Primal Cut (12 page)

‘How?’

‘Natural causes apparently. He had a heart attack in January. She had a massive stroke in March. Slightly odd coincidence, I suppose.’

‘Not really,’ Underwood replied. ‘Often happens. One partner dies and the stress of burying them kills the other one.’

‘The father had bought the butcher’s shop after he left the army in 1947. They ran it as a family
business. “Garrod and Sons, Family Butchers”. Can you believe that?’

‘An unfortunate name, given what happened,’ Underwood agreed.

‘We turned up and found a bunch of human remains in their refrigerator.’

‘How many victims?’

‘Uncertain.’ Dexter flicked through the report trying to jog her memory. ‘We only positively identified three: the porter, a librarian and a night club bouncer. There were more though. Forensic showed remains from at least four other bodies; bits of brain, kidney and stuff. Completely disgusting: like tapas night at Sweeney Todd’s.’

‘Strange choice of targets,’ Underwood mused. ‘The porter and the bouncer could have been awkward. They must have been big men. They must have wanted them for a reason.’

‘To be honest,’ Dexter replied, ‘I always found the librarian the weird one. The other two were people that they would have seen about: either at Smithfield or amongst the boozers on Leyton High Road. I always thought that the librarian must have been killed for a particular reason,’ Dexter said only half-registering Underwood’s attempt at humour. ‘She was the only female victim.’

‘She must have had something specific that they wanted,’ Underwood mused.

His mind tried to explain the anomaly. He loved these engagements with Dexter. He likened conversations with her to plugging a lava lamp into a power socket: the melting lights came on in his mind. Did she experience similar feelings? Unlikely, he decided. Dexter was different: she was just an electrical current, unaware of the light that she created.

‘Garrod blamed me for killing his brother. He sent me body parts and threatening notes. It was like Jack the Ripper sending kidneys to the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. It must be an East End thing. When the stuff started arriving at my house, I decided to get out. McInally told me about you and here I am.’

Underwood considered Dexter’s words. ‘A silver lining for me, in any case,’ he said.

They arrived in Balehurst within fifteen minutes. Three squad cars were already at the scene, parked around the corner from the Dog and Feathers; invisible to the pub’s occupants.

‘Let’s go then.’ Dexter unbuckled her seat belt and climbed out of the car.

‘You’re coming in?’ Underwood looked concerned.

‘I’ll be all right.’

Underwood took the lead, sending police officers to the front and rear of the pub. He pushed open
the front door and stepped inside. The Dog and Feathers was almost empty. Dexter followed him in, tense, carefully scanning the quiet pub for cannibals.

‘Can I help?’ asked the landlord.

‘New Bolden CID,’ said Underwood flashing his warrant card, ‘we have a court order enabling us to search these premises.’

The landlord looked surprised. ‘Why? We haven’t done anything.’

‘Do you have a George Norlington staying here?’ Dexter asked.

‘We did,’ the landlord replied, ‘but he’s left. I was about to go and clean his flat out. I’ve a new guest coming in tomorrow.’

‘Show us the flat,’ Underwood replied.

James Bull stepped out from behind the bar.

‘OK. Come with me. It’s out on the back yard.’

Opening the back door, Bull was surprised to see four uniformed policemen waiting there. ‘God! What’s this guy done to deserve all these idiots?’

Underwood and Dexter did not reply. Bull crossed the small courtyard behind the pub and, after what seemed an age, managed to find the correct key from a huge jangling bundle. Dexter was first into the room; it took her eyes a split second to adjust to the dark. Underwood was a second behind her.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said quietly, looking about the room in shock.

Hearing the oath, Bull looked in from the doorway. ‘Fuck me! What’s he been doing in here?’

Dexter turned to him. ‘Go back into the pub please, Mr Bull. We’ll be in shortly.’

Gingerly, Underwood stepped into the room.

The floor was covered in dozens of discarded local newspapers. Lying on the filthy bed sheet were various lumps of meat. Flies buzzed grimly from piece to piece.

‘He knew we were coming,’ Underwood said. ‘He must have guessed that we’d find out from Gwynne or Woollard after Shaw’s death. He’s not daft is he?’

‘He’s lasted seven years on the run without being spotted,’ Dexter conceded. ‘He’s no mug.’

She was frightened now. Her worst fears confirmed.

