Behind him, Myrna uttered a pitiful squeak.
‘ You okay, honey?’ he asked gently.
Her hand was over her mouth. She nodded, wide-eyed.
Their journey progressed, avoiding pools of blood, stepping over them like a nightmarish game of hopscotch. Tapperman pointed out all the sights of interest along the way, like a tour guide taking a party around the Museum of Horrors.
Another severed hand — again a right one. Palm down, fingers spread wide looking like one of those huge bird-eating spiders but with three of its fat legs amputated; a pair of feet removed from the rest of the body at the ankles, standing there side by side. Could have been a pair of bookends. Obviously placed there with care by the offender.
All the while, the bile rose inside Kruger’s stomach as the journey down the corridor became increasingly akin to a ghoulish fantasy. His ears pounded, bass drums rattling his eardrums. He was light-headed and slightly ‘out of it’; he fully expected to wake up, bathed in a cold sweat.
There was no such luxury for him.
Tapperman reached one of the doors in the corridor which led to an apartment. It was open. He stood slightly to one side and indicated for Myrna and Kruger to have a looksee.
They did.
That was enough for Kruger.
Fuck the evidence.
He lurched past Tapperman down the hallway and sank to his knees, supporting himself against the wall. He regurgitated his stomach contents in one violent vomit. It looked just like wet cement.
Behind him, and ringing in his ears, was the ear-splitting petrified scream of Myrna. She had hit hysteria within a milli-second and showed no signs of coming back to earth until Tapperman gave her one almighty crack across the chops.
‘ Fuckin’ civvies,’ he said under his breath. Maybe it had been a mistake inviting them to the scene. On reflection, though, perhaps he should’ve warned them.
It’s not every day that a person gets to see two severed heads, plonked side by side, ear to ear, on a coffee table. Eyes wide open. Mouths gaping. Tongues lolling out. Set in their own coagulating blood, like candle wax.
The heads of the two brothers, Jimmy and Dale Armstrong. Now former employees of Kruger Investigations.
Tapperman had a further thought. Jeez, they look like a matching pair of candles. If there had been a wick coming out of them, he would have been tempted to light it.
Chapter Eight
The phone rang twice more before Danny even made it upstairs. Each time she answered, it was the same as the first call. Nothing… then one word which took a further step towards obscenity.
The fourth time it rang, Danny lifted the receiver, replaced it and threw it down, off the hook.
Before going upstairs she checked all the doors and windows were locked, curtains drawn.
Only then, when she felt completely safe, did she go for that long bath to soothe her jagged nerves.
In the deep, hot, soapy water, she had time for reflection.
Over the years she had dealt with many women — and some men — who had become victims of obsessive behaviour by their former partners or other people, who for some reason became attracted to them in a sick way. In the past she had given normal, routine advice. See a solicitor. Get an injunction. Ring us when he’s here. Keep a log. You’ll have a hell of a time proving it, you know. Stop being such a softie. Pull yourself together.
Only now did she begin to really understand just something of what those poor people must have been going through. Now it was real to her. It may have only just started, but it made her afraid, alone and isolated. And much, much more.
Without even knowing what was coming, Danny burst into tears.
Her initial reaction was to choke them back, but she realised she needed their release. Accordingly, she howled in anguish, smashed the bath brush on the water and went with the flow.
When they subsided, she felt slightly better.
Ten minutes later, refreshed, skin buzzing, hair clean, in her bathrobe and slippers, she trotted downstairs, filled up the wine glass and pointed the remote at the telly.
Tentatively she picked up the phone and bounced it in her hand. She replaced it, held her breath, bit her tongue.
Nothing happened.
She breathed out and sat down.
When the ring came it sound like an explosion in her ears.
Inside herself, something crumbled.
Louis Vernon Trent sat prim and proper across from the old lady. He smiled at her occasionally. She thought he looked like a thoroughly decent young man.
Most of the time he watched the world go by from the train window, gazing at the landscape which he knew so well. Particularly once he had changed trains in Manchester, he recognised every inch of the towns and country of East Lancashire, eventually merging into mid-Lancashire at Preston, then west as the train headed towards the coast.
Whilst the train was stationary in Preston, he had a few torrid moments when a couple of uniformed British Transport Policemen came into the carriage. They worked their way down the aisles, closely scrutinising’ passengers, in particular lone males.
He knew they were looking for him.
He kept his cool, eyed their approach with confidence and leaned forwards, almost with an intimate gesture to the old woman.
‘ So how’re you doing, Mum?’ he said. He stressed the last word loud enough for it to be picked up by the approaching cops.
‘ I’m very well, son,’ she responded brightly, glad of the opportunity to say something. ‘For my age, that is.’
She laughed. So did Trent.
‘ What did you think of my birthday present to you?’ he asked as the policemen came alongside. They ignored Trent and his mum. After all, they were seeking a single man, probably still in prison gear. Not someone travelling with his mum.
‘ Eh?’ said the lady.
‘ Nowt,’ he said. ‘Go back to sleep.’ He relaxed and allowed himself a smug smile as he closed his eyes and recalled the final moments of his escape.
He had forced the ambulance driver to take him towards the outskirts of the nearest town where he knew there was an out-of-town retail park. The ambulance was driven behind the retail park to an industrial estate, where they parked up in the back yard of a deserted warehouse.
At knifepoint, Trent forced the driver out, made him open the rear doors of the ambulance and stand there looking at two dead bodies, soaked in blood. The foot of the brain-skewered prison guard still twitched.
Trent made the ambulance driver undress and fold up his clothes in a neat pile. He took the man’s wallet which contained sixty pounds and a credit card. He shoved the knife underneath the man’s ear and made him divulge the PIN number for the card which Trent memorised.
Then it was time to dispose of him.
Both knew the moment had arrived.
‘ Look, pal, I won’t talk. I’ll stay here for as long as you say. Anything. Whatever you want. I don’t wanna die. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve got a wife and kids.’
Trent sneered at him. ‘I hate kids,’ he chided. ‘Do you fuck them?’
The man swallowed, shook his head.
‘ Get down on your knees.’
He descended slowly. He was on the same eye-line as his dead colleague in the ambulance, whose eyes stared sightless at him.
‘ Shall I take mercy on you?’
‘ Yes… please… Look, you can trust me…’
‘ Oh, fucking shut up whining,’ shouted Trent. He’d had enough of the man. He grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, exposing the neck. He sliced the knife across his throat, forcing the blade deep with a sawing action, severing the arteries.
The man gurgled, slumped onto the back step of the ambulance, clutching his neck, trying to stem the flow.