Slow Poison

By Casimir Greenfield

Slow Poison opens in Amsterdam just before the feast of Saint Nicholas in December in the mid 1980’s.

The brutal slaying of a British tourist and the subsequent arrest and imprisonment of a young football supporter sparks off an orgy of violence. But the killing is no random act. The boy is innocent. The real killer returns to England to begin the final chapter of an obsessive campaign of revenge spanning several decades.

The twisted acts of violence and vengeance are punctuated by the pages of a stolen diary written in the dark days of the second world war. The killer identifies with the unspeakable horrors of the death camp as he coldly wreaks revenge for a series of traumatic events that took place in the mid 1950s on a Gloucestershire council estate.

The story culminates in a bloody siege high in the snowbound Cotswold hills.

This book contains very strong language and scenes of a sexual nature.

Cover Artwork www.rubenireland.co.uk

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casimir Greenfield
• Release date: Jan 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465746160

Casimir Greenfield

Casimir Greenfield: writer, broadcaster, musician, artist. Follow the ongoing exploits of Casimir Greenfield at www.casimirgreenfield.com Cas is currently finalising work on the forthcoming solo album 'Boy In The Attic' plus the Kuhl album'Circus Of Outrageous' both due for a 2017 release. Cas's debut novel 'Slow Poison' and the book of poetry 'Splinters & Sparks' are both available on Amazon. Cas also has a weekly radio show 'Cas Greenfield's Vintage Hour' on 365 Radio Network and WRFN 1025. A little bit of background... Cas lived and worked in Amsterdam for a quarter of a century before returning home to his native Gloucestershire. Cas began performing in the 60s. During that time he toured constantly throughout Europe, working solo and with his band. A well-known figure on the Dutch music scene in the 70s and 80s, Cas worked with artists as diverse as B.B. KIng, Yes, Sparks, Sonja Kristina, Kayak, Leonie Janssen, Frans Ehlhart, Herman Van Veen, Boudewijn de Groot and many others. The peak of Cas’s career has to be the German number two hit....which shall remain nameless and forever unheard! Cas has remained fresh and involved with current music: '...the musicians on the albums are amazingly talented. The energy they create and the spontaneity of their musicianship is astounding. I felt truly privileged to share my music with them'.

Book preview

Slow Poison

Slow Poison

Casimir Greenfield

© 2016 Double Infinit Publications

for Sandra

Published by Double Infinity Publications 2016

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1 First Edition

Copyright © Casimir Greenfield 2016, published by agreement with the Sand Partnership

Casimir Greenfield has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Double Infinity Publications (UK), 30 High Street, Stroud GL5 1AJ

www.doubleinfinitypublications.com

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1478295686

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Double Infinity Publications supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC®), the leading international forest certification organisation. Our books carrying the FSC label are printed on FSC® certified paper. FSC is the only forest certification scheme endorsed by the leading environmental organisations, including Greenpeace.

Typeset in Minion by DPI Book

Production

Eastington, Gloucestershire

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CRO 4YY

Cover design by The Sand Partnership from a mixed media work by David Ireland; The Body Invisible ©1985

Chapter One

Amsterdam, 1986

Killing Time.

Red lights glowed like cinders in the crisp December air. Trim shivered in Armani camel, watching the doorway of the Casa Rosso. This was the evening of the third day. He watched and waited, smoking an hour away, waiting for The Six. Den, Pete, ‘Dog’, Mart, Kev and Ritchie; feral pack animals, careering through the City of Love, leaving a trail of phlegm and expensive scratches, wrist-high on Mercedes lacquer.

On that first evening in The Victoria, they had exploded into the restaurant, destroying his reverie. He closed the leather-bound diary he was reading to watch the swell and swagger of denim. His chest felt tight, his mouth dry. He hardened. On an impulse, he followed them into their night, moving rivet-close in the crowded streets. They could be useful. He would need someone like them.

On the morning of the third day, he watched them spew through the steel exit doors of the Sleep-Inn on the Rozengracht, groping their way into the bright winter sunshine, unwashed and unshaven, a breakfast of beer in progress. He watched them curse at the waves of cyclists, teetering through their group, bells clamouring.

