CHAPTER TWENTY
“Oh, yes, yes…” moaned the naked young woman
sprawled on a grassy slope, enjoying her first real climax in ages. This Marc Phillips
guy certainly knew how to treat a woman and no mistake. She closed her eyes,
relishing the continuing thrills pulsating through her body like an electric
charge. “Oh, yes…” she purred again and began to relax, rapid breathing
starting to slow, half expecting, hoping, for a re-run. So wrapped up was she
in her own contentment that she hardly felt, at first, the silk of a necktie
around the neck. Not until it tightened suddenly and she found herself
choking.
Eyes flew open. Hands flapped uselessly. All
attempts to scream were cut short by the pressure on neck and throat. The only
sound she made was a horrible gurgling noise. She all but blacked out. The
harsh, rattling sound continued for a few minutes. It was as if she were
watching someone drown. She even fancied she could glimpse a head bobbing on a
patch of postcard blue sea, only recognizing it as her own at the split second
it went under…and failed to reappear.
Marc Philips, alias Ralph Cotter, watched in fascinated
disbelief as the face, so pretty only moments before, first turned a puffy then
blotchy blue-red colour. His fingers flew from the lifeless throat. Scrambling
to his feet, he stayed there, retching, for a good ten minutes. He’d have given
anything to jump into a hot bath there and then. What have I done? Terror vied with an enormous sense of
pride to make his bladder tingle. Even so, he had done it, hadn’t he? And all
on my own, no help from Daz, or anyone. He, Ralph Cotter, had killed
someone with his bare hands. There was no comparison with shooting
Sean Brady. Nor was he unaware of the warm, sticky stuff staining his
underpants as, in his mind’s eye, his hands clenched around her throat again
and again, gurgling sounds in his ears like the last drops of bath water
draining away.
It had been good, too, to have sex with a woman, be a man again.
True to form, though, his thoughts turned to Sarah Manners with as much relief
as pleasure.
He had met the girl, called Cathy, at a local travelling fair. It
had been his intention to return directly to the cottage after visiting Doctor
Steven Ambrose but it was a glorious day and the fair was just nearby. Daz
wouldn’t approve, of course, but then…what the heck? Be sure you come right back, and mind you stick to the same routine, he’d
always say. We’re playing with fire as it
is. Why you have to see the doctor about some damn pimple beats me.
“It could be skin cancer,” Cotter had argued.
“And it could be just a pimple!” Horton exploded but knew better
than to try and get the better of a Sarah Manners with a bee in her bonnet.
Sometimes he wondered just where the dividing line lay between Sarah and Ralph.
Cotter had been attracted to the girl by her perfume. He had caught
a whiff on a sudden breeze and looked around, hopefully, for Mary Bishop. Mary had
never met Marc Philips. It would be an interesting encounter…
But Mary was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his nose led him to a
pretty, red haired girl in her late teens or early twenties wearing Mary
Bishop’s favourite Calvin Klein perfume. It also happened to be Cotter’s
favourite. He smiled at the girl without thinking and was slightly nonplussed
when she smiled, seductively, back at him. It crossed his mind that she was his
for the taking if he wanted. Bemusedly, it struck him that he did.
While Cotter’s sexuality in respect to women was nothing new, of
course, neither could its remaining innocuously dormant for so long be blamed
entirely on his having assumed a dead woman’s identity. Marriage had not done a
lot for his libido. Sex with Jean had been little more than going through the
motions and she’d had no respect for his fetishes, barely made an effort to
satisfy any in fact. He had never thought of himself as fancying a woman, even
Mary Bishop. Until now, that is.
Yes, he did fancy this girl…even if her face kept blurring into Mary
Bishop’s. Mary, though, was special. He could never do anything to upset or
hurt Mary. But this girl…what was she to him? What does it matter if…? But
he left the question unasked and unanswered as he approached her, smiling
broadly, and proceeded to waffle on about the weather. Neither was fooled for
an instant. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be undressing each
other, quickly and sensually, in a quiet spot less than thirty minutes later.
He stared at the corpse with mounting horror, the first flush of
achievement and a sexual fulfilment beyond his wildest dreams draining fast.
Dawning in its place was the awful realization that he had a body to dispose of…and
the sooner the better.
Cotter struggled to collect his thoughts. Had anyone seen him and
the girl enter the copse? He prayed, not. In any case, he would need an alibi.
There was nothing else for it. Cotter reached for his mobile and called Daz. No
reply. He tried to text a message but was all fingers and thumbs and quickly
abandoned the idea. (What would he say, anyway, that he needed help to shift a
body?)
