  'You're saying it's a stereotype?'

  'Precisely.'

  'So, can I see these half-dozen stereotypes?' Lasser asked.

  'Not at the moment, they've all been given their medication and I really don't want them disturbed.'

  Susan leaned forward in her chair, her leather belt creaking. 'Are any of these patients allowed out unsupervised?'

  'Most aren't allowed out at all and those that are, are always chaperoned.'

  'And how long do they stay here?' she asked.

  'That depends; one or two have been here for years but on the whole we try and rehabilitate the individual and prepare them to go back into society as soon as we can.'

  'And that can take how long?'

  'How long's a piece of string? You see most of the people in here are broken, not through anything specific, it tends to be an accumulation of events.'

  'So you're saying the majority of inmates…'

  'Patients, not inmates.'

  Susan smiled. 'Sorry, so you're saying the patients aren't mentally ill as such?'

  Lasser leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling tiles.

  Rowbottom threw him a sour glance, before turning back to Susan. 'In most cases it's drug or alcohol abuse, but that's only a manifestation of the underlying problems. Some of these people used to hold down jobs, had families and somewhere along the line all that was taken away. So they drink or take drugs in an effort to forget their problems, it's a common defence mechanism.'

  'And how many people actually get better?' she asked.

  Rowbottom ran his fingertips through the goatee, male grooming done for the day. 'Unfortunately a lot of people end up coming back within six months.'

  Lasser looked down and smiled across the desk. 'So the treatment doesn't work?'

  'We do what we can, Sergeant,' Rowbottom snapped in reply. 'Once they leave the safety of these four walls they're back on the treadmill. No jobs, no prospects, in the end it's inevitable the majority will fall back into old ways.'

  'Tell me, could this man have been here in the past,' Lasser tapped a finger on the photofit.

  'Hard to tell, I mean, I've only been here six months. I transferred over from Warrington when Doctor Fleming retired.'

  'How would I get in touch with this Doctor Fleming?'

  Rowbottom pursed his lips. 'Well, when he retired, he bought a canal barge, but as for his exact location I'm afraid I couldn't say.'

  'So, you have no contact details on record?'

  'I'm afraid not, you see when he bought the boat, he sold his house. Apparently he wanted the nomadic lifestyle, and after working here for thirty years I can't say I blame him.'

  Lasser slapped his knees and stood up. 'Right, well, thanks for your help.'

  'Not a problem.'

  Somewhere in the distance someone started to scream, a high-pitched wail that seemed to stretch on forever and then others joined in, a cacophony of sound that grated on the nerves. It reminded Lasser of the monkey house at the zoo.

  'It sounds as if someone's upset,' he said.

  Rowbottom grimaced. 'In here, Sergeant, someone is always upset.'

  34

  Shaun strode along the pavement, the tips of his boots gleaming, eyes downcast. When he reached the junction, he looked up in surprise and turned left.

  His mother had rung at six o'clock, her voice desperate and quivering with pent-up emotion. Shaun had listened for twenty minutes as she talked about his dead wife and child. In the end, he'd told her he was going away for a couple of days, and she'd cried hysterically at the suggestion.

  After calming her down and promising that he wouldn't do ''anything stupid'', he'd taken the bedding still coated with dried blood and burned it in the back garden, watching as the flames consumed the sheets. Now he was simply walking, it didn't matter how far or which direction, he would walk until exhaustion took over, and then he would lie down and try to sleep in an effort to keep the nightmares at bay.

  Adjusting the rucksack on his back, he flicked the rain from his eyes and looked up, 'Help me find my mystery saviour.' He blinked and read the words again; they were scrawled in black marker strapped to a sandwich board outside the newsagents. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and walked into the shop.

  35

  Lasser sucked the last of the milk shake up the straw, making a sound like a blocked drain.

  'I want you to get onto British Waterways, find out the name of the boat, and see if they have any idea where Fleming is.'

  'But how will I do that?'

  'Give them his name; tell them it's urgent police business, they should be able to provide the rest.'

  'OK,' Susan nibbled at a chicken nugget, like a bird
pecking at a tasty morsel.

  Lasser checked his watch and grimaced, three-fifteen. Medea would be strolling around Tesco, getting the shopping in. By the time he arrived home it would be another meal burnt to a crisp, another reason for Medea to kick him into touch.

  'I wonder what the killer's doing now?'

