Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (16 page)

It was a night in sorting paperwork for Bryce, or ‘bean-counter-night’ as he would call it with a distinct lack of humour, so the big man wouldn’t be showing his face in the Miller’s tonight. So, after a light meal and a couple of drinks, Whitman retired early to spend a few hours trawling through the recordings. Lisa was disappointed to see him go, but he said that he needed to catch up with his writing.

He passed several hours listening to inane banter in the Post Office, Merlin’s and the SPAR, before catching an interesting exchange in the chemists.

Stuart Priestly was serving Carol Belmont her prescription. “Here you go, Carol. Ninety tablets of Seroxat; same dosage as before.”

Meekly, Carol replied, “Thanks, Stuart. Maybe this will be the last lot, eh?”

“Depression is a long term illness, Carol. Just take things one step at a time.” A pause, then, reassuringly, “You’ll be fine.”

Quiet, then a moment later the bell sounded for the door opening. “Bye, Missus … er, Carol.” The clumsy goodbye was from Priestly’s assistance, the chubby Brian Dobson.

The door slammed.

“She’s still a bit sensitive about that, Brian,” Stuart said.

“Yeah, I’m always putting my foot in it.”

“And that’s not all.” Both men laughed.

“Dirty bugger! You just wait till I get you in the back later.”

Whitman smiled. Jesus, this place had
everything
going on. Who needs
EastEnders
or
Corrie
, eh? He had no intention of listening to middle-aged Mister Priestly doing his twenty-odd year old assistant from behind in the stockroom, so before switching to the Duck, he popped on his room’s mini kettle and stretched his aching back.

Glancing at his watch, he noticed with surprise that it was ten-fifty PM. The last of the punters would be supping up downstairs and in the Duck. It wouldn’t be a late one, with it being a school night.

Sipping hot tea, he clicked on the relevant file and started skimming through, his posture and features betraying his disinterest. Mere minutes in, he caught his name being mentioned by the venerable Ms Runckle.

“Whitman is up to no good; I know it with every bone in my body,” she was saying.

“He’s weird, aye.” Moe’s voice. Bloody typical.

“He’s always watching people – I think he’s a pervert. Probably molested that poor girl out in the woods.” Her irritated tone betrayed the matter-of-fact accusation.

A rumbling rage rose from the pit of his stomach. Pervert? Rapist? The cheeky bitch. Who the hell does she think she is? She didn’t know
anything
about him. He hadn’t raped Mandy; he wasn’t like that. He wasn’t some kind of sexual predator. That was so far beneath him.

“Hmm, not sure about that, sweetie. That’s a bit harsh.” Well, thanks, Sloth. Mighty kind of ya.

“Oh, what do you know, Moe Baxter?” He imagined a dismissive flurry of one clawed hand. “Just look into his eyes – behind them is a sick and twisted mind. He killed that poor girl and I intend to prove it.”

Pervert, sick and twisted? That’s quite the accolade. Bitch.

Well, the time had most definitely come to have a chat with Bet Marple.

It was past eleven-thirty by the time he had pulled on a black sweater and his
Converse
and quietly snuck downstairs. Using the side door, he slipped out into the street.

The night sky was layered with high altitude cirrostratus clouds, obscuring the partial moon. Only a couple of scattered beacons of light glowed dimly behind curtains to penetrate the gloom. One such light was still on in the bar of the Duck.

Casually (to a distant observer; closer inspection would have revealed a smouldering anger itching just below the surface), he strolled towards the open backyard, glancing around to check no one was watching from a window or the shadows. The yard had several barrels and empty crates stacked to the left side and three large wheelie bins to the right. In between, there was sunken access to the cellar and the backdoor.

The shrill cry of a small dog pierced the quiet from across the other side of the village. Whitman stopped in his tracks, furtively scrutinising the darkness around him. His pulse quickened, but then as quickly as it had announced itself, the dog fell silent. With the returning silence, it seemed the whole village appeared to settle once more. He crossed the small yard quickly and tried the door. Unlocked, like the rest of the village tended to be. Gently, he eased the heavy door ajar and peered into a darkened corridor lined with crates of bottles and boxes of crisps and snacks.

