CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“What’s the guy’s name?” Maguire asked Kumar.
The young detective checked his notebook again. “Bartholemew,” he said. “Alec Bartholemew. That’s Alec with a c by the way.”
“That rings a bell,” said Maguire. He looked at Walden. “Does it sound familiar to you?”
Walden nodded. “You remember that old fellow we went to see in Brockley? He thought he heard someone scream and called the emergency line. The odd one who kept saying things twice. Come in, come in. Sit, sit. I reckon he’s a retired civil servant.”
Maguire remembered. “And where does this Bartholemew live?”
Kumar read out the address and added: “But he wasn’t there when I called. I knocked and looked around but nobody was home. I planned to go back later today.”
The three detectives sat quietly for a few minutes before Kumar spoke up again: “There’s just him and one other. Everyone else checks out.”
“What about this other one?” asked Walden. “What do we know about him?”
His name was Dominic Westerley, said the detective, and he lived in Wimbledon.
“According to the information we have he is actually an Australian. Married to a German woman who is pretty senior in one of the major investment banks. Her father is retired now but used to be a big wheel in the European Commission. Lives in Brussels and this Westerley and his wife go there often. Long weekends and such. Westerley has bragged to some of the people we’ve spoken to that his in-laws are rich and live in this huge mansion with fruit groves or something.”
Walden snorted. “Ever known an Australian to have married a nobody whose parents were nobodies and who lived in a council house in the back of beyond?”
Maguire and Kumar laughed.
“Westerley himself is in IT,” said Kumar. “Again the people we’ve spoken to say he tells everyone how good he is. A bit of a big head by all accounts.”
“There you go again,” Walden said.
“Ok,” said Maguire. “So there are just the two left. Of course we might not be even on the right track with this special sports material stuff but let’s cover all bases before deciding the next move.”
He paused. “Kumar, you go see this Dominic guy. Martin and I will check out Bartholemew. We know the place. As Martin said, we’ve been there before.”
It was agreed that they, and other members of the team, would all meet back at the headquarters later that afternoon, go over everything they had all found out and report their findings and further thoughts to Superintendent Ford.
If they found nothing of interest then it would be back to square one.
And that meant the possibility, if not probability, that there would be more bodies.
*
The young girl lay still.
She was still shackled to the bed in the spartan room, held prisoner with apparently little or no chance of escape.
Her mind was clear but she was shivering. Not that it was cold. Rather her predicament on the one hand made her thinking crystal clear yet on the other meant she had difficulty controlling the nerves that controlled the sinews and muscles. Every few seconds she flinched and her body rippled and shook like that of a nervous mare.
She had not seen or heard the man since the first time they had come face to face and she had spoken to him. Then he had said he did not intend to rape her and in a way she believed him. If that was his intention, she figured, he would have already done so. Instead he had actually appeared disturbed by her suggestion and had left the room and not returned.
She looked around the room again, taking in everything about it. Not that there was much to take in. Once again she confirmed what she had identified before. There was the bed of course that she was bound to, the small table to the side, and the chest of drawers next to the wall near to the door. There was no window and she could not make out any sounds coming from outside the room. The conclusion was obvious: The room was below ground level. A basement.
Again she looked at the walls. The room measured around six or seven meters square but she could see that the walls were concrete, not wood, and therefore the room was most probably near to soundproof. Raising her head she focused on the door and confirmed an earlier impression that it was very sturdy. And she had no doubt it was securely locked from the other side. As she had concluded before her chances of escape looked to be very slim.
The girl faced another problem also. A personal problem. Here she was bound naked to a bed, held captive by a man who said he did not want to rape her but who obviously had other unpleasant plans for her and she was just starting to menstruate. It was not quite the normal time of the month but because of everything that had happened to her she was early. She was embarrassed and she was angry. Her vulnerability would be magnified many times over. She was certain also that the vulnerability would not be short. Her cycle was the classic three to four days and the blood loss was also average. There was no escaping the fact that as she concentrated on lying still, but with her body shaking in irregular spasms, her period would soon begin.
