Dr. Yes (29 page)

    I
looked around the outside of the house. There were no handy windows open. I
would have to kick the back door in, but with my wasting disease, brittle
bones, and the metal from the screws of the Latham device they had inserted in
my face to offset my cleft palate still playing havoc with my taste buds, it
was easier said than done.

    I
kicked at it three times, but the door didn't seem to notice.

    Then
I lifted the doormat and picked up the backdoor key.

    The
kitchen was gloomy, blocked from direct sunlight by the house behind. It was
spotless.

    I
stood listening.

    Complete
silence.

    Nothing.

    I
moved into the hall. There was a lounge to the left. Neat. Tidy. Walk-through
into dining room. Pristine.

    I
paused at the bottom of the stairs.

    'Hello?'

    I
listened.

    
Everything
about the house felt menacing.

    In a
movie, the music sets the tone.

    
No
music sets its own tone.

    There
was probably no need for me to go upstairs. If she was around, she would have
answered.

    I
would be better off getting back to the shop. There were probably customers
waiting. Rolo, maybe. What if he returned eager to try something else and I
wasn't there and he gave up and returned to a life of crime? I should be there.
I had a responsibility.

    There
was an odd smell.

    I
couldn't place it. It wasn't horrible. But it could easily be something you
spray to cover up something horrible.

    Upstairs:
gloomier still. Doors closed.

    I had
wasted my breath warning Alison not to enter a cave, and now here I was, in the
cave. I should get out and call for help. This wasn't my game. I solve puzzles.
I don't confront. I suffer from arachnophobia. I am also scared of people who
suffer from arachnophobia. They haven't invented a name for that yet.

    I stood
on the first step. Light switch. Flipped on. Brighter, but didn't help much.
Buddy could return at any moment. He probably had slippers for walking on
gravel so that he could sneak up unawares. He would shoot me and cut off my
head.

    Second
step. Three, four, five, six. I peered between the banister slats. Landing,
another flight, hall, four doors off. I made the landing. Three of the four
doors were closed. The half-open one was at the end of the hall; the room
beyond was sunlit.

    I was
drawn towards the light. Sunlight ought to be good and pure.

    It
isn't always.

    I
recognised the smell. Alison's perfume.

    No.
Not her perfume. Her deodorant.

    I was
almost overcome by dread. I wasn't even aware of moving my legs. I was on
castors and being inexorably pulled towards the room by a demon's string balls.
The half-open door showed me a wardrobe and the corner of a bed.

    I
pushed the door fully open.

    At
the foot of the neatly made double bed: a hatbox.

    Ribbon
on top.

    'No,'
I said.

    I
dropped to my knees.

    Buddy
Wailer had left me a present.

    Open
the box. Don't open the box. Open the box. Don't open the box. Open the box.
Don't open the box. Open the box. Don't open the box. Open the box. Don't open
the box. Open the box. Don't open the box. Don't open the box. Don't open the
box. Don't open the box. Don't open the box. Don't open the box.

    Open
the box.

    I
opened the box, and I screamed.

    Not
because of what was in it. It was empty. But because of the hand that was
brought down firmly on my shoulder just as the top came off.

    And
when I'd finished screaming and hurling myself across the room, trying to hide
in a sock drawer, I was stopped in my tracks by:

    'Where
THE FUCK were you?'

    Alison,
glaring at me.

    'I
was ...

    'I
was stuck in that cupboard all night! All night with that monster in the same
room!'

    'I'm
sorry, I . . .'

    'I
had to pee in his slippers!'

    'I'm
sorry, I . . .'

    'You're
a complete waste of space!'

    And
then, thankfully, she broke down. She began to cry and shudder and I hesitantly
took her in my arms. She still managed to raise her fist and beat it weakly
against my chest, which was, frankly, rather ungrateful of her, seeing as how I
was there now, and also, just as frankly, rather dangerous, given the paper-
thinness of my chest and the combustible nature of my ribs.

    I
said, 'It's okay,' and patted her back.

    She
said, 'Where were you? I was so scared . . .'

    'I
did my best

    'All night
... all night ... I saw her ... oh God, I saw her . . .'

    'Saw
. . . ?'

    'Arabella

    'Arabella!
Where?' She pointed. 'On the bed? In . . . the box?'

    She
nodded. 'It was horrible, horrible ... I know I shouldn't have come in, but
when I saw him leave, I couldn't help myself ... I just couldn't ... He left
his back-door key under the mat, if it hadn't been there I wouldn't have . . .
but I went in, and it was just like a normal house . . . until I came upstairs
. . .

    and I
came in here . . . and the box was on the bed . . . and I couldn't resist it
and . . . Jesus ... I opened it, and her head was in there, smiling up at me .
. . and I screamed and I remember . . . staggering back . . . and then knowing
I had to get out of there . . . but in my panic I missed the stairs, I ran into
the other bedroom ... and the rest of her, fucking hell . . . the rest of her
was lying on the bed

    'The
rest of . . . ?'

    'Headless!'

    She
cried against me, big, heaving, snottery sobs. I held her as tightly as my weak
arms would allow.

