Little Fingers! Read online

  Little Fingers!

  by

  Tim Roux

  Published by Night Publishing, Smashwords edition

  Copyright 2007, Tim Roux

  ISBN 978-1-4581-0754-1

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form.

  All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

  To discover other books by Tim Roux, please go to http://www.nightpublishing.com/id13.html.

  Chapter 1

  “I know you know the answer. I am absolutely bloody convinced of it. I can taste it.”

  You leant forward towards me over your beer, Inspector, and your brown alcohol fumes plumed around my nose. Ten years earlier, you would have been smoking. You used to smoke forty a day, you told me.

  You were looking sad and troubled, and defiant, as usual. Determined in the face of habitual defeat. In your world, no outcome is ever good, but you are driven to get there by the shortest route anyway. That is what makes you a policeman. You have the mind of a drill bit.

  “You don't know you know the answer, Julia, not yet. You may have a lurking suspicion. You may even have it all worked out subconsciously. We have to unlock your brain to solve this mystery. There is a serial killer out there. He is living in that brain of yours as an unrecognised memory, a shadowy computation, and he must be stopped. You can stop him. You have to concentrate, but on something else, to get there. These repressed truths have to be approached obliquely. What do you do to relax?”

  Your voice sounded earnest and professional, but your thoughts were sliding up my thighs. They went all the way. I always know what you are thinking. A few hours in the sack with me, and you might have both a climax and a result. I wasn't prepared to try it then. It was not that I wanted to deny you, only that I could not face losing Mary. She is so fragile, and so honest. I cannot hurt her.

  Do you remember the first time we met, when you arrested me for Tom Willows' murder? You came to my front door and knocked. My first glimpse of you was as a frosted shadow through the glass door panelling, swaying slightly. I opened the door, and you turned to me, a grey, pock-marked face, grey eyes, grey hair curling greasily and untidily - someone I would normally not have noticed with any sense of appreciation.

  “Are you Miss Julia Blackburn?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “May I come in?”

  “You may have to say who you are first.”

  “Apologies, Miss Blackburn.” You showed your police identity. It could have been almost any piece of identity, except for the stock exchange security badge, which I would have recognised. “Police.”

  “Police?”

  “Yes, Miss Blackburn. I would like to have a word with you, if I may.”

  I was thinking “Police? Police? Driving offence? Dog licence? Being a nuisance to the neighbours, but I am as quiet as a ghost. Why the police?”

  You instinctively seemed to know where the sitting room was (left into the hallway, and left again). Or perhaps you already knew the house.

  “Please sit down, Officer.”

  “Inspector,” you corrected me. I do not know the difference between an officer and an inspector. Isn't an inspector an officer? It seemed to matter to you.

  “Inspector John Frampton.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Inspector.” I know that it is always wise to be polite to the police.

  “Miss Blackburn……………….”

  “Yes.”

  “I have just come from Tom Willows' house on the green. I believe that you know Tom Willows.”

  It was less than a loaded question.

  “Indeed, I have just come from there myself. Well, an hour ago. Maybe two. One-and-a-half.”

  “You saw Mr. Willows this afternoon?”

  What was this? When I had left Tom, he was lazily dissolving into a satiated sleep.

  “Were you at Tom Willows' house around two hours ago?” you repeated. Beyond those nondescript grey eyes I could detect a killer instinct lurking. Well, it was nothing to do with me. I was innocent in relation to this line of questioning.

  “Yes.”

  “You are sure.”

  “I am absolutely sure.”

  “In that case, Miss Blackburn, I must ask you to accompany me to the police station and warn you that anything you say may be taken down, and may be used as evidence at your trial.”

  “Inspector, I do not have a fucking clue what you are talking about.” The use of the swear word startled you momentarily.

  “I arrest you for the murder of Tom Willows this afternoon.”

  I fainted.

  When I came to, I was still in my house, lying on the sofa with you, Inspector John, and two uniformed policemen hovering over me.

  You said something, but I could not immediately lock into your speech patterns. Then you were helping me to sit up against a pile of my red super-sized, soft cushions, and you had placed a mug of sweetened tea into my hands. I assume that you were doing this by First Aid numbers. When a suspect faints, lay her out flat, and make sure that all the air passages are clear. Monitor her pulse. When she comes to, encourage her to drink a cup of warm sugared tea, except that you made it a mug. In my limited experience of the police, everything is done by numbers and according to procedure. How can you live that way? Does it make you feel re-assured to be free from any degree of discretion, other than to shock me into a head-crunching faint with the starkly-delivered news that the man I had left in great contentment two hours beforehand was dead, and that I was to be charged with his murder?

  I noticed some fluff on the carpet, and traces of peanut shells. A larger ball of fluff, and a smaller trailing one, crumbs of white outer-shell interspersed with red speckles. Why does it take the presence of strangers to make me to want to clean the house?

