The Candy Man: One of the most extreme serial killer novels you'll ever read... (DCI Mac McGreavy Book 4)

by Gavin Graham

  Murdering women turns me on.

  It does and you know it does, Inspector.

  It pains you to the core of your whisky-soaked gut, that I am so damn elusive, so talented, so brilliant in the mind that I can play these games and always win.

  Watch the videos closely and read carefully my Bible of Kink and you might just unravel the clues that could lead you into my path.

  So, get to it, what are you waiting for?

  Hahahahahaha.

  Remember, Inspector, I always win…

  Chapter 16

  The Black Velvet Club

  The tightness of the thick rope felt good and soft.

  The old familiar rush of anticipation was soon surging in Casandra’s loins as the fixated strain held her tightly, a binding embrace, around her arms and legs. She wanted to be apprehensive, but she wasn’t, she knew that no BDSM club in the whole of Scotland could satisfy the true darkness of her cravings. She’d tried and tried to go darker and to places that ordinary woman wouldn’t dare tread. She offered herself to The X Club for mock executions where she was slashed with knives and beaten by Japanese Masters in the dark. She was doused with the blood of animals and left on the stage for men to stand over her bleeding body where she would play dead and stare up at the ceiling as they masturbated over her bleeding corpse.

  It was too fake.

  She needed much more realism.

  Black Velvet was a tame affair but as strong as you might find in Glasgow.

  Still, she lived in silent hope, but thus far no form of discovered gratifications had come even remotely close to the extremities of her own fantasies.

  She heard, however, of a place called ‘Death Candy’ and from what she heard the man who ran the secretive and hardcore facility could offer exactly what it was that she wanted.

  The thickness of the rope was entwined around her body like a majestic snake, a seducing serpent that made her know her place, as a submissive, reassurance that she was in a place of comfort.

  Yes.

  At the very least she was in a club with people that were somewhat like-minded.

  She was knelt in a room that had concrete walls, square, much like a medieval prison cell. It was cool inside the room and an occasional chill draft touched on the parts of skin that were not clad in leather. A gag had been placed comfortably into her mouth by a masked man who would soon return to whisper in her ear: “No safe-word,” and this implied that her Master for the scene was entitled to go beyond the boundaries of what was comfortable in terms of pain or imminent unconsciousness (if the acts, for example, involved sexual asphyxiation/strangulation). But, as long as she’d been coming to this place, it had never been a problem.

  No.

  She always wanted more not less.

  She wanted extremities not limitations.

  She’d once been to a club in London where a man attempted to strangle her to death during the act of sodomy. She’d blacked-out and woken up in a hospital only to be interviewed by a policewoman and social services nurse that had been allocated by a localised ‘rape centre’. She hadn’t told them about the club, as it was an ‘underground’ cell, only that the injuries that she had sustained were self-inflicted and that she had a fetish for ‘rough sex’.

  Her face, too, was masked in latex.

  She awaited the feel of the leather whips, not that it would be anything in comparison to that place in London, in fact they called this place Black Velvet because it was suitable for all levels of softness or hardness; it was hardly extreme though by her standards. When you paid the entry-fee at reception you picked a ‘level’ between one and five depending on how hard you wanted it to be, five being the most extreme; but, it was never enough for her and she always left the premises feeling largely underwhelmed.

  She wanted to be thrashed to heightened states of painful arousal. The thought of the sting was enough to moisten her. She wanted a Master to truly make her forget where it was that she came from, what she’d endured in life, all the shit that she’d been forced to put up with.

  That, after all, was what made her need it.

  To desire it.

  Crave it.

  To come to places like this and beg for it.

  The crack of the whip would thrill her as her skin reddened and enflamed with blissful anger. The whooshing sting of cane would cause rippling sensations to pass around her womb, at the insides of her thighs, from her breasts and down the sides of her abdomen. She was hungry for the man that was set to punish her and have her, even if just for a short envelope of time, it didn’t matter.

