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Authors: James A. Newman

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BOOK: The White Flamingo
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She walked away, high heels clicking along the tiled courtyard. She still had the legs and the ass of a catwalk model. She still had it and by the Lord
above, she still knew it.

They were pulled away from watching Miss Bell’s behind by the sound of rapid talking inside the station.

Joe and Hale both understood at the same time.

There had been another one.

 

 

 

S
EVENTEEN

 

THE
KILLER
cleaned the knife and put it back into the kitchen rack. He emptied the contents of his satchel and hid the bag under his bed. The Killer walked into the bathroom and opened a medicine cabinet. He looked at the five bottles inside the medicine cabinet and briefly read the labels. The Killer began to open the bottles, taking one from here and two from there until he had a little pile of tablets in his hand. He walked back into the studio and put the tablets on the table. He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water. He swallowed the tablets using the water to wash them down. He masturbated twice. Once on the sofa. Once on the bed.

He took out the map and considered the next location. The first two had been easy. He had not needed to move the bodies in order for the ritual to work. Ah, he almost forgot the souvenirs. He reached into his pocket and felt it soft and smooth between his fingers. Yes, the souvenir. The transvestite’s liver.  The second part of the jigsaw puzzle. He placed it on the kitchen draining unit and opened a cupboard. Inside
, was a plastic lunch box. He opened it and picked up the slice of Tammy’s liver. He rubbed the two organs together. He smiled. Not yet. He needed more, before the ritual began. For the spell to work, the women had to have fallen, like harlots, and they had to have been one of the wenches that gave him the awful disease. Just a few more, to make sure. He had much more hunting to do. It had only really just started. It was easy. It was all too easy. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

The organs were to be mixed together. A candle was to be fashioned using a wash of wax and letting the mixture dry. And then? Well, yes, then what? He walked to the bookcase again and opened the black book. The killer read the words to the spell once more. He opened the map. Seventh Road.    

 

 

 

 

EIGHTEEN

 

THE BODY
had been removed from the crime scene. The blood on the sand was all that was left of it. If it were the second event in a string, then it wasn’t committed by the Pin-up’s son. The Detective spoke in the local dialect to a crowd of rubbernecks on Beach Road. They told him the victim was a transsexual known to patrol Beach Road. She was known to her friends as Lucky.

“Fancy the chances of that.
Lucky?”

“I guess it ran out,” Joe kicked at a mound of sand. “Investigating a murder is like playing a game of chess. You have to know where all the pieces are. I know about Sebastian. I know about you. I don’t know about old Vern, Jim, the other members of the pool team. Both teams.”

“Vern drinks on the beach during the day. It’s a sad fecking existence.”

“Lead the way.”

 

 

 

NINE
TEEN

 

OLD VERN
was leaning up against the wall on a spot of shade near the pier. He was wearing a soiled and torn Hawaiian shirt and a pair of old combat shorts. He was shoeless. Hopeless. He was drinking from a tall red can that the detective remembered was six point five and went under the brand name:

Cheers Extra.

“Vern, how’s it going?”

Vern’s expectant mug looked at them like the hybrid bastard child of anxiety and relief. The Detective guessed it wasn’t the visitors that Vern relished. It was the gifts that they might bring. Drinkers rarely remembered faces and names. They remembered peculiar gestures, nuances of conversations, cigarette brands, favourite sporting teams, hometowns, tattoos, humorous comments, and sensitive subjects. Vern drained his can and put the empty on the sand. 

The Detective handed Hale a purple bill. “Hale, this man is thirsty, buy him a six pack.”

Hale shrugged and headed toward a seven-eleven. Vern smiled painfully. He was over sixty years of age, give or take a few rivers of Tiger Sweat and draughts of self-hatred and delirium. His face was heavily lined. His cheeks a network of veins that reminded The Detective of the London tube map. Vern’s train was underground. Wrecked. He was like a battered suitcase abandoned at a lost property office in an old train station, never to be claimed. No hope of return. But there always was a chance. A slim one.

Maybe.

The Detective crouched. “Nasty business this morning.”

“Every morning’s nasty, until I get the fourth one down,” Vern said slowly. “Then things get a bit clearer. The hallucinations, shit. Ants, spiders…I can tell by looking at you that you know what I’m talking about. You used to be a drinker, right?
Seen a few insects in your time. I can tell an ex-beggar when I see one. Can see it in your fucking eyes, mate. I used to be a detective, see? Liverpool Street station. Seen a few boats in my time, mate.”

“I got on the program. Killed the can.”

“It was the vampires in the end. One huge bastard. Francis was his name. Beware the vampires.”

“Sure, baby.”

Hale came over with the cans of beer and handed one to Vern who opened it with trembling fingers and took a good, long, hard bite.

“This
morning, Vern. Think.” 

Vern drank the rest of his beer in two long hits. Waves of relief flooded his face. Tensions eased and then tightened. Facial muscles twisted into an ugly stoat grimace. He threw the empty can onto the sands where it landed next to a broken coconut shell and an abandoned flip-flop. It was the right, so the Detective guessed it was a flop. Fun City beach was full of them. Flops
.

“Vern. The woman on the table was real. It was no hallucination. It happened. I saw it myself. Who would do something like that?

“I tell you who – Jack the fucking Ripper.” The old man stared out to sea. “Thinking,” he said. He remained silent for a long time. “Francis, ya bastard, I think better after the fifth or the sixth. I had a case in London…”

“Who’s Francis?”

“The vampire.”

“There’re no vampires, Vern. This work was done by a real person, somebody who drinks in the bars.”