‘We need to get a forensic team in here to do a proper search,’ Underwood said, aware now that Dexter had not taken her eyes from the terrible writing on the wall. ‘Let’s go and talk to the landlord. We’ll get a description from him then compare it with Garrod’s old photofit. Then I suggest we print a few thousand and run a full search for this arsehole. In the meantime, I think that it’s a bad idea for you to go home.’

‘You’re kidding me?’ Dexter gasped. ‘John, if he knew where I lived I’d be dead already. I’m not running away anymore.’

‘Even so,’ Underwood urged, ‘he found you once before. Is there a friend or someone you could stay with for a few days?’

Dexter wondered if there was.

In the musty shell of Craxten Fen Psychiatric Hospital, Bartholomew Garrod was enjoying an evening of relative comfort.

Once he had finished digging, Garrod sat down at the table in his new kitchen and, by the light of a paraffin lamp, began to compose a letter to Nicholas Braun at HM Prison Bunden. He was certain that in Braun he would find something of a kindred spirit and a possible means of advancing his enterprise. Garrod chose his words carefully:

Dear Nick, you don’t know me. I followed your trial on TV and in the newspapers. You don’t deserve prison. I imagine the police trumped up the charges to grab some headlines. That little fucking bitch hurt me too. Now I’m back. Do they read your mail? I imagine so. I have marked this envelope as a communication from your lawyer so
I’m
hoping you will receive it unopened. I have seen your brother on TV. We have a mutual interest. I’ll be in contact. Yours sincerely, George Francis.

Garrod folded the paper over and slid it inside an envelope. He wrote Braun’s prison address out as neatly as he possibly could, then on the top left hand edge of the envelope he printed: ‘Prison Rule 37A’. This denoted a communication from a prisoner’s legal adviser: in theory, the prison authorities would not be able to open it. He had used the same trick ten years previously when sending money to some of his old associates in Wormwood Scrubs. It had worked then. Garrod hoped that the rules hadn’t changed.

Alison Dexter drove nervously around the New Bolden ring road. She regularly checked her mirrors and even left the dual carriageway an exit early to see if she was being followed. Confident that she was in the clear, Dexter pulled up at the bottom end of her road. She turned the car engine off and peered out into the darkness for a few minutes. Nothing seemed unusual: the same cars were parked in front of her small block of flats. There were no figures skulking about in the shadows that she could see. Dexter bit
her lip thoughtfully and decided to risk it. She started her engine and drew up outside her flat.

She checked up and down the street again; satisfied, she unlocked the outside door to the block and then that of her ground floor flat. The burglar alarm system beeped reassuringly at her. Dexter felt her heart rate slowing as she decoded it. She slammed the door behind her and drew the safety chain across.

The day’s events had drained her. She selected a small bottle of Stella Artois from her fridge and flopped into the new armchair that she had recently bought herself. Dexter tried to push Bartholomew Garrod from her mind: it was possible that he had left the area after the death of Lefty Shaw. He certainly seemed to have quit his digs in Balehurst in a hurry.

Her phone blasted at her; the noise made her jump in shock.

‘Hello?’ she asked warily.

‘Is that Ali?’ asked a female voice that Dexter half-recognised.

‘Yes. Who’s that?’

‘Kelsi.’

Dexter felt a surge of relief and excitement. ‘Hello. This is a nice surprise.’

‘You sound tired,’ Kelsi said with an audible smile.

‘Long day,’ Dexter confirmed.

‘And a late night.’

Dexter smiled a guilty smile. ‘Yeah. It was.’

‘Fun though,’ Kelsi observed.

‘Are you eating an apple?’ Dexter asked. ‘I can hear scrunching.’

‘It’s a pear actually.’

‘I’m glad I’ve got your full attention.’

‘Of course you have! Look, I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your email. We have to be careful at ComBold. The company screen all of our personal messages.’

‘I understand,’ Dexter replied, remembering with a shudder that Cambridgeshire Constabulary did the same thing.

‘If we’d got into an email conversation, I’d have said something filthy to you and I’d have been sacked.’

Dexter felt a charge of excitement building in her stomach. ‘Like what?’

There was a pause. ‘Just the things that I’d like to do to you. That kind of stuff.’

‘Yeah, that could be tricky.’

Kelsi paused for a moment. ‘Would you like me to come over?’ she asked eventually.

