CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Things were not going entirely to plan.
That was an understatement.
Things were going very wrong.
It had been one difficulty after another recently.
First there was the last experiment that ended badly.
Then he managed to pick a young girl.
A young girl for heaven’s sake.
Part of his plan had always been to select subjects who because of their age and experience would be more resilient.
What had he gone and done – picked a specimen barely a teenager.
Stupid.
Then he had the problem with the bleeding.
So much blood.
From that point on his problems had mounted.
The stained sheet and rags had been found in the bin at the end of the road.
His favourite sports shirt had been ruined and he had been forced to get rid of that too.
The police had come to his home twice.
His home.
His private domain.
It was clear they suspected him of something even if they didn’t know what exactly.
If it hadn’t been for that busybody Flanagan he would not have had so much to be concerned about.
Foolish old man.
It had been Flanagan again who had called the police when he had that altercation with the reporter.
Just what was the reporter doing here anyway?
The police he could understand.
But the reporter?
Christ, what if he also had some information that could incriminate him.
Surely that was not possible.
But what was he doing snooping around his home?
There was no way he could let that situation continue.
So not pressing charges was at least one way to try to get the reporter out of the way.
The police would warn him to stay away.
That’s what they did.
And when they did they would be indirectly helping him rid himself of one of his problems.
But other problems remained.
The main one was the girl.
She was different to the others and he had found himself in awkward moments with her, situations that were unwise.
He had to correct that.
Difficult as it was the best way would be to rid himself of her altogether.
Play it safe for a time.
He could begin again when all the suspicions had blown over.
That’s what the sensible thing to do was.
Get it over with now.
Rid himself of the girl once and for all.
*
She heard the door open and then close again. But she did not open her eyes.
She lay quite still on the bed without saying a word. Her senses were acute but she could not hear him moving around the room. Normally when he came visiting he shuffled his feet a little as he made his preparations at the table near the doorway and then walked to either the end or the side of the bed. But this time there was only silence. She opened her eyes and raised her head off the pillow.
He was standing in front of the door, firmly closed behind him, and staring at her. His left arm hung by his side and his right arm was twisted behind his back as if he was trying to hide something held in his hand. She could not see what it was but deep inside she feared what it might be. He only came into the room to cause her pain and then afterwards to feed her. If the food was meant as an offering of some kind it failed miserably. It was always tasteless and chewy either with mashed potatoes or gravy to try to make up for its blandness. The soup she had had last time was the worst.
She had not eaten all day and if she was honest she would have welcomed a snack of some kind. Her experience of the day before when he had cut off her ear had drained her, and although the wound was not that painful any more she could feel where the injury was and angry when she tried to picture herself looking in a mirror and seeing the disfigurement.
She examined him, standing about fifteen feet from the end of her bed still not moving. He was gazing at her and although she could not make out his features very clearly she saw that from time to time he screwed up his mouth as if attempting to dislodge something caught in his teeth. But his eyes she could see. They were wide open and unblinking.
He’s considering something, she thought to herself. He’s trying to make up his mind about something. What to do to me. Maybe let me go. No, he won’t do that. Fuck me? Is he going to rape me after all?
Suddenly he blinked four or five times in rapid succession, then turned about, opened the door and left the room.
She was about to call after him but at the last moment caught the words in her throat. As he had retreated she saw what he had been holding behind his back. It was a large heavy looking knife, not a fine one for slicing through compliant flesh, but rather an instrument for piercing flesh that was more resilient. A strong dagger.
*
He couldn’t do it.
Killing her intentionally was out of the question now.
He had actually gone to her room intending to stab her in the heart.
That would be the easiest and least messy way to do it.
With her bound to the four corners of the bed there would be nothing she could do to prevent it.
He would just position the blade’s point above her heart and plunge it in.
Her screams would not be heard.
He would use the pillow to soak up the blood and dispose of it when he got rid of her body.
But as he stood looking at her he realised he would not be able to bring himself to do it.
She was a young girl.
