Death Bed (22 page)

H
e pulled on a pair of rubber gloves before reaching inside the top kitchen cupboard where he kept a catering saucepan he had bought especially for the purpose. It had taken him some time to find one that was large enough. Lifting it down, he removed his carefully selected implements: a butcher’s cleaver, a set of saws, a sharp knife, a long handled two pronged fork and a pair of tongs. Although well-used, they were all gleaming, the blades recently sharpened. Crossing the room at a deliberately slow pace, he flipped the switch on the kettle. Every stage in the process was familiar as the steps in a sacred ritual. While the kettle came to the boil, he took a large plastic bag out of the freezer and held it up to the light to study its contents.

No longer excited at preparing small bones for the collection, he was ready to work on larger exhibits, instead of buying them in. One day, he might attempt a skull. Meanwhile, this was the largest specimen he had yet tackled. It was going to be tricky, but it would be worth the effort if he could pull it off. The main difficulty was controlling his impatience. Hacking the foot off at the ankle had been easier than he had expected, and it was now time to complete the task. With the lower leg part inside a plastic bag, he measured its length and relaxed on seeing that it would fit inside the pan. He picked up his knife, slit the bag open, and dropped the leg into the water, adjusting the heat until it was simmering gently.

He poured himself a cup of tea and sat down. While he waited, he tapped one polished shoe against the leg of his stool in time to the tune he was humming. The blue and white cup reminded him of his mother’s best china tea set and the tea was exactly how he liked it, hot and strong. Contentedly he leaned back against a cupboard, shifting sideways so its door handle didn’t dig into his back. It was one of those rare moments when life seemed perfect. He had done the hard work. All he had to do now was wait.

When he judged the flesh was well cooked, he turned out the gas. The gently bubbling water gave off a subtle aroma. It wasn’t unpleasant. Still humming, he laid a folded newspaper on the tray. This he covered with layers of clean kitchen roll. Then he drained water from the pan and placed the leg down on the white paper where it lay, glistening. As gently as he could, he wrapped it in kitchen roll, squeezing it gently to allow its moisture to seep into the paper.

Unerringly the sharpened blade slid through flesh to bone. He was careful. The slightest scratch would render the bone useless, but he had judged it well and the meat came away easily. Gently he scraped off every scrap of soft tissue. By the time he had finished, the paper was streaked with fragments of flesh. He tore off a few clean sheets of kitchen roll and patted the bone dry. With a trembling hand he reached out to stroke its smooth surface. He thought how pleased the owner would have been if she could have seen this timeless memento of her life.

Jon would come to appreciate how privileged he was, viewing the collection before anyone else. Earlier visitors had passed on, but he appeared stronger than the women who had gone before him, and it was important he stayed that way. He was part of the plan. In the meantime, there were preparations to complete. Reverently picking up the bone, he wrapped it first in kitchen roll, and then foil, to protect it.

With the worktops scrubbed, and his utensils stored in the cupboard, he sat down to gloat over the slim foil parcel. Later he would take his new exhibit up the attic and decide where to display it, probably on the same shelf as Chief Sitting Bull’s whip. Admittedly the whip was made from a thigh bone while this new specimen was a shinbone, but they were both human leg bones. It was important for the collection to be orderly. It had to make sense.

T
he office manager had sent an email round first thing Monday morning.

‘Don’t forget we’re all going out after work today!’

Vicky sighed but she knew everyone had to go, sales personnel, office manager, accounts and admin staff.

‘It’s a bit of a cheek,’ she muttered to Melissa who sat opposite her, ‘expecting us to put in time outside working hours.’

‘Well, it’s not like it’s work,’ Melissa replied. ‘They are taking us out, aren’t they? I’ve got no problem with that.’

‘No, I’m not saying I’ve got a problem with it. I’m not complaining, but I could do without it after a day at work, that’s all I’m saying.’

The big boss was in the UK on his annual visit from America. Having spent the weekend in London he was at the office for meetings with the area manager and sales team all day, and after work the staff were all going out for dinner.

‘If you ask me, it’s a great perk,’ Melissa grinned, ‘being taken out to a restaurant by the boss.’

‘Yes, but it’s Monday night. Who wants to go out on a Monday night? They could at least have arranged to take us out on Friday.’

Melissa shrugged.

‘I can’t see what difference it makes. Not everyone’s free on Fridays so a Monday makes more sense, and we’ve still got to eat, even on a Monday. I think it’ll be fun. Are you going home first or have you brought something with you?’

She reached down to pull a carrier bag from under her desk. ‘I brought my things in with me.’

She glanced at her watch.

‘Are you coming to the loo to get changed soon?’

Vicky shook her head.

‘I’m going like this. I mean, it’s a work outing, isn’t it?’

Vicky enjoyed her job, but she liked to keep regular hours. Although she got on with her colleagues well enough she wasn’t completely comfortable about socialising with them outside the office. Melissa stood up, swinging her carrier bag, and grinned.

