Day of the Spiders Page 6

  “I hate these weird ones,” said Wells, snapping him out of his thoughts.

  “Yeah, me too. Let’s try and get this one out of the way as quickly as possible and then we can go back to our usual drink induced crimes,” said Thompson

  The drove on in silence for a moment until Wells snapped on the radio. It was the top of the hour and the news was just starting. The top story was all about the dead child that they were on their way to investigate.

  “Jesus, how did they get a hold of this already?” said Wells.

  “I’m guessing that someone must have told them,” said Thompson.

  “Do you think the press will be at the site?”

  “Oh yes, they’ll be there alright. Don’t worry, we’ll set uniform on them, that’ll keep them off our backs whilst we try find out what happened.”

  Thompson was an old veteran when it came to handling the press. They had been a thorn in his side for as long as he had been a D.C.I. He handled their questions the same way each time, with a cheeky smile and a ‘no comment.’ It drove them nuts and he took great pleasure in it. To him, the press were nothing but vultures swooping in to pick over the bones of broken lives, he had no time for them at all. As they approached the turning for Corsica Road, Thompson could already see the news vans lining the streets, right on the doorstep of the crime scene. He was going to have to flex a little muscle here. He usually didn’t like to throw his weight around, but with these jackals, he was only too happy to make an exception. Wells pulled the car over a few doors down from the house. There were two uniforms outside the door and the ginnel that ran down the side of the house had yellow tape pulled across it. The uniforms had done their job pretty well from what Thompson could see. They got out of the car and Wells immediately lit a cigarette. The change in the law that prevented him from smoking in the car had kept him in moans for at least six months. Thompson could almost recite his moans word for word he had heard them so often. Whilst Wells smoked, Thompson went over to the news vans one by one and told them to go to the top end of the street. Some of them protested, citing the freedom of the press, but Thompson gently reminded them that a child had died which shut them right up. They begrudgingly packed their cameras up and started to move up to the top of the road. Thompson went over to one of the uniformed officers that were standing outside the house and told them to set up a road block at the top of the road. He nodded and gave him a polite ‘Yes sir’ and began to talk into his radio. Thompson waved Wells over, who pitched his cigarette into the gutter.

  “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” said Thompson.

  Wells shrugged, “Can’t put it off forever.”

  They headed to the ginnel down the side of the house. Thompson lifted the yellow tape so that they could both duck under it and they made their way towards the back of the house. For Thompson, the feeling he got of walking into a scene where someone had died never changed, no matter how many times he had done it. It felt to him almost like the place was unreal, as if it was a film set that had been set up for him and he was an actor, meant to say the right lines at the right time. Perhaps he should have been wearing a long overcoat, a Trilby and have a smoke hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Oh, and the hip flask full of booze so that he could blot out the horror of it all. Perhaps he would change his name to Jack Daniels, right Chief? He thought not. He had yet to meet a D.C.I that fitted that description, although he knew a fair few that would shake hands with Mr. Daniels after a long shift. The reality was that an investigation like this was as far removed from the almost romanticised version that you would see in a film or a television show, but if you didn’t harden to it quickly then Mr. Daniels would start to set up shop.

  The garden looked like any other average garden. He scanned it, looking for something to jump out at him to indicate what the hell had gone on. But, everything looked quiet and normal. He walked forwards slowly, Wells following just behind him also looking around for anything obvious.

  “What do you think boss?” said Wells.

  Thompson shrugged. “Nothing out of place here.”

  “Shall we take a look inside?” said Wells.

  “Sure,” said Thompson and they started to walk towards the back door. They were nearly at the door when Thompson felt something pop under his foot. He stopped in his tracks and lifted his shoe from the floor. On the floor was a crunched-up spider. It looked like a pretty impressive house spider, the sort of spider that would send Cindy screaming from the room. The mashed body was lying in a small pool of yellowing goo that had burst from its body when Gerald’s foot came down on it.

  “That’s gross,” said Wells, peering over his shoulder. “I hate spiders, I fuckin’ hate them.”

  “They don’t speak too highly of you either,” said Gerald. He wiped his foot on the grass and then he turned back towards the back door. He started to move forwards again and something caught his eye. He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at the manhole to his left. The cover looked as though it had been displaced, only slightly, but Thompson saw it. Curiosity began to pinch at the back of his mind. What this had to do with their investigation, he had no idea, but….

  Just a hunch….

  “We should get forensics in here,” said Wells.

  “We will,” said Gerald. He was fumbling a pack of latex gloves from his pocket. “But I want to see what’s under that manhole before we do. Get your phone camera out, I want you to document everything. Got to keep our necks covered.”

  Wells brought out his mobile phone and tapped the screen. “Ready when you are,” he said.

