The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (great novels of all time .txt) 📗

Eileen looked around the cramped space at Buckworth Street with its faded peach walls, old-fashioned wainscoting and the rotting lean-to at the back and wondered what went wrong. Holden seemed to read her mind. “It’s in St. James.” His face soured. “My brother runs it.” Eileen wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she also heard him mutter “into the ground.”

Comprehension dawned on Eileen’s face. “Oh, yeah. The name of the business is Davis and Sons. You have a brother.”

Holden’s good mood evaporated as he grunted. “My younger brother, Paul. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

Something about the way Holden responded told Eileen it was best to go to lunch and not ask any more questions. A few minutes later, Clifford joined her on the picnic bench at the back of the building and said, “The boss don’t like talking about Paul too much.”

“You heard that?” Eileen asked, mouth agape.

“Yup, I went to de vendor round the corner so I didn’t gone too long.”

Eileen stirred her soup and shrugged guiltily. “He seemed really annoyed when I asked about his brother.”

“Old man Davis had one business and two sons. That’s where the problem usually starts,” said Clifford with a wry grimace. He explained that despite having two locations, the business was legally considered as one entity. Paul didn’t hurt his head with mundane concerns such as haggling for government contracts. He left that to Holden but still profited from it since he was legally entitled to half of the collections. Instead, Paul focused on the extras: large viewings with hors d’oeuvres and a horse-drawn carriage festooned with flowers which he drove while wearing a top hat and coattails. When the money for those rare events ran out, Paul would literally steal bodies from under his brother’s nose so he could claim the funeral payments.

“Young Davis changed these locks twice already because Paul came down here after hours." Clifford chuckled as he regaled Eileen with Paul’s schemes. She had to admit the stories were funny when Clifford told them, but she could see how Holden’s stoic nature would war with Paul’s free-wheeling tricks. She had sized Holden up the first morning, and though he seemed pulled together, he had the scuffed edges of a man whose mind bore the burden of constant loneliness. ‘Strong’ and ‘capable’ were the first two words she would use to describe him. ‘Empty’ would be the third. Now at least, some of it made sense.

* * *

“EILEEN, WHAT’S YOUR LAST NAME?”

She glanced up from the typewriter. “Why?”

“I’m labelling pay packs.”

She shrugged. “You pay in cash and I’m the only Eileen here.”

Holden squinted at her. Good gracious, she was difficult. “Eileen, I like consistency. Just tell me your surname.”

“It’s the eighties; pop culture has paved the way for strong, independent women to be recognized by only one name. It’s Eileen…like Cher or Madonna.”

Holden could feel his pressure rising; Eileen couldn’t type and she’d drive him to drink. What a great boss I am, he thought irritably as he scratched her name on the envelope and tossed it on her desk.

He was just about to head into the back to close up for the weekend when the bell on the door tinkled and Hugh Derricks walked in. The police commissioner greeted everyone and asked, “Is Clifford here?”

“Check the viewing room.”

“You could come too, young Davis.”

Holden shook his head in exasperation. His father, Clifford and Derricks had gotten together monthly to drink for almost twenty years. Since his father had died, the visits had become infrequent and now he suspected that Derricks only came because he expected Holden to provide the brandy.

Holden directed him into the viewing room. Clifford hailed the commissioner and quickly set up a small plastic table and three chairs before pouring each of them a generous helping of liquor.

“Wha’ happen?” Clifford asked the commissioner a few minutes after they’d sipped from their glasses.

“The prime minister has me under a lot of pressure. A serial killer during my first month on the job?” Derricks’ slouched shoulders barely lifted when he sighed. “You’ve seen the dump sites; a cane ground is probably the worst place to look for evidence. To compound the situation, these girls didn’t go to the same schools or work at the same job. Hell, I’m not sure they ever met.”

Holden didn’t envy Derricks one bit. Police commissioners in any country had a daunting job, but it was no mean fun to be called incompetent before you cashed your first pay cheque.

“Are you sure it’s not a copycat killer?” Holden asked.

“That’s possible,” answered Derricks with some reluctance. “But the modus operandi is the same and we didn’t release how they were killed to the public. Dog-bite-it, the only reason I can talk about this is because you’ve both seen the bodies.” He downed the rest of his drink and refilled his glass. “They all had that cut on their necks.”

Holden’s hand paused in mid-air as he peered at the commissioner, racking his brain for details about the victims he had prepared for their funerals.  He remembered the stitches in the shape of a ninety-degree angle on their necks.

“It’s true, both had their jugulars slashed,” Clifford said.

“All three,” corrected Derricks. “Paul collected the first girl so you wouldn’t know about her, but all of them had the same cut.”

Derricks sipped his drink and caught Holden’s eye. “This killer can’t get so lucky three times in a row, he’s obviously a doctor or someone who knows how to find the jugular in the first place.”

Holden wasn’t so sure. “And making L-shaped cuts? I studied anatomy and proper technique dictates that incisions be as straight as possible.”

Clifford agreed. “Only somebody sloppy or nervous would operate like that.” He tilted his chair until it balanced on its back legs. “Derricks, if I was you, I woulda get one of them psychics from overseas that does solve crimes to come and tell you who the killer is. Hire one of them white women with the shawls and bangles that