‘Free drinks all evening,’ she said and Vicky forced a smile. She didn’t often drink, not like some of her colleagues who went out after work most evenings. Vicky just liked to get home at the end of the day. She had gone out with them over Christmas and had finished her evening throwing up in the toilets. Thankfully her colleagues had all been too merry to notice how ill she was, and no one had taken much notice when she had left early, pleading a headache.

Melissa disappeared for over half an hour to get changed, leaving Vicky to cover the phones. Finally they walked in a group to a small Italian restaurant in Baker Street where Vicky found herself squeezed in between two salesmen.

‘Come on, drink up,’ one of them told her while they were waiting for their food. He had a nice smile and she noticed his eyes linger on her with unmistakable interest. She had never really noticed him before but he was quite attractive. Caught up in a sudden heady recklessness, Vicky drank.

‘Why not?’ she giggled when he offered to refill her glass.

Everyone else seemed to be having a good time and her journey home was easy enough. Perhaps it wouldn’t do her any harm to relax for once.

‘Why not indeed?’ the salesman laughed as he filled her glass to the brim.

Their food arrived and after that the evening passed in a blur. Vicky was surprised how much wine she managed to put away; after the first two glasses she lost count and couldn’t remember if her colleague had refilled her glass two or three times, but she felt fine. She supposed it was because of the huge pizza she had ploughed her way through while drinking. It seemed as though hardly any time had elapsed since they had arrived at the restaurant when the accounts manager stood up. He was in his fifties and looked worn out.

‘It’s been a very enjoyable evening,’ he announced, ‘but I’ve got to make tracks.’

He turned to their boss and explained that he had a long journey home.

‘I can’t afford to miss my train. Early start in the morning,’ he added with forced cheeriness.

‘Goodness, it’s half past ten already,’ someone else said and a few other people began to mutter about having to get home.

‘It’s still early,’ the boss protested, signalling to a waiter to bring another bottle of wine.

‘You’re not leaving are you?’ the salesman asked Vicky.

She realised she couldn’t remember his name. She giggled helplessly for a moment before scraping her chair back and getting to her feet.

‘It’s been a lovely evening.’

She held onto the back of her chair as she spoke.

‘But I really need to get going.’

Not until she stood up did it hit her that she’d had way too much to drink. She began to giggle again, for no reason.

‘What’s so funny down there?’ the boss called out to their end of the long table.

Vicky started to shake her head but the movement made the room sway.

‘I’ve had a lovely evening,’ she repeated quickly, stumbling over her words. ‘It’s been really lovely, but I have to go.’

She turned and made her way carefully to the door, hoping she wouldn’t throw up in full view of all her colleagues. She could see the tube station over the road and it was only a few stops back to Camden, from where it was just a short walk to her flat. As she crossed the road she tried to remember the name of the salesman who had been chatting her up. She hoped she would see him again soon. When she entered the station a blast of warm air made her feel sick and she struggled to take out her Oyster card and make her way through the turnstile, desperate now to get home.

G
eraldine and Sam found Douggie Hopkins at home. Although it was early evening he looked as though he had just woken up.

‘Bloody hell, what now?’ he grumbled when he saw them on the doorstep.

He rubbed his eyes.

‘Who is it?’

His wife came to the door and stood just behind him, staring at Geraldine.

‘We don’t want - ’

Geraldine held out her warrant card.

‘It’s the police, Mary. You go on in. I’ll talk to them.’

‘We’d like to go over your statement again.’

‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Mary piped up. ‘The other bloke just set on him. Douggie never started it. It’s the other bloke you should be talking to - ’

‘Go inside, Mary,’ Douggie told her.

He gave her a little shove and she disappeared inside the house, complaining.

‘It wasn’t his fault. The other bloke just set on him for no reason - ’

Douggie looked anxious.

‘She thinks you’re here about the scrap in the pub.’

‘You mean she doesn’t know about your car disposal activities?’

‘Look, I never stole that motor. It’s all perfectly legit. As far as I’m concerned, I just got rid of it for the owner. There’s nothing in the law says I can’t do that.’

‘Douggie, we’re not here to investigate you and your dubious operations.’

She glanced at Sam.

‘At least, not yet.’

‘What are you on about, dubious? That’s slander, that is. Insulting an honest man’s reputation - ’

Geraldine ignored his protest.

‘What we
are
interested in is the man who paid you to take the car to Epping Forest.’

‘Well, I’ve already told you I don’t know who he was. And what’s more, I don’t want to know. It was just a job. He’s nothing to do with me.’

Douggie’s whole demeanour was tense, as though he was suddenly scared.

‘This man threatened you, didn’t he Douggie? He scares you.’

‘Ha! You’re having a laugh. It takes more than some posh geezer to put the frighteners on me,’ he blustered but his hands trembled as he lit a cigarette. ‘I’m not that easily scared.’

He was rattled alright.

‘We have a few more questions, Douggie. We’d like you to accompany us to the station.’

He glanced over his shoulder.

