Sixth Victim

by Kate Mitchell

  Sixth Victim

  A Clara Tinder

  Kate Mitchell

  Sixth Victim

  Kate Mitchell

  Copyright © 2020

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  Katemitchellauthor

  ISBN 978-1-912048-79-3

  Kate Mitchell has exercised the right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Design, and Patents act 1988

  All rights reserved, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a

  retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

  without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious way. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.

  A Clara Tinder Thriller

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Other Books by Kate Mitchell

  1

  Remember that when you have a mortgage, you have to work. Sitting in a new house day after day and waiting for that lucky star was doing nothing except creating panic. Every day, she was getting deeper in debt, and now she was cursing herself for it. Money—that’s what she needed, money. As an investigative journalist, Cecelia needed to use her brains and find a story to write about. It had to be interesting after her last and only success. Use your head, Cecelia, think…

  Cecelia had been reading an old article in Changing Worlds which she found fascinating. It raised the subject of identity in the most important relationship of them all, the self. A child born as a boy, after a tragic accident was left without a penis. A shock for everyone. The inevitable conclusion was the child would not be raised as a boy but as a girl.

  Which posed the question, what did it mean to be a boy or a girl? Was it purely environmental or was it conditioning of the mind? Do sexual organs define gender? Questions that could be answered with a child that seemed to be almost genderless.

  As an experiment, the child was treated well, a good home, warmth, food, education, and it was cared for. But one thing which was missing was perhaps the most important one of all, emotional intimacy. The child of course was an experiment.

  The developing child was subjected to female discipline and limitations while all the child’s behavior was noted. Physically, the child thrived, healthy and strong. But emotionally, the child was not so balanced. Retreating into itself and displaying symptoms of depression; the child became angry and unsociable. But was it because the child was not in the right identity? Or had it anything to do with a dissociation with the foster parents. The child grew up and got on with life, and then disappeared.

  Since her success last year, Cecelia knew she didn’t belong within the newspaper. Climbing outside of the structural parameters; she was unwanted and now alone. A familiar feeling knowing that she was different and couldn’t fit in.

  A newspaper journalist is part of the team with a pecking order. The editor pecks at you for results, a good script, and you peck at the words. The editor has the final say in everything, which meant she was out of a job when the new editor, Claude took over. A pot-bellied man who hated gays and feminists and figured that she had to be one or the other. But she wasn’t. If anything, she was probably asexual. Something not to be discussed was her sex life or lack of it. That was all in the past now and was to be forgotten. She was a woman who simply wanted to get on with her life and wait for that divine inspiration.

  Although if someone were to come along and catch her eye then she would reconsider her sexuality, and why not? One must always be open to change, but at least she was trying to be better and more successful. Everything in life had to do with hope. But with this house and holding on to it, she really didn’t have time for her heart.

  How time moves on. The late twenties had turned into her mid-thirties, and still so much to do with her life. That first success fired up her tastebuds like nothing else, and already she was addicted. Realistically though, the newspaper wasn’t going to do that for her. The feeling was mutual when she left, antipathy. She was now completely reliant on herself.

  Sitting at her laptop, the empty screen cast Cecelia into oblivion. Nothing was scrambling in her head to put that story down. Unfortunately, she was not a quick-thinking writer. Her skills in the past dealt with facts and not in poetry. But that wasn’t a problem. These abilities can be learned, perhaps.

  Staring at her desk, Cecelia waited for that original thought to surface through the haze. Spying a pile of her old newspapers she picked up a copy out of curiosity hoping that perhaps they weren’t doing so well without her. But of course, it was still going on, reporting the latest news. And she had been replaced. Yes, well, forget about that, but it still smarted when she looked at it.

  Today’s news reported the finding of a third victim in a similar situation as the first. Young, always young. Another average third American girl to be murdered by the Alandra Slasher.

  Picking up the newspaper, Cecelia read the facts with dispassion. The first body had been found a year ago, dumped nearby Mundi lake. The young woman had been strangled, mutilated, and raped, then left for dead. A small black and white pixelated photograph of the girl hooked next to the report; she wasn’t a beauty, just average. An engaging smile, sweet, a child who was cherished and loved, and now who was severely missed.

  ‘How sad,’ muttered Cecelia, and then, ‘Why?’

  Facts, this was all there was. Age, gender, where, and when, an appraisal of how wonderful this individual had been. ‘It’s not enough,’ muttered Cecelia, finding fault with the work of her former colleagues. It’s not enough to record a death with just a list of facts.

  Marcia Davis, the first victim, Cecelia squinted at the grainy picture. Black and white squares added up to make a tragedy. That people can be processed like information was just another added heartbreak for those who loved them.

