Serial Killer Chapter 42
‘D’you know, I sometimes think your stupidity – I would have said innocence, but you’re actually rather a nasty piece of work – protects you from the horrors of the real world.'
Mortified by his rejection, Dave gave freelancing a rest and found himself thinking about his mother’s murder again. He reflected on the conversation he had heard between Mr Peat and his mother, concerning Konrad, the little boy who had died. Another memory file in his mind opened and he recalled that Konrad had been at his school. The Canon had been ‘very close’ to his widowed mother, Mrs Jankowski, and was often round their house. Just as he was also ‘very close’ to Dave’s mother and was often round their house.
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It looked like a promising line of enquiry and, up in his turret, Dave started to talk to his mother about it, but she told him that he must investigate the Knights of St Pancras first. She said they were central to the mystery of her murder. But, apart from being a lazy serial killer, Dave was also a lazy detective. He was no gumshoe in a grubby raincoat, asking questions door-to-door in the pouring rain. Not when he could go downstairs and check the press-cuttings library.
He found a folder on the Knights. It didn’t contain many news items, just various charity events they were associated with, but there was one in-depth article from a colour supplement.
It explained they were smaller than the Knights of St Columba and the Irish Knights of St Columbanus, and very different to those organisations which had been open to public scrutiny since the sixties. The Knights of St Pancras still retained secret oaths, initiation rituals and three masonic-style degrees.
The other two orders of Catholic laymen had been inspired by the Knights of Columbus, named after the discoverer of the New World, but the Knights of St Pancras were inspired by a rather more sinister source.
‘Maybe there should be a Knights of Columbo as well?’ Dave suggested to his mother. ‘All wearing dirty macs and smoking stogies?’
‘This is serious business,’ his mother snapped. ‘Read!’
‘But I don’t have a grubby raincoat, so I don’t know if I qualify.’
‘You did when you were a little boy. You were always getting food down you. You were a messy little pup. I remember once …’
‘All right, all right. Let’s not get into that. Let me read it,’ he said hastily.
St Pancras was the patron saint of children and the Knights had dedicated themselves to helping the children of the poor. The supplement had a double-page spread of them in public procession, with their top hats and canes, but, disappointingly, no photos of their apparel when they conducted their secret ceremonies. The journalist had, however, met an anonymous firsthand source, who maintained that in their closed door rituals they wore costumes modelled on penitents in Spanish Holy Week: the Nazareno robe and the conical tipped hood, the capirote.
It was straight out of the Spanish Inquisition.
There was lots more about the Knights’ founder, Father Faber-Knox, but Dave couldn’t be bothered to read it.
Rather, he was thinking jealously about Greg’s sinister robes that turned Joy on, and how he could compete with him for her affections. The cape reminded him where he had seen even more sinister garments before, including a capirote hood.
Eleven years earlier in the apartment of radio DJ and TV star ‘Fabulous’ Keen.
* * *
It was while he was an errand boy for M&R Pell. Keen was a Knight of St Pancras, although Dave had never seen him at his church. Dave had to make a couple of deliveries to his penthouse in a purpose-built, nineteen-thirties block of private flats looking out over the Thames.
Fabulous, wearing a red suit with his trademark black Nehru collar, had signed for the delivery and winked at an open-mouthed, awed Dave. Awed, because Fabulous was a larger than life personality, a tireless charity worker, and one of the great DJs of the sixties. Seeing Fab’s famous smile at close quarters, with his engaging manner and his cool suit, Dave could understand why he was a national treasure.
The second time he had a delivery for him, he had carefully opened the package first and examined the contents. He still recalled the title page of the document inside: ‘Knights of St Pancras. Opening Ceremony. Closing Ceremony. Diagram of Lodge Room. Report of the Secretary. Order of Service.’ It didn’t sound very interesting to Dave, so he put it back in the envelope and sealed it. Fabulous wasn’t at home, so Dave hung around for a while, waiting for the great man. Then he glanced down at the giant pot plants on either side of his front door. Sure enough, there was a spare key under one of them.