  You did not apologise for your clumsiness. You stood there patiently for me to become sufficiently compos mentis to be driven down to the police station. Gargoyle threw his small sausage body on top of me, and lay looking at me from the comfort of my stomach.

  I heard one policeman say to the other “That must be the ugliest dog I have ever seen.” The man passing this judgment was several barrels of beer overweight, and otherwise undersized and sweaty. I laughed. Gargoyle looked round to scrutinise him, and turned back towards me.

  In your mind, Inspector, I could hear many thoughts churning and fluttering, declaring that you were no longer sure of yourself. You had walked through the door with a betting certainty, and now the evidence was sifting away. You were watching my every move and expression, and I was watching your grey, dead eyes. You were like a fish staring into an aquarium. I was a human being drowning inside it. We were both fighting for breath.

  After about ten minutes, you led me to the car. There were several bystanders loitering in asymmetrical groups. I did not know any, except by sight. “What shall we do about your dog?” you asked me.

  “You can come and feed him here, morning and night,” I replied.

  “I do not believe that we offer a dog sitting service in this police force,” you remarked sardonically.

  “You don't offer much of a police service, either,” I responded. “If you were doing your job properly, I would not need a dog sitter.” I had given up on being polite to the police.

  “Don't you have a neighbour you could ask?”

  “If you had given me more notice, quite possibly. Should I wander around the village asking some friends?”

  “OK, we will deal with it.”

  “I hope that you will put more effort into it than that. Gargoyle is a very good fri
end, and does not deserve to be worried. He must be given the impression that all is well.”

  It is strange how, even in the most adverse circumstances, even when every gun in the room is trained upon you, you can take control. I was so angry with you, that I was determined to make your life hell.

  I attacked you all that evening, and over the next day, until you were convinced of my innocence. I was not afraid of you. I wanted to rip your throat out. One might have assumed that this insight into my aggressive nature could have reinforced your belief in my guilt. After all, you had arrested me for murder, and who more likely to have committed that murder than a hot-tempered person who had left the victim's house only minutes before he was killed? Instead, it convinced you of my innocence. You work at an emotional logical level, not at a rational one. Truly intelligent people do.

  So, after twenty hours, alternately inquisitioned and abandoned in that bare, tatty, third-world police station, I was released back to my home. I did not reach for the whisky bottle. I drank warm, sweet tea, and reflected on why police stations are so scary. I decided that it is because they are so devoid of care and attention that you get the terrifying impression that if that is the way they treat their environment, how will they treat you?

  * * *

  Over the months, we became not quite friends, but at least regular acquaintances and conspirators. Mary no more comes to the pub with me than she does with Frank, and I like lunchtime pubs, at least once a week. So, we sat down together as apparent outsiders to the village, and we talked, and watched the indigenous of Hanburgh discussing us.

  I became an insider to your thoughts, more so than you ever realised, because I can hear so much of what you are thinking.

  Frankly, we were both lost. Events were unravelling around us, and we could not individuate the causes. We knew whom we liked and disliked. We loathed Mary Knightly and her father, Dr. Berringer. We loved Mary (Maloney) of course, and Brenda behind the bar. We suspected George Knightly, and were devastated when he died, and our only hunch was blown apart. Tony James was a contender, but we never really believed in him.

  One day, you placed your empty pint glass carefully onto the beer mat, leant back in your chair with your hands up around the back of your head, arms out like wings, and declared “The way things are going, Julia, it is either you or me. And it isn't me.”

  “And it isn't me.”

  That is when you leant forward towards me and said “Julia, I know you know the answer. I am absolutely bloody convinced of it. I can taste it.”

  * * *

  Following your hunch, you consulted a psychologist to find out how best I could be helped to surface my subconscious understanding of events in the village. She suggested that I be encouraged to describe these events in a stream of consciousness. If I could be persuaded to write a book…………..

  So, you asked me to sit down and write out everything I know about Hanburgh village from when I first arrived there until after the latest murder took place. There may have been more by now; we have been out of reach down here.

  I cannot work out whether you really think that I know the answer, or whether you were just hoping to spend intimate time with me. I don't know because you don't know. You are attracted to me, and you are following a hunch. You are an intuitive man. All the arrows point in the same direction. That is enough for you.

  I hope that you do not suspect me of having any part in the murders (I don't). Two of those who died were very special to me. The third was not, but he was my uncle, I suppose.

  You say that I must write absolutely everything that I remember, exactly as I remember it. Ideally, I should write about each memory as if it were happening now, and view it from all angles - from my own point of view, but also from those of others.

  I should give my every thought, no matter how embarrassing or libellous or hurtful it would be to anyone. I must pour out a stream of consciousness. My mental editor must be locked up in a broom cupboard, and not allowed out. She will bang on the door and try to kick it down, like a drug addict undergoing cold turkey. I must resist. You want everything.

