Wednesday, April 10
Rene Hollitt was downstairs tied to the kitchen table. He’d snatched her earlier as she arrived home from work in the dark – it had been easy. Even though Fannie Binetti’s murder was being reported in the newspapers and on the television, Rene obviously hadn’t thought that she might be next.
After shaking himself he pulled up his zip and flushed the chain. As he washed his hands, he saw the man in the mirror. He wasn’t handsome, but then he wasn’t ugly either. He was just a plain man who now lived alone.
His mum had died last week. There were a few people at her funeral. He’d been polite even though he hadn’t known most of them. Some had been distant relatives who only seemed to appear at funerals, while others were her local friends who would disappear from his life now that she was dead. He had no friends. He kept himself to himself – always had done.
If his mother had still been alive, he would never have done what he was doing. She would never have allowed it. If she’d found out she would have grabbed him by the ear and marched him right down to the police station – and no two-ways about it.
‘Here, you can have him,’ she would say.
The police officer behind the desk would know her from a time when parents were parents, and a clip round the ear didn’t do them any harm.
‘Go on, Gary,’ she would order him, with her hands on her hips like a force of nature. ‘You tell that nice policeman what terrible things you’ve been doing to those lovely women – shame on you. And shame on me for bringing you into the world.’
He smiled at the thought of her, and tears welled in his eyes. ‘I miss you, mum.’
And he did miss her terribly. Her death had released him to move on with his life, but moving on meant that five women had to die.
She watched him as he entered the kitchen. Her eyes followed him, afraid of what he might do next. He was more prepared this time. The knives and other items were laid out on the worktop like a surgeon’s instruments in an operating theatre. And in his own way, he was a surgeon. He was cutting out the cancer from his life – one woman at a time.
‘Do you remember me?’
She shook her head.
In a way, the fact that they didn’t recall who he was made it that much worse.
‘Don’t worry, you soon will.’
As he cut her clothes up the middle with the scissors he said, ‘You’ve let yourself go.’ She used to have long blonde hair, a beautiful face and a slim figure. Now, her hair was short and pink, and her body was layered with rolls of fat. ‘I had a crush on you, you know, but I suppose most of the boys did as well.’ He let out a laugh. ‘I think we’ve all had a lucky escape.’
She wriggled and grunted as her jogging top and bra fell apart. The rolls of fat shuddered, and her breasts were pulled down left and right by gravitational forces.
‘Is it true you’re a lesbian now?’
She stared at him with tears in her eyes.
‘It’s sad to see what you’ve become, but soon it won’t matter. With your body in the condition it’s in, I should think you’ll be glad to die.’
Rene struggled against the ties.
‘Oh yes, you’re going to die – just like Fannie. First though, we must make things right between us.’
He yanked down her jogging bottoms and knickers.
‘You’ve pissed on my kitchen table and floor – how disgusting.’ He picked up the small kitchen knife. ‘Are you ready, Rene?’
It took him thirty-five minutes this time to carve the broken heart into her rolls of fat – practice makes perfect. And, if he was being honest, he was quite enjoying himself. There were no thoughts about what his mother might say, and no fear of her catching him being naughty again. She had caught him just that one time, but it had been enough to change his life forever. He had found a dirty magazine on the way home from school, smuggled it into the house and up to his bedroom. That night, looking at the pictures of naked women, he had masturbated and fallen asleep – sperm still splattered over his hand, the magazine and the bed sheet.
‘You filthy perverted child,’ his mother had screamed at him when she’d come into his bedroom to check on him.
He sat bolt upright wondering where he was and what was happening.
She had flogged him with a dripping wet towel.
He was too stunned even to defend himself.
‘No wonder your father left.’
He saw something in her eyes that night that he had never seen before and never saw again.
‘You’re the devil’s bastard, you dirty evil monster.’
The wet towel fell on his penis, his back, his face, his legs . . . he was drenched, and his skin burned as if he had descended into the fires of hell.
He begged her to stop, but she only stopped when he lay still sobbing. She took the magazine, locked him in his room and wouldn’t let him out for a week.
Yes, it was as if the shackles had been removed. Now, he could do anything he wanted without fear of retribution. He was free of the chains that had held him a prisoner all his life, free to choose his own path.
He finished his own initials and then carved hers – RH. After he’d made himself a coffee, he mopped the piss up from the floor. Once he’d disposed of the body, he’d have to come back and disinfect the whole kitchen. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but Rene Hollitt had turned out to be a major disappointment. Maybe he’d set his sights too high. He wondered if Yolanda Lusko had weathered the passing of years any better. Well, he’d find out tomorrow night.
Rene stirred and opened her eyes.
He smiled. ‘Remember me now, Rene?’
She nodded.
He picked up the large knife, and as he pushed the blade through a gap in her ribs and into her heart, he watched the light die in her eyes. ‘It’s important that you remember, Rene.’
