The Cellar, page 16
Lewis shrugged, bringing his rumination to an end as he knocked on the principal’s office door, pushing it open and entering without waiting to be invited. He smiled on approaching the middle-aged, brown-haired woman dressed in a loose-fitting multi-coloured kaftan, seated behind a desk, the top of which was only just visible under piles of papers. He felt unusually self-conscious as he introduced himself and explained his reasons for being there. Within two minutes, Lewis was surprised to find himself sitting opposite the principal in a comfy armchair, drinking peppermint tea from a glazed pottery mug, a new experience so very different to his usual overly sweet milky coffee or tea in the police canteen. Dr Charlotte Johnson spoke with a broad Texan accent that reminded Lewis of the cowboy films of his youth; Southern with a twist. She was friendly and welcoming, unnerving him slightly with her confident, relaxed behaviour and bearing. He considered asking her what had brought her to Wales, but decided against it. It was all about the investigation. It was easier that way. He just didn’t have the confidence to chat. Not to such an appealing woman to whom he felt unusually attracted.
‘Tell me, Sergeant, are you any closer to finding poor Lucy? It upset me terribly to find out that she was missing. It’s not something one expects to happen, not in a quiet part of the world like ours. Will you have good news for me soon?’
Lewis crossed his legs one over the other. For some reason, he couldn’t understand, he felt awkward, not knowing what to do with his feet. He looked down, wishing he’d polished his shoes. He felt his face redden. What was it about this woman that so affected him?
‘We’re, er, we’re following several lines of enquiry. That’s the most I can say.’
Lewis noticed her red-painted fingernails as she sipped her tea, wetting her lips. He imagined their touch on his skin, and blinked the image away.
‘You look overheated, Sergeant. Shall I open a window? A little cool morning air may help.’
Lewis knew he was blushing crimson. He felt like an old fool, reacting as he was. He was there for work. And even if the woman was single, she was so far out of his league – a ten compared to his three or four. He’d never been a looker, and he hadn’t dared ask anyone out for years, let alone someone as beautiful as her.
‘No, I’m, er, I’m okay, ta. I must be coming down with something. There’s a bug doing the rounds. Now tell me, did Lucy ever mention receiving a letter from a man named Moloch? It’s likely to have been relatively recently, and definitely before the end of May. She was asked to paint an artwork at his home.’
‘No, no, she didn’t say anything, not that I can recall. I’m sure I’d remember if she had. Do you think this letter played some part in her disappearance?’
He uncrossed his legs, holding the almost full mug in one hand, resting the other on his knee. The peppermint tea was proving a challenge to a man with such a sweet tooth.
‘It may be helpful. I’m hoping it might be somewhere in Lucy’s office. Her sister suggested I might find it there.’
He was surprised by how tall the principal was when she rose from her seat, walking out from behind her desk. She had to be close to six foot, even in her flat leather gladiator sandals. Her toenails were painted the same bright colour red as her fingernails. There was a silver ring around one sun-bronzed toe, which Lewis found strangely attractive. He found everything about her fascinating, which unnerved him even more.
‘Well, then, let’s take a look, Sergeant. Her office is on the first floor. I’ll show you, and then, I’m afraid, I’ll have to leave you to it.’
Dr Johnson led the way with Lewis following, focused on her shapely backside much of the time as she walked a few feet in front of him. He found himself thinking about sex for the first time in what felt like an age. His wife had lost interest long before she left. There had only been one unsuccessful date since, a drunken Indian meal with a woman then living at a domestic-violence refuge, which led to nothing. He’d made such a fool of himself.
‘Right, this is it, Sergeant. I’ll leave you to it. Take as long as you need. I’ll be in my office if required. You know where it is. Although, I’ll be leaving for a meeting at ten.’
Lewis could barely look her in the eye. All his confidence was gone. He’d never felt so silly or insecure.
‘I should be fine now, ta. Thanks for your help. And the tea, thanks for the tea.’
