Our first
professional engagement was quite a success, considering that we’d only been
together for a few short weeks. The stage proved to be too small to accommodate
us, as I’d predicted it would be, with Freddie and Brian, who being the singers always
fronted the band, spilling onto the dance floor. We were upset by what we’d
witnessed the day before, and I found it difficult to concentrate on something so trivial as playing guitar, but the success
of the booking, which we gauged by audience reaction, helped to raise our
spirits.
After the
performance the publican paid us the agreed pittance, from what must have been
an impressive evening’s takings, judging by the size of the crowd, and he was
happy to honour his handshake contract by booking us to play on alternate Sundays.
I’d been
expecting a visit from the Blakewater constabulary throughout the whole of Sunday,
as a constable at the scene had taken our names and addresses after discovering
the baby. He’d asked a few basic questions, the answers to which he’d written
in his notebook, and he informed us that we’d be receiving a visit from plain
clothes division, but no visit had has yet materialised, and no formal statement had
been taken.
While we were
packing away our equipment, after the performance, Freddie received a tap on the shoulder.
“Hi Freddie, you
have a good band there.”
A dark haired
young man was offering his congratulations, and intended to make use of his recent sales experience, and past relationship, to take
advantage of the situation.
“If you’re
looking for a singer, I’m your man,” he blurted out without embarrassment.
I was
flabbergasted by the nerve of this guy, and couldn’t help but put him straight
when Freddie and Brian failed to do so.
“We don’t need a
singer,” I told him abruptly. “Freddie and Brian can sing just fine.”
“I just thought the band would be better with a front man to complete the line up.”
“Well you
thought wrong. Besides we all have a financial investment in this band, every
penny we earn goes into paying higher purchase agreements for our equipment.
There was an
embarrassing silence, during which Freddie and Brian looked uncomfortable, until
the stranger broke the silence.
“If you aren't looking for a singer; who manages the band?”
“We don’t have a
manager,” answered Brian. “In fact we haven’t even considered one.”
I take it this
battered old van belongs to the band?” continued Dominic, for that turned out to be his
name, and after receiving confirmation that his observation was correct, he
continued. “If you give me the job, I’ll buy a new van, as my financial
contribution, and I’ll guarantee that the diary will never be empty of bookings.”
We pondered his
offer individually, until Dominic played his trump card.
“Where do you
hold band practise?”
“The band
practise in Brian’s bedroom,” answered Hank, but I can’t practise with the
others as the room is too small and the drums are too noisy.”
“You need to
practise together,” said Dominic, stating the obvious, and everyone nodded in
agreement.
“I know a
publican,” he went on to say. “I’m sure he’ll let you practise in his function
room; as long as you drink his beer during band practise,” he added as an
afterthought.
I noticed that
he didn’t name the pub, perhaps he thought we might go behind his back and
arranged practise nights ourselves.
“Will he charge
us?” asked Brian.
“You don’t
expect free beer do you?” Dominic quipped.
“For the room
you idiot not the beer,” corrected Brian, although he knew Dominic was joking.
“If he does I’ll
pay for the room myself, or I’ll find another venue.”
Freddie asked
Dominic to leave while we considered his offer.
“I think we
should adopt Dominic as our manager on a trial basis,” he suggested. “He could
receive an equal share of the profits, and he’ll buy a new van as his financial contribution."
“I agree that we’ll eventually need a
manager,” I admitted, “but I envisioned one with more experience in the music
business.”
“Dom is the best
salesman I’ve ever met,” Brian informed us, “if anyone can negotiate bookings its Dom.”
We took a vote
and being outvoted by three votes to one, it didn’t much matter whether I liked
the appointment or not.
* *
* *
I read the
coroner’s report in the local newspaper. It confirmed our observations that the
child’s body displayed signs of bruising, partially healed broken bones, and
cigarette burns. The whereabouts of the parents were unknown, and a police
search was currently underway. A verdict of death by systematic abuse and
neglect, by a person or persons unknown, was the coroner’s ruling until more
evidence could be gathered.
The local
newspaper reported that Thomas Skinner, the chief suspect in the child’s
murder, had received little schooling as a consequence of his habitual
truanting, while never having done an honest day’s work in the whole of his
life. The reporter had discovered mug shots of the runaways. They appeared to have
been taken while in custody, as they stood in front of a measuring chart and
held what appeared to be an arrest number which had been redacted.