Fuckin' Cloggies! Why don’t ya look where yer fuckin’ goin’!

When at last The Six emerged from the depths of the Casa Rosso, he limped behind them as they roared down the urinous alleyways of The Walletjes, chanting their tribal anthems in tuneless tenors and baritones. Few windows in those dark clefts escaped the lick of their felt-tip pens.

He watched them crumble their hash in shadowy doorways. He watched them crack the window of a Showarma bar on the Kloveniersburgwal, watched them run from the honing steel and curses of the Israeli owner. He found them again as they stormed The Victoria, rattling the ashtrays and coffee cups in the glazed sidewalk conservatory.

You don’t know nuffin about fuckin’ tactics.

Lissen! The fuckin’ ref was well out of order.

Yeah, yeah...

Who was there? I was fuckin’ well there, that’s who!

Trim followed quietly, sat at a corner table and felt for the diary in his coat pocket. A waiter was suddenly at his shoulder, pen poised.

Sir?

Spa Citroen, alsjeblieft.

The pages of the diary had yellowed with age, the pencil marks almost faded to invisibility. In the half-light of the piano bar, it was hard to make out the words. He pulled the decorative candle closer, but not too close. Just near enough to enable reading.

July 3rd 1939. The summer cottage. The two of us, sequestered in pastoral seclusion. Lowing cattle, bleating rams, sheep. We find green berries ripening in the hedgerow. Behind the cottage, wisps of early mist rise above the clover. Ghosts, listlessly undecided between earthly delights and paradise.

His heart slowed to the beat of a dozen fists. The Six were mobile again, slamming themselves into the outer edge of the Bechstein baby grand. Trim closed the diary and leaned back into the shadows. He sipped his Spa Citroen and looked around the half-empty bar. He lit a Sobranie, blew the smoke into the candle flame and focussed on his prey.

Two couples sat at their table, half-hidden from Trim. Fretwork shadows played over their faces, candlelight gleaming in their eyes. Glyn and Janet, Fred and Becky.

Fred Farthing was a big muscular man with brush-cut black hair and a broad, tanned face with full lips; part hidden by a bushy moustache. Becky was younger, in her mid thirties, neat and pretty, bobbed brown hair, natural make-up, soft spoken. Fred sat grinning, his fat, un-manicured fingers curled around his glass, warming the cheap champagne.

I’m looking forward to this! said Fred, rubbing his ample belly.

You eat too much for your own good! laughed Becky.

When I lose sight of me shoes, I’ll start worrying!

It’s not your shoes you should be worrying about! said Glyn.

Glyn Wood was plump, with wispy, ginger hair showing advanced signs of receding. He and Janet were holidaying with the Farthings. The party were in a bright mood. This evening’s meal was Fred’s treat. Glyn had done the honours the night before with a show, champagne and a small phial of Anais Anais for each of the ladies. Glyn was a software salesman, his first respectable job. Janet, all M&S and Waitrose, worked in ‘Pumpkin Pie’, a whole food restaurant in Stroud. Glyn and Janet were pleasant friends.

Out in the street, a barrel organ played, catching the last of the rush hour crowds, infusing the air with merry calliope renditions of Arlen and Berlin tunes. Inside, the Bechstein resonated with the percussive rapping of the grubby fingers of The Six. ‘Fuck this and fuck that…’

Right! Fred was standing, raised glass in hand, I’ve got a surprise for the girls tonight.

He winked knowingly at Glyn, who smiled bemusedly. Fred handed Becky and Janet each a small gift-wrapped cube, first to Becky, then to Janet. Sinterklaas paper. A sticker read ‘SURPRISE’. Fred watched them both excitedly with his grin widening across his flushed face.

Oh, Fred, it’s beautiful!

Inside the packages were small black cases, which hinged open to reveal tiny diamond pendants hanging from fine gold chains.

Oh, Fred, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen anything so lovely said Becky.

Fred moved behind Becky’s chair. He helped her clasp the pendant around her neck. He stooped to kiss the nape of her neck before sitting down.

Love you. he whispered.