And it was strange when it struck him, but while he could dispassionately carry out his experiments the thought of intentional murder repelled him.
He was not a murderer.
He was better than that.
So he would continue with his original plan.
He would continue his experiment.
But to do that he would need to replace an implement that he had had to throw away after the last one had gone wrong.
Just in case the feathers this time presented him with a similar challenge.
*
Barry Flanagan considered himself an intelligent man. Maybe not the most brilliant or inventive man but one who had considerable experience of life and who believed himself able to judge others pretty well.
His view now of his immediate neighbour had changed. Over the past few weeks, mostly the last few days, Alec Bartholemew had become something other than just the quiet single man living in the other part of his building. And he was obviously not alone with these thoughts.
Police officers had visited him on a number of occasions so they clearly suspected him of something.
He himself had observed Bartholemew acting strangely, taking rubbish to dump in a bin many yards away from his own front yard when plainly there was adequate space in his own wheelie. And that was something the police were interested in.
And this latest episode involving the reporter. There had to be more to Alec Bartholemew than he had previously thought, else why would a reporter be snooping around the premises. And why would Bartholemew react so uncharacteristically violently?
No, Barry Flanagan thought, there has to be much more to his young neighbour than caught the eye. He had to be up to something not right.
Only minutes before he had seen Bartholemew leave through the front gate and walk towards where he normally parked his car in a street at right angles to Rokeby Road. He had then seen him drive away.
Flanagan made up his mind.
He took off his dressing gown and put on an old woollen windcheater. He went into the kitchen and after rummaging around in a drawer near the sink withdrew a bunch of keys. One of the keys he knew would allow him access to Bartholemew’s flat and he intended to use it to see for himself what, if anything untoward, was going on next door.
He left himself out of his front door, walked up to the front gate and glanced quickly in both directions. Then with his head bowed as he examined the bunch of keys in his palm he made his way around the side of the building and up to the door to Bartholemew’s flat.
On the fourth attempt the key went into the lock and when he turned it the door slipped off its latch and opened an inch. Flanagan pushed it and stepped inside, closing it behind him.
*
“Enough,” said Detective Martin Walden.
“Enough what?” Maguire asked.
“Enough of this waiting around shit.” Walden pushed his chair back from the table, folded his arms and said: “While we’re sitting around here that bastard is out there planning I don’t know what. But whatever it is we have to stop him.”
“You’re right,” Maguire agreed. They were sitting in the Met canteen having spent the last hour briefing Superintendent Ford on the current state of play and then a further hour filling out paperwork. Now they were in the canteen drinking more coffee than was good for them.
“Trouble is,” said Maguire, “we don’t have the authority to bring him in let alone charge him with anything.”
“You know as well as I do that he’s our guy.”
“I feel it in my gut, yes, but am I absolutely certain? I don’t know.”
“What if we’re right?”
“What if we’re not? What if we go and get him and drag him in for further questioning and while we’re doing that another female is taken off the street and killed?”
“But what if we are right? Taking him off the street means we will be preventing another murder. At least while we have him in custody.”
Maguire sipped his Latte. “And the Super? What about him?”
Walden pulled himself up to the table and placed his elbows on it. “What would you prefer? Superintendent Alasdair the-man-who-holds-the-key-to-your-future Ford to be pissed off at you or another killing?”
“If you put it that way, then ….”
“Seriously, what do you want to do? Sit here or do something constructive?”
Maguire looked hard at his partner and then drained his cup. “Let’s go,” he said.
*
Barry Flanagan had had a good look around the small flat.
The bedroom was neat and tidy, the kitchen clean. In the bathroom the towel was neatly folded over the wall heater so it would dry out without leaving a used smell and there was a new cake of soap in the shower drainer.
The sitting room was also neat with everything apparently in its place. There were two cushions that still had their price tags in the corner on the sofa. A book lay on the coffee table. He picked it up and read the title “Pegasus Descending.” He had never heard of the author who was described on the dust cover as a writer whose books were sustained by lush Southern-Gothic prose. Apparently an American and Flanagan did not read American authors. At least not novelists.
