A Deadly Compulsion (20 page)

“Jesus, it stinks down here.  Have you just been?” he asked, taking another step forward before turning his head towards the sink and seeing the blue-brown swamp in the sink, and immediately knowing that the malodorous stench emanated from the pungent, heady mix of excreta and disinfectant.  He then saw the broken remains of the loo: the pieces of plastic gathered together in a small heap, as if it were kindling ready to be lit.  For just a second he was dumbfounded and could not understand why she had done it.  What the fuck was the stupid bitch hoping to gain by smashing her toilet to bits?

A blur of movement in his peripheral vision jerked his attention back to the bed.

Trish knew it was now or never.  She hurled herself forward towards him like a coiled spring, thrusting the short spear out straight-armed in front of her; a guttural scream of combined terror and rage escaping her lips as she leapt catlike into mid-air.

He twisted and pulled back to avoid her, but felt a searing flash of pain in his side.  Falling to his knees, he realised that she had a weapon, had stabbed him, and that if he had been a fraction of a second slower he would have been skewered through the stomach.  He gasped as she withdrew the hand-held spear, and threw himself sideways as she struck out again, to roll across the cellar floor, cursing as another stinging slash opened his cheek to the bone.

Trish hesitated.  She had stabbed him once, felt the plastic point enter him, and watched as he folded to his knees.  She pulled it free, and saw the resulting outpouring of blood seeping through his cotton T-shirt, resembling a spreading wine stain on a tablecloth.  She tried to take advantage, lunged again, jabbing at his face.  And as he rolled away from her she took her chance, dropped the weapon that had served her so well and dashed up the stairs to the open door and freedom.

Bad timing.  Had she kept up the onslaught and continued to stab him as he lay on the floor, momentarily helpless, then she could have killed him and been done with the whole sorry business.  But her second of hesitation and subsequent decision to flee proved to be a monumental mistake.

He was fast.  Knew that if she had the composure to pause and close and lock the cellar door on him, then he was finished.  As he raced up the stairs, she was already swinging the door to.  It shut with a heavy thud.

Trish fumbled the top bolt, hand shaking as her brain screamed directions to it, willing it to grasp the head of the bolt and slide it smoothly into place.  At last her trembling fingers found it and...

...He hit the inside of the door with his shoulder as he heard the bolt scrape across the metal surface.  The iron finger slid into thin air, and he careered out into the kitchen.

Trish stepped to the side, turned and made to run, but he grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her backwards.  She twisted, wild-eyed, with her mouth darting at his face, jaws snapping, attempting to bite him.

Hugh reacted.  Swung her against the kitchen wall, once...twice...three times, before letting go and walking over to where he had secreted the hammer, as she slid down to the floor, leaving a swathe of blood from her split forehead in her wake on the faded wallpaper.

Trish was conscious, but could not find the strength to move.  She was knelt, head hung between her shoulders as if in prayer, knowing that she had lost the battle for life and was about to die.  She felt nothing, was dazed, consumed by a weariness that overcame her, robbing her of all resolution, to infuse her with a strange acceptance while awaiting her fate: a condemned prisoner acceding to the inevitable, climbing the steps to the gallows almost willingly, having come to terms with what was unavoidable.

The gleaming hammer arced down on to the crown of her head, and the round barrel of steel split her scalp open to punch a hole through her skull and plug into the underlying brain tissue.

Trish felt a stabbing, piercing pain, and was at once paralysed and struck blind, although still aware.  She could hear a loud whining, stammering sound, but had no idea that it was an emission from her own mouth.  She was jerked back as the tool was wrenched free from her skull, and having been rendered sightless, was spared seeing the glistening hammerhead as it scythed into her forehead and terminated all perception of being.

Standing back, Hugh dropped the hammer and placed his hands on his knees, gasping for breath as he watched the blood pool out onto the cracked and worn linoleum.

What a fucking mess
!  He would need more than a bin bag now.  She was still convulsing, thrashing about like an epileptic, and the sight was riveting; one he thought would have been enhanced by a suitable backing track of upbeat dance music.

It took him over an hour to clean up.  He wrapped the body in a plastic dust sheet, took it out to the barn and buried it as planned, then returned to the house and using a mop, cloths and a bucket of hot water he went to work in first the kitchen and then the cellar, removing every trace of body fluids, and even clearing the blocked sink, breathing through his mouth as he poured a full bottle of pine-scented disinfectant down the plug hole.  Back upstairs he examined the ingenious weapon that the sneaky bitch had fashioned.  He couldn’t help but admire her effort.  Had he been a fraction of a second slower, she would have probably killed him with it.  He threw it outside the back door, along with the other pieces of what had been the Chemiloo, to join his blood-sodden T-shirt and shorts.  He determined to bag the lot up and dump it when time allowed.

