The first step was to find a place where I could safely take him, a place we could be private together. I immediately dismissed my home. I can hear my neighbours’ squalid arguments, the barking of their hysterical German shepherd and the irritating thud of their stereo’s bass; I had no desire to share my apotheosis with them. Besides, in my terraced street, there are too many curtain twitchers. I wanted no witnesses to Adam’s arrival or his departure.
I considered renting a lock up garage, but rejected that for the same reasons. Besides, it seemed too seedy, too much of a cliché from the world of television and film. I wanted something in keeping with what was going to happen. Then I remembered my mother’s Auntie Doris. Doris and her husband Henry used to farm sheep on the moors high above Bradfield. Then, about four years ago, Henry died. Doris tried to keep things going for a while, but when her son Ken invited her out last year for an extended holiday with his family in New Zealand, she sold the sheep and packed her bags. Ken had written to me at Christmas, saying his mother had suffered a mild heart attack and wouldn’t be coming back for the foreseeable future.
That night, I took advantage of a lull in work to call Ken. At first, he sounded surprised to hear from me, then muttered, ‘I suppose you’re using the phones at work.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ring for ages,’ I said. ‘I wanted to know how Auntie Doris was doing.’ It’s much easier to appear solicitous via satellite. I made the appropriate noises while Ken bored on about his mother’s health, his wife, their three kids and their sheep.
After ten minutes, I decided I’d had enough. ‘The other thing is, Ken, I was worried about the house,’ I lied. ‘It’s so isolated up there, someone should keep an eye on the place.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ he said. ‘Her solicitor’s supposed to be doing that, but I don’t reckon he’s been near it.’
‘Do you want me to pop out and check it over? Now I’m back living in Bradfield, it would be no bother.’
‘Would you? That’d be a hell of a load off, I don’t mind telling you. Between ourselves, I’m not sure Mum’s ever going to be well enough to go back home again, but I’d hate to think of anything happening to the family home,’ Ken said eagerly.
Hate to think of anything happening to his inheritance, more like. I knew Ken. Ten days later, I had the keys. On my next day off, I drove out there to check the accuracy of my recollection. The rutted track leading to Start Hill Farm was much more overgrown than the last time I’d been there, and my four-wheel-drive jeep struggled to climb the three miles from the nearest single-track lane. I cut the engine a dozen yards from the grim little cottage and sat listening for five minutes. The biting wind from the high moors rustled the overgrown hedges, occasional birds sang. But there were no human sounds. Not even the distant thrum of traffic.
I got out of the jeep and had a look round. One end of the sheep shed had collapsed into a random pile of millstone grit, but what pleased me was that there was no sign of casual human visitations; no picnic remains, no corroding beer cans, no crumpled newspapers, no cigarette butts, no used condoms. I walked back to the house and let myself in.
It was little more than a two-up, two-down. Inside, it was very different from the cosy farmhouse I remembered. All the personal touches — photographs, ornaments, horse brasses, antiques — were gone, packed up in crates in storage, a very Yorkshire precaution. In a way, I was relieved; there was nothing here that could trigger off memories that would interfere with what I had to do. It was a blank tablet, with all humiliations, embarrassments and pain erased. Nothing of my past lurked to surprise me. The person I had been was absent.
I walked through the kitchen towards the pantry. The shelves were empty. God knows what Doris had done with her serried ranks of jams, pickles and home-made wines. Maybe she’d shipped them to New Zealand as a hedge against being fed alien food. I stood in the doorway, and stared at the floor. I could feel a foolish grin of relief spread across my face. My memory hadn’t let me down. There was a trapdoor in the floor. I squatted down and pulled the rusty iron ring. After a few seconds, the door swung back on creaking hinges. As I sniffed the air from the cellar, I grew more convinced that the gods were with me. I had feared it would be damp, fetid and stale. But instead, it was cool and fresh, slightly sweet.
