Assassin (9 page)

Yes, he was enjoying this fleeting infamy, revelling in the attention.

It had not always been like that.

For most of his life he had been treated as a nonentity. Scorned. Humiliated.

The worst time had been at school and for that particular period of suffering he blamed his parents. His father had worked all the hours God sent in order to send his son to a public school. It wasn't for Crawford's own good, it was just a further indication of his father's idiotic preoccupation with respectability. It had reached a point where holidays abroad, Rotary Club lunches, two cars in the driveway and membership of the Conservative Party were not sufficient. To complete the transition from working to middle class, Crawford's father had decided his son must attend public school. Then university. Then what? To Jonathan Crawford it had seemed as if his future was still to be decided. His parents hadn't yet made up their minds how best to show him off. A position in the firm where his father worked, perhaps? Time would tell.

Time and public education.

He'd been ten when they'd packed him off to the school. Crawford had been a loner, trying to keep himself to himself. But, as is the way with children, he had not been allowed the haven of privacy.

On the games field he was idle, not willing to extend himself in rugby matches, not prepared to submit to endless poundings around a running track. To his peers he appeared to be totally useless. It was only a matter of time before they found that he himself could provide them with a different sort of sport.

They would hide his clothes, take them from the dormitory. They would spit in his food. Beat him.

Waiting for signs of retaliation which never came.

Not until he was fifteen.

The other boy's name had been Barnes.

One of the many who had subjected Crawford to so much humiliation over the years.

It was in the chemistry tab that Crawford had finally chosen to hit back. It had been no sudden explosion of pent up rage, merely the calm retribution which he'd been nurturing for so long. He'd walked, smiling, towards Barnes who had been taunting him throughout the lesson, cheered by the other boys.

Crawford could still remember how serene and relaxed he'd felt as he'd approached Barnes.

How calm he'd been as he'd picked up the bottle of concentrated nitric acid.

How controlled his actions had been as he'd hurled the corrosive liquid into Barnes' face.

Then, how loudly the boy had screamed as the acid had eaten away his flesh.

How two of the other boys had vomited, others had passed out.

Barnes had screamed so loudly; Crawford had merely smiled down at the festering, pus-oozing wreck which had once been a face.

He'd been lucky to escape criminal charges for that particular assault. Expulsion had brought the full wrath of his parents down on him.

At sixteen he was walking the streets of London, scrounging food from snack bars and restaurants, finally finding work in a book shop in Dean Street. There was a small fiat above the shop which he was allowed to use in return for half his wages. The stock was kept up there too. Piles of magazines which catered for all tastes. Paedophilia. Sadism. Masochism. Fetishism. Crawford had found that there was plenty of money to be made selling the stuff in some of the pubs he visited. He usually went out at night with a carrier bag full of it. Always returning with pockets bulging. Until he returned one night to find the owner of the shop waiting for him.

He'd left that night, his money gone, his back scarred in three places with a Stanley knife as a `reminder'.

Shortly after that he met Michael Grant.

Thoughts of Grant brought him back to his present situation and he seemed to break free of his trance-like state, looking coldly at Briggs as the counsel for the prosecution approached the dock. The QC by-passed him and approached the bench instead, muttering conspiratorially with Justice Valentine.

Crawford ignored the whisperings and returned to his thoughts.

Michael Grant had been a year younger than him when they'd met but immediately Crawford had found he had a curious control over both his younger companion and the girl who was with him. A raven-haired creature in her late teens who he came to know as Sally Reese.

It was she who had helped Crawford in the killings for which he was now on trial.

Briggs and Valentine finished their conversation and the QC returned to his desk where his clerks had laid out reams of, notes. Finally Briggs picked up a wad of papers and cleared his throat. A hush fell over the courtroom as Crawford was called to the witness box.

He ambled over to it, head held high, still glancing around at the curious watchers who eyed him with emotions ranging from curiosity to hatred.

With the preliminary speeches over, Briggs began flicking

through his notes.

