Sleeping Malice Read online

  La Belle Etoile.

  The following morning the hazy winter sun shone across the landscape, beginning its task of drying the French undergrowth and warming the land. Phillip had also risen early, excitement had interfered with his sleep, he had decided to rise soon after the sun and begin his day of activity. First would be breakfast, no day should start without breakfast. Time to reflect on what the day ahead might bring and what should be achieved during the daylight hours that were to follow. He breakfasted today on black coffee, brioche and myrtille confiture, it was a celebration breakfast. Before him stood the Roman Centurion that had been delivered last night. To an outsider, it still looked like a cheap tourist gift, yet in the deep blue eyes of Phillip it was more, so much more, a symbol of achievement, of ingenuity and not to put too fine a point on it, brilliance, that would have been how Phillip would have described it. For now, he just paid homage to his new craven idol. Once he had completed consuming his brioche, he stood, gathered the statuette in his clean hands then walked across the room towards the large fireplace. Once it had been an open fireplace, now it was home to a wood burning fire, which warmed the whole house with a dry, comforting heat. Above the wood burner, was a large black wooden beam that so often characterized period fireplaces in Brittany. It provided not only a cross member for the chimney, it also acted as a mantelpiece, upon which artefacts and souvenirs could be placed. Here Phillip placed carefully his latest trophy, adjusting the angle to which the centurion looked. He had decided that the Roman soldier should look slightly to his left, out of the window to keep watch on any strangers that might approach the house; not that anyone ever did visit. Keeping watch, Roman centurions were good at that, they were good at fighting as well; Phillip recalled that history was never a subject that greatly inspired him at school.

  Phillip took a step back to admire his latest acquisition. Then ran his wide eyes over the other items on the mantelpiece. The statuette was the fourth item on the dark wooden beam. To the left, was a die-cast model of a London bus, a Routemaster, red and full of the scratches and marks that were made whilst the owner of the bus played with it during their childhood. The destination could still be seen, as could the route number, a 53 going to Piccadilly. That was something he had always meant to do, find out if the route 53 bus did in fact go to Piccadilly, he hoped it did. It would have been very cruel of the toy manufacturer to lead children to believe the 53 went to Piccadilly, when it might not have done. What if some poor child had jumped on a real 53 Routemaster bus, hoping to go to see Eros, then ended up goodness knows where, Ponders End? Which is a strange name in itself, the end of pondering, or just where all ponders end up. Sometimes Phillip thought of too many questions that always seemed to lead him to other questions. It was just such behaviour that made him stand out for the wrong reasons at university. Too many questions most of them awkward and difficult to answer, so his teachers dismissed them as stupid questions. Phillip never believed that any question could be stupid; it was just not all the answers had yet been thought of, or found. Teachers only ever wanted to hear the questions that they had the answers to, anything else was silly and stupid, and that was because, in Phillip's opinion, they had such limited knowledge. They had only learnt facts, parrot-fashion, which they then passed on to their pupils, imagination and invention were not elements that they would encourage. He picked up the Routemaster bus and caressed it in his hands. Hands that were hardening, by working on his small holding, growing vegetables, keeping pigs and chickens, real toil. Working with nature and the spirits of the land to live, not like bus driving he thought. The city from which he had once earned a living held no hold over him, his life now totally immersed in the French countryside was all that he needed. Turning the bus over, he read the manufacturer's details, Matchbox. Now although he was not into history, he did recall that the original Matchbox toys were packaged in what looked to be matchboxes. Which again concerned him, that this manufacturer was encouraging young children to become comfortable with matchboxes. He wondered how many young children had opened a real matchbox, taking out the matches only to find out as they burnt their fingers or worse, that matchboxes were not real toys. Misdirecting children seemed to be the way this manufacturer played things. Maybe they had a dislike of children, maybe it was a 1950s government experiment, to confuse children. The 53 not going to Piccadilly, matchboxes that did not contain small die cast cars. He wondered how many times the public at large were misdirected and poorly guided by those who put themselves in charge.