The picture
showed that Skinner stood six feet tall, and was as skinny as a lamppost. He
wore dirty clothes and his hair was long, straggly, and unwashed. Skinner was
reported as being eighteen years of age, although he looked much older than his
years due to his drug addicted lifestyle. He’d become addicted to heroin, the
report claimed, having graduated to that particular drug of choice after
experimenting with marijuana, and amphetamines.
The baby’s
mother, Teresa Short, was Skinner’s junior by a couple of years, and a runaway
from local authority care since the age of thirteen, the report went on to say.
Her picture showed that she had matted hair, which she obviously never bothered
to comb, a dirty face, which she never appeared to wash, and spots around her
mouth due to repeated solvent abuse. Addicted to heroin, the report concluded
that Short used the baby, which may or may not have been Skinner’s biological
child, as a begging tool with which to obtain money for drugs. Their current
whereabouts were said to be unknown, but the police would like to interview
them with regard to the child’s death.
* *
* *
At the very moment when Seamus
O’Malley crashed through an upstairs window with his digger, Skinner and
Short exited through the back door. A short distance from the house was the
Leeds to Liverpool Canal, the main artery for the transportation of coal from
the south Lancashire coalfields, and raw cotton from the port of Liverpool to the
mill towns of East Lancashire and West Yorkshire, before the nation’s road and
rail network made them largely redundant.
Running along
the towpath until they were clear of the squat, and any search which might take
place, the couple stumbled across one of the many derelict industrial buildings
along the canal side. Skinner tried the latch of a rotting wooden door set into
a factory wall, and to his relief it opened to provide a refuge. Stone steps
descended to an uneven flagged floor some six feet below ground level.
“Go down the
steps you stupid bitch,” he told Short, who appeared reluctant to do so, and he
gave her a push to encourage her to descend before closing the door behind
them.
The room was in
darkness, except for a shaft of light which shone almost vertically down a coal
shoot to form a pool of light on the cellar floor. Once his eyes adjusted to
the gloom Skinner could see that the cellar contained wooden pallets, stacked
so high that they almost reached the vaulted ceiling. Metal oil drums ate up a
large proportion of the cellar floor, indicating that the coal boiler had been
converted to the use of oil.
Although the
boiler had been converted before the mill’s closure, due to competition from cheaper foreign imports, a large quantity of
coal sacks littered the cellar floor, and an old coal shovel leant against the
boiler door as if left there only yesterday.
It was late afternoon
as they entered the cellar, and the pair decided to lay low until they were
sure that the hue and cry had died down, but as darkness began to fall and with
nowhere else to go, they were persuaded, by circumstances, to stay the night.
Thomas Skinner began constructing a makeshift bed using wooden pallets, while
Teresa Short ventured onto the towpath, after dark, to fill coal sacks with
grass, which she intended to use as pillows and a mattress.
Being April it
was cold in the cellar once darkness descended, and only the light from the
moon provided intermittent light to a small part of the room, as the moon
disappeared behind the clouds and reappeared again. On the plus side the bed was comfortable, and they had plenty of sacks with which to
cover themselves.
* *
* *
A couple of days
later, the runaways received an unexpected visitor. He knew that wherever the
couple were hiding they would need to feed their drug addiction, so while the
police searched randomly for the runaways in sheds, outhouses and garages, in
an ever increasing circle around the location of the squat, the visitor had set out
to discover their source of pharmaceutical supply.
He found the
local dealer, but the dealer had no information to impart, in fact he denied
knowing the runaway couple, and couldn’t be persuaded otherwise, even with a
financial inducement, but on his second night of questioning the inquisitor met
with an addict with information to sell.
“I saw Short
filling sacks with grass about a mile down the canal towpath. It’s
my guess they’re holed up in a derelict building because she seemed to be
making a mattress.
“Where exactly
did you see her?” the inquisitor asked, while hiding his facial features using
a hat and a scarf, although it was unlikely that the addict would have been
able, or willing, to identify his inquisitor had he not worn the disguise.
