A Taste for Blood Page 2

  The creature seemed unconcerned that he had been disturbed in his activity. The lower half of his face was dripping with blood and something seemed to be trailing from his mouth, glistening and moist. As Llewellyn took a step nearer, he realised to his disgust that it was a piece of pink meat. Instinctively, his gaze moved to the mutilated body of the naked girl and then the truth hit him like a mighty blow to the solar plexus. This fiend was eating her flesh.

  TWO

  1944

  After the death of my girlfriend Max… after her brutal murder… I spiralled down into an undignified state of self-pity. I tried to escape reality through booze and sleep, failing to function either as a detective or even a human being. I rejected the ministerings and comfort offered by those close to me: Peter, my sort-of adopted son, Benny, the little Jewish café owner who treated me like family, and my old mate Detective Inspector David Llewellyn. In their various ways they all tried to shake me out of my depressive malaise, but failed. It was not their fault. Perversely, I didn’t want to be shaken. I wanted to wallow. Ironically, as I think back to that period now, I can see that being deeply miserable was in a strange way the only thing that was keeping me sane.

  As an orphan, I had never seen much affection in my life and then to meet the beautiful Max and receive it from her in spades was miraculous and wonderful. My innate cynicism forged out of a life of disappointments should have warned me that it wouldn’t last, but nothing or no one could have prepared me for the savage and dramatic way in which she would be taken from me. What increased my pain was the sense of guilt I felt for her death. She was killed by a crazed maniac as a means of wreaking revenge on me.* She was an innocent who had wandered into my dirty little world and because of me she had lost her life. It was my fault that she ended up with a bullet in her head.

  * See The Darkness of Death, the fifth Johnny One Eye novel, for full details

  My fault.

  The image of my dead love with her wide staring eyes and the spidery tendrils of blood spilling down her face haunted me in those months and days that followed. And, indeed, haunt me still.

  What dragged me back to reality and, in truth, saved my sanity was one of the strangest and most challenging episodes of my life. It was late March and winter’s grip on the country was still in evidence. It might have been spring on the calendar, but the elements were not acknowledging the fact. The daffodils and crocus may have reluctantly raised their heads about the stiff frost-bound earth, but the fierce gales continued to blow and sleet showers doused the city. It was on such a foul morning when the wind rattled the window panes and the rain sloshed against the glass that I was sitting huddled by the electric fire, clasping a cup of hot coffee while trying to raise some enthusiasm for facing the day. I realised that I had to go back to work and soon. I had been scrounging on my savings such as they were for the last few months and as a result they had dwindled drastically and were now in danger of disappearing altogether. I had turned down a couple of mundane cases simply because I couldn’t face the prospect of returning to my old routine, pretending that everything was normal again. ‘Pull yourself together man’, would be the sentiment. ‘What the hell, life goes on y’know!’ Sorry, but I just couldn’t accept that resilient and unfeeling philosophy.

  However, as I sat in my cramped sitting room, staring at the small twisted orange wires of the electric fire gently vibrating with feeble warmth I came to accept that even mundane cases pay and I needed money. Even if I was just going to spend it on booze. I knew that it really was time to try and get back in the saddle as that stupid phrase has it. I could hear Benny’s voice in my head: ‘Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my boy.’ Well, perhaps the old boy was right.

  With some effort, I dragged myself down the hall to the bathroom. I gazed at myself in the mirror over the sink. It was probably the first time I really had looked at myself properly since before Max died. I was shocked by what I saw. Here was a stranger. A grey, hollow-cheeked ghost of a man, wearing a haggard parody of my face, was staring back at me. My vivid impersonation of a consumptive tramp was enhanced by the several days’ growth of beard.

  Suddenly I heard another voice inside my head. This time it was my own and surprisingly, shockingly, it came up with a new thought – something that had not crossed my mind until the image of the dissipated wreck in the mirror had prompted it. What would Max think? I asked myself. Would she be happy at the way you are behaving? Of course not. She wouldn’t want you this way, would she? Not her Johnny. By turning into a self-pitying drunk I was letting her down. This realisation struck me hard. What a stupid bastard I was!