  He replaced the bus with precision to the exact spot that it had previously occupied. He remembered last night and Martin needed to be dealt with. He would still be stiff, hopefully no wild animal had started taking chunks out of him or had tried to drag him away. Phillip opened the door of his house, the early morning sunlight cascaded into the room behind, exposing every corner to intense light and just a hint of warmth.

  From the doorway you could see the whole valley spread out before you, with the small single track road leading upwards to the lone house that stood on the ridge of the valley. Amongst the trees, coppices and farms that occupied the valley, the occasional white painted house could be seen, way off in the distance.

  Phillip had not wanted to inherit anything at all from his parents, not the tall slim body, which he had inherited from his mother, or the angular jaw and prominent nose from his father’s face, some things you could not control however much you wanted to. Yet Phillip had controlled Martin, who was lying as he had fallen last night, clothes wet and a dark patch of blood-soaked soil lying next to his head.

  Martin, lying as he was on the ground, might be just visible to someone with a powerful pair of binoculars who had the urge to look up to the stone house that stood at the top of the valley. Phillip doubted that any of his French neighbours, none of whom he knew or encouraged to know him, would be bothered very much about an eccentric Englishman. They had their own lives to follow, although he did not doubt that he was mentioned in casual conversations from time to time. On the rare visits that he made to the village, his arrival would have been greeted by an inquisitive “Bonjour.” Most of the local villagers that he had to have contact with, did not ask too many questions. They just let him get on with his life, which was what he liked about living here, he could live his own life and ask his own questions.

  He pulled the stiff and rigid body of Martin towards the pig pen, dragging him across the wet grass. Then he set about removing the damp and dirty clothes from the body; the six pigs huddled in the corner of the large pen expectant and excited as to what was happening. Outside the pen, there was now a pile of clothes and inside the naked body of Martin, face down in the mire, his hands spread outwards and his legs making the figure four. The pigs edged forward with caution towards the naked trespasser to their territory. Phillip returned, pulled on the cord of the chainsaw, which burst into life with a high pitched buzz that scared the pigs back to the safety of their corner.

  There was no skill needed to dismember the body with a petrol chainsaw. First a cut to the left knee, then the right knee, the amputated shins and feet were picked up without ceremony and thrown in the direction of the pigs who at first scattered as the limbs bumped in the sodden mixture of soils and faeces, before they cautiously edged back to the limbs, only to race away as a complete arm landed amongst them. This backwards and forwards movements of the pigs continued as body parts landed close to them, half an arm, a torso split into three parts, a head cut vertically, the brain matter splashing onto one now, not so brave, pig. Then there was silence as the chainsaw stopped and the tall man, who the pigs knew to fear, left. They could safely explore the food that had been left for them, the first such food they had had all week, today they would be happy to eat anything and everything.

  Phillip knelt down beside Martin's discarded clothes and went through each pocket with care, exploring every corner that might conceal an item. Once thoroughly explored, the vestments were cast to one side in a pile. A wall
et, a few credit cards, two ten pound notes, a hire car receipt and a Ryanair boarding card, nothing that could not be burnt there, so everything, even the cash was added to the pile of muddy rags ready to be incinerated. There was a large black car key with a Hertz logo on the key fob, so where was the car? Clearly Martin walked the last part of his journey. Phillip would need to take a trip through the village and the surrounding main roads, which would be a prudent task, to see just how close the car had got to his house. Car keys were put to one side. Next time he would need to instruct his victim to rendezvous somewhere away from his house. Phillip felt fortunate that Martin had not arrived last night in his hire car, that would have created a small problem of how to get the car away from his house, not an insurmountable problem, just part of the learning that Phillip enjoyed. Some loose change, a packet of sugar-free Polo mints and finally a pen, not much to bring abroad with you. Martin had a mission to accomplish, thought Phillip, with a wry smile on his face. A splash of petrol and a match marked the end of the clothes as they burst into flames. So, just a car key and a pair of shoes, shoes never burn well, but can be disposed of easily in the local charity recycling bin.