In the bathroom he showered and inspected his injuries.  The sharp plastic had gone through his side.  It was painful, but only a flesh wound.  No big deal.  He stepped out of the shower, dried off and then poured TCP antiseptic into the jagged gash and used a full roll of bandage to wrap tightly around his waist.  The cut to his face merited a few stitches, but a large Band-Aid would have to suffice.  He dressed in fresh T-shirt, jeans and trainers, and went to get Laura; his last task of this long, eventful night.

Laying Laura on the bed in the cellar, he removed the tape from her mouth and held the knife in front of her face.

“Listen very carefully, boss, I’ve had a long day,” he said.  “And believe it or not I’m going to work later, so I need some shuteye.  There’s a jug of water and some biscuits and fruit on the table next to you.  Plan on making it last for about twelve hours.  I’m afraid there’s no toilet down here, just a bucket in the corner.  If you behave, you’ll be free by this time tomorrow.  Once I’m well away from the area, I’ll phone the station and tell them where you are.”

“Why should I believe you?” Laura said, wincing as her swollen jaw complained.

“Because if I’d wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

“You must know that you’ll never get away with this, Hugh.”

“Save the lecture, boss.  Remember, I’m a cop, like you.  And if you’ve any sense, you’ll pack the job in.  You don’t really make a difference.  Shit has always happened, and always will.  You’re just an aspirin trying to treat a cancer.”

He cut the tape from her wrists and ankles, and then walked towards the steps.

“Hugh,” Laura called after him.

“Yeah, boss?” he answered, pausing and half turning.

“Why the staples, and...and all the other mutilation?”

“Because she deserves it,” he said.  “She’s a whore...a fucking slut.  She has to pay.”

“Who is, Hugh?  Who deserves it?  Who has to pay?”

His eyes clouded and became unfocused with a thousand yard stare.  His face went slack, and his mouth dropped open.  A muscle began to twitch in his right cheek, drawing his top lip up in an unwitting impersonation of Elvis Presley.  For just a moment, Hugh had left the building.

“Mummy,” he murmured absently.  “Mummy has to pay.  She has to keep being punished for what she did to me.”

A Hugh Parfitt that Laura did
not
know once more showed her his back, and trudged heavy-footed up the stone steps.  As the door thudded into place above her, and the bolts snapped across, she could hear sobs.  He was actually crying.

JIM
knocked at the door, took a step back and waited.  It was six-forty-five a.m.  He had been given Parfitt’s address by Clem Nash, who’d been on duty when Jim called in at police headquarters.  Clem had been introduced to him by Laura on his previous visit, and the young DC gave up his colleague’s address with little reluctance, although he wondered why the American couldn’t wait, pointing out that Hugh would be in at eight o’ clock.

“He’s away on holiday,” a harsh voice called out as Jim once more rapped on the door with his knuckles.  He turned and was faced by an elderly woman.  She was standing at the partly open door of the next flat, her blue-rinsed hair in rollers, and a large ginger cat gripped to her matronly breasts, claws tearing at the quilted housecoat she wore as it tried to escape her grasp.

“I said, Mr Parfitt is away, young man.  He won’t be back for a fortnight.”

“When did you last see him?” Jim asked, not moving towards the old woman, sure that she would shut the door in his face if he approached her.

“Teatime, yesterday.  And who might be asking?”

“I’m a friend, Jim Elliott.  I’m up from London on business and just called on the off chance that Hugh might be in.”

“American, are you?” she said with a derisive edge to her voice, before coughing wetly to clear lungs that were as smoked as kippers, due to sixty years of being addicted to unfiltered cigarettes.

“That’s right,” Jim said, forcing a smile to cover his mild revulsion at the liquid sound of phlegm being brought up and then swallowed.  “Do you know Hugh well?”

“No.  He keeps pretty much to himself.  In fact he’s hardly here at all.  Just drops by to collect his mail.  He very rarely stays over.”

“Do you happen to know where he’s gone?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.  Florida.  Is that where you hail from?”

“Er, no, I was born and raised in Arizona, Mrs...”

“Harriman...Nancy Harriman.”

