Sinister Music
By Sooz006
- 1126 reads
Sinister Music
The ice cream van drove into the road where the driver flicked a switch to send a jingle out through the PA and in through every open window on the street. When it stopped, he spoke into a microphone, his voice echoed down the road with a disturbing resonance.
‘Fresh today our beautiful creamy ice cream driven here through the night all the way from sunny Scunthorpe.’
Bev laughed, Sunny Scunthorpe. It sounded like Riveting Rivington or Exciting Exmoor. Her laugh caught in her throat; after all, there was nothing to laugh about, was there?
She was on the pavement, drawn from her chair by the music. It wasn't like other ice cream van jingles with happy tinkling sounds and a familiar, safe tune. It was discordant; jarring. Her hair rose along the ridge of her spine, each erect follicle triggering the next as it crept up her back like a caterpillar.
The man opened his hatch and waited for the children to run from their homes with pound coins clutched in their hot, sweaty hands.
Bev moved forwards with the rush of children. She was drawn towards the van and tried to look at the driver. It was important that she saw his face, but she had no idea why. She was too late, he’d already pulled away. The jingle played over and over in her head. She couldn't rid herself of it. It was sinister.
She woke swathed in the damp seepage of her fractious body. The sheet tangled around her hot legs and torso. Her mind was encumbered. She was bothered by something but didn’t know what. Feeling as though she’d had no sleep at all, she stumbled towards the shower, dawdling too long beneath the needles of stinging water. Then she flew inevitably into a headlong rush to get to work, running to the car, briefcase in one hand, half-eaten piece of toast in the other. She cursed her tardiness. If she was lucky she’d make it to work by the skin of her teeth.
She was a rising star in the legal world, a barrister with three years service at the prestigious firm Lovelock, Crabtree and partners. This time next year she aimed to be one of those partners when old Crabapple retired. Her day was predictable. The trial that she was defending dragged into the afternoon; a weight of medical evidence bore down on the courtroom like an anvil. It could go either way, but when she called Johnson, the man who had assaulted her client—allegedly—she was confidant that she could tip the balance in their direction. The way she saw it, he put his balls under that brick when he took advantage.
That night, Bev watched the evening news. She tutted at the tragic news; another child's broken body had been found in a ditch, eight hours after she’d been reported missing in Scunthorpe.
The reporter said that the police had every reason to believe that this was the sixth victim of the media-named ‘Bedtime Beast.’ The children all disappeared between seven and half eight at night. Their bodies—with the exception of one that was found four days later—had all been left in open places, and were found the morning after their disappearance. The killer signed his work by leaving a blindfold teddy bear beside each of the little girls' bodies
She couldn't get the report out of her mind. It was horrible that little girls were being killed, but that wasn't what niggled. She couldn't place it; something about the murders, something that the smarmy man with the six-foot smile said. Her mind returned to summing up in the courtroom the next day. That was normal; work was never far away from the forefront of her mind. But tonight, that blasted news report kept barging into her thoughts like the elusive title of a song that you can't remember but can't stop humming. A tune! Something about a tune. But what tune? What something?
Padding to the kitchen in her fluffy slippers, she made a cup of coffee and a toasted teacake. This is the life, she thought, no man to cook for; I can choose not to eat a proper meal whenever I feel like it, but she wasn’t convincing. She’d grieved her broken marriage, until, three weeks earlier, the divorce was absolute and Ken had married his peroxide floozy. Rochelle, the epitome of the lycra miniskirts and cellulite. She sipped her coffee in his armchair. Commandeering it was an act of defiance. It was her chair now and she’d even stopped sniffing it to see if any trace of him lingered.
The tinkle of Greensleeves cut through her melancholy.
The ice cream van came into the street every night. It reminded her of something. She let her mind drift with the tune until the happy melody changed. Its notes elongated and warped like a cassette player running a stretched tape. The tune changed to one she’d not heard before; it was discordant, sounded eerie and wrong.
In her mind's eye she was on a pavement in the bright sunlight of an early summer evening.
***
She was cold and shrank into the pile of the chair. Her mind ran the cine film of her dream and she felt melancholy settling over her. The ice cream man in the dream talked into his distorted microphone and she jolted back to reality when he mentioned the word Scunthorpe.
Scunthorpe; it wasn’t a word that cropped up often, but she’d heard it recently; what was it? It didn’t come to her easily. She had to fight for it, dredging the information to the forefront of her mind. It was mentioned in the news report about the murdered child. She remembered the feeling that she had in the dream and how it made her feel sad.
***
She had another bad night.
It all rested on the verdict and she wasn't sure about the fourth juror from the left. The rest were eating out of her hand, but the lady with the steely eyes concerned her. Bev performed, swooping viciously on selected evidence like an eagle on a rat. Her voice resonated, the tail at the back of her wig bobbed as she drove home every point with sledgehammer efficiency. The defendant knew he was doomed and slumped in his seat. His attorney had all but given up and drew Bart Simpson doodles on his notepad.
