by David Scott
“So, our killer.” Dan began, returning his attention to the case. “Let’s go over this again. We must be missing something. Where are we? What do we know?”
“We have nothing, Chief. No fingerprints, no hair, no blood, no DNA traces, no video footage or other recordings. We are chasing a ghost.” Luke said flatly.
“We do have the messages,” Dan ventured, “which at least provide us with a pseudonym, and an insight into the killer’s psyche. We know that he or she calls themselves Pulcinella. That they want people to appreciate the value of life. That they intend to keep killing as many people as possible on the last day of each month. But our team has not been able to give us any concrete leads based on this so far.”
“Do you think it is a man or a woman, Chief?”
“I really don’t know, Luke. These crimes are so physical and violent, that you would suspect a man, but women can be equally as strong and brutal.”
“Yeah, you don’t need to tell me that, Chief, my ma has a black belt in karate. I learnt some of my best moves from her. It could be a group, given the numbers involved. I don’t see how a singleton could pull off such mass killings. It could be some kind of cult, given the messages left.”
“I agree. I think there must be a number of people involved here. Hopefully, this gives more scope for errors to be made, which will help us to catch them. So far though, their work has been meticulous. But then why use a singular person sign-off? It doesn’t suggest a group is involved.”
The truth was, Dan could not say anything for certain. He moved on to his next thought.
“The weapons used are interesting. Knives, guns, electrification, brute force, suffocation and gas. It seems every method to kill someone has been tried. Maybe they are experimenting? Or maybe the group all have different preferences or skills? There is no obvious pattern.”
Dan looked across the lake, and then back at Luke. He continued, “What about the locations? We have the housing estate and this lake. They are not too far from one another.”
“So, they must be moving around by vehicle?” Luke ventured.
“I think so. The ferry points are only reachable by road or foot, and they are quite a distance from town. The cul-de-sac is not near any public transport links. The teams are already going through nearby video footage but have not come across anything obvious. All of the vehicles on the ferry are accounted for, and nothing suspicious has been found yet. Unsurprising really, as both of these areas tend to be relatively busy. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.”
“Where do you think might be hit next, Chief?” Luke asked, knowing they could not predict this but hoping Dan might somehow know.
“Well, there have been only two incidents so far. They were within about a day’s drive from one another, and the second was to the west. Assuming a similar pattern will be repeated, we should probably move base.”
“I agree, Chief. It won’t make much difference if we are wrong. We can always take a flight back.” Luke replied, keen to show support.
Dan flung another piece of bread on to the lake, further out this time, trying to reach the smaller ducks at the back who were either fearful of approaching them or scared to compete with the larger birds.
“Criminals always slip up and make mistakes, sooner or later. Or their desire to be famous consumes them, and they confess. This will be no different. One way or another, Pulcinella will be caught.” Dan said confidently, trying to reassure both himself and his new recruit.
“One last thing, Luke.” Dan said, almost casually.
“Yes, Chief?”
“Please stop calling me Chief. Dan is just fine.”
Luke blushed a little, and nodded, “Ok, Dan.”
“Good. Now we had better get going, although I am not sure where to yet.”
SEVEN
The small, oval carriages of the cable car swayed slowly in the breeze, like a row of hypnotic pendulums. Then they danced around a familiar circuit, coupled and held aloft by a thick, old chain. A mechanical parade of differing coloured cages pirouetting in an infinite loop. Reliably going up the mountain, and coming back down again, repeatedly, for many years.
John pushed his cold hands into his skinny blue jeans, and watched as cable car number seven spun slowly around the giant mechanical cog, and approached the line of people waiting to ascend.
Four women hurriedly got in to the car together.
“Move along Jennifer. You’re sitting right in the middle!” Margie said commandingly.
“Margie stop pushing me.” Jennifer snapped back.
“Lucy, Shirley, get on quick!” Margie shouted loudly.
It heaved from side-to-side, as they jumped aboard; being relatively small, the carriage did not take much force to start it swinging to-and-fro.
The doors closed automatically, entrapping them for their own safety. And up they soared. Higher and higher.
John could see their smiles and hear their giggles, as nervous excitement took over their emotion.
Like any fairground ride or airplane flight, you know there is a risk of death. Something could go wrong. The doors might open, and you could fall out. Or the chain may grind to a halt, leaving you high in the sky, unreachable, with no easy way down. Even worse, the wires could break and the whole carriage could plummet to earth, surely killing you.
John could feel his stomach churning, filling with dread, as he thought of the various ways this one decision, this one ride might lead to the end of his life. He stood aside to let the young couple behind him take his place, so he was at the back of the queue again.
John knew that he shouldn’t listen-in to private conversations but he couldn’t help himself, desperate for any distraction.
“Will you dance with me tonight Brad? If the band is good, of course.”
The young girl lifted herself up and down on the balls of her feet, the gummy bottoms of her white plimsolls bending and reshaping on demand, holding both of his hands in hers for balance. Her daffodil yellow dress, flowing gently back and forth as she rocked. Dark blonde hair floating over her shoulders. Blue eyes staring intently at him, otherwise blind to their surroundings.