  It was now time for Phillip's morning shower and this morning he needed it more than ever. Small fragments of bone and shreds of flesh were in his hair, peppered over his face; his working clothes were similarly adorned with remnants of the morning’s labour. Phillip simply stood beside the smoky pyre and removed every item of his clothing, dropping each on to the flames until his naked body could feel the heat radiating from the bonfire. He turned and walked into the house, dropped the shoes beside the front door; the keys he deposited on the small table by the door. He continued towards the back of the house and walked into the shower, turned on the taps and felt the cleaning energy of the water flood over his body. Twenty five minutes later, he turned off the taps and began to dry his now thoroughly cleaned and rejuvenated body. Once dried, he applied moisturizer to almost every part that he could easily reach, then followed this with a dusting of talcum powder to prevent any chaffing, and finally a spray of antiperspirant. This strict regime had kept his skin supple, soft, and showing no signs of the ageing, which he would have expected as he was just about to enter his thirty-eighth year.

  It was not long before he once again stopped in front of the mantelpiece and picked up the item to the left of the bus: a Lladro dancing horse. His mother had once owned one that she kept in a glass cabinet full of Lladro figures, but it was the dancing horse that always caught his attention. The galloping stance had convinced his young mind that the horse was getting ready to escape, burst through the glass and make a dash for the fields that surrounded his childhood home. He used to stare for hours at that horse, admiring its continued readiness to escape the confines of the pottery cabinet. As a child, Phillip too had wanted to escape, but unlike the horse, he would need more than a field to survive in. So he stayed, as any five-year-old would, and used his imagination to take him wherever he wanted to go.

  Carefully, Phillip placed the horse back on the mantelpiece, and for the first time that morning, he spoke out loud. There was no living audience for his words, yet he knew that the trophies in front of him could hear him and take them in. "Ben, you did very well to get the horse to me in one piece, considering how clumsy you were." He turned away from the fireplace, ignoring the small Ninja Turtle toy with its dark memories. "Enough reminiscing, I have duties to do before lunch, and then to look for an abandoned hire car after it."

  Lunch was simple and repeated each day. Phillip sat down at the table, a plate in front of him, with a single knife and a clean paper napkin. In the centre of the table were three other plates: the first held four slices of cheese, Emmental, neatly arranged on it, the second had two slices of ham, smoked with no rind or fat, the final plate had two quarters of a baguette. He took one quarter baguette, cut it in half across its length, placed one slice of cheese on the bread, followed by one slice of ham, neatly folded so that it would fit within the confines of the baguette, and finally, one more slice of cheese, then he closed the baguette around it and ate his creation. Once consumed the pattern was repeated with the second quarter baguette. All was washed down with a glass of water. Once each week there was an exception to this daily luncheon arrangement, due to the simple fact that one baguette lasted two days, therefore he bought three baguettes each week, which would last six days, but if he had bought the fourth baguette, he would have half a baguette left over at the end of the week. It did not sit well with his psyche to carry half a baguette over into the next week, so on Sunday, he had the cheeses and the ham as normal, but he replaced the bread part of the lunch with a dry cracker, which seemed to be a sensible sacrifice to make on such a religious day as Sunday.

  Once lunch had been consumed and the utensils washed, dried and returned to their respective places in the kitchen cupboards, he left. Carefully Phillip locked the house door behind him, noticing that he should find some time to give it another coat of varnish. He eased himself into his silver-grey Land Rover Discovery and drove towards the village.

  The sun was low casting long shadows in the winter afternoon, the blue sky had just a few hazy clouds traversing it. The surrounding fields were quiet and green; the crops that had been planted remained small and close to the ground, waiting till spring to burst forth. Soon these unobtrusive fields would be full of lush crops. Crops the farmers judged to be worth planting this year; the ones that would fetch the best price. Traffic was just about non-existent, as it was for most of the year. July would bring more traffic in the shape of tourists from around Europe, as well as a large contingent of French nationals touring and visiting the historic sights of Brittany. As he drove in the direction of Josselin where Martin would have come from, looking along the lanes for a parked or abandoned hire car, it only then occurred to Phillip that the statuette was not wrapped, it still had its ten euro price sticker on the underside of the base. Martin must have stolen the item from the shop, he couldn't have paid for it as it would at least have been carefully wrapped as any decent French gift shop would. Martin stealing the Roman Centurion, that thought, if true, added even more value to the piece. He smiled at the thought of Martin, sweet, good-as-gold Martin, actually stealing something, breaking the law, if only his friends could have seen him they would have been horrified.