A heavily perspiring Cotter began to panic. After numerous deep
breaths he managed, at least, to get his clothes on. Each time he picked up the
mobile it would take on a life of its own and jump out of his hands. He began
to feel cold in spite of the sun’s blanket heat. His teeth began to chatter.
More deep breaths helped. Eventually, he felt calmer. First things first, he decided, and dragged the body into some
bushes, throwing the girl’s clothes after it. Maybe he could come back later
and bury it properly? But he already
knew he would not be able to face that. And
what does it matter if anyone saw us together? Marc Philips didn’t exist, for heaven’s sake
or, as far as he did, could easily take off and just…disappear. Cotter began to
chuckle, quietly at first, before letting rip with a near hysterical
guffaw. Just then, the sun disappeared
behind a cloud and the resulting dark shadow had an immediately sobering
effect. He must leave, now. If anyone
saw him, so be it. They would never see him again.
What persona, Cotter wondered absently, would Daz come up with next
in order for him to re-assume ownership of Bluebell Cottage? They would have to wait a suitable period of
time, of course, and probably have to kill someone else…
“If Daz doesn’t kill me first,”
Cotter confided to a fat thrush warbling on a low-hanging branch nearby. The
bird took no notice. Cotter toyed with the notion of not telling Daz what he’d
done…but not for long. Sarah Manners,
like everyone else in the village, would need an alibi.
Even so, the avid readers of Monk’s Tallow
would have to get by without their librarian for a whole week while Cotter
recovered from a thrashing within an inch of his life dealt out by Daz Horton
that same night. “You bloody fool! You stupid, stupid bloody fool!” Horton
raged as the handsome leather belt slashed at Cotter’s naked body. Cotter
writhed and moaned, merely thankful that Daz had taken the news in his stride.
……………………..
By the time Fred Winter arrived in Monk’s
Tallow and had taken a room at The Fox and Hounds, all local talk was of the murder of a young girl from
the travelling fair that visited Monk’s Porter every year.
“They go around asking for trouble, them
sort,” one local gossip declared in Fred Winter’s hearing as he entered the
Corner Shop-cum-Post Office where a small crowd had gathered, “Not that I’d
wish that on anyone. They say she was...well, you know…before she was
done in. I blame the Americans. All
those sex mad movies and well, they seem to thrive on violence…you only
have to look at what’s happening in Iraq!”
“Shocking,” everyone agreed with feeling,
although whether they were more disturbed by the girl’s murder or America’s bad
influence on modern society in general Winter could only surmise. He was about
to enter the shop when a new voice chimed in.
“You can’t blame the yanks for everything,”
said an elderly man wearing a flat cap approaching the group with his shopping
trolley, “What’s more, they said on the News that whoever killed that poor lass
is probably local.”
“Yes, well, trust those media people to come
along and stir things up,” snorted a woman in tight jeans that did nothing for
her ample figure.
“As if we didn’t have enough on our plates
already,” complained a young mum with a toddler dragging on one hand, “No
respect for anyone’s privacy, these reporters. As far as they’re concerned,
we’re all fair game.”
At this juncture, all eyes feasted accusingly
on Winter.
Winter merely smiled, refrained from passing
any comment and made a beeline for what he took to be a friendly face behind
the counter. “I only want a packet of tissues. Err…can you change a twenty
pound note by any chance?” The assistant’s smile tightened perceptibly.
It was only mid-afternoon so Winter took
himself off to the little library, enquired whether he could join for the
duration of his stay and was politely told he couldn’t but was welcome to look
around, read the newspapers, whatever.
“I was hoping to catch Sarah Manners,” he confided to an elderly woman
with a blue rinse and spectacles on a cord around her neck.
“You and just about everyone else,” said the
woman placidly, “Sarah’s so good to have around at times like this. She never
flaps and, well, she certainly knows how to deal with journalists. Have you
noticed how they seem determined to make pests of themselves wherever one
goes? I say, you’re not one, are you?” Winter
shook his head. The woman gave an audible sigh of relief. “I didn’t think so.
They all have that look about them, you know, like wolves with an appetite for
some poor Red Riding Hood.”
“So where will I find Sarah Manners?” Winter
persisted gently.
“Oh, she’s off sick. I gather she won’t be
back for at least a week. Not that it matters too much now we’re only open
three days a week anyway. Cuts, you know. That’s all the council ever does
these days…cut, cut, cut. The bus service, Meals on Wheels, you name it. And
they want to replace us with a Mobile Library, I ask you!”