“Well, thanks for your help, Mrs Harriman.  I’ll give him a call when he gets back.”

“You’d have more chance writing.  Do you want me to give him a message?”

“No need, it’s nothing urgent,” Jim said, walking past her towards the stairs, stifling a chuckle as the displeased cat finally wrenched free from her liver-spotted hands, scrambled over her shoulder and went down her back, growling as it leapt to the floor at a dead run and vanished along the hallway.

“Now look what you’ve done!  You’ve frightened poor Marmalade,” Nancy shouted after him, before slamming her door shut.

Jim found a small back street café adjacent to the River Ouse, ordered black coffee and asked to borrow the establishment’s copy of the Yellow Pages.  The sallow-faced Italian waiter seemed disturbed at being asked for something that was not on the menu, and could not therefore be charged for, but returned with the bulky directory and placed it before Jim as though it were a tagliatelle or spaghetti dish, before retreating to the rear of the cafe.  Thumbing through the grimy, out of date tome, Jim found the section he needed, but was faced with little choice.  There were very few private investigators in the York area.  He plumped for one situated nearby which was advertised as being a specialist in missing persons, or traces as Jim called them.

It was a one man outfit with a seedy office located over an antiquarian book shop on Micklegate.  Threadbare carpet led up a narrow stairwell onto an equally narrow landing.  The black lettering on the cracked, frosted glass panel of the solitary door read, Talbot Investigations.  Jim could imagine the interior of the office to be a ‘Mike Hammer’ scene of worn furnishings; a picture of hand to mouth existence bordering on insolvency.

“Yeah, come on in, it’s open,” a stony voice called out after Jim had tapped lightly on the glass.

The office was almost exactly as Jim had envisaged it would be; dowdy and functional, but not what he would deem inspiring to any prospective client.  The PI – who in the book was advertised as being an ex-police Detective Inspector with over thirty years experience – was pouring boiling water into a mug.

“You’re an early bird,” Leo Talbot said, giving Jim what appeared to be a cursory glance, but which Jim recognised as being a professional once over that took in more than the average person would see in a month.  “Coffee?”

Jim nodded. “Black, no sugar.”

“Take a seat and tell me what you need doing that you can’t handle yourself,” Leo said, dropping a sweetener into his own stained mug and stirring the brew vigorously.

Jim immediately felt that he had made a good choice.  The guy had an aura of hard-assed capability.  He was mid-fifties, with short, steel-grey hair and a checkerboard-lined face that was testament to a wealth of experience and a lifetime of incident.  He was bulky, maybe five-ten, but looked strong and able.  His eyes were sharp and clear, studying Jim as he placed the steaming mugs on the cluttered desktop.  Jim had the unsettling feeling that his life had been read like an open book by the down-at-heel-looking ex-cop.  As the PI sat and stared across at him with raised eyebrows, waiting to be given details, Jim couldn’t help but notice his striking resemblance to the late American actor, Richard Boone, who had, among many parts, starred as Paladin in the old TV western series
Have Gun Will Travel
.  His laconic, laid-back attitude and even the husky voice reinforced the illusion.  It was only the Yorkshire accent that broke the spell.

“I need background on a serving cop.  Everything you can dig up, and then some. And I need it yesterday.  Can you do that for me?” Jim said.

“Yank, eh?” Leo said, turning away from a dusty, dented and squeaking desk fan – blades sluggishly cutting through the warm air – and sheltering the flame of his lighter from it as he fired up a cigarette, prior to reaching for a pencil and notepad.

“Yeah, but I’ll be paying up front in sterling, not bucks.”

“As an ex-copper myself, I’d need a good reason to start digging around in a serving officer’s life?  Is he in trouble?”

“This cop
is
trouble.  I haven’t time to feed you crap.  His name is Hugh Parfitt, a local DS.  And there’s every possibility that he’s a serial killer who has at least one woman stashed away in the York area.  We’re talking about life or death here, with no bullshit exaggeration.”

“What’s your involvement?” Leo said, talking through a haze of cigarette smoke that the crippled fan was having trouble dispersing.

Jim gave the PI a thumbnail sketch of the case, of his connection, and of his fear for Laura’s life.

“Fuck me!”  Leo said.  “This would make a good movie; retired FBI profiler helping to nail a serial killer in the UK.”

“So you’ll join the cast, uh?”

“Yeah.  Give me a bell in about an hour, and I should have some basic details on Parfitt.”

