Authors: Michael Wood
Butterfly
There were nine along the bottom row, of different women and one man. She turned the last one round. It read:
No. 9
J Metternich
Place Fell
Next to it, under the tenth top row photograph, a photograph frame hung, complete with mount and glass, but with no picture in it.
Obviously, it was waiting for victim number 10. Since both rows ended there, did it mean that he intended to stop after number 10? Was
she
to be his final victim?
Maybe the back would tell her. With shaking hands, she turned it round. There was a label. She stopped breathing as she read:No. 10
Barf
So there it was. He was counting them, and pre-arranging the place of their deaths, but no person’s name had been pre-selected. There was a slight glimmer of hope here. Clearly, he had plotted and planned and pre-selected her, yet had not put her name on the label. Maybe he killed random victims only? Maybe he didn’t kill people he knew, or was trying to get to know?
Or maybe, she was on some sort of probation, and her survival depended on how she behaved in captivity? She could yet be victim number 10?
He had chosen Barf as his next, possibly last, place of death. It was a small, steep, fell on the other side of Bassenthwaite lake. She knew it well, being almost opposite their cottage, just hidden from view by lakeside trees. It was also visible from the Manor. Maybe it
was
going to be the scene of his last killing. Maybe he had chosen it so that he could sit on that balcony and repeatedly relive the thrill.
Whatever the dreadful scenario, whoever the next victim, whether she escaped or not, she knew she had to try to get this knowledge out. If not her own, it could save someone else’s life, and possibly lead to his capture.
She picked a spot as far away from the mattress as possible, and sat on the floor with her back against the wall. There was some serious thinking to do. She had to come up with a plan to get the information out, even if she didn’t get out herself.
Twenty minutes later, she glanced at her watch. He had been gone almost an hour; she had to assume he would be back soon; she had come up with nothing. Her brain seemed to have a brake acting on it. She would start along a promising thought pattern, then find herself being side-tracked by the terror of her situation, at which point a blankness would set in, as if the brain was trying to protect itself from reality.
Repeatedly, she tried to fight her way out of the fog, but time and again she failed.
‘Damn!’ she shouted, as she hit the floor with her fists in frustration. The action seemed to release something. Maybe she needed to move or occupy herself with something, while trying to think. Maybe the clarity would come then.
She opened her handbag and tipped all the contents on to the floor beside her. She started to rummage around, randomly picking things up, putting them down, all the while trying to think of a way to get the information out.
It worked, up to a point. She was no longer being sidetracked; her brain was following through. But, she was still unable to come up with a feasible plan. The problem, it would seem, was simply too difficult for her.
Time was getting on. He could return at any minute. She had to do something, come up with something, however simple or unsubtle.
If only she could get the word BARF out to Ben or the police, they would understand its significance. The only way she could get it out was by taking it through the door when she tried to make an escape.
She would, therefore, write BARF on as many things as possible, and hope to scatter them, undetected, once outside the room.
She searched among her pens and found a dark blue fibre-tip. She tore a few blank pages from her pocket diary, wrote BARF on them, then carefully tucked them up the right hand sleeve of her blouse. Next, she wrote on her handkerchief, and tucked that up the left hand sleeve of her blouse.
The soles and insteps of both shoes were next to be inscribed. There was nowhere else. It didn’t seem enough. Among her bag contents, she spotted the bar of chocolate. She slid the wrapper off the chocolate and, using her nail scissors, cut the letters b, a, r, f, from the words Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut. The crumpled wrapper was then tucked down the top of her bra.
For a while, she contemplated using the nail scissors as an attacking weapon, but came to the conclusion that they weren’t large enough to stop him. It was better to try to get away from him than attack him.
While she was thinking of this, she quickly ate the chocolate, hoping its energy-giving properties would help her when the time came.
Slowly, she started putting her things back into the handbag, all the while checking whether she could find an alternative use for them.
She was putting the last item in - a felt tip pen - when the control room light went on. He was back.