Her American drawl was music to his ears.
‘You’re very welcome.’
Lewis glanced in Dr Johnson’s direction for one final time as she walked away with the effortless elegance of a catwalk model. He shook his head, frustrated with his lack of concentration. He wasn’t usually so easily distracted. It was time to focus on the simple task at hand. He was back in work mode, back in his investigative comfort zone, when he opened Lucy’s office door.
The room was small, with a desk and chair located close to a window with a view of the college car park and the rolling green countryside beyond. There were posters of famous impressionist paintings, most of which Lewis recognised, on each of the four walls, and a pine bookcase full of art textbooks stood to the right side of the desk. A blue vase containing several wilted daffodils sat on the desk, along with what looked like an appointments diary and a book of Picasso’s work with an abstract representation of a woman on the cover. Lewis looked around the small room with interest, now entirely focused on what he was hoping to achieve. He started with the desk drawer, finding nothing of interest. There was nothing significant in the diary either, despite his having looked through it for almost ten minutes. In fact, Lucy hadn’t seemed to use it very much at all. He’d almost given up on finding the letter when his eye was strangely drawn back to the book of Picasso’s paintings sitting on the desktop. It was the only book not in the bookcase. And that, Lewis pondered, may or may not be significant. He picked up the book, which opened easily at the centre pages, and there it was: a letter written on ivory-coloured paper in flowing red script. Lewis put on a pair of thin latex gloves taken from a sealed clear plastic packet before picking up the letter by one corner, minimising contact. He read it with interest, confirming the lack of a full name, address or any means of communication. Moloch. There it was, that name at the bottom. What the hell was that about? He accessed the internet via his smartphone, running a Welsh to English translation, something he told himself he should probably have done before. Please praise. A certain red flag; it had to be some nutter with delusions of grandeur. And that writing, that blood-red ink… It couldn’t be real blood, could it? He couldn’t rule it out. Something he’d need the lab to check out as a matter of priority.
For Lewis, as he scanned every inch of the letter’s surface, it sounded alarm bells, not just the content but its style. Everything about it screamed danger. But he could completely understand why a young woman like Lucy, with her artistic bent and very different life experience, may not have seen it that way. The letter did look stylish and creative if you didn’t look deeper with a critical eye born of painful experience. Some might even say it was romantic, if they’d lived a very different life to him.
Lewis folded the letter carefully, placed it in the plastic packet for safekeeping, peeled off his gloves, opened the office door, and made his way back down the corridor towards the staircase leading to the ground floor. He felt a degree of hope as he crossed the car park towards his car, not exactly optimistic, but more positive than when he’d arrived. There may be fingerprints. And if there were, those fingerprints could be of someone with a criminal history. He could have a name, and quickly too. A real name, not some bullshit pseudonym that was frustrating the hell out of him every time he considered it.
Lewis climbed stiffly into his car, started the engine on the second turn of the key, reversed out of his tight parking space and drove off, still deep in thought. Fingerprints, a name, an arrest, rescue the girl, celebrate with a few pints at the rugby club? Could it really be that simple? It sometimes was, but not often.
He shrugged and then changed gears, second to third. Oh, well, there was only one way to find out. Get the letter looked at, get the results expedited and move on from there.
23
Gove decided to shave lovely Lucy’s head on Tuesday 9 June, the sixth day of her captivity. Not simply because the idea amused him, which it did, but because he’d dreamt that her body would be almost entirely free of hair, much like his own, when she first killed alongside him, a plan he fully intended to implement in the coming days. His night-time vision was a prophecy. It was a clear message foretelling future events, sent by some wondrous, unforeseen dark supernatural force, directing the dance of life. He saw himself as the centre of everything, the sun around which the Earth revolved.
