The Ladykiller (77 page)

Linette shut the door and laughed. She cracked the top and drank the whisky from the bottle.

‘That’s a lot of money you got there, honey.’

George took off his clothes and folded them neatly on a chair.

‘How much do you want?’

She liked his meekness. ‘I charge sixty dollars, the best lay you’re ever gonna get.’

George handed three twenty-dollar bills to her.

He watched the film for a moment. It was of a woman, a dog and a large black man.

Linette sat beside him on the bed. Pushing her breasts against his arm she stroked his flaccid penis. She wanted this over with as quickly as possible.

‘Come on, baby, Linette ain’t got all night.’

George could smell her sweat. Her hair was lying across his arm and he could see her rosy nipples. Her hand on his penis had deep red-painted nails. She looked just like his mother. She even smelt like his mother. He pushed her hand away from him impatiently.

‘Don’t touch me like that.’

George’s voice was hard. Linette fell backwards with the force of his push.

‘Who the hell you think you’re pushing, you little shit!’ Her natural antagonism was surfacing.

George faced her. She was standing now, the whiskey bottle still in her hand. Her legs were long and shapely in the green high heels. She took another long pull of the Jim Beam. George stood up and faced her.

She was just like his mother. Just like Natalie. They were all whores, every last one of them. Give themselves to anyone who had a couple of pounds. All women were the same. They were whores. Well, he knew what to do with whores, didn’t he? Hadn’t he shown them in Grantley? Grabbing her hair, he punched her in the face, putting all his weight behind the blow. He watched, a smile on his face, as Linette staggered backwards and fell against the wall. The blow had hit her in the mouth and she leant against the wall, her breasts heaving. She poked a little pink tongue out of her mouth and tasted the blood that was seeping from her lip. She watched warily as he walked towards her. He was naked and his stomach wobbled as he walked.

As he lifted his fist again Linette kicked out. George felt a stinging sensation and when he looked down he had a cut across his stomach.

Linette Du Bouverie kept a blade in the toe of each shoe, a trick she’d learned in prison.

That’s why Linette never took her shoes off. George watched the blood begin to run and looked at the woman in astonishment. He lurched at her, putting up his hands to seize her hair, and grabbed empty space.

Linette kicked out at him again. This time she caught his back. A long searing pain engulfed him. She had ripped the skin right across the kidney. It was a deep cut of half an inch. As he dropped to his knees Linette took another long pull of whiskey, then smashed the bottle against the chest of drawers by the bed. His back was bleeding profusely now.

Using all the strength that he could muster, George slammed his fist into her solar plexus. Linette doubled up as she tried to breathe. George pulled himself up to his feet; his hands were covered in blood.

On the screen, the black man, the woman and the dog careered around, impervious to what was going on.

‘You friggin’ creep, nobody hits me, nobody. Not you, not anyone.’ Her mouth was a twisted gash. This time the blade caught him across his thighs, the blood spurted out in crimson droplets, the skin opening slowly, as if shy about revealing the flesh beneath. George dropped to his knees once more, for the first time realising he was up against a will much stronger than his own. This woman was of the same calibre as his mother. Pulling his head back by his hair, Linette grinned at him as she brought the jagged edge of the Jim Beam bottle across his throat.

George dropped to the floor, his face turned towards the television. His last sight was of the woman grunting as the black man pushed his impossibly large member inside her, the little dog yapping as it ran around their bodies.

Linette sat on the bed, dropping the bottle on to the carpet. She placed a bloody hand on to her breast to stem the beating of her heart. Looking down at George, she drew her lips back from her teeth in disgust.