*
His hair was dishevelled, his face slightly red, when he peered through the control room window. ‘Probably a long walk back after hiding the car,’ Helen surmised, as she sat breathlessly on the mattress, having sprinted across the room.
She had placed the clamp on top of her ankle so that he could see it. It seemed to reassure him. He glanced at it, then moved away to open the door, pausing to switch off the music.
Helen leapt to her feet, pulling both earplugs out at the same time. She ran to the wall, grabbed a photograph, opened the inner door, then stood two paces back, legs braced, ready to charge.
She heard the key turning in the outer door. It started to open, away from her. She lunged forward and threw her left shoulder against it.
She heard a gasp of surprise as it hit him on the right side of his head and body, spun him off balance, and sent him to the floor, wrench thudding loose from his grasp.
She leapt past him, avoiding his desperate hands, ran across the waiting area, along a passage, saw the stairs ahead, lit up by light shining down through the open trapdoor.
She was half way up the stairs, when a hand grabbed her ankle from behind. She stumbled and turned and saw mean eyes closing in. Without hesitation, she brought the photograph down on his head, heard the glass smash, heard him yell in pain, felt his grip on her ankle loosen. She started up the stairs again...gasping...shouting ‘HEEE...LP!’...trying to go too quick...stumbling...banging her knee...’HEEE..LP!’…scrambling on her knees...driving for the light above...nearly there...then hands again...on both ankles....strong and pulling...her hand inside her blouse...finding the wrapper...throwing it up into the light...into the lounge...turning to fight...arms against arms...fists against hands...a thud to the temple... stopped...dizzy…sick…unable…
*
She woke up on the mattress, head throbbing, throat dry, feeling sick. She forced herself into a sitting position. Something heavy pulled her left ankle. Looking down, she saw the tightened clamp, the chain starting upwards, his feet.
He was leaning towards her, offering the bottle of orange juice, blood down his cheek, drying. She took the bottle, and gulped, while her panicking eyes told her that the inner door was still open, the wrench was on the ground.
‘I want us to be friends,’ he said, quietly.
She didn’t respond.
‘There’s no need to escape. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to look after you...’
‘Please let me go,’ Helen said. ‘I already have a husband who looks after me...’
‘But I haven’t got a wife...
they
killed her.’ He pointed to the photographs, his voice rising.
Helen remained silent, disturbed by his show of anger.
‘I
have
to have a wife...a companion.’
There was a long pause, followed by: ‘How did you expect...?’ He was holding the diary pages she had concealed in her right sleeve. He shook his head. ‘Nobody would have seen them. Nobody ever comes here.’
While he was speaking, Helen surreptitiously moved her left arm against her body to feel if the handkerchief was still in her left sleeve.
His hand went to his trouser pocket, and out came the handkerchief. He showed it to her. He didn’t need to say anything.
She looked down and saw that she still had her shoes on. But what did it matter now; she wasn’t going anywhere! She felt her head and shoulders slump; she knew she was beaten.
He must have noticed - his tone was conciliatory. ‘We’ll be happy together...you’ll see...’
He picked up her handbag and, using the wrench as a lever, tore the handle straps from it. Then he opened it, and started to transfer things from it into his pockets. ‘I’ll leave you what I can’.
She saw scissors, paperclips, pens, dictating machine, and calculator, transferred from the bag to his pockets. Travel wipes and cotton wool, he dropped back in. Out came the slim wallet in which she kept her credit cards.
He pulled the cards out, one at a time, studied them, then slipped them back. Suddenly, his face changed; a deep frown, a narrowing of the eyes. He was staring at a card in his hand. ‘You’re one of
them,
’ he hissed.
Viciously, he threw the card at her. It struck her, harmlessly, on the shoulder and landed on her leg. He bent down and screamed in her ear:
‘You’ve spoiled everything...I thought you were nice.’
Helen recoiled from the blast, and shuddered at the absolute hatred in his voice. She picked up her ‘Friends of the Lake District’ membership card, and looked up at him, puzzled.
‘You’re the same as
them,
’ he ranted, pointing at the photographs. ‘Interfering know-alls...grouping together... wanting things your way...nothing better to do...killing jobs...killing people...’