  With some effort, I held back a sob and rooted in my toilet bag for my razor. ‘Let’s get rid of the fuzz for a start’ I muttered to myself through gritted teeth.

  Thirty minutes later, I was back in my sitting room fully dressed with a clean white shirt on and a smooth chin and combed hair. I still looked like death warmed up, but a much tidier version than before. As I checked myself out in the mirror I even afforded myself a smile. It was a stranger to my face and it had difficulty settling there but I persevered and made it stay for a few seconds before it slipped away into the ether. Perhaps I was only pretending to myself that I could do this but, I reckoned, if I stuck to the pretence maybe that would become its own reality. I’d just got to try.

  As a reward for all my efforts, I sank in my armchair and lit a cigarette. Watching the bluish smoke spiral gently away from the amber tip, I made plans for my day.

  My first port of call was St Saviour’s Church, the little Catholic church situated in one of the thoroughfares off the Edgware Road. It was here where Max was buried. I managed to buy a limp bunch of daffodils to place on her grave. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds loured over me and the wind stabbed me and pinched my nose as I stood in the graveyard and had a brief conversation with my dead love. ‘I’m back,’ I said. ‘Back as me. Back as you knew me. Well, almost. I still don’t have that spring in my step but I’m going to try, my love. I’m going to try for you. Be the old Johnny Hawke I used to be. I’ll never quite manage that, but… I’ll try to make you proud of me.’ I grinned and dabbed my moist eye.

  As I turned to go I was conscious of someone standing close to me. It was Father Sanderson, the priest who had conducted Max’s funeral and had been so kind and understanding towards me.

  ‘Hello, Johnny,’ he said, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘How are you?’

  I gave a gentle shrug. ‘I think I’m on the mend.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. The pain of loss never quite goes away, nor should it, but it does become easier to bear. It’s early days yet.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I wonder if I could have a word with you. I have a little problem you may be able to help me with.’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, if you think I can be of any use.’

  ‘How about a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit in my office? That should help warm you up. I must admit you look like a frozen ghost.’

  I grinned. ‘I’m anybody’s for a cuppa and a biscuit.’

  * * *

  Father Sanderson’s office was a cramped little chamber just beyond the vestry. It smelled of damp, dust and altar candles. Various tomes were piled up along the walls and there were a couple of bentwood chairs and a bench which also held books as well as a gas ring, kettle and other tea-making equipment. Alongside these were several goblets and a bottle of what I assumed was communion wine standing on an old newspaper. Around the base of the bottle, the paper was spotted with dried splashes of the wine, creating a delicate pattern in varying hues of red.

  ‘Sit yourself down, Johnny, and I’ll brew up.’

  I did as he asked, wrapping my overcoat around me. For my money it was colder in here that it was outside in the graveyard. A few minutes later I was sipping a cup of scalding hot tea and nibbling on a damp digestive.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m in a bit of a quandary, really,’ said the old cleric as he seated
himself opposite me. He had a kind, heavily wrinkled face framed by a thatch of thick white hair. I guessed that he was in his seventies, but he could have been younger: it was just that his desiccated skin and stooped shoulders suggested otherwise.

  ‘I know you are a kind of detective, Johnny, and I thought you might be able to offer me some advice,’ he began hesitantly. It was obvious that he felt awkward about having to approach me in this way.

  ‘If I can,’ I said. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s one of my parishioners, Annie Salter. She’s a widow. A lady in her fifties. Lost a son at Dunkirk. Been a regular at St Saviour’s for many a year. A few weeks ago I found her in the church. She was praying in one of the pews near the altar and seemed upset. She was muttering something. I could not hear the words but it was quite clear that she was asking for help – for divine assistance. I stood in the shadows not wanting to interrupt her private moment. From time to time she would pause in order to stifle a sob and then she would begin again. My heart went out to the poor soul. Whatever afflicted her, it was tearing her apart.

