Four British Mysteries Page 15

  David Llewellyn had other ideas.

  To satisfy his curiosity – at least – he had visited the local solicitor’s office where he had been able to examine the original plans for Hawthorn Lodge. To his delight and satisfaction he had discovered that, as he suspected, the house did have a series of cellars. The plans indicated that these chambers were accessed by an entrance in the kitchen. However, instead of passing this information on to his superior, Llewellyn had decided to carry out some undercover work of his own. Why should he allow the old duffer Sharples take the credit for his detective prowess? He’d been sneered at and ridiculed when he’d offered his opinion, his strong conviction, that Dr Northcote was the man they were after.

  Now he intended to prove it.

  Gripping the police revolver in his pocket with one hand and picking up his battered canvas bag with the other, David Llewellyn emerged from the shrubbery and with a measured tread made his way across the lawn towards the front of the house, his footsteps leaving dark imprints in the frosted grass like the trail of some ghostly creature. On reaching one of the tall sitting-room windows, he knelt down in the flowerbed and withdrew a jemmy from the bag. With several deft movements, accompanied by the gentle sound of splintering wood, he managed to prise the window from its fastenings and open it a few inches. That was all that was needed. Gripping the lower edge of the window with both hands and exerting all his strength he pushed it higher, creating an aperture large enough to allow him to pass through.

  Within moments he was in the house, a gentle smile of satisfaction resting on his taut features. From the innards of the bag, he extracted a torch. He had visited the house on two previous occasions in a formal and more conventional capacity with Sharples. These visits, allied to his studies of the plans, gave him the confidence to move swiftly through the dark sitting room, into the hallway and towards the kitchen.

  * * *

  The murders had started six months earlier. The pattern was the same in all four cases. A young woman in her early twenties was reported missing by her distraught parents and then a few days later her mutilated body was discovered in woodland or waste ground. In all instances the victim’s arms, legs and breasts had been amputated and were missing. There was also evidence that the victim had been tortured. Most of the gruesome details had been held back from the press but despite that, because of the youth of the victims, the murderer had been labelled ‘The Ghoul’ by the more downmarket rags.

  The limbs had been expertly severed and so it was suspected that a member of the medical profession was the perpetrator of these horrendous crimes. The girls had all lived within five miles of Hampstead Heath and doctors and surgeons residing within this radius had fallen under particular scrutiny. Two suspects emerged: Stanley Prince, a middle-aged GP who had been struck off the medical register some years before for conducting a series of abortions; and Ralph Northcote, a surgeon at St Luke’s Hospital who twelve months earlier had been accused of assault by one of the nurses who had mysteriously disappeared before she could testify against him at a medical tribunal. As a result, the case was dropped and Northcote continued to practise.

  Inspector Brian Sharples was placed in charge of the case and given one of the promising new live wires at the Yard, Detective Sergeant David Llewellyn, as his assistant. The two men did not get on. Sharples was an old hand, steady on the tiller, a great believer in doing things by the book, a book it seemed to Llewellyn that Sharples had written himself at some time back in the Middle Ages. With Sharples it was a case of softly, softly, catchee monkey. This may work in the long run, thought Llewellyn, but there may be three or four more murders before this particular monkey was apprehended. Llewellyn was a great believer in stirring up the waters and in the power of intuition. He was convinced that he had a nose for sniffing out a murderer.