“There’s a cellar on the towpath,” the addict
told his benefactor, when a monitory note was waved in his face. “You enter
through a door in the factory wall; I’ve used it before for shooting up. “You
can’t miss it because swans have built a nest nearby.”
The inquisitor paid the addict for his
information, and from the snitch’s testimony he discovered the cellar with
little difficulty.
At that moment the
moon came from behind a cloud; peering down the coal shoot the visitor could
make out two figures beneath a pile of sacking. He opened the cellar door and
tiptoed down the steps until he reached the cellar floor. He need have had no
concerns about disturbing them, as the couple were comatose from recent drug use.
Picking up the coal shovel to use as a weapon
should he need one, he poked the man, and waited, shovel in hand, for a
reaction. When the expected reaction never came he dragged the man from his
makeshift bed, and apart from groaning, and a little light resistance, he
was easily subdued and tied to one of the cast iron pillars which supported the
ceiling. The girl was even easier to handle and
offered no resistance at all as he tied her to the pillar alongside her partner.
He stripped
them of their clothing and waited patiently for their return to consciousness,
prodding them occasionally to assess their progress. Once aware of their predicament, the visitor
lit the first of a packet of cigarettes with which to begin the planned torture.
He’d gagged the couple with pieces of filthy sacking to stifle their cries for
help, and he alternated the burning with a beating using the coal
shovel.
He was not, in his opinion, a violent man, but
God had spoken to him in Exodus 21: 23-25. He read aloud, by the light of the
moon, from a small burgundy coloured bible with gilt edged pages, a
confirmation gift which he cherished and carried with him at all times.
“Whenever hurt
is done, you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for
hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, bruise for bruise, and wound for wound.”
In the early
stages of the torture he was sickened by his violent actions, especially
against the girl, who was a victim of circumstances and the influence of
Skinner, but after a while he warmed to his task, as he inflicted
bruises and cigarette burns on his victims to mimic the injuries found on the
baby. He discovered, to his surprise, that he wanted to hear their screams, as
they would have heard the baby scream, but
it was essential they remained gagged so as not to attract attention.
He continued to
inflict burns on his victims until his cigarette packet became empty, and then
he carefully gathered up the cigarette butts and replaced them in the empty
cigarette packet. The coal shovel he left where he’d found it. Even if the
police identified the shovel as the weapon used to beat his victims, there
would be no fingerprint evidence, as he’d been careful to wear gloves.
By the light of
a torch, he carefully removed all of his footprints from the dusty cellar floor
using a piece of sacking, as he retreated backwards from the scene of the crime
towards the cellar steps. His shoe size, tread, and manufacture of shoe, would
consequently remain a mystery, so that future comparisons could
not be made between footprints and the footwear that made them.
Without a twinge
of conscience he abandoned his victims to suffer the symptoms of withdrawal
from their self administered drug abuse, before dying from the effects of
dehydration, starvation, or from the injuries he'd inflicted on them. Initially he’d
considered ringing the police anonymously, to report their whereabouts, but
the bible had made it clear that the child had died, and so in consequence must the
perpetrators of that death, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for
a life, nothing less would suffice.
* *
* *
Detective
Inspector Trimble arrived on the scene, accompanied by a detective sergeant,
after the discovery of the bodies by children playing along the canal towpath. Their
first sensation was of the terrible stench. The corpses were bloated, and
partially eaten by rats, which appeared to have climbed the bodies to reach the choice morsels, as the
eyeballs were missing from the corpses, and maggots squirmed in the vacant eye
sockets.
Trimble was a
career policeman nearing pensionable retirement, and the most senior detective
on the Blakewater police force. He’d joined the force as a uniformed officer some forty years earlier, and was fast approaching his sixtieth birthday. He’d
investigated murder cases before, crimes of passion, street stabbings, and
family disagreements gone wrong, but nothing remotely resembling this.
“I think we’ve
found our runaways sergeant,” Trimble speculated, while covering his lower face
with a handkerchief in a futile attempt to mask the smell of the decaying
corpses. “The burns and the bruises suggest torture, but the perpetrator left
them here to die, he didn’t kill them.”
“What makes you
think that sir?”
“Can you see the congealed blood on the
bodies’ sergeant? Their hearts were pumping as they were being eaten by rats.”
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