Janet held her gold chain taut, sending the diamond spinning, catching candlelight in the facets, and filling the dark shadows with unwanted light. Trim with the diary started at the unaccustomed brilliance.

Come on, Glyn - do the honours!

Janet angled her neck so that Glyn too could act the gallant. He fumbled with the clasp and leaned over to Fred.

I don’t know, Fred, you’re a dark horse. I wondered where you went this aftie.

Glyn put his arm around Janet’s shoulder as he sat down. Becky smiled at Janet. Fred slipped his big hand between Becky’s thighs under the cover of the tablecloth and drew her attention back to him.

I must say WE were wondering where you’d got to as well, said Janet in a voice full of mock rebuke. This is a wicked city for an innocent little lad like you to be let loose in. Right Becky?

The meal arrived. Steak, chips, runner beans from a can, applesauce and limp winter lettuce; a wholly unsuitable last supper. The waiter left them to it.

Great. Look at this! said Fred, sprinkling his meal liberally with salt and pepper. They all helped themselves to the vegetables and salad and began to eat.

Oh god! Becky spluttered into her napkin, My beans taste of Lifebuoy Soap.

Becky explored her mouth with a tentative tongue, wary of what else she might discover.

Voices drifted across from the Bechstein.

Fuckin’ will, you know! I’ll fuckin’ bottle em!

Fred looked up, looked across, clenched his fists, and shouted at The Six.

Keep it down, lads, there’s ladies present.

Can’t fuckin’ see none!

Fred laid his napkin down and began to rise.

Don’t be daft, mate, Glyn said, you can see how pissed they are.

Fred tried to ignore them, but the mood was gone, Becky was suddenly distant, swirling Merlot to freshen her mouth. Fred pulled his chair closer to the table. Glyn attempted to stitch together the lost moments.

Here’s to us! he said, Cheers!

The four friends raised their glasses once more and clinked them together. Fred finished his steak and half of Becky’s in silence, and they ordered exotic ices from the waiter.

Aaah! said Glyn, This is the life.

TWATS! I’ll fuckin’ have em!

The Bechstein.

Coffee?

TWATS! I’ll fuckin’ nail ‘em!

No, I’ll have tea, said Becky I’m dying for a cup.

Music filled the piano bar. Not the distant barrel organ, not the muzak from the foyer. The music came from the sextet of savage voices humping the piano.

CITY! CITY!

The taut strings of the baby grand boomed out under the flat of their callused palms.

CITY! CITY! 

The waiter looked on helplessly, the cropped skulls and rude tattoos beyond his wildest dreams.

CITY! CITY!

The coffee came, biscuits nestling in saucers. The four shifted uneasily on their chairs.

I thought you wanted tea.

Fred was bristling.

It’s all right. Coffee’s fine.

I’ll change it.

No, don’t make a fuss

But the waiter had already escaped.

They began to make plans for the evening ahead. Glyn had tried unsuccessfully each night to steer the ladies toward the blush tints of the Red Light District.

It’s only a bit of fun. Why not?

A party of Americans came in noisily and set the candles shivering in their slipstream. The bar was filling up.

I’m not going into any of those shows. Janet insisted.

We’ll just go window shopping! Insisted Glyn. Just a bit of fun, that’s all.

Three girls, with wet, stringy hair, came through from the foyer and sat at a table near the window, near Trim. The waiter glided in to serve the party of Americans with their Cokes and Buds. Fred called him over on his way back to the kitchen.

Waiter.

A poised pen, a trembling hand.

We’ll have some more coffee, and some Drambuie.

Fred covered a noiseless burp with his hand and shifted slightly on his chair.

I’m off to the Gents. All this booze has got to me."

Glyn rose and followed Fred into the foyer. Den and ‘Dog’ swivelled round on their bar stools. Kev muttered something under his breath that made them all snicker. Then Den and ‘Dog’ turned a full circle.

The Gents’ was in the souterrain, reached by a dimly lit narrow flight of freestanding, filigree staircase, its dainty treads carpeted in deep purple plush. The hallway between the Gents’ and the basement disco was floored with terracotta. A malodorous melange of stale tobacco and perfume oozed from the open doorway of the disco, promisingly named ‘Madonna’s’. The DJ and a cocktail waitress were chatting just inside the entrance, across from the Gents’ with its glass-partitioned urinals and blue-lit junky-proof booths. Fred stomped across the terracotta and smashed open the door to the Gents’ with his forearm.