Jim took five twenty pound notes from his wallet and handed them across the desk. “Will that hold you till I can get to an ATM?”

“No sweat.  We’ll worry about fees when the lady… or ladies are safe.”

Jim shook the gumshoe’s hand and left, already feeling better for having Leo Talbot on the case.

Parking the Cherokee in an official slot outside the police station, Jim went in and asked the cop at the counter if he could speak to Clem Nash.

Clem came through to the foyer, a worried man with a frown on his flushed face.  “Over there,” he said, pointing towards a green vinyl-covered bench seat that ran the length of the rear wall.  “You’d better tell me what the hell is going on, Mr Elliott?”

They sat out of earshot of the uniformed sergeant and WPC who were manning the front desk.  “Hugh is upstairs,” Clem said.  And he seemed less than happy when I told him that you were looking for him.”

“Clem, listen to me for sixty seconds with an open mind,” Jim said.  “The Tacker is a cop, and the cop is Parfitt.  He’s abducted Laura.  I have no solid proof, yet, but it’s him for sure.  Will you work with me on this?”

Clem was speechless.  He replayed what the Yank had said, running it through his mind and evaluating the implications of what he had just been told.  He had little time for Parfitt; thought that he was a smug bastard, but found it impossible to imagine Hugh as a psycho serial killer.

“Convince me,” he said to Jim after a long pause.  “Give me something to stop me thinking that you’re dealing with a short deck.”

“Okay,” Jim began; knowing that how he sold this to the young cop could prove critical in saving Laura’s life – if she was still alive – and nailing Parfitt.  “Only a cop could have known to plant that rope on a likely suspect in the area that was targeted.  And it was Hugh that came up with Cox...so he did it.  Also, Laura got Larry Hannigan over in odontology to do a comparison between teeth impressions in a partly eaten pork pie that she had got somewhere yesterday when she went to lunch, and the bite marks on two of the dead girls.  They were a match, so―”

“Holy shit!” Clem said.  “The boss went for a pub lunch with Hugh yesterday.”

Jim looked on as an expression of stunned amazement settled into one of growing acceptance on the DC’s face.  He said nothing more, just waited for Clem to assimilate what he had been told.

After a long pause.  “What do you want me to do?” Clem said.

“Nothing yet, I don’t want him spooked.  If he thinks that we’re on to him, then we might never see Laura again.  I want him to feel snug as a bug in a rug.  I need to see him, and convince him that he’s not under suspicion.”

Clem waved to the desk sergeant, who hit the button that unlocked the door to allow them through into the station proper.  Upstairs in the squad room, Hugh was busily wading through computer printouts.  Jim noted the dark smudges under his eyes, which contrasted sharply with his paler than usual complexion.  He also wondered what had caused the need for the large plaster taped to his cheek.

“Jim,” Hugh said, rising, pushing the papers to one side and offering his hand. “Good to see you, again.  Where’s the boss?”

Jim shook his hand with false enthusiasm, reached into his pocket and withdrew the note from the cottage and handed it to the DS.  “I was hoping you might know, Hugh. Read this.  She’s done a runner, and I haven’t got a clue where to start looking for her.”

“Why would she do this?”  Hugh said, shaking his head in measured, mock surprise as he read the note that he had dictated just a few hours’ earlier.

“God knows.  She’s still fragile. She hides it well, but hasn’t been able to come to terms with her daughter’s death.  She’s been on the edge since it happened, holding herself together with little more than spit.  I think that this case; the murder of these girls, has put her back to square one.  There’s a chance that she’ll do something stupid if I don’t find her.”

Hugh’s shoulders slumped and he manufactured a suitably concerned expression. “She seemed fine yesterday, Jim.  Where do you intend to start looking?  I want to help.”

“Thanks, Hugh, I appreciate that.  But I think she’ll have headed back down south.  London is her home ground.  I’ll make some phone calls, but I doubt it will do any good.  Knowing Laura, she’ll have found somewhere to be alone, to feed on her low self esteem and wallow in the guilt that she’ll be feeling for running away from responsibility.  Her depression will have probably put her back on the bottle.  I’ll stay at her place tonight, and then head back down south in the morning.”

Hugh placed his hand firmly on Jim’s shoulder.  “Jim, if there’s anything that I can do...anything at all.  I don’t just work with Laura, we’re a team.  And I care for her a lot.”

“I realise that, Hugh,” Jim said.  “If I get lucky, then you’ll be the first to know.  That’s a promise.”