The Hard Cold Shoulder - L A Sykes Read online

  The nurse nodded her head and wiped tears off her cheek with the back of her tremulous hand.

  “You think she’ll be all right?”

  She nodded again, busy tapping the top of Tabitha’s hands for the cannula. “We’ll wean her off the stuff. She’ll have some nasty withdrawals and a rough few days. It’s after that, after the drugs are out of her, I reckon that’s where the real healing will start.”

  I wiped her eyes with the tip of my thumb and stood back to let other nursing staff flying by with a drip on a wheeled frame get close to the bed.

  Vanessa tried to insert the needle but her shaking was beyond control. She passed another staff the syringe and turned back to me. She peeled back the lapel of my suit jacket and ripped the tear in the shirt wider. Blood smeared on her gloves.

  Her touch jolted me and I brushed her hands away.

  She said, “Your wound needs packing and cleaning. It’s not going to stop bleeding on its own and it’ll get infected if we don’t sort it now. You need to lie down.” I turned my back to her. “Something else to do first, love. Take good care of her.”

  “Wait. Thank you. Thank you for this. I’ve been worried sick ever since that day he took her.”

  “I was just doing my job.” I left through the curtains and shouted over my shoulder, “Take good care of her.”

  I followed my own seeped trail back outside and walked into the rain and watched three ambulances speed out of the building in the direction of the Kangaroo Klub with their sirens blaring. Police helicopters swooped over the town. I climbed in the back of the taxi. The driver hummed along to a jazz instrumental on the radio. “Where to now, boss? I was thinking, you get me a fancy hat and I’ll be your chauffer. You’ve certainly livened up my weekend, old son.”

  I raised my eyebrows, “One more stop and home. I’d love to give you a job but I prefer to travel on public transport if I can.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To see another friend. Go left out of here then straight on. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  ***

  I sunk into the backseat and closed my eyes and thought back to when I’d just made inspector. It was early Christmas Eve when they’d had a call about two carol singers going missing.

  Me and my gaffer, DCI Tavistock were interrogating a man named Dempsey who’d beat his psychotic wife to death the same day and kept screaming about fallen angels with terror in his mind on constant loop.

  Tavistock was on a case of two missing trick-or-treaters from October and a connection rang bells in my head. Don Iverson pulled me out and I told him to get Tavistock but he said it had to be me because I was senior officer given it was Tavistock’s kids that were the singers and I had to lead the search. I begged him to tell me they weren’t dressed as angels but he wouldn’t speak.

  The location was right by the last reported sightings of the trick-or-treaters near Tavistock’s inlaws, who’d been minding them as both he and his wife, a nurse on the coronary care unit at the Royal Infirmary, were on duty till midnight.

  We got to the Dempsey house and I insisted on confirming our worst fears because Don had a daughter himself. I went down into a small cellar under the porch and saw why Dempsey had killed his wife and the demon she said was inside her.

  I kept out of enclosed spaces ever since and thought back to Don, saw him ripping at his ‘tache in the Kangaroo Klub at the back of the scrum ogling someone else’s daughter or sister or niece or mother while the clock ticked down on the girl. Him and Tommy and the voice setting me loose to stop it with different motives from the same wellspring of cowardice. Iverson; just another one of the boys in Blue, doing his best to fit in and hating himself for it, for the sake of a pension that would be whipped out from under him by the time he’d go to take it like the nurse, Vanessa, from the medical admissions who’d be lucky to have a hospital to work in when the money would be eventually diverted to fuck knows what by a government hell bent on doing away with providing for the vulnerable who couldn’t help themselves. Crumbling care facilities and fractured justice next door to plush gentleman’s clubs scented with opulence.

  Then I thought to Tavistock, who was buried with his children after hanging himself on New Year’s Day.

  I remembered the red carnations with their blooms bowed over the headstones as they decomposed in the frost at the snow scattered grave.

  ***

  I opened my eyes at the sound of the driver’s chirp, “This the gaff, old son?”

  “This is it. Park down the alley, cut the lights and keep your head down. I won’t be long.”