  Both Prince and Northcote were investigated and interviewed, but apart from their past misdemeanours nothing could be pinned on them. However, Llewellyn did not like Northcote. There was something about his oh-so- charming and rather slimy manner that set alarm bells ringing for the young Detective Sergeant. So much so that, unknown to Sharples, and any other of his colleagues, he had started to do a little digging on his own. Northcote was now in his mid-thirties and living alone, but in his youth he had been a bit of a ladies’ man with, Llewellyn discovered, a string of broken engagements. Engagements which had all been ended by the girls. Llewellyn had managed to track one of these girls down and interview her. Doreen French was touching forty now, plump and comfortable looking. She had married a greengrocer and was the mother of twins. She seemed content with her lot and more than happy to talk about Northcote. She revealed nothing that was legally incriminating, but confirmed Llewellyn’s impression that the man was odd and put up a false front to the world. ‘In the end,’ said Doreen French, her eyes twinkling brightly, ‘he gave me the willies. He was… how can I say…? He liked to touch me. Not in a sexual way, you understand, but… just to touch my skin. He loved to run his fingers down my bare arm. He once gave my arm such a squeeze, it caused a great big bruise. He wasn’t much of a kisser, but …’ she giggled innocently… ‘he did like to lick me. On my cheek and round the back of the neck. I thought it was sweet at first. Affectionate like – but in the end… as I say, it gave me the willies’.

  Llewellyn nodded sympathetically. It would give him the willies too. ‘Was he ever violent to you?’

  Doreen did not have to ponder this one. ‘Oh, no. Not deliberately, anyway. There was that bruise I mentioned, but he never slapped me or anything like that. But I have to say, that towards the end, I just didn’t like being alone with him. He just seemed odd. What had started out as endearing quirks became rather spooky. And his eating habits… ugh!’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Well, he hardly ate anything that was cooked. He liked raw steak and his lamb chops hardly sat in the pan a minute before they were on his plate, all bloody and raw.’ Doreen pulled a face that effectively mirrored her revulsion.

  Well, thought David, there was nothing in the interview that would provide evidence that Northcote was this Ghoul, but he certainly seemed a strange chap and it was certainly a strange chap with medical knowledge who was murdering these young girls. Now a fifth one had disappeared. Her body had not been found yet so there was a slim chance that she was still alive. Very slim, he had to admit. Sharples had refused to interview Northcote again – ‘We’ve nothing to go on, lad. We’re here to investigate crimes not cause a nuisance to respectable law abiding folk.’ And so David decided to take things into his own hands.

  * * *

  Once in the kitchen, he examined the walls carefully for some kind of hidden door that would provide access to the cellars. His search was fruitless, however. As he stood in the centre of the lofty chamber, the beam of his torch slowly scanning his surroundings, a sound came to his ears, one which froze his blood.

  It was a high-pitched scream of pain. It was sharp and piercing like nails down a blackboard. He shuddered involuntarily at the sound. Where had it come from? It was clear yet distant, like a train whistle down a long tunnel. He listened, straining his ears in the hissing silence but the sound did not come again. As he waited in the dark, he relaxed the hold on his torch and the shaft of light sank towards the floor and rested on the base of a large kitchen cabinet by the far wall. What it illuminated made Llewellyn’s heart skip a beat. There were faint skid marks marking the dark wooden flooring: tiny groves that had imprinted themselves on the boards. It was quite clear to Llewellyn that these had been made by the stout legs of the cabinet as it had been pulled away from the wall.

  With a tight grin, he rested the torch on the large kitchen table in the centre of the room so that the beam fell on to the cabinet and then he attempted to drag it away from the wall. Kneeling in order to obtain a more secure purchase, he tugged hard at the lower section. Slowly the cabinet moved, the feet following exactly the track of the grooves in the floor. When he had managed t
o create a gap between the wall and the cabinet big enough for him to squeeze himself into, he saw it.

  Llewellyn’s grin broadened. ‘The secret door,’ he whispered to himself.

  He now pushed the cabinet fully clear of the wall and attempted to open the door. The handle rattled encouragingly but the door did not budge. It was locked. This did not daunt Llewellyn for although the lock was new and stout, the door was old. Retrieving the jemmy from his canvas bag, he got to work levering the door open. It was the work of a matter of moments. The wood splintered easily and surrendered to the force of the jemmy.

