The murder quadrille, p.18
The Murder Quadrille, page 18
All the other numbers in the phone’s directory were people back home in the States. People who’d been at high school with her, or old college friends. They’d all think she was having a joke with them if they got a text from her in the middle of the night reading HELP ME. Especially as she had so carefully instructed them not to disturb her till she chose the moment, so she wouldn’t lose concentration with surprise social calls.
When she had scrolled through, looking for someone who could help her, she had found a string of missed calls received in the last day from the same British cell phone number. Someone had been repeatedly trying her number, while she stood on the doorstep talking to the real policeman and then the plaid-shirted cocksucker. Who knows maybe it was just someone on a wrong number but hey—what the hell?
So, even though she was unsure whom she was texting, in the wild hope something would happen, Tess sent a message: “IN GRAVE DANGER. GIVE POLICE THIS CELL NUMBER. FIND ME.” She knew that the police could almost pinpoint a cell phone using the sim card and local masts, but she wasn’t sure how accurate all that stuff was. Maybe they could narrow it down to something as half-assed as that the phone she was using was in the London area. But perhaps they might call her and she could…
Damn. What could she do—without yelling her head off?
She fired up the phone again and typed an addendum: “HELP HELP HELP TEXT ONLY.” Then she balanced on her toes, face scraping the rusty wall, her arm in the air and sent it off to whoever.
Of all the people she could imagine calling her she hoped it had been that ditzy Lisa. She might be an air-head, and that fat-assed boyfriend of hers might be a know-all twat, but at least he was a twat who had contacts in the British police.
Tess curled up on her heels in the corner, balancing her back against the rusty wall. She scrolled down the texts she had sent, the area around her eerily lit by the phone’s blue back light.
“AM BEING HELD BY KIDNAPPING MURDERERS” she fingered in.
Absurd. If she received a text like that what would she do? Fuck all. Just put it down to a drunk or a joker.
Jesus H Christ.
She knew the creepy pieces of shit might come back at any time.
She was going to die.
To stop her heart skipping all over the place, she knelt, huddled over the phone with her head down and composed a text explaining, in as few words as she could and as though to a stranger, exactly what had happened and where she was, and the danger she was in.
If ever there was a writing exercise in being concise and to the point this was it.
When she had finished she read it back.
It was good.
She scrambled to her feet and edged back towards the corner.
Then she heard the footsteps.
Holy shit!
She jammed the phone shut and stuffed it deep down into her trouser packet. Pressing her ear flat against the metal she tried to listen, but she could hear nothing over the sounds of her thundering heart.
She moved backwards along the container wall, towards the spot where the sound seemed to come from.
The footsteps had had a sharp timbre. Hard soled shoes, perhaps wooden or steel tipped. She held her breath as they came closer.
Was the torture, or rape or whatever it was these pieces of shit had in mind for her about to start?
Tess’s mouth was dry.
The footsteps stopped.
Tess felt as though she would die from the boom, boom, boom of her heart.
After a few seconds the footsteps clacked away.
The container door had not been opened.
Tess was not sure whether to be thankful or furious.
While the container remained shut she had no hope of making an escape, but at least it meant those two pricks were not yet returning for the orgy or whatever fuck-fest it was they had planned for the moments just before they killed her.
All her life Tess had congratulated herself on being smart. Now look! She’d blindly walked straight into the arms of a pair of psychos. Wow! What a crock. She’d certainly shown those two jack-off dip-shits her ass!
Fuck it!
She gulped and went back to concentrating on the text which asked the recipient, Lisa or whoever it was, to contact Max Latham, the police, her agent…anyone to help her, before they came back, before they killed her.
She took out the phone and flicked it open it, while feeling her way back into the corner where the signal was strongest.
Balancing on tiptoe, Tess raised the phone as high as she could and pressed the send button.
She waited, hand held aloft, for the beep which would tell her that the message had successfully gone off.
But when, after three minutes, despite an aching arm, no sound had come, she lowered it to take a look.
She sank to the ground.
The phone was dead.
INQUISITION
An Inquisition taken for our Sovereign Lady the Queen
Before and by me
For the London Borough of Lambeth
The following matters were found
1. Name of Deceased
Jane Anne Grimshaw
2. Injury or disease causing death
1a. CARDIAC ARREST
b. blood loss
c.
11. malnutrition and dehydration
3. Time, place and circumstances at or in which injury was sustained
PM report unable to ascertain place of death, though it was certainly not where the partially clothed body was discovered. Lividity shows the body to have been placed in position after death. Although the primary cause of death was cardiac failure, the small wound in her neck, penetrating the carotid artery, certainly speeded things along.
4. Conclusion of the Coroner as to the death
There was old light yellowish bruising to the upper arms and ankles. The face showed pallor. Both eyes showed lateral conjunctival petechial haemorrhages. Signs of recent sexual activity or vaginal penetration.
As the victim had been missing for a period of 10 days, and the body moved post-mortem, by person or persons unknown, foul play is highly probable.
