Free Dragged into Darkness by Simon Wood Page A

doorstep.  One of the packages he recognized.  A hand or a foot, he guessed, but the second was neither.  It was far too big, a leg at first glance.  Mack knew a similar package would be waiting for him when he got home.
    But the parcels didn’t bother him.  He was expecting them.  The milk he wasn’t.  Jerry, like him, lived alone.  Service of one’s country didn’t make for a happy marriage.  And Mack didn’t think Jerry was drinking four pints of milk a day.  He rang the doorbell.
    No reply.
    “Hi, Jerry.   It’s Mack,” he said loudly.  “Come round the back?  Right you are, mate.”
    Mack slipped through a side gate that led into a seafront garden.  He pulled out his Berretta.  Climbing roses smothered a trellis, providing superb privacy for the French doors.  Putting the gun away, he picked the lock and let himself in.
    Mack found Jerry’s markers protecting the house against intrusion.  Some habits died hard.  Then he found Jerry.  He was in the kitchen with an open parcel in front of him.  Mack knew it was the first parcel.  A left foot was poking out.  That meant Jerry had been dead two days.  There was no rigor mortis.  His corpse was room temperature and beginning to smell.  From the anguish carved into his face, Mack thought heart attack.  The scenario wasn’t hard to guess.
    Mack took in the milk and remaining packages.  He checked for nosey neighbors.  Houses lined one side of the street only.  No one lived opposite.  Chances of his arrival raising too many suspicions were slim.  Good, he thought.
    He placed the packages on the kitchen table with the one Jerry had already opened and opened the rest.  He was right.  The packages contained the left foot, right hand and left leg.
    Mack delved for his mobile phone and rang Harker to give him the news.  He got Harker’s voicemail.  “Ben, Jerry’s dead.  Heart attack when he opened the first parcel.  I’m driving straight to Marcus’.  I’ll leave the front door unlocked for your cleaners.  He’s got three packages.  A leg arrived with this morning’s post.  A pound to a penny, I’ve got one too.  I’ll talk to you later.” 
    There was nothing more he could do here.  He left Jerry propped in his chair, the packages in front of him.  He would be taken care of eventually.  He was amazed at his detachment.  How quickly the old habits came back.  He was what he was.  He closed the front door and drove north.
    ***
    Mack was experiencing an annoying case of déjà vu.  Marcus wasn’t answering the door.  The only difference, no milk or packages were present. 
    “C’mon, Marcus,” he muttered.
    “Are you looking for the Gales?” 
    A neighbor crossed the road towards him.  Unlike Jerry, Marcus’ home was situated in the middle of suburbia.  Houses came left and right and in front and behind.  It was impossible not to be seen, especially at six in the evening when the working world was arriving home.
    “Yeah, I was hoping to find Joan and Marcus.”
    The woman of early middle age with large hips leaned on the gate.  “You’ll have a hard time, love.”
    “Why?”
    “They’re on holiday.  South of France.   Very nice for some.”   She smirked.  “Tenerife for us in June.”
    “Do you know when they’ll coming back?”
    “Who’s asking?”  An element of steel flecked the neighbor’s question.
    “Terry Mack.  I used to work with Marcus.  I was visiting family in Chester and thought I’d pay a surprise visit.”
    “Didn’t think you were a Jehovah’s Witness.”
    Mack chuckled.  “Is that a compliment?”
    “It is where I come from.  They’re not back for another week or so.”
    “That’s a shame.”  Mack frowned in mock disappointment.  “What are they doing about packages?”
    “What packages?  You send ‘ em something?”
    “Not me.  I was just thinking with crime the way it is.  Unclaimed packages, deliveries, you know.  It’s an invitation these