‘I’ve got nothing to say. I’ve told you everything I know. Christ, I took you to Epping Forest, didn’t I? You can question me till you’re blue in the face but I’m telling you I’ve no idea who the bloke is. I’d never had anything to do with him before and I haven’t heard from him since.’

‘Come along now, Douggie,’ Geraldine said quietly as Mrs Hopkins reappeared in the hallway behind her husband.

‘Let’s not have a scene.’

‘Are you still here?’ Mary Hopkins asked. ‘Did you get the bugger who assaulted Douggie? I hope you lock him up and throw away the key.’

Geraldine sighed.

‘We’re working on it,’ she replied, but she wasn’t talking about the man who had been brawling with Douggie in the pub. ‘Now, your husband is going to come with us and help us with our enquiries, isn’t that right?’

‘But it wasn’t his fault. What’s going on, Douggie?’

‘It’s alright, love.’

He inhaled deeply and grinned, putting on a show of self-possession in front of his wife.

‘Come along now, sir.’

‘Douggie - ’ his wife cried out.

‘Just drop it, Mary,’ Douggie called over his shoulder as he followed Geraldine to the car.

At the police station Douggie glared at Geraldine across the table.

‘We’re not convinced you’re telling us the whole truth, Douggie, and it’s important we know everything about this man.’

‘Not to me it isn’t.’

‘If you can help us find this man you could be looking at a reduced sentence for illegally disposing of a wanted vehicle,’ Sam said. ‘Perverting the course of justice, you’re looking at a custodial sentence - ’

‘Oh fuck off and leave me alone will you?’ Douggie exploded. ‘What do you take me for? I told you, I don’t know anything about him except that he was in a hurry to get rid of the car. He didn’t want me to wait till the morning to take it to be scrapped. I had to get rid of it that night. It was a business transaction, nothing illegal about it.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘If someone pays you to torch a car, there must be a reason. Why did he want to get rid of it so quickly?’

‘How the fuck should I know? Look, he didn’t say and I didn’t ask. It was just a job, alright?’

‘OK, let’s assume for a moment this mystery man exists and he paid you to destroy the car. You weren’t just getting rid of it for your own purposes - ’

‘Leave it out, will you? For fuck’s sake - ’

‘This man. You said just now he’s a complete stranger, and what’s more you wouldn’t want to know him. So why are you so keen to avoid him? What was it he said? That he knows where you live, wasn’t that it? Is that why you’re worried about him?’

Douggie frowned.

‘I’m not worried. I just didn’t like the geezer, that’s all.’

‘So you keep telling us. But why?’ Geraldine persisted.

‘Posh blokes aren’t really my type.’

‘Don’t you think we should have told him why we’re after the man who paid him to torch the car?’ Sam asked as they left the interview room.

‘He already knows we’re investigating a murder, but I get the feeling Douggie’s already told us as much as he knows, or at least as much as he’s going to say. We might as well let him go for now. But we’ll warn him that we’ll be back. There’s a chance he’ll think better of withholding evidence, if he has anything more to tell us, that is. Although I get the impression he’s more scared of the man whose car he destroyed than he is of us.’

‘Then we need to keep threatening him with the prospect of going down for a long time until he starts taking it seriously.’

‘He’ll know we’re bluffing. And in any case, how can
we
be more frightening than a killer who knows where he lives? And he’s got a wife to consider.’

The same evening they went back to see William Kingsley, but although he was eager to help he had nothing new to tell them.

‘It’s such a long time ago,’ he apologised. ‘I’m not even sure I’m thinking of the right man.’

It had not been an encouraging day.

‘I wonder where he is now?’ Sam asked as they drove back to North London.

‘He removes his victims’ teeth,’ Geraldine replied thoughtfully. ‘What does that tell us?’

‘It tells us he’s mental.’

‘He takes the teeth as some sort of trophy. I wonder what he does with them?’

‘Perhaps he puts them under his pillow for the tooth fairy. I’m starving. Fancy some chips?’

‘What made him cut off Jessica Palmer’s finger and amputate Donna Henry’s leg like that? He’s clearly got a selection of saws, which suggests it’s all been planned,’ Geraldine went on.

‘Of course it’s all been planned. No one just randomly cuts off someone’s leg for no reason.’

‘So what
is
the reason?’

‘I can’t begin to imagine,’ said Sam.

‘He’s keeping something that was part of his victims. If we could work out what’s going on in his mind - ’

‘There’s no point trying to understand someone who’s completely crazy. The whole thing’s too weird.’

‘We have to try,’ Geraldine insisted. ‘In the end it might be the only way to find him.’

Sam shook her head.

‘You can’t work out what makes him tick,’ she said firmly. ‘What he’s doing is completely insane, which means by definition it makes no sense. You can’t understand it. I can’t understand it. No one can understand it. Unless you’re mad too. Now, I know where there’s a decent chippie on the way home. What do you say?’

‘About the chips, or about being mad?’

Sam grinned.

‘Well, this job’s enough to drive anyone crazy, I’ll give you that. Now, about those chips?’

Geraldine smiled, pleased that there was no longer any awkwardness between them.