Christ! I’m so fucking depressed, I feel like fucking topping myself.

Chapter Two

There was a pause. Sounds filtered through. Trickles. Foreign voices, tram rumbles. The two friends stood side by side, relieving themselves.

I can't fucking stand the thought of going back to fucking Saudi. I've fucking had it.

I though you loved it out there. The money and everything.

It’s a fucking, shitty Hellhole! I’ve fucking had it! Fucking had it!

I thought you were set up for life…

Work was tough under the fierce sun. Fred was constantly homesick and full of regret that he had not looked harder, closer to home. He missed Hillier’s skinless sausages. He missed his pint. He missed his selfish sex. Oh sure, he missed that. He relieved himself when the hormones raged, climaxing to images of string and peeling paint. And he missed Becky.

You got no idea what it's fucking like.

I'm sorry Fred; I thought you had a cushy number. Honest.

I’d sooner top myself than go back, mate.

Glyn didn't know how to reply. He shook himself dry and zipped up. Fred continued with his steady stream as Glyn washed his hands and dried them under the noisy blower. Fred was still there as Glyn left the toilet and climbed up the dainty stairs. Fred was just finishing off as Glyn returned to the table. The Victoria felt like a different place now, all the tables occupied. The bar was full of animated small talk from the noisy shoppers that had flooded in, keen for a drink.

Glyn lifted his glass of Drambuie to his lips and swallowed the contents in one gulp. Becky and Janet were fingering their diamonds and didn't notice how disturbed Glyn looked. The Six had watched Glyn return to his seat. Four of them headed loudly for the foyer, for the Gents'

CITY!

Trim slipped a ten guilder note under the coaster, pulled his fine black kid gloves over his delicate fingers and followed in the shadow of the four, hands deep in camel pockets, caressing poisoned steel. The four were drunk. They were approaching the stage when the brain numbs, when blue clouds the vision, when atrophy begins. Trim felt he could almost control them. Time to stoke up the tired engine a little.

CITY!

The four filled the narrow spiral stair, only to find their way blocked by Fred’s bulk. He too was drunk. He was still zipping his fly.

Well, look who it fuckin’ isn’t! Mister Fuckin’ Nice Guy! Den hollered at him. Den was small, but as brave as a jackal when surrounded by the pack.

Out of the fuckin’ way, Grandpa!

Shit! said Fred, under his breath. He decided to brazen it out, to use his scrumhalf shoulders to push up and through. He braced himself for the uphill shove, steadied himself for the effort the manoeuvre would require and began the push. Fred could not see how many there were. 

Fred surprised the four with his strength as they teetered on the dainty treads.

Come on you wankers, put some fuckin’ muscle into it.

Fred roared like an ox and had the advantage at last. He pushed past two of them, pummelling with his fists as he squeezed through. He kneed one of them in the groin and the bugger spat in his face. The noise had grabbed everyone’s attention and dinner ceased as the melee began. Others in the foyer, near the top of the stairs were jostled out of the way. The waiter, Trim and one of the Americans attempted to side step the trouble, but they were all drawn into the scrum. Fred and the four were near the top, Fred’s bulk winning the day. Veins stood out on his neck as his face reddened. His heart pounded dangerously close to breaking point, but he was not ready to let these bullyboys win this fight. He made it almost to the top.

Right, you bastards!

Pete and Ritchie left the Bechstein and piled in for the fight without a second thought to anyone in their way.

Let’s get the fucker!

Then Fred felt a pain so intense that he lost his grip on the ironwork of the banister. He clutched at his heart and reeled backward unable to breathe. Fred tried to grasp hold of something to steady his balance. He found Mart’s studded belt and Kev’s ankle as they all tumbled down into the well of the stairway. They slammed into a squirming heap at the bottom of the stairs, with Fred, the sum of their weight, crushing the breath out of them. He let out another roar filled to the brim with pain.

BECKY!

