While he was dressing the next morning, impatient to get the hell out of this room that stunk of Slade and his own sweat, Trish came in to see him.
The tears were gone—had he dreamed them?—and her face was guarded again, although she smiled warmly at him and gave him a hug. She looked tired, and despite the careful air of concern, he got the impression she would rather be elsewhere. He couldn’t blame her for that. Her tears had been for what they had lost, not because she wanted him back. He looked at her, and returning her smile, wished she was someone else.
“How are you feeling now?” She hadn’t brought him anything, and he was kind of glad about that. The last thing he needed now was pretence.
He tied the laces on his boots and checked the room for any belongings before remembering he didn’t have any; they’d brought him straight here from the set and he hadn’t left any there either.
She tried again, “You must still be in shock. The nurse told me you have to take it easy for the next few days.”
He nodded, wondering if she was going to move back in, if only just to nursemaid him. He hoped she wouldn’t suggest it, or that they start again. It was too late for that. And was he too late? To save Jazz?
He followed Trish to the elevator, still unable to say anything to her.
“It’s all over the papers,” she said as they waited for the elevator. “All over the TV as well. Our house has been swarming with reporters.” Our house? “It must have been awful. I can’t even begin to think what it must have been like for you.”
“Don’t try,” he said, and it sounded harsher than he’d meant it to.
The doors opened and they entered the compartment. Trish pushed the button for the ground floor and for a moment there was silence between them.
“I came to visit, you know. Yesterday.”
“I know. I remember…vaguely.”
Neither of them could think of anything else to say.
They were waiting for him in the lobby. Hospital staff and police officers were doing their best to keep them back. Tommy waded through the reporters like they were a tide of filth, ignoring the barrage of questions. Outside, strong sunlight blinded him momentarily and the paps seized on his hesitation to surround him.
Trish held his hand, and he let her, suddenly glad she was there for the first time. “Leave him alone!” she shouted. But then a familiar face was pushing through the throng and ushering them towards the Bentley parked outside the hospital.
“Get in, quick,” Slade barked at Tommy, opening the back door. He glanced at Trish, hesitated, then said, “You can come, Mrs. Wallace, but I’ll be taking Tommy on a little journey and then over to the station. You would be better off at home.”
Tommy looked up at her as she waited on the kerbstone, indecision all over her face.
“It’s alright, Trish. I’ll be fine.”
She nodded briefly, and was that relief on her face? He was no longer her problem. If he had known he would never see her again he might have jumped back out and hugged her so tight, so very tight, and apologised for all the shit he’d put her through, all the minor infidelities, the flirting, the websites, the texts. Everything. He would have kissed her and begged if they could start again—Let’s make it work this time—and all those other things he could have, should have said and didn’t.
Trish watched the Bentley pull away, and wondered what the future held for her now.
She knew the marriage was dead; she hadn’t loved Tommy for years. She was just as sure he felt the same. She was certain he had cheated on her too. God knows he spent enough time on his PC up in the bedroom. She couldn’t blame him if he had. She thought of her own infidelity, but there was no room for guilt, only sadness. The sadness of something ending, something that had been good to start with but wasn’t any longer.
Yes, sadness was the legacy of her failed marriage with Tommy. Maybe there should have been guilt, but she hadn’t quite worked out how she felt about Mark’s death yet. Shock, of course. But she knew she had never meant anything to him, or he to her. It had purely been about sex, and she was sure he had been using her in his constant battle of one-upmanship with Tommy. But that was fine; she had been using him too. She wondered if Tommy had ever suspected her little affair with his detested rival. She thought not. It would have destroyed him.
The Bentley turned a corner and Trish hesitated a moment, then walked slowly to the nearest bus stop and waited for her new life to begin. It would start on the Number 55 to South Bristol, she was completely convinced of that. She boarded the bus when it arrived, but couldn’t stop the sadness that climbed on with her.
“Where are you taking me?” Tommy asked as he sat back against smooth leather and the Bentley screeched away from the kerb, reporters diving out of the way hurriedly. Slade didn’t seem to give a fuck who got under his wheel today.
“A little trip, son.” He sounded grave. Whitley sat next to him, quiet and pensive as ever. The Bentley bullied its way through the morning city traffic and eventually escaping onto the M32, stretched its muscles and flew.