  The oldest daughter to four other sisters and a mother and father now grieving. How did they feel when they realized their child had gone missing? And then when they were told she was dead? In the drama of life, Cecelia rehearsed that moment of impact. ‘I’m very sorry, we have found your daughter, and she’s…’

  Eyes staring, mouth dropped open as all the voices in your head are saying no and yet, some part in you confirmed that secret thought, we always knew this was going to happen one day. That dreadful fear which every parent harbors had come true.

  Scanning the piece once more, her mind filtered for a practical thought. She could write the story of the victims; she knew she could. She could speak for them and give them history for their daughter, and in that way, she would never die. Marcia Davis would remain immortal, perfect, untouched. It would be something they could hold in their hearts and feel that Marcia was still living. As a writer, not a great one for now because she would get better. Train her ability to speak those words to describe Marcia exactly as she had been. Be alive, go child, and carry on with your li
fe.

  But these words could only be written through an interview with Marcia’s parents. I want to write Marcia’s story. I can speak for her through my story. But first I need information, I need to see and feel what it’s like to have a great loss like yours. Tell me how it felt when you heard your daughter was dead? I will write it for you and make people understand. She was alive once and part of your family. I will be your guide to take you through your horror. But the truth is, I need to get a good book because I want to make money. I want to win literary prizes and be remembered for all time. I want to write a classic, can I use your lives to do it?

  No, she didn’t think so. She couldn’t rape them through her words and sling their lives to all on the public stage via the media networks.

  Carefully flicking over the pages, two other victims, Virginia Campbell, and Lucy Rodrigo. Seventeen and nineteen though unremarkable they stood out. All the victims had long hair and all of them smiled from their photographs.

  Why did the Slasher choose them? The only notable common denominator was they were average, nothing remarkable. Why would someone pick on any of these girls who were sensationally less than average in interest? There must be a reason.

  But there had been a fourth girl, Cecelia blinked rapidly when she read this. A brief mention, nothing spectacular, no details on her rape which was unusual. This other young woman claimed she had been attacked just last week by the Slasher, but she remained unnamed. Why? Because she was the one who got away? The lucky one who had fooled the Slasher and made her escape. So much more Cecelia wanted to know about this lucky woman.

  What was it like to meet death in the eye and fool it? Thoughtfully Cecelia reflected on these advantages of her escape and the drama. What would it be like? It would be like writing another story and getting applauded for it. If only she knew who this lucky woman was if she could be called lucky. She had faced death and escaped it. To have become so close up to death and met its intention. Are you reborn afresh inside with a greater need to live? To do the things you had always meant to do, but always put to the side.

  ‘James, it’s me, Cecelia Clark. I need help.’

  That familiar friend, James Patts was one of the detectives at the Alandra Police Department who she had met through her work.

  ‘Cecelia, now that peculiar because I was just talking to my wife about you. How are you?’

  ‘Good. You know we’ve spoken about many things during our friendship?’

  ‘Yes, we have,’ hesitation took hold.

  ‘I have to be honest; I want to write a story; I want to get involved in the only way I can by writing, I’m talking about the Alandra Slasher. Of course, whatever I hear will be related straight back to the police. Don’t you want someone who will do your dirty undercover work for you… for free?’

  With interest, James Patts reflected, amused by Cecelia’s request. She was a good girl because that was how he saw her. Anxious to please, willing, and wanting to earn her place in the big wide world, a little sister. As he knew that she had wanted first to be in the police force. He liked her, there was nothing prickly about her.

  True, they had used outside help before, it had always been rewarding. Who was the fifth victim that got away from the Alandra Slasher? And then, he laughed. He wasn’t breaking anything sensitive. The last victim's name had already been published in a back copy of her old newspaper, so there was nothing that could be said to be underhanded. Hadn’t she been reading up on her own old newspaper’s news?

  ‘No,’ Cecelia listened to James Patts feeling the fool. ‘When I quit my job, I didn’t want to go back to it in any way which even meant reading it.’

  James Patts laughed again pleased that she was human and didn’t take herself too seriously.

  ‘Well, the problem with this victim was, she wanted to make a headline of herself. She demanded to be interviewed. Reckless. Giving her details to a paper so the world would know where she was. It was one of the reasons why the police couldn’t take her seriously. How can we protect a victim when she lets everyone know where she was? She gave away her identity which was stupid of her. Crazy woman. Her name is Mary Ann Leigh.’ Not usually a sarcastic man, James’s anger towards this woman was that of incredulousness.