  ‘I waited at the back of the church while she had finished and then as she made to leave I approached her. I could see clearly that she’d been crying – and I thought I might be able to help her. Offer comfort, at least.’

  ‘What is troubling you, my dear?’ I asked, taking her hands in mine.

  She tried to shrug off her distress with a faint smile. ‘I’m all right, really. Just feeling a little low. Came in to ask Jesus for some help. It’s the war, isn’t it? Sometimes it gets you down a bit.’

  I knew that she was not telling me the truth. Not the full story, at least. I told her that I was there to listen, to help. I was one of Jesus’s helpers. Perhaps I could come to her aid. My offer of help seemed to upset her more than ever.

  ‘At the moment, I don’t think anyone can help me,’ she told me as her eyes moistened again. Then she pulled her hands from mine and hurried away without further words or a backward glance.

  ‘That was the last time I saw her.’

  I said nothing. I knew that there was more to come. There had to be.

  ‘The following Sunday, Annie did not turn up for the Sunday service. I had not known her to miss in three years, apart from one occasion when she was struck down with influenza. The following morning, I went round to her house to see if she was ill and needed some help. There was no reply when I knocked on the door. I knocked hard, I can tell you, Johnny.’ He smiled. ‘A priest always does. Sometimes the householder will hide behind the door hoping I’ll go away. If you bang loud enough, eventually guilt makes them open up.’ His smile broadened and then faded quickly. ‘But on this occasion there was no reply. I was just about to leave when the lady next door popped her head over her threshold. ‘I’ve not seen her since Friday. I reckon she might have gone away,’ she said. ‘Where to?’ I asked and received a puzzled shrug in response.

  ‘Annie’s behaviour in church and her absence prayed on my mind. I was worried about her – so much so that I visited the house again the following Thursday. Still there was no reply. My concern grew. I thought it was time to take further action so I went down to the local bobby shop on Frampton Street. They know me down there and took my concerns seriously. Sergeant Harmsworth came back to the house with me and after the rigmarole of knocking and waiting, waiting but no response, he applied his weight to the door and forced it open. ‘It’ll be up to you, Father, to pay for any repairs,’ he said trying to lighten the mood of the operation. We stood on the threshold and he called out Annie’s name. His voice echoed through the innards of the house but no one answered. I feared the worst. And so did Sergeant Harmsworth if his grim features were anything to go by. We moved into the tiny hallway and then into the kitchen. All was neat and tidy. All perfectly normal, I suppose. And then we came into the living room. It was terrible, Johnny. Simply terrible. There she was dangling from one of the beams, her mouth agape, tongue sticking out, her eyes… her eyes… well, it was terrible.’

  ‘She’d hung herself.’

  Father Sanderson shot me a glance. ‘Well, that’s what it looked like. There was a dressing gown cord tied around her neck and a stool on its side under her. And there was a note on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘I can tell you exactly what it said. Just five words only. ‘I just couldn’t go on.’

  ‘A fairly traditional sentiment for a suicide.’

  ‘Mmm. Exactly. Traditional. Cliché even. Oh, the police are quite convinced that poor Annie committed suicide.’ He paused and flashed me a piercing glance.

  ‘But you’re not,’ I said.

  ‘No, I’m not. It’s not her way. She was far more stoical than that. She’s not a quitter. And another thing… that note. It’s not her writing.’

  ‘You told the police this.’

  ‘Of course I did. They just said that when a person is in a disturbed phase of mind their handwriting goes haywire. They can’t control their movements or some such notion. But I know, Johnny, I know that Annie did not write that note. Apart from the writing, it was too brief and trite for Annie.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I asked, fairly certain I knew the answer anyway.

  Father Sanderson looked me in the eye and said sternly, ‘I am saying that she was murdered.’