‘I’ve never killed anyone,’ Helen shouted back, now beginning to understand the cause of his madness. ‘ And I create jobs...I gave you a job...’
His contorted face came within an inch of hers. ‘I
had
a job...
bitch
.’ He spat it out so venomously she felt a shower of saliva on her face. He stepped back, glared at her, and swung his open hand, viciously slapping her across her left cheek. ‘
You
took my job.
You
killed Leni.’
Tears came to Helen’s eyes as she cradled her stinging cheek in her hand. Her ears were ringing, her head throbbing, her fear rampant. He seemed beyond reason. She cowered, waiting for the next assault.
He moved away and started pacing up and down, looking at the floor, looking at her. ‘You spoiled it...you spoiled it. We could have been...’
He was pacing along the line of photographs now, looking at them, looking at her, stopping, thinking.
Suddenly, he grabbed the empty one from the end of the row, the one that said: ‘Number 10, Barf’ on the label. He brought it over to the mattress, and held it close to her face.
He seemed calmer, and spoke in a matter of fact tone. ‘Why couldn’t you be nice...you’ve upset everything... I’ll have to find somebody else.’ He touched the cold glass against her stinging cheek, and continued: ‘You’ll have to join your green friends.’
Chapter 37
‘Do you believe me now for Christ’s sake?’ Ben pleaded, desperately. He was looking over the shoulders of Bill Unwin and Constable Murphy, who were sitting in the middle of his bedroom office, surrounded by piles of papers. The two of them had spent an excruciating 20 minutes going through all the evidence Ben had put in front of them.
He had shown them everything that backed up his fantastic claim - police records, mountain rescue records, post-mortem reports.
Nothing else mattered now. Not his own arrest for possessing them. Not exposure by Sophie Lund. All that mattered now was finding Helen.
Before phoning Bill for help, he had decided that Helen had not been a random target, unlike the mountain top victims. She had probably been selected as a replacement for Vilma Tapales, who Snodd had known before he enslaved her. This probably meant that Snodd knew Helen, or at least had seen her, before planning to abduct her.
Since Vilma Tapales had been found within a mile of their cottage, it was almost certain that Snodd lived in the local vicinity, and had, therefore, spotted Helen while out walking on the local fells, or around the lake, or up the lane to the village.
He concluded that Snodd was holding Helen captive in the same place he had held Vilma Tapales. That place was somewhere among the scattered houses, farmhouses, and village houses that lay within a few miles of where Vilma had been found.
Bill Unwin and Constable Murphy had recently searched those houses, and found nothing suspicious. But maybe they had met Snodd and not known it. He had to question them, involve them, seek their help to search, even though it meant exposing himself as a criminal, and possibly losing Helen’s love. Her life was more important.
While waiting for them to arrive, he had found himself still hoping for a miracle. He wanted the phone to ring, to say she was in hospital after a road accident, a loss of memory, or even a mental breakdown. Anything, but in the hands of a psychopathic killer.
When Bill and Murphy arrived, he had immediately bombarded them with questions, sought quick answers. Bill had told him to slow down or they would get nowhere, and demanded to see proof of his claims.
Now, infuriatingly, they were poring over all his records, and wasting valuable time. All they had to do was believe him, answer his questions. He had prowled the floor for 20 minutes, and now he’d reached the end of his tether.
Suddenly, Bill was standing up. ‘What’s the number of Helen’s car?’ he shouted at Ben.
‘Do you believe me?’ Ben insisted.
‘Yes...what’s the number of Helen’s car?’
‘.... J656 EVN.’
‘Murphy, make a note of that, then get on the car radio. Tell them we believe that the man wanted in the Tapales case is involved in a number of homicides, that he has abducted a woman from Scarness Cottage, Bassenthwaite, and that he is holding her hostage, somewhere in this area. Give them that car number, and ask them to set a perimeter and go house to house. Then get on the mobile to the duty officer. Give him the names - Hector Snodd and Mrs Helen Foxley. If they ask any questions you can’t handle, tell them to hang on till I get there. Now hurry up, I’ll be down in a minute.’