  He looked at Coyle in surprise. 'What?'

  She dropped the half-eaten nugget back into the box. 'DCI Bannister wants us to check the rest of the takeaways in town, right?'

  Lasser popped a handful of fries into his mouth. 'Go on.'

  'Well, why do we have to wait until tonight? Wouldn't it more sense to go to these places now and just knock on the door?'

  Lasser frowned, she was right; it was obvious the killer moved around at night, so during the day he was probably holed-up, charging the batteries for another night of fun. If he were staying above a shop, then chances are he wouldn't be walking through the restaurant to get to his hovel. The flat would have a separate entrance, probably around the back of the premises.

  'Right, finish your dinner.' Lasser started the car.

  'Where are we going?'

  'To check out your theory, and well done, it's not often I get a new recruit who can think for themselves, you should go far. Just don't forget your mates when you reach the dizzy height of Chief Inspector.'

  She smiled and dipped the nugget into the small pot of ketchup. 'Don't worry I won't.'

  36

  Graham was beyond furious; he'd already had his mother on the phone demanding to know what was going on. She'd read the newspaper article down the phone verbatim, a kind of sly relish in her voice. Graham had listened with a growing sense of disbelief before slamming the phone down and dashing to the newsagents to buy a copy of the paper, sneaking in and out of the shop as if he were purchasing hard-core pornography.

  Now he sat at the kitchen table – the blood thundering through his head – the image of his wife and her stupid slut friend spread out before him. It was no wonder she was refusing to answer her phone.

  For the first time, he was starting to think Erin could turn out to be a liability. She knew how important his job was to him. At twenty-eight he was up for promotion, the chance of a lifetime. More money, more benefits, and here she was jeopardising all his hard work. If this got back to the office he'd be a laughing stock. The board might think his home life chaotic, his wife unstable, and then they'd probably give the promotion to someone like Williams. The thought turned his stomach, cut through his brain like a hotwire.

  Snatching up his mobile, he jabbed at the keypad and listened. 'It has not been possible to connect your call.' With a snarl, he slammed it onto the table.

  He sat rigid at the kitchen table – nostrils flared – trying to decide what to do.

  'Right, we'll see about this!' Grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, he headed for the door. If he had to drag her home, he'd do it; it was time to put his foot down. As for Sarah Palmer, well by the time he'd finished with her, she wouldn't ever have the nerve to show her face again.

  Slamming the front door, Graham stalked down the path and climbed into the car, his face livid, his brain frazzled. Starting the engine, he drove down the street, his hands locked on the steering wheel, eyes glaring.

  Time to get this ship back on course, he nodded, he liked the sound of that. Over the years he'd let things slip, given Erin too much leeway and she'd abused his good nature. Yes, well, not for much longer, he would make sure of that.

  37

  Lasser looked out over a vista of slate roofs and television aerials, the streets were gridlocked with teatime traffic. In the distance he could see Mesnes Park, scaffolding still embraced the building where they'd found the body of Marsha Rimmer.

  'What are you looking for?'

  Lasser squinted as the wind battered the top floor of the multi-storey car park. 'I haven't a clue.'

  Placing her arms on the railings, Susan took in the uninspiring view. 'Do you have any idea how many curry houses there are in this town?'

  Lasser tried to do a quick calculation and then gave up. 'It's got to be at least fifteen, maybe more.'

  'So, where do you want to start?'

  'Well, we can discount the Bombay Palace and the Curry Pot, so we'll go down to King Street and work our way back to the centre of town.'

  They took the lift down to ground level; the stale tang of urine mingled with cheap disinfectant filled the small, metal box. Susan crinkled her nose at the onslaught and blushed when Lasser grinned at her.

  'Ah, the smell of a northern town, lovely isn't it?'

  The doors rattled open and they exited into the deserted shopping mall. Most of the shops had closed down, the windows smeared with whitewash.

  'This place gives me the creeps, it's like one of those films where everyone disappears.' Susan said.

  'It used to be heaving until they opened the Grand Arcade; then the council upped the rent on this place to squeeze out the little guys.'

  The sound of their shoes echoed along the deserted walkway. 'Are you always so angry?'

  Lasser looked at her in surprise. 'I just can't see the point in having all these empty shops. I mean, why not drop the rent and get some business back into the town.'

  'Times are tough all over.'