  Gingerly he pulled the door open and with the aid of his torch he peered into the darkness beyond. There was a set of stone steps leading down into ebony void. ‘Now the adventure really starts,’ he muttered to himself as he moved slowly forward into the cold blackness. On reaching the bottom of the stairs he thought he heard faint, indistinguishable noises in the distance. How far away they were he could not tell. Maybe it was just the movement of rats and mice – maybe it was something else. Using his torch like a searchlight, he tried to get a sense of his surroundings. He was in a passageway with a low vaulted ceiling. He saw that there were two light bulbs dangling down but no sign of a switch by which to turn them on. He knew, however, that it would be foolish to do so even if he could. He had no intention of announcing his presence in such an ostentatious fashion.

  On reaching the end of the passage, he came to another door. A thin line of light seeped out at its base. This is it, thought Llewellyn, heart thumping. Swiftly he clicked off the torch and stowed it away in his coat pocket and then pulled out his revolver before turning the handle of the door. This one was not locked. Gently he opened it and stepped inside. The first impression was of the brightness of the chamber. The walls and floor were covered in white ceramic tiles while fierce strip lights hung down from the ceiling flooding the room with harsh illumination which created dense shadows. It had the antiseptic ambience of an operating theatre.

  An operating theatre.

  In the centre of the room was a stone slab on which was laid the twitching naked body of a young girl. At first glance, she seemed to be coated from head to foot in some dark shiny substance. Then, to Llewellyn’s horror, he realised that it was blood. Leaning over her was a man in a white coat which was also splattered with crimson stains. As Llewellyn entered the chamber the man glanced up in surprise, his eyes wide and manic. It was a moment that was forever etched on David’s mind. Like a scar, that image was to stay with him for life; it was seared into his consciousness ready to feed his nightmares and catch him unawares during unsuspecting waking moments. It was as though a fierce flashbulb had exploded, the harsh, vibrant light freezing the scene as vile photograph.

  The creature seemed unconcerned that he had been disturbed in his activity. The lower half of his face was dripping with blood and something seemed to be trailing from his mouth, glistening and moist. As Llewellyn took a step nearer, he realised to his disgust that it was a piece of pink meat. Instinctively, his gaze moved to the mutilated body of the naked girl and then the truth hit him like a mighty blow to the solar plexus. This fiend was eating her flesh.

  TWO

  1944

  After the death of my girlfriend Max… after her brutal murder… I spiralled down into an undignified state of self-pity. I tried to escape reality through booze and sleep, failing to function either as a detective or even a human being. I rejected the ministerings and comfort offered by those close to me: Peter, my sort-of adopted son, Benny, the little Jewish café owner who treated me like family, and my old mate Detective Inspector David Llewellyn. In their various ways they all tried to shake me out of my depressive malaise, but failed. It was not their fault. Perversely, I didn’t want to be shaken. I wanted to wallow. Ironically, as I think back to that period now, I can see that being deeply miserable was in a strange way the only thing that was keeping me sane.

  As an orphan, I had never seen much affection in my life and then to meet the beautiful Max and receive it from her in spades was miraculous and wonderful. My innate cynicism forged out of a life of disappointments should have warned me that it wouldn’t last, but nothing or no one could have prepared me for the savage and dramatic way in which she would be taken from me. What increased my pain was the sense of guilt I felt for her death. She was killed by a crazed maniac as a means of wreaking revenge on me.* She was an innocent who had wandered into my dirty little world and because of me she had lost her life. It was my fault that she ended up with a bullet in her head.

  * See The Darkness of Death, the fifth Johnny One Eye novel, for full details

  My fault.

  The image of my dead love with her wide staring eyes and the spidery tendrils of blood spilling down her face haunted me in those months and days that followed. And, indeed, haunt me still.