Gove had a recently purchased navy-blue plastic sports bag clutched tightly in one hand as he unlocked the hardwood security door in the utility room next to the kitchen. He hummed happily to himself as he flicked the light switch, hurried down the newly illuminated concrete staircase with an excited skip in his step and opened the steel security door at the bottom with a turn of the same key. A second light switch just outside this second door lit the cellar. There had been a switch inside the room too, but he’d had it removed, thinking it a bad idea to give an involuntary guest any semblance of control. The last thing he wanted was to offer his victim’s any hope of self-determination. Lucy apart, they’d been there to die. Her future? Well, that was still to be decided. Maybe she’d die too?
Lucy had a pained look on her face as he approached her, propped up in one corner of the cellar, her delicate ankles still secured in steel shackles that had cut into her raw, red skin. She had a haunted look to her eyes, dark shadows portraying her angst, which pleased him. He saw beauty in her slow decline. She was losing weight and hope too, and that, he told himself, was a good thing. She’d be more compliant that way, less likely to attempt escape before the realisation of her true calling as his future soulmate dawned in her societally brainwashed mind.
Gove pulled Lucy away from the wall by her feet without speaking, dragging her backwards with all his wiry strength. He flipped her onto her front as she called out in distress and then sat astride her, pinning her to the floor with his body weight. This time she didn’t struggle. It seemed her fight was gone. He began singing a jolly sixties pop song made popular by a recent washing powder television advertising campaign. He took an electrically charged hair trimmer from the sports bag and began roughly shaving off Lucy’s shoulder-length red hair as close to her scalp as possible, grazing the skin more than once. He planned to return to the cellar later in the day with a bowl of hot water, shaving foam and a sharp razor to finish the job correctly. Attention to detail, he told himself, was crucial to getting everything precisely right. She had to look exactly as she’d appeared in his dream. Nothing could be left to chance. He was creating the future, making prophecy reality.
Gove gathered the newly cut hair together while still sitting astride his captive, placing it in a large padded brown envelope taken from the bag for later use. He spoke to Lucy for the first time that day as she lay under him, her face pressed against the concrete floor.
‘I’ve been thinking about your request, and you’ll undoubtedly be glad to hear I’ve decided to grant you your wish. I’m going to reach out to your sick mother, but I suspect not quite in the way you had in mind.’
Lucy groaned under his weight, but she didn’t speak, turning her head from one side to the other, struggling to breathe between repeated sobs.
‘I’m certain you must have guessed my intentions by now. But I’ll tell you anyway, just to be sure. I plan to send your mother your newly cut hair. Can you imagine the look on her face when she first opens the envelope? Won’t that be a lovely surprise on a bright summer morning? I briefly considered tearing out your fingernails and sending them, or perhaps cutting off your pinky fingers one at a time with a lopper I keep in my garden shed. But after a good deal of thought, I finally decided such things would interfere with your work. And so your hair will have to do for now. I can always reconsider at a later date if I think it’s justified. Let’s see how the painting goes before we decide. Please me, and you’ll keep your pretty fingers. Disappoint me one more time, and, well, they’ll have to go. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s fair. I’m nothing if not a reasonable man.’
He stood, turned Lucy over onto her back, took four paintbrushes of different sizes from the bag and placed them alongside her on the floor.
‘Come on, girl, don’t just lay there. Sit up, pay attention – we have a project to discuss! Stop your pathetic snivelling. Look at the state of you, snot everywhere. What the hell is wrong with you, girl? You can be so self-indulgent at times, so self-focused. Pull yourself together. I haven’t got all day.’
Lucy followed his instructions without comment. She did open her mouth at one point as if about to say something, but no words came. He interpreted this as a sign she was losing the will to resist, gradually coming around to his way of thinking, evolving as he had in the time leading to his first killing. Harrison had been his mentor, and now he was hers. In his eyes, it was a triumph, the beginning of better things to come.