  THREE

  Dr Francis Sexton sat in his car and stared through the windscreen at the forbidding building before him. Even on a bright day in March when the sky was making every effort to shrug off the greyness of winter and allow little patches of blue to appear, Newfield House looked bleak and gloomy. To Sexton the building, stark against the bright sky with drab stonework marked with the strands of long-dead ivy, and the strange acute angles of the gables, along with the blank shuttered windows, made the place look like an illustration from a work by Edgar Allan Poe – The Fall of the House of Usher – maybe. The house, an early Victorian monstrosity, stood in isolation in its own grounds, now uncared for and neglected, like the inmates within.

  Sexton shifted his gaze to the paint-peeling notice erected near the main door:

  Newfield House

  Psychiatric Hospital

  No Unauthorised Admittance

  Home Office Property

  Newfield House, once the house of some rich industrialist, had been converted to a lunatic asylum for the criminally insane as an overflow of Broadmoor and had only been renamed within the last ten years. The name may have changed but the purpose and régime remained more or less as it always had. There was little psychiatry practised there. It was just a matter of keeping the inmates contained and sedated. The state had seen fit not to hang them, so instead they must rot in a drug-induced state in this God forsaken place near the Essex marshes. Sexton could understand and to some extent sympathise with these sentiments. The twenty inmates had all committed horrendous crimes while ‘the balance of their mind was affected.’ Madmen, then. But as Sexton knew, madmen could also be rational and reasonable for most of the time. It should be possible to rehabilitate these creatures so they could return to society. They did not ask to be mad – just as a man who is deaf or blind or a fellow with a lisp did not ask for these disabilities. Madness was a disability. It was Fate or God who allowed it. It was up to man to help, not to condemn. That, at least, was the litany that Dr Francis Sexton preached and that is why the authorities with great reluctance allowed him to attend one of the inmates at Newfield for ‘research purposes’. Sexton was writing a book on the human psyche with particular attention to the diseased criminal brain. That is what the authorities believed and that is why they permitted Dr Francis Sexton to visit Newfield the third Thursday in every month to spend time with one of its notorious inmates: Ralph Northcote.

  * * *

  The said inmate Dr Ralph Northcote waited for his visitor in a small, featureless room that had become his home for the last eight years. His cell, in fact. It consisted of a bed – clamped to the floor so that i
t could not be moved – a chair, a washbasin, and a small bookshelf crammed with medical volumes he had managed to retain from his old life and a barred window which was too high for him to peer out of, even if he stood on the chair, which he had no inclination to do. Northcote was no longer the lithe, clean-shaven charmer of his younger days. Not being able to shave unless under strict supervision, he had grown a straggly beard while boredom had led him to consume as much of the foul institutionalised food as he could. He was now a rotund, heavily bearded, blotchy-faced parody of his former self, looking much older than his forty-eight years. He certainly no longer resembled the man who had stood in the dock accused of a series of horrendous crimes. The man the press named as ‘The Ghoul’.

  Northcote was particularly excited about today’s visit from his new friend, Francis. His monthly visits had become the highlight of his life in this dreary place. They thought him mad and that’s why they had dumped him in this hellhole, to be forgotten, to rot until death. He wished they had hanged him. That, at least, would have been the end of it. He was not mad. He had known what he was doing. He would do it again – given half the chance. His passion for raw flesh may seem strange to the outside world, but to him it was no different from stuffing your face with bits of dead cow, pig or chicken. He was convinced that it was because of this fact that the judge hadn’t dared to pass the death sentence. The old fool knew he was not mad but couldn’t condemn him for his unusual appetite.

  At first he had resented Francis Sexton’s visits. He only agreed to them because they would bring some kind of novelty to his drab routine. But he didn’t want to be scrutinised, analysed, compartmentalised and patronised. However, he soon realised that Francis would do none of these things. He had come in a spirit of friendship. Of course, he asked questions – wanted to know things about him, his history, his thoughts, what made him tick. But friends did that. And they had become friends. He knew that Francis grew to value these visits as much as he did. Northcote believed that a bond had grown between them and that was because Francis really understood him and his predilection.