Stepping inside sideways, he left the door open a crack and walked carefully along the corridor, which led to the kitchen, then toilets, and finally opened to turn left into the lounge or right into the bar.

As he approached the end of the corridor, he heard the clattering of ashtrays and someone humming an unrecognisable tune. It was coming from the bar.

Easing his head around the open doorway, he caught sight of Tess Runckle, several ashtrays in hand and a flowery apron stretched across her ample chest. After listening and watching for several minutes, he concluded that she was alone.

As she clattered and clanked her way through filling up the dishwasher, he slipped into the room and headed towards her, concealed by the wall. On reaching the edge of the bar, he heard her disappear through the back and start stomping upstairs. He followed, muttering under his breath in irritation. Vigilant of every step, the only sound he made was the whisper of fabric. Much of his initial anger had dissipated, only to be replaced with a faint feeling of embarrassment and awkwardness. But, unwavering and unperturbed, he continued on regardless.

The narrow stairs were carpeted and well maintained, so no creaks betrayed his presence. As he reached the narrow opening at the top, intersecting with a wood-beamed corridor, he heard shuffling in a room off to his right.

Edging off the last step, as his foot fell onto the landing, a floorboard groaned.

Silently, he mouthed,
fuck.
Holding his breath, he stared, unmoving down the corridor.

A wall mounted clock, with a cartoon mackerel tabby cat head as its face and whiskers for hands, ticked for several seconds. His suddenly too damn loud, thumping heartbeat appeared to fall into rhythm with it.

“Shirley? Holmes?” Tess made kissing noises from the other room.

There came a soft, rapid padding noise from downstairs and two chubby tabbies, one blue and the second, slower one, silver patched, streaked upstairs, past Whitman and along the corridor through the open bedroom door. Neither gave him the slightest bit of attention.

“Hello, my babies,” Tess fawned over the two cats. They responded with loud satisfied purring.

Shirley and Holmes? For christsake
…
how very apt. Well how about I introduce you to Professor Moriarty, eh? How do you like them apples?

As she continued to make kissing and cooing noises, Whitman slowly edged his way along the corridor. He was right outside the door when it was unexpectedly flung fully open and Tess strode out of the room. There was a moment when Whitman thought she would just walk straight through him, but that passed in a blink.

She was still dressed (
thank Gawd and the man Jesus!
), but minus the apron. The look of disbelief was quickly replaced with a mixture of fear and outrage. “What the hell are you doing here, you sicko?” Her voice was defiant, but she took a hesitant step backwards.

Whitman raised both his hands in a non-threatening gesture and said quickly, “I’m sorry, Ms Runckle. I just had to come and see you – to try to make peace.”

“Peace?” Now she stepped forward, anger flooding over the fear. “Get the hell out of my pub!” There was nothing like a nice bit of arrogance to cloud someone’s perception of the true dangers of a given situation.

Trying to reason with her, he continued, but stepped back all the same. “You don’t understand; I just want to straighten things up between us. You’re saying terrible things about me that just aren’t true.” His tone remained apologetic and non-threatening, his eyes imploring her to be reasonable.

Tess thrust her hands on her hips, and said, “So you thought breaking into my home and sneaking upstairs to peek at me getting undressed would put me straight?” The hint of self-satisfaction in her voice was virtually unbearable.

Whitman had to suppress a shiver at the very prospect. “God no! I just wanted to speak to you after you closed up – just you and me. The door wasn’t locked.”

She stepped forward again and thrust an accusing finger towards him. “Let’s see what the police have to say about it, shall we?” The fear had now completely vanished and she stormed forward, shoving him back to the staircase.

Whitman backed up, his arms still outstretched, shaking his head. “Please! You don’t understand – I just wanted to set things straight between us. I’m not a bad guy, Ms Runckle and I had nothing to do with Mandy’s murder.”

Tess stopped dead in her tracks. A flash of fear returned to her red face. “
Murder
?”

Whitman dropped his hands loosely by his sides and sighed. “Bugger.”

“You …” Words failed her. Being suddenly and unequivocally proved right, and faced with Mandy’s murderer had quite the opposite effect that Whitman would have first thought. Instead of fear and flight, she stood her ground and, in an enraged tone, she snarled, “Get out!” Whether caught up in the moment, or realising that words would not be enough, she suddenly rushed forward to give him one final hefty shove towards the top of the stairs. Whitman nimbly stepped back and to the side.