Hale sat on the pier. He had five cans left. He opened one and drank from it. The second one he gave to Vern. Vern cracked it open and drank long and deep. Killed half the can, quarter of a litre, in one long bite. “She used to laugh at me. She would flash her tits at me. I’m glad the whore is dead,” Vern said. “Deserved it if you ask me. Thought she was better than me she did. Harlot, ‘king slag
.”

“What did you see?”

“I woke up. You know what it’s like. The fear. The voices. The day is one long insult. A storm. I need to get the first drink down while I can still move, cos’ if I wait too long, the voices make it too difficult to think, to move. I hear voices, see? Always have. I walked in the bar, I didn’t look at the pool table, I headed to the jug. Voices everywhere. The juice. I see things too, see? Slim collects the slops every night. Pours them in the jug. I drink it down and then feel better. I never feel good, you know. Just different shades of shit. Fifty shades of shit, hahahahaha. Lost my wife. Fucking blood suckers. There’s a conference inside my head, you know? All these different voices shouting and screaming to be heard above each other. The first pint quietens them down.” Vern necked the rest of the can. Hale passed him another and he opened it. “Quietens them down a little and then… a stop watch, a clock ticking. The only real escape is sleep. The voices never stop. Sleep. That and oblivion. Yes. I saw her face first. I thought she was sleeping on the table. Some whores do, see? Then I thought she was playing a joke. Perhaps it was Halloween. Claret everywhere. They all knew I came in the bar in the morning. They knew about the case back in London. Left the squad, I did, compassionate leave. They had thought up the joke together to make me frightened. Then I thought that it was the booze, see. That there was nothing on the table. It was all inside my head, see? The mind plays tricks. Tries to make you see things. I poured a glass of rum and drank it. Jim was there. She was still there. She wasn’t going anywhere. I heard a toilet flush and Jim was there. He said that there had been a murder. He said she was a whore, but I knew it, I recognized her. I wasn’t sorry that she was dead. I was glad. I was confused. Happy if the truth be told.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I drank the beer.”

“After that?”

“Jim gave me a shot and I drank it.”

“And then?”

“I’ve been here ever since. I sat on the road for a while, up there,” Vern gestured with his head toward the beach road. “The tourists give me enough to get by. A German gave me a purple note, I hit the seven, the beach, drank, slept, and then you came. That’s it. That’s all there ever is. This. The truth is, I like it, see? There’s no mortgage here, no car to run, no job, this is real. You see? Real. I thought about the monastery, but there’s no drinking there. I tried going without the bottle, but it sent me mad. What hope do you have here sober?”

“Thanks
, Vern. Joe, let’s leave,” Hale said.

They stood. Hale handed Vern two bills. He looked at them and put them in his pocket.

“Vern,” The Detective said, crouching eye level. “There’s a meeting. AA. If I take you, will you just promise to sit and listen? You were the first one on the scene. Maybe when the fog clears, you can remember it.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Vern, you give me seventy-two hours sobriety and I’ll give you whatever you need.”

“Including booze?”

“Yeah. If that’s what you want, I’ll buy you beer every-day. You just have to give me seventy-two hours.”


Who says I got that long?”


Nobody.”

 

 

 

TWENTY

 

BEACH ROAD
.

“Sad story,” the Detective said.

“The part about ex-Old Bill is true. He had a case that scrambled up his noodle.” Hale’s forefinger raised to his temple where it made a circular motion.

“I believe it.”

“What about Bell?” Hale asked.                

“I believe the kid, Sebastian. Tammy was called by someone an hour or two before she died. Whoever made that call
, most likely killed her.”

“The boy isn’t right.”

“I agree. But he didn’t kill her or Lucky. The answer to this puzzle is inside Tammy’s mobile. If the police have the telephone, then they have the killer. Whoever sent that last message. Of course, the killer should have removed the telephone, taken it to pieces, and thrown it far away at sea. But you never know,” Joe looked out towards the harbour, a fishing boat, blue and green, returning to port.

“Perhaps there is a record, somewhere. I knew some geezer got caught out cheating on his missus. She got in touch with the phone company and they threw her a list of numbers called and received by her fella’s phone. One of the numbers he had called was the girl he was shafting. Phillipin
o chick used to sing at the Hard Rock hotel. He’d deleted the history and everything. The bitch still caught him with his pants down. An injustice if you ask me. Shame we don’t know anyone that had her number.”

“Maybe. One thing is certain. The killer will strike again and the next time he strikes
, there’ll be two killed in quick succession,”  Dylan said as he gazed across the beach.

“Okay, Sherlock, just how do you know that?”

“I’ll tell you. But first, I need a drink. A real drink. One that comes in a glass and not in a can.” The Detective smiled. “Maybe even an umbrella and one of those twizzle sticks.”

The train was leaving the station.

The joint had a sea-view and about thirty tables evenly spaced atop wooden decking. A few tables were occupied with drunken tourists and hopeful hookers. A man with long curly hair and a roman nose sat at a table staring out to sea. The sky a dull pink, as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. The Detective thought about the train wreck. The cigarette. The whore. And now the glass.

He ordered a
Bloody Mary.

The glass.

How good it looked.

Umbrella.

Cocktail stick.

“Good to be back,” he said.

“Good to have you back.”

He hit it down in one. He ordered another. Another glass. They sat down at a table looking at the sunset. The Detective smiled. The bitter taste of the tomato, the reassuring bite of the vodka. He was on the train and pulling away from the station, he felt better than he had in years. Since the last train.

The last wreck.

Bloody Mary.    

BOOK: The White Flamingo
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