  She just wanted whoever that man was to take things to a new level, with no boundaries, no safe-words. It was like therapy for her, to be anonymous, just a girl with no face and no voice, the more abusive it could become the more the therapy would work.

  Maybe she did need therapy – a different kind of therapy – psychiatric therapy; perhaps.

  For now, she wanted to bow in servitude and be treated the way that she longed to be treated – badly.

  She wanted to feel pain.

  She wanted to be loved too, just a little, in return for all that obedience and servitude and giving herself wholly and unconditionally.

  It had started as fantasy, for her, but as with most fantasies the reality when it comes to fruition is rarely as satisfying as one might want it to be. She would be left still wanting, that was the reality, and when it was all done and the night was over, another tame session coming to an abrupt end, she would go back to her own world of hellish suffering and the fantasy would be there yet again, even stronger, because she lived in hope that one day such a brutal Master might walk into her life and give her all that she craved, that he might be real, even just for a short time, one that she could go to openly or anonymously and give herself to as an ‘object’.

  She didn’t want playful asphyxiation, no, she wanted violent violations and the omnipresent threat of potential death. She didn’t want muscular strain, no, she wanted her bones to be broken if that is what it came to. She didn’t want slap-and-tickle, no, she was ready to take a beating and bleed profusely if it was to be her deserving punishment.

  It didn’t matter, she knew, after all that it was just a dream.

  For now, the Black Velvet club was enough, it had to be enough.

  The walls of the ‘punishment room’ would at least close-in as her breathy cries and muffled whispers, occasional attempts to squeal or scream, would all be drowned-out by the gag-ball that was inserted in her mouth – held securely in position by a leather gag-strap that was robust and had a silky finish at the inside with a steel ring that formed at the cheeks – her skeletal jaw was the open vice that held its strain.

  She was staring at the concrete floor, deep in thought, but soon was distracted by a noise at the doorway. She looked up to see the naked profile of a man in a leather mask.

  Her Master for the evening had come and one thing about him was very different to all the others that she’d been with at the club. Why? Because, he was holding a blade, the deadliest looking knife that she’d ever seen.

  In his other hand, he held what looked like a piece of notepaper, with something written on it.

  Little did she know, what was written on that piece of paper, a clear and bold statement: I KNOW WHAT YOU NEED – I AM DEATH CANDY – I AM HERE TO SAVE YOU.

  Little did she know, that this man, was not only the man of her darkest dreams but the man who would soon end her life.

  Chapter 17

  Glasgow’s Behavioural Profiling Unit (BPU)

  One side of the Mitchell Library’s basement was distinctly spacious and clinically clean. “It looks like a psychiatric ward,” Colin observed as the team stood as a small army and took in the environment of their new office.

  “I think it’s pretty fucking cool,” said the new member, Rose, with a hearty chuckle. “This is where all the magic is going to happen, then, is it?”

  “I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic, dear
, because you are about to dive headfirst into The Abyss. I don’t say those words without meaning.”

  She frowned and the other two looked at each other with a raising of the eyebrows.

  “Rose, that’s your desk there,” Mac pointed to her new set-up. “Colin, there. Jimmy, that’s yours. Mines is the one with the whisky in the drawer so please don’t get confused.”

  On each desk, there was a DVD labelled: ‘Murder 1’, ‘Murder 2’ and ‘Murder 3’.

  “What’s this?” Rose asked, pale-faced.

  “Headfirst,” Mac responded. “Like I said. These are women who’ve been seduced by a man in the fetish and BDSM sex clubs of Glasgow. He takes them to his basement where he kills them in horrific fashion. He videos these acts and he now wants to play a game of Cat and Mouse. So, are you all ready to play the game?”

  There was no response.

  “You don’t seem so enthusiastic now, Rose, do you?”

  She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

  “Anyway, I have some business that needs attending to, then I’ll indulge in watching the snuff films myself. Godspeed, team, Godspeed…”

  Chapter 18

  Born into this

  I can see it in her eyes.

  I can smell it on her breath.

