The Holiday Murders (35 page)

‘He cut her head off. Did he tell you that?’

‘Poor Sheila. I’m sure it was quick, and you don’t need your head after you’re dead, let’s face it.’

‘I doubt it was quick.’

Mary cocked her head to one side and regarded Joe.

‘Tolly, darling, could you get me a cup of tea?’

It was with some reluctance that Jones left the room. Mary looked at the ceiling, and said almost musingly, ‘You know, I’m actually quite scared of Tolly sometimes. Just sometimes. I haven’t known him that long — just a couple of years. He was still called Alistair when we met. I wouldn’t call it a romantic meeting; Tolly isn’t the romantic type. You’ve probably noticed that. It was at a party — theatre types, mainly. Lots of Reds. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, that I used to go about with Reds? I was young. Anyway, that’s where I met Tolly. He wasn’t a guest. He was what you might call an uninvited guest. He and Freddy — I didn’t know his name was George — broke the party up, and broke a couple of heads, too. We clicked somehow. You have to admire a man who knows what he wants, don’t you think?’

‘Your mother would be ashamed of you.’

The mention of her mother ended her weirdly wistful reminiscence. She leapt from her chair and slapped Joe across the face. It was a solid slap, and it hurt her as much as it hurt Joe. He was emboldened by it. The sting of it, and the sight of poor, broken Tom, filled Joe with outrage, and made his fear disappear.

‘Death isn’t frightening,’ Mary said coolly. ‘It’s the run-up to it that’s terrifying. Tolly understands that. He’ll teach you all about it.’

Mary stretched.

‘What did you think of our movie? Tolly didn’t want to make it. It was expensive to get it turned around so quickly. He couldn’t see the point at first. If he has one failing, it’s that he doesn’t have much of an imagination. That’s all right, though. I’ve got enough imagination for the two of us. For me, it was worth the expense, just to imagine you watching it. Your friend here thought it was real, too. He thought I was being raped, actually raped. I squealed like a ravished nun. If we’d had sound it would’ve curled your hair. Oh my God, the look on this bloke’s face was priceless. I’ve never been so close to that level of impotent rage. I thought he might die of it. It was so exciting — the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. It was like Tolly was satisfying me physically and your friend’s despair was stroking my brain. I thought I was going to pass out with pleasure. Am I embarrassing you? Tom here knows the truth now, so I’ll never have that feeling again.’

‘Who was behind the camera?’

‘Freddy. He had his clothes on, thank God.’

She waved this away as being of no interest.

‘I can use that feeling in my work, draw on it, you know.’

‘Do you really think you can go back to your life after this?’

‘Why on Earth not? We’ve done pretty well so far. Tolly’ll give me a few cuts and bruises, and I’ll be found wandering the streets in a daze. I’ll have a story to tell of how I saw what they did to you and Tom. And I was raped. There’s a film to prove it. I won’t be able to remember much, so I won’t be of much help. I’ll make up conflicting stories, and have the police chasing their tails.’

‘They have the film. That tattoo is a pretty distinguishing feature, even if the rest of him is unremarkable.’

‘You’re lucky he’s out of the room. He’s a bit vain about his looks.’

‘They know who they’re looking for, and they’ll find him.’

‘No. They’ll find me, and maybe I’ll say I overheard them planning to go to, say, Western Australia.’

‘They’re not stupid.’

Mary Quinn managed a pantomime look of regret.

‘Oh, but you, they,
are
stupid — so very, very stupid.’

Ptolemy Jones came back into the room bearing a teapot and a china cup and saucer. It was an absurd bit of elegance in the grim room. He poured the tea, and handed the steaming cup to Mary.

‘What’s Argument 7?’ Joe asked.

Mary sipped her tea and said, ‘Tell him. I love Argument 7. I’m not sure that you will. It’s about you, in way.’

‘Argument 7 is something everyone should know — something everyone will know.’

He was holding the teapot by its handle, and it must have been heavy because he carelessly supported it with the palm of his other hand. He yelped and pulled his hand away quickly. As if this had somehow been Tom’s fault, he stood over him and poured the scalding tea over his shoulders and into his lap. Tom’s body writhed listlessly, as if it was simply exhausted by the assaults it had endured. He didn’t appear to be conscious.