  Twelve

  Tommy Rellis’ place was on the third floor of a sixteen story high rise on the edge of the town centre. I told the cabbie to stay awake this time. The entrance was covered in illegible graffiti and the door flailed on a hinge, baying in the wind. A gust followed me up the pitch dark stairwell, howling. I was relieved to see lights behind the frost glass panel.

  I knocked with no response, took two steps back and took it off its hinges. It slapped the floor and rushed a cloud of dust into the air. I crept down the hallway and listened. Nothing. I drew the pistol and charged into the room.

  Tommy was stood on step ladders in the centre of the bare room, facing me as I entered. His head was looped into a noose made of thick rope and suspended from an exercise pull-up bar jutting out high up on the ceiling. His hands were pushed together, prayerlike, in front. “I’m glad to see you’re embracing spirituality. Have you been praying for forgiveness?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr Pitkin. You’re fee is over there. Take what you’ve earned.” He shifted his eyes to bricks of fifties stacked neatly in the corner.

  “I will. Been waiting long? I mean, your legs must be aching, surely? Aching and throbbing and ready to just rest and take the weight off. Don’t mind me.”

  “I did a bad thing, Mr. Pitkin. A very bad thing. This is what I deserve. Don’t try and talk me out of it. It won’t work.”

  His face tried hard for sincerity but it looked to me like it had never had enough practise. I stared at the pathetic fucker, rubbed my eyes and pocketed the gun. I sat down on the worn couch and said, “Tommy, some people are sick. Ill, mentally. You understand what I mean? They need treatment, help, reformation. Professional input in a safe environment. Proper food, a bed, sleep and people to listen to their struggles and–.”

  “Well, I was determined to do this, Mr Pitkin. But you make a lot of sense mate,” he smiled.

  “You however, are not ill. You’re bad. You’re just bad, Tommy. No hope for mending you is there?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. Bit harsh if you ask me. This is definitely a wake up call.”

  “I don’t want to ask you though, do I? I want to tell you I know the only reason you phoned me was because you wanted all the auction money for yourself. And I tell you what, you’re a cracking voice actor. You had me convinced on the phone, you certainly did. Very well done. In person though, it’s a bit different, with the non-verbals and suchlike. On top of that, you still haven’t asked if she’s still alive or even alright, come to think of it.”

  “I was going to. I was, I swear I was, Mr Pitkin,” he stammered.

  “I’m sure you were. Maybe changing you isn’t just a pipe dream, is it? Maybe there’s something in you I can salvage. That sounds like a warm little fantasy to me though, Tommy. Fantasies and daydreams and kidding ourselves from the truth are all well and good, but there’s nothing you can do when reality comes storming in and gives you the hard cold shoulder.”

  I stood up and walked through the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards. Thousands of pounds were stuffed tightly across the shelves and barely hidden behind the drainage pipes under the sink. More notes had been packed in pans.

  I re-entered the living room and walked towards him and watched his fingers scramble desperately at the knot of the noose.

  “I asked you for every penny to return her alive. Every fucking
penny.”

  “Pitkin, wait -”

  I kicked the stepladders from under him.

  Panicked bulging eyes fixed on mine. One hand managed to grip the pull-up bar above his head and he heaved himself up, relieving pressure from his throat. I thumped the butt of the Browning against his knuckles until I heard cracking bones.

  I sat down on the couch, Tommy’s legs bucking wildly behind my head. I filled piles of large manila envelopes to bursting with all the money and peppered them with stamps. Wrote Tabitha Rellis, private and confidential, Medical Admissions Unit, Royal Infirmary. I leaned back into the couch and rested my eyes, weariness hitting deep into my being, dizziness spiralling with blood loss. I waited a wait that seemed like forever until Tommy stopped flailing and all I could hear was the friction creak of a swinging rope. I dragged myself up and let myself out with the envelopes tucked under my good arm, making sure to keep them free of bloodstains.

  Thirteen

  I ignored the cabbie’s jovial banter on the way to the train station. I emptied my overcoat pockets of Kangaroo Klub money and handed it all over. I was glad it left him speechless because I had no goodbye for him. I stuck the brown envelopes in the post box and said a silent prayer they’d find her.

  I walked into the deserted train station and looked over at the ticket master in the window.

  He gazed up from his paperback and hollered, “Maybe tonight’s the night, sir,” through a wide smile that dissipated when he saw the blood.