  Her weakness is all too evident. She was the timid one at school and now she is marked for a blood-drenched execution. She is frail in mind and spirit. I knew that she needed to die from the very first moment that I walked into the ‘punishment room’ at Black Velvet, one of Glasgow’s underground BDSM sex clubs. The so-called punishment room that is feeble and amateur in comparison to my own torture cells, where I kill candidates, but, I’m scouting for a victim and I know she’ll be here.

  I enter the room.

  I recognise her at first sight.

  She’s a regular at The X Club and partakes in Japanese bondage routines and simulated acts of murder.

  She’ll take the bait.

  I can lure her into a contract.

  I get a good feeling about her as my eyes caress her exposed neck with the silent promise of choking strangulation, her face masked in leather but her submissive hazelnut eyes showing me that she needs a killer to be in her life, to rescue her from her mundane existence as a doting something.

  Her posture is typical, feline in a way that I clearly recall, shapely with a swelling bust that is accentuated by her shimmering latex bodysuit.

  She’s a fair specimen.

  She was born to submit.

  She’s already a slave in the making.

  She’s a perfect victim.

  Posture is important to a hunter.

  Posture tells a story that not many can read.

  She believes that maturation has harnessed within her an inner-resilience. It is a fragile and baseless fallacy of the self that many such womanly fetishists embrace. It is a weakness, not a strength, something that I can exploit. It will play into my hands, my violent agenda, with such beautiful irony. She wants to challenge herself by indulging in BDSM playfulness, in the murky shadows of rooms like this, proving to herself that she’s all-daring, a fearless adult woman, one who can always graduate to new levels of darkness and extremity.

  Fools provoke The Devil.

  I want her.

  I decide to approach her.

  I’ll be gentle tonight yet foreboding, thrilling and chilling, giving her what she wants, in part, for I do not crave her sex as she craves it from me. Such a perfect victim like this will long for my promised life of domination far more than you can possibly fathom.

  Yes.

  She pines for the touch of the man who will kill her, and that is rather amusing, wouldn’t you say?

  As I stand in the dark shadow of a concrete doorway she sees my profile, my physique, my face too that is masked, my lower body naked and bare, my protruding cock thick and hard. I watch her as she sizes me up with hungry, submissive eyes, drinking in my power, her eyes caressing my every inch with her sultry gaze.

  I see an inbuilt will to submit radiate from every molecule of her being.

  I have a death lust.

  I’m high on the murder buzz; it’s inexplicable.

  I am hard for the prospect of killing her, nonetheless, it is sexually arousing still to stand before her like this. The mock power that she gives me is intoxicating and the way that she looks is undeniably beautiful. It’s hard not to be aroused by certain situations where the prospect of imminent death is graphically entertained, with a woman like this, so voluptuous and deeply provoking. I scan her figure once again and admire the swell and peaks of her breast, the curve and shape of her womanly hips, the soft flesh of her hind that will shiver and quiver as the torment escalates. All that muck and filth can be quite the turn-on and nature may run its course and make me hard for her body as a pre-kill notion, but, killing for me is a greater thrill than sex ever can be and I shall only inject her with seed in the shadow of an aptly gruesome murder. The ultimate arousal for me is in her pain and suffering and the terror I ignite in her soul. I want to see it flame and burn in her popping eyes.

  Once she’s dead her redundancy and lack of use will sadden me, the flames of my climax shall fade to embers, dying as she dies, as it always dies. I will persevere further until the next one comes along, but, for now, this one shall suffice.

  I enter the room and approach her.

  I show her the note.

  She smiles.

  Her eyes beam with compliance.

  She nods and agrees to be my next victim.

  It has all been far too easy.

  Chapter 19

  Lost hope

  Mac wanted to get down on his knees and pray to the Lord, to ask for answers, or an explanation. He couldn’t comprehend how such horrors could occur in a world that He had apparently created. But, he knew, this was not a spiritual failing – it was a police failing and a grave one too. Things like this made him question everything. What good were they really doing? The entire country had lost hope and trust in them. Serial killers were surfacing like never before in history.

  Murder.

  Evil.