  I agreed. I know that I shall never rest until I have gained access to, and pieced together, all the clues that I have subconsciously gathered along the way. And, anyway, I have always wanted to write a story, so this is a great opportunity. God has given me the script, so now all I have to do is to discover what it is, and to write it down.

  You see, I agree with you, Inspector. I too believe that there are things that I have picked up, stray conversations, observations, intuitions, that, when moulded together either by you or by me (or by both of us together) will lead us to the murderer(s). It will be fun to solve these crimes, won't it, as well as a relief. You are the professional policeman. Now what we need is the gifted amateur sleuth to come up with the goods, and I would love it if that were me.

  So I am going to write, and to write, and to write, until “bang!” the truth will explode out of me. I am looking forward to it. I have never done anything like this before. It is an adventure, and I shall emerge triumphant, and with a book on how I did it. A true life murder mystery - it could be a best seller. I don't need the money, but I fancy the fame.

  I am not planning on suffering while I do it. No white walls to stare at in some dingy northern town like Wigan for me. I have set myself up near Béziers in southern France. That may have upset you. You will not be able to sit around for hours on end discussing every nuance of my mind. There is something of a torturer-victim relationship going between us. I don't object to it - they say that the victims become quite dependent on their torturers after a time - but it gets in the way of my task, to find out who murdered all those people.

  You may think that I am running away, but what from? I have nothing to hide. I have nothing to fear. Things are hidden from me, fearful things, but with time and application I will force them out into my consciousness. I am nothing if not determined.

  Mary is accompanying me on this sombre, if exciting, voyage of discovery. Well, sort of. She gets to go and lie on the beach and generally laze about, while I do all this writing in the garden, listening to the cigales, smelling the rosemary, and squinting in the sun.

  Mary has agreed not to read this, which means that there will be one huge and growing secret between us, but that is her choice. She does not want to inhibit me, and she feels that her catching up on what I have written on a daily basis will inevitably release that editor from the cupboard.

  I love Mary. She is so extraordinary, and compassionate, and gentle, and a warm presence at all times, first thing in the morning, last thing at night, when we are relaxed, even when we are stressed, when we are dressed and when we are naked. Mary, I repeat even though you will not be reading this for a long time yet, I love you. I love you. Thank you for everything. You deserve the full thirty minute Oscar speech all to yourself!

  There you are, Inspector, I am getting into the flow already, and I haven't really started yet. Mary and I have just been into Béziers to stock up with all the things I need to liberate my mind. We adore Béziers, it is still unspoilt, it has beautiful churches including that huge cathedral on the hill. There is a rather dishevelled broad promenade in the centre, lined with trees and cafés, and with great potential. There are streets of smart boutiques. We have bought wine, we have bought cheese, we have bought bread, we have bought tomatoes, and we have bought loads of chocolates from that charming couple at the Jeff de Bruges franchise who have recently abandoned their office jobs in the north to make a go of it here.

  So, with this idyllic backdrop of lavish gastronomy, the undiscovered version of Aix-en-Provence, the pitch-perfect love and companionship of my “wife”, let's kick this baby into action.

  I promise you, Inspector, you are going to be shocked. I have heard a lot. I will not hold back, not on what I know you were thinking about me, not on what I was thinking about you, not on any random thoughts I had at the time, however dirty, or violent, or shameful. You have
asked for it warts and all, so here it is, warts, shit, unbridled passion and all.

  I hope it leads us to your murderer. I'll re-phrase that. I hope it leads us to the murderer(s) you are determined to catch. I hope we become famous. I hope this technique becomes standard police practice for use with talented and insightful witnesses who happen to want to write a book (the “Blackburn-Frampton” technique). I hope that it will continue to be as riotous as it feels now, starting out.

  Hang onto what little hair you have left, Inspector. Here goes!

  Mary is here to defend me from the murderer when I discover him, although at the moment she is looking about as threatening and as protective as a Labrador, curled up reading her Côté Sud homes and décor magazine. And if the murderer turns out to be her, I'm a gonner! Yikes, Scooby!

  * * *

  I was going to start the story on a new page, but after two days, I am still skirting round the clear open space.

  Well, that is not strictly true. I have typed a few lines many times and deleted them again. So, I am faced with a clean new white sheet in the centre of my computer each time.

  Finally, I have become impatient with myself. This is ridiculous. Just get on with it, girl (I always laugh at that). I have to surprise myself into starting.

  It is weird this nervousness of mine. I am not habitually a nervous person. I am used to taking massive risks, both with other people's money and once with my entire way of life. Why should it matter whether I type a few things that nobody will ever see, unless I choose to let them? If my thoughts are complete rubbish, I can simply throw them away as we simply throw away nearly all our thoughts in our lives. Every day we have a million thoughts that are stupid, banal, mean, or absurd, and of those million perhaps we remember one, and then only fleetingly. Only about once in every five years have I had a thought that embarrasses me regularly, that rears up like a skeleton out of a graveyard to shame me as I pass. And that is invariably when I have placed that thought out into the open.