  “Maybe it is. Maybe it is.”

  I took the stairs two at a time and strolled across the desolate platform to the bench. The wind whipped furiously under the metal shelter, rattling branches on the other side of the tracks. The rain faded to a drizzle. I sat down, pulled up my collar and huddled my chin into it. I took out the blister pack of Diazepam and popped some yellows, swallowing dry. The phone rang and I let it ring. I daydreamed that I visited the girl at the hospital.

  She wouldn’t talk to me but the senior nurse Vanessa smiled and said I shouldn’t take it personally because she doesn’t talk to anyone. I told them both I understood and handed over the envelopes personally, leaving them on her bed, and said that if anyone she was unsure of came to visit she should tell them that Mr P., her social worker, has banned them and they should just go to Hell.

  I swung the pistol round and round my finger and remembered the thirteenth bullet and ignored the ringing telephone and ignored the muffled gibberish from the megaphone and ignored the blood draining from me. The surrounding siren wails closing in and helicopter jutting and hovering overhead beaming down light only triggered another daydream of a golden train gliding into the station and sidling to a halt just in front of me and my family and my friends and the girl and my love holding our baby stepping onto the platform to embrace me and walk me on the train and the smiles on the faces of the people on either side with the smell of sweet perfume and warmth from their hands and tickets that said far far away. The biting wind blew away the dream and approaching echoing footsteps helped give the dying embers of it the hard cold shoulder. Still, I sat and waited for Hope.

  I looked down the tracks flanked by scruffy brambles and thickets and couldn’t see any lights, only the blackness of an empty tunnel.

  After The Eve

  DI Pitkin watched the glass vibrate as Clive Dempsey howled and screeched a wordless shriek of horror. His reddened eyes streamed and slaver dripped in long strings from his open mouth as the screaming rattled through the station. He stared ahead, watching playbacks of memories he wouldn’t or couldn’t share with others as Pitkin debated which it was.

  DCI Tavistock paced into the observation area carrying two Styrofoam coffees with fret etched on his stubbled face. He nodded at Pitkin and handed him a cup. “I thought that two way mirror was soundproofed?”

  “It normally is boss. This guy is making one hell of an exception of it.”

  “So I can hear. What have we got?”

  “We’ve got a live one. Smashed the fuck out of his wife’s skull.”

  “Weapon?”

  “No. Bashed her head repeatedly into the corner of their archway in the living room. And I mean bashed. Back of the head caved in, brains everywhere. Neighbours heard a scuffle but what made them call was the screaming. They thought it was her, turns out it was him. He’s still doing it as you can hear.”

  “No let up at all?”

  “Not even a pause for breath. He wouldn’t even let us get someone to tend to the wounds on his arms.”

  Tavistock leaned closer to the window taking in the open gashes on the forearms and biceps on Dempsey. “Deep marks, sure are some defence wounds. Looks like he’s been clawed by a fucking panther. How old was the victim?”

  “Fifty eight.”

  “That’s a hell of a fight for a fifty eight year old. Definitely no one else involved?”

  Pitkin shook his head and winced as he swallowed the scalding coffee. “No signs of a third person. Back door was double locked from the inside, nothing from the interior suggests more than a raging fight. Neighbours don’t identify any other comings and goings in the past few days in the whole street apart from carol singers.”

  Tavistock nodded, eyeing Dempsey. “Ok. Motive?”

  “Well, from the medical records, it appears she went psychotic. This is the second episode. First was around mid-October lasting until mid-November. Talked about a demonic forces. Being possessed. They both took early retirement in September and it started just after that. Seems the husband freaked, or got pissed off with the thought of nursing her when she went through another nutso period. He’s the main carer, something made him snap.”

  “At half six on Christmas Eve?”

  “Of all the days, right? That’s all we’ve got to go on so far but it looks open and shut. The why is just guesswork until he starts talking. He ain’t saying a dickie bird. How you getting on with the missing kids?”

  “I’m not. Done the local sex offenders and all the other dodgy fuckers. Nothing as yet. Seven weeks is a long time for turning nothing up. All the green areas swept, lakes, canal and ponds dredged. Not even a scrap of clothing. It doesn’t look good. I’m praying for a ransom note. Vigilantes are out kicking down doors of fucking paediatricians and God knows who else. No leads.”