Just like before, he disposed of the body in a waste bin behind a row of shops, but this time in Cadmore Lane, just off the High street in Cheshunt.
***
It was past midnight when two nurses wheeled Xena to the surgical ward on a gurney. After they’d made her comfortable, and commenced fifteen minute observations, he was allowed into the room. He pulled up a chair by the right side of the bed and held her hand – the back of her other hand looked like a junction box for needles and tubes.
He was so tired. Resting his forehead on the bed, he soon drifted off. He began dreaming that he was standing on a precipice looking out over a volcanic landscape – there were hot springs, geysers and strange looking animals . . ..
‘What the hell are you doing?’
He was being forced off that precipice, but he clung on with his fingertips. He felt disoriented. Where was he? Who was trying to cast him into the abyss? He jerked upright. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘I do not. I’m really happy you’re alive. How do you feel?’
‘You didn’t take advantage of me while I was unconscious, did you?’
‘I never would.’
‘Then why are you holding my hand like a guilty person?’
He let go of her hand. ‘I wasn’t watching your back. I should have seen what you were going through. I should . . .’
‘You should shut the hell up, numpty. Even I didn’t see it coming, so how could you?’
‘It’s all my fault. I knew you had hormone problems . . .’
‘All right.’
‘What?’
‘It was your fault. How much are you going to give me in compensation?’
‘I don’t think . . .’
‘Your crocodile tears don’t fool me, Stickamundo. You sit there holding my hand as if you care, but you’re not willing to share your millions with me.’
‘Jennifer sends her best wishes.’
‘Ha! I knew it. Tell her I probably won’t be coming round on Friday night now.’
‘It’s an open invitation, Sarge.’
‘I can see where this is going. You want me to join your harem, don’t you?’
‘You know me too well.’
‘So, have you solved the case yet?’
‘Oh! I forgot. You know I went back to the tattoo . . .’
‘Bloody hell – the press conference!’
‘It’s all right, I did it on my own.’
‘You did it? You took my press conference? Without me?’
‘They were waiting. I had no choice. I knew what you were going to say, anyway. I was nervous, but it went well.’
‘You could have postponed it until tomorrow.’
‘It’s already tomorrow.’
‘Well, there you go then. I’ll get out of here and we can get on with solving the case.’
‘I don’t think so, Sarge.’
‘What do you mean?’ She tried to push herself up.
‘If I were you, I would stay where you are. I’ll call the nurse.’
‘What’s going on, blockhead?’
‘You nearly died.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish. I fainted in the toilets, that’s all. I’m just glad I didn’t have my knickers round my ankles. I bet you’d have liked it if I had, wouldn’t you, pervert?’
‘When they brought you to the hospital, you were rushed to the operating theatre. The doctors spent over seven hours trying to save your life. It was touch-and-go for a long time.’
‘Where’s the camera? This is you getting your own back, isn’t it?’
‘There’s no camera, Sarge. You know I’m not like that.’
She put her hand under the bedclothes. ‘Someone had better have a good explanation for this cross-stitch across my perfectly flat stomach.’
‘I’ll call . . .’
She gripped his wrist. ‘You tell me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
He told her what the surgeon had said about endometriosis and removing her ovaries, fallopian tubes and uterus.
‘They went the whole nine yards then?’
‘Yes.’
‘I never wanted children anyway.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why are you sorry? You didn’t do the operation, did you?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Are you going to stay here all night? I’m sure there’s a cardboard box with your name on it somewhere.’
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘You’re not thinking of climbing in here with me, are you?’
A nurse came in to take Xena’s blood pressure, pulse and check the intravenous drip rate. ‘Ah, Miss Blake, how are you feeling?’
‘Can you get this stalker out of my room?’
‘I thought . . .’
Stick grinned. ‘She’s joking. The doctor should have removed her sense of humour as well. I’ll be back tomorrow, Sarge.’
‘I won’t be here. I have a one-way ticket to the Maldives.’
’You’ll be here, and so will I.’
To the nurse Xena said, ‘There is an escape committee, isn’t there?’
‘The doctor will be in shortly.’
‘Hasn’t he done enough damage?’
***
After interviewing the four plant workers from Winton’s factory, dealing with the Interpol Liaison Officer, the press officer from Police HQ, and Uncle Tom Cobley’s extensive family as well, it had been nearly nine o’clock when they got home last night.
All he could manage was a cold and crusty meal, a quick walk for the dog, and a passable impression of an exhausted man crawling into bed.
This morning he woke up at five. After his caffeine fix, he decided to shake the cobwebs off by walking Digby.
‘Maybe I should take you into work with me, old fella,’ he said as they headed along Puck Road. ‘I feel a bit guilty about leaving you on your own all day.’ He could tell the dog was listening, but training as a canine detective clearly wasn’t at the top of his to-do list at the moment. ‘Instead of Parish and Richards, it would be Parish and Digby.’
The dog barked.
