Nostradamus Murders

Draft chapters of a story I hav been playing with relating to serial killer who is killing victims in the methods predicted by Nostradamus. Early chapters trying to set up the main character. Interested in feedback on the setup of the story, style, etc.

Thanks in advance - Stewart

PS. I have left my original comments and blank spots in place. Apologies for that.


1 - Death of a politician

The tall, good looking man strode through the cemetery vaguely aware of the headstones and fauna around him; birds, still settling for the evening, chirruped softly as the gentle breeze whispered through the leaves. As he walked, the moon illuminated his way as it poked through the overcast sky, dim light reflected gently from concrete tombs; each standing, sentinel-like, proudly protecting the remains within.
Marshall Reader knew every tomb, had diligently counted the 1,334 markers during his numerous walks; he often stopped to read an inscription or two, and wondered at the life lived long before his own. Situated on the corner of Karangahape Road and Symonds St the cemetery was one of Auckland's original grave yards. Established in 1872 it was home to the famous, infamous, and anonymous; each body resided in plots tended or untended, their places etched in stone for eternity. Lined with trees, the grounds were bisected by a bustling road that transported anonymous drivers’ home to northern or southern districts, occupants oblivious to the history within, or of the desecration caused when road construction forced graves to be relocated.
The low thrum of vehicles vibrated through Marshall as he meandered along the path which wound towards Upper Queen St, his flat and the first of what he hoped, were several glasses of Martinborough Pinot. After all, he thought happily, tonight was certainly an evening for celebration.
In a concession to his strict sense of style, Marshall unbuttoned his jacket to allow the breeze to penetrate his shirt providing some relief to the evening’s warmth. The single breasted jacket fell open, the dark material with red pinstripe, invisible under the moonlight, contrasted against his white shirt and salmon tie.
As he strolled he replayed the days' events and savoured his small victory. His first as a new member of parliament and hopefully not his last; he was well aware that today he had made an enemy. A feeling of deep set pleasure coursed through him and he discarded the negative thought. The New Zealand Party leader had hoped to force through legislation allowing further gold mining in Marshall's beloved Coromandel Pennisula, the wily fox claiming that the economic benefit would outweigh the environmental risk. The documents Marshall had produced forced him to back down causing the normally unflappable Minister to leave the room, tail stuck firmly between his legs.
Enjoying the warmth of success Marshall stopped at a favourite landmark. The grave of Harry Holland, one time labour leader, stood proudly at the hills' zenith, the tomb, built in his honour by the New Zealand Labour Party, followed his death in 1933. Marshall perched on the marble surround and trailed his fingers across the carved inscription that adorned the tombs' surface. In the darkness beneath the trees he couldn't read the legend but he knew it by heart; a eulogy befitting a man that had piloted the struggle for workers rights.
Hoisting his bag, Marshall hummed his favourite act from Swan Lake, and began the final leg home, vaguely aware that the shadows had become even darker; dark clouds had obscured the moon. Eight minutes, a quick shower and that bottle of Atarangi he mused ignoring the thought of paperwork that needed review for a morning meeting.
Above the low hum of vehicles, Marshall became aware of another person walking the path behind him, the footsteps sure and even, steady and purposeful. Another worker on their way home no doubt. As he continued, he could hear the other person singing, a low sound that lacked rhythm and sounded repetitive. Unconcerned, he slowed, trying to catch the tune, curious to the repetitive nature. Drawing closer he was able to pick out words, the lyrics seemed to form a four line pattern, but he could not pick out any familiar words. He shrugged off his curiosity, and resumed his walk, focussed again on his minor victory, the memory of XXX face bringing a smile to his face.
Rounding a bend Marshall ducked to avoid an overhanging branch from a large hibiscus, one of many that dotted the cemetery. He caught a flash of light from behind. Instantly, an arm circled his neck; a second grasped his hair. His head was jerked back. The skin on his neck stretched taut. What is this? What’s happening? The thought raced through his head as he grappled with the situation.
His attackers’ weight fell against him. He twisted to escape; they stumbled and Marshall felt the pressure on his neck lessen. Hope washed through him. The briefcase fell to the ground and came to rest against a granite headstone. Marshall swung his arms, desperate to dislodge his assailant. Again the grip on his neck loosened and he felt his confidence grow; escape felt possible.
As the struggle continued Marshall felt a hand scrape across his neck, followed by a sting of pain that grew in intensity. Warmth he couldn’t describe flowed through him. Confused, he tried to shout. All he heard was a gurgle. His face was spattered by warm raindrops and there was spreading warmth moving from his neck along his chest. Marshall’s legs wobbled and he slumped toward the ground. The arm released him. His assailant’s hands quickly replaced by his own, only to slip on the viscous fluid that drained from his neck; his mouth continued to work but made no sound, each gargled breath drew stickiness into his lungs. He knew he was slowly suffocating. As his panic grew, his mind reeled with comprehension, his fingers caught in the long gash the encircled his neck, weakness began to blur his vision.
As his life slowly extinguished he saw his attacker for the first time, standing coolly observing him through impassive eyes, the face set and unreadable; expectant. Shadows descended on Marshall's life. He collapsed; his final vision was of a blood red bottle of pinot noir lying unopened in his wine rack.