He dropped the book on the table. Just as he did so he heard the door to the flat open and he turned to see Bartholemew enter.
“What are you…,” Bartholemew started. He slammed the door behind him without taking his eyes of Flanagan. “What are you doing in here? How did you get in?”
Flanagan was flustered. “I have keys. I have a right to be here.”
“Like hell you do,” said Bartholemew and advanced towards Flanagan. “You have no right to come in here without my permission.”
Flanagan backed away.
Bartholemew looked around the room and then quickly went and inspected each of the other rooms.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
“I have a right to look around,” said Flanagan. “Something is not right. Even the police think you’re up to something. So do I. And that reporter no doubt has something on you as well.”
Bartholemew looked towards the pantry next to the kitchen door and then back at Flanagan. Flanagan followed his look.
“What’s in there?” he asked.
“Nothing. It’s a pantry.” Bartholemew glanced again in the direction of the kitchen.
Flanagan started to move in the same direction. “You’ve got something in there haven’t you? Something you shouldn’t have.” He took another step. “Drugs. I bet it’s drugs.”
Bartholemew stepped between him and the pantry door. “Get out of here now. Get out or I’ll call the police.”
“Go ahead,” Flanagan said. “Yes, go on, call the police. Let’s see what they find in there.” Again he took a pace forward.
But Bartholemew, instead of moving out of the way, grabbed the older man around the shoulders with both hands and shoved him backwards.
Flanagan tried to grab hold of the wall but there was nothing to get a grip on and he lost his balance. His legs failed to keep pace with the speed he had been propelled backwards and he fell heavily on the floor.
Bartholemew watched as he fell and saw that his upper body struck the floor first and then his head snapped back and struck the floor with a loud dull thump.
Barry Flanagan did not move. He lay stretched on the floor, his legs thrust straight out from his torso and his arms outstretched at his sides. His face was looking up at the ceiling but his eyes were closed and a thin red halo began to form around his head.
Bartholemew bent over him and looked into his face. He bent down and put his ear to the older man’s chest. He then placed his hand an inch away from Flanagan’s mouth and held it there for half a minute. Finally he tried to find a pulse in his neck.
*
Everything was going wrong.
Everything had been perfect before.
Well, not everything had gone perfectly but he was reasonably satisfied that he would have been able to surmount the difficulties he encountered.
Now everything was a mess.
First the girl.
She had become a problem.
Then the police interference.
The first lot he could deal with; the latest visit had been more problematic.
And the reporter.
That had almost been disastrous.
Then the girl again.
He could not bring himself to kill her.
Murder her.
Now this.
The meddling old fool.
Why hadn’t he just minded his own business?
Look what he had brought on himself.
His problems had mounted terribly.
He now had two to solve.
First the old man.
Obviously he was dead.
He could not leave him where he was.
And he could not just take him outside.
Maybe dump him in his own flat.
He was such a reclusive old man nobody would probably discover him for a hundred years.
But he could not risk being seen to carry him outside.
There was only one thing he could do.
*
Bartholemew dragged Flanagan’s body into the kitchen and lay him out on the tiled floor. He wrapped a tea towel around his head to stem the bleeding that had in any case dwindled. He was surprised at just how light he was; nothing but skin and bones.
The carpet in the sitting room where Flanagan had fallen now showed a dark stain about thirty centimetres across. From the pantry he got a small bucket which he half filled with warm water from the sink and with an old hand towel he rubbed the stained carpet until he was satisfied that the mark would appear to have been caused by little more than a spilt cup of tea or wine. Just to be sure he also took from the pantry a bottle of red wine, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. He then put it and a glass on the coffee table. He doubted he would need to explain it to anyone but at least he himself was reasonably convinced.
When he was finished he tossed the dirty hand towel in the rubbish bin under the kitchen sink, rinsed out the bucket and returned it to the pantry.