  Lasser fiddled with the fake cigarette in his pocket. 'Agreed, but I can guarantee someone would have made a fortune from suffocating this place.'

  'You don't know that.'

  'Believe me, behind every shady deal there's a scumbag making a fortune.'

  Up ahead they could see people milling past the entrance to the empty mall.

  Lasser grimaced. 'Look at them it's as if they've forgotten this place exists.'

  They emerged as the first spattering of rain hit the pavements, crossing the pedestrian zone they made their way towards King Street. In every pub doorway there was someone smoking a cigarette. Lasser eyeballed a huge, rough-looking man in his early twenties; as they approached, the man grimaced before spitting a glob of phlegm onto the pavement.

  'Afternoon, Kyle, have you learned to read and write yet?' Lasser clocked the shocked look on Susan's face.

  'Fuck off.'

  Lasser shook his head. 'Still using the same old vocabulary I see.'

  Susan watched as Kyle's face creased in confusion, brows coming together to meet in the middle. 'What the fuck are you on about, Lasser?'

  'So, how's your little drugs empire coming along, still trying to pass Cillit Bang off as top-grade cocaine?'

  The man suddenly looked nervous. 'I don't know what you're on about.'

  Lasser jabbed out a finger. 'You know; your father would be proud of the way you've turned out.'

  The frown deepened. 'I never knew my old man.'

  'Oh yeah I'd forgotten, you're a bastard, aren't you Kyle?'

  Lasser moved away, whistling tunelessly. Susan kept glancing towards him, as if trying to work out what had just happened.

  'That man back there…'

  'Kyle Connelly, forget about him, he's a backstabbing weasel with no morals.'

  'But the way you spoke to him…'

  'What about it?'

  'Well, what if he puts in a complaint?'

  Lasser stopped outside the Shay takeaway and studied the menu taped to the inside of the window. 'Connelly would never complain.'

  'But how can you be sure?'

  'Because he knows I'd beat the shit out of him if he did.' Lasser treated her to a wolfish grin.

  The smile might have been on his lips but Coyle noticed it got nowhere near his eyes.

  38

  Graham hammered on the door until his knuckles throbbed, the anger rising with every blow. When he saw the distorted figure through the frosted glass, he took a step back and waited to put the record straight.

  'Who is it?'

  'Erin, open the door.'

  He heard the rattle of the chain, the door swung open.

  'What do you want, Graham?' she looke
d disappointed as if she'd been expecting someone else.

  'I'll tell you what I want, I want you to pack your bag and get in the car.'

  Next door's cat leapt onto the fence, a sparrow clamped between its jaws.

  'That won't be happening.' Erin said and went to close the door.

  'I've seen the paper.'

  'We don't get the free paper so how…'

  'My mother rang me.'

  Erin smiled sadly. 'I bet she couldn't wait to spread the news.'

  'Yes, well, I'm glad she did. Now get your things…'

  'I've told you, Graham, I'm going nowhere.'

  Graham looked at the floor, his teeth clamped together in anger. This wasn't going to plan, how could he have imagined she would simply buckle under the pressure and follow him down the drive like a lapdog.

  'I'm staying here. I'm sorry, Graham, but…'

  'Look, Sarah doesn't need you here and besides it's not as if having sex with strangers is a new concept for her is it?'

  Erin looked at her husband as if seeing him for the first time, the thin pinch of his lips, and the sneer in his eyes. 'Go away, Graham, I won't be coming back, not today, not next week, not ever.'

  'Oh that's right is it?'

  She watched as his chest inflated with bombast.

  'Well, we'll see about that,' reaching out he tried to grab her arm and she snatched it away.

  'Don't touch me,' she hissed.

  'Erin, is everything all right.'

  At the sound of Sarah's voice, Graham lunged forward and tried to push his wife out of the way, but Erin wasn't for budging. Instead, she planted her hands against his chest and thrust him back. Graham staggered, one foot squelching into the waterlogged flowerbed.

  'If you don't leave right now I'll call the police!' she spat.

  Suddenly Graham could see himself the way she was seeing him. Nothing more than a schoolyard bully who had suddenly met his match.

  'But…'

  The door slammed in his face and the heavens opened. Rain trickled down the collar of his jacket; Graham could feel it hitting the bald spot on top of his head. All the fury suddenly drained away, washed down the drive by the deluge and into the gutter.