He rose briefly and hovered for a second before falling backwards and banging his head on the terracotta tiles. He lay back, quite still now, a steady trickle of blood seeping from his cracked skull.

JESUS CHRIST! BLOOD

Den and the others dragged themselves from under Fred and crawled away across the slippery tiles. Kev and Mart stared stupidly at Fred laying a foot away from them, blood seeping from the knife wound in his chest, the crack in his skull. Urine ran down Den’s legs and mingled with the blood that washed over the tiles. Blood. Dog had fainted. Noise, sweat, panic. Blood.

Someone in the foyer made a phone call in near perfect Dutch. Glyn pushed his way through the scrum at the top of the spiral stair running at the noise. Becky and Janet abandoned their diamonds and flew with the flock. Janet could almost see and she held Becky back. She could hear Glyn shouting above the noise.

YOU BASTARDS! YOU BASTARDS! WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?

Fred could just make out the blur of faces through ribbons of pain, through the muffled sickening sounds. His head had cracked painfully upon the terracotta tile, his elbows had grazed, his head and his heart hurt him badly, and he tasted soap. He could see quite clearly the rows of pegs and hats and coats, rows of teeth bearing down upon him. ‘Why are you here?’ ‘I said bugger, Miss.’

Fred felt himself slip away into a pain-filled nightmare of willow arrows and stinging nettles and string and peeling paint and dank smells of creosote and carbolic. His torn heart beat absurdly fast, pumping blood, losing the battle. Becky screamed so loud that her lungs hurt with the effort.

Five, six, seven minutes passed in the eternal void of the dying moments. The squad cars and ambulances added their descant siren wails to the demonic orchestration of chaos.

Let us through. Please, let us through.

The paramedics pushed their way into the hotel by way of the main entrance angled across from the Sint Nicolas Church. One carried a stretcher roll under his arm; another carried a large ribbed aluminium case filled with emergency equipment. A third followed, flanked by several armed policemen. One look at the stairwell filled with the familiar tribal colours told them what they already expected.

Godverdomme!

Stand back, please. Everybody! Stand back. Police!

The dinner crowds, the coffee crowds, the kitchen crowds edged back from the precipice, suddenly uninvolved, simply curious.

You! YOU BOYS BELOW, YOU MUST REMAIN. NO ONE IS TO LEAVE! one of them shouted. Pete and Ritchie were cornered over by the wall phones. Den, Dog, Mart, Kev, the DJ and the waitress were trapped by the flow of blood creeping toward the darkened disco. Noise. Blood. A solid wall of red cacophony.

Janet held Becky away from the stairs, brief timeless moments spiralling away.

He has been stabbed. The knife is here.

One policeman bagged the knife, another marked the spot with chalk scratches and squeaks.

The paramedics followed closely behind. They leaned over Fred, assessing the damage, stemming the flow with thick layers of cotton wadding. Fred was bound to the stretcher. He was as heavy as he looked and the paramedics exchanged worried glances as two of them strained to lift the dead weight. Not quite dead. Almost. Sweating profusely, they bumped and tripped him painfully step by step up the delicate treads.

Becky saw him for the first time. It was more terrible than she could have ever imagined. She had steeled herself for a heart attack, or a fall, but not for this bloodstained brutalised body that was being manhandled past her.

Oh Freddy, Freddy. she whispered.

She freed herself from Janet’s grip and moved shakily to touch him.

Are you the wife? someone asked her.

Janet nodded for her.

Then you may come with us.

Looking back, she would not remember leaving the hotel. She would remember the chirpy barrel organ playing All my Loving, her breath clouds filling the open space before her, obscuring her memory, drawing a mist filled night. She would remember the feeling of abject panic, clawing at her abdomen like the echoes of the final contraction, but she would remember little else.

Mevrouw Farthing, someone will later come to the hospital to talk with you. I wish you much strength

The ambulance howled off toward the Ij Tunnel. Fred lay in his winding sheet, deathly pale. Becky had no words for the men who sat on either side of Fred with their tubes and machinery. In the antiseptic air of the ambulance, their life together was reeling away, but she had no words at all.