“I think I’ll go and see if I can’t cheer
Sarah up a little. The cottage on the corner isn’t it?” Winter hazarded a
guess.
“That’s right, opposite the Old Bakery. You
can’t miss it. The name on the gate is Fairview but everyone knows it as Monkey
Tree Cottage. That’s because there’s a hideous monkey tree in the front garden.
Why Sarah doesn’t have the council lop it down, I’ll never know. Her front room
is like the Black Hole of Calcutta, for heaven’s sake.” She turned away for a
moment to greet a customer. “Oh, Mrs
Batley, you’ve decided to return your books at last…” then to Winter, What did
you say your name was…?” But he was already on his way.
There was no chance he might miss the monkey
tree, it was enormous. Winter strode confidently to the front door and rang the
bell. A man answered whom he rightly assumed to be Sarah Manners’ partner.
Julie Simpson had told him a little about Daz Horton and Carol Brady had
related, with typical colour, how he had practically gate-crashed Liam’s funeral
service. For an instant, Winter thought
he saw a glimmer of recognition in the steely grey eyes, but it was impossible
to be sure and he dismissed it as a trick of sunlight glancing off the monkey
tree’s spiky branches.
“Does Sarah Manners live here?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Fred Winter. We have a friend in
common, Ruth Temple.”
“Ruth’s dead.”
“Quite. That’s why I thought I’d look up
Sarah while I was in this neck of the woods. Commiserate and all that.”
“Sarah’s not well. She’s had a nasty fall.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Can I see her? If she’s not
up to visitors I can come back tomorrow. I’m staying at the Fox and Hounds for
a few days.”
“I’ve never seen the place so full. There’s nothing like a good murder to get
people sniffing around, eh?”
“I wouldn’t know. I suppose so. My wife and
I were married here, you see. I’m just making a sentimental journey.” Winter
could only trust he looked suitably offended by any suggestion he might be
“sniffing around”.
“Oh, well, you might as well come in,”
grumbled Horton and took a few lazy steps backwards. At the same time, he
dragged open the door a few more inches to allow Winter access to a small,
dingy hall. “Sarah, you’ve got a visitor!” he called while ushering his guest
into a small, untidy, but pleasant enough sitting room. No one answered.
“Excuse me. I’ll just go and tell her you’re here. She probably thinks you’re a
neighbour. Not that we don’t have lovely neighbours, we do. But they’re a nosy
lot and, well, you know how it is. You don’t want it when you’re not well, do
you?” He disappeared only to return a good five minutes later. “She’ll be right
with you, just has to put a face on and all that. What is it with women and
their make-up, eh? Come Armageddon, they’ll still be at it!” He grinned,
exposing yellowy, crooked teeth. “I dare say you could use a drink eh? Can I
get you a cup of tea…or something stronger?”
“A cup of tea would go down a treat.” Winter
smiled pleasantly, absently stroking his beard. It struck him that something
was not as it should be, although what, exactly, he had no idea.
Sarah Manners arrived, looking more than slightly
flustered, a few minutes later. While
there were no visible injuries, she plainly had difficulty walking and was in
some pain. She smiled weakly at Winter as she lowered herself, unaided, into an
armchair. “You’ll forgive me for not shaking hands, Mr Winter, I’m not feeling
quite myself at all I’m afraid.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. It’s just
that I was in the area and poor Ruth…”
“Yes, yes, poor Ruth…” echoed Sarah Manners
with more irritation than sympathy as far as Fred Winter could tell, although
he was careful to maintain an outward expression that gave nothing away. Even
so, she must have sensed his reaction because she promptly did an about-turn
and was still oozing distress when Horton returned with a loaded tea tray. He laid it on a small table and proceeded to
pour.
“Sugar, Mr Winter?”
“Two please and do call me Fred, everyone
does.”
“No sugar for me, dear, I’m sweet enough as
I am,” giggled Sarah to which Horton made no reply and did not even look
up. “So, Fred, you’re a friend of poor
Ruth’s?” The heavily painted mouth trembled with emotion although, judging by
the look she threw Horton, Winter was inclined to suspect this had little if
anything to do with feelings for Ruth Temple.
“We’ve known each other a while,” Winter told
her, “so, of course, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I can’t imagine why,” the lipstick mouth pouted,
“We’ve had nothing to do with each other for years.”
“Hardly her fault, I believe…” Winter
murmured and took a sip of tea.
