Murderers Anonymous (46 page)

She liked Ellie Winters and her tender caress, and she would submit to the romance of it. So, while Bobby Dear fled and Morty wielded his knife, on the second floor of the house, blissfully unaware, Ellie Winters kissed Annie Webster softly on the lips, then moved down her naked body to tease and bite her erect nipples.

The house was laid waste. What was supposed to have been a joyous weekend had become a disaster. Morty Goldman let loose, four of the party dead, soon to be joined by another. Dear on the run. Barney Thomson, Katie Dillinger and Socrates about to confront the other evil abroad this dark night. The weekend was utterly destroyed; and there would be no getting their money back.

Not even if they wrote to
Watchdog
.

***

All the while, Hertha Berlin sat alone at the kitchen table, unaware of the gruesome events unfolding in the lounge; waiting for the police, her thoughts consumed by her folly, and how the rest of a life can be slaughtered by the simplest of unthinking actions, as much as by any psychopath with a knife.

Her future was bleak and held neither the comfort of the past twenty years, nor the adventure of the fifty that had preceded them. Like that of Anthony Hopkins in
Remains of the Day
, her life had finally been shattered by the inability to express her feelings. But then, what would have been the point? At least Emma Thompson had been waiting for Tony with her legs open. What would the handyman have done had she made any kind of advance? He would have laughed, he would have broken into a chorus of
Hound Dog
and he would have hit the Jedburgh–Moffat interstate before she could have bitten her tongue.

There was a slight noise, a gentle movement. So oppressed by gloom was she that she could barely lift her head to look at the door. One of the merry band of morons looking for a turkey sandwich, she thought. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? Didn't they know that her life was over? Why couldn't these damned people just look after themselves? Why couldn't the whole world just go and bugger off?

'Hey, Hertha, honey,' said the deep voice from the door. 'You just gonna sit there, or you wanna take a trip down to the ocean?'

Hertha Berlin looked up. For the first time in decades a smile, an impossible smile, came immediately to her face. A tear as quick to her eye. The handyman stood, framed in the doorway, jacket on, bag over his shoulder. Sideboards on his cheeks, a determined look in his eye. Hell, he knew what he was doing.

She gasped, caught her breath, put her hand over her mouth.

'Come on, honey,' he said, 'don't just sit there looking like some chick at my '68 NBC Special. You gonna come or ain't ya?'

Hertha Berlin stood up. Her chest swelled, she looked for her coat on the back of the door. She walked round the table, suddenly shaking, her legs barely able to support her insubstantial weight. She tugged at the solitary pin that held her bun together, and as her long, smooth grey hair cascaded around her shoulders, she stood before the handyman, a woman reborn. Suddenly there was a light in her eye, a beauty in her smile, and the hairs on her top lip faded to nothing.

'I sure am, honey,' she said.

And the handyman touched her hair and the back of her neck, sending shock waves of tiny orgasms rampaging through her body. Like a surge of Panzers crossing the border into Czechoslovakia.

'Come on, baby,' he said, 'there's a place I know we can spend the night. A little old lady's gonna have a plate of burgers and a warm bed. And in the morning we can go wherever you want.'

Hertha Berlin pulled on her coat. A woman released. As her arms stretched, her blouse was pulled across her breasts, and the handyman licked his lips.

'Memphis,' she said. 'I'd like to go to Memphis.'

The handyman laughed and shrugged.

'Wherever you want, Hertha, baby, wherever you want.'

The bodies of Arnie Medlock and Billy Hamilton swung in the thin air of the church, warmed by the flames of ten thousand candles. The blank, black depths of their bloody eye sockets stared down at this elective congregation, rapt in their attention. The ropes around their necks appeared to be dragging down the corners of their mouths. Foreheads furrowed, and they blindly scowled at their audience. Arnie in particular, upset at the ruin of a good weekend. And they swung in silence, slowly, in a vague circular motion.

The killer had intended letting his audience stew. That was part of the whole serial killer milieu, the modus operandi, the thing, the standard procedure, the usual technique. A cliché perhaps, but what the hey? Some clichés were there because they were good ideas. Bacon and egg. It's a cliché, but who's going to fight it? You don't say, bugger this, I'm having aluminium with my eggs this morning, just to be different.

However, this serial killer just could not contain himself. His audience was before him; he was Auric Goldfinger, waiting to explain his plot to rob Fort Knox; he was Jimmy Jones, waiting to denounce the Devil and order his flock to their deaths; he was Genghis Khan, waiting to book his crew on the 10.15 to Constantinople. This was it. The moment that every self-respecting serial killer waits for. His big finish.

And so, announcing himself with a laugh from beneath the rim of the pulpit, a hideous sound which filled the church and reverberated around the flaming walls and statues, a sound which quailed the congregation, yet toughened the resolve of Mulholland and Proudfoot – for there was nothing better than to be able to face your enemy – Leyman Blizzard, hair blackened, dog collar hugging his neck, the Reverend Rolanoytez's glasses perched on the end of his nose, raised his head into view.