I lit my camping gas lamp and carefully descended the flight of stone stairs. The lamp revealed a sizeable room, about twenty feet by thirty. The floor was flagged with stone slabs, and a broad stone bench ran the length of one wall. I held the lamp high and saw the solid beams of the roof. The lath and plaster ceiling was the only part of the cellar that showed any signs of disrepair. I could easily fix that with plasterboard, which would serve the double purpose of preventing any light escaping through the bare floorboards above. At right angles to the stone bench was a slop sink. I remembered the farm was served by its own spring. The tap was stiff, but when I finally managed to turn it, the water ran out pure and clear.
Near the stairs stood a scarred wooden workbench, complete with vices and G-clamps, Henry’s tools hanging in neat rows above. I sat on the stone bench and hugged myself. A few hours’ work was all that was needed to turn this into a dungeon far superior to anything the games programmers had ever come up with. For a start, I didn’t have to think about creating an in-built weakness so my adventurers could escape.
By the end of the week, coming out to the farm in my time off, I had completed the job. Nothing sophisticated; I’d fixed padlock and internal bolts to the trapdoor, I’d repaired the ceiling, and covered the walls in a couple of coats of whitewash. I wanted the place as light as possible to improve the quality of the video. I’d even run a spur off the ring main to provide me with electricity.
I’d thought long and hard before I’d decided how to punish Adam. Finally, I’d fixed on what the French call the
chevalet,
the Spanish
escalero,
the Germans the
ladder,
the Italians
veglia
and the poetic English ‘The Duke of Exeter’s Daughter’. The rack got its euphemistic name from the resourceful John Holland, Duke of Exeter and Earl of Huntingdon. After a successful career as a soldier, the duke became Constable of the Tower of London and somewhere around 1420 he introduced that splendid instrument of persuasion to these shores
.
The earliest version consisted of an open rectangular frame raised on legs. The prisoner was laid underneath it, fastened by ropes round his wrists and ankles. At each corner, the ropes were attached to a windlass operated by a warder pulling on levers. This inelegant and labour-intensive device became more sophisticated over the years, ending up more like a table or a horizontal ladder, often incorporating a spiked roller in the middle so that, as the prisoner’s body moved, his back was shredded on the spikes. Pulley systems had also been designed which linked all four ropes together, making it possible for the machine to be used by one person alone.
Fortunately, those who have applied punishment through the ages have been thorough in their descriptions and drawing. I also had the photographs in the museum handbook to refer to, and with the assistance of a CAD program, I’d designed my very own rack. For the mechanism, I’d cannibalized an old-fashioned clothes wringer that I picked up in an antique shop. I’d also bought an old mahogany dining table in an auction. I took it straight up to the farm and dismembered it in the kitchen, admiring the craftsmanship that had gone into the solid timber. It took a couple of days to build the rack. All that remained was to test it.
2
Let the reader then figure to himself the pure frenzy of horror when in this hush of expectation, looking, and indeed, waiting for the unknown arm to strike once more, but not believing that any audacity could be equal to such an attempt as yet, whilst all eyes were watching… a second case of the same mysterious nature, a murder on the same exterminating plan, was perpetrated in the very same neighbourhood.
As soon as Brandon started the engine, the mobile phone mounted on the dashboard trilled. He grabbed the handset and barked, ‘Brandon.’ Tony could hear the computerized voice say, ‘You have messages. Please call 121. You have messages…’
Brandon took the phone from his ear, hit the keys and jammed it back again. This time, Tony couldn’t hear what was said. After a moment, Brandon dialled another number. ‘My secretary,’ he explained briefly. ‘Sorry about this… Hello, Martina? John. You were looking for me?’
A few seconds into the answer, Brandon squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain. ‘Where?’ he asked, his voice dull. ‘OK, got it. I’ll be there within the half-hour. Who’s dealing?… Fine, thanks, Martina.’ Brandon opened his eyes and ended the call. He carefully replaced the handset and twisted in his seat to face Tony. ‘You wanted to know when you could start? How about now?’
‘Another body?’ Tony asked.
‘Another body,’ Brandon agreed grimly, turning back and slamming the car into gear. ‘How do you feel about scenes of crime?’
Tony shrugged. ‘I’ll probably lose my lunch, but it’s a bonus for me if I get to see them in a fairly pristine state.’
