Acid Lullaby (19 page)

‘You
enjoy
that,
did
you?’
he
snarled.
‘Thought
you
would
have
learnt
your
lesson.’

‘Arsehole.’

‘I
always
thought
you
might
have
enjoyed
it
really.
Girls
like
it
when
a
bloke
cuts
up
a
bit
rough.
It’s
an
animal
thing,
innit?’

‘I’ll
have
you,
Vince.
You’re
going
away
for
this.’

‘Must
have
been
hard
for
you
listening
to
me
screwing
your
old
ma.
Fancied
a
bit
yourself,
I
guess.
Like
mother
like
daughter
.
Still,
wouldn’t
have
been
right,
would
it?
A
father
and
a
daughter.’

‘You’re
not
my
father,
Vince.’

‘No.
We’re
still
trying
to
work
out
what
happened
to
that
prick,
aren’t
we?’

Dexter
hadn’t
heard
Mark
Willis
coming
up
the
stairs
to
the
living
room.
Suddenly
he
was
standing
in
the
doorway.
He
absorbed
the
situation
instantly,
noting
Alison’s
cut
lip
as
it
dribbled
blood
across
her
chin.

‘Watch
out!’
said
Vince,
laughing
and
waving
his
whisky
bottle
at
Willis,
‘the
cavalry’s
arrived.’

Willis
had
crashed
into
Vince
without
warning,
knocking
the
bigger
man
to
the
ground
and
raining
furious
punches
down
on
his
head.
Vince
had
smashed
his
whisky
bottle
against
the
floor
and
slammed
it
into
Willis’s
leg,
drawing
blood.
It
was
a
desperate
gesture.
Willis
quickly
reduced
Vince’s
head
to
a
bloody,
snotty
mess.
He
finished
the
confrontation
sharply
and
brutally,
smashing
Vince’s
head
into
the
television
screen.

Alison
had
watched
the
beating
with
cold,
voyeuristic
pleasure.
It
gave
her
a
charge
of
sexual
excitement
as
the
man
who
had
wrecked
and
scarred
her
childhood
was
reduced
to
a
snorting
unconscious
heap.
Willis
had
stood
over
the
fallen
man
with
his
fists
clenched.
Alison
had
desperately
wanted
him
to
finish
Vince
off.
But
Willis
had
turned
to
face
her
and
smiled.
They
were
bound
in
blood.
She
knew
in
that
moment
that
he
would
protect
her.

Starting her car in the rain outside Ian Stark’s garage on the Morley Estate, Alison Dexter cursed her stupidity.

At approximately the same moment, Mary Colson called the police station. She was nervous, disturbed by a night of bad dreams and anxiety. She had seen the bodies again, piled high
in the dark while children played nearby. She had seen the dog-man rising from the ground, his arms and legs snarling and barking. And she had seen herself inside a box as John Underwood had closed the lid. She knew she was going to die.

Mary didn’t bother to remonstrate with Doreen O’Riordan for being an hour late. Nor did she mention the ten-pound note that had mysteriously vanished from her money jar. She was starting to feel a terrible tiredness in her bones, a rising sense that she had seen and experienced enough, that staying alive would be less natural than dying. She sat quietly, and waited for her friends to arrive.

‘You’ve not eaten your breakfast again,’ Doreen nagged, noticed the untouched tray on Mary’s lap.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You look like you’ve lost weight,’ Doreen observed with a smile.

‘You don’t.’

‘Why don’t you have a bite of toast?’

‘I’m not hungry. I’m not supposed to eat toast anyway. You know that. Why can’t I have some fruit? It hurts to swallow toast.’

Doreen did know that. ‘I can’t do your exercises with you until you’ve had your breakfast.’

Mary shrugged. ‘They’re a waste of bloody time. Imagine making an eighty-eight-year-old woman do exercises. How ridiculous!’

‘It’s not done for my amusement, Mary. It’s for your Parkinson’s. Exercise will strengthen your joints and your muscles: make it easier for you to get about.’

‘I can get about.’

‘Of course you can.’ Doreen decided not to fight. She withdrew into the kitchen and sat on one of Mary’s hard wooden chairs. She took a travel brochure from her carrier bag and allowed herself the satisfaction of a quick look. The hotel she had chosen was on the west coast of Corfu, just outside Paleokastritsa. She touched the glossy half-page photograph of the crystal blue sea and green clouds of olive groves.

Only
a
few
weeks
to
go.

She had already paid the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound deposit. Soon she would need to pay the remaining nine hundred pounds. She wasn’t unduly worried: she would have saved the money by then. The Odyssey Hotel looked beautiful, staring out across the Ionian Sea with its back to the mountains. Doreen read the description in the brochure to herself although she already knew virtually every word:
‘Follow
in
the
footsteps
of
the
mighty
King
Odysseus
to
our
Ionian
Paradise.
This
well-appointed
four-star
hotel
is
a
sun
lover’s
dream.
Soak
up
the
rays
in
the
day
by
the
conveniently
sized
swimming
pool
and
in
the
evening
relax
to
the
music
of
the
Lazaros
band
at
the
“Acropolis”
bar.
Make
your
dreams
come
true
on
your
very
own
Greek
Odyssey.’