Coroner refers this case to the Crown Court for further investigation
5.Particulars for the time being required by the Registration Acts to be registered concerning the death
(a) Date and place of birth
20 April 1987, Bolton Lancashire
(b) Name and Surname of deceased
Jane Anne Grimshaw
(c) Sex
female
(d) maiden surname of woman who has married
(e) Date and place of death
26th July 2011, between 20:00—00:00. Place unknown.
(f) Occupation and usual address
Librarian
Flat 3, 47 Sunnyside Gardens, Battersea, London SW11 7ZX
BUCK & WING—a solo tap dance with many leg flings and sudden leaps
Max presented the storage firm and a spotty youth in a brown overall led him to a large automatic glass entry door.
‘You got the code, right?’ the boy asked, standing rather too close for Max’s liking. ‘You input that when the light bleeps. The door opens and you go up to your own unit on the second floor.’
The youth did not wait for a response from Max and by the time he turned to thank him had already disappeared through the heavy swing doors at the corner.
Max went inside and took the lift up. He wandered the corridors till he came to a door which bore the second number on the card. He inserted the key into the slot on the lock. A green light flashed and a persistent beeping sound emanating from the keypad. Max stooped over it to get a closer look. He had noticed the CCTV cameras all over the place and didn’t want to look like an idiot or draw undue attention to this bonded room.
He imagined Martin would always stick to the same password, wherever, so he keyed in 5Rusty11. A loud click followed and the light flashed at greater speed.
Max tried the handle.
The door opened, but only a few inches.
Something was jammed up behind it.
Max pushed, but the door was stuck.
He squeezed his face into the gap. The blockage seemed to be something unwieldy lying on the floor just inside the door. Whatever it was, it was heavy and wrapped inside a black bin-liner.
Oh sod.
There was also a rather horrid smell inside the storage unit, redolent with decay, or, worse, decomposition of human matter.
No. No. No!
Don’t say that Martin had not only knocked off those two women but had another one banged up here in storage.
Without any acoustic warning the pimply boy appeared at Max’s shoulder.
‘Need some help?’
Max laughed and pulled at the door, but he couldn’t close it properly as his briefcase was in the way.
‘Always been a hopeless packer,’ he said, blocking the boy’s view into the lock-up. ‘It’s that bloody carpet. I knew it would tumble.’
‘No probs,’ said the boy, stepping forward, hand stretched towards the door. ‘I can handle it.’
‘You’re quite right,’ snapped Max barring his way. ‘There are no “probs”. I am perfectly able to get into my lock-up unassisted. Thank you so much for your offer.’
‘I could get you a broom or something.’
To Max it seemed that the boy was leaning out to get a sneak at whatever was behind the door. Best confront the situation directly.
‘Is something in there interesting you at all? You seem to be extraordinarily fascinated by the contents of my inner sanctum.’
‘Only trying to be helpful.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Max considered palming him a tenner, but thought that that might potentially arouse even more suspicion. Stagily Max applied his eye to the open crack. ‘Do you know, Mr er…’ He turned back. ‘What is your name?’
‘Dwayne.’ The boy pointed to an embossed plastic badge on the lapel of his overall.
Max tried to disguise his horror at realising that anyone could have lumbered a boy, even a half-wit like this one, with such an inane nomenclature.
‘Well, Dwayne, do you know, I think that a broom might be just the solution.’
Max waited for the boy to sprint along the corridor and turn the corner, then he applied his shoulder to the door with all the force of a 70s TV cop.
By the time the overalled boy returned Max had squeezed his carcass through the gap and shoved himself right into the storage unit. He popped his head out and waved towards the broom-toting assistant.
‘Mission accomplished!’ He thrust out a hand. ‘A broom could be useful though. Thanks you so much Dwight.’
‘Dwayne,’ said the boy.
‘Of course.’ Max grabbed the broom. ‘Thanks for all your help. Now I’d better get on. I’ve got a lot of boxes of paperwork to look through in here!’
‘You’ll need to turn on the light then.’ Dwayne slid his hand through the small opening and flicked a switch on the wall. ‘Or once you close the door you’d be in the dark.’
‘Ah, yes! Yes. Of course. Light! Jolly good. Thanks again.’
Would the wretched boy just fuck off?
Max gave him a little wave. ‘I shall call you if I need you, Dwayne. Thank you so much.’
‘Just come out here in the corridor and wave at the camera.’ Dwayne pointed up at the CCTV camera in the hallway.
‘Will you be filming me?’ Max had a horrid thought that there might be cameras inside the units too. ‘It must be pretty boring watching people counting their boxes.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Dwayne leered. ‘We here at “Store It!” believe in total discretion, while at the same time providing total security.’
Max gave him a wan look. What on earth was the idiotic bugger wittering on about?
‘Thank you again, Dw…’ He decided not to continue with the name in case he got it wrong a second time.
Dwayne slouched away along the corridor and Max heard the swing doors go.
He then closed the unit door and leaned against it in case pimply twerp decided to pop back with any more bright ideas.