Tess’s momentum carried her forward right to the edge of the stairs. Her legs came to an abrupt halt with her slippered toes dangling over the edge, but her generously proportioned upper body continued for an instant longer, unbalancing her.

“N—” was the only syllable to escape her lips as she toppled over the edge, her feet kicking back as she tumbled head and flailing arms first. For a moment, she appeared to be floating in mid air, but the illusion only held for a split second. This was followed by a swift series of thumps as arms and legs bashed off steps, then finally a sickening crack as her forehead struck the bottom step, twisting her neck into an unnatural angle.

Her twitching body slid down several more steps, shoving her head off the final step and a couple of feet across the floor, before finally coming to rest. The silent twitching continued for several seconds with Whitman looking on, silent and dumbfounded.

One of the fat cats, the silver patched one, appeared and started weaving in and out of his legs, brushing up against him and purring loudly.

“Ah so,” Whitman said, trying to mimic David Carradine in
Kill Bill
as he looked down at the cat. In one fluid motion, he lifted his foot and stamped down on the back of the cat with a sharp crack. It instantly yowled in pain, but before it could react further, Whitman kicked it down the stairs. The writhing creature toppled end over end and landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs beside its dead mistress. There it lay, squirming and making a low mewing noise.

Whitman walked slowly down the stairs, staring at Tess and her crippled cat. As he stepped over her tangled legs, he muttered, “I'm a killer. A murdering bastard, you know that. And there are consequences to breaking the heart of a murdering bastard.”

He stood at the bottom of the stairs for some time, mulling over the events. It was not what he planned, but it wasn’t a disaster. He retrieved some surgical gloves from his jeans pocket and unhurriedly pulled them on.

First, he took each of her hands and rubbed them thoroughly through the agonised cat’s fur. Then, after spending ten minutes retracing his footsteps and wiping clean any areas where his fingerprints might have been left, he departed the way he had entered.

The dark night was as before, and the village remained veiled in silence.

The next morning, Whitman awoke early and headed downstairs for his breakfast. As he walked into the lounge, he saw Big Joe and Martha talking, his wife with tear-streaked mascara.

“Hi,” he said genially, then, his tone quickly shifting to concern, added, “What’s wrong?”

Big Joe looked at him and seemed to size him up for a second, before saying, “Some terrible news, laddie. Tess Runckle – she’s dead.”

Rubbing her eyes, Martha said, “I used to say such nasty things about her, Joe. About her being a tart and such. How can I ever forgive myself?”

Whitman feigned disbelief. “Dead? How? What the hell happened?”

Martha started to snivel and noisily blew her nose on a handkerchief.

“They took her away just an hour ago. Seems like she tripped on one of her cats at the top of the stairs. She fell and broke her neck sometime last neet.” Big Joe shook his head, deeply troubled. “Poor Tess. She loved those wee cats and this is what happens tae her. It’s no’ right.”

Whitman shifted, uncomfortably. “God that’s awful. If there’s anything I can do …” He let his voice trail off.

Big Joe attempted a smile. “That’s decent of yae, laddie.”

“And don’t worry about breakfast – I’ll sort myself out.”

Sometimes they come back.

Word spread around the village like a bushfire. It was Tess Runckle’s turn to be the name on everyone’s lips. Moe Baxter had found her when he popped in to see her with one of Kim Little’s Danish pastries. His anguished screams had been heard by several people on the street and nearby. The man was completely inconsolable and eventually had to be sedated by Doctor Herring.

Wright and Mitchell turned up mid morning, but their presence and questioning was low key.

Whitman was typing on his laptop at the desk when the anticipated knock came to his door.

“Yep, one sec,” he said, saving the Word document and popping his notepad into the top drawer of the desk.

The door opened to reveal Wright and Mitchell’s smiling faces.

“Ah, we meet again,” Whitman said, waving the two detectives in.

Wright, walking in first, said squarely, “Yeah, we must stop meeting like this, Mister Whitman. And, I must say, you don’t seem surprised to see us. Seems like every time we meet there’s a murder or a disappearance.”