  “Have you given up on the possibility of a snatching?”

  “No suspect vehicles, no CCTV footage worth a shit. It’s possible, but we closed up a ten mile radius hours after the report from the parents. Tore their house to pieces too, just in case, but they definitely have nothing to do with it.”

  “After I’ve written this up, I’ll help you go through the information again. See if anything got missed.”

  “Thanks Pitkin. So what about Dempsey? I don’t buy he got scared at the thought of looking after her. When people get fed up they’ll smother or pull the life support machine plug out. They won’t smash their fucking skulls in. Look at the defence wounds on his arms. If they are defence wounds. Some are from a strange angle as if he was being pulled back. Doesn’t resemble a mercy killing. He was either fighting for his life or he was freaked. What did the duty doctor say?”

  “He said fuck all, as usual. He thinks Dempsey is experiencing some kind of post traumatic shock. You can tell by his eye movements that he is just reliving an image over and over again. He’s given him some tranquilizers, but they haven’t even touched the sides.”

  Tavistock nodded, nudged Pitkin and said, “Fuck it, let’s go have a word with the screaming banshee.”

  “After you, boss,” he replied with a theatrical bow. The two exited the side door of the observation area and approached the interview room door. Nodding at the uniformed copper, Pitkin asked, “Anything coherent said, Jimmy?” He frowned and shook his head.

  “Just screaming and crying. Poor bastard looks like he’s scared stiff. He’s freaking me out to be honest. God knows what he’s seen.”

  “His wife’s brain matter ruining the carpet probably,�
�� grinned Tavistock.

  Pitkin entered first, clicked on the recorder and was followed in by Tavistock who clicked it back off. He tried to catch Tavistock’s eye, but the DCI was fully focused on the twisted features of Clive Dempsey, howling and dry heaving racked sobs.

  “Clive? Clive? Oi! Hello? Clive, I know you can hear me Ok, so I suggest you listen and listen good. You’re fucked. You understand? No way out of this one. Talk to us and the one thing we can do is get you out quicker. Make sense? Mitigating circumstances. What did she do? Catch her fucking around? Hen peck you, one nag too many? Come on Clive, we’ve all felt badgered. Talk to me.”

  Clive Dempsey continued to stare straight ahead with his pupils dilated and his jaw hanging, drool and snot mixed with tears as he wept openly and began to shake his head. Pitkin sat down opposite him, “Come on Dempsey, get talking for your own sake! Couldn’t stand looking after her? No shame in that. Not sure smashing her fucking head in is anything to be proud of though, is it? Help us understand why you killed your wife. Come on man!” He banged his fist on the table which Dempsey did not seem to register as he shook his head faster.

  Tavistock hunted for Clive’s stare. He waved his hand in front of the hysterical man’s unblinking eyes and nodded. He picked up the plastic chair next to Pitkin and threw it down hard next to Dempsey, crashing into the tiled floor. He sat shoulder to shoulder with him, stared at his head inches away and whispered in his ear, “Clive, she was a fucking pain in the arse, wasn’t she? Pestering every minute of the day. You dreaded finishing work, didn’t you? Spending every hour of the day listening to the nagging old bitch?” Dempsey shook his head faster and rubbed at his balding head as his flexing muscles tensed, re-opening the wounds on his arms. He continued, “Bollocks. Then she starts to go all weird on you, we know Clive. Starts talking about a demon inside her, doesn’t she Clive? Seems strange but she comes out of it, a one off. Then it recurs, doesn’t it? Mid December? You can’t live like that, can you? It all gets on top of you. You’re trying to get in the festive mood, celebrate the birthday of Our Lord and all, sorting out the turkey and then she’s off with the fairies talking about fallen angels and all that bollocks. It’s too much and you snap. Understandable. You tell her to shut up. She keeps screaming and babbling in your face and you lose control and grab hold of her. She stumbles back, cracks her head then lashes out so you instinctively finish the job. You’re shocked, stunned and can’t believe what you’ve done. You’re sorry and you don’t know what came over you. How am I doing Clive?”