*
He had difficulty controlling his thoughts.
Which was extremely unnatural for him.
He had always prided himself on being able to distance himself from reality, to shut out the extraneous, to override personal feelings.
Yet here he was now, his thoughts shooting off at tangents and always returning to the young girl in the room below.
She was so young, so very young.
Why had he not seen it?
Why had he not let her pass and found another one?
It was too late of course for that now, but he could not help himself.
There was a moment when he thought he might let her go.
Just stuff her in the car and then dump her somewhere a long way away.
Alive and untouched.
There was even a moment, a very fleeting moment, when he questioned whether he would be able to rely on the feathers.
What if they dictated he mutilate the girl more than he discovered he really wanted?
That was perhaps not the right word.
He didn’t mutilate the women.
He operated on them.
But this girl was young and her skin was unblemished.
That much he had observed.
Couldn’t help but notice.
She was young and fresh.
He was starting to worry too much.
Now as he prepared his utensils and the papers and the feathers his thoughts were on the girl below.
Well, he could not allow his feelings to interfere.
He would put his thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrate on what he had to do.
What he must do.
His actions would blank out his thoughts.
Now he was ready.
Once more he checked everything was in order.
He stood back from the kitchen counter, clasped his hands behind his back, stretched his head back as far as he could and breathed in deeply, holding his breath for more than a minute and then let it out slowly.
Then he relaxed, eyed his preparations, picked up the tray they were spread out on and walked towards the pantry in the corner.
*
Maguire and Walden stepped away from the door.
Walden walked towards the rear of the building.
Maguire turned and headed back to the front and looked upwards at the same time to check if it is possible to see anything that might be helpful from the upper levels of the building.
Then they both returned and Walden rapped hard on the door again.
“There’s nobody in,” Maguire said.
“I’ll give it one more try,” said Walden and gave the door a solid thump four times.
“Must be the only flat in London that does not have a door bell,” Maguire said.
They waited another minute and then reluctantly returned to their car parked directly outside.
“Do we know what this Bartholemew does for a living?” Maguire asked.
“Kumar didn’t say,” Walden answered. “I’m not sure he even knows or he would have told us.”
“I wonder why he’s never home?”
“He must come back sometimes. That old guy said he definitely lives here but keeps to himself.”
“Must work odd shifts then.”
“Maybe.”
As they drove off Maguire looked back over his shoulder at the building. “Let’s have another go tonight. Around eight.”
*
He had just been about to open the door in the pantry when he heard the knocking from outside.
He froze.
He could not open the door.
No matter who it was.
He had the tray with his implements on it.
And whoever it was outside there was no way be could let them in.
He stood motionless for what seemed ages.
There was another knocking on the door, louder this time.
He did not move.
Finally there was silence.
Still be remained where he was without moving for another two or three minutes.
When there was no further inconvenient knocking he opened the door to the panty.
He stepped in, between the shelves on either side that were stacked with tins and packets of food and cartons of milk.
Carefully he pulled the door closed behind him and snapped on the overhead bare light bulb.
At the back of the panty there were four brass hooks. Each had a towel hanging from it.
He brushed aside the towel on the left revealing a small door latch.
He pulled it down and pushed inwards.
A door swung open revealing steps leading down into a well lit area.
As he stepped in he used the heel of his foot to close the door behind him.
He descended the steps and there was another door at the bottom.
He unlocked it and entered the room.
The girl was lying on the bed and he could see that she followed him closely with her eyes.
She tried to engage him in conversation but he did not respond.
He would not speak to her again.
It had been a mistake before.
A mistake he would not repeat.
He placed the tray on the small table near to the door and glanced at the girl again.
She continued to talk but he continued to ignore what she was saying.
He picked up the tray again and walked over to the bed and placed it on the side table that he moved to the foot of the bed.