 
2 – Monday Morning

Monday dawned to the beat of Tommy Ramone; he drummed Judy is a Punk somewhere close, the regular thump of base doing its best to force me awake. I opened a weary, sleep encrusted eyelid; sunlight streamed through open curtains, seared the back of my eye and filled my vision with an explosion of colour that rotated clockwise in a kaleidoscope of various sized blobs.
My parched tongue found a set of fur lined teeth, dry cheeks that tasted of beer, barbequed sausages and a night of breathing dust through my mouth. I groaned. Oh, shit! The previous evening came back at a charge, a flag bearer of memories; the surfing competition, a few beers with the boys, the stagger back to my place with John, a few more beers, charred steak, and, oh yes, black Sambuca.
I rubbed my head, failed to still the thump, sat up, moaned again and squinted at my watch; five-fifteen, Jesus! With a heavy sigh and full bladder, I dragged myself out of bed and padded into the bathroom.
With clean teeth and a weight off my bladder I managed thirty seven sit-ups before my head refused to raise itself from the floor anymore. The drums had eased; Tommy now played a more sedate Sheena is a Punk Rocker, but the constant two foot rise in altitude screwed with my equilibrium. Prudence got the better of me. I abandoned my daily sit ups, clambered to my feet and headed for the kitchen. Coffee.
I filled the percolator and stood in the window. The smell of Colombian roast joined me, the pungent aroma swirled around my head. The swell had increased overnight. As I watched, deep green waves swept toward shore in razor sharp lines. Perfect barrels formed as the wave toppled on the shallow sand. I filled a mug, wrapped a hand around it, stepped onto the deck and prayed that the combination of coffee and crisp air would relieve me of my hangover.
If nothing else, I like routine. Despite my headache and nausea, I finished my coffee and headed into the surf. I love this time of day; early morning, sunrise on the horizon, the late autumn sun climbing its way above the hills, casting shadows, long and thin like an old man’s stretch. A gentle yawn of breeze kept the air cool as daylight built.
Warmer than the surrounding air, the water made the dip bearable; warm enough to swim in shorts and rash shirt, cool enough to keep you refreshed and alert. This morning, I needed all the help I could to remain focused. The ocean offered up a boisterous three to four feet of swell which evoked a sense of calm and excitement within me; the two emotions fought for air time, alternately encouraging me embrace the spirit or charge for the next wave.
It is the same every time; this sense of being alive. On days when I didn’t or couldn’t surf, I lived on the memory the last wave. For me, there is something ethereal about surfing that can’t be expressed to others; there is the sensation of moving in rhythm with the approaching swell, the feeling of weightlessness as the wave propels the board forward, sticky wax presses into your palms you prepare to drive yourself to your feet, tension through shoulders as your body thrusts upwards, then relief as feet plant firmly with knees flexed, balanced ensured. And finally, the pure joy as man and board rush down the steepening wave, salt spray and elation spread across your face in equal amounts. This is a time when I truly feel free, released of pressure and concern.
I paddled into the line-up and wondered what the day would bring. I still had two weeks until my review meeting, and then, there was no guarantee that I would be allowed to return to work. The time at home frustrated me. Perhaps it’s time to work on the weatherboards, I thought to myself.
A large wave rose up, a green wall bore down on me, breaking my thoughts; a jolt of adrenalin broke the calm. With a twist, I swung the board toward the beach and paddled furiously. My arms screamed at the sudden burst of energy. "Come on Carlton," I urged myself, paddling harder, trying to gain momentum.