Murphy raced out of the room, notebook in hand.
Bill looked apologetically at Ben. ‘I’m really sorry mate...I don’t know what to say.’ His head went down. ‘If anything happens to Helen, I won’t be able to live with myself. I should have listened to you...I should have pushed our lot more...’
‘You did your best,’ Ben said, coldly. He let the ambiguity lie there, too stupefied with worry to bother about it.
Bill shuffled, uncomfortably. ‘You know I’m going to have to report all this,’ he said, reluctantly, pointing to all the scattered documents. ‘I just wanted to forewarn you....’
‘Do you really think I give a fuck,’ Ben yelled. ‘For Christ’s sake man...my wife’s in the hands of a maniac, and all you’re bothered about is paperwork.’
‘Calm down, Ben. We have to do these things methodically...’
‘I’ll calm down when you forget about your bloody uniform, and your bloody procedures, and just answer my bloody questions.’
‘...Fire away,’ Bill sighed.
‘But I’ve already asked them...can’t you remember ...Jesus Christ...’
‘Alright...alright...had we seen anybody matching Snodd’s description. What was he again...small and thin?’
‘Bloody hell...five feet, five inches, thin, sandy coloured hair...you’re supposed to be looking for him anyway...for the Filipino case...’
‘Go easy, Ben. Remember we’re uniform, not plain clothes. We deal with a hundred little things a day, from car thefts to lost pets...we’re not assigned to one case. We just do what we’re asked to do, and then we move on to the next thing...we don’t retain much.’
‘Right...I understand all that...now can you answer the question.’ Ben was about to explode.
Bill paused to think. Then he shook his head as he said: ‘We covered a lot of ground, you know. From the outskirts of Keswick to Bassenthwaite village...from Dash Falls farm down to the lake....’
Ben gritted his teeth. ‘I asked you to forget about Keswick and the village...remember. Vilma Tapales was running away...looking for help. If she’d been held captive anywhere near Keswick or the village, she would have knocked on the first door she found. Instead, she was found halfway between them, on the A591. It means she probably escaped from an isolated place, somewhere along this valley, between Skiddaw and the lake. What does that narrow it down to? About ten properties...mostly farmhouses?’
‘There’s a lot of small, wiry farmers about,’ Bill blustered. ‘And they all wear caps...you can’t see their hair...’
‘And they all have Scottish accents I suppose.’
‘Ah!’
He was rescued by Constable Murphy, breathless in the doorway: ‘They want to speak to you Sarge.’
Bill waved him into the room. ‘Come in…leave that...I’ll go down in a minute. We need to concentrate on Ben’s questions. Can
you
remember seeing a small man, five feet five inches, thin, sandy hair, Scottish accent, when we did our house to house around the farms here...just in this valley...not the village or down towards Keswick?’
Constable Murphy concentrated, then: ‘That farm near the village end of the lane...he had a Scottish accent...but he wasn’t small. That farmer near St Bega’s Church was pretty small, but he had a cap on...and I think he had a local accent....’
‘You’re doing well...keep going,’ Ben encouraged.
Constable Murphy shook his head. ‘The only other small bloke I can remember was that caretaker at the Manor. But he had a cap on as well, and I’m not sure about the accent...sounded a bit Irish to me.’
Ben grasped it, urgently. ‘That could be the Sutherland lilt. Did he sniff...did he make a regular sniffing noise with his nose?’
Bill said ‘I can’t remember’ at the same time as Constable Murphy said ‘yes’.
‘Are you sure?’ Ben demanded.
‘Yes...he was trailing around after me when I was looking at those pop star photos...Sarge was in front...I heard him sniff a few times...’
‘Did you get his name?’ Ben fought the urge to race out of the room. He had to make sure.
Murphy pulled out his notebook, thumbed through the pages, and read out, carefully: ‘...Scarness Manor...Mr Baxter, caretaker.’
Ben rushed to the scattered records, and started rummaging, frantically, cursing the mess they were now in. Finally, he picked one out and started to read.