Slade said very little during the journey, and Tommy was glad of that. He seemed to be bristling with some secret knowledge, but not ready to impart it quite yet. Tommy let him keep it. As long as it wasn’t about Jasmine, he didn’t care. Slade had answered his initial questions in that respect, and there was nothing more to be said. Jasmine was still missing. Of course she was. He hadn’t expected a bumbler like Slade to find her. So they drove in silence. Slade played no music, and neither did he speak to Whitley.
They changed onto the M4, heading west for a few miles then switched to the M5.
When they turned off at the junction for Dursley and the Slimbridge Wildfowl Trust, Tommy began to feel uneasy. He sat still, watching the familiar landmarks slip by; Tortworth Court, Cromhall Quarry, Renishaws factory.
Finally, when he saw the cluster of trees on top of the hill that overlooked the small Cotswold town, he could keep silent no longer.
“Why are you bringing me home?”
“Not home, son.” That was all he got. The Bentley prowled through the narrow streets of the old market town, eventually slowing outside the lych gate to St Mary’s. Two police officers stood at the entrance, keeping back a few provincial paparazzi. Slade nodded at the officers as they entered the churchyard. The sleek car nosed its way up the drive between the sleeping stones and parked in front of the church. Tommy knew now what to expect. He caught a glimpse of a large yellow forensic tent half-obscured by the church, and then Slade was telling him to get out.
Slade and Whitley marched him round the back of the church where more graves and tombs browsed in the sun. The tent was about ten feet high and twice as wide. SOCOs were milling outside it like bees around a hive.
Slade pulled Tommy up just before they got to the entrance flap. “You know what’s in here, don’t you?” he asked, his face expressionless.
Tommy nodded. “What have they done to him?” he asked quietly.
“Brace yourself, son,” was the Detective Inspector’s only answer.
Then he lifted the flap and gestured for Tommy to precede him.
The first thing he saw were the videos. A circle of them around the grave like a ring of fairy mushrooms. Big, plastic, ugly. He glanced at the titles, at the lurid artwork—anywhere but at the grave itself.
Slade stood behind him. A grey haired SOCO Tommy recognised from both the Arthur and Professor What crime scenes was talking to a female associate. They stopped and turned to look at Tommy.
He took his time. He’d taken in all the video nasties propped around the mound of disturbed soil. He had nowhere else to look now. Slowly, he raised his head.
His first impression was that his father was sitting up in bed. He was perched on top of the soil, leaning back against his own headstone, and he was clutching a video nasty between his withered hands. The bones were peeking through the flesh like he was wearing finger-less tramp mittens. He was holding the VHS box out for them all to see, and Tommy didn’t need to read the title. The close up of a rotting hand breaking through earth on the cover was familiar enough to him.
He raised his head some more.
His Dad would have been staring right back at him, if he’d had eyes. But of course after five years in a grave there was no question of that. His hair had gone, apart from a thin clump of grass-like strands sprouting from the greasy skull. The flesh that remained on cheekbones and forehead was mottled purple and yellow. The teeth jutted from naked jawbones that had lost their gums and lips. It looked like Tommy’s old Dad was snarling at him. Even in death he disapproved.
“Take your time,” he heard Slade say in a low voice behind him. Take his time for what? To pass on his best? Wish you were still here, and all that bullshit? Well, he didn’t. His Dad was dead, and that was that. Had been dead for five years. Just because some sick fuck had dug him up and planted video nasties round his grave didn’t make him any more amenable to conversation with his son.
There was a worm tucked in the breast pocket of his filthy burial suit. It waved cheekily at Tommy, then fell out and plopped into the soil below. Tommy had seen enough. He turned to face Slade, his expression set, giving nothing away. And to be honest, there wasn’t anything to give away. He felt emptier than ever.
Slade was gauging his reaction, and if it threw him a little, he barely showed it. They would both have been great at poker. “Zombie Flesh Eaters…” the Detective Inspector said after a moment, reading out the title of the VHS Tommy’s Dad was holding. “Does this one in particular mean anything to you?”
Tommy shook his head. “It means they’ve got a sense of humour, however sick it is.”
Slade nodded slowly, thinking. Then, “You don’t look surprised by all this.”
Tommy said nothing. He inclined his head towards the still open tent flap. His meaning was clear. Slade stepped aside to let him out, then followed.
They stood in the sunshine, Tommy deep in thought, Slade watching his every expression.
Finally Tommy said, “No, I wasn’t expecting this. But I should have seen it coming. Or something like it.”