“Well, no, but it was all so long ago and I
bet she tells it as if I was a real bitch, running out on her like that.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons…” Winter
murmured again.
“I certainly did and I would have explained
everything if only she hadn’t...well, you know.” She sniffed affectedly and
daubed at her eyes with a tissue.
“Snuffed it,” supplied Horton cheerfully.
“You didn’t like her?” Winter was curious.
Horton shrugged. “I only met her once. At
young Liam Brady’s funeral, it was. Can’t say I was impressed. Thought she was
a pain in the backside if you must know. No wonder you ran out on the silly
moo, my flower,” he chuckled, looking at Sarah and treating both, in turn, to a
toothy grin.
“Not forgetting James Morrissey,” Winter
added softly.
“What’s that, what did you say?” Sarah
Manners started in her chair.
“James Morrissey. You ran out on him too, I
believe.”
“I had my reasons,” Sarah countered, plainly
agitated.
“I’m sure you did.” Winter gave her his best
placatory smile and was pleased when the woman showed all the signs of relaxing
in her chair, but remained …troubled?
Yes, he decided, something was troubling Sarah Manners and it was not
the sudden loss of an old friend. “I understand Ruth was planning to pay you a
visit. Such a shame she died before you were able to put her mind at rest. It
continued to upset her for years, you know, the way you took off like that
without a word.”
“I left a note,” declared Sarah Manners
defensively, “So she knew I planned it. She had no cause to think anything
untoward might have happened. I’d simply had enough, that’s all. I needed to
get away, right away. So I did. People do, you know. I hardly understood why
myself so how was I supposed to explain it to anyone else? If Ruth wanted to make more of it than there
was, well, that was her …”
“Funeral,” Horton growled.
“I was going to say, misfortune.” Sarah
Manners darted him a reproachful glare before turning her attention once again
to Winter. “Ruth was always one to make
a drama out of a crisis. I bet she loved being the centre of attention. Poor
Ruth, imagine being abandoned by nasty Sarah like that. Poor Ruth, my foot! She was a born victim, I
tell you, a born victim. Play-acting was her forte.”
“And James Morrissey, was he a born victim
too, and Liam Brady?”
Sarah Manners uttered a squeal that Winter
couldn’t help but liken to a pig’s. Horton silenced her with a look that not
only confirmed the detective’s growing, if inarticulate, suspicions but also caused
him, unintentionally, to tug on his beard.
“There have been some nasty accidents at The
Devil’s Elbow,” Horton declared impassively, “Accidents do happen, Mr Winter.”
“Did I say they don’t?” Winter raised a
bushy eyebrow and took another sip of tea.
“You mustn’t tire yourself out, my flower,”
said Horton with a note of controlled exasperation that did not fool Winter one
bit.
“I had better go. I wouldn’t want to add to
your discomfort.” Winter drained his cup and rose. “Perhaps I could call again before I leave?
I’m planning to stay in Monk’s Tallow a few days at least and it would be
wonderful to chat with you about poor Ruth, poor Liam too. Talking about the dead is such a comfort,
don’t you find? It’s as if they’re still
with us, watching our every move, not unlike a guardian angel wouldn’t you
say?” But Sarah complexion had turned a
shade jaundiced and she merely flexed the shiny lipstick mouth uncertainly.
It was Horton who spoke. “Once you’re dead
that’s it, as far as I’m concerned. You’ve had your turn at putting the world
to rights and now it’s someone else’s. If you ask me, those who reckon anything
else are talking a load of rubbish.” “Even so…”
“Even so…” Winter agreed and smiled
pleasantly, nodding first at Sarah then Horton, “I hope we meet again soon.”
“I’ll show you out,” said Horton dourly.
“Thank you for coming,” Sarah Manners called
just as they reached the front door. But
Horton had already ushered their guest into the spreading shade of the monkey
tree, shutting the door on Mr Fred Winter before the detective could utter
another syllable.
The latter strolled thoughtfully back to the
inn. He was puzzled as to why Sarah
Manners hadn’t given him a reason for her disappearance years ago. She could
have given Horton as her excuse, for example, whether that was strictly true or
false. Instead, she had let the mystery remain.
Winter frowned. He was a copper, for crying
out loud. It was his job to solve mysteries. He was damn good at his job. So where the flipping hell am I supposed to
start? Suddenly, he felt very tired,
hungry and in need of a hot bath. It was
more than enough to make him quicken his pace and adopt a purposeful expression
as he headed for The Fox and Hounds.
To be continued