  What dragged me back to reality and, in truth, saved my sanity was one of the strangest and most challenging episodes of my life. It was late March and winter’s grip on the country was still in evidence. It might have been spring on the calendar, but the elements were not acknowledging the fact. The daffodils and crocus may have reluctantly raised their heads about the stiff frost-bound earth, but the fierce gales continued to blow and sleet showers doused the city. It was on such a foul morning when the wind rattled the window panes and the rain sloshed against the glass that I was sitting huddled by the electric fire, clasping a cup of hot coffee while trying to raise some enthusiasm for facing the day. I realised that I had to go back to work and soon. I had been scrounging on my savings such as they were for the last few months and as a result they had dwindled drastically and were now in danger of disappearing altogether. I had turned down a couple of mundane cases simply because I couldn’t face the prospect of returning to my old routine, pretending that everything was normal again. ‘Pull yourself together man’, would be the sentiment. ‘What the hell, life goes on y’know!’ Sorry, but I just couldn’t accept that resilient and unfeeling philosophy.

  However, as I sat in my cramped sitting room, staring at the small twisted orange wires of the electric fire gently vibrating with feeble warmth I came to accept that even mundane cases pay and I needed money. Even if I was just going to spend it on booze. I knew that it really was time to try and get back in the saddle as that stupid phrase has it. I could hear Benny’s voice in my head: ‘Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my boy.’ Well, perhaps the old boy was right.

  With some effort, I dragged myself down the hall to the bathroom. I gazed at myself in the mirror over the sink. It was probably the first time I really had looked at myself properly since before Max died. I was shocked by what I saw. Here was a stranger. A grey, hollow-cheeked ghost of a man, wearing a haggard parody of my face, was staring back at me. My vivid impersonation of a consumptive tramp was enhanced by the several days’ growth of beard.

  Suddenly I heard another voice inside my head. This time it was my own and surprisingly, shockingly, it came up with a new thought – something that had not crossed my mind until the image of the dissipated wreck in the mirror had prompted it. What would Max think? I asked myself. Would she be happy at the way you are behaving? Of course not. She wouldn’t want you this way, would she? Not her Johnny. By turning into a self-pitying drunk I was letting her down. This realisation struck me hard. What a stupid bastard I was!

  With some effort, I held back a sob and rooted in my toilet bag for my razor. ‘Let’s get rid of the fuzz for a start’ I muttered to myself through gritted teeth.

  Thirty minutes later, I was back in my sitting room fully dressed with a clean white shirt on and a smooth chin and combed hair. I still looked like death warmed up, but a much tidier version than before. As I checked myself out in the mirror I even afforded myself a smile. It was a stranger to my face and it had difficulty settling there but I persevered and made it stay for a few seconds before it slipped away into the ether. Perhaps I was only pretending to myself that I could do this but, I reckone
d, if I stuck to the pretence maybe that would become its own reality. I’d just got to try.

  As a reward for all my efforts, I sank in my armchair and lit a cigarette. Watching the bluish smoke spiral gently away from the amber tip, I made plans for my day.

  My first port of call was St Saviour’s Church, the little Catholic church situated in one of the thoroughfares off the Edgware Road. It was here where Max was buried. I managed to buy a limp bunch of daffodils to place on her grave. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds loured over me and the wind stabbed me and pinched my nose as I stood in the graveyard and had a brief conversation with my dead love. ‘I’m back,’ I said. ‘Back as me. Back as you knew me. Well, almost. I still don’t have that spring in my step but I’m going to try, my love. I’m going to try for you. Be the old Johnny Hawke I used to be. I’ll never quite manage that, but… I’ll try to make you proud of me.’ I grinned and dabbed my moist eye.

  As I turned to go I was conscious of someone standing close to me. It was Father Sanderson, the priest who had conducted Max’s funeral and had been so kind and understanding towards me.

  ‘Hello, Johnny,’ he said, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘How are you?’

  I gave a gentle shrug. ‘I think I’m on the mend.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. The pain of loss never quite goes away, nor should it, but it does become easier to bear. It’s early days yet.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I wonder if I could have a word with you. I have a little problem you may be able to help me with.’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, if you think I can be of any use.’

  ‘How about a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit in my office? That should help warm you up. I must admit you look like a frozen ghost.’