Linette had been physically and mentally abused all her short life. Her father had been the main offender, her brothers had followed his example. Her mother had turned a blind eye. When Linette had left home at fifteen, she had been thrust into a world where only her looks and her sex had been her saving graces. She had taken her first fix and turned her first trick within thirty-six hours of hitting the streets. Selling her body was all she could do. Allowing men a free licence with it was all she had ever known. But once she’d left home, Linette had always balked at being beaten. It was the thing she hated most. Sexually, she’d do anything for money. Anything. But a man or woman beating up on her was an admission of failure. If she could keep herself protected then she still had a certain amount of self respect. It was important to her. Her violent reputation had stood her in good stead over the last few years. A violent whore was not wanted by a pimp, a violent whore would not get robbed by another whore. The law of the streets was strength, and even though she was tiny, she was strong and she could look after herself. The man on the floor was nothing to Linette, he was a trick, a John, a means to an end. Without looking at him again she got up from the bed and went to the shower. She washed the blood from her body, then calmly got dressed, brushed her hair and repaired her make-up, feeling the slight swelling already around her eye. She took all George’s cash and traveller’s cheques. She left the credit cards; she’d quickly become a suspect if she tried to use them. Taking one last look at herself in the mirror, she left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. Ten minutes later she was at Elvis’s, George’s eight hundred dollars assuring her of a very warm welcome. As she pushed the needle into her arm, she felt the first waves of euphoria rushing to her brain; she breathed in deeply and let the good feelings flow.

George Markham was already gone from her mind.

Duane Portillo watched Linette walk from the hotel. He sat up in his seat and waited for George to emerge. But George did not come out.

George still lay on the floor of the motel room, still staring, vacant eyed, at the blue movie. The blood had long ceased pumping. The girl on the film seemed to be staring back at him, her face a mask of pretended pleasure.

But George couldn’t see her. It was a shame really. He would have loved it.

Edith was getting worried. They had got back from the airport and George was nowhere to be seen. Every time she heard a car she rushed to the window to see if it was him.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Edith, he’s a grown man,’ Joss told her. ‘He’s probably gone out for a beer and got talking to someone.’

She did not bother to answer. She tutted. Imagine thinking George would get talking to someone. Sometimes she didn’t think that Joss realised just what was going on around him. George talking to strangers indeed!

Natalie kissed them good night and went up to bed. Edith watched her walk up the stairs and felt the pride she always felt in her children.

She had done well for them. She had always looked after them and protected them.

The police answered the call at eleven thirty. The hotel manager had dragged his eyes away from the television set at eleven twenty to go and rout out room number 14. They had been in there for over five hours. He now had another couple who wanted the room. He asked them to wait and went up and knocked on the door.

It was deathly quiet.

He unlocked the room with his master key. He was not too shocked at what he found. He told the couple to come back another time, and hid George’s credit cards before he phoned the police.

Edith was informed at twelve ten precisely.

Duane Portillo watched the proceedings before he left the scene. He went straight to Shaun O’Grady with his story. Shaun scratched his head in bewilderment.

‘You mean the guy you was gonna kill has been killed! By a goddam whore, for Chrissakes!’

Duane nodded. He couldn’t quite believe it himself.

Shaun O’Grady saw the funny side.

‘Well, who the hell would credit that?’

Duane Portillo laughed too. It sure had been a weird day.

Kate was helping Lizzy sort out what clothes she was taking. Since she had been dropped from the Grantley Ripper case, she had tried to assume an air of nonchalance but it had gradually been slipping away from her.

‘Mum?’

‘What, love?’

Lizzy turned her mother to face her.

‘What’s wrong really? Have you had a tiff with Patrick?’ Kate felt an urge to cry and laugh at the same time. A tiff? Lizzy sat on her bed and looked at her mother.

‘Please tell me what’s wrong with you, Mum. I can’t stand seeing you so unhappy.’

Kate looked into the dark eyes so like her own and felt a rush of love for her daughter.

As she tried to speak her voice broke and Lizzy pulled her into her arms. Kate sobbed her heart out on her daughter’s shoulder.

Somewhere a little voice was saying that this was wrong. That it was she who should be comforting her daughter. But it felt so good to have someone to hold her, and kiss her hair, and tell her everything was going to be all right. Even though she knew in her heart that nothing would ever be all right again. That all she had wanted and held dear was destroyed. That she had been used by a man she loved so desperately that she would still have him now, if he came to her.