    I've
read enough crime fiction to know what Buddy was up to. Arabella had been dead
for some considerable time, yet there was no smell beyond Alison's deodorant.
Although I knew it offered twenty-four- hour protection, the smell of death is
not one that can so easily be covered up. Buddy had murdered Augustine and Liam
because he had been professionally engaged to do so. He may or may not have
murdered Arabella, but he had indisputably come into the possession of her body.
Perhaps he had been ordered to dispose of it and couldn't because he had a
thing for women's corpses. For Arabella not to have become a rotting,
glutinous, maggot-ridden mess by now meant that he was using chemicals to
preserve her. Either he had some training as an undertaker or he had developed
an interest in their methods.

    As I
rubbed Alison's back gently, I became aware that my fingers felt quite sticky.
When I examined them over her shoulder, I saw that they were partially coated
in some kind of residue. I looked across at the empty box on the bed and saw
that there was a similar- looking smear on the lip of the lid. It was, I
feared, essence of Arabella. It was all I could do to stop myself from throwing
up down Alison's back. Instead I quietly rubbed it off on her blouse and forced
myself to focus on the case.

    'Which
room is Arabella's . . . torso in?' I asked softly.

    Alison
snorted up. 'She isn't. He was sleeping in here ... all night I was trying not
to breathe . . . There was a phone call about half an hour ago ... I couldn't
hear what was said, but it seemed to panic him . . . and I could see a tiny bit
out of the hinges ... He took her head out . . . Jesus, I saw him carrying
Arabella by her hair . . . and then I could hear him dragging something, and
the front door slammed and I took the chance to get out and I saw him drive
off. I just wanted out . . . but I couldn't help but look in the other room,
and she's gone, he's taken her with him, and then I heard the key in the door again
and I thought he'd forgotten something and I'd blown my chance to escape . . .
but it was you, thank God it was you . . . He's away now, he's escaped and
maybe we'll never

    'No,'
I said confidently, 'he hasn't escaped. We have him.'

    'Have'
was, of course, a little wide of the mark. We had a rough idea of where he was
because Jeff had followed him, but being in the Mystery Machine meant that he
couldn't get too close, particularly when Buddy's route took him out of the
city and into the country. Jeff had to drop back, and he almost lost him on
several occasions, but now he was back on track.
Literally
on track.

    'You're
where?' I asked.

    'Tollymore.'

    'The
forest park?'

    'The very
one. He paid his fiver to get in, but he's gone off the roads open to tourists;
he's on tracks the park keepers and woodsmen must use. I don't know whether to
follow or what?'

    We
were in Alison's VW. She was still badly shaken, but preferred to drive rather
than meander along with me in control. Tollymore was about thirty minutes away
- with a normal person driving - just outside of Newcastle at the foot of the
majestic Mourne Mountains. I say majestic because it says that on the internet,
but in reality they're just dark and brooding lumps of rock, and they terrify
me. It is mostly their height, but also their past life as volcanoes, and the
knowledge that they could, despite what the so-called experts say, erupt at any
moment, drowning me in lava. Tollymore itself has hundreds of thousands of pine
trees standing so densely that sunlight cannot penetrate, which, together with
the plentiful water running off the
majestic
mountains, encourages the
growth of vast carpets of moss on the forest floor. There are also countless
billions of twigs. Twigs can put your eye out, and do. A forest with moss and
twigs and mountains looming over is my idea of hell.

    But
home from home for a demon like Buddy Wailer.

    We
would follow him into that hell, though I might wait in the car.

    'Hello?'
Jeff shouted. 'Anyone at home?'

    'What
does he want?' Alison asked.

    'He
wants to know if he should follow Buddy into the forest.'

    'And
what do we think?'

    'We
think you should keep your eye on the road. This isn't one of those movies
where we can have a conversation where you look at me the whole time and
traffic just magically avoids you. Keep your eyes ...'

    'All
right!'

    'Will
you make your minds up!' Jeff yelled. I held the phone away from my ear, both
to protect my fragile drum and to allow Alison to hear. 'Oh, wait - he's
stopping. Hold on. Let me just pull in .. . here . .. Okay, don't think he can
see me .. . He's getting out .. . looking around . . . Nope, he can't see me ..
. He's going to the back of his van, opening up . . . pulling out. . . two
black bin bags ... I think . . . something heavy anyway . .. dragging them into
the trees . . . He's . . . he's .. . he's disappeared now. Seems like a long
way to come fly-tipping.'

    'It's
Arabella, Jeff,' said Alison.

    'What's
Arabella?'

    'In
the bags.'

    'Oh.
Both
the bags?'

    'Both
the bags.'

    We
could hear him inhaling deeply. 'Oh lordy. What am I supposed to do now?'

    'In
an ideal world,' I said, 'you would catch him red-handed, subdue him, get him
to confess, and keep him there until the police arrive.'

    'Unfortunately,'
said Alison, and left it at that. She looked at me. 'Well, MacGyver, you're the
expert, what do you think? He's burying the evidence, right?'

    'Yeah,'
I said. And then: 'Jeff, stay where you are, we'll call you back in five.'