The board lifted as the wave caught me. I glimpsed left and right, settled on right and shot down the face. White water boiled as the wave’s lip threatened to crash over me. My feet planted firmly and dimpled wax pressed into my soles. Abruptly the wave broke spewing white water into my face, temporarily blinding me, forcing me to squint, the sting of salt trapped against my already reddened eyes. I fought the broiling water, my arms pin wheeled, desperate to steady my rocking board; a lance of fear struck my heart, the vision on a nasty wipeout all too clear.
Miraculously, the wave ahead held up and my board swept through the churning white water and I broke through to a smooth wall of green water. With two quick steps, I transitioned from teetering on the edge of disaster, to perfectly balanced as I stood at the nose of my board, one foot over the edge, the other set back at right angles in the perfect hang-five posture. In flawless trim, I stood tall and enjoyed the smooth ride. When I felt the board wobble I stepped back and executed a slow turn to the left before looping right again to point the board along the wave again.
Satisfied, I pulled out, dropped to my stomach, felt the last embers of my hangover recede, and paddled out again.
The thrill had silenced my hangover; the pounding in my head temporarily silenced by the thumping in my chest. Elated I sat and took in the morning that cocooned me. As usual there were a few surfers out at this early hour. Fifty meters away, Old Jim sat waiting for a wave. He still rode his 1960 Dennis Quaine; thick and chunky, the antique board floated well above the water. I laughed at the irony of one antique riding another! Old Jim was well into his sixties; tough and sinewy, he was a hippy that had never grown up.
WHO ELSE WAS THERE? ARE THEY RELEVANT TO THE STORY?
I daydreamed briefly and pondered my personal situation. I loved this ability to get into the ocean each day and at will, but I missed my job, the people and the day to day rush that went with it. Once I was back on duty I would most likely be restricted to weekends, assuming, of course, that I got any weekends off. With the job, you never know when you might be called out, or needed to work. Still, it will be good to get back into it.
Focussing my attention on the surf again, I caught a couple more waves and headed for the beach. Time for coffee and food!
2a – Monday Morning - John

“I still think she had the hot’s for me, Carlton!”
I flipped bacon and shot a look at John. My oldest friend nursed a coffee clutched in a catcher-mitt hand. He sat on the couch, bare footed, dressed in boxer shorts, and a singlet that matched his bright smile. His stocky frame was hunched as he read the newspaper; he showed no adverse effects from our night of largess. This last fact about John really pisses me off. No matter how much we drink, he sleeps like a corpse and wakes like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, one wide stretch of his arms, a single yawn and everything is back to normal. Amazing! One of my cats, Delta, judging from the white spot on his head, purred and lay curled in his lap.
“Mate, you have no idea. She was married. You know that don’t you?”
The subject of our conversation was a cute blonde that worked for one of the surfing magazines. Dressed in tight denim shorts, a white bikini top, which showed off her all over tan and lithe figure, she took photographs of the event. Her camera equipment wasn’t the only valuable asset on display.
John didn’t look up, continued to run his finger across the news column and shook his head, “What’s that gotta do with anything? Marriage don’t mean shit to youngsters these days. I tell ya, fifteen more minutes and she would have been all over me.”
Despite the bravado, John is happily married. If a woman showed interest in the troll that hunched on my leather couch, he would run a mile. Debbie, his diminutive wife, saw past the five foot six frame, shaven head, thick neck and crass language. They adored each other. Besides, if John ever strayed, his Irish bombshell would have his crown jewels swinging from the washing line. Not that he needed them anymore. With three kids, John is past the new father stage.
“No way, John. You and me, we are part of the glass age.”
This time he did look up, “The glass age? What’s that?”
“The glass age,” I chuckled, “You know. Women see right though you.”
I continued to chuckle, enjoying my joke. John turned the page, “Ha, bloody, ha. How long you gonna frazzle that brekky?”
 