The apartment had a look somewhere between the lair of a James Bond villain, and an airport departure lounge. The dazzling white, spacious, open plan living room had stunning views looking out over the Thames. At the far end, there was a sunken ‘conversation pit’, carpeted in orange shag. A huge chrome ball hung menacingly, but pointlessly, above it, with far too much gravitas to be a disco ball. At the other end, near the front door, was an impossibly long white leather sofa and a futuristic TV and radiogram. Or rather, the case was futuristic, shaped like a Picasso or Henry Moore sculpture. The TV inside was still black and white.
Dave found himself drawn to the paintings on the wall. They all seemed to be paintings of Mary Magdalene. In some, she was holy and fully clothed. In others, she was still holy, but half-clothed. There were similar statues of her, as well, arranged beneath the paintings, and, on a special display unit, in pride of place, stood a truly beautiful gold bust of the saint with yellow flowing hair and a candle placed on either side of her. However, her face had been replaced with a gruesome, grey, very old human skull that looked accusingly at Dave, giving him a scare.
The fifteen-year-old continued exploring the apartment. He didn’t see his intrusion as snooping: he saw it as sleuthing, although he didn’t know what he was sleuthing for. At that time, he was a Detective Without a Case.
It was the bar he was especially interested in. He had never seen so many fantastic drinks, in such amazing shaped bottles. Galliano sweet herbal liqueur, in a tall yellow bottle. White Malibu rum. Blue Bols. Green Curaçao liqueur. Crème de Cassis. Naranja. Mandarine Napoleon. Grand Marnier. And more. More impressive than his dad’s home brews.
Dave was wearing his mod fishtail parka, along with his desert boots and red socks, ready for when he was sixteen and could drive a scooter, so he decided he’d help himself to two of the bottles, and carry them in his huge side pockets. If Fabulous noticed they were missing, he’d probably think it was the cleaner. Dave figured he was so rich, and there were so many of them, he would never notice, anyway. But first he needed to sample them, to know which bottles he should help himself to.
He took a swig out of each one. That way, he would leave no signs he had been in the apartment. They all tasted brilliant. He had never mixed drinks before, and was pleasantly surprised to discover they had absolutely no effect on him, other than to make him feel happy and carefree. He wondered why adults were always warning him never to mix his drinks.
Then he checked out the bedroom. There was an impressive black leather water-bed. He’d never come across one before, so he tried it out and bounced up and down on it a few times. But the movement and the squelchy sound made him feel a bit seasick, so he quickly gave up on it. He looked around the rest of the room, but found it a little disappointing. The furniture was immaculate with expensive veneers, but it lacked personality, rather like a five star hotel room.
He opened the vast built-in wardrobe, expecting to see an array of colourful Nehru suits inside. But, as he slid back the door, he did a double-take at the terrifying object staring cruelly and menacingly out at him. An apparition of evil that seemed as if it was alive.
It was a sinister purple pointed hood, with white robes beneath. As much Klu Klux Klan as Spanish Inquisition. The baleful, black slit eyes seemed to bore into his very soul. He stared, fascinated, mesmerised, at the garment in its clear plastic, dry-cleaning bag.
Then he heard the sound of voices by the front door. He just had time to close the wardrobe door, and slip back to the lounge as he heard the key turn in the lock. He crouched down behind the long sofa as Fabulous Keen entered with a female companion.
‘Now relax, Brenda,’ Keen said, ‘You’re going to be fab. And you’re going to be famous.’
Dave took a sneaky look out round the side of the sofa and saw Keen was wearing a grey suit with black leather Nehru collar and shoulder pieces. The jacket was doubled breasted and fastened off-centre. He was very Doctor No. Very scary. Dave had heard him talk on the radio about his days as a bouncer in clubs, and how he’d ‘taken care of guys who were out of order’. Dave knew his presence in Keen’s apartment was very out of order.
He was afraid, terrified even, and yet, at the same time, a part of him, at least, was not afraid. An ice-cold calm had overtaken him, which was surprising; not the warm fuzzy feeling that might have been expected after so much alcohol. Perhaps it was because of the mantra he was repeating: ‘He chews Sherlock’s. We choose Sherlock’s …’ Or perhaps it was his inner demons that guided him. But, in a remote, dispassionate way, he was enjoying the drama as it unfolded, even as he wanted to shit himself.
He risked taking a peek at Keen’s companion, too, before ducking back behind the sofa. Brenda was a glamorous blonde, with a plunging cleavage and big hair, about 25-years-old. Old, in Dave’s eyes. Certainly her best years were behind her.
