Spider - Michael Morley [10]
Orsetta’s face gave away the fact that she wasn’t going to offer Nancy a straight answer. ‘With respect, Mrs King, it is police business and I would rather discuss it directly with your husband.’
Ten years of marriage to a cop had taught Nancy to know when she was being fobbed off. Similarly, she knew that cops ducked questions only when the case was important. Her mind flashed back to Maria’s newspaper. ‘Is it about that murdered girl?’
The detective frowned. ‘I really need to speak directly to your husband. Perhaps you have a cell phone number for him?’
Nancy’s eyes blazed. It seemed Italian cops were every bit as pushy and rude as American ones. ‘I’d rather not do that. Police business is not our business any longer. Now, would you like to leave a message or not?’
Orsetta’s face flushed. ‘This is my card,’ she said, slapping it down on the cold counter. ‘It is an urgent police matter. Have him call me as soon as you see him.’ She glared at Nancy. ‘This is not a request, Signora, it is an instruction.’
For a second the two women locked eyes. Orsetta smiled as sweetly as she could, then elegantly turned on her immaculate heels and left.
11
Days Inn Grand Strand, South Carolina
The lady who answers phones at UMail2Anywhere proves as good as her word. Within an hour of the call, Stan, the delivery boy, turns up with a length of bubble wrap, four cardboard boxes, three sheets of brown paper and a roll of sticky tape. Spider appears at the door seemingly with car oil all over his hands, gets the kid to dump the gear on his bed, then quickly washes and tips him for his trouble. He’s just scrubbed the skull clean of prints and isn’t about to add fresh ones to the parcel he intends to send Sugar home in. Stan hangs around by the pool, drinking lime coke and checking out girls, while his big-tipping client takes his time wrapping some fragile cargo that has to be shipped air mail that afternoon. He seems a nice guy, not many customers give a tip these days, let alone ask his name and thank him. Waiting around for a real gent like that is no problem. The dude has even said he can find him some private work, running errands for a bit more than the basic he gets at UM2A. Says he might have something for him later that day, if he takes care of this package first, and does a real good job of looking after it.
Spider pulls on cotton gloves. Not long ago he’d read that cops could somehow pick up prints from inside rubber gloves. He isn’t sure it’s true, but doesn’t intend taking any chances. When he’s finished, he’ll take the gloves with him. Meanwhile, he uses a Swiss Army penknife to cut off a length of the bubble wrap and forces it tight inside Sarah Kearney’s skull. The plastic bulges through the eye sockets and jaw giving a grotesque illusion of membranes, muscles and even life. He wraps another sheet around the outside, holds it down with tape and places the whole thing inside one of the smaller boxes Stan brought him. He seals it with tape and wraps it in a sheet of brown paper. He cuts more bubble wrap, tapes it around the box and places it snugly inside one of the bigger boxes. He runs sticky tape around all the joints and carefully covers the outside with the remaining two sheets of brown paper. He takes a black felt-tip marker from his case and writes the delivery address in nondescript capital letters that contain no clue to his true handwriting. For a second he pauses and takes a slow, satisfying sniff of the pen. It smells of pear drops. Spider smiles at the irony of it all. Who would have thought that innocent reminders of childhood sweets could come to mind when you’re handling the decapitated head of a woman you killed twenty years ago?
He flattens the spare boxes and puts them and the tape and bubble wrap inside his suitcase. Spider then carries the box out to the landing and places it at the foot of the front door. His room is on the second floor of the three-storey motel block and from the door he can clearly see Stan. The kid is checking out some