2b – Monday Morning – Steven Shingleton

With breakfast over, I washed and dried plates, wiped the granite bench, opened the cupboard and pulled a box of cat biscuits; several black heads moved in unison at the sound of the rattle. Delta remained still, unwilling to concede his position on John’s lap; a fat finger absently rubbed his ears. I poured biscuits. Six dishes tinkled like silver hand bells.
John finally looked up from the newspaper, “I still don’t understand why you keep all these kittens.”
“They’re family. They don’t have anybody else.” I told him. I tightened the towel around my waist and chirped over my shoulder, “I’m going to get the mail.”
My mail box perched like a seagull on top of its post; rusted metal poked through the flaked white paint which sported a leopard skin pattern. I lifted the lid and removed a handful of papers, letters and leaflets. The beach was still deserted. At this still early hour only a few people were out. Several couples strolled the black volcanic sands, walked dogs and held hands, enjoying the sun as it rose above the dunes. Several black dots remained in the lineup and I sighed longingly and wished I was still out there.
A sapphire blue station wagon, parked at an angle, sat on the grass opposite and floated in a mirror of dew. It had large chrome wheels and low profile tyres that made it appear sunk into the grass; a swathe of stickers, promoting various surf brands, were plastered inside the rear window. I guessed it belonged to a youngster, probably abandoned by some drunk from last night. I was half right. There was a drunk; the large feet pressed against the rear window suggested that the occupant had spent the night in-situ.
On closer inspection, the boy lay sprawled across the back seat, head flat on the cushion, legs bent, toes spread against the glass and mouth open wide enough to catch passing flies. He looked dreadfully uncomfortable. A wall of condensation had formed on the window above his face. His longboard floated spectrally above him, balanced across the front and back seats. The boy must have strapped on a big night. I knew how he felt. To his credit he had decided to crash in his car rather than drive. Feeling sorry for him and his uncomfortable position I rapped sharply on the window.
Alarmed, he jolted upright and cracked his head against the board. I winced, immediately recognising the shaggy mop of hair and contorted face.
“Hey, Steven! Hey, wake up! You don't look comfortable, bro. Come over to my place and crash somewhere comfortable.”
A weary arm dismissed me with a limp wave, and returned to rub his bruised forehead.
“OK, well, the door is open. I’ve got some coffee on the go. When you're up to it, come on over,” and with that I turned and strode back to the house.
I had forgotten about the mail and idly thumbed through it; a newspaper, three fliers promoting pizza, environmentally friendly garden bags and home computer services, none of which were any use to me. Of the five letters, three were bills; my name and address poked through the clear plastic window in each. I tucked these to the back. The fourth, marked with an official stamp from my employer. No doubt it contained the date for my review.
The final envelope caused me to pause on the path; the address was written in a familiar, albeit unsteady, feminine script. My head filled with unpleasant thoughts; dark shadows formed, and a long closed door creaked open. I scrunched the unopened letter, shook the thoughts away and entered the house.
The cheery sounds of John singing greeted me. His song of choice was a high pitched version of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the ‘Stones. Given his build, he was the anathema of Mick Jagger, save the big lips and white teeth.