She was on a roll. ‘Members of the jury, look at the damaged woman before you. Six months ago this was a woman who…’ She heard an ice cream van in the distance and stopped, her train of thought lost.
She was on the pavement in front of an ice cream van trying to get a close look at the face of the vendor. He talked, his voice crackling through the PA system. ‘Come and try our delicious creamy ice-cream driven here through the night, all the way from Wonderful Workington.’
She’d had that strange dream again through the night and it had just come back to her. This time the man had shouted out the name of a different northern town. He must have changed his suppliers she thought.
‘Ms. Collins? Ms. Collins? Are you all right?’ She shook her head. The judge's voice came to her down a long corridor lined with marshmallows. She couldn't focus; the word 'Workington' ran through her mind, not allowing any other thoughts to force their way through.
‘Ms. Collins, if this is one of your theatrical tactics to gain the sympathy of the jurors I won't stand for it in my court. Do you understand?’
‘Of course, I’m sorry, your honour,’ she mumbled, snapping out of it.
The mood was broken, the jurors were restless and court was adjourned until nine thirty the next morning. Bev was furious. It was the last thing she wanted. She cursed not having had a proper meal the night before and vowed that she would eat sensibly when she got home so that she could grab them by the throats and regain their interest and sympathies the next morning. Another half hour of summing up and she would have had the case in the bag. Half an hour of deliberations and she was sure that they would have returned a verdict of guilty as hell. Now she’d lost the momentum and would have to spend an hour building up the tension. Something the judge may not sit kindly by and agree to. What the hell had happened to her in there?
She let herself into the flat and the strong afternoon sun had warmed the room to the temperature of a low lit oven. The sun had also warmed Minty the cat’s gift, allowing its aroma to permeate the flat. Bev's empty stomach heaved. She found the stinking stalagmite tall and proud amidst the soil of her living room yucca. Plants are not given to sulking or flamboyant shows of temperament but this one looked displeased. It didn't meow to be watered so rarely got any. Bev put the droopy leaves down to the fact that, like most of us, it objected to being crapped on.
Life’s full of crap and chocolate, she mused, the trick is to differentiate between the two.
Bev yelled for Minty, each bellow a crescendo of swelling decibel and vehemence. The cat chose to remain out of sight. After clearing the misdemeanour and flinging open every window in the flat, she cooked a substantial meal. She hadn't had time for toast that morning, she hadn’t eaten since lunch the previous day so she cooked pasta with a pesto and topped it with sautéed mushrooms and onions and just a small sprinkling of grated cheese for colour.
Her evening followed the same pattern as every other night. It was lovely out; she washed up and went for a walk in the park. Later she read, had a bath and was in her pyjamas by nine, to get an early night for court the next morning.
The news reported that another child was missing. The media was speculating that it was the work of the Bedtime Beast. The child had only been missing three hours and they wasted no time in getting their hooks into this one. The parents must be frantic, she thought, the last thing they needed was confirmation of their own fear. Bev's blood sugar level plummeted as shock the registered. The child had gone missing in Workington.
Three thoughts formed a queue for processing. They waited patiently until Bev could concentrate on something other than the warping face of the newsreader as he loomed in and out of focus. The first of these was, I'm going to be sick. The second was, ‘He's making his way up the country towards Scotland. And the third was, Oh God, I really am going to puke.
Bev flew to the magazine rack and blessed Mary, Joseph and all the saints for her slovenly nature. It hadn't been emptied for over a week and every morning a new tabloid was added to the pile. She spread the papers on the floor, splaying their innards and picking out relevant articles. She discarded the rest in an untidy pile beside her.
Minty spying a new game in progress padded cautiously out of hiding and lunged at the papers with unsheathed claws. The cat rolled on her back with a sheet of newspaper rustling between her feet. She writhed in ecstasy kicking and ripping at the paper with her hind legs as her front paws held it firmly in position. Had the cat not chosen that piece of discarded paper to kill, Bev might have noticed a two column advert drumming up punters for the Edinburgh festival. Had she seen the advert, it would’ve been insignificant to her at that time.
But less than twenty miles away somebody had seen the advert in the newspaper and was cutting it out and sticking it in the scrapbook of newspaper cuttings and pictures of pretty little girls.
Bev had four articles on the carpet. If only she’d kept more papers, she thought, swatting carelessly at the relentless cat as it walked over the pages and rolled on its back for attention. Bev wanted to get her initial impressions down, she grabbed a pencil and pad from the telephone table. And wrote:-
Coventry
Birmingham
Liverpool
Runcorn
Scunthorpe
Workington
She remembered the face of the first little girl, but couldn't recall where she’d disappeared. She was sure it was somewhere in Devon or Cornwall. She was right, he was moving steadily up the country. The police would have already worked it out for themselves. What could she tell them? They’d have her committed or send her away with a reprimand for trying to get notoriety in a murder hunt. There were people who did that. Some confessed to murders they didn’t commit, just to be noticed.