‘Pay attention, Lucy, look me in the eye before I’m tempted to poke yours out. You need to give this 100 per cent. Nothing less is acceptable. I’m sure you’ll recall what I told you about the cult of Moloch. I’m sure you find it as fascinating as I do. I’ll provide the paint today, the best quality, all the colours you’ll need to make your new home a place of infinite beauty. You can use the story as your inspiration, as I mentioned before. I’m sure you’ll have given it all some thought. You can come up with something truly creative, something that pleases me, a work of art worthy of my destructive genius. And remember the children, I don’t want you to forget the children. I want to see the terror in their eyes.’
Gove had no actual interest in children, but the negative psychological impact of the project on Lucy as an expectant mother genuinely interested him. He had initially planned to assess the effect on her simply as a female, but now the news of her pregnancy offered a surprising and welcome bonus he hadn’t expected. It added spice to the recipe, and if she was the one, as he increasingly thought she was, she’d deal with it, she’d overcome.
‘I’ll fetch the paint and my various butcher’s tools, and you can stay right there. I’ll be locking both doors on my way out. I do realise you haven’t yet fully embraced your new life yet. That will take some time. I’m going to need to leave the security doors open as we discard the bitch’s remains – it’s just too impractical not to – but don’t forget those shackles. You can walk, but you can’t run. I’ve got my taser, my knife and I’m fast. There is zero chance of you getting away. I would strongly advise you not to try.’
Within the hour, all the paint cans were in the cellar, along with an aluminium step ladder and Gove’s cleaver and bone saw. He began dismembering the young sex worker’s corpse while Lucy started her work, creating an outline in black paint on one wall, starting with the mythical creature with the body of a man and the head of a bull. She cried as she worked, but Gove was pleased with her efforts. He encouraged her to sing along with him as he sawed through the victim’s neck, joyfully rolling her head to one side with a shout of triumph.
‘Stop crying! How can you sing with all that ridiculous sobbing? You wanted the body out of here, and I’m doing as you asked. Is there no pleasing you? Are you never satisfied? Sing, girl, sing, before I cut out your tongue.’
Lucy sang as she painted, out of tune, forcing out the words despite her tears, which he found satisfying. Maybe congratulations were in order. Perhaps he should occasionally encourage her along the way. Or was his tendency to kindness clouding his thinking?
Gove removed the last of the young woman’s limbs with another celebratory yell of delight. He was panting hard, covered in various body fluids as he stood, throwing his bone saw to one side, the sound of it clattering on the concrete reverberating around the underground room.
‘Right, that’s done. Look at me, Lucy, look at the body parts, stop looking away. I know what you’re up to. Come down from the ladder, come here, take a close look. It’s essential that you start to truly appreciate what we’re doing here.’
‘I was, I was just c-c-concentrating on the, on the painting.’
‘Ah, she speaks! Now get off that fucking ladder as I told you to.’
She descended slowly to the floor, repeatedly gagging as she approached him.
‘Pick up the head.’
‘What?’
‘Pick up the fucking head.’ He began shouting now, his face contorting with rage as Lucy stalled. He could quite easily have killed her at that moment. The thought was there, the intention, but he somehow retained control. ‘It’s a simple enough instruction. What the hell is wrong with you? Do what you’re fucking told.’
He drew his arm back, slapping her face with all the force he could muster when she didn’t respond. He lurched forward, punching her twice to the upper body and face as she stumbled. He kicked her leg as she lay on the floor.
‘Now, get the fuck up, pick up the head and follow me towards the garden. This is what you asked for – you’re a part of it. Do what you’re told and do it with enthusiasm, or it will be your body I’m cremating. No more chances. Get the fuck up.’
Lucy dragged herself to her feet. She vomited as she bent at the waist, picking up the girl’s head by her blood-matted hair. She continued being sick until there was nothing left but green acidic bile.
Gove clapped his hands with glee. ‘Okay, that’s good – we’re making progress at last. You can clean that mess up later. Follow me, and I’ll introduce you to my garden cemetery. It’s a place of beauty. A memorial garden where all my guests end up one way or another. I’ve been looking forward to showing you since your arrival. It’s going to be a momentous day.’
