Keeping (7 page)

Just five minutes more. Please.

His phone rang. He broke the kiss, opened his eyes and looked at Oliver.

“I don’t need this at the moment.” Langham gritted his teeth. If he could just talk to Oliver for five minutes now they’d had some time together and make sure he was all right, he could focus on the job. Oliver would fob him off, assure him everything was fine, and Langham would protest, knowing different, then back down and let Oliver have his way. Namely, tagging along with Langham so he could give any new information the second he got it.

“Better answer that,” Oliver said.

He gestured at the phone then gave Langham the kind of look that made the detective want to up sticks and fuck off somewhere. Anywhere would do. Anywhere but here, on this case.

Langham sighed. “Fuck it.” He walked to the desk then snatched up the phone. “Langham.”

“It’s Higgings, sir.”

“Go on.”
Please don’t let him ask an imbecilic question…

“There’s no missing person’s report on Miss Witherspoon, so I telephoned the newspaper and Morrison’s. She didn’t show up at either place. Unusual for her, they said, because she always calls in if she’s ill. So I ran a check and found her parents. They live in Scotland—doubt they’d even know she was missing unless Miss Witherspoon got into contact every day, and seeing as she hasn’t been reported as being gone…”

“Yep, yep. Good work. Let Villier know what you’ve found. She’ll give you further direction.” Langham dropped the phone onto the cradle without saying goodbye. He couldn’t be arsed and wasn’t in the mood for niceties. He’d felt sorry for Higgings at the first meeting, but he’d gotten on his nerves in the last. The man was out of his depth—stupid of him to be on loan in their office at the moment, supposedly learning how things worked in this department. What—did he have a view to working on Langham’s squad? Did the powers that be see something in Higgings worth nurturing? Not fucking likely, unless he pulled his finger out and stopped acting so damn wet.

The phone rang again. He picked up. “What?”

“Higgings, sir.”

Holy Jesus fuck…
“Yes?”

“You didn’t let me finish my last call, sir.”

Langham closed his eyes and bared his teeth. He was seriously on edge now, wanting to sort through the information and see what the fuck they needed to do next. The thought of Cheryl being bathed in bleach, that her time might be running out, chilled him to the bone. Talking to Higgings, hand-holding him, wasn’t a job he had the inclination to throw himself into.

“Right. Get on with it then, Higgings.”
This had better be good…

“Someone else visited the newspaper asking after her.”

“And?”
Kid, you’re going back on the beat…

“And it wasn’t one of us, sir.”

“What?”

“Male civilian asking questions, sir. How long she’d been off work, whether anyone had seen her after work. Newspaper editor said he’d acted a bit furtive.”

“When was this?” Langham grabbed a pen and tapped it on the table.

“About half an hour ago.”

Langham’s breath came out in an almighty whoosh.

Oh, Higgings’ information was good all right.

He put the phone down and lifted his jacket off the back of his chair.

“Going somewhere?” Oliver stood, more alert now.

“Yep. Someone’s been at the newspaper asking questions.”

“Oh? Must have been after I left. It’s been quiet there all morning until…until Cheryl got hold of me.”

“Half an hour ago.” Langham shrugged into his jacket. “You coming?”

“Yep.” Oliver rubbed one eye with a knuckle.

“They got CCTV there?” Langham walked to his door then pulled it open.

“Yeah. Had to. We get all kinds of nutters showing up, angry about the stories.”

“Good. Because I’m going to need to see it.”
And please let the bastard who was nosing around earlier be young, blond and with green eyes.

Chapter Five

David stared at her from the bedroom doorway, taking a moment to think. He’d go for a walk at some point, clear the cobwebs, get back to being totally focused. Perhaps come back and write in his diary. That little book was a godsend. Like, as soon as he started writing, all the angst went away, spilling onto the page via ink instead of swirling in his body and making him feel all kinds of wrong.

Cheryl was asleep now. She’d need some more drugs soon. He’d given her a small dose, just enough so that she would get a solid hour or two of sleep while he sat on the sofa and meditated, waiting for a sign or for Mr Clever to tell him it was The Time. He always liked that bit. Got to be someone totally different, didn’t he, or perhaps who he was supposed to be. Yeah, that was it. That was what his peRsonAl joUrnEy was all about. Becoming himself. How many women would he have to kill in order to be his true self all the time? Or was the killing ritual the only thing that enabled him to be himself?

