The Handshaker (23 page)

He noticed that Thurrock was practically wagging his tail at the sudden elevation to such a lauded position. “Well, sir, basically, it says that Sandra did not murder Alf and The Handshaker did not write the latest note sent to Croft.”

Shannon almost spilled tea over his newspaper. “What?”

“It says –”

“Yes, I heard you,” Shannon cut in. “I just don’t believe what I heard. Give me the nitty-gritty.”

Thurrock thumbed through the sheets until he found the one he was seeking. “The knife that Sandra had with her in Spinners had traces of blood on it, but according to the pathologist, they were from the old man she fell on, not Alf. He also says that the knife used on Alf was similar to Sandra’s but it had a broader blade.”

Shannon mulled over the information. “So someone else could have killed Alf after Sandra left?”

“The time of death matches the time the neighbour, Humphries, gave us for Sandra leaving the house,” Thurrock said, “so it could have been before or just after she left, or she could have done it with a different knife dumped it and then taken the knife she was found carrying.”

“Except,” Shannon nodded at the reports, “I’ll bet there was no trace of Alf’s blood on Sandra, let alone the knife.”

“No, sir,” Thurrock confirmed. “Not a trace.”

“And whoever murdered him would have been covered in blood.” Shannon shook his head. “So that leaves us up shit creek. Now what’s this about The Handshaker and Croft?”

Thurrock studied the information and summarised, “The typewriter used to produce the note Croft received this morning is not the same as that used in the other Handshaker notes, including the one Croft brought us yesterday. Amongst other things, The Handshaker’s machine has a number of misalignments, the most prominent of which is the letter ‘a’. It prints a bit too high and comes through faded because it hits the platen roller at the wrong angle.”

Shannon vented his frustration. “Cut the lecture on typewriter technology, Thurrock, and get on with it.”

“On the machine that produced Croft’s note, the most notable problems are with the ‘t’ and ‘g’,” Thurrock said. “Although they haven’t yet confirmed it, Forensics believe that the machine is a Remington, not a Smith Corona. When they analysed the glue on the envelope seal from this morning’s letter, looking for saliva and traces of DNA, they got nothing. They believe it’s been moistened with one of those roller things that run through water. We used ’em in our office before we got the seal-easy envelopes and –”

“Thurrock,” Shannon interrupted, “I’ve given you the opportunity to act like a sergeant, not a business administration instructor. I know what you’re talking about, now get down to the detail.”

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.” The young detective took a moment to compose himself. “In the past, we’ve had partial prints from the envelopes, but this time, despite all the prints found on them, from post office employees and Croft, nothing matches The Handshaker’s dabs.”

Staring at the desk, Shannon absorbed the information. He reached into a plastic tray, took out a paper clip and fiddled with it, straightening it out, twisting it into a different shape, straightening it out again. And all the time, his unfocussed stare was aimed at the pristine blotter, while he churned the developments over and over in his mind.

Across the desk, Thurrock waited patiently, coming to alert attention when Shannon finally spoke.

“So we’re not looking for The Handshaker with regard to Croft’s girlfriend. I always thought there was something odd about it.” Shannon realised he had been thinking out loud, and brought himself up short. “You didn’t hear that, Thurrock. Understand?”

The younger man grinned. “Yes, sir.”

“You say nothing to anyone about these reports until I’ve had the chance to speak to Millie tomorrow morning,” Shannon ordered. “Between me, you and the gatepost, this tallies with other information that’s come my way this afternoon, but it’s all a bit tenuous at the moment.”

“Yes, sir.” Thurrock paused a moment and when Shannon did not speak, went on, “so we’re now looking for someone with a grudge against Croft, sir?”

Shannon nodded grimly. “Or someone who simply wanted to see the back of Trish Sinclair.”

30

The Handshaker was in ebullient mood. Everything so far had gone exactly as he had anticipated right down to Croft coming out of the police station mid-morning and hurrying off home, presumably trying to work out who had hypnotised Sinclair.

