Dan Waddell - The Blood Detective

'Yes,' Heather said. 'Did Karl know about that?'

Liza nodded. 'We all knew about that.'

*You said Karl got interested?'

'To say the least. All he did was research that. He'd go to the sites of the murders. All day and all night he walked. It was the 1980s; a lot was going on around here. Finally he came out of himself, starting to write about the place, its history. Became obsessed with that, too. At least it stopped him reading and rereading the letter.'

Liza got up and shuffled to a drawer in a bureau at the far side of the room. She opened it and rustled around. Time seemed to stand still. Nigel could not bear it. Come on! he thought to himself, casting an impatient glance at a wooden clock on the mantelpiece.

Eventually the old woman emerged with a piece of yellowing paper, neatly folded.

'This is the letter I showed him.' She handed it to them. 'It's the suicide note written by Segar's son, Esau. Karl used to read it almost every night.'

Heather opened it up carefully. The paper was fragile, the folds worn almost to the point of disintegration.

Nigel leaned in so he could read it too. The writing was a scrawl, though still legible. There was no introduction, no signature, but it looked to Nigel as if it was genuine.

/ knew He killed. I cannot relate what it was that drew me to that conclusion. The look-in his eye, the hours he began to keep, a sense of awfulforeboding. As the police discovered each victim, it became clearer to me that my father was responsible. I could point to no evidence save his night-time excursions and the cold glimmer of hatred in his eyes. He had long since stopped communicating with me. I disappointed him, that was clear. I did alt I could to keep out of his path.

One night I heard him leave. I climbed from my window to the street below. The fog was thicks blanketing the city, muffling its sounds. I simply listened and followed his soft wolf-like tread. I shadowed him all the way until he grabbed some poor soul staggering back^

from a night of drinks I heard a muffled cry and then watched him fall. My father turned, I ducked away, then he made his way back, home.

I failed to get back, before he did. The next morning he asked where I was. I concocted a tale of meeting a friend, though I knew it would earn me a beating. He only stopped when my mother begged him to. I lay on my bed on my front, weeping as my mother tended the wounds to my backhand backside from the strap, praying to whichever God for the peelers to come and take him away.

But they never came.

From that day he sank further into insanity. He made us pray four times a day. would beat me incessantly. Then came the night. He urged us to follow him down to the cellar. 'Each night since, I remember the damp smell, the cold floor, then the noise . . . my mother gurgling, spluttering, choking on her own blood. He grabbed me and plunged the knife into my neck! eyes wide as saucers and brimming with mania. I remember nothing else.

/ was struck^dumb from then on, forever to keep the dark^secret quiet in my heart. until this day when I end my own wretched life. I carry that man's blood. 'With me it ends. It is my fervent dying hope that those who proceed can live without this stain on their souls.

Heather folded the letter back up. You said he doesn't come by very often these days,' she said.

Liza shook her head. 'Once or twice a year. Not quite sure what he's up to. He hasn't written one of his books in a while; he usually brings me a copy, but hasn't done for at least a year. While he wrote them he seemed OK. I think he thought the world would listen - it didn't. But the last time I saw him, he said he was working on another project.'

'Do you know what he does, where he goes, any friends?'

'Not these days. He used to spend a lot of time around the site of the house.'

'The house?'

'On Pamber Street. Segar Kellogg's house.'

When Foster surfaced, he couldn't speak. His mouth gaped helplessly wide, wedged open to its furthest extremity, as if stuck at the midpoint of a yawn. He tried to bring both jaws together but his jaw felt locked in place. From the bottom of his field of vision, he could just make out a metal plate on his top lip. He took a few desperate breaths through his wide-open mouth, the air rushing in gulps, drying his throat in an instant. There was a fleeting moment of panic when it felt as if his throat would seize and he would not be able to breathe.

By inhaling through his nostrils he managed to regain control. Not my teeth, he thought. With his tongue he flicked at the top and bottom rows, only able to reach the latter. They were covered by what felt like a strip of rubber. Some contraption had prised open his mouth.

'Unfortunately, I won't be able to take any more questions from the floor,' he heard his killer's voice say, 'the floor now being unable to ask any questions.'

Foster struggled against his restraints like a wounded, cornered beast, instinct and preservation kicking in once more, damning the pain each minor movement caused.

This wasn't how he thought it was going to end.

Not like this. A heart attack one night, maybe. Or some bullet from a suspect they had forced into a corner. All of these he had considered when lying in bed, or mulling over a glass of red. But not being tortured by a fucking maniac. If he had a gun and the use of his hands, he would have no hesitation in blowing his own brains out.

'The item you are wearing is called, rather bluntly, a mouth opener. I've adapted it a bit, but it's used in sadomasochistic circles in pursuit of helpless degradation and absolute control. God bless the Internet.'

He leaned in closer; Foster could feel his warm breath on his face.

'You can't see, but there are two screws here.'

The contraption moved. The screws were at either side of his mouth.

If I turn them clockwise they bring the two metal plates that are covering your upper and lower sets of teeth closer together.'

Foster felt the contraption loosen and his jawbone relax with an ache.

'But if I turn anticlockwise . . .'

He felt the screws turn. The gap between the top and bottom of his jaw became wider once more.

If I keep screwing like this, then eventually your jawbone will break - very slowly.'

He continued to turn, thread by thread. Foster felt the strain on his jaw as it was pushed back to the position it was in when he woke up. The skin at the side of his lips had split. Breathing was a struggle once more. Foster felt himself fading, unable to get the air he needed because the widening of his mouth tightened his neck and constricted the airway.

The fight was leaving him, his thoughts starting to drift. . .

The barbiturates had come from the street. A drug dealer, who passed them information from time to time, said he would get hold of them for the right price. Three days later they met in a carpark and he was handed the vial.

'You sure you know what you're doing here?' the dealer had asked. 'My mate says that's some heavy shit.'

Foster reassured him. Did not tell him it was for his own father.

That night his father wanted to do it. His affairs had been put in order, nothing was left undone. They sat at the kitchen table as the night fell and drank a bottle of Chateau Montrose 1964. Rain had decimated the crop that year, but the Montrose was picked before the storms came, a true rarity. His father had long been saving it.

He drank it in a state of rever ie. Before he took the first sip, he stared long and hard at the beautiful red hue, then buried his nose in the glass and inhaled deeply. A look of contentment was written across his face. When he took a sip, so did Foster. The wine was like liquid velvet, the acidity correct, the tannins gentle and mellow. It was the silkiest wine he had ever tasted. His father savoured each drop like it was nectar of the finest fruit.