He didn’t know, and that’s what made this road he traveled so interesting. He was discovering more about himself every day, and the answers to his questions would come given time.
Rome wasn’t built in a day
—Mr Clever had told him that, and seeing as Mr Clever
was
such a clever man, David just had to trust in his voice and do as he was being told. “It would all come out in the wash,” like people were fond of saying. But things didn’t always come out in the wash, did they?

He shoved that thought aside, knowing if he chased it he’d end up in a mess, worrying himself stupid about things he shouldn’t concern himself with. And being a mess might fuck with what he was doing, and he couldn’t have that.

He took the mask off, regretting its loss—it had become a part of him, the condensation inside disguising any tears that might want to fall—yet at the same time he was relieved to have some clean air on his skin. Well, cleaner now that Cheryl had been bleached and the air freshener had done exactly what it claimed it would—‘Floral Breeze doesn’t just mask odors, it takes them away!’

He went into his bedroom beside hers to place the mask back in his bedside drawer. He stroked it. The cheeks were as soft as the women’s—he closed his eyes and imagined the ritual had started already, that he was doing what he always did before they were snuffed out for good. The familiar feeling of The Time came then, and he snapped his eyes open. He went to the bathroom to check on the knickers, the only thing of Cheryl’s he hadn’t put in the washing machine. He stared into the sink, pleased to see all traces of the mess in her knickers had gone—bleach, he loved it, so good at getting rid of stains and stenches—so unplugged the stopper then rinsed them through. After squeezing them out, he draped them over the radiator then walked out into the hallway to turn up the heating so they’d dry quicker.

He stood with eyes closed. Back against the wall. Waited. Held his breath, his lungs screaming for him to release it. What he’d anticipated came then. The grind and squeak of the pipes getting hot. It gave him a settled feeling. He’d always liked that noise. It reminded him of his childhood when he’d huddled in the corner with Sally, while his parents had argued. The pipes in their old house had been dreadful, loud, but they’d helped drown out the voices—except the one in his head. How had he gone so many years without knowing Mr Clever’s name? Why had he never thought to ask what it was before now?

“Because you thought I was you, didn’t you, David?”
Mr Clever asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Go and get Sally, David. While the knickers dry, go and get Sally.”

David returned to his bedroom, hearing the soft hum of the tumble dryer in the kitchen as it worked its warming magic on Cheryl’s clothes. Sally sat on his bed where she always sat until The Time. Two fluffy brown scatter cushions propped her up, the polyester fibers stroking her arms with the help of a breeze coming through the window. He shouldn’t have left that open and strutted over to it. Closed it tight and locked it. None of the women had ever tried to jump out—but then he hadn’t given them the chance to.

He moved back onto the bed, picked Sally up. She sat in his lap quite nicely, her chubby legs sticking out and resting directly on his thighs. She’d been with him through so many things, and if he ever lost her he’d be heartbroken. It wasn’t often people found themselves still in possession of their childhood friend two decades later, was it. He ran his hand down Sally’s springy blonde hair, the nylon feel and smell still the same as ever. She stared ahead, plastic arms by her sides, fingertips touching the red-flowered material of her sleeveless summer dress. The cord handle in her back, once a crisp white ring but now an aged cream, dug into the top of his belly, and he shifted her forward so he could pull it and listen.

A melody tinkled out of her, full of sweet, high-pitched notes, the tones soothing him. He closed his eyes and let the music wash over him, bringing with it memories of the past when Sally had been there for him with the women. She’d watched from her position against the wall as he’d done his thing and she’d played her tune, never letting him down, always saying, “Goodnight!” in her chirpy little voice at the right moment.

“I love you, Sally.”

“Goodnight!”

“Yes, it’s goodnight for now, but I think I’ll be coming back to get you soon.”

* * * *

It was The Time. David was surprised at that, but he shouldn’t have been, not with what he knew. It was Friday and he needed to make Cheryl go
home-home
today. He couldn’t risk leaving her over the weekend when he went to work. And Monday might be too late. If that Oliver fella managed to speak to her or she to him…

No, she had to go now. Sad, because he’d enjoyed bathing her, making her so clean her hair had squeaked as he’d washed it. The bleach had turned her hair a nasty color now, though—nasty because it was an orangey-yellow blonde. He didn’t like blondes.