  ‘Thank goodness for the environment,’ Cecelia fast-moved to the basement almost skidding down the steps. A pile of papers sitting in the corner waited for the exit. And she missed this while calling herself an investigative journalist? Tied with string, one never throws string away, it was unlucky, Cecelia dashed off the most recent copies and skimmed through them, wetting her thumb and fingers until she found the page.

  It was here in the Friday edition, but it didn’t make headline news. Nine days ago, a woman told the police she was the Alandra Slasher’s latest victim.

  He had his hands around her neck, I was terrified, and it was only by luck and the grace of God that I managed to escape.

  There was no picture of Mary Ann Leigh, nothing to betray her anonymity. The question was, why did she do it? Poking her pen repeatedly on the article; wasn’t this a bit of stupidity? How you must regret it now Mary Ann.

  The address was going to be a problem. Yet it was that unexpected result which added to the peculiarity, Cecelia found Mary Ann Leigh listed in the telephone directory. She lived just off Hubbard Street, a modest road in Alandra. Everything fell nicely into place, everything Cecelia needed was conveniently handed to her. Pick yourself a tragedy and the story is almost written. Clapping her hands with a gig, she nearly hugged the paper but kissed it instead. When she was happy, she was very happy.

  At eleven o’clock on a bright spring morning was a good time of day to visit. Well, one can only try. Passing a flower shop came the irresistible desire to buy the poor victim some flowers, this would give her an advantage.

  Entering the shop, cool to the feel and reckless with exoteric colors. Casting a scant eye on what looked to be the cheapest, chrysanthemums, when a woman with myriad mermaid shades of colored hair appeared from the back of the tall electric blue delphiniums. In her hand was a large sunflower.

  ‘Oh hi, another flower lover,’ pretty blue-green eyes were occupied by Cecelia while two cherry-red lips upped into a smile. She looked and sounded exotic especially with her English accent.

  ‘No, the flowers are not for me. I am buying them for someone else,’ hesitated Cecelia.

  ‘Yes, of course you are.’

  ‘What I mean is, I do like flowers.’

  ‘Who doesn’t like flowers especially when someone else is buying them? Do you need any help? I can help you to choose what is best for the situation if you want.’ She was hanging on to Cecelia’s annoyed face and blinking and looking different. And then she walked away as if she was bored.

  A sudden attack of shyness made Cecelia feel affronted by this strange and alien young woman who could have been anywhere from her teens to her early thirties. But she was pretty in a kooky sort of way.

  ‘Are you buying for a man or a woman?’ Her voice rose from between a big tub of black tulips, a bin of them sat on a shelf while below a bin of pink, the bottom tier held a bin of yellow tulips.

  ‘For a woman, definitely for a woman.’ Does anyone buy flowers for a man? Cecelia stepped across now interested.

  ‘Is she old or young?’

  ‘Young, of course.’

  ‘Young, of course.’ With mocking eyes, the flower lady smiled as if everything Cecelia said had to be questioned. ‘Which means you would never buy for a man or an older woman?’

  ‘No, I never said that.’

  ‘Yes,’ she grinned. ‘Interesting isn’t it? What we say and don’t say. Our words are not just simple words, they have a history with undertones rather like flowers. When you give flowers, you are marching into an arsenal of trouble. Send the wrong flower and life will never be the same for you or the other person. Do you understand what I’m talking about?’

  No, Cecelia didn’t. She was being tricked into saying thi
ngs she didn’t mean. What was this mischievous woman about? A cranky magician? But again, she was interesting. ‘The language of flowers?’

  ‘Yes. It’s very important. Red roses for love and everyone loves but there are different levels of affection. How long have known this young woman?’ the twenty-something-year-old florist was taking out one pink, one black, and one yellow tulip and putting them into her basket in her other hand. ‘Do you know anything about flowers other than you like them?’

  What was there to know? They grew in soil and looked pretty, wasn’t that enough? Cecelia’s expression confirmed what the colorful florist already suspected.

  ‘There is a secret world going on in front of your blind eyes. Why talk and speculate about multiverses,’ she aired her hand, ‘when there are so many worlds going on in the garden? Have you ever considered the insect world beneath our feet right now?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s the best way to be, ignorant,’ she looked straight into Cecelia’s eyes with an impish grin.

  Was this complete rudeness or bad humor? Whatever, the florist appeared to be enjoying herself at Cecelia’s expense. It might be a good idea to walk out of this shop and teach this rude individual some manners.

  ‘This basket is called a trug,’ the flower person carried on taking a flower from each bin and adding it to the trug. ‘Just a bit of useless information, but the English are good at that. You must excuse me, sometimes, I tend to get carