Sinister Music (1)
Sue (Sooz) Simpson

 

The ice-cream van drove slowly into the road, and the driver flicked his switch to send a jingle out through the PA and in through every open window on the street. The jingle stopped and the man spoke through his microphone, his voice echoing down the road with a sombre resonance that was disturbing and nefarious.

“Fresh today, our beautiful creamy ice-cream driven here through the night all the way from sunny Scunthorpe”.

Bev almost laughed aloud. Sunny Scunthorpe? It sounded like Riveting Rivington or Exciting Exmoor. And yet her laugh caught in her throat; after all, there was nothing to laugh about was there?

 She found herself out on the pavement, drawn from her chair by the music…the strange music. She had never heard anything like it before. It wasn’t like other ice-cream van jingles with happy tinkling sounds and a familiar ‘safe’ tune. This was discordant, jarring to the senses. Her hair rose along the ridge of her spine, each erect follicle triggering the one next to it as it crept up her back like a caterpillar. She had no idea what the tune was meant to be, but she put a name to it anyway: Sinister Music.
 
The man moved to his hatch and waited for all the bright-eyed children to come running with their pound coins clutched tightly in their hot sweaty hands.
 
Beverley moved forwards with the rush of children, drawn towards the van. She tried desperately to get a look at the man serving the ices; it was important that she see his face and yet she had no idea why. And then he was moving away, setting off slowly down the road and flicking his jingle to pull all the children Pied Piper-like from the houses in the next street. The jingle played over and over in her head. She couldn’t rid herself of it. Sinister foreboding of doom. Sinister Music.

She woke swathed in the damp seepings of her fractious body. The sheet tangled around her hot legs and torso, a sheen of fine sweat making her shiver despite the heat rising almost visibly from her skin. Her mind felt encumbered. She was bothered by something but had no idea what that something was. Feeling as though she had not slept at all despite her solid eight hours, she stumbled towards the hot needles of water that would torture and delight her enervated body. Her shower led inevitably to the mad rush that always ensued before she ran to the car, briefcase in one hand, half-eaten piece of toast in the other. She would, as always, make it to work on time by the skin of her teeth. Bev was a rising star in the local legal world, a barrister three years with the prestigious firm Lovelock, Crabtree and partners. This time next year she aimed to be one of those partners when old ‘Crab apple’ retired.

 Her day was nothing if not predictable. The trial she was defending wore on long into the afternoon. A weight of medical evidence bearing down on the courtroom like an anvil. The case could go either way but when she got Johnson, the man accused of raping her client on the stand, she was pretty sure that she could tip the balance in their direction.

Later that evening with her day’s work behind her, Bev was sitting watching the evening news and stroking Minty, her calico cat. She tutted and shook her head along with the rest of Great Britain at the tragic news; yet another child’s broken body had been found in a ditch, eight hours after she had been reported missing, and just eight miles from her home in Scunthorpe.

The reporter went on to say – in his best mournful voice – that police had every reason to believe that this was the sixth victim of the media-named “Bedtime Beast”. The children all went missing between seven and half-past eight in the evening. Their bodies – with the exception of one that was found four days later – had all been left in easy to find places, and were found the morning after their disappearance. The killer signed his work by leaving a small teddy bear wearing a blindfold beside each of the little girl’s’ bodies.

For the next hour she couldn’t get the news report out of her mind. Of course it was horrible that little girls were being killed all over the country, but that wasn’t what was niggling at her. She couldn’t quite place what it was; something about that report, something that the smarmy young man with the six-foot wide smile had said. She sat watching the early evening television programmes and letting the cares of the courtroom drift away from her. Half of her mind kept returning to her forthcoming summing up in the Sumner trial 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 quite remember but can’t stop humming, it came back to her in waves of infuriating concentration. A tune! That was it, something about a tune. But what tune? What something?

Bev padded through to the kitchen in her big fluffy slippers to put the kettle on just before Coronation Street started. She made herself a cup of coffee and two toasted teacakes. This is the life, she thought, no man to cook for; I can suit myself whether I want to eat a proper meal or not. She had stopped grieving her broken marriage three weeks earlier when her divorce had become final and Ken had actually married his peroxide floozy. Rochelle; hell, she sounded like a town for God’s sake; she of the lycra miniskirts and cellulite.

Settling herself in the comfy armchair that had been Ken’s before he left, she put her coffee on the table beside her. That had been her first act of defiance against her cheating husband; commandeering his chair. It was her chair now and she had long since stopped sniffing it to see if any trace of his familiar aroma remained.

On the soap opera, Deirdre was stretching her neck muscles and ranting at her dull-as-ditchwater other half. Ken – who just happened to share a name with Bev’s dearly-departed-for-larger-cleavages husband – he had his usual long-suffering expression firmly planted on his long-suffering face when the cheerful tinkle of Greensleeves cut through Deirdre’s tirade.

Greensleeves was the jingle played by the local ice-cream van that came into the street every night at about this time. It reminded Bev of something. She let her mind drift with the tune, and suddenly the happy little melody began to change. Its notes elongated and warped like a cassette player running a stretched tape. The tune changed to one she had not heard before; it was discordant, sounded wrong and eerie. Maybe she had heard it somewhere. Come to think of it, it did sound familiar she thought. In her mind’s eye she saw herself standing on a pavement in the bright sunlight of an early summer evening. She was cold and she shivered, shrinking back into the pile of the chair to absorb the scant warmth that it offered. Her mind ran the cine-film of her dream and she felt a deep melancholic depression settling over her. The ice-cream man was talking into his microphone and she was jolted back to reality when he mentioned the word ‘Scunthorpe’. Scunthorpe; Scunthorpe. She had heard that mentioned just recently; what was it? Of course, the news report about the little girl going missing. How odd. She put the Horrific and purely co-incidental dream out of her mind – and the sickening story of the little girl – and went back to half watching “Coro`” and half-thinking about the end of the trial the next day.


Bev was a successful barrister. She was right at the conclusion of a very important case that, if she won, would further her career a great deal. A lot was resting on the verdict in this case and she wasn’t at all sure about the fourth juror from the left. As far as she could tell she had the rest eating out of her hand, but that one lady with the steel grey eyes was giving her cause for concern.

~*~

The next day went well, even though Beverley had had a turbulent night’s sleep. She performed beautifully, swooping viciously on selected evidence like an eagle on a rat. Her voice resonated round the courtroom, the little tail at the back of her white wig bobbing emphatically as she drove home every point with sledgehammer efficiency. The defendant knew he was doomed, and slumped further and further down in his seat. He no longer even bothered to glare at her in a pathetic attempt to throw her confidence and make her falter. Even the defence attorney seemed to have lost the will to live and contented himself with drawing ‘Bart Simpson’ doodles on his note pad. She was just making the point – in clear…concise…stilted…words – that her client couldn’t possibly be mistaken about having had forced sexual relations with the defendant. The reason that her client could not possibly be mistaken about the defendant being there that night, was that his bare backside was caught on her client’s security camera as he escaped through the window with his pants in his hand.

“Objection your honour,” said the defence attorney rising angrily from his seat in a flutter of crow black gown. “How can my learned friend – or indeed her client of unquestionably good character – possibly be sure it was my client’s bare…erm…”, he looked at the judge sheepishly, “backside that was escaping through the window?”

“Gotcha!” thought Bev smugly. She didn’t try too hard to wipe the ‘cat that got the cream’ smirk off her face as she replied “Because, your honour, the bare bum in question was flaunting a tattoo of the devil with a penis the size of Ben Nevis. Now if the defendant would be so good as to drop his…”

 The judge seemed in danger of choking and the court was in uproar. He hammered his gavel on to the block several times to bring the room to order. “Er, I don’t think that will be necessary Ms. Collins. Perhaps if the defendant could confirm that he does indeed have this …er…tattoo on his um…er…well, that he does have it, that would suffice.”

The defendant nodded his head sullenly.

She was on a roll. “Members of the jury, look at the damaged and broken woman before you. Six months ago this was a woman who…” Somewhere in the distance, the tinkle of an ice-cream van could be heard through the courtroom windows. Bev stopped mid-sentence, her train of thought lost.

She was standing on the pavement in front of an ice-cream van, desperately trying to get a close look at the face of the vendor. He began to talk, 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.”

 My God she had had that strange dream again. The difference being, that this time the man had shouted out the name of a different northern town. He must have changed his suppliers she thought irrationally forgetting about the jury of twelve ‘men’ strong and true and of the assembled ‘players’ all awaiting her next onslaught of chiselled words.

“Ms. Collins? Ms. Collins? Are you all right?” She shook her head. The judge’s voice came to her along a corridor lined with marshmallows. She couldn’t focus; the word ‘Workington’ ran through her mind again and again, 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?”

“Your honour, if we might just take a few minutes adjournment, I’m sure I’ll be ready to continue.”

The court was adjourned until nine-thirty the following morning. Bev was furious. This was the last thing she wanted. She cursed not having a proper meal the night before, and vowed that she would eat sensibly when she got home so that she would be prepared to grab them by the throats and re-gain 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 had lost the momentum and would have to spend at least an hour in the morning building up the tension again. Something the judge may not sit kindly by and agree to. What the hell had happened to her in there?

Four hours later and Bev was still in a rattie. 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 the gift left for her by Minty, allowing it’s none too delicate aroma to permeate the flat, and thus causing Bev’s empty stomach to heave in retaliation. She found the offending stalagmite standing tall and proud amidst the yielding soil of her living room yucca. Now Yucca plants are not given to sulking or flamboyant shows of temperament but this one was looking seriously displeased. This could of course have had something to do with the fact that it didn’t meow to be watered and therefore rarely had the luxury of being given the life-giving liquid, but Bev put it down to the fact that like most of us, it objected strongly to being crapped upon. Life is full of crap and chocolate, she mused the trick is to differentiate between which is which.

Bev yelled for Minty several times, each bellow a crescendo of swelling decibel and vehemence. Wisely the cat chose to remain out of sight. After clearing the misdemeanour and flinging open every window in the flat, Bev cooked herself a substantial meal, she hadn’t had time for her toast that morning, rarely bothered with anything mid-day and so had not eaten properly since lunch the previous day. She cooked pasta with a light pesto and topped with sautéed mushrooms and onions and just a small sprinkling of grated cheese for colour. After all a girl had to live a little she thought after admonishing herself for the after thought of cheese.

Her evening followed a similar pattern to that of most nights. As it was so lovely out, she washed up and then went for a walk in the park. Later she read for a little while had a bath and was in her pyjamas by nine, settling down to watch a bit of television before she got an early night in preparation for court the next morning.

She was riven suddenly alert from the depths of her daydream by the news report that another child had gone missing. Once again the media was speculating that this was the work of the Bed-time Beast. The child had only been missing three hours they wasted no time getting their hooks into this one. The parents must be frantic she thought, the last thing they needed was confirmation of their own fear that the beast had their little girl. What sent Bev’s blood sugar level plummeting as the shock of realisation set in, was the name of the town that the child had gone missing from. It was Workington!

Three thoughts instantly planted themselves firmly in a queue ready for processing. They waited patiently in line until Bev could concentrate on something other than the warping face of the newsreader, as he seemed to loom 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 my god I am dreaming about the murders either before or during the event.”

These three thoughts were the dam that held back the flood. After these three pieces of information were digested, and she decided that she might not loose the contents of her stomach after all, many, many questions and thoughts crashed into her thoughtstream.

Bev flew to the magazine rack, blessing Mary, Joseph and all the saints for her slovenly nature; it hadn’t been emptied for over a week and each morning a new tabloid was added to the bulging pile. She spread the papers out on the living room floor. Splaying their innards and picking from the shambles of tossed newsprint the pages that were of relevance. She discarded the rest in an untidy pile beside her. Minty spying a wonderful new game in progress padded cautiously out of hiding and proceeded to lunge at the papers with claws unsheathed scratching Bev’s hand. The cat rolled on her back with a sheet of newspaper rustling between her paws. 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 particular piece of discarded paper to ‘kill’ Beverley might have noticed a large two column advert singing the praises and drumming up punters for the Edinburgh Festival the following month. Of course HAD she seen the advert it would have been of no significance to her at that time. But less than twenty miles away somebody else had seen the advert in their own copy of the newspaper and was at that very moment cutting it carefully from the page and sticking it into the scrapbook of newspaper cuttings and pictures of pretty little girls.

Soon Bev had four articles laid out before her on the carpet. If only she had kept more of the papers she thought swatting carelessly at the relentless cat as it walked over the pages and rolled on its back for attention. Deep in thought and wanting to get her initial impressions down Bev grabbed a pencil and pad off the telephone table. She wrote:-
   Coventry
   Birmingham
   Liverpool
   Runcorn
   Scunthorpe
   Workington
She could picture the face of the first little girl who went missing perfectly but couldn’t quite remember where she had disappeared from, but she was sure it was somewhere in Devon or Cornwall. She was right he was moving steadily up the country. The police would of course have already worked this out for themselves. What could she tell them? Would they have her committed as a nut or worse send her away with some harsh words for trying to get herself noticed in a murder investigation as an attention stunt? There were she knew people who did that. Some even confessed to murders they could not possibly have committed just to be noticed. She battled with her thoughts playing a round of ‘consequence tennis’ in her mind. Throwing her options backwards and forwards choosing a course of action and then instantly discarding it as ludicrous.