He’d given Sinclair a good rogering in the morning, and shortly after that, driven down to the local household disposal site to get rid of that old Smith Corona typewriter. A masterstroke of planning, that. Allowing his fingerprints to appear on all the early notes, using the Smith Corona to type them up, then changing tack for the note to Croft, leaving no dabs, no DNA on the envelope seal, and switching to a Remington.

If he had calculated correctly, it would make john law suspicious of Croft and by tomorrow morning, they would arrest him.

Ambling along Sussex Crescent, where yellow ‘scene of crime’ tape surrounded the Lumbs’ house, he wished the officer on duty a polite “good evening,” and barely kept the urge to laugh under control. The whole town was on high alert, looking for a maniac, and here he was walking right past them, exchanging good mannered greetings. How fortunate that most people had this image of serial killers as younger men with maniacal stares.

He turned the corner into Dorset Grove.

He was not worried about the police. They kept their eyes peeled for The Handshaker, a man known to move around in a battered Ford Fiesta, not on foot, and a man known to dress in a ragged, US Army parka, not a conservative overcoat and trilby hat. They wouldn’t give him a second glance.

Just as well, really. If they had stopped and questioned him, the rope in his pocket would have taken some explaining.

He stopped outside number 39 where a little china dog faced out to the street. Joyce had once explained to him that in the days when she had a live-in partner, the dog was a signal. If it looked out onto the street she was alone, if it faced into the house, she was with a john. He wondered whether she was still in the habit of changing its position.

Not that it mattered. She had said on the phone that it was fine to come along.

He rang the bell.

In The Handshaker’s humble opinion, even though she was now in her mid-forties, Joyce Dunn was still one of the best. Rumour had it that back in her younger days, she charged £100 or more; these days it was £30, and he guessed her punters were more the wham-bang-thank-you-ma’am types than all-night, top payers, but even though her rates were reduced, her services were not. She still let him tie her to the bed using her stockings, still permitted him the pleasure of opening her basque press-stud by press-stud, until her tits, sagging a little with age, were bared for him to savour, then let him peel off her knickers while she wriggled convincingly like a helpless victim.

Even though it was faked, put on purely for his benefit, it nevertheless aroused him, producing a magnificent, throbbing erection surpassed only when he raped and killed for real.

If he had a problem with Joyce, it was that she would never let him ride her bareback. He always had to use a rubber. Much better when he fucked the real ones like Janice and Susan and Victoria and, of course, Sinclair. Then it was skin to skin, leaving a cunt bubbling with his cream as the legs kicked and danced on the end of a rope.

Joyce was satisfying and it was curious to think that he found her through the man he hated most in this world: Felix Croft. If he had not been so bent on Croft’s destruction, if he had not been so fixated with patternising that smug, smarmy bastard’s life, he would never have come across Joyce and never enjoyed all these wonderful rides with her. He would still have sent all those other whores to their graves. They were his passion, not a by-product of his obsession with Croft, but if it were not for the millionaire hypnotist, Joyce Dunn would never have serviced his needs and she would never have been destined to join that growing list of victims.

The vertical blinds parted an inch and Joyce looked out. He smiled at her and her eyes lit. She was already counting the money.

After a brief delay she opened the door.

“Hello, Handy. Spot on time as usual.”

The Handshaker smiled in greedy anticipation. “Yes, but tonight, Joyce, you’re about to become late.”

He could see his words had telegraphed their intent. Fear swept across her pretty features. She tried to slam the door, but The Handshaker jammed a powerful arm against it and barged in. Joyce ran, he followed, kicking the door shut and rushing after her.

She was scrabbling at the lock and chain on the back door, trying to release them when he caught her, wrapping an arm around her neck, clamping a hand over her mouth. He brought his mouth to her ear.

“And this time, Joyce, I don’t pay. You do.”

Joyce struggled in his strong grip, then he took his hand from her mouth and clubbed her viciously at the back of the neck, putting out her lights.