“So are you going to fill me in?” Slade had pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He offered one to Tommy. A token kindness which Tommy refused.
“He was my Dad. He used to be an MP. But you know all that already.”
“There’s more to it, isn’t there?”
Tommy nodded again. He looked older, so much older than when Slade had first met him—what, three weeks ago? But then, that was hardly surprising.
“Shall we go?” Tommy said, gesturing at the Bentley. “This place brings back unpleasant memories.” He wasn’t sure if he meant the churchyard or the town itself, but at the end of the day, the two were now inseparable in his mind anyway.
The drive back to Bristol was another quiet one. Tommy knew they were holding back on the interrogation until they got there, so he put his head down and got some sleep.
Too soon they were pulling up outside a block of grey offices in a suburban district of Bristol, and Whitley was opening the door for him.
They took him down several corridors and into an interview room.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Tommy quipped mirthlessly.
Slade ignored him. A tray of coffees was brought by a uniformed officer and Tommy sat back and waited for Slade to begin. But Slade seemed to be taking his time, too, as if he wanted Tommy to speak of his own accord. Finally, he lost his patience and tossed a handful of photocopied sheets over the desk to Tommy.
Tommy barely looked at them; he’d seen the headlines before. He put his hands up and told them what they wanted to know. And as he spoke, it felt like he was shedding years. Who knew a visit to Slade’s office could be so therapeutic?
“He was my Dad. Not a particularly good one, but he was all I had. You’ve read all about it here,” he tapped the photocopies. “So you’ve already joined the dots. Between me and the killings, I mean. But it doesn’t explain the motive, does it? Is that what you’re hoping I can help you with? Well I can’t.” He leaned back and took a gulp of coffee. It was strong and harsh, just what he needed.
Slade picked up one of the photocopies and began to read aloud. “Rape of our children’s minds.’” Strong stuff, eh? Wait for this bit, you’ll love it. ‘So how many more women will be savaged and defiled by youths weaned on a diet of rape videos?” He glanced at Whitley sitting beside him, then across at Tommy. “Shall I go on? Here we go then. ‘It’s time to turn back this tide of degenerate filth.’ Or how about this one. ‘An electric drill slowly grinding away a man’s brain’—sound familiar? ‘Nazi Death Camp Sadism, complete with the screams of the Jewish girl victims, played for kicks. And rape, rape, rape… Britain fought the last World War against Hitler to defeat a creed so perverted that it spawned such horrors in awful truth. Are we insane? Are we bent on rotting our own society from within? Are we determined to spur to a gallop the forces of decadence that threaten to drag us down? Years ago, children went off with their Saturday sixpence to see Roy Rogers and Trigger. Now for 50p, they gather in sniggering groups to watch SS Experiment Camp.”
Tommy began to clap his hands together slowly, ironically. “You could have written those words yourself, Detective Inspector. Very good. So very you.”
Slade lowered the sheet. “You think this is funny? I thought you were worried about your girlfriend, but all you can do is sit and sneer.”
Tommy put his cup down. “You’re wasting my time. I could be out looking for her myself. Instead of which you’re reading me tabloid propaganda from the 1980’s. Do you really think this is helping?”
“If it gets you to tell me everything, then yes, I would fucking say it is. For one thing, all this was just the start, wasn’t it? The scene was set for the big hero to arrive. Let me remind you.” He read from the photocopy again, “‘No one has the right to be upset at a brutal sex crime or a sadistic attack on a child or mindless thuggery on a pensioner if he is not prepared to drive sadistic videos out of our high streets.’ That was another MP, not your old man. But it paved the way nicely for Mr. Tim Wallace, Conservative representative for Gloucester South, to step boldly in and save the nation. Don’t you think so? Far from being ashamed of your old man, I’d say you should be fucking proud of him.”
“Yeah?” Tommy feigned indifference. “Of course you would say that. You’re a copper. You’ve got a Daily Mail mentality—no offence, meant.”
“None taken. Or maybe a little. So what exactly was so wrong—in your eyes—with facilitating a Bill of Parliament that swept all this shit out of our video shops, off our streets, out of our fucking homes?”