‘There’s nothing pristine about the way this sick bastard leaves them,’ Brandon growled as he shot on to the motorway and made straight for the outside lane. The speedo read ninety-five before he eased back on the accelerator.
‘Has he gone back to Temple Fields?’ Tony asked.
Taken aback, Brandon shot him a quick look. Tony was staring straight ahead, his dark eyebrows corrugated in a frown. ‘How did you know?’
That was a question Tony wasn’t prepared to answer. ‘Call it a hunch,’ he stalled. ‘I think last time out he was scared that Temple Fields might be getting a bit too hot. Dumping the third body in Carlton Park shifted the focus, maybe stopped the police concentrating on one area, probably relaxed people’s vigilance a bit. But he likes Temple Fields. Either because he knows the patch really well, or else it’s important to his fantasy. Or maybe it makes some kind of statement for him,’ Tony mused aloud.
‘Do you always come up with half a dozen different hypotheses every time someone tosses you a fact?’ Brandon asked, flashing his lights at a BMW that was reluctant to give up possession of the fast lane. ‘Shift, you bastard, before I get Traffic out to you,’ he snarled.
‘I try,’ Tony said. ‘That’s how I do the job. Gradually, the evidence makes me eliminate some of my initial thoughts. Eventually, some sort of pattern begins to form.’ He fell silent, already fantasizing about what he would find at the scene of the crime. His stomach felt hollow, muscles fluttering like a musician before a concert. Normally, all he ever got to see were the second-hand, sanitized versions of crime scenes. No matter how good the photographer and the other forensic officers, it was always someone else’s vision he had to translate. This time, he was going to be as close to a killer as he’d ever been. For a man who lived his life behind the shield of learned behaviours, penetrating a killer’s façade was the only game in town.
Carol said, ‘No comment,’ for the eleventh time. Penny Burgess’s mouth tightened and her eyes flicked round the scene, desperate for someone who would be less of a stone wall than Carol. Popeye Cross might be a male chauvinist pig, but in between the patronizing comments he always salted a few memorable quotes. Drawing a blank, she focused on Carol again.
‘What happened to sisterhood, Carol?’ she complained. ‘Come on, give us a break. Surely there must be something you can tell me apart from “No comment”.’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Burgess. The last thing your readers need to hear is ill-informed off-the-cuff speculation. As soon as I’ve got anything concrete to say, I promise you’ll be the first to know.’ Carol softened her words with a smile.
She turned to walk away, but Penny grabbed the sleeve of her mac. ‘Off the record?’ she pleaded. ‘Just for my guidance? So I don’t end up writing something that makes me look a pillock? Carol, I don’t have to tell you what it’s like. I work in an office full of guys that are running a book on when I’ll make my next cock-up.’
Carol sighed. It was hard to resist. Only the thought of what Tom Cross would make of it in the squad room kept her mouth closed. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve been doing just fine so far.’ As she spoke, a familiar Range Rover turned the corner. ‘Oh shit,’ she muttered, pulling her arm away from the reporter. All she needed was John Brandon deciding she was the police source behind the
Sentinel Times
’s serial-killer hysteria. Briskly, Carol walked towards Brandon’s car as it jerked to a halt, waiting for someone to shift the tapes keeping the crowd at bay. She stopped and waited while the constables rushed to impress the ACC with their efficiency. The Range Rover nosed forward, giving Carol the opportunity to spot the stranger in Brandon’s passenger seat. As the two men climbed down, she scanned Tony, committing the details to the memory bank she’d trained herself to develop. You never knew when you’d need to come up with a photofit. Around five-eight, slim, good shoulders, narrow hips, legs and trunk in proportion, short dark hair, side parting, dark eyes, probably blue, shadows under the eyes, fair skin, average nose, wide mouth, lower lip fuller than upper. Shame about the dress sense, though. The suit was even more out of fashion than Brandon’s. It didn’t look worn, however. Deduction: this was a man who didn’t spend his working life in a suit. Equally, he didn’t like throwing money away, so the suit was going to be worn till it fell to bits. Second deduction: he probably wasn’t married or in a permanent relationship. Any woman whose partner needed a suit occasionally would have pitched him into buying a timelessly classic style that wouldn’t look so absurd five years after its purchase.