  He saw the Fiat 500, a small white car ahead of him, he lifted off the accelerator. It looked just like any hire car, clean, small and impractical for country life. It had been left leaning slightly into the ditch that ran alongside the road. Not that it was trapped in the ditch, just parked on the downward slope. He pressed the key remote he had found in Martin’s pocket, the indicator lights flashed back in response, alongside a brief bleep, clearly that was the car. The shredded back wheel was testament as to why Martin had ended up walking the remainder of the way. At least the car was far enough away from Martin’s final destination to avoid any direct link. Phillip continued on, taking a wide circular route back to his home. Driving, heater up full, the windows open, a cold breeze ruffling his hair, country odours of all descriptions filling his nostrils; he felt good. He speculated about the next time; who it might be and what he wanted from them; there was just as much fun in the planning as there was in the execution.

  Deptford.

  Before Greg had sat down at his cluttered desk, he heard his name being called from across the open office, “Morning Greg! Throwing away a two-nil lead is getting to be a habit for Millwall! Lucky for you it was just a friendly.”

  Dean strolled towards Greg, a broad smile over his face.

  Greg considered himself to be a lapsed member of the Millwall fan club, but even so, Tottenham fan Dean, could not resist rubbing last night’s disastrous result into Greg’s tired looking face. “I will be the first to admit the Lions defence is not as strong as it should be, but they’re still young and lots to learn.”

  “Still three possible points down the drain,” Dean dropped some messages
in front of Greg’s PC and walked off. “By the way, did you see Tottenham have gone top?” he smugly informed Greg.

  Greg ignored the comment, powered up his PC and glanced through the yellow post-it notes. ‘See Mike as soon as you get in.’ that one sounded important. Mike, the Editor of the Deptford Chronicle, did not often summon any of his reporters in such a way. The normal procedure would be hearing your name being bellowed from his office. Greg was not the most popular reporter on the paper but he was the longest-serving. He started as a trainee and now fifteen years later, he was a senior reporter. Greg looked around the open plan office; just a couple of reporters were at their desks. Further away, the sales department were busy selling advertising space, a hive of activity, so different to the emptiness of the editorial desks, where just a couple of reporters lazily typed away at grimy keyboards. Yesterday most reporters had worked late to finish the weekly paper, today it was being printed and tomorrow it would be out on the streets. Today was down time for the journalists, so it surprised Greg that the editor was even in his office at this hour.

  “Come in Greg, grab a seat.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  The office was neat, tidy, almost spotless, just a few sheets of A4 paper lay on the polished desk. Greg always thought it strange that an Editor should have such a tidy office. The previous three editors that Greg had worked under, seemed to have prided themselves on the apparent chaos that existed within their office space, piles of documents, newspapers, coffee cups everywhere and for one of them, a constant haze of cigarette smoke had hung in the air.

  "Greg, you have been here at the Deptford Chronicle for fifteen years now and I know you well, after having worked with you for, what is it, five years. But as I look around all my reporters, for each of them I can name two or three good solid stories they have uncovered that stand out from the crowd. Good solid front page stories that make the public sit up and think, telling them like it is, stirring their emotions, that’s what strong stories do. They start the debates across the dinner table, along the bars of local pubs; are the cause of discussion across countless works canteens. I look back at your work and I see nothing remotely close to a good front-page story." Mike paused, seeing if there was going to be a reaction from Greg, he guessed there would not be. Reporters listen, use the silence between people to let those with a loose tongue rush in and fill the void with a comment that can make a story.