Lizzy stroked her mother’s hair and sighed gently. It felt good to be able to help her for once; to feel that she was in control of the situation. That her mother could let down her defences and admit that she was not Wonder Woman, that she had problems too.

It made her seem more human somehow.

Lizzy knew with the awareness of womankind that she could help her mother by holding her and loving her. For the first time ever, they were equals. They had healed a breach that spanned fifteen years. In spite of all her heartache, it felt good to Kate. It felt very good.

Later on, in her lounge with her mother and Lizzy, Kate heard the shock statement on News at Ten. She was drinking a bacardi and coke, having just got out of the bath. Lizzy had run it for her, filling it with the fragrance of lavender to make her feel calmer.

She had needed all her calm when Sandy Gall started speaking.

‘A British tourist was murdered today in Florida by a prostitute. George Markham was savagely slashed to death and his throat cut. From the reports we have had in so far, Mr Markham, who was fifty-one years old, had been wanted by the British police in connection with the murders of six women and a child. He is believed to have been the Grantley Rapist. The police here have confirmed that they wanted to interview him on his return from Florida.

‘In the Lebanon today . . .’

‘Jesus suffering Christ!’ Evelyn’s voice was shocked and low.

Kate stared at Sandy Gall’s face for a moment. Then, jumping from her seat, she went to the hall and phoned Caitlin’s home number. It was answered on the second ring.

‘I take it you’ve heard the news, Katie?’

‘It’s true then?’

‘Oh, it’s true all right. It seems he got his comeuppance. He was murdered by a known prostitute called Linette something or other. She told police that he attacked her and it was self-defence.’

Kate nodded into the phone, forgetting Caitlin couldn’t see her.

‘Are you still there, Kate?’

‘Yes. Oh, Kenny, I feel such a fool.’

She heard the smile in his voice as he answered. ‘I told you not to jump in at the deep end, but you wouldn’t listen, would you?’

‘No.’

‘Look, Katie, have another few days off. I’ll speak to Flowers for you. You’re a good policewoman and I know he doesn’t want to lose you. Now this Ripper thing is over, I think we can all relax.’

Kate said goodbye and hung up.

She felt such a blasted fool. She had accused Patrick Kelly of trying to murder the man. She had gone to his house and shouted her mouth off. She could hear everything she’d said and her face burned with humiliation.

He must feel disgusted with her. And who in their right mind could blame him?

She put her head against the coolness of the wall and sighed. Everything had gone wrong and it had been her fault. She was suspended from work, but more importantly to her she had botched up the only chance of real happiness she’d had.

As Patrick would say, she was a 24-carat fool.

Her mind was filled with thoughts of the nights she had spent with him. The excitement. The closeness. The shared love.

He had told her he loved her, and how had she repaid him?

Patrick took the call at seven fifteen.

Willy watched him exclaim: ‘You’re joking!’

O’Grady’s voice crackled over the line.

‘No, Pat, it was a classic, I tell you. I waited until I could get the full facts before phoning you. The man picked up a prostitute on the Orange Blossom Trail. That’s Florida’s answer to Soho, you know. Well, it seems things got a bit out of hand and he attacked her. That’s always a whore’s defence, of course: The man attacked me, so I pulled a knife, a gun, whatever.

‘By all accounts she said she never reported it to the police because she knew that they wouldn’t believe her. When it came on CNN today that the man was wanted in England as a serial killer, this place went wild. The woman’s a frigging national heroine, for Chrissakes.’

‘Jesus, I can’t believe what you’re telling me. Markham murdered my daughter. I would have followed him to the ends of the earth. But to have that happen to him . . . I mean, it’s just unbelievable.’

O’Grady’s voice was quiet.

‘Believe it, buddy. He’s dead. Now you just go on living your life. I’ll see that the money’s returned to you tomorrow. I’ve got to give my guy something though. He still trailed him, you know.’

‘Anything you say, Shaun.’

Kelly replaced the receiver and stared at it for a few seconds as if not sure he had really had the call.