How could she possibly go to the police with the little she had to go on? How could she live with herself if another child died and she had not tried to do anything to help? Little whats her name …Yes that’s it Lucy Prescott is out there somewhere possibly with a vile and twisted killer. She may already be dead. But if she was with the bedtime-beast and if she was still alive how could Bev possibly ignore the cries for help that she knew the girl would be making if she was able. Bev heard those cries not in her head but somewhere far more central to the core of her essence. She could not close her mind to this child.
 
She picked up the handset of the telephone and began to dial the number of the local police station, the connection was made and at the other end Bev heard a phone ring twice. She slammed her receiver down hard in the cradle before the police station phone was picked up. This was ridiculous she couldn’t possibly explain something like this over the phone. Hurrying into her bedroom she hastily flung a pair of jeans and a t-shirt on discarding her now crumpled Pyjama’s in a heap on the bedroom floor. The phone on the bedside table began to ring. She ignored it, a feeling of tremendous urgency flooded over her as she ran her fingers through her un-brushed hair, it was still damp from her bath and she wasted no time by stopping to brush the tatters out of it. Back in the living room and she began a ritual game of hunt the car keys thrusting a hand down oft hand thrust furniture. Thank god that infernal phone had stopped it’s bloody ringing. She spread debris from various ornamental bowls and containers throughout the room. Fuses lighter, odd sock, Tampax, paper clips a wealth of useful material, but no car keys. In a sudden flash of inspiration she found the keys on the floor by the still wilting yucca plant. Just as she was crossing the room to the front door the phone began to ring again. She gave it a withering look, and slammed the door behind her.

As Bev pulled out of fourteen Mill Bank road flats in the better area of Lancaster and sped off down the road, a police car was turning in. The police officer watched the woman hurtle off down the road and he noticed the fact that she had not put on her seat belt. He sat wondering whether or not to give chase. 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. Still the address was listed as a Miss Beverley Collins. Might be someone in trouble they had to follow it up. Police Constable (of a lowly order) Bill Haynes put his black and white into first and was just about to continue into the flat’s car park. The Vauxhall with the unbelted woman blatantly ran a red at the lights and sped away in a screech of tires, narrowly missing a white Fiesta coming across the intersection. Bill Haynes couldn’t just ignore this it was a three six eight. Flicking on his lights he began pursuit of the woman, after all 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. Bill had amended his opinion that it was a ‘bird in the midst of a domestic’ to suit his cause. Jasmine could take her on; she was good at the tea and sympathy bit if the daft old bat had imagined a prowler round her eleventh floor bedroom window or something. He Picked up the car mic and made the call to pass over his original duty and inform them that he was in pursuit of a possible motoring offence. He didn’t say too much or mention the run light; this one was all his and he didn’t want anyone blowing his thunder. He was closing in on the car so he flicked his ‘pull over’ sign to indicate that she should stop.

“Shit” said Bev reflexively, as she saw the police car for the first time. Hang on what am I cussing for she thought as she indicated into the left. This is just what I need, why take Mohammed to the mountain. Easing the car to a stop she turned off the ignition, opened the door and stepped out into the lay-by shutting the door behind her. She hadn’t picked up a jacket, the sun had set and it was cool in the evening air. She shivered in just her thin white T-shirt.

“Good evening officer … Hey am I glad to see you, you see you have just saved me a trip…”

“Evening Miss” Bill sucked in his stomach and sauntered over to the woman hoping that his air of authority and his reasonable physique would be noticed and admired. “I hope you have some good answers for me because I certainly have one or two questions for you.” Bill had taken his notebook out of his pocket, made a display of flicking it to a relevant page and licked his pencil although he had absolutely no intention of marking the pad and making anything official …well not yet anyway. “Name please … er… Miss?” he looked towards Bev’s left hand but she was hugging herself to keep the cold at bay and he couldn’t see if she was wearing a wedding ring or not. He pulled his eyes quickly back to meet hers. He’d only had the merest glimpse of erect nipples forcing their shape through the material of the T-shirt, and if his eyes had remained a second longer he knew he would have been unable to look away from them. He focused his attention firmly on her face. She had pretty grey eyes, and a slim face that was free of all make up. She was a looker all right, but 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 though. Bill liked to be seen with good looking women, eye candy that drew appreciative glances from all the men they passed. The woman had a pretty voice though; her words drew him back to reality

“I’m Beverley Collins, but listen this is more important than my bad driving, I think someone is 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.

 

 

Go to part:2 

 

 

Copyright © 2000 Sue (Sooz) Simpson
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"