Death Rites

by Wendy Cartmell

  After a quick stop at an unsupervised rubbish tip, Bullock drove back to Aldershot with the windows open and the car radio tuned to Jazz FM. It was his favourite radio station and the one that his wife had hated the most. He was beginning to find out how truly liberating it was to be on his own. No nagging wife. No grovelling assistant.

  He was just thinking that his life had at last turned a corner, and that the only way was up, when his mobile phone began buzzing in his jacket pocket. Pulling off the road, just in case it was work calling, he stopped the car and looked at the screen. His good mood dissolved in an instant. The call was from his wife’s parents. As the mobile buzzed angrily at Bullock, he wondered why they wouldn’t stop pestering him. They were constantly asking for him to help them since his wife had mysteriously disappeared from their lives. They were starting to think that Enid’s illness, which meant she was unable to see them, was suspicious. Their frail voices warbled through the phone, moaning at him, asking what they should do about this, that and the other. Carping on that they needed help. Just like Clay. I need help. We need help. Everybody fucking needed his help.

  Well he was sick of it. Sick of it all, sick of them both and he threw the mobile onto the passenger seat without answering the call. He grabbed at the key in the ignition intending to start the car, when a thought struck him. They needed help. Just like Clay had needed help. The kind of help that only he could provide. Bullock smiled and his eyes lost focus as he turned over the possibilities in his mind.

  52

  With a plan more or less worked out, DS Bullocks stopped at the first petrol station he came to. Sauntering into the shop and whistling like he didn’t have a care in the world, he picked a bright red petrol can from the display shelves and took it over to the counter.

  “Run out of petrol have you?” asked the boy behind the till. Or at least Bullock thought it was a boy. Who knew any more, when many of the teenagers wore androgynous clothes and both sexes wore make up.

  “No, not me, I’d never do that. It’s for the lawn mower.”

  The boy looked out of the window where storm clouds were gathering and it was clearly about to rain.

  “The forecast is good for tomorrow,” Bullock said.

  “Whatever. You want any petrol with that?”

  Bullock bit the inside of his cheek to stop him uttering the sarcastic comment that he’d have trouble using the petrol lawn mower without it, and simply nodded instead.

  “Which pump?”

  “Number two, five pounds of unleaded petrol.”

  Bullock was still cross with the bloody idiot behind the till and so wasn’t concentrating when he was filling the can and as a result splashed petrol over his shoes. Jerking the nozzle free of the can in disgust caused him to spray his brown suit with petrol. Irritated that he’d have to take it to the dry cleaners tomorrow, he looked down at the petrol stains that were spreading along his leather shoes and he realised he’d have to wear a dry pair of shoes as well as dry clothes, but couldn’t remember if he had any black ones to go with his spare grey suit. With his worries about shoes and suits going round and round in his brain, he stowed the can in the boot and drove away, opening the windows so he wouldn’t die from the petrol fumes that were filling the car, emanating from his shoes and clothes.

  Despite the smell of petrol, he began to feel a bit peckish and he realised he hadn’t really eaten properly since he’d turned on Enid, well killed Enid he supposed he should call it and noticing a McDonalds near to the petrol station, he drove around to the fast food outlet. Taking off his jacket and leaving it behind in the car, he walked in and queued up for food. He was thinking of the shock on Enid’s face as she’d slithered, dead, to the floor and a manic giggle escaped him, causing the server to give him a strange look. Recognising that he needed to be more careful and couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself, Bullock chose a table well away from anyone else and enjoyed his big mac and large fries, topped off with a chocolate milk shake, in peace. As he ate he looked out of the large plate glass windows and saw it was dark. He looked at his watch. 9pm. Excellent, they’d be going to bed soon.

  Putting his discarded wrappings in the bin and his tray on the top of it, he left the McDonalds and returned to his car. Looking in the rear view mirror as he smoothed down his hair, he once again giggled with glee, but this time out loud as he was alone. Everything was great. Everything was going according to plan. Just this one last job and he’d be free. Free and clear. His mouth stretched in a grin and his eyes danced with delight.

  A few hours later, the job was done and he was running across the grass in the back garden which was lit by the crackling flames. He slipped through the gate in the fence and walked to his car, which was parked in the shadows a little way down the road. He allowed himself a little skip in his step, feeling as happy as a child capering home after an arduous day at school. No one would be able to tell on him now. There was no one left to.

  Sitting in the car and before he turned the key, he allowed himself a moment of reflected glory. How clever he’d been, he thought to himself. He’d silenced Enid, then Clay and now the old folk. He’d rid himself of anyone who could identify him, or tell on him. They were all dead, and that included the child who’d died of an overdose of ketamine.

  His good mood lasted all the way home, where he made a cup of tea and then watched the 24 hour news channel whilst sipping it. It wasn’t until he was showered and in bed that he realised what he’d forgotten. Or rather who he’d forgotten. Hope, or Bethany, or whatever the hell they called her. She was still alive and he still couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen him without his hood on. He was fairly certain that she hadn’t and smiled in satisfaction and turned over in bed, pulling the duvet up over his shoulders and spread out his legs, now that Enid was no longer in the way and taking up far more than her fair share of the bed.

  No, he was safe. He was sure of it. Wasn’t he?

  53

  Crane hated house fires; he had ever since Sgt Barnes had died in one a few years back. It had taken a long time to get the sight of Barnes’ body, twisted and burned to a crisp, with clawed hands and bent limbs, out of his mind. And here he was at the scene of another one, limping his way from the car behind Anderson towards the house. Luckily the fire was in a detached property, so there had been little chance of the fire spreading to the other houses in the street, but they had all been evacuated as a precaution. People were stood around in their night clothes in the early morning chill, pulling dressing gowns around their cold bodies, stamping feet and rubbing hands, their breath making eerie plumes of mist which hung around their heads in wisps as they spoke to each other.

  As Crane and Anderson approached the front door of the burnt out house, Major Martin the local pathologist based at Frimley Park Hospital emerged, his protective white suit smudged black on the legs and arms from where he’d moved around the scene.

  “Morning, Major,” called Anderson.

  “Oh, morning, Derek, Crane,” the Major said as he walked towards them, his large case bumping against his leg.

  “What have we got?” asked Anderson, pulling out a handkerchief and holding it to his nose as the acrid smell of burnt wood, plastic and flesh reached them.

  Crane pulled a jar of Vicks from his pocket and after swabbing his nostrils with the clear menthol smelling gel, offered the jar to Anderson.

  “Two dead. Extensive damage to the house. The fire brigade are fairly certain an accelerant was used, probably petrol.”

  “Cause of death?” asked Crane.

  “Really?” said the Major.

  “Really,” answered Crane.

  “There’s no way to tell until I get them on the table, as you well know.”

  Crane grinned in reply. He’d missed the banter with his old colleague and it felt good to be back in the harness again, pulling on his role like a well-worn but favourite suit. When a military detective, Crane had enjoyed working with Major Martin who, upon retirement from th
e Army, had transferred to Frimley Park Hospital in a civilian role.

  “Any idea who they are?” asked Anderson from behind his hankie.

  “The occupants of the house, sir,” said DC Douglas as he approached them. “An elderly couple, one male, one female.”

  “Exactly,” confirmed the Major. “Right, I’m off for a shower and change of clothes.”

  “Post mortem?” asked Crane.

  “Jesus, did you really have to come back to work, Crane? Oh, all right 2pm sharp. And don’t be late or I’ll start without you,” and with a rustle and bustle of self-importance, he waddled away.

  “Douglas,” Anderson said. “Any idea who the victims are?”

  “Yes, sir,” Douglas replied consulting his notebook. “Mr and Mrs Underwood, according to the next door neighbour.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Crane.

  “An older lady with rollers in her hair and wearing a pink dressing gown. There she is,” Douglas pointed her out, “just going back into her house.”

  The crowd was beginning to disperse as the fire brigade had confirmed that there was no longer a danger to nearby properties and everyone was making their slow way home. It seemed they were lingering, as though not wishing the excitement over, despite the chill air.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Olive Norman.”

  “Right, carry on interviewing the other residents, we’ll take Mrs Norman. Come on, Crane,” Anderson said.

  Mrs Norman seemed tickled pink that detectives had come to interview her. Standing in her doorway she said, “I’ve just spoken to a very nice young man. Is he with you lot?”

  “Indeed he is, Mrs Norman.”

  “You better come in then. Want tea?”

  “No you’re alright,” said Crane, negotiating the step with the help of his walking stick.

  “Sorry about the smell,” she said as she led them into her living room. “I expect it’s going to take ages to get it out of the house. Still,” she said sitting in what clearly was her favourite armchair as next to it was a high table with a mug on it and yesterday’s newspaper, “at least I’m alive, eh? Which is more than can be said for them next door,” and she wiped a tear away from her eye.

  “What can you tell us about your neighbours?” Anderson leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Crane was sat next to Anderson’s upright chair, but on a saggy settee that he wasn’t sure how he was going to get up from.

  “Nice couple, getting on a bit, you know? But they were lucky with their daughter.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Yes, she moved into the area so she could be on hand to help them. I’ve no children myself, so I expect it will be an old people’s home for me.”

  “Come now, Mrs Norman, that’s many years away yet I’m sure.”

  “Let’s hope so,” and she shifted her gaze to look out of the window. “I’ll miss my garden something rotten though.”

  “Um, to get back to next door?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry, always here she was, morning noon and night.”

  “She was?”

  “Yes, but thinking about it, I’ve not seen her for a few days now. Maybes a week. I did wonder where she was. I thought perhaps she was ill.”

  “What’s her name, Mrs Norman?” Crane could feel that old prickle on his arms, as though the hairs on his skin were waking up and beginning to smell a clue.

  “Her name? Only know her first name, Enid it is.”

  “When did she start coming on a regular basis?”

  “Oh about three months ago I’d say. Her and her husband had just moved down from Birmingham…..”

  “Thank you, Mrs Norman,” Anderson stood abruptly, signalling the end of the interview. “Someone will be in touch to take your statement, if that’s alright?”

