The Crocodile Masquerade Read online

  Title Page

  THE CROCODILE MASQUERADE

  Voodoo Fetish

  Quig Shelby

  Publisher Information

  This digital edition published in 2014 by

  Acorn Books

  www.acornbooks.co.uk

  An imprint of

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright © 2014 Quig Shelby

  The right of Quig Shelby to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Chapter One

  Oxford

  Felix, the nurse, stepped back from the corpse on the bed, a pillow in his hands. The patient looked no different in death than life, with grey thin skin, and gaunt cheeks. Felix was trembling, cold sweat sticking the tunic to his back. But there was no guilt, only relief it was over. He returned the pillow underneath Arthur’s head; sunken eyes shut for the final time. Felix picked up a silver backed comb, brushed his victim’s course white hair neatly into place, and then slowly pulled up a sheet, smiling.

  ‘Sleep tight,’ he said.

  Felix looked around the bedroom at the faded flowered curtains, an upholstered high backed chair, and one hastily arranged wardrobe. There were model aeroplanes, newly painted, taxied on the window ledge. Many in old age revisited their youth.

  A favourite wooden jigsaw lay on the dresser, carefully arranged on a dining tray, but with one missing piece; a hawk’s beak. Felix searched his biro stained side pocket, before lifting out a small irregular shape. He snapped it into place.

  Satisfied there were no signs of a struggle, Felix flicked off the light. Quietly he closed the door, and made his way down the narrow corridor, passing the small half lit library. He entered another patient’s room, checked she was asleep, and then swiped a handful of mint toffees from a tin atop her wardrobe. In the corridor he threw one in the air, and caught it in the palm of his hand, without breaking stride.

  ‘Felix, thank God,’ said Julia the day nurse, dark circles shadowing her eyes.

  It was seven-thirty in the evening, half an hour before his shift began. Julia sat slumped in the office chair with her shoes off.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because I care,’ said Felix un-wrapping a mint toffee.

  His loose fitting tunic couldn’t hide the emerging spare tyre, spilling out over his belt.

  ‘Well I won’t hang around then,’ said Julia, struggling to read a scrap of paper on the old mahogany desk, brimming with tea stains and indented scribbles.

  The lightshade was covered in dust, and the walls stained dark yellow, like much of Greenpastures nursing home.

  ‘Mary had a fall in the morning, Henry’s still refusing his food, and if you could be a darling Arthur needs a new dressing on his leg ulcer. It’s all in their notes.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, watching Julia hurriedly shuffle out of the room in her mules.

  He pulled Arthur’s file from the overhead shelf, an obituary, and studied the photo of his victim pinned to the front.

  Felix stroked his balding head, before twisting the remaining strands of hair around his finger, the roots tugging tight. Something brushed against his leg. He looked down, and winked at the ward’s newly adopted cat; a stray that had wandered in, like the residents.

  ‘Where have you been hiding?’ asked Felix, lifting it up.

  The striped moggy purred in his lap, stretching a paw towards Arthur’s file.

  ‘Now don’t go telling anyone,’ said Felix, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  It was half an hour before the two care assistants arrived. Felix hadn’t moved from his seat.

  ‘Nothing to report,’ he said, and an already sleepy Doreen and Ivy relieved the remaining day shift.

  The carers wore their own un-pressed clothes, and soon charged around searching for residents, who once cornered had tea and stale sandwiches thrust into their midriffs like bayonets. Some patients were more with it than others, though all could wear a look that said it might be my turn today but soon it will be yours.

  Ivy knocked on Arthur’s door, and took in a cup of tea and one jam sandwich, but he was dead to the world. Felix feigned his surprise, did a few cursory checks for the sake of appearances, and then rang the on-call doctor.

  ‘Respiratory failure,’ said the Doc ‘but he went peacefully in his sleep.’

  Felix said exactly the same on the phone to Arthur’s son.

  The night stole more hours of their lives, with Felix for the best part scanning the replies to his lonely hearts ad. One image in particular caught his eye; that of Dela Eden Obi. At forty-two she was ten years his senior, but had a look of hidden deviance he found seductive. She cut a pretty figure too, and he was intrigued by her interests - voodoo and restraint. Now who in their right mind would put that he wondered? She sounded perfect.

  The following shift and the health of Joan Bedloe had taken a turn for the worse. She’d been a little psychotic again, and Julia had her sedated - for her own good.

  It was the dead of night when Joan started to come round. Felix sat her up, and gave her the drink of water she requested. On his way out of the room she half whispered ‘I know what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘Really,’ replied Felix, thinking she was referring to her missing humbugs.

  ‘You think you’re too clever to get caught don’t you,’ she croaked.

  ‘Caught doing what?’ asked Felix indignantly.

  ‘Murderer,’ she hissed.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  ‘I’d gone to get Arthur a book from the reading room the night he died. I saw you come out of his room smiling to yourself.’

  ‘Joan, that’s ridiculous. He was fine when I left.’

  ‘Liar. I went in, he was dead.’

  Felix felt a warm red glow rush across his face.

  ‘So you did do it,’ she said triumphantly.

