He put them in his pocket too.
Now he had his trophies he wanted to leave something of himself. But he must remember. Anderton was a policeman, careful, cunning, suspicious. So he had deliberated about what he could leave and be sure that it would remain here, in this house, in this room, near enough to Claudine. It must be something small so that it wasn’t discovered, but intimate too. He pulled a hair out of his head and placed it underneath the scented drawer liners, next to the wood. Then he closed the drawer almost reverently.
He was inside.
It was time to go. The sense of urgency was stifling. He went down the stairs, two at a time, his prizes in his pocket, the wires of the bra making him stiffen with anticipation. He let himself out of the front door, rounded the house and crossed the back garden quickly, anxious now to be gone.
Two minutes later he was stepping jauntily across the field, hands in pockets, whistling a tune. With his little secrets nestling in his pockets he felt confident, and so when he met one or two people he knew, he greeted them normally, smiled in their faces and finally reached home. He still had almost three hours before he needed to go to work.
Guy Malkin’s home was a bed-sit above the kebab bar on the High Street. His bed formed a sofa in the day with the help of four scatter cushions his mother had given him when he had finally moved out and left her to be alone with her new boyfriend. Guy shared both kitchen and bathroom with another single man named Gerald. Gerald was in his fifties. Guy suspected he was a ‘reformed’ alcoholic. He was divorced, he’d told Guy, and apart from his drinking buddies in The Bell, he appeared to have no friends.
Gerald was also a bit of a pig in the kitchen and in the bathroom. While Guy wasn’t a fussy person he did like to keep his personal space clean and tidy and he’d had a number of rows with Gerald over his untidiness. As he walked past the kitchen he noticed a pile of dirty dishes on the draining board and cursed. Gerald was almost spoiling his moment. He let himself into his room and locked the door behind him.
Now at last he could study his prizes in private. Prizes for being cunning and clever, innovative and brave. He was pleased with himself. His confidence, he knew, was growing.
He laid his trophies out on the bed, the knickers below the top, and the earrings to the side. Filling in the space he could imagine her slim, firm body.
The Silent Tongue
On Friday at around twelve o’clock Daniel was standing outside the ugliest building in a beautiful town. The block of flats where Vanda Struel lived was Sixties concrete, an eyesore, a blot on the landscape.
She lived on the third floor, her mother on the floor above.
Daniel climbed the concrete staircase and knocked on number 37, half expecting Vanda to be out. But the door was opened.
Trouble was, it wasn’t Vanda. It was her brother, Arnie, who peered out, bleary-eyed, shaved head, tattoos, a can of lager in his hand. His name wasn’t actually Arnie at all. Arnie was a nickname. His real name was Mark. Mark Struel, but everybody called him Arnie after the great Schwarzenegger. It was an appropriate nickname. So appropriate that most people didn’t even realise he
had
another name.
He looked as startled to see Daniel as Daniel was to see him. ‘Didn’t know ’er had called for a doctor,’ he grunted.
‘It’s just a courtesy call,’ Daniel said at once. ‘I just wondered how Anna-Louise was.’
Struel jerked his finger behind him. ‘’Er looks OK to me.’
‘Is Vanda in?’
‘No. ’Er’s popped out for some fags.’ Arnie gave him a crooked grin. ‘I’m babyminding. ’Er’s safe with her uncle.’
Daniel felt a physical twinge of alarm.
Safe? The child was just out of hospital, for goodness’ sake.
He wouldn’t have classed Anna-Louise as safe left alonewith the town’s psycho. He felt a quick flash of anger at Vanda who had just ‘popped out
Now he had his trophies he wanted to leave something of himself. But he must remember. Anderton was a policeman, careful, cunning, suspicious. So he had deliberated about what he could leave and be sure that it would remain here, in this house, in this room, near enough to Claudine. It must be something small so that it wasn’t discovered, but intimate too. He pulled a hair out of his head and placed it underneath the scented drawer liners, next to the wood. Then he closed the drawer almost reverently.
He was inside.
It was time to go. The sense of urgency was stifling. He went down the stairs, two at a time, his prizes in his pocket, the wires of the bra making him stiffen with anticipation. He let himself out of the front door, rounded the house and crossed the back garden quickly, anxious now to be gone.
Two minutes later he was stepping jauntily across the field, hands in pockets, whistling a tune. With his little secrets nestling in his pockets he felt confident, and so when he met one or two people he knew, he greeted them normally, smiled in their faces and finally reached home. He still had almost three hours before he needed to go to work.
Guy Malkin’s home was a bed-sit above the kebab bar on the High Street. His bed formed a sofa in the day with the help of four scatter cushions his mother had given him when he had finally moved out and left her to be alone with her new boyfriend. Guy shared both kitchen and bathroom with another single man named Gerald. Gerald was in his fifties. Guy suspected he was a ‘reformed’ alcoholic. He was divorced, he’d told Guy, and apart from his drinking buddies in The Bell, he appeared to have no friends.
Gerald was also a bit of a pig in the kitchen and in the bathroom. While Guy wasn’t a fussy person he did like to keep his personal space clean and tidy and he’d had a number of rows with Gerald over his untidiness. As he walked past the kitchen he noticed a pile of dirty dishes on the draining board and cursed. Gerald was almost spoiling his moment. He let himself into his room and locked the door behind him.
Now at last he could study his prizes in private. Prizes for being cunning and clever, innovative and brave. He was pleased with himself. His confidence, he knew, was growing.
He laid his trophies out on the bed, the knickers below the top, and the earrings to the side. Filling in the space he could imagine her slim, firm body.
The Silent Tongue
On Friday at around twelve o’clock Daniel was standing outside the ugliest building in a beautiful town. The block of flats where Vanda Struel lived was Sixties concrete, an eyesore, a blot on the landscape.
She lived on the third floor, her mother on the floor above.
Daniel climbed the concrete staircase and knocked on number 37, half expecting Vanda to be out. But the door was opened.
Trouble was, it wasn’t Vanda. It was her brother, Arnie, who peered out, bleary-eyed, shaved head, tattoos, a can of lager in his hand. His name wasn’t actually Arnie at all. Arnie was a nickname. His real name was Mark. Mark Struel, but everybody called him Arnie after the great Schwarzenegger. It was an appropriate nickname. So appropriate that most people didn’t even realise he
had
another name.
He looked as startled to see Daniel as Daniel was to see him. ‘Didn’t know ’er had called for a doctor,’ he grunted.
‘It’s just a courtesy call,’ Daniel said at once. ‘I just wondered how Anna-Louise was.’
Struel jerked his finger behind him. ‘’Er looks OK to me.’
‘Is Vanda in?’
‘No. ’Er’s popped out for some fags.’ Arnie gave him a crooked grin. ‘I’m babyminding. ’Er’s safe with her uncle.’
Daniel felt a physical twinge of alarm.
Safe? The child was just out of hospital, for goodness’ sake.
He wouldn’t have classed Anna-Louise as safe left alonewith the town’s psycho. He felt a quick flash of anger at Vanda who had just ‘popped out
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