‘Why don’t I come over to you?’

‘Why’s that? Is your husband in?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Come over then. Have you eaten?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘I’ll sort us something out.’

‘I’ll be a while. I need to have a shower and get changed.’

‘You can do that here,’ said Kelsi quietly.

Dexter found the idea enticing. She wanted to get out of the flat as quickly as possible: its emptiness was grimly apparent.

‘I’m on my way,’ she said.

With an excitement that surprised her, Dexter filled an overnight bag with a few basic items. She locked up and alarmed her flat, then drove across town. By the time she arrived at Kelsi’s house it was almost 9.30 p.m. The living room was warm and comfortable.

‘Go and have a shower,’ Kelsi instructed, after kissing her firmly on the lips. ‘Help yourself, I’m cooking pasta.’

‘Thank you.’ Dexter placed her car keys on the living room table and wearily climbed the stairs to the shower room she had used that morning. The water was refreshing but the dull ache behind her eyes lingered on as she towelled herself dry ten minutes later. She pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. There was a bottle of moisturiser on the top windowsill. Dexter decided to purloin some, staring out into the darkness as she applied the cool fluid to her face.

The window overlooked Kelsi’s back garden. It was small but tidy. Dexter could see a tiny flowerbed, a couple of stone statues and something else. Something unusual. She quickly turned off the bathroom light; having equalised the darkness within and without, she could see more clearly. At the back of the garden, almost obscured by shadows, was a man.

Dexter’s blood ran cold. She hurried downstairs; Kelsi heard her running and came out of her kitchen in surprise.

‘There’s someone in your garden,’ Dexter gasped.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Completely,’ Dexter nodded. She looked out through the kitchen window. ‘There, can you see? Against the back fence?’

Kelsi peered out into the gloom. ‘Oh my God! I can see him. Shall I call the police?’

‘I am the police.’ Dexter could see the figure more clearly now. It wasn’t Bartholomew Garrod, she was sure of that. Garrod was broader and heavier than the man that she could make out. At least, she hoped that was the case. She relaxed a little.

‘I’m going out there. I think you’ve got a peeping tom.’

‘You can’t go outside,’ Kelsi protested.

‘I’ll be OK. Close and lock the back door once I’m outside.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Just do as I say. Do you have a torch?’

‘In the cupboard under the sink.’

Dexter withdrew the torch and unlocked the back door. As she threw a powerful beam of light onto the back lawn, she saw the man clamber awkwardly over the back fence. Dexter ran across the lawn and shone her torch down the adjoining street in time to see the fugitive disappear around a nearby corner. Kelsi joined her at the fence.

‘I told you to wait inside,’ Dexter remonstrated.

‘Did you see him?’

‘No. Just the back of his head. He was about six feet tall wearing black clothes. Beyond that, I couldn’t see anything.’

‘You’re not thinking of chasing him?’ Kelsi asked.

‘I haven’t got any shoes on,’ Dexter said. ‘Can you think who it might be? You haven’t got any weird neighbours or a demented ex-boyfriend?’

‘That’s not funny, Ali.’

‘I only ask because I used to have a mad ex. I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

‘OK.’

‘I mean, nobody in the world knows I’m here tonight,’ Dexter explained. ‘I just came here straight from home.’

‘Can we go inside?’ Kelsi asked. ‘I’m getting
cold.’ She turned and walked back to the house, her arms folded with cold and frustration.

Dexter shone her torch onto the ground where the man had been hiding. Its beam illuminated a small patch of ground. Something glinted in the artificial light. Dexter crouched down, balancing herself by placing her left hand on the cold ground. Lying on the patchy grass were two tiny silver keys on a ring. They looked like the padlock keys used for locking suitcases, Dexter mused, or maybe keys to a gate or a safe. She put down her torch and picked the tiny keys up.

‘Are you coming in, Ali?’ Kelsi called from the kitchen door.

‘On my way.’ Dexter headed back towards the light. ‘I don’t suppose these are yours?’ she asked, holding up her discovery for inspection.

Kelsi looked the keys over. ‘No. Did he drop them?’

‘It looks that way.’ Dexter walked through the kitchen to the dining room. ‘Make sure you bolt the door behind you,’ she called out.

Dexter sat at the dining room table and looked at the keys again. Kelsi sat next to her.