Another reason why Cheryl had to go.

Sally was in place beside Cheryl’s bedroom door, a prime position so she could see it all and not miss a thing. Awake and naked, Cheryl crouched at one end of the mattress, squished into the corner. She’d bent her legs and hugged them, resting her chin on top of her knees as David had walked in. Her heels covered her private garden. He was glad about that. He didn’t want to see the horrible redness of it. The hairy, horrible redness.

She stared at Sally as though she was a piece of shit.

That wasn’t pleasant to see.

“Sally is here to let you listen to her wonderful music,” David said in a voice he’d begun using with woman number two, a soft, melodious one much like Sally’s tune. He liked that they matched, working together as a team. “Smile at Sally, Cheryl.”

Cheryl smiled, albeit a tentative one, but it was enough. At least she hadn’t disobeyed him. And maybe she liked Sally, just didn’t know how to express it.

He glanced at Sally, trying to see her through Cheryl’s eyes. All right, she wasn’t the prettiest—what with her face being a swirl of melted plastic where she’d found herself in the fireplace after his father had thrown her there. Her eyes sagged downwards, just like his mask, and her mouth was a ragged stretch of its former self. David had rescued her, though, pulling her out of the flames and rolling her in the rug like he’d been taught when the firemen had visited the school. Her hair hadn’t caught—her blonde hair—and he realized then, with sudden clarity, that was why he didn’t bring blondes home.

There was room for one blonde in his life, and that was Sally.

“I want you to take some more medicine so you’ll be in that place you need to be,” he said, approaching Cheryl with a loaded syringe. “Everything will be okay soon.”

She tried to lose herself in the wall, pushing back with her palms and fingertips splayed on it, fingers bent at the knuckles like spiders’ leg joints. He waited while she came to the realization she wasn’t getting anywhere, him patient, yet longing, to go into the bathroom and start dressing for the occasion. A few seconds passed with Cheryl whimpering, then she flopped out one arm, offering her vein to him.

“There we are,” he said quietly. “So good. Aren’t you so good?” He waited for her nod, then, “Yes, you are.”

He did the necessary and eased the needle in, squeezing the magic potion into her body. This draft would keep her lucid yet pliable enough for him to manage her, to not have to worry that she’d lash out or run amok in his flat. She dropped her head back and stared at him, but not seeing him clearly, he knew. He’d be a blurred shape, his mask possibly more frightening than it usually was—all skewed mouth and hanging eyes. Smooth cheeks.

He threw the syringe in the waste basket on his way out, heading for the bathroom. Pausing at the radiator, he picked up the knickers and, satisfied they were dry, he lifted them to his face. Because she’d been a dirty girl and messed them, they didn’t smell like the other women’s. That annoyed him somewhat, but he controlled himself and remained calm as he stepped into them, pulling them up over his jeans.

Back in the bedroom, he stood in front of Cheryl and curtseyed, then did a pirouette so she could see how he looked in her knickers. She widened her eyes, her facial expression showing her disgust, her terror.

“You don’t like them on me?” he asked gently, stepping closer so she could get a better view. She hadn’t been able to see them properly, that was it.

She moved her head but he wasn’t sure whether that had indicated a yes or no.

“Answer me, there’s a good girl. Aren’t they lovely?”

She slurred out a yes and gave a definite nod.

“I think so too.” He reached out and swiped her white bra from the top of her clean clothes pile on the floor. With the practice he’d had he was able to put it on over his polo shirt quickly, enjoying the way the cups stood out. “And this? How do I look in this?”

She nodded again, faster this time, and her lips twitched.

He took that for a smile.

“I like wearing girls’ clothes,” he said, impressed with how his voice had sounded.

Lilting.

He approached her then sat on the bed, glancing at Sally to make sure she was still watching. She was, so he turned his attention to Cheryl. He reached out and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Her skin was divine, like nectarines, or maybe even the velvet of the sofa they’d had when he was a child. Sally had always liked that sofa, although they hadn’t sat on it often. Sitting on it was a treat, something to be relished, because it meant his parents were getting along and he didn’t have to stay in his room to avoid their spats.