Brad draped his navy denim jacket over her shoulders, and rested his hands on both of her shoulders. They were now standing face-to-face, looking at each other, pupils dilating with lust.
The young man scratched the top of his head anxiously at the suggestion, ruffling up his side-parting. He had clearly made an effort for the evening, wearing smart brown fashion shoes, with tan chinos and a navy blue, collar button-downed, shirt.
“Oh, don’t ask me to do that Lola, you know I hate dancing. I’m terrible at it. Everyone laughs at me when I dance.” Brad pleaded pathetically.
“No, you’re really good!” Lola insisted, “Remember Steve’s wedding? Remember how no one was dancing, so you got up and made people join in. There wasn’t a space left on the dancefloor by the end of the night. All thanks to you. You were the life and soul of the party. Everyone said so.” Lola flattered, over eagerly.
Brad remembered the evening well. Steve was one of his best friends but, since he had started dating Lola, they rarely saw each other; there were just not enough hours in the day to fit everything in, and time just flew by without them seeing one another.
Steve had not chosen Brad to be his best man, a decision which Brad secretly welcomed. It was not that he did not love Steve, or did not want to take on the role, no, it was for the selfish reason that Brad would have felt so much guilt if he had been asked. The thought of Steve having no one else to choose other than him would really mean that Brad had abandoned Steve; left him alone with no other meaningful friends. At least Brad knew that Steve had someone else. And while the thought of being replaced as Steve’s best friend did cause him sorrow, Brad was also a pragmatist; he accepted that people and relationships change, and life moves on. He had Lola now.
Brad and Lola had chosen a joint present from the wedding list; an impersonal
and perishable toaster, with only one year’s warranty. It didn’t say much about their friendship. How Steve had stood by Brad when he was bullied at school; sat in the front row when he was awarded the most improved student award; spent nearly every Saturday night of their teens at the movies together; held each other when another friend died of cancer.
Brad guessed it was natural to drift apart, but the wedding seemed a stark reminder of how they had changed, and were no longer close. Their only interaction on the day itself being an awkward hug, a pat on the back, and a simple statement, “Well done mate.”
The embarrassment of an empty dancefloor, after the wedding dance, and Steve’s anxious face, was enough of a catalyst to prompt Brad to act.
Grabbing Lola, after downing a large glass of Chardonnay, he strode purposefully to the empty stage. Getting people on to the dancefloor was the least he could do, and might just salvage the relationship.
Steve seemed pleased, and Brad’s conscience was temporarily pacified.
Brad regretted not making more of an effort, thinking to himself how he really must get in touch after this break. The wedding, however, had stirred his romantic side and the need for settlement. He decided to save up some money for a ring, so that he could propose to Lola.
“I know you’re just buttering me up to get your own way. You want to dance and won’t get up on your own. I’m wise to your tactics young lady!” Brad grinned, as he squeezed her shoulders tenderly.
“If you loved me you would do it.” Lola quickly retorted, “Aren’t you the one who always says you would do anything for me? Well, now is the time to prove it. Have a few beers and you’ll be fine. There won’t be that many people up there anyway. Certainly no one that you would care to impress.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He groaned and sighed but had given Lola an opening.
“Please, please, please, please. Go on, go on, go on. Say yes! Please!” Lola pleaded, in an ever-increasingly high-pitched voice.
“Oh ok,” Brad acquiesced, partly to stop her shrieking and also because he really did love Lola, and would do anything for her, “But you owe me. And you know what I mean by that.”
Brad raised his eyebrows up and down suggestively, before leaning forward and kissing her. They parted briefly for air, before going back in for a deeper kiss.
John moved around in an over-pronounced fashion; uncomfortable, trying to remind them of his presence. His embarrassment was soon spared. The couple boarded the next carriage, and their romance was swept away up, up, and away into the misty mountain tops.
No one else was around now but, given the number of people John had already let pass him in the line, he suspected others would soon turn up.
Empty carriages tenderly enticed him as they passed, seemingly calling to him with their siren whispers as they tip-toed by, opening their doors for him, and then closing them and continuing on their empty journey alone, as John spurned their advances.
This was a double peril; not only did John have a fear of heights, he also hated small spaces. But his sweetheart, Bernadette, was playing a live gig in the café at the top, and he was determined not to miss it.
The café was a cosy little place that tried to drum up additional business by transforming itself from a traditional eatery during the day, into a bar with a view at night; although it avoided naming itself as such, preferring the classier moniker of a ‘jazz café’.
There was still a good hour or so to go before the performance. John closed his eyes and took some deep breaths, flaring his nostrils rather dramatically as he did so, hoping the biting, cold air would numb his fears.
John was determined not to let his weaknesses get the better of him, and concentrated hard on how pleased Bernadette would be to see that he had come to hear her sing.
John psyched himself up, constantly telling himself he could do it, and to get on with it. That he was being silly, and would be perfectly safe. He could not be shamefully overtaken in the queue again.
He worried that people coming down from the mountain might wonder what he was doing. Standing there alone. Or, worse, might realise his fear and mock him for being such a coward.