“Man, you still look like shit!” he said between lyrics, spooning sugar into a mug. “You're getting to old, Carlton. You just can't keep up with us young fellas.”
I wanted to remind him we were the same age, but he thrust the vessel into my hand and continued before I had the chance, “Who's your friend?”
A bleary eyed and ragged wraith shuffled in behind me.
“Jeez, I didn't think anybody could look worse than you Carlton.” He dragged down another mug, “You look like you could do with a good feed as well, son. Sit down. Uncle John will see you right.”
I placed the mail on the bench, tossed the scrunched envelop into the corner where it joined several others. I stared across the table and said, “So what's your story?”
He took a swallow of coffee; colour slowly returned to his face. “Oh, you know. Yesterday was pretty shit. Had a few with the boys, and well, guess I had a few too many.”
“Yeah, know what you mean.” John shot at the pair of us. “Carlton can't hold his beer either.” He chuckled, “You two are a right pair. Talking of a shit day, what the hell happened to you in the comp? I mean, what made you drop in on that guy? What were you thinking? You had the heat in the bag.”
I shot John a look that said, leave the guy alone. He just shrugged and pressed the boy again.
“Just ignore him Steven. He's a pathologically nosey bastard. He can't help it.”
“No, it’s all right. I guess my head just wasn't in the right place. I dunno.”
“Hey, we all have off days. You still have the final comp to take out the title. It would have been good though to have taken it out yesterday.”
“Huh, yeah I guess so.” He didn’t seem so sure.
I studied the boy as he ate. He was in his late teens, with a body that appeared stuck between boy and man. His wiry arms linked to muscular shoulders and a slim neck, if it hadn’t been for the mop of shaggy hair he could have stood in for ET. His piercing eyes, currently crisscrossed with scarlet spider webs, were a deep green.
“Regardless, Steven, that second wave you got was awesome. That should have won you the round.”
His smile revealed a row of perfectly straight teeth. Good dental work, I thought. Expensive too. “Yeah, that was good” his back straightened, “Felt great as well.”
I knew what he meant. I recalled my earlier experience of wave and adrenalin. It truly is something that cannot be expressed to others and has to be experienced.
“Still doesn’t explain why you dropped in on Mike Philips though.”
“I was distracted, I guess. Things have been pretty shit at home recently. My mother and I haven’t been getting on, and you know, I guess I just wasn’t thinking.”
John took on a serious note, “Hey, all families have difficulties, and all kids have issues with their parents from time to time. Sometimes my girls don’t talk to me for days. Don’t sweat it.”
“I don’t know. If she isn’t crying, she’s yelling at me. I don’t know what I’ve done to upset her. Or maybe it’s something at work.”
“What does she do?”
“She runs a consulting business in Takapuna, called Ashton Consulting.”
I felt a tingle. There was a familiarity about the name. “Isn’t that business run by James Ashton?”
“Yes. No.” He said, “I mean, it was. He died several years ago. Mum took it over.”
“Took it over? What is your mother’s name?”
He gave me a funny look. “Her name? Veronica. Veronica Shingleton.”
“Yes, but she was Veronica Ashton, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. Grandpa James was her father.”
“Well, well,” I said struggling to get my thoughts in order, “I think your mother and I used to go to university together.”
Before either of us could explore the coincidence further, a sharp rap on the front door broke the moment.
I rose to my feet and tugged on my t-shirt, “Sorry Steven,” I said, “Let me get that.”
“Hey, that’s OK. I better get going anyway.” He said rising himself. “Thanks very much for breakfast. I appreciate it.”