  “Yes, yes, of course it is. Are you sure you have to go? A cup of tea?”

  “No, really, thank you all the same,” and Anderson turned for the door as Crane was still struggling to get up. At last he managed it and hobbling after Anderson down the path said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Damn right I am,” Anderson flung over his shoulder without slowing his stride. “Let’s get back to the station.”

  Crane had just hobbled up to the car when Anderson’s mobile rang.

  “It’s the office,” said Anderson, answering the call and putting it on speaker.

  “Guv, Holly here. Where are you?” the analyst’s voice crackled out of the mobile.

  “At the scene of the house fire. We’re just leaving now and will be at the station in about 20 minutes.”

  “Um, you might want to do a detour, sir.”

  Anderson and Crane looked at each other across the roof of the car.

  “Detour? What’s happened now?” Anderson asked and Crane was unable to stop the sinking feeling inside. He’d left the house while it was still dark that morning and despite the smell of the house fire he was really looking forward to a coffee and something to eat for breakfast from the police station canteen. But it seemed the dead weren’t finished with him and Anderson just yet.

  “A dead body,” she said, just as Crane feared.

  “Jesus Christ, another one?” he blurted.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Where’s the body?” asked Anderson.

  “Actually, it’s more a matter of who, as well as where, sir.”

  “Go on, make my day,” said Anderson but Crane noted that his friend’s sardonic smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “From the description given by the uniforms first on the scene, it’s that bloke we’re looking for, the second one to get that sulphur tattoo. His body has been found at the tip in Ash, thrown away like a piece of rubbish. A couple of fly tippers went to dump some building rubble and they’d had a bit of a shock when one of them fancied a rolled up carpet they’d found there. When they opened it to check the condition, they’d found a body instead of a few holes.”

  “Where’s DS Bullock?” Anderson asked.

  “Here in the office, sir.”

  “Get him to meet us there would you?”

  54

  Thrown away like a piece of rubbish, was about right, Crane decided as he and Anderson stood looking at the dead body of the man they’d been searching for. Just as Blake had told them, the tattoo of the sign of the sulphur was clearly visible on the man’s shoulder. The other thing that was clearly visible, was a piece of wood, which seemed attached to his head with rusty nails.

  “Is the Major on his way?” Crane asked looking towards the road in case he could see the Pathologist’s car.

  “Apparently so and he’s none too happy about it, as he’d just arrived back at the mortuary when the call out came.”

  Crane looked at his watch and saw that it was already 11 am. “This probably means the post mortem of the couple from the fire will be delayed. Still, this one is fairly clear cut,” said Crane turning to the body. “If the blow on the head hadn’t killed him, septicaemia from the rusty nails probably would have,” quipped Crane.

  “Can you see, Bullock? Come over here, man. What’s the matter with you?” Anderson asked his DS, who had just arrived and was hovering behind Crane.

  “Nothing, guv, I’ve seen enough.”

  Crane thought Bullock’s complexion had a bit of a green tinge to it as he turned to look at the man. “Don’t you think it interesting there’s not much blood on the carpet,” Crane pointed to it and moved out of the way so that Bullock had a clear view of the tatty old rug. And of the body.

  “Mm,” Bullock mumbled, his hand covering his mouth, as though he were about to throw up.

  “Killed somewhere else and then wrapped in the carpet and brought here,” Anderson said. “Don’t you think so, Bullock?”

  “Mm,” Bullock said again, and he took a few steps backwards.

  “Are you feeling alright?” Crane asked him.

  “Mm.”

  “Sure?”

  But Bullock didn’t reply, and as
Crane and Anderson watched he turned and legged it for his car, where he steadied himself with a hand on the bonnet as he threw up.

  “Must still be the effects of that dodgy prawn sandwich, don’t you think?” Crane said.

  “Either that or he’s allergic to dead bodies.”

  “Allergic to work, more like,” said Crane, not bothering to hide his disdain for the man.

  “He’s definitely a bit of a queer fish,” said Anderson. “I can’t make him out. He came from Birmingham with such good references.”

  Crane stilled. “He came from Birmingham, did you say?”

  “Bloody hell. Yet another connection.”

  “First the dead couple with a daughter the same name as Bullock’s wife and now we find he’s connected to Birmingham which is where the girls were taken from. They’ve got to be more than co-incidences, surely.”

  “I’d say so,” agreed Anderson. “But we’ve got no proof.”

  “Not yet,” said Crane watching Bullock chugging down some water as he leaned against his car.

  55

  Crane wasn’t sure why he was there. Surely the burnt and blackened corpses, that didn’t really look like people anymore, couldn’t tell them anything. He voiced that thought to Major Martin, his voice muffled by the mask he was wearing, which made the smell only slightly more bearable.

  “You’d be surprised, Crane.”

  “Alright, I’m prepared to be surprised,” but Crane’s doubt could be heard in his voice, even through the mask.

  He shifted slightly on the high stool on wheels that the Major’s assistant had brought for him to sit on. Crane was pathetically grateful for this small kindness which had made a great deal of difference to his pain. But being a proud man he could only bring himself to grunt his thanks.