But no one came down. Anyone left up there was probably at the bar. After all it was dark and the usual hikers would have long since finished their walks, and would now probably be soaking in a hot tub or feasting in one of the nearby restaurants.
John steeled himself. His lucky number, two, advanced towards him. This was it. A leap of faith.
John’s face went pale as the metal door slid shut. He started shaking, like a scared animal, and stared blankly at the empty seat in front of him; straight faced and level-lipped.
The cable car jolted forward with gusto, happy with its prey. Up, up and away.
John noticed that the number on the car running parallel to him, coming back down, seemed to have red paint splashed all over it. Maybe it was car 13, and the owners of the cable car system had decided to cover over the digits to stop people avoiding the portent of bad luck.
The journey continued. John did not move a muscle, except to occasionally glance around at the supporting structures, trying to convince himself that everything was fine. He certainly did not look down to the tree tops far below the bottom of the carriage.
Creaks and groans must be expected, John thought to himself, as the contraption bore its heavy load noisily onwards towards the end of yet another exhausting day of work. John almost wished that he had company to take his mind off the ascent but, then again, it would have been embarrassing for someone else to see him like this.
John closed his eyes, trying to remember the meditation techniques he had learnt when he had been forced to take an airplane flight. It was the only way he could get to his mother’s bedside before she died, and probably the only thing that would have got him on-board an airplane. The stewards had helpfully tried to calm him, and showed him some simple breathing techniques. He felt guilty at how his feelings of terror had quickly surpassed those of grief.
Meanwhile, the women in car number seven were nearing the summit, and performing a final check of the area to ensure that they had their phones and bags ready to exit.
The weather had been unseasonably hot, and their choice of light jackets now seemed to be a mistake, as the high altitude and lack of clouds allowed the heat to escape to the heavens, leaving a desperately cold chill.
They sat close together, not only due to the small-sized bench but also to keep warm, talking constantly.
They had tired of the limited night views, the twinkling town and fairy light windows, after about ten seconds. Returning to the many dramas of the day. Talking but not really listening to one another. Impatiently awaiting the opportunity to tell their own anodyne anecdote.
“Oh, I do hope Gracie will be ok.” Jennifer said with unnecessary urgency, interrupting the current conversation.
All Jennifer ever talked about was her children. It was as though they had consumed Jennifer’s life, leaving her with no other discussion point. A robotic nanny, with repetitive rhymes.
This was close to the truth. Jennifer had seemingly forgotten herself, as though in a fog of dementia. Previously cherished interests jettisoned. No one would ever know that she was close to going to the Olympics to represent her country in the Pentathlon. Or that she could sing like an angel, and dance like the devil.
No, now it was just constant concern for her vacuous offspring, who were generally disliked, having lost any opportunity to develop reasonably adjusted personalities due to the suffocating cocoon Jennifer had spun around them; they had been smothered by her protection.
“I felt really bad leaving her tonight, seeing as how she has a science exam tomorrow. Mind you, she is one of the brightest in the class. That is not my subjective bias, the teacher told me so. I think she will be ok but I do worry that she might get stressed tonight, and not eat anything. And you know what my husband, Roger, is like. He won’t even think to check-in with her. Too busy watching yet
another repeat of some tedious television program or reading his astronomy books.” Jennifer said in one, long sentence.
“My Jack is the same.” Margie piped-up, keen to take the lead again, “All he has to do is walk the dog, and he even forgets to do that. Jogging bottoms on, feet up, and then nothing. What an existence. I keep telling him to get out more but he’s too set in his ways. And the weight he has put on. I swear all he does is eat. Really, that’s why I am encouraging him to get any form of exercise he can. If a lap around the park with Jo-Jo is all he’ll do, it’s better than nothing. Of course, ladies, we all know what the best form of exercise is, don’t we?”
All four women chuckled, like canned laughter in a sitcom, at Margie’s obvious insinuation.
“Sure, we do.” Margie continued, “But you don’t think he is interested in any of that nowadays. Well, unless it’s with Madame Palm and her endless harem of internet lovers.”
More embarrassed laughter. Margie said what she wanted, unimpeded by a kind nature.
“Honestly, I am not interested in sex anymore, so it doesn’t bother me.” Margie gave an exaggerated yawn, “I am much happier soaking in a deep bath with my candles, and some relaxing music. Much better than spending time with Jack. I think he prefers his own company anyway.”
“I’ve not had much luck on the relationship front either, Margie. All the women on my dating site seem to be after only one thing.” Everyone looked at Shirley, allowing a pregnant pause, before she continued, “Honestly, you lot have such dirty minds! I am talking about a deep and meaningful relationship. I had that with Dora for 15 years, only to be left for a younger model. Now I would just like some company, and to have a bit of fun.”
They had all heard this story countless times but still gave the pretence of listening.
“Well, you all know that Dora told me that I had changed and she no longer loved me,” Shirley looked down at her fumbling hands before raising her head with an indignant look, “Well, what did she expect? No one can stay the same forever. I think she just wanted to revisit her past glories. Some sort of mid-life crisis, if you ask me, and my having ‘changed’ was just an excuse.”