  Thompson worked his fingers around the recessed handles on the manhole cover and he pulled, expecting it to be heavier than it was. It pulled up easily, almost causing Thompson to throw the damn thing over his head. He nearly lost his balance too but he managed to steady himself and he set the lid to one side. When he saw what was down the manhole, he jumped to his feet almost knocking the phone out of Wells’ hand. “Jesus,” he said.

  “Fuck me,” said Wells, fumbling the phone and accidently taking a picture of himself in the process.

  Down the manhole, dotted around the deep grooves that made up the waste channels, were the bodies of dead spiders similar to the one that Thompson had stood on a moment before.

  “Did you get some shots?” he said. There was silence from Wells. He gave him a dig in the shoulder.

  “Shit,” said Wells. He pointed the phone in the right direction and began to push the button. He caught half a dozen shots of the drain below them.

  “You got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” said Wells. His face was wrinkled up in disgust. The smell of shit emanating from the drain wasn’t helping matters at all. Thompson hesitated a moment and then he went to his pocket again. This time he brought out a plastic evidence bag.

  “I need to get one of those spiders,” he said.

  “What in the hell for?” said Wells, although deep down he knew the answer. It was for a reason that people around here didn’t like to talk about. Thompson gave him a look.

  “You know the reason as well as I do, and you know the rules too. Unusual activity? That’s what I would call this,” said Thompson. He squatted beside the drain. “Are you going to volunteer?”

  “Not a chance,” said Wells.

  Thompson positioned himself on the edge of the drain and then he lowered himself in, his feet straddling the sides of the channels. He bent down to one of the spiders and picked it up using the bag as a glove. Wells looked on, his phone still in his hand.

  “Careful boss,” said Wells suddenly, causing Thompson to almost jump out of his skin. The spider dropped out of his hand and fell into the sloppy, damp mess at the bottom of the drain

  “Christ on a bike,” roared Thompson, and shot Wells a disapproving look.

  “Sorry boss,” said Wells.

  Thompson reached down again and pinched the limp spider by its leg. He lifted it halfway out of the drain and pulled the bag inside out s
o that the spider was caught inside. He sealed it up before it could get out of his grasp again and then he clambered out of the drain. He wiped a sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.

  “Are we going inside?” said Wells.

  “No, I don’t think we need to. We should call this one in and get our little friend in here sent off for analysis. Do you want to give him a kiss before he goes?” said Thompson waving the bag in front of Wells. John took a couple of steps backwards and his heels caught the edge of the low wall that was behind him. He sat down on it hard and his phone fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.

  “Shit on it,” said Wells.

  Thompson laughed, “No kiss?” he said. Wells gave him the finger and then he reached down to get his phone. He paused for a moment, because there was another spider sprawled out on the concrete next to it. He went to snatch the phone up and just as his hand went near, the spider suddenly sprang into life and ran with incredible speed towards him. It managed to climb onto the back of Wells’ hand before he had a chance to draw it away. He uttered a high-pitched and very unmanly shriek and flailed his hand around to try and get the spider off. The spider lost its grip and flew away into the grass behind him. He jumped up and down for a moment bellowing curses and then he held out his hand in front of him.

  “It bit me. I swear to God, the little bastard bit me,” he exclaimed in a voice that was reedy and close to cracking.

  Thompson looked at Wells’ hand. There were two small pin pricks, both of them oozing a tiny amount of blood, just below the knuckles. “I think we should get out of here, and you need to have that looked at.”

  Wells rubbed at the bite with his other hand. “I’ll be fine, don’t you worry about me,” he said.

  Thompson barely heard him. He was looking out over the garden towards the garish plastic climbing frame in the middle of the garden. Lottie had been playing on it when the accident

  (Incident)

  happened. Something began to churn in his guts and tickle the back of his mind. He had a hunch. He had an idea of what had happened here, but he needed more to go on. If he spread word of his hunch, even to Wells, then the whole thing could blow up right in his face. He was about to nudge Wells and start heading back for the front of the house again when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The spider that Wells had launched off his hand and into the grass was emerging from the edge of the lawn. It scuttled towards them.

  “Watch out,” said Thompson, pulling Wells backwards by his sleeve. Wells caught sight of the spider and let out another curse. Thompson stepped forwards and stamped on the spider as hard as he could. The spider was obliterated under the weight of his foot. He pulled his leg backwards and the rolled-up corpse of the spider came out from under the front of his shoe. It was followed by a nasty trail of bloody pus from the spiders’ innards.

  “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” said Wells

  “I think you’re right,” said Thompson

  They walked quickly across the back yard and down the side of the house. By the time they made it back to the front, they were both out of breath.

  6.