‘From
Ten Responses to Jewish Lackeys,’
Jones began to recite.

Argument 7: ‘The Jew is a human being too!’ — Counter-argument: ‘Of course the Jew is a human being too. None of us had ever doubted it. But a flea is also an animal. But not a very pleasant one. Since a flea is not a pleasant animal, we have no duty to protect and defend it, to take care of it so that it can bite, and torment, and torture us. Rather, we make it harmless. It is the same with the Jews.’

‘Kurt Eitzen wrote that. I don’t suppose you’ve heard his name before. Josef Goebbels has made him famous in Germany, and I intend to make him famous here. He’s a genius — Eitzen, I mean. Would you like to hear it in German? Of the ten counterarguments on how to respond to statements in support of the Jews, the response to Argument 7 is my favourite.’

‘This man will kill you one day,’ Joe said to Mary.

‘He has no pity,’ she said. ‘It’s one of things I love about him.’

Jones lifted his shirt and smiled at her.

‘Argument 7,’ he said, and ran his hand across his belly.

‘You can’t spell,’ Joe said.

‘The cunt who tattooed me can’t spell. He’s making spelling mistakes in Hell now.’

Mary sighed dramatically.

‘Maybe it’s time we put Tom out of his misery,’ she said.

Jones’s eyes flicked towards Tom’s slumped body.

‘I can do a lot more to him. I’ve hardly started.’

‘All right. Get some cold water and see if you can wake him. There’s probably a bit of life left in him. Sergeant Sable here hasn’t seen you at work.’

‘Sergeant Sable is a flea.’

Jones went to get some water, whereupon Joe began struggling vigorously against his bonds, and fell sideways on the floor. His face hit the ground hard.

‘Don’t struggle, Sergeant — it makes you look silly.’

She prodded him in the ribs with her foot, and then, rather tentatively, kicked him. Having enjoyed that, she delivered a sickening kick to his ribs.

‘Preparing for married life with Jones?’ he gasped.

‘Ho ho. Gallows humour. The brave Jew. That won’t last long.’

Jones returned with a bucket of water and poured it over Tom Mackenzie. He woke, his eyes dazed with shock and pain. He saw Joe for the first time, and his mouth formed his name.

Jones righted Joe’s chair and moved it closer to Tom’s. Their knees were touching. He produced a cut-throat razor and a small hunting knife, and handed the razor to Mary. She looked uncertain, but turned the razor over in her hands and gingerly felt its edge.

‘Goodness, that is sharp,’ she said. ‘These things are dangerous, aren’t they?’

‘Cut off his cock,’ Jones said blandly.

Mary looked from Tom to Joe.

‘Which one?’

‘Start with him,’ Jones said, and pointed with his thumb at Tom.

Joe averted his eyes from Tom’s face, not wanting to know for certain if he was aware of what was happening. He looked at Mary Quinn and searched her face for a sign that this was just an elaborate form of psychological torture. Her expression was one of girlish glee and faux timidity.

‘What do I do?’ As she asked this, she reached down between Tom’s legs. ‘Will it just come off?’

‘Pull on it, stretch it out, and don’t saw at it. Slice it.’

She took Tom’s penis between her thumb and forefinger, and stretched it. Then she held the razor under it.

Joe roared with all the power he could muster, ‘Chafer! Goad! Lambert! Now! Now! Now! Now!’

Mary froze, and Ptolemy Jones turned his head sharply towards the door. Joe kept roaring, ‘Now! Now! Now!’ Mary withdrew the razor and stood back from Tom.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked nervously.

There was silence.

‘Nothing,’ Jones said. ‘It was a trick.’

‘Who were you calling out to?’ she shrieked at Joe.

The horrifying answer was no one. There was no one there for Joe to call out to. He knew that they were beyond help. He looked at Tom, and found himself wracked by sobs. It wasn’t craven weeping. It was grief — grief that burst from his knowledge that he had made all this happen. He had brought Tom to this place.