'You have already told the jury about the murders of Mrs Laura Donaldson and her daughters, Melissa and Felicity. Of how the victims were selected and then butchered.' The QC turned to the jury but his words were directed at Crawford.

'You admitted that Mrs Donaldson was still alive when you cut off her breasts, having already stabbed her sixteen times.'

'I like to be thorough; said Crawford flatly.

'So it would appear; rasped Briggs. 'As indeed you were in the murders of Mr and Mrs Harold Trent.' Again the counsel for the prosecution turned towards the jury. Mr Trent, as you may know, was a television and stage performer, a comedian.'

'He wasn't very funny
that
night,' Crawford intoned.

'Silence,' justice Valentine snapped.

'You mean the night you broke into his house and murdered him and his wife?' Briggs said challengingly. 'The night you stabbed Mr Trent to death while his wife watched. Mrs Trent, I believe, was tied to a chair and forced to watch while her husband was butchered in the most obscene manner. She was then killed in a similar fashion.'

'Yes,' said Crawford unflinchingly.

'Mr Trent was stabbed in the face, throat and chest with a sheath knife,' Briggs explained, handing a double-edged blade to the foreman of the jury. The weapon was wrapped in a plastic bag and tagged with an exhibit label. The jury passed it around as if they were playing some bizarre variation of pass the parcel, one of them stopping to inspect the dried blood which still caked the shaft of the blade.

'As you have heard in the police coroner's earlier testimony,' Briggs continued, 'Mr Trent was dead by the time he received the fourth wound. The fatal wound having been one which severed his left carotid artery. And yet, even though it was apparent that death had occurred, you,' the QC spun round to face Crawford, 'you stabbed him another eight times. Correct?'

'I didn't carry a scorecard but I'll take your word for it,' Crawford replied condescendingly.

'And then severed his penis. Correct?'

'Correct.'

'Having done that you then jammed the severed penis into Mr Trent's mouth.'

`Correct.'

`What was Mrs Trent's reaction to seeing her husband so vilely mutilated?'

`She wouldn't stop screaming at first so I hit her a couple of times and then gagged her. When I stuck the knife into her old man's eye she passed out,' Crawford explained, chuckling. 'So I revived her, slapped her face, threw some water at her. It seemed to do the trick. She was watching when I cut his penis off. In fact she vomited.'

'And, due to the gag, almost choked on her own vomit.'

Crawford shrugged.

'She was going to die anyway,' he said.

'You'd already decided?'

'I'd decided before I got to the house that night, obviously.'

'Obviously,' Briggs echoed. 'And after you'd removed the gag?'

'I cut her throat.'

'Come now, Mr Crawford, you did much more than that. Seven separate wounds were counted on the neck and the face including the one which severed Mrs Trent's head.'

The courtroom erupted in a frenzy of shouts and chatter which even the banging of Valentine's gavel had trouble stilling. Through the chorus of curses and conversation Crawford and Briggs stared at each other, neither breaking the other's stare.

The stenographer swallowed hard and wiped his forehead, glancing first at the QC and then at Crawford as if the two men were about to attack each other. They contented themselves with glaring at one another.

Briggs pulled photos from one of his files and passed them to the jury. The nine men and three women handed the pictures back and forth with distaste, as if none wanted to hold the pictorial record of Crawford's atrocities for too long.

One of the women in the back row of jurors swallowed hard and wiped a hand across her face, watching as the black and white photos were handed down the row towards her.

'And after Mrs Trent's head had been cut off, what then?' Briggs continued.

'What do you mean, "what then"?' asked Crawford haughtily.

'Some slogans were written on the walls of the sitting room where the couple were murdered. Correct?'

'Correct.'

'In blood you wrote "Rich cunts" and "Death to the rich".'

'That's right.'

'Death to the rich is your sworn intention anyway, Mr Crawford, as we've heard previously, is it not?'

'Yes it is. You don't understand that this is a fucking war do you?' said Crawford, his voice still controlled. But now, he was looking around the courtroom, not merely at Briggs. Crawford was addressing his audience. 'I despise the rich and everything they stand for. I've seen wealth, I've seen those with money and they disgusted me.'