‘Here,’ said Fabulous. ‘This will calm your nerves.’ He poured her a Baileys. Dave could recommend it. It was one of the bottles he had been intending to steal. He was glad he hadn’t now.
‘But it’s a private event, Fab,’ Brenda replied. ‘How will it help my career?’
‘Because there will be very important people there. It’s your big opportunity, Brenda. You’ve moved on from “Saturday Night is Crumpet Night”.’
‘And you want me to dance, as well?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Fabulous reassured her. ‘We’ll be standing in a circle, watching you.’
‘But I get to keep my clothes on, don’t I?’
‘Some … It’ll be just like wearing your swimsuit.’
‘Oh, that’s all right then.’
Dave realised that he had seen Brenda before on the telly. She was Miss London, short-listed for the Miss England competition, and Fabulous had been one of the celebrity judges.
The drinks were making him feel queasy now, so he wasn’t paying full attention and he focussed, instead, on driving down that sicky feeling. When he returned to his eavesdropping and looked out at them, Keen was holding some kind of audition.
They were standing by the gold statue of Mary Magdalene with the skull. The candles were lit and Miss London was reciting from a piece of paper: ‘I am the Whore and the Holy One. I am the one whom they have called Life and you have called Death.’
She paused. ‘Is that all right, Fab …?’
‘Oh, yes,’ groaned Fab, his voice unusually dark and forbidding. ‘You are Death …’
There was a long pause. ‘So you really think I could make it as an actress, Fab?’ Miss London finally asked nervously.
‘I can get you a part in Danger Man, Brenda. Or, if you’re a very good girl … The Saint.’
‘The Saint? Oh, Fab! That would be fab!’ she squealed.
‘Right. My turn. Now stand behind the Magdalene as I speak the words of power, Brenda. Yes. Like that. Very good.’
Then he too recited, ‘They are the ones who are called Stranglers and those who roll souls down on the dirt and those who Scourge them and those who cast into the water and those who Cast into the Fire and those who bring about the Pains and Calamities of Men.’
He was reciting with great passion and Dave was surprised to see his smile was more like a rictus grin, as he continued. ‘For such as these are not from a divine soul, nor from a rational soul of man. Rather they are from the Terrible Evil.’
He placed particular emphasis on ‘Terrible Evil’ as he stared intently at Brenda causing her to ask, ‘Fab? Are you all right, Fab?’ There was no reply. Instead, he just stared at her with his strange grin.
‘Why are you looking at me like that, Fab …?’ she asked nervously. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
Fabulous snapped out of it. ‘I’m sorry. I was far away.’
‘Phew!’ she said. ‘You scared me there for a moment.’
He indicated the conversation pit and his smile returned to normal. ‘Come on. Now you can show me what a good girl you are, Brenda.’
‘All right,’ she giggled. ‘Could I have the gear first? It’ll help me relax.’
‘Sure,’ Fabulous smiled. He opened his briefcase and took out a paper bag. Dave saw it was marked ‘Timothy Whites the Chemists’.
But he couldn’t see what kind of medicine Fab was giving Brenda, because he suddenly needed some medicine himself. He needed to be violently sick. Saliva flooded his mouth and his guts gurgled and tightened, primed to spring into action. His body was not used to being a cocktail shaker. With a supreme effort of will, he swallowed the saliva back down and inhaled steadily through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. After a few calming breaths, his stomach relaxed; appeased, for the moment.
Meanwhile, Fabulous had put on some music and he and Brenda had moved to the conversation pit and were lost from view in its depths. But, by the sound of them, they had begun having sex as the record player played Dusty Springfield’s “Wishin’ And Hopin’”.
It was Dave’s chance to get away. The auto-changer selected Cilla Black’s “Anyone Who Had A Heart” as, screened by the sofa, and ignoring Brenda’s cries of passion, he crawled on his hands and knees towards the front door. He figured he could reach up, turn the handle and slip out without being noticed. But, as he began to put his plan into action, he suddenly, desperately, needed to throw up. And he knew, this time, his guts couldn’t wait.
But where? A nearby pot plant? If the DJ saw the puke there would be an investigation. He would not think it was the cleaner. There would be an investigation and they might work out it was him.