Doreen wondered what her dreams were. One had always been to travel abroad and now she was on the verge of achieving that. Uncertain, she looked down the hotel’s list of attractions: pool, gymnasium, restaurant, snack bar, air conditioned rooms with balconies, hair drier and tea making facilities. She imagined herself sitting on her balcony with a glass of white wine and a box of chocolates in the warm shades of early evening. That would be a dream. Far away from blank, damp Cambridgeshire with its cantankerous old ladies and wet toilet tiles.

Underwood and Sauerwine arrived half an hour later. Sauerwine had received Mary Colson’s message via an amused control centre. He had told Underwood on the latter’s return from Cambridge. Doreen made them both a cup of tea and remained in the kitchen listening, suddenly nervous at the regular police visits as her dream neared its realization. She sucked on a cigarette as she concentrated.

‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs C?’ Sauerwine asked. ‘We were worried about you.’

Mary Colson was watching a television programme about apes.

‘Don’t you think it’s sad, Mr Underwood, about them killing all the gorillas?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it to be honest,’ Underwood conceded.

‘Chopping all their forests down so they’ve got nowhere to live. It makes me very angry.’

‘Ah,’ Underwood noticed the documentary, ‘I see. Yes, it’s a terrible thing.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Can I ask why you called us, Mary? Was it something else about … about my friend? The one who died?’

Mary Colson reached into her handbag and withdrew a sealed white envelope. ‘I’ve written some things down for you both.’ She was coughing quite badly, irritated by the smoke drifting from the kitchen.

‘What things are these, Mrs Colson?’ Underwood took the envelope from her but didn’t open it.

‘My dream,’ she said, ‘it was clearer last night. I felt closer to it. I understand it better now. The dog-man has killed other people. Not just your friend.’

Underwood looked down at the envelope. ‘What have you written, Mrs Colson?’

Mary rubbed her tired eyes. ‘After I woke up this morning, I wrote down all the details I could remember. It was a terrible dream. Worse than before. Your friend was in it. And a woman. I’ve never seen her in my dream before. I forget things as the day goes on. I get tired very easily these days. So I wrote it all down for you.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs C,’ Sauerwine thanked her, ‘and don’t you worry about being tired. You’ve always got more energy than me!’

‘The planets haven’t made you any more virile, then?’ Mary joked.

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’ Sauerwine turned to Underwood. ‘Mary’s my personal astrologer. There’s some planetary alignment thing this week. Mary reckons it’s good for the old love life.’

Mary had stopped smiling. ‘He’s coming for me now,’ she said quietly.

‘Who, Mary?’ Underwood asked. ‘Who’s coming for you?’

‘I was in the dream, Mr Underwood. The dog-man is going to kill me too. I was inside a box.’

‘Now, Mary, you listen to me,’ Underwood said crisply, ‘no
one is coming for you. You are safe here. No one knows about your dreams except PC Sauerwine and myself. We will make sure that no one else sees the notes you have made.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise. You have any fears or concerns, you just call the station and we’ll have a car here in a couple of minutes.’ Underwood knew that the control centre would love him for making that pledge.

‘I’m not afraid of dying,’ she said, her gaze floating up to the window. ‘I know my brothers and my son will be waiting for me. You know, my mother used to say that life is like a lullaby: a pretty song that sends us to sleep. I used to like that idea but my dreams aren’t pretty anymore. I don’t want to go to sleep now.’

‘Come on now, Mrs C, we’ll look after you.’ Sauerwine crossed the room, took Mary’s empty tea cup away from her and held her hand as she started to cry.

Underwood left them for a moment and walked through to the kitchen. Doreen started as he opened the door.

‘Mrs O’Riordan?’ he asked.

‘Ms,’ she corrected, stubbing out her cigarette on a saucer.

‘Ms O’Riordan, Mary is rather upset today. She had a bad night’s sleep. You may want to keep a close eye on her for the next hour or so.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Yes,’ said Underwood, ‘it is. Planning a holiday?’ He gestured at the brochure on her lap.

Doreen was suddenly flustered. ‘Greece. Corfu.’ She pronounced it ‘Cor-phew’. Underwood found that immensely irritating.

‘Well deserved, I’m sure,’ he said dryly.

‘I can’t wait.’

‘Mrs Colson seemed to be a little upset by your smoking.’

‘Oh.’

‘Maybe you should avoid smoking inside in future.’

Fucking
old
bitch.

‘She should have said,’ Doreen said tartly.

Underwood looked around the small kitchen. ‘You know,
Mary was asking about her fudge. She wondered what had happened to it.’

Doreen shrugged, ‘She’s got you looking for it now, has she?’

‘Oh no,’ said Underwood. ‘I know what happened to it.’

Doreen remembered that someone had cleaned up the microwave. She’d assumed it had been Mary.

‘You do all Mary’s shopping do you, Doreen?’ he continued.

Doreen was nervous now. She was being escorted into a minefield. ‘Unless it’s my day off or a weekend. Then there’ll be another carer on cover.’

Underwood smiled. He’d expected that. Doreen O’Riordan was no mug. ‘Perhaps you could do me a favour.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Mary is worried that her money is going missing. She thinks it’s being stolen. Now, you know what these old folks are like – forgetful, aren’t they? But maybe you could give me your duty schedules and any till receipts for the last month or so. That would show when you did her shopping and when one of the other carers covered for you, wouldn’t it?’