“It’s easier than chasing actual criminals, and solving real crimes, I suppose,” Tommy said bitterly. “Just chuck a video shop owner in the nick for six months for having a banned film on his shelves and the nation’s moral security is restored. Listen, the introduction of that Bill was just the start. It brought about one of the most draconian censorship measures in the world. Great Britain—the nanny state. What price democracy when all the evils of our society can be symbolised in video tape? Burn a few nasties and the coppers, the MPs, the muck-raking tabloids—they can all pat themselves on the back and say a job well done. Except it wasn’t, was it? Since the introduction of the Video Recordings Act in 1983—the Act my own father was instrumental in getting passed—crime is now officially higher for all offences except murder, than it is in the United States. And that gap’s narrowing too. You must know all this. You’re an intelligent man.” Tommy sat back again, his eyes challenging Slade.
Slade smiled coldly. “You’ve done your homework then. But you’re wrong. If all this is to do with society’s efforts to defeat the spread of video nasties, then we obviously didn’t go fucking far enough. These copycat murders prove that. We’ve got softer, more lenient—look at the wild shit that’s allowed in the shops today, on the internet, on our fucking TVs! Possessing a copy of The Evil Dead used to be a prosecutable offence, now my own kids—if I fucking had any—can watch it on the box right after fucking Coronation Street. No, if you ask me, your Dad was a fucking hero, but he didn’t finish the job. Now it’s my turn!”
Tommy shook his head in despair. “Films don’t kill people. People kill people. I’m not arguing about this again. And my Dad was certainly no hero; he did it purely to further his own parliamentary career, not through any altruistic notions of saving society. He was an MP, remember? I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape my father’s lunatic legacy and now some sick fucker is holding me directly responsible for it. I can’t—”
But Slade stopped him there. “So you agree that’s what this is about? That what your pop set in motion has come back to bite you in the ass? You’re a scapegoat for some maniac who holds you to blame for your Dad’s actions? But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” Slade obviously thought so, but it was still the only motive he could grope for in this whole mess. “It doesn’t hold up, does it? I mean, like I said, you can watch far more disturbing shit on the TV these days than was in most of those videos. If anything, your Dad’s efforts were futile. So why target you?”
Tommy stared at him thoughtfully. “I’m all out of ideas. You’re the Detective, you find out. I take it you checked the Factory?”
“Deserted.” Slade chucked the photocopied sheet of paper on the desk. The air con picked it up, tipped it on the floor. Tommy watched it drift.
“So you’re no nearer to catching these bastards?”
Slade sniffed defensively. “We didn’t have a lot to fucking go on, did we?”
“No,” Tommy answered sarcastically. “Only about twenty corpses and several video tapes left at the crime scenes. What more do you need, a sign post and a signature?”
Slade leaned over the desk and pushed his face in Tommy’s. “Then maybe you’d better give me yours, because you’re the most fucking likely suspect from where I’m standing!” He kept the position, face enflamed with anger, until Tommy turned away. “You’re the only bastard to survive that ward massacre. You’ve been at the scene of crime every fucking time, and you’ve even got a motive for the murders. You’re rebelling against your old man. Classic case of chip on the shoulder syndrome.”
Tommy laughed. “You’re right. You’ve got it all sewn up. Thank fuck you’re on the case.”
Slade sat back, controlling his anger. He let a smile play on his lips. “Except I’m not as stupid as you think. I know you didn’t do it—”
“Hallelujah. Give the man a banana.”
“—but I might just chuck the book at you anyway. Just cos I fucking can.”
“A real badass.” Tommy rubbed his eyes. “But I’m tired of this bollocks. Are you gonna find Jasmine and bust these fuckers or are you just gonna concentrate all your resources on giving me a bad day?”
“I was hoping you’d be able to provide some vital clue. But it does seem I’ve been wasting my time.”
Tommy looked up, measuring the man’s integrity. Despite all his headstrong, anachronistic bullshit, there was a man in there, admittedly pretty well hidden, that maybe you could rely on. Tommy decided to give him a break. “I don’t think there’s anything more I can add to what you already know and what I’ve already told you. Mark didn’t tell me much about the film he was making, or the director, for that matter. Jasmine didn’t give me much either—I already told you in the hospital she was involved in the film too. I’m beginning to think she was the lure all along.”
Slade looked interested. “Lure?”
“If they really did want to get at me, they knew the best way of doing it.”
“Because you’ve got a weakness for a pretty face?”
“Because I liked her,” Tommy said, refusing to rise to the bait any longer. “They used her to get to me.”
Slade considered that. “So they might use her again.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know…” He shifted tack smoothly: “So now we know you’re more informed about video nasties than you were letting on before, can you provide us with any clues as to what they might be planning next, or even where they might be hiding out?”