The girl lifted her head off the pillow and looked at it and her eyes widened and her voice rose.
Still he blanked out what she was saying and concentrated on what he was doing.
This time he was not worried about what the feathers had already told him.
This time it was a minor selection.
He reached over and took hold of her right foot.
She tried to pull away but the bindings did not give and he kept a firm hold moving his grip to just the little toe.
He then picked up the scalpel off the tray and in a single deft movement severed the toe.
The girl’s body shook and she shouted at him, abusing words that he heard but shut out.
From the tray he picked up a towel and wrapped it around their girl’s foot.
She stopped shaking and her body went stiff.
And then he went pale.
What was that?
What was happening?
My god, she was bleeding.
Badly.
But he hadn’t touched her there.
Where was the blood coming from?
Then he knew.
Blood was spreading onto the sheet between her legs.
Quickly he retraced his steps to the pantry and grabbed two of the towels that were hanging on the brass hooks along with some other materials.
Back in the room he lifted the girl’s buttocks and spread a folded towel under her. The other he placed between her legs and at the same time looked up.
He glanced at the girl who was staring at him with obvious hatred in her eyes.
This time he heard clearly what she hissed him.
“You bastard. You fucking bastard. You fucking sick bastard.”
He could not look at her but his mind was already analysing the situation and devising his next move.
First he would clean and bandage her foot.
Then he would clean up after her, getting more absorbent towelling.
He would have to dispose of the soiled materials including the sheet.
Later, when he was sure she was alright, he would have to go out.
*
The Brockley Barge in Brockley Road was not far away and Maguire and Walden reckoned that somewhere in the world the sun was well over the yardarm.
“Just a round and then we can head back to check this Bartholemew is home,” said Maguire. “And I have to give Joan a call and tell her she has the pleasure of her own company again tonight.”
“She needs a man,” smiled Walden.
“She’s got a man already. It’s just that he’s not around as much as he should be.”
“You better watch out. Maybe there’s another man out there who knows this man isn’t at home as much as he should be.”
“Not a chance,” said Maguire. “There’s only the one man.”
They parked down the side of the pub from where they could see there were only about half a dozen other people inside.
The Brockley Barge recalls the barges which plied their trade on the Croydon Canal which itself opened in the early eighteen hundreds but which was replaced by rail transport within three decades. It is a three story white and black pub rounded at the front reminiscent of the traditional barge with the first desk being open with evergreen shrubs planted around the rim.
But the pub did not date back to the last century. It was opened at the beginning of the twenty first and boasted all the usual modern conveniences. There was an area for kids and it offered customers live subtitled television news throughout the day.
“Nice place,” remarked Walden. “Quiet too.” He pointed to the television news that was muted.
“Take a seat over there and I’ll get us a pint each,” said Maguire.
When he moved over to the table with the drinks Walden took a sip and said: “Kumar just called.”
“Oh, what did he want?” asked Maguire.
“That Westerley bloke he was checking up on.”
“Yes?”
“He’s not our man.”
“Why?”
Walden took a second sip from, his glass. “It turns out he has just this morning returned from three weeks with the in-laws in Brussels. He’s been out of the country for three weeks.”
“Is Kumar sure of that? That he was actually in Brussels all the time?”
“No question,” Walden answered.
Maguire waited. “Right. This is like drawing hen’s teeth. How does he know?”
“For two of those weeks Westerley has been in hospital with a leg that was broken in five place.”
“Five? Nobody has their leg broken in five places.”
“This mug did. Remember he’s a big mouth Australian. It was to have been a paragliding and abseiling holiday in the mountains.”
“Belgium doesn’t have mountains,” said Maguire. “It’s a flat country.”
“Not Belgium per se,” said Walden. “They were in the Ardennes. This bugger was showing off to his wife on day one when they were abseiling and he came down faster than he should have. Broke his left leg in five different places.”
“Well, that must have shut him up.”
“He spent two weeks in the Saint-Pierre University Hospital followed b