Chapter Three

Seated in a dark corner of The Rode Leeuw, Trim removed his black kid gloves and folded them neatly and placed them upon the tabletop. He took the diary from his coat pocket and opened it at random. He read the familiar passages for several moments. No one had noticed him enter the bar. He knew he should wait, but he needed a drink.  

Waiter!

The waiter scanned the room for the owner of the voice. 

Sir?

Gin.

Juniper berries. Juniperus communis. He thumbed through the diary and found the small coloured sketch. Most of the colour had faded, but there was still a bluish tinge to the berries. He noticed a small brown needle caught in the spine of the book. Part of a leaf. He prised it free with a manicured fingernail and held it to his nose. At that moment the waiter arrived with a tulip glass of genever. He inhaled deeply the heady scent of juniper. He flicked the small spiny leaf onto the carpeted table top, where it hooked itself into the red tufts like a dagger. He closed the diary and put it in his coat pocket. He downed the genever with one gulp and looked around for the elusive waiter.

The bottle, please.  

Noise. In The Victoria, all exits and escape routes had been sealed. The Six were still drunk, building up to the crescendo heights that Den had long since scaled.

This knife. It is yours? You are the owner of this knife?

I DIDN’T FUCKIN’ DO IT! GOD’S HONEST TRUTH! TELL ‘EM WILL YA? I DIDN’T FUCKIN’ DO IT!

The police had their hands full. The officer in charge was contemplating sending through to headquarters for reinforcements. It looked as though it might come to that.

I DIDN’T FUCKIN’ DO IT! TELL ‘EM MART! KEV, TELL ‘EM FER FUCK’S SAKE!

Den sobbed out his words to the patient policeman, to the deep plush of the foyer, to his uncertain allies. A detective had arrived and was down below, examining the spot. He asked his questions in a voice that was little more than a whisper. The witnesses were eager with their accusations.

They were very aggressive all evening!

He faced The Six, in the foyer. The whisper cut through the noise.

I will ask you again. This knife. Are you the owner of this knife?

Den said nothing.

These letters here. On the handle. These are the letters of your name?

It was Den’s knife. His initials had been stamped into the handle. Kev had done it for him in the chassis workshop. D.M.R. Dennis Michael O’Rourke. A policeman checked his crumpled visitor’s passport

Dennis Michael O’Rourke, you must come with us to the bureau. And you, the others also.

YOU CAN’T TAKE US IN! WE ‘AINT FUCKIN’ DONE NOTHING! Kev shouted in panic.

They were all still drunk and slightly out of control. All except for Den who was completely out of control. He snivelled into his grubby hands, 'L.O.V.E.H.A.T.E.' tattooed across his knuckles. He shivered in the warmth of the foyer. His jeans stank of urine. The police officer signalled to a colleague.

Take them away.

To The Six; We take you all to the bureau for questions.

Does that mean we’re all under fuckin’ arrest?

Yes, you will be charged. You will have an advocate assigned to you, should it become needed.

Den whimpered like a child.

Stick with me lads, you know I didn’t do nothing.

All they knew was that they hadn’t done it. So, if they all knew they hadn’t done it, well that left Den, didn’t it? And it was his knife after all. Still, he was a mate, wasn’t he? He was one of the Pack. And that old geezer had got up their noses, hadn’t he? They had meant to duff him over, that much was true.

Yeah, course we’ll stick by ya, mate.

Like mud they would stick. Like shit. Like it or like it not. 

Candlelight fell across the yellowed pages of the open diary. Trim traced a delicate finger over the pencilled handwriting. Then suddenly, he snapped the diary shut with a loud report. Several people glanced across, and then looked away. Had his heart missed a beat? Worlds turned on sounds like these.

CITY! CITY!

At seven o’clock alcohol was taking hold, and the groups of supporters were finding their voice, seeking out their kind, growing as a threat to the brightly lit Christmas windows. A dozen or so were kicking their way along the Warmoesstraat when the first of the squad cars arrived. Pack colours were identified as Den climbed out of the lead car in the company of policemen.

CITY! CITY!

The other cars arrived and came to a halt in front of the police headquarters. There were raised fists. 

PIGS! PIGS! OUT PIGS, OUT!

A stone from the