The Mermaids Singing

Detective Inspector Carol Jordan stared at the broken chaos of flesh that had once been a man, determinedly forcing her eyes to remain out of focus. She wished she hadn’t bothered to snatch that stale cheese sandwich from the canteen. Somehow, it was acceptable for young male officers to throw up when they were confronted with victims of violent death. They even got sympathy. But in spite of the fact that women were supposed to lack bottle anyway, when female officers chucked up on the margins of crime scenes they instantly lost any respect they’d ever won and became objects of contempt, the butts of locker-room jokes from the canteen cowboys. Pick the logic out of that, Carol thought bitterly as she clamped her jaws tighter together. She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her trench coat and clenched her fists, the nails pressing into her palms.

Carol felt a hand on her arm, just above the elbow. Grateful for the chance to look away, she turned to find her sergeant looming above her. Don Merrick towered a good eight inches over his boss, and had developed a strange hunchbacked stoop when he spoke to her. At first, she’d found it amusing enough to regale friends with over drinks or the occasional dinner party when she managed to squeeze a night off. Now, she didn’t even notice. ‘Area’s all cordoned off now, ma’am,’ he said in his soft Geordie accent. ‘Pathologist’s on his way. What d’you think? Are we looking at number four?’

‘Don’t let the Super hear you say that, Don,’ she said, only half joking. ‘I’d say so, though.’ Carol looked around. They were in the Temple Fields district, in the rear yard of a pub which catered primarily to the gay trade, with an upstairs bar that was lesbian three nights a week. Contrary to the jibes of the macho men she’d overtaken in the promotion stakes, it wasn’t a bar Carol had ever had reason to enter. ‘What about the gate?’

‘Crowbar,’ Merrick said laconically. ‘It’s not wired into the alarm system.’

Carol surveyed the tall rubbish dumpsters and the stacked crates of empties. ‘No reason why it should be,’ she said. ‘What’s the landlord got to say?’

‘Whalley’s talking to him now, ma’am. Seems he locked up last night about half past eleven. They’ve got bins on wheels behind the bars for the empties, and at closing time they just wheel them into the yard back there.’ Merrick waved over towards the back door of the pub, where three blue plastic bins stood, each the size of a supermarket trolley. ‘They don’t sort them out till the afternoon.’

‘And that’s when they found this?’ Carol asked, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb.

‘Just lying there. Open to the elements, you might say.’

Carol nodded. A shudder ran through her that was nothing to do with the sharp north-eastern wind. She took a step towards the gate. ‘OK. Let’s leave this to the SOCOs for now. We’re only in the way here.’ Merrick followed her into the narrow alley behind the pub. It was barely wide enough for a single vehicle to squeeze down. Carol looked up and down the alley, now closed off by police tapes and guarded at either end by a pair of uniformed constables. ‘He knows his turf,’ she mused softly. She walked backwards along the alley, keeping the gate of the pub in constant view. Merrick followed her, waiting for the next set of orders.

At the end of the alley, Carol stopped and swung round to check out the street. Opposite the alley was a tall building, a former warehouse that had been converted into craft workshops. At night, it would be deserted, but in midafternoon, almost every window framed eager faces, staring out from the warmth within at the drama below. ‘Not much chance of anyone looking out of a window at the crucial time, I suppose,’ she remarked.

‘Even if they had, they wouldn’t have taken any notice,’ Merrick said cynically. ‘After closing time, the streets round here are jumping. Every doorway, every alley, half the parked cars have got a pair of poofs in them, shagging the arse off each other. It’s no wonder the Chief calls Temple Fields Sodom and Gomorrah.’

‘You know, I’ve often wondered. It’s pretty clear what they were up to in Sodom, but what do you suppose the sin of Gomorrah was?’ Carol asked.

Merrick looked bewildered. It increased his resemblance to a sad-eyed Labrador to a disturbing degree. ‘I’m not with you, ma’am,’ he said.

‘Never mind. I’m surprised Mr Armthwaite hasn’t got Vice pulling them all in on indecency charges,’ Carol said.

‘He did try it a few years back,’ Merrick confided. ‘But the police committee had his bollocks barbecued for it. He fought them, but they threatened him with the Home Office. And after the Holmwood Three business, he knew he was already on thin ice with the politicians, so he backed down. Doesn’t stop him slagging them off every chance he gets, though.’

‘Yeah, well, I hope this time our friendly neighbourhood killer has left us a bit more to go on, or our beloved leader might just pick another target for his next slagging off.’ Carol straightened her shoulders. ‘Right, Don. I want a door-to-door of the businesses, now. And tonight, we’re all going to be out on the streets, talking to the trade.’

Before Carol could complete her instructions, a voice from beyond the tapes interrupted. ‘Inspector Jordan? Penny Burgess, Sentinel Times. Inspector? What have you got?’

Carol closed her eyes for a brief moment. Dealing with the recalcitrant bigots in the chain of command was one thing. Dealing with the press was infinitely worse. Wishing she’d stayed in the yard with the grisly corpse, Carol took a deep breath and walked towards the cordon.

‘Let me get this straight. You want me to come on board for the duration of this murder enquiry, but you don’t want me to tell anyone?’ The look of amusement in Tony’s eyes masked his anger at the reluctance of influential policemen to accept the value of what he could do.

Brandon sighed. Tony wasn’t making it easy for him, but then, why should he? ‘I want to avoid any suggestions in the press that you are helping us. The only chance I have of getting you formally involved with the investigation is to persuade the Chief Constable that you’re not going to be stealing the limelight from him and his coppers.’

‘And that it won’t become public knowledge that Derek Armthwaite, the Hand Of God, is turning to the mumbo-jumbo men for help,’ Tony said, an edge in his voice betraying more than he wanted to.

Brandon’s face twisted in a cynical smile. It was good to see that it was possible to ruffle that smooth surface. ‘If you say so, Tony. Technically, it’s an operational matter, and he’s not really supposed to interfere unless I’m doing something that’s counter to force and Home Office policy. And it is the policy of BMP to use expert assistance whenever it is appropriate.’

Tony snorted with laughter. ‘And you think he’ll accept me as “appropriate”?’

‘I think he doesn’t want another confrontation with the Home Office or the police committee. He’s due to retire in eighteen months, and he’s desperate for the knighthood.’ Brandon couldn’t believe what he was saying. He didn’t even voice this kind of disloyalty to his wife, never mind to a virtual stranger. What was it about Tony Hill that had made him open up so swiftly? There must be something in this psychology lark after all. Brandon comforted himself that at least he had harnessed that something in the service of justice. ‘So what do you say?’

‘When do I start?’

FROM 3½″ DISK LABELLED: BACKUP.007; FILE LOVE.002

Even that first time, I planned the event more carefully than a theatre director plans the first production of a new play. In my mind, I crafted the experience, till it was like a bright and shining dream, there every time I closed my eyes. I checked and rechecked every choreographed move, making sure I hadn’t missed some vital detail that would endanger my freedom. Looking back on it now, the mental movie I created was almost as pleasurable as the act itself.

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 (#ulink_08a02ecc-531a-5201-9a67-31029a884998)

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?’