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So continue your search, out through the door.
Poor old Harry has met his doom,
If you want the rest, it’s in his room.
“Does this mean we’ve found Harry Fletcher, who might be called Henry Fowkes?” Briggs asked.
“Possibly,” said Gardener, passing the note to Briggs. “At least it would explain why we couldn’t find him.” Before leaving the kitchen, a uniformed officer deposited some scene suits and each officer donned one. They walked slowly through the house to find the three women whom Thornton had taken away. They were all sitting in a lounge. “Which one is Henry’s room?”
One of them women stood up. “I’ll show you.”
“It’s okay,” said Gardener. “Just tell us.” After the information, Gardener, Reilly, and Briggs traipsed up the stairs to a second storey landing.
Briggs glared in Gardener’s direction. “Before we go in here and see what he’s left for us, I want it made abundantly clear right now that I don’t care if we have to turn the entire city upside down or how many men it takes, I want this lunatic caught.”
Gardener glanced at Reilly and then Briggs. He understood his superior officer’s frustration, for he felt it himself. Choosing not to reply, he turned and opened the door.
Nothing on earth could have prepared them for the carnage.
The smell hit them first, and each man took an involuntary step back, assaulted by a vile, cloying odour, which immediately coated the insides of their nostrils. Gardener doubted that the remains of a skip full of tightly packed corpses sealed up for the entire summer period would have topped it.
His cast-iron reserve almost slipped and forced him to show his emotions. He had seen what The Roundhay Ripper had left behind, had attended all manner of suicides, observed the victims of car crashes, lived through the experience of the Christmas murders; and he was pretty confident that his partner had seen his fair share of atrocities during his time in the Royal Ulster Constabulary. But here, in what was beginning to resemble a Charnel House in a Yorkshire city, in a man’s private study, they were now observing perhaps the most inhuman degradation that any of them had ever witnessed.
Briggs remained speechless, as did Fitz, Anderson and the SOCOs – who by now had joined them. Even Reilly inhaled a sharp breath.
In the middle of the room was the naked corpse of Henry Fowkes. To all intents, he was levitating. In a spectacular illusion, his whole body had been suspended in mock crucifixion, but there seemed to be nothing holding him in place. The entire room was awash with blood. By far the biggest and most disturbing stain was on the ceiling. He had obviously been decapitated here, in his study. Large globules that had been ready to fall to the floor had finally given up and congealed. Splash patterns doused the walls and the carpet and his PC.
“Jesus Christ!” said Briggs, peering a little closer. “What’s holding him up?”
Gardener glanced to the sides of the room and immediately understood. A series of pulleys were screwed to the walls, and as he strained his eyes he could make out the tines of catgut, or fishing wire. It had been wound round so tight, that the limbs it held were bulging and must have been close to being severed.
In his right hand, a sheet of A4 paper had been fastened. It had the same scroll pattern as the ones they had seen at each crime scene, and no doubt contained another cryptic message. On the floor directly below Henry’s body was a pile of discarded clothes, amongst them, a deerstalker and a pipe.
However, despite everything, the killer had really played an ace, because the most disturbing scene was that the corpse was not headless, raising the question of all questions: whose head was on top of Henry Fowkes’ neck?
“I really don’t believe this fella anymore,” said Briggs. “If Henry Fowkes’ head is in a cooking pot in the middle of the kitchen, who does that belong to? And where is the rest of that fella?”
Gardener’s scene suit rustled as he brought his hands to his head and ran them down his face, exhaling a loud sigh. “We need to see what’s on that paper.”
Briggs turned to Fenton. “You lads seal the room off and do what you have to do, as quickly as you can. He’s right, we need to see what’s on the paper.” He turned to Gardener. “We have to do something, Stewart. The press get wind of this, and we’ll all be out of a job. And quite frankly, I can’t see any way of preventing them from hearing about it.”
“Well, let’s start by going downstairs and interviewing.”
Chapter Forty
The blonde appeared more composed. She took a sip of tea, and then introduced herself as Mary Philli
ps.
“How long have you worked here, Mary?” asked Gardener.
“Four years,” she replied.
“What do you do?”
“A dog’s body, really.” Her gaze was devoid of emotion. “I suppose that’s a bit harsh. I help out with a bit of cooking and a bit of cleaning, nothing special.”
“How long have you known Henry Fowkes?”