A swift glance round the unit showed a square area about the size of a small garden shed. The walls were lined with rows of dexion shelving, upon which was stacked what looked like the valued contents of an average home: a computer, a laptop, a couple of TVs, a hi-fi stereo thingy…In fact, once Max thought about it, all the items in here had an uncanny resemblance to the list of things which Martin seemed to think had been burgled from his home.
Max’s heart sank.
Just at his eye-line was a radio with an old paper repair sticker on the back. Upon it was written Martin’s name.
What the hell was going on?
Don’t say Martin really had gone stark raving bonkers and robbed himself.
Max groaned.
What a bloody mess.
Now it was time to inspect the more serious problem lying at his feet: A bulky bundle, wrapped in bin liners.
It was about the size and shape of a human being.
Max prayed this black plastic clad thing could not be what he feared it was.
He muttered the words: ‘Merciful god, do not let this happen to me’, then shuffled his foot forward, poking at the bin liner with the toe of his shoe.
He was starting to feel rather queasy, and in a confined space like this he didn’t know how well he would keep down his sandwich if, as frequently happened in movies, he managed to cut open the plastic and out flopped a green mouldering human hand.
The shiny toe of his shoe prodded further.
Max couldn’t make out anything much except that inside the bin liner there seemed to be yet another bin liner.
What was this, for Christ’s sake, a creepy X-rated version of “pass the parcel”?
After fumbling for a few minutes Max realised that there was nothing for it but direct action.
For a nanosecond he toyed with the idea of calling the spotty numskull, Dwayne, and asking for some rubber gloves, but there was no way he could do that without arousing even more suspicion.
Taking a deep breath, Max stooped and ripped at the outer black bag, then staggered back to inspect the contents from a decent distance.
But he was no wiser—all he could see now, through the ragged rip he had created, was the lumpy heavy inner bag. And that inner one was torn, sticky, covered in soil and bound with long strips of wide brown parcel tape.
The tape looked like that stubborn stuff which you could only get through by hours of hacking with a sharp knife. Max scanned the stacked shelves for something to assist—scissors, a Stanley knife, garden shears, anything with a nice quick edge. He knew that stashed among this melee of domestic small electrics there must be something he could use.
But when he saw the thing lying on a shelf right in front of the door, his jaw dropped: it was the huge Sabatier chef’s knife. If he was not mistaken it was the one Sarah Beaumont had so ferociously wielded while serving up that revolting pudding during Martin’s dinner party.
Max reached out for the knife, then thought better of it.
Better safe than sorry.
It would not be clever for a man of Max’s legal standing to smear his own fingerprints all over the handle of something which might turn out to be an item of devastatingly important incriminating evidence. So instead he pulled a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the handle before picking it up. Once firmly gripped in his paw, Max swiftly stooped again and carefully slashed the package on the floor, hacking outward through the tightly bound bands of tape till sweat dripped from his chin.
He rose again and turned away, leaning against the shelf for a moment, breathing deeply. How stuffy and close it was in this box.
As Max gazed at his own reflection in the screen of a large plasma TV he realised he was feeling dreadfully sick, and looked it. His face was whiter than it ever had been since he was an infant, and his scanty hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat. He repeatedly swallowed, trying to rid his mouth of excess saliva.
Pull yourself together man. This was not time for paroxysms of the effeminate variety. He had to find out what was going on in here, and then promptly take appropriate action.
Get it over with, then to the nearest pub for a drink.
Like a child watching a scary TV programme, Max could not face looking directly at the contents of the bin liners. So, with his back still to the package, he tipped his head forwards and down and sneaked a glance between his underarm and side.
He could see the black bag, and not much else. Slowly he slid his foot back and tried to move the plastic packaging round, further loosening the bin liner with the tip of his toe.
With a clatter something fell out of the package, and tumbled towards his feet.
He flinched, then took a peek.
It was a shoe.
A lady’s stiletto-heeled evening shoe.
He had seen the shoe before.
And he remembered where he had seen it.
On Sarah’s foot.
Max started to retch.
He grabbed hold of the shelf and, staring into the TV screen, took a long deep breath. He could not possibly vomit on top of all this evidence. It would be unprofessional in the extreme.
He took a second glance at the shoe.
Yes.
It definitely belonged to Sarah Beaumont. Max had last seen her wearing it at that grim dinner.
He spun round, prepared for greater horror.
But the black plastic, still clinging to whatever else was inside, revealed nothing.
Max decided on a new plan of action. Eyes tilted upward, he turned and knelt beside the parcel. Then, averting his face, so that all he could see was a suitcase and a large black stereo speaker, he stretched out a hand to the side and fumbled.
He would feel his way round like this, then when he felt utterly sure it was a corpse—- well, then what?
Don’t leap ahead.
Don’t leap ahead.
Take it one step at a time.
Max tugged at the plastic and this time it fell away, along with a few maggots. In the periphery of his vision Max could make out the shape of the white blouse Sarah had worn at dinner.