“Shit, do you seriously not think I would have told you that already if I did know? I’ve as much idea as you. And yes, I do know about the nasties. I collected several of them just to piss my Dad off…” his voice tailed away. “But that doesn’t matter now. If I had any clue as to where they were holing up, I’d tell you. You can rely on that.” He thought for a minute. There was something playing at the back of his memory, skipping just out of reach… He shrugged. “I guess you’ve checked out all productions currently filming…”
“All productions in the South West and South Wales have been put on hold indefinitely,” Slade answered firmly. “It wasn’t a popular decision, believe me, but the Chief Super could no longer argue in the face of all the media scrutiny and public outrage. Rona Capley was a very popular actress…” He looked rueful for a moment. Tommy said nothing, trying to blot out the memory of what the Anthropophagous Beast had done to that very popular actress.
“We’re checking out every low budget film company known to exist, and searching for those that aren’t,” the Detective Inspector went on at last. “No fucking camera is going to be left unturned. We’re checking eBay and Amazon for video nasty purchasers, we’ve got officers looking into every fucking car boot sale in the South West. We’re looking. And we will find them.”
Tommy nodded, though he was far from convinced. He was thinking of the way Cropsy had transformed from a hideously disfigured monster into a regular Eastern European guy when he died, but he thought Slade’s overworked brain really couldn’t cope with bringing up that anomaly again right now.
“There’s just one thing bugging me,” Slade added, finishing his now cold coffee. “Why the change in MO? I mean, beforehand, the killers were content to murder one at a time and leave single videos behind that fitted the crime, or the location. Why suddenly go beserk and slaughter a whole load of folk and leave a glut of videos behind.”
“It depends which videos they left behind,” Tommy responded. “You never told me that bit.”
“A whole helter-skelter of video nasties…”
He glanced across at Whitley, who had kept quiet throughout the entire interview. The DS reached inside his jacket and withdrew a notebook. He flipped some pages (just like a real cop, Tommy thought) and read out a few titles. “Anthropophagous the Beast, the Burning, Night of the Demon, The Living Dead at the Manchester Morgue, SS Experiment Camp…” Slade shut him up with a gesture.
“Any of those ring any meaningful bells with you? I can recognise the connections to the MO—we’ve checked the contents of the films and can see the bastards took inspiration from the Nazi film to crucify DC Nandu, and the deaths of the officers on guard and the Swindon force were right out of the Lake District Zombie film. Then there’s the gardening shears from The Burning and the various killings from the Bigfoot flick… I guess I don’t need to go into the details as you’ve lived through them. But is there anything else you can add?”
Tommy could, but didn’t see how telling Slade the killers from those particular films were actually the perps the Detective should be looking for would actually help either of them right now. He’d seen the way Slade reacted to these notions in the hospital. He suspected Slade considered his theory that the killers weren’t simply wearing disguises but had somehow actually become the monsters was a crock of shit, a paranoid delusion brought on by trauma. So he kept quiet. But he did say, “You’ve certainly done your homework, Detective Inspector,” in a tone he hoped was not dismissive. He was tired of being antagonistic. He was tired of thinking about murder and carnage. He was tired.
Soon after, they let him go home.
The house was empty when he entered it, the police car having dropped him off. No sign of Trish. And apart from one or two paps looking bored across the street who raised their cameras in a decidedly desultory fashion when they saw him, no sign of the throng of reporters she’d said had been picketing the place since he’d been in hospital either. They’d obviously got bored.
There was however a small parcel addressed to him on the doormat. He was about to pick it up and open it when his cell rang.
It was Wayne, and suddenly Tommy remembered what had been eluding him for the last hour or so. Wayne was at a horror film festival. He’d told him in the Crown the other week that there would be stalls selling video nasties on the premises. What he hadn’t told Tommy (because he hadn’t known) was that the Festival was premiering a new film—albeit an unfinished work print—by an unknown but burgeoning new talent. Wayne was ringing to ask how the hell Tommy was coping after his terrifying ordeal of course. But he was also ringing to tell him the film was starring the late Mark Hamm, and that it was just about to begin…
Tommy screamed down the phone. He told Wayne to get the hell out of there. He didn’t wait to see how Wayne responded to that. He was too busy ringing the number on the card Slade had given him.
He forgot all about the video-shaped package still lying on the doormat.