  He couldn’t even answer, such was the shock. He quickly closed the door on his way out. His mind was racing; she had to go before she spoke to anyone else - even a deluded old bat could be persuasive. He leant against the corridor wall, cold and nauseous. Five minutes later he was back in Joan’s room.

  ‘I knew you’d come back for me,’ said Joan, with Felix standing over her, pillow in hand ‘couldn’t wait eh?’

  With a smile she went to press the buzzer held tightly under her blanket, but Felix had disconnected it from the outside, and his grin replaced hers. The first murder had been methodical, premeditated; this was expedient, but nonetheless thrilling.

  Only a side light from the bathroom illuminated his silhouette, and Joan looked closely into his eyes as death came for her; her bony fingers trapped under the green floral duvet. She’d never noticed her age, or vulnerability, in the mirror.

  Felix was still catching his breath when he heard Ivy approaching, opening the doors in the corridor one by one, checking the residents. He reached for his mobile, and rang the office phone. The door knob rattled just before Ivy turned around; it could be her suspicious boyfriend, spying. Ever
ything was either love or death.

  A week later and Joan, and Arthur, had been forgotten. Felix’s correspondence was bearing fruit, and the delectable Dela Eden was looking forward to meeting him. Next to the theatre tickets, in his jacket pocket, was his resignation; things had started to get a little hot.

  Chapter Two

  London

  ‘Go and wait upstairs Snowflake, I won’t be long,’ said Kofi, her pimp.

  Snowflake silently obeyed, dispirited, and went to sit on the edge of the bed. She murmured a little prayer, whilst Kofi drew up the syringe in the kitchen. He wanted another zombie treading the streets, hooked on drugs, and soulless.

  Snowflake was turning heads, but not enough cash. She wasn’t trained for the more unusual requests. Kofi intended to change that, especially after two of his best girls had turned runaway. Besides, having smuggled her into the UK, she owed him a return on his investment.

  She heard his heavy footsteps pounding on the stairs, and took one last deep breath as the door swung open. She was an African albino, white with brown eyes, and a beguiling pout. The name Snowflake was more of a taunt than a term of affection. Her real name was Tendai, though the punters called her many things. Kofi was as black as his name suggested, but no sugar; there was nothing sweet about him.

  Kofi stood filling the doorway, whistling. He was stocky and muscular, not tall, with a neck like a bull’s. In his right hand he held a syringe, and a tourniquet hung from his belt.

  ‘Are you ready Snowflake?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure baby,’ she replied.

  ‘You’re gonna fly high tonight Snowflake,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said, sitting on her hands.

  ‘I said chill baby, not freeze,’ said Kofi, as he went to close the window.

  There was a golden striped cat balanced on the deep window ledge, watching him. He tried to shoo it away, but it remained defiant, staring.

  Kofi sighed, reminded of the family cat back home. A shack, but nonetheless full of joy, until his father’s death; Kofi was eleven. Then he became a worthless dog in the eyes of his stepfather. His mother’s soothing tones never healed the sores. Later he washed up on these shores.

  Snowflake crept up from behind, nervous, but there was no turning back. Swiftly she plunged a dagger into Kofi’s neck; his shriek pierced the air, before he turned it blue. He staggered around to face her, each as shocked as the other. The knife slipped from her hand, hitting the frayed dusty carpet.

  Kofi stumbled, his steps twisted in a drunken tango; an artery had been hit. An old commando, make that customer, had taught Snowflake the art of revenge. A perfect ten, and Kofi bowed out, crashing forwards.

  Blood was dyeing Kofi’s designer shirt, as he lay motionless on the floor. Snowflake saw the letter K shaved into the back of his head; this time it stood for kill. ‘Snowflake’ was the last word on his lips, before it melted away forever.

  Tendai looked at the body in disgust, like so many times before, and considered the perversions she’d engaged to survive. Suddenly, uncontrollably, her stiletto stabbed into his face, repeatedly, until she stood there sobbing, alone. This time Kofi had been violated, and his wounds were splattered across her shiny blue shoes. She wiped away his fluids on the grubby soiled bed sheet.

  Only one thing remained; to grab his cash and flee, before any of the girls arrived. She cleaned the blood from the knife, on back of the curtains. After prising open a speaker case, before the encroaching pool of blood gurgled at her feet, she grabbed a holdall, and threw in the bundles of grubby fifty pound notes. The other speaker was full too, but cocaine wasn’t her game.

  Dashing down the stairs Tendai fled into the night. Her prints were everywhere, but so were another dozen girls’, and they were all untraceable illegals. The murder weapon was heading for the bottom of the Thames.

  The streets were still mean, but not as cold. She no longer needed to display her wares, and her jacket was zipped up to the neck; although one hopeful driver slowed his car.

  ‘Sorry love,’ said Tendai with a nervous smile as the car door opened ‘I’ve retired.’

  Tendai recognised his silhouette, and a shiver ran down her spine. She knew he was the last person to have seen Lilu alive, and who knows maybe Sarah too.