‘Yes, I know you’d like it to be Digby and Parish, but as I’ve said to Richards on many occasions – I’m the Inspector. You’d have to learn the ropes first, then maybe we could discuss it.’
Digby obviously wasn’t impressed with the plan.
‘Also, I have to tell you this, and I’m not sure whether you’re going to like it, but I don’t think “Digby” is the right name for a detective. Maybe we could change it to something like “Wolf”, “Brutus” or possibly “Chainsaw”. What do you think, Dig?’
As usual, it was a one-sided conversation, but he would have to do something about Digby being on his own all day.
So, the favour for the Chief had swallowed up most of yesterday, but at least they’d solved the murder. In fact, they’d solved a lot more than they bargained for. Human meat! That was a broadside. They could all have been eating human meat without realising it. He shuddered thinking about it. Yes, the best said about that the better.
There were still a few loose ends, but they would be tidied up over the next couple of days. Someone had rung Crimestoppers and given up the assassin. There was an all-points bulletin out for Terry Merry – also known as Tom Steel – from the Crossways Estate in Bow, London. They still had to speak to Cookie – whoever she was – and find out what other skeletons she had discovered about Winton’s directors.
Today they’d have to get back to their main case, and the day was already mapped out. First, they’d pop into the station to brief the Chief, but that wouldn’t take long because they’d been speaking on the phone most of yesterday about the revelation at Winton’s. Next, they had to drive up to Billericay to see the adoptive parents of Fannie Binetti’s son. On the way back, they’d make a detour to Potters Bar to speak to Gareth Hayes, and that would fill up the day nicely.
Were they close to solving this case? Not really. They had one victim – Fannie Binetti, and unless Gareth Hayes was the killer they didn’t really have any other suspects. Oh, there was the issue of her son, but he wasn’t optimistic about that lead. The problem was the broken heart carved on Fannie’s abdomen – they hadn’t got to the bottom of that. What was it about? It was clearly personal. The killer had known Fannie, but who was it? They’d taken the word of her friend Jane Cole that there were no previous boyfriends with the initials GH, but maybe she was mistaken, or lying.
An then there was DS Blake. What was going on with her? Who would pick up the severed hand case? Would the Chief let DC Gilbert work that case on his own, or draft someone new in to take charge? Gilbert could work the case and report to him. He’d suggest that option to the Chief this morning.
Toadstone had been less than useless on this case so far. Maybe he was more interested in his date with Richards on Friday night than he was in finding evidence for the case. He’d pay him a quick visit in forensics and give him a boot up the arse this morning. That was the trouble with scientific types – unless you kept pointing them in the right direction they lost their way trying to figure out the meaning of the universe and everything in-between.
‘How’s that, Digby?’ He’d walked the dog for a good hour. He felt guilty. Dogs thrived on human contact, not being left alone in the house all day. It wasn’t as if the old fella could read a book, watch television, or take a stroll down the pub. He’d have to look at the local papers and see what was available.
‘You took your time,’ Richards said when he walked into the kitchen.
‘I didn’t realise you were timing me.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’m not sure that I do.’ He changed Digby’s water and scooped a meaty breakfast from a tin into the dog’s bowl.
‘What do you do out there for so long?’
‘Ah, I see. You think I’m meeting the lap dancer from No.15.’
‘I didn’t know there was a lap dancer at No.15.’
‘There isn’t, but that won’t stop you thinking there is.’
‘I was just wondering what took you so long, that’s all.’
‘Digby needs his exercise. I don’t see you getting off your fat arse to walk him.’
She was wearing her Children in Need Pudsey pyjamas and pulled the bottoms tight across her arse. ‘I haven’t got a fat backside.’
‘You do a lot of sitting down.’
‘I still haven’t got . . . And anyway, I could walk Digby.’
‘So, you’ll get up with him at five tomorrow morning.’
‘I didn’t say anything about the morning shift. I need my beauty sleep. I could walk him in the evening though.’
‘And what would I do while you’re walking Digby?’
‘You could put your feet up and relax. You’re not getting any younger, you know.’
‘I see. Let’s get back to your fat arse. Have you heard the expression “love handles”?’
‘I know you’re just teasing me. And anyway . . . You can’t have handles without love, and I don’t have any love.’
‘Not that old potato again. You’ll have Toadstone’s love on Friday night.’
‘Not that old potato again.’
‘Is there an echo in here?’
‘Do you remember that love scene in the film “Troy”?’
‘With Paris and Helen?’
‘No. Paris was a wimp. The one between Achilles and Brisēís.’
‘In Achilles’ tent?’
‘Yes, where he says: “You will never be lovelier than you are now,” and then he makes love to her. God, I cry every time I watch that scene.’
‘And you want to be part of a Greek tragedy?’
‘Yes.’ She finished her muesli, washed the bowl and spoon and shuffled into the hall.
‘You’re going to live a lonely life,’ he called after her.
‘I know,’ she said, trudging upstairs to get ready for work.