Fortunately, he had the answer. He vomited into a pocket of his parka as Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman” boomed out, drowning out the sound of his retching, and Brenda and Fab’s climaxes. The package for the DJ and Dave’s signature book were, fortunately, in his other pocket.
His stomach appeased, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and carefully closed the poppers on the now full and warm pocket. He didn’t want to leave a trail of vomit behind him. As he reached the end of the sofa, he checked that Fab and Brenda were still safely distracted.
Two spirals of post-coital cigarette smoke drifted up from the pit.
Yes, time to get away. He slunk out the door to the sound of “You’ll Never Walk Alone”. As always, his demons had been there for him. He regretted not taking those bottles; all he had to show for his visit was a pocket of sick.
He delivered the package the next day when he was sober, and obtained Keen’s signature.
‘What? No parka today?’ said Fabulous, now resplendent in a green and silver striped Nehru suit. ‘Given up being a mod, have you?’
Dave was too hungover to reply. Besides, he felt anything he said might somehow give him away. He smiled weakly.
‘Sensible lad. Be a rocker. They like violence.’ Keen clenched his fist and smiled cruelly. ‘Violence is the best way.’ He winked and closed the door.
Dave had put the spare key back under the pot plant, but not before making a copy of it, just in case it would be useful on some future occasion. After years of being locked out of houses and bedrooms in his formative years, he liked keys. It was not the only key he had made a copy of.
* * *
It was the following evening, in his office, after everyone had gone home, that Dave was able to continue his conversation with his mother. She sat opposite him, in Greg’s chair. ‘So you finally remembered about Fabulous Keen,’ she said, and sighed. ‘It was about time.’
‘You knew that I knew?’
‘I know everything that you know.’
‘Do I know everything that you know?’ he asked, intrigued.
‘No. There’s a lot you don’t know and you’re never going to know,’ she replied disdainfully.
‘I don’t know if he still lives in the same apartment. Do you?’
‘I’m sure he does,’ she said. ‘He’s a creature of habit.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Well, of course I knew him,’ she said disdainfully. ‘We go back a long way.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me before?’ he protested. ‘Or why didn’t I know?’
‘Because it doesn’t work like that.’
‘I thought I had complete recall now?’
‘You do. But we still have to sort through your memories. So I often have to wait until they’re prompted by something you see or hear.’
‘Consider them prompted. So what now? Is Fabulous Keen connected with your murder? He’s not actually the murderer, is he?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she snapped and got up and paced around the office.
‘Well, my money was on the Canon, and then Mr Cooper, but I’m very open to new possible suspects. Although it can’t really be Keen, of course.’
She turned and looked darkly at him. ‘And why not?’
‘Well, he does all that work for charity for a start. No. Fabulous is out of the question.’
Jean Maudling shook her head angrily. She looked at a drawing of the gormless Alf Mast on the wall that a reader had sent in. ‘You’re not much brighter than him, are you, son?’
‘Come on, mum. Fab is the star of The Keen Scene. He won an award from Mary Whitehouse for “wholesome family entertainment”. He can hardly be a murderer.’
‘We all have a dark side, Dave.’
‘But everyone loves him, Mum. Well … almost everyone.’
‘Almost?’ asked Jean as she lit a Park Drive.
Dave grinned. ‘I remember an episode of The Keen Scene going out live. Fab turns to his audience as usual and asks them, “Who’s keen?” And they all roar back “We are!”. Then Fab repeats: “Who’s keen?” And someone calls out, “You are, you cunt!” ’
Jean wasn’t amused. ‘If Keen found him, he’d have broken both his legs.’ She sat on the corner of his desk. ‘Now. D’you think we could possibly get back to business?’
‘Okay, but you do know I am not actually qualified to be a detective? I am, in fact, barely qualified to be an editor.’
‘Let’s try, shall we?’ said his mother impatiently, ‘What did you deduce from your visit to his apartment, Sherlock?’
‘I’m not sure I deduced anything, mum.’
‘Then let me help you,’ she sighed. ‘The secret ritual of Mary Magdalene …?’
‘Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember.’
‘They used that beauty queen the way they used me.’
‘You’re right. I never thought about it before.
‘You didn’t make that blindingly obvious connection?’
