Chapter 1
Mr Sigerson goes for a walk
Mrs Graves was a nice old lady well respected in the neighbourhood and famous for the mouth-watering cakes she often left to cool down on her window sill. None of her tenants ever had anything to complain about, and she had been renting the flat upstairs at 187, North Gower street for a good 17 years, that is ever since her late husband- bless his soul- had run off with a samba dancer half his age somewhere in Brazil. There had been a bit of a scandal in the neighbourhood at the time, but even that could not tarnish Mrs Graves' respectability and her good name seemed to be above any slander. That was true until five years ago when the flat upstairs had been rented to a certain Mr S. Sigerson.
Now, not much was know about Mr S. Sigerson, not even his first name to be honest, and to be even more honest very few people had actually met him or seen him personally. But if you asked anyone in the neighbourhood who this Sigerson was they would shake their heads and- in lowered voices- launch in the description of the most sinister figure London had ever seen since the time of Jack the Ripper.
Mr Sigerson was never seen by daylight but would only venture in the night time or just before the break of day when most respectable people are asleep. He didn't eat or at least not what normal people did for in his garbage- which his kind landlady, Mrs Graves, courteously took upon herself to gather once a week- there was no trace of food wrapping or take-out packaging of any sorts but – which was more disturbing- it was filled with syringes and bones, all covered in blood and once- and this must be true because Doctor Wilsons said so- once a real human hand had been found in a plastic tapperwar ! Someone in the neighbourhood had suggested that Mr Sigerson must be a scientist of sorts which would explain the macabre findings, but this hypothesis was soon discarded when strange noises started to come from the formerly respectable building at 187 North Gower street.
In the middle of the night ( but sometimes even in the day time) horrible sounds were heard, as of something exploding or breaking, and twice in the last month something that sounded suspiciously like gunshots and once, last February it must have been, Mrs Pilsner- who lives next door- swears she heard a chainsaw going off in the middle of the afternoon. But what really creeped out the poor inhabitants of the street was the sad, almost melancholic music that often was heard coming from that flat. That such a music was associated with the Sinister Sigerson- as he was known in the neighbourhood- was probably the last straw for them so that the mental picture that came to their mind when thinking of Mrs Graves' mysterious tenant was rather that of modern day Doctor Frankenstein rather than a regular scientist.
Half of these rumours would have persuaded anyone to contact the police at once- as it is it took even less for the good inhabitants of North Gower street. But however much they tried- and God knows they tried their best- it seemed they couldn't quite manage to convince the police of the gravity of the situation. A few months after Mr Sigeron's arrival it became apparent why. It seems in fact that Mister Sinister's – for short- visitors comprised only of dubious looking people, almost certainly homeless, a rich man- because he had to be rich, everyone concluded, to afford that kind of car- with an umbrella, and- lo and behold!- none other than the police itself. Nobody was really sure of the reason why almost weekly a police car would be seen parked in front of the once respectable abode of Mrs Graves but that surely didn't stop anyone from speculating and the conclusions they reached are the very reason why Mr Sigerson would never find anyone willing to lend him, if asked- not that he ever did- a bit of sugar for his afternoon tea.
Therefore it is really no wonder that such a nice winter morning, as it was that day, found nice old Mrs Portia Graves sitting at her kitchen table mentally cursing herself for the day she rented her flat to the peculiar Mr Sigerson.
Her musings however were interrupted by the tenant in question when he came running down the stairs. If truth be told, Mr Sigerson's outer appearance betrayed nothing of his inner, sinister identity. He was by no means a young man, probably in his early forties or late thirties with dark curly hair which was beginning to grey at the temples, but his lithe tall body always seemed to move with a urgency more becoming of a younger age as it was doing now, descending the stairs making a terrible racket.
"Mr Sigerson!" called Mrs Graves, lowering her cup of tea on the saucer, "I need to speak to you Mr Sigerson! Is it blood leaking through the floor boards in the living room?" but Mr Sigerson didn't answer, probably didn't even hear his landlady as he went rushing through the open front door for his mind was completely elsewhere having recently received a certain text.
"Come to the park. It could be dangerous"