Jones felt no such remorse. Enraged by Joe’s tears and by the fact that Joe had momentarily duped him, Jones lunged at him and drove the small knife into his shoulder. To Joe, it felt like a punch, so that when Jones stepped away, Joe was surprised to see the knife’s hilt protruding from under his left collarbone. Amazingly, the blade was causing him only a dull ache, but when Jones grabbed the hilt and pulled the knife out, Joe felt a sharp, blinding pain. Even though he was dizzy, and everything seemed to be in slow motion, he saw that Jones was now holding the knife low and that he was about to push the blade up through Joe’s ribs. Jones swung his arm back, and Joe closed his eyes.

Afterwards, Joe couldn’t recall the exact sequence of events. There was a loud report, like a door slamming, that echoed around the room, and Ptolemy Jones crashed against Joe, knocking him backwards onto the floor. For the second time, his head hit it with some force. But this time, he slipped into the blessed refuge of unconsciousness.

Joe Sable woke
in a bed with the smell of disinfectant in his nostrils. Inspector Titus Lambert and Constable Helen Lord were standing at the foot of the bed. Joe tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry.

‘Tom is safe, Joe,’ said Titus. ‘He’s in this hospital. He’s safe.’

Joe was confused and uncertain where he was.

‘You’re in a hospital, Joe. You’re safe, and Tom is safe.’

‘What did they do to him?’

Titus hesitated.

‘Jones worked him over, but he’s alive, and he’ll recover.’

‘What did they do to him?’ Titus’s hesitation distressed him.

‘Most of his fingers have been broken, and a couple of ribs. There are various burns on his body and deep slashes, his nose has been broken, and he’s got a nasty scald. The doctors say he’ll be fine, but he’ll be in a lot of pain for quite some time. You have a concussion and a fairly deep stab wound in your shoulder. We’ve been told you’ll make a full recovery.’

‘You may even be fit for work in a few days,’ Helen said. ‘Light office-duties only, of course.’

Joe couldn’t think clearly. There was something he needed to say to Helen, but he couldn’t remember what it was.

‘What day is it?’ he asked.

‘New Year’s Day,’ Helen said. ‘You had a big New Year’s Eve. Welcome to 1944.’

Helen’s tone was strangely neutral, as if she were struggling to keep stronger emotions under control.

‘Jones and Mary Quinn, where are they?’ Joe asked.

‘Ptolemy Jones is dead,’ Titus said. ‘Mary Quinn is in custody. She tried to cut her wrists with the razor. We stopped her.’

‘Why?’

It was a simple question, but Joe fell back into an exhausted sleep before Titus could answer him.

Four hours later,
Joe sat propped up in bed. He was coherent and alert, and he’d already told Inspector Lambert, Tom Chafer, and Dick Goad as much as he could remember.

‘Mary Quinn is insane,’ he said. ‘Hatred made her insane.’

‘No,’ Titus said. ‘Hatred doesn’t make you insane. You have to be insane to begin with. She was in love with Ptolemy Jones. At least, that’s how she’d describe her feelings, I suppose, although nothing about that relationship resembles what I understand by love. Whatever fuelled their mutual attraction would take psychiatric expertise to uncover.’

‘They were strange together. I’ve never been so close to something so completely incomprehensible to me. There was something fierce between them. Have you read
The Turn of the Screw
, sir?’

‘No. What is it?’

‘A novel by Henry James. There are two characters in it, Miss Jessel and Peter Quint. They’re dead. They appear as ghosts, but their relationship was so tortured and sordid when they were alive that it continued to corrupt the living. Jones and Mary Quinn were like that — sordid and corrupt. I can’t think of any other way to describe them. Mary seemed to be able to get Jones to do things for her, and yet she seemed as well to be wary of him. Or maybe I assumed that because I was afraid of him. And I was, sir — I was afraid of him. She told me how they met. It all started with violence. It was just by awful chance that they found each other.’

‘You’d have to plumb the depths of perversity to comprehend what they saw in each other, and I have no desire to do that. I’m happy just to call it a form of madness.’