He stared down at his flock, mocking smile upon his face. There's nothing a madman needs more than an audience. There really ought to have been an orchestra playing, but he hadn't had the time to fix it all up.
Ode to Joy
or
O! Holy Night
. Something big. And the audience stared up at him and waited.

Mulholland would be the first to act, and was in the process of a quick step forward when Blizzard raised his arms to the rafters and showed the small, loaded crossbow he held in his right hand. Dillinger took a step back. Mulholland and Proudfoot stood firm. Socrates smiled. Barney, for his part, knew now for sure that he would die. He was ready to meet it, and he remained steady.

'Leyman?' said Dillinger. 'What are you doing here? What's going on?'

The others turned. Mulholland questioned with his eyes. Aware that he should know this man.

'This is extraordinary,' said Socrates. 'I mean, how cool is this?'

'You know him?' said Barney to Dillinger.

'Aye,' she said, never taking her eyes off the crossbow. 'He was part of our group. I knew it was going to go wrong with him when he left. I could tell. I always know when they're about to stray.'

'What group?' asked Mulholland.

'What about you?' said Dillinger to Barney, ignoring the question, because that was not a discussion she wanted to get into.

Leyman Blizzard looked down upon his flock and enjoyed their confusion.

'I work for the guy,' said Barney. He looked up at him, the old smiling face beaming down. And the relationship went some way beyond that; but that was for himself and Blizzard to sort out. If he gave him the chance.

Mulholland thumped a theatrical hand off his forehead, closed his eyes, shook his head. Looked round at Barney then back up at Blizzard.

'Jesus,' he said, 'I knew it. I saw you in the fucking shop. Yesterday morning. Grey hair, beard, no glasses.'

Blizzard laughed a dirty old laugh. Sid James without the humour.

'Brilliant, Chief Inspector. I was wondering how long it'd take you to work it out. I thought you might have got it at dinner, but you're obviously too slow. No wonder you haven't caught yon serial killer. Thick as shite.'

Mulholland turned to Proudfoot and lifted his shoulders. Still didn't see the extent of what was going on. Shook his head.

'Sorry love,' he said, 'didn't get it. Brain's in too much of a fudge.'

She touched his hand. Here they were, thrown once more into adversity, and love would out.

'Come on, I was there too. I'm as bad.'

Sid James laughed again, dirty and dangerous.

'Ah!' he said. 'Young fucking love. Isn't it great? Too bad one of you is going to peg it.'

Mulholland turned back to the pulpit. No more than ten yards away, looking up into the face of their latest madman. Proudfoot stood beside him, still holding his hand. Barney watched. Dillinger had started to take small, surreptitious steps back towards the door; although, of course, Blizzard noticed every movement. Socrates settled down into a pew to watch the action. No more feared the old man's crossbow than he would a bath full of spiders.

'Okay,' said Mulholland. 'What's it all about this time?'

Had been through too much to feel threatened, despite the crossbow waving maniacally in the air.

'What d'you mean this time?' said Blizzard.

Mulholland held his arms out.

'We come up against one of your lot every week, just about. There's the nutter up in Glasgow at the moment, there was the nutter at the monastery last year. There's Barney here. No offence, Barney.'

Barney shrugged. Arnie Medlock and Billy Hamilton swung slowly, round and round, up on high. The ropes creaked softly, the candles burned, and it was as if the two of them were no longer there. Two bodies, eye sockets penetrating into the thoughts of everyone in the church, and with the violence of the fall, fresh blood had begun to drip, drip, drip; and they were part of the furniture.

'By Christ, Chief Inspector, you're even slower than I gave you credit for. I don't know about this monastery shite, but I'm the guy who's killing folk in Glasgow, ya numpty. Me,' he added, pointing to his chest, 'Leyman fucking Blizzard. God, you're slow. Fuck sake, you can't even find a serial killer when he's standing in front of you with two dead bodies and a murder weapon in his hand. How stupid are you?'

Mulholland shrugged. Realised he looked a bit thick. Wondered if Proudfoot had worked out the obvious before he had.

'Couldn't give a shit, mate. There are so many serial killers these days it's hard to keep up. Leyman Blizzard one week, some other sad bampot the next. Who cares?'

The Sid James smile died on Blizzard's face. He lowered the crossbow and aimed it roughly in the general direction of the five. Dillinger continued her deliberate back-pedal. Barney waited for an arrow in the throat, because that was the inevitability of it.

'You're full of shite, Chief Inspector. It's your job to catch me, so don't come it. Can't believe the crassness of you lot, sometimes. Taking a weekend off to shag a bird when there are folk getting shafted all over the shop.'

Mulholland shook his head, laughed a light, bitter, unamused laugh.

'I'm off the case, Blizzard. I couldn't care less. Go back to Glasgow, mate, and kill another few hundred of them. There's got to be, what, a million or so in the city. They can cope. On you go, you stupid arse, I don't give a shit. I've retired.'

Blizzard stared down at them. Getting annoyed, but keeping an eye on Dillinger, now only a few yards from the door.

'Barney?' said Blizzard. 'That right?'

'White man speak truth,' said Barney.

Mulholland turned back to Barney. 'Did you know this guy was doing all this crap?'

'Not me,' said Barney. 'Not this time. Thought he was just an old bloke.'