She couldn’t go to the police with what she had. But what if another child died and she hadn’t tried to do something? Lucy Prescott was out there somewhere—possibly with a vile killer. She might already be dead Bev heard the child’s cries in her head. She didn’t have much, but maybe the police could pull something out of the information to work with.
She dialled the number. The phone rang twice and she slammed it down before the police station could pick up. She couldn't explain something like this over the phone. Flinging on a pair of jeans and a shirt she discarding her crumpled Pyjama's on the bedroom floor. The phone rang and she ignored it, a feeling of tremendous urgency hounded her as she ran her fingers through tangled hair, it was still damp from her bath and she didn’t stop to brush the cotters out. In the living room she played hunt the car keys. She spread debris from ornamental bowls and containers, fuses, lighter, odd sock, Tampax, paper clips, a wealth of useful material—but no car keys. She found them on the floor by the wilting yucca plant. The phone rang again as she ran from the room. She slammed the door behind her.
As she sped down the road, a police car was turning in. The officer noticed that she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. He. They'd had a call through to the desk. Probably some bird having a domestic with her boyfriend threatened to call the police and then thought better of it but they had to check it out. The address was listed as a Miss Beverley Collins. Police constable Bill Haynes was about to continue into the car park when the Vauxhall containing the unbelted woman blatantly ran a red at the lights, narrowly missing a white Fiesta coming across the intersection. Flicking on his lights he pursued the woman. She was pretty fit and the woman in the flats was probably a seventy year old spinster with a yappy Yorkshire terrier and her teeth in a jar on the sink. He Picked up the car mic and passed his original duty. He was closing in on the car so he flicked his sign telling her to pull over.
‘Shit,’ hang on, she thought what am I cursing for. This is just what I need. Easing the car to a stop, she turned off the ignition, opened the door and stepped into the lay-by shutting the door behind her. She hadn't picked up a jacket and she shivered in her thin shirt.
‘Good evening, officer. I’m glad to see you, you see you’ve just saved me a trip?’
‘Step away from your vehicle, please.’ Bill sucked in his stomach and sauntered over. ‘I hope you’ve got some good answers for me, because I certainly have one or two questions for you.’ He’d taken his notebook out of his pocket, made a display of flicking it to a relevant page and licked his pencil, although he had no intention of writing and making anything official? Well not yet, anyway. ‘Name please? He pulled his eyes to meet hers. He had the merest glimpse of erect nipples forcing their shape through the material of her top. She was a looker all right, but she could take a bit more care of her appearance. Her hair was unkempt and fell about her face in soft tatters. She'd be ok if she did herself up. Bill liked to be seen with good looking women, eye candy that drew appreciative glances.
‘I'm Beverley Collins, but listen, this is more important than my bad driving, I think somebod’s going to be murdered and it might already be too late.’
He wasn't paying attention to her words, only to the lilt of her voice. ‘Okay, Miss Collins, all in good time. Do you have your driving licence to hand please?’ She smelled of foam bath and expensive hair products. Damn she smelled good.
‘I was on my way to the station when you stopped me. I have to tell you about the little girl before it's too late.’ Bill Haynes lowered the pad. She had his attention. ‘What little girl? Is your child in trouble?’
‘No, not my child. The little girl on the news. The one that’s gone missing.’ Bill felt his heartbeat step up a gear. If this woman knew something it could be the break he'd been waiting for for fifteen years. This would make them take notice of him. If he brought a national investigation to his department they’d be sure to give him promotion.
‘Right, Miss Collins. Come and sit in the car and tell me about it.’ He’d claim total credit. Once they were seated in the car he wrote in his notepad, beginning with Bev's name and address. It was the woman who’d phoned the station. Bill patted himself on the back for going with his instinct and being an astute police officer. Bev's knee was only an inch from his, but his focus had shifted and he barely noticed. Her aroma was cloying in the close confines of the car. It mingled with the rancid smell of his eight-hour sweat. Thoughts of sexual conquest were the farthest thing from his mind. He wanted promotion so much that he could almost feel the stripe digging into his shoulder. His mind raced ahead; maybe she was the beast's lover. Today was his lucky day, he felt it.
‘It's difficult to know where to start, really.’
Bill switched roles for the third time. He plastered a fatherly expression on his face, thought about patting her paternally on the knee, and then thought better of it, and said. ‘Don't you worry, I'm here to listen. You just start and the beginning and let it all come out.’ He cursed the fact that there were no tissues in the car, she was bound to cry, they always did. He resisted the urge to tap his fingers on his notebook come on, come on, he thought, cut to the chase.
