Next Monday morning, I bought a couple of pounds of steak and cut it into one-inch cubes, like all the best recipes say. Then I made a small incision in each cube and inserted one of the tranquillizers my doctor insists on prescribing for me. I never wanted them, and certainly never use them, but I’d had the feeling they might come in useful one day.
I came out of my back door and listened cheerfully to the dog’s salvo of barks. I could afford to be cheerful; it would be the last time I’d have to endure it. I plunged my hand into the bowl of moist meat, enjoying its cool, slippery feel. Then I tossed it over the wall in handfuls. I returned indoors, washed up and went upstairs to my vantage point by the computer. I chose the atmospheric world of Darkseed, calming my excitement with the gothic and macabre underworld I had come to know so well. In spite of my absorption in the game, though, I couldn’t help glancing out of the window every few minutes. After a while, he slumped to the ground, tongue lolling out of his mouth. I exited from my game and picked up my binoculars. He seemed to be breathing, but wasn’t moving.
I ran downstairs, picking up the holdall I’d prepared earlier, and got into the jeep. I reversed it down the alley till the tailgate was level with next-door’s yard gate. I turned off the engine. Silence. I couldn’t resist a certain smug satisfaction as I picked up my crowbar and jumped down. It took moments to force next-door’s gate. As it swung open, I could see the dog hadn’t stirred. I opened the holdall and crouched down beside him. I shoved his tongue back into his mouth and taped his muzzle shut with a roll of surgical tape. I bound his legs together, front and back, and dragged him to the jeep. He was heavy, but I keep myself in shape, and it wasn’t too hard to manhandle him into the back.
His breath was coming in soft snores when we got to the farmhouse, but there was no flicker of consciousness, even when I thumbed back his eyelids. I tipped him into the wheelbarrow I’d left out there, wheeled him through the cottage and emptied him down the flight of steps. I switched on the lights and hauled the dog on to the rack like a sack of potatoes, then turned to study my knives. I’d fitted a magnetic strip to the wall, and there they hung suspended, each sharpened to a professional edge; cleaver, filleting knife, carving knife, paring knife and craft knife. I chose the craft knife, cut away the tape from the dog’s legs and spread him out on his stomach. I fastened the strap round his middle to hold him tightly against the rack. That’s when I realized I had a problem.
Sometime in the past few minutes, the dog had stopped breathing. I thrust my head against the rough hairs of his chest, searching for a heartbeat, but it was too late. I’d obviously miscalculated the drug dosage, and given him too much. I was furious, I have to admit. The dog’s death wouldn’t affect the practicalities of scientifically testing my apparatus, but I had been looking forward to his suffering; a small revenge for the dozens of times his demented barking had woken me up, especially when I’d come off a hard night shift. But he’d died without a moment’s suffering. The last thing he’d known was a couple of pounds of steak. It didn’t please me that he’d died happy.
That wasn’t all; I soon discovered a second problem. The straps I’d fitted were fine for human ankles and wrists. But the dog didn’t have hands or feet to stop his limbs slipping free.
I didn’t puzzle for long. It was a far from elegant solution, but it served my purpose. I still had some six-inch nails left over from the repairs and modifications I’d made to the cellar. I carefully placed his left front paw so it straddled a gap in the timbers. I felt for the space between the bones and, with one blow of my club hammer, I drove the nail through at right angles to the paw, just above the last joint. I fixed the strap below the nail, and tugged at it. I reckoned it would hold for long enough.
I’d fixed the other legs within five minutes. Once he was securely strapped down, I was finally able to get started on the business of the day. Even with the bare prospect of a purely scientific experiment, I could feel the excitement rising in me till it was like a hard lump in my throat. Almost, it seemed, without conscious thought, my hand strayed to the handle of the rack. I watched it, detached, as if it were the hand of a stranger. It caressed the cogs, ran lightly over the wheel, and finally came to rest on the handle. The aroma of lubricating oil still hung lightly on the air, melding with the faint smell of paint and the stale, doggy smell of my assistant in the experiment. I took a deep breath, shivered in anticipation, and slowly began to turn the handle.
I do not stick to assert, that any man who deals in murder must have very incorrect ways of thinking, and truly inaccurate principles.
Don Merrick unzipped his flies. With a sigh of relief, he relaxed his muscles and let his bursting bladder empty. Behind him, the cubicle door opened. His pleasure was abruptly shattered when a heavy hand descended on his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Merrick. Just the man I wanted to see,’ Tom Cross boomed. Inexplicably, Merrick discovered he couldn’t finish what he’d started.
‘’Morning, sir,’ he said cautiously, shaking himself and quickly tucking his manhood out of Cross’s sight.
‘Told you about her new assignment, has she, your guv’nor?’ Cross asked, all lads-together bonhomie.
‘She mentioned it, yes, sir.’ Merrick looked longingly at the door. But there was no escape. Not with Cross’s hand still clamped on his shoulder.
‘I hear you’re planning on taking your inspector’s exams,’ Cross remarked.
Merrick’s stomach clenched. ‘That’s right, sir.’
‘So you’ll be needing all the friends in high places you can find, eh, lad?’
Merrick forced his lips apart in what he hoped was a smile to match Cross’s. ‘If you say so, sir.’
‘You’ve got the makings of a good officer, Merrick. As long as you remember where your loyalties lie. I know Inspector Jordan’s going to be a very busy lady over the next few weeks. She might not always have time to keep me fully abreast of things.’ Cross leered suggestively. ‘I’ll be relying on you to keep me informed of all developments. You understand, lad?’
Merrick nodded. ‘Aye, sir.’
Cross dropped his hand and made for the door. Opening it, he turned back to Merrick and said, ‘Especially if she starts shagging our doctor friend.’
The door sighed shut behind Cross. ‘Fuck and bollocks,’ Merrick said softly to himself as he moved to the washbasin and started scrubbing his hands vigorously under the hot tap.
Tony had been at his desk since eight. So far, all he’d done was make some photocopies of the Crime Analysis Report form he’d devised for the projected task force. Heavily based on the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program questionnaire, it aimed to produce a standard classification of every aspect of the crime, from the victim through to the forensic evidence. He shuffled the forms absently, then rearranged his newspaper cuttings into a neat pile. He justified his lack of activity by telling himself that until Carol arrived with the police files, there was little he could do. But that was merely an excuse.
The truth was, there was good reason why concentration was eluding him. She was in his head again. The mystery woman. At the start, he’d felt vulnerable, unwilling to take part in her games. Just like his patients, he thought ironically. How many times