Joyce, he reflected as he heaved her slight body onto his shoulder, was a good whore. She knew that her body was her income, and consequently looked after herself. It was no effort to carry her upstairs.

In the bedroom, he threw her on the mattress and removed his overcoat, draping it over the bottom bedrail. He quickly stripped off her outer clothing, and delighted to find that she had already anticipated his needs and was wearing the lacy black knickers, the tight basque and full length stockings which left that exciting six inches of bared flesh on her upper thigh. He bound her to the bed with his twine, making her ready to service his needs before he gave her eternal peace. He salivated at the sight of a milky skin, wrinkling with age here and there, contrasting sharply with the black lingerie. He was going to enjoy this.

She came to with a moan, realised her situation, opened her mouth and cried out. He hurried to her, clamped his hand on her mouth, reached further down, tore the flimsy panties from her and jammed them in her mouth. Stretching for his overcoat, he dug into the pockets and came out with a roll of adhesive tape, tore a strip off and while she tried to spit out the knickers, he stuck it over her mouth.

“Can’t have you alerting the neighbours, Joyce.” He laughed at her. “Trouble is, now I’ve already got your knickers off and I’ve nothing to turn me on proper when I come to it. Oh, well. Such is life.” He laughed. “Or death in your case.”

Chuckling to himself, he left the bedroom and went downstairs. He had been a client of Joyce’s for so long that he knew exactly where to look. In a broom cupboard to one side of the kitchen, he found a set of stepladders, and at the back of the same cupboard was a canvas bag full of tools. Like everyone else on Winridge, he knew that Joyce’s late partner had been a burglar and it was a safe bet that amongst his tools, which Joyce had kept, would be a brace and bit. Rooting through the bag, shifting screwdrivers, crowbars, chisels and hammers to one side, he found what he was seeking; a hand brace and 1/2” wood bit.

Taking them and a hammer, he collected the stepladder, returned to the bedroom and set the ladders alongside the bed.

Reaching into his overcoat once more, he retrieved a 2” eyebolt. Whistling tunelessly, he climbed the ladder set up the bit and tapped the ceiling with the hammer.

“Just looking for a ceiling joist,” he explained to her. “A joist for Joyce.”

The tapping took on a duller thump. He raised the bit to the ceiling, applied pressure and turned it. Slowly the drill chewed through the thin layer of plaster and into the beams above. It was hard work and by the time he had drilled in an inch, sweat was pouring from his brow.

He placed the drill on the stepladder platform, and screwed the eyebolt in. When it was as tight as he could make it, he removed the twist drill from the brace, inserted that in the eye to use as a lever, and gave the eye several more turns until he was happy that it was secure, then came down the ladder.

“Know what really turns me on, Joyce?” he asked conversationally. “Fear. I get the biggest hard on when I show a woman that she’s about to die and she tries to fight it but can’t do a thing to stop it happening.” He reached into his overcoat again and this time came out with a four-foot length of rope, one end formed to a perfect noose. He showed it to her. “This is for you.”

Immediately she began to struggle against her bonds, mouthing incomprehensible sounds from behind the gag, her eyes wide with stark terror.

“That,” said The Handshaker with great satisfaction, “is exactly what I mean. Fear. Gets me really hot.”

He climbed the ladder again and doubled the rope about a foot from the loose end before passing it through the 2” eye. He then passed the loose end and the noose through this hitch, and pulled it tight, securing the rope against itself. In order to test it, he swung briefly on it. If it did not give against his 13 stones; it would hold her.

Climbing back down the ladder, he began to undress.

“Look at the noose, Joyce. I’m going to fuck you rigid, and no rubber this time. When I’ve left my little spunk bubble inside you, I’m going to carry you up to that rope, slip it round your pretty neck and let you go. You won’t die immediately. It’ll take many, painful minutes, and if I know you, you’ll kick a lot. That’s what turns me on, see. And while you’re kicking, I’ll wank over you. It’s the end of the line, Joyce, the end of your life. The day will come tomorrow, as always, but you won’t be here to see it.”