‘Well this is probably going to sound crazy but?’
Warning bells rang, if there was one thing a policeman didn't like, it was statements that sounded crazy.
‘He’s an ice cream vendor,’ she said with authority.
‘Who is, the Bedtime Beast?’
‘That's right.’
Bill scribbled the vital piece of information in his pad. His mouth was dry and he swallowed several times to lubricate it. She knew him. This was great. ‘What's his name? Where does he live? Does he live with you? Where would he be at this time of day? Is he armed?’
Bill fired off questions The microphone hung from the police radio, not long now and he could call the information that would make him the most famous officer in the country, but not before he was in position outside the murderer's house.
‘I'm sorry I don't have any of that information yet, but I think I might be able to get it in a night or two. You see I've been having these dreams.’
‘Oh don't you worry about that my love. I'm sure we can get you some counselling when it's all over and we've got the Ba…the perpetrator.’
‘You don't understand; please listen to what I'm trying to tell you. I’ve been dreaming about the killings before or during the event.’
‘You don’t know him?’
‘No.’
‘And you haven’t got any hard evidence?’
‘No, just the dreams.’
‘Just the dreams,’ he repeated. He wanted to slap the bitch, he clenched his fist and secured his grip around the pencil. His mouth lost the benevolent smile and flattened into a cruel, thin line as he saw his coveted promotion slipping away along with the splendour of fame and glory.
Dreams! God dammed dreams, for Christ sake. He tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he said stiffly. ‘Well Miss Collins, why don't you tell me about these dreams of yours eh? It was all he could do to keep from throwing the pad and pencil out of the car's window in disgust.
Bev steeled herself, she’d expected scepticism, hadn't she? She spoke to him in crisp, clear tones, outlining everything she’d experienced. Haynes barely concealed his boredom. He wanted to get the crazy slag out of his car, finish his shift and loose himself in as many pints of beer as he could get down before closing time. He was going to have this stupid cow though; she was going to pay for this.
‘Look at it from my position,’ he drawled, not bothering to conceal his sarcasm. ‘I'd like to take this—information—to my super, but lady I'd be the laughing stock of the men's room. You come back when you’ve got a name, address and a sperm sample and I'll be the first one to listen to you, love.’ He grinned condescendingly and his next words dripped from his tongue like venom from a milked viper's fang. ‘Now then, Miss, about these traffic violations.’
She’d had been patient and sand was sifting through the hourglass, for all she knew, the last grain might have fallen onto the slag heap in the bottom globe. She felt her patience snap with an almost audible crack in her head.
‘You listen to me, Jerk off, you can give me as many tickets as you like but the second I'm out of this stinking car, I'm going straight over your head to your superiors, I will be taken seriously. That little girl might be dead by now and what are you doing about it? Absolutely sod all. You might be right, I could be full of shit, but what if I’m not. You might be able to do something to save that kid, can you take the chance that I’m wrong?’
Bill Haynes was a dick. By the time he’d finished his power trip, Bev had been sitting in the police car for twenty minutes.
Twenty valuable minutes but who would take her seriously on the scant information she had. What if she was wrong? Could it be a coincidence. As she drove to the police station, she doubted herself almost as much as the copper had doubted her.
It was a stroke of sheer luck that she got past the desk officer. Haynes radioed ahead and had laughed with John about the crazy tart claiming to be a psychic. They had seen it all before. John Anderson was ready to intercept her. Bonking Bill was right. Nice tits. The shift ended in thirty minutes and he still had the duty log to fill in.
Bev was threatening the desk sergeant with serious consequence when Superintendent, James Morris came into the foyer. He heard her voice cutting through the air like a switchblade and smiled. He’d seen her slice through people with her tongue. He’d never seen her looking quite like this, though. Her nickname was Casius because she floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee and she was currently stinging poor old Anderson who was standing behind the desk with his mouth opening and closing but not being able to get a word in edgeways.
‘Miss Collins and to what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘It's no pleasure, inspector, I assure you. May I have a few moments of your time please? It's a matter of great importance.’
‘In that case, you have my undivided attention.
Anderson two coffee's in my office pronto.’
Inspector Morris listened to Bev's story with more respect than either of the other two police officers. Morris was thinking about the Sumner trial, it was nearing its finale and the stress on the key players must be tremendous. His first thought was that Collins was on the verge of some sort of stress related breakdown, and yet, she seemed lucid enough.
She made him promise to at least look into the possibility of it being an ice cream vendor. He had nothing on the case and he had to show the commissioner that things were moving. Bev promised to contact him if anything else came to her. They smiled politely at each other and they shook hands and he escorted her out to the street and watched her walk to her car with a worried expression.
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Comments
Is there a part two to this,
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Hi Sooz. I'm glad you're
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