‘Yes,’ he shouted, triumphantly. ‘I knew I’d seen that name before.’
Bill and Murphy gathered round to look at the police record with him.
‘He was the first Assynt victim,’ Ben announced. ‘The only man with the same injuries as the women.’
‘And look,’ Bill pointed further down the page. ‘According to this he was found with no identification on him...yet his family say he always carried a wallet with his driving licence and credit cards in. Snodd must have stolen them, and then used them to create a new identity for himself. He’s our man ...let’s go...’
Ben had already gone - down the stairs, three at a time, along the hall, grabbing his anorak, out the front door, into the back seat of the police car, voices on the radio, Murphy into the driver’s seat, Bill into the front passenger, ‘move it Schumacher’, the car punching forward, spraying gravel, Bill picking up the transmitter: ‘K3 urgent’... ‘Go ahead K3’... ‘Suspect believed to be in Scarness Manor, Bassenthwaite...we’re heading there now...request immediate assistance.’... ‘Copy K3’ ...messages going out to other cars...messages coming in....Ben trying to think...knuckles white on the door handle... ready to jump...only half a mile away…practically their neighbour...unbelievable.
*
Hector was nearly ready. His car was parked outside the main door, boot lid open. He had his anorak on, loaded camera in his left zipped inner pocket, plastic tape in the left outer, granite stone in the right outer. He’d used it on the last three, and it had stood up well. The hard tip hadn’t broken off when it struck bone, like some of the others. It still had a good point and all the edges were still sharp. He had, of course, scrubbed off the last lot of blood. A cotton tea towel and two lengths of rope lay ready on the lounge table.
All he needed now was his Walkman and his ‘Zadok the Priest’ tape. He liked the first stab in the eye to coincide with the first mighty ‘ZAAADOOK’ introduction by the choir, and then keep the next thrusts in time with the pounding, repetitive, beat of Handel’s great music. Oh, the ecstasy when he got the timing right! He
was
the priest dishing out the penance.
He was looking forward to getting rid of the bitch. She had upset all his plans, caused him a sleepless night; made his hangover worse then ever. And he’d had to spend most of the day tidying up the mess she’d made, developing a new photograph, mending the frame, cutting a new mount and glass, putting it all together, and hanging it back up again.
While in the studio, he had shown her the silly chocolate wrapper he’d found in the lounge, and made her eat it, her last meal. She’d looked older and paler, and he’d decided the next one would have to be younger. Now, everything was almost back to normal. He still had to find a replacement for Vilma, but at least he didn’t have to go looking for number 10. She was downstairs, and it was time to go and get her, even though he felt tired, and his head throbbed.
He felt for his car keys, slipped the Walkman earphones around his neck, picked up the wrench, and almost forgot the tea towel and ropes. He wouldn’t need the warden’s name tag or questionnaire today.
He lifted the trapdoor, switched on the light, walked down the stairs. A glint on the passage floor caught his eye. He bent down and picked up a shard of glass. He’d obviously missed it with the brush and shovel. Need to bring the vacuum cleaner down later.
Into the waiting area, a look through the control room window. She was curled up just like Vilma used to be. Switch off the music.
Open both doors, enter. She sat up on the mattress, eyes red.
‘Either you co-operate or I damage you with this,’ he snarled, indicating the wrench in his right hand. It was a bluff. If he used it, the post-mortem would show injuries inflicted by a smooth object, and a gap in the timing of the injuries. The reality was: if she resisted, he would have to overcome her in a messy wrestling match, taking care not to damage her. He was counting on the bluff to save him all that trouble.
Helen had already decided not to resist in the house or anywhere near it. Her only hope was to appear resigned, and, if possible, put up a fight away from the house, out in the open where he had no retreat.
‘I’ll co-operate,’ Helen said, resignedly.
Hector asked her to push her left leg out, and proceeded to release the bracket, using the wrench. Next, using a short piece of rope, he tied her hands together in front of her. He needed them in front, so that she could assist herself into the car boot.