‘No, wait, I did, I did. Yes, of course I did.’
Dave had recalled in some detail the events in Fab Keen’s apartment, but the emotional significance of what he had seen and overheard had passed right over him. He was more interested in describing the colourful James Bond details of Fab’s apartment, remembering all the unusual drinks on display, he could even tell his mother the names of every single bottle, his recall was that good now, and reliving how he was violently sick and made his lucky escape.
‘Uh-huh,’ commented Jean. She waited expectantly for some emotional feedback on his recollections. When none was forthcoming, she prompted him with another ‘Uh-huh.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he cheerfully replied.
There was a long pause, then Jean concluded sadly, ‘It’s why you’re a boys comic writer, isn’t it, Dave?’
‘Eh?’ Dave was nonplussed.
‘Hardware. Uniforms. Action. Explosions. You love that sort of thing, don’t you?’
‘What if I do? What’s wrong with that?’ Dave looked defensively at her.
‘It’s why girls comics aren’t for you, are they, son?’ Dave’s brow furrowed in a puzzled frown. She ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘Because there’s nothing there. You’re just too shut down.’
‘You’ve completely lost me, mum.’
‘I know,’ she sighed.
‘Maybe I should start with the uniforms …?’ she said to herself. She stood up again. ‘Okay, let’s try that. Dave, what do those robes in Fab’s wardrobe tell you?’
He looked at her blankly. ‘The Inquisition?’ she prompted him. ‘Remember how your dad smashed the screen with a cricket bat when he saw the Inquisitor on the telly?’
‘But Sir John Gielgud wasn’t wearing a hood, mum,’ Dave corrected her. ‘However, I did like the one Fab puts on his head. It’s very scary. Actually,’ he mused, ‘I fancy wearing something like that myself.’
Jean shook her head in disbelief as she stubbed her cigarette out in Greg’s ashtray. ‘Why on God’s good Earth would you want to dress up like Torquemada?’
‘Who’s Torquemada, mum?’
‘The leader of the Spanish Inquisition.’
‘As in Monty Python’s “No one expects …”?’
‘It’s no laughing matter. When you see them all assembled in their robes in a circle, it’s terrifying.’
‘Well, Greg looked pretty cool in his. It impressed the hell out of Joy.’
Jean lit another cigarette, and looked quizzically at him. ‘D’you know, I sometimes think your stupidity – I would have said innocence, but you’re actually rather a nasty piece of work – protects you from the horrors of the real world.’
‘It’s handy isn’t it?’ grinned Dave, selecting a liquorice pipe from his sweet box. ‘I believe the technical term is arrested development.’
‘You think you’re Just William, or something? But it’s not a boys adventure, Dave. Keen is a dangerous man. I know.’ She grimaced as she recalled. ‘He’s done some terrible things.’
She looked up at the covers on the wall of the Caning Commando thrashing Germans and shuddered.
Dave followed her gaze. ‘He likes caning people?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. Her face was white as she drew heavily on her cigarette.
‘Actually, you know what I’m wondering, mum?’ said Dave, returning to his own train of thought.
‘About Keen being their leader?’ She brightened up as she circled around the desks, as agitated as Greg now. ‘Because he was ultimately responsible, of course.’
‘Yes, I was wondering …’
‘They would have needed his approval.’
‘Yes, yes,’ mused Dave, chewing on his pipe. ‘It should be possible.’
‘Go on,’ said Jean expectantly.
‘I was wondering about borrowing his costume to impress Joy? Because Spanish Inquisition robes definitely trump Mrs Thatcher’s cloak,’ he grinned.
His mother looked aghast. ‘What? No, Dave. No. That is not a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘Dave, are you serious?’
‘It would take some planning, of course.’
‘Planning?’
‘Yes. First, I have to think up a story for Joy. And choose the right time, like when Fab’s off on his travels for It’s a Fabulous World. I can check in The Radio Times.’
There was real fear on his mother’s face now. ‘Dave – he is a hard man. You do not mess with this man. Fabulous Keen is the Grand Master.’
‘I still have his key in my collection, mum. He’ll never know.’
Serial Killer by Pat Mills & Kevin O’Neill is the first book in the Read Em And Weep series and is on sale digitally or as paperback.