  The itch of the laptop had started the moment that Braden had been woken by Jax. He took her downstairs and put her some Coco Pops out for her breakfast (with two tablespoons of sugar, dentist be damned) and got her settled in front of the television. He made himself and Mary a coffee and took hers up and set it down on the bedside table. She opened her eyes for a moment and thanked him before snuggling back down in the bed again. Braden knew quite well that that cup of coffee would still be sitting there an hour from now absolutely stone cold. But as Mary had told him on more than one occasion it was the thought that counted. He went back down and got his own cup and brought it to the couch where Jax was sitting. She was still half asleep, despite the fact that the Pops had gone down pretty fast. There was a zany American cartoon (as Braden referred to them) on the television. It made Braden hark back to the days of Saturday morning television, when custard pies and casual racism were the order of the day. He wished that he could engage with the vast array of colorful and noisy characters on the screen just to keep his mind off the reports that had come in last night. It was terrible. It was like fighting a drug addiction. Every so often his mind would whisper to him.

  Just one little look, what harm could it do?

  But he could see it now. Mary would get up and come down to find him pawing over his laptop, that faraway look in his eyes that he got when he was on to a particularly juicy story, or Jax telling her mum that Dad had been working when he had promised not to. He could see the look on Mary’s face, that one that he had seen a hundred times before. The crushed, disapproving look that made him feel like the biggest piece of shit in the world. The only way he could ever cope with that look was to be as far away from home as he could get, to be throwing himself headlong into more gossip and rumors, more devastated lives and broken dreams. He couldn’t do that to her again, he just couldn’t. He decided right there and then, whilst sipping his coffee and listening to his daughter guffawing at the television that he needed to get them, and himself out of the house for the day. That way, when he did eventually look at his laptop (which was a certainty) it would be too late in the day to do anything about it. It was the perfect plan. He just had to come up with something for them to do. The last time they had been out as a family they had done bowling, food and the cinema to round things off. It had been so long since they had last done it that it seemed like it was due a revival. He kept the idea in his head for when Mary got up. Instead of the look of despair and dread of him being on his laptop he was going to make her face light up instead. That had to better didn’t it? Surely it did. He thought about how excited that Jax would be at the prospect of a day of messing around and eating. Yes, that was absolutely better than a news story, even if it was one about a teen going missing and animals being mutilated. He drank more of his coffee, content for a moment that he had himself a pretty good plan. All thoughts of the news story went to the back of his mind. He managed to feel that warm buzz of contentment for all of two minutes before the questions started to buzz around his head again. If there was someone out there that had snatched that girl, then what the hell had he done to her? Whoever it was certainly was following the modus operandi of a serial killer. Most of them start with something smaller, like a bird, or a mouse and then their kills would get progressively bigger and more violent as they got a taste for it. Who would be next? Would anyone on Corsica Road be safe from them? Perhaps the killer/kidnapper was a resident of Corsica Road. Perhaps they were in the act of shitting right on their own doorstep. Perhaps the lifeless body of that girl was residing in one of their cupboards right now, or had been buried somewhere out in those woods at the back of the housing estate. What on earth was the motive? Had they been forced to put up with an evening of loud music coming through the paper-thin walls one time too many. Had there been any disputes over boundaries or poor maintenance, or too many piles of stinking rubbish that hadn’t been moved despite numerous polite requests to do so? Start with a cat, or a dog or something just to get the taste of violence in their mouths, then perhaps they would move on to a bigger target.

  Like a teenage girl.

  That could be the connection. That could be the big story. Braden Benson could solve the case before Gerald Thompson. Wouldn’t that be something? He needed more evidence. He needed to look these things up. He could find out if there had been any court hearings in the last few months and then he could perhaps get some names to check up on. He could have a full profile of the killer/kidnapper before the police even caught the bastard ready to hit the front page. Then there would be the slaps on the back, the hearty handshakes from the Editor-in-Chief Peter Farlow, and more importantly, there would be that big fat bonus that he would get for a job well done. A story like that would spike the sales of the newspaper from the tens of thousands into the millions, all because he had done his homework at the right time.
Then perhaps he could retire from the race completely, then he could spend all the time with his family that he wanted. And wouldn’t it be nice to do it with a big fat pile of money in the account. Hell yes it would.

  He was halfway to the laptop when he heard footsteps on the ceiling above him. By some merciful act, Mary had got out of bed before her coffee had gone cold. Any other time she would have stayed in bed for at least another two hours. Perhaps her subconscious radar had detected him falling from grace. He doubled back into the lounge and grabbed his empty mug from the coffee table thereby giving himself an alibi. Laptop? What laptop? No laptops here your honor.

  He went through to the kitchen and snapped the kettle on for his second coffee that he didn’t really want all that badly. He was just filling his mug when Mary made it down to the bottom of the stairs and came through to say good morning to him. She was in the process of wrapping her cream dressing gown around her middle. She had on her favorite pink fluffy slippers that she had owned since the beginning of time. He had bought her new ones on many different occasions but they would always end up lined up in the bottom of the wardrobe in favor of the moth-eaten pinkies as she called them.

  “’Morning handsome,” she said as she came into the room.