  Death was everywhere and all that they did was reactive. The killers kept getting away with it and all they were able to achieve was a sad form of damage limitation. It was so frustrating that it made him sick to the pit of his stomach.

  He watched the screen where multiple female victims were being brutally murdered by a masked man.

  His heart was pounding and he himself felt the violent urge to end a life.

  He picked up the whisky glass and with a trembling hand he drank down the amber liquid and threw the glass hard at the television screen. It smashed to pieces and the screen was left cracked and lashed as he broke down into tears; the scene of a woman being eaten alive still unfolding on the screen before him.

  He’d seen some awful things in his life, but, this one had to be the worst…

  Chapter 20

  The Spanish Donkey (Murder 1)

  His mouth was dry and he swallowed hard.

  Colin bit his top lip and touched protectively at his jugular, with calculated apprehension, as though his caressing finger held the sharpness of a cold, steel blade. He pressed the PLAY button on his remote and the snuff film for ‘victim number one’ played before him. He wasn’t breathing as a message appeared on the screen: WELCOME TO DEATH CANDY PRODUCTIONS – I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE SHOW.

  The film started.

  He saw a small room which appeared to be a torture cell. He noticed a woman in the room and she was fixated to what appeared as a medieval torture device. He suddenly felt dizzy and light-headed. He turned pale. His hands were sweaty. He was blinking rapidly, unfocussed, eyes widely reluctant to accept what he was actually seeing before him. “No, this can’t happen, no, please…” he was pleading to the goodness of humanity that it couldn’t possibly be real. It was then that the naked profile of a man wearing nothing but the mask of a skull appeared clearly in view of
the camera, a man they now suspected as being a serial killer known as The Candy Man. He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and felt empty inside.

  The female was bound in ropes and attached to a wooden horse, the type of horse used for PE (physical education) training in high school gymnasiums.

  The woman had a metal dog collar clamped around her neck and attached to a six-foot chain.

  The back of his throat felt like sandpaper as he watched her tremble as she wept.

  This was no ordinary horse as its top was lined with sharp spikes that were angled towards the base of the woman’s bare, fleshy tummy.

  The man was nude but for his face-covering which was designed in the fashion of a metallic skull with its mouth etched open in a silent scream.

  It was the creepiest thing he’d ever seen.

  He accepted that this would be nothing more than a warped form of pornographic violence – a snuff film of the most shocking proportions – but it was also a crime scene rich with evidence and clues. He’d have to be as impartial as possible in order to digest the content with clinical consideration, but, that was easier said than done because he was only human.

  The skull-faced man took a bundle of papers and cradled them at his torso. Upon each piece of paper words were written and he began to present them to the camera one-by-one whilst dropping the sheets to the floor. I am The Candy Man…this is my Bible of Kink, was presented on the top sheet. The darkness of wisdom flows in the veins of each girl I have killed…you are with me when you see my work…as you read of my crimes and scriptures you will know the truth and stand…it will be YOU who makes me eternal and all the world shall know my name…to see…to follow…this Bible won’t be complete until the police finally catch me and bring it all to an end…the killing won’t stop…no…this is just the beginning. VERSE 1: I am the prophet of fire and flame…burning at your core…smouldering at the heart of your universe…the omnipresent centre and circumference of all that you perceive…the wisdom I share is from the darkness in knowledge…I am the one true enemy of lies and falsehoods…you know me…you know my name...you see me in the rising and setting of the sun…I am loyal to a goddess of stars and the moon…she is glorious and willing to die for her crimes…she too is a stone-cold killer…she sees light yet only respects a fellow hunter…that is why The Candy Man shines…I fear nothing and my fearlessness is greater than she knows…my strength is unfaltering…only I may judge them as the redoubtable master of all crimes of which the masses and authorities do not recognise…in a grand fortress of sensual immorality…offerings of sinful pleasures are to be enjoyed in abundance yet the sinner is rarely held accountable when repercussions come to light…listen to what I say and you may find revelations in my madness...obey the word of my law but not in the folly of theirs…I am The Candy Man…this is The Bible of Kink…