'So you decided to embark on a campaign of ritual murder to gratify your warped ideas of revenge,' Briggs stated flatly.

'Those people had no right to live.'

'So you murdered them and mutilated their bodies.'

The woman juror held the photos before her, her hands quivering. She felt her stomach contract, her head began to spin.

'They weren't murdered,' Crawford declared. 'In a war there are no murders. They were executed.'

'So, do you take offence at being called a murderer? Would another name make your crimes more acceptable?' Briggs demanded.

With a low moan the woman in the jury box passed out.

As two policemen rushed to her aid, Crawford smiled at the counsel for the prosecution.

`Yes, I can think of a more apt name,' he said.

`Such as?'

'An assassin.'

`So nobody's heard anything?'

Frank Harrison took a long drag on his cigarette. `That's bollocks. Somebody, somewhere knows what's going on. I told you lot I wanted them found.'

He walked slowly across the large gaming room of the casino, pausing at one of the roulette tables. The gang boss spun the wheel, watching as it slowly twisted before coming to a halt once more. Apart from himself and the men who worked for him, the place was empty. The large antique clock on the far wall showed 9.35 a.m. The casino was for night people. It came alive after dark. Situated in the centre of Mayfair, it was the most successful of the clubs which Harrison owned. He'd bought it five years earlier and seen it grow both in size and, more importantly, in revenue. Huge chandeliers hung from the ceilings and thick red carpet gave the place a feeling of warmth and sumptuousness. The expensive atmosphere was complemented further by several costly paintings decorating the walls - including two original Goyas which he paid a fortune for in an attempt to prove that he possessed at least some cultural sense. There were some who might have questioned the presence of the Spanish artist's
'The Executions of the 3rd May 1808'
in such supposedly carefree surroundings but that particular canvas was a copy anyway.

Harrison blew out a long stream of smoke, rested both hands on the roulette table and faced his men.

There were about a dozen of them. Varying ages and builds. The youngest was twenty-three, the oldest approaching fifty. There were, naturally, many more in his employ, but those he'd gathered at the casino were the strong arm of his organization.

Those who, if necessary, would do the killing when the

time came.

'You can't tell me that not one bastard out on the streets hasn't heard who's got it in for me,' the gang boss said quietly.

'We asked all the usual sources, Frank,' offered Pat Mendham, a thick set, almost brutish man who looked as if he'd been squeezed into his suit with the aid of a shoehorn.

'Then ask the
unusual
sources,' Harrison rasped.

'But nobody's heard,' Lou McIntire added. 'Or if they have, they ain't talking.'

'Then make them talk,' Harrison snarled, spitting a piece of tobacco from his mouth.

Carter watched as the gang leader strutted back and forth puffing agitatedly on his cigarette, his eyes darting to and fro as if he were searching for something inside the room.

A particularly strong ray of sunlight poked golden fingers through one of the windows, bouncing off the crystal chandelier. The light broke up into dozens of coloured beams, as if soft lasers had suddenly burst from it. But, seconds later, the sun was covered by a thick bank of cloud. The colours vanished, seemingly absorbed into the walls.

'First someone tries to kill me,' Harrison began. `Then two of my betting shops are smashed up and somebody turns one of my pubs over. Don't try to tell me that's a coincidence and don't try to tell me nobody knows what's going on.'

'Who's big enough to have a go at you?' Martin McAuslan wanted to know, his harsh Scots accent cutting through the air.

'There's a few,' Harrison told him. 'That fucking wop, Barbieri, he's been after a few more strip joints up West for a while now. I heard that some of my girls are getting hassled. It might be him.'

'Barbieri's a wanker,' said Damien Drake dismissively; as if his character reference would pacify Harrison.

'I heard he had links with the Mafia,' Billy Weston interjected. Weston was rarely called by his surname but known more readily to his companions as Billy Stripes because of the three razor scars which crossed his face from hairline to chin.