2c – Monday Morning – Inspector Hobson

Sunlight cast a complex pattern of light across the teak floor as it streamed through the glass panels of the front door. Two silhouettes were centered in the glass, black and indistinct, their shadows cast by the still rising sun. The profiles reminded me of Laurel and Hardy, one squat and heavy set, the other tall and thin, with what looked like a mop of curly hair. I glanced at my watch. Still only 7.00am. Who could be calling at this time?
My welcome caught in my throat. As the door swung inwards, I recognized the shorter of my two visitors. I heard a groan and hoped desperately that the noise hadn’t come from my own throat. If the squat man had heard me, he didn’t give any indication of it.
“Sergeant Light!” said the gravelly voice, instantly stirring unpleasant memories, “How is you? Sorry for the unannounced arrival. We did call, but no answer.”
There was no surprise that they hadn’t been successful in calling me. I don’t own a land line and, in recent months, my mobile was constantly on silent. I had no need to be contacted. The voicemail had informed people that I was on extended leave. “Please leave a message,” my electronic voice told any caller. Anything work related, my message said, should be referred to another number that I had left.
“Superintendant,” I responded sourly. With a nod of my head I acknowledged his companion. “What brings you here, sir?”
“May we come in?”
There was no way this was a social call. Hobson and I had never liked each other. After recent events, we had become ever more distant. Not wishing to cause a scene on my doorstep I stepped aside; the two men walked past, waited while I shut the door and followed me into the kitchen. John and Delta were embroiled in a private battle; the cat lay on its back, wedged between John’s legs making a futile attempt to swat away his fat fingers as they tried to tickle the kitten’s tummy. Shock swept across John’s face as he recognised my “guest”. He leapt to his feet spilling the cat. Delta’s claws scratched the floor as he scooted from the room.
“Superintendent…” he stammered.
“Good morning, Tamihere.” He replied, turning back to me.
I stared back at the two men. Hobson hadn’t changed much in six months. He was dressed in dark trousers with pleats and sharp creases. From the way the buttons on his white shirt bulged, it didn’t look the diet was working. His ensemble was finished with a pair of highly polished shoes that seemed to capture and reflect every ray of light in the room. Granules of sand, from the walk to my house, had collected along the seam where the sole met the leather upper. As usual, his thinning black hair was swept across his head. I had often wondered how he managed to grow one side long enough to paste across the bald strip that ran through his heads centre.
“I won't beat around the bush Light. Your review is due in two weeks. Against my better judgement, it was always likely that you would be able to return to duty.”
During my disciplinary hearing, Hobson had pressed to have me fired. He had made it very clear to anybody that would listen that he thought my actions not worthy of a second chance. Others, I knew, had similar views. My service representative had done a magnificent job in defending me. Stress, he had said, combined with a highly unusual case. The panel agreed and suspended me for six months. The last time I had seen Hobson, he had stormed from the hearing room clearly disgusted with the decision.
“This here,” he said, pointing to the red-headed boy, “is Vinnie Brown. He will be your new partner.”
I studied the boy again. Typical of red heads, he was pasty white and covered in freckles, his bushy eyebrows framed a pair of amber eyes. Like Hobson, the boy looked uncomfortable. I suspected this was more nerves than anything else. After all, it wasn't every day you got paired with the force's biggest embarrassment. I began to suspect there was more to the Superintendant's visit that pure introduction.
“You came all the way out here, to introduce me to my new partner? Couldn't that wait until I officially start back?”
“You are back, Light. Work starts now.” Hobson replied, the authoritative voice I remembered, returning, “There's been a murder. You and Brown are on it.”
Behind me John made a whooping sound. Hobson shot him a glance that stifled any further celebration.
I was confused, “Whoa! Isn't that a bit quick? I’m not ready to return, not prepared. Surely there must be other guys available?”
“Believe me, if there was somebody else, I would have assigned them. In my view, you should be writing parking tickets,” the man's face had reddened further, “However, you return to your old job, and that means you get this case.”
Without waiting for a response, Hobson continued, “The Peter's boys, have the scene under control. The coroner and scene of crime boys are probably there now. I'll leave Brown with you. I want you there as soon as possible.”
And with that, he turned and left.