  Back at the bedsit Tendai was soon on her mobile to Mozambique, and her younger sister Eudy. On the bed lay a fortune in hard sweated cash; enough to take Eudy to a place of safety, and away from the muti gangs that dealt in albino flesh.

  ‘I did it Eudy,’ said Tendai euphorically.

  There was a sigh of relief on the other end of the phone, followed by a note of caution.

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t even exist,’ replied Tendai.

  He checked the driver’s mirror. The van behind was too close, and hurrying him along. He pulled into the bus stop and, waiting for it to pass, took a swig from the half empty flask of absinthe. He returned the flask underneath his seat, searching the streets once more. The trick was to keep the speed just right; too slow and he’d arouse suspicion, too fast and he’d miss what he was looking for on the mean streets.

  Eventually he found her. She was in more of a hurry than usual, her jacket was zipped up to the neck, and there was a holdall slung over her shoulder. But her gait was ever captivating, and he crawled slowly to the kerb. The girls called him ‘the Librarian’; he liked it quiet, and tattooed on his right forearm were the Libran scales of justice. His gloved hand opened the door in anticipation.

  ‘Sorry love, I’ve retired,’ said the hooker into the eerie shadows.

  His heart sank into his stomach, and he felt cheated as he sped off, but she was too close to the bus stop, and the late night passengers, for him to grab her. He’d wanted to kill her tonight, just like the others, and he punched the dashboard in frustration. He decided to see Kofi instead, and demand an explanation.

  The front door was open, and he let himself in. The television was on downstairs, but there was no reply from Kofi. He crept up the stairs and, from the landing, saw Kofi’s hand lying on the carpet. On closer inspection he was dead, and it wasn’t pretty, even with Kofi’s gold and diamond teeth on display.

  He saw two overturned speakers on the floor, and one was packed with coke. He rushed to the boot of his car, and emptied the blue canvas bag of the hammer, rope and foldaway shovel. He almost took the pliers, but he was no dentist. Feverishly filled the blood stained bag with his future.

  He paused, took one last look around the room, and relieved Kofi of his gold chain and medallion. The talisman was engraved with a goat horned dog, and the cat on the ledge outside hissed as he placed it in his pocket. Then like spectres they were both gone.

  Chapter Three

  South Africa

  The smoke was choking, his lungs burning, bursting. He pulled the door handle, and fell to the ground; rolling down the hill before the flames took hold. In the distance a shadow disappeared, one of the carjackers. The other he’d shot in the head during the struggle that had caused the crash. Then, as always, he heard the screams of his wife and daughter from inside the burning wreck; haunting, chilling. Their suffering branded onto his soul as the car exploded.

  Shivering, he reached for the bedside bowl he’d learnt to keep at hand, and vomited. The nightmare was always the same, and his chest felt heavy, and tight. Gasping, he lifted up the window to get some fresh air. The rain had stopped, but there was only darkness to greet him; never any peace, just pieces.

  A solitary jackal wailed, drawn out, then intermittent yelps; chequered with splashing from the Eastern Cape seaboard. Tall, violent waves crashed onto the beach at Southbroom, a short distance from the rented bungalow; the scattered ashes of his love trying to find their way home.

  He surveyed the bedroom. Near the window, on top of a small rattan cabinet, was a photo of a much happier man
with his family; ghosts. He heard a noise outside, a scampering; he slammed the window shut, and quickly grabbed his gun from underneath the bed. An hour passed before he finally put the weapon down.

  Joost van Houten wore a beaten brow, and his smile was half-hearted. A year ago he had made a fatal mistake, stopping at the roadside to help at a staged accident. He’d struggled with the carjackers, condemning the ones he loved. His tears often wrote a prayer to take their place. He’d burn in Hell for eternity to bring them back.

  Joost stared at the brass alarm clock on the bedside table; the ticking grew louder. It was 4 a.m., and in nine hours he would catch his flight - if he could hold out. The ropes of depression were binding him in knots, and his new medication hadn’t yet kicked in. The gun was back in his hand, and he sat on the edge of the bed, forever alone. The barrel of the pistol pointed at his temple, yet there was no tremor in his arm, as he pulled the trigger.

  He checked the half empty barrel, and grinned. He was one chamber out from joining his family. They’d just have to wait, but he couldn’t stay in South Africa any longer; he needed to hide from himself.

  Joost ran his fingers through his short dark hair, and then closed the photo album, returning it to the suitcase. He turned on all the lights, and took one final walk around the house; no more energy left to punch the walls.

  Most of the memories he was leaving behind, favourite ornaments, his daughter’s collection of theatre tickets, and the African masks his wife loved to collect; though there was one he couldn’t bear to abandon, a long crocodile face mask he and Stella had chosen together in Johannesburg. Now it was heading to London with him, which with every passing moment seemed the most unlikely of new beginnings.

  He grabbed the whisky bottle, and TV remote. A grisly new discovery waiting.

  ‘Police are led to another mutilated corpse, in Oribi Gorge national park,’ said the presenter.

  The witchdoctor was handcuffed, looking nervously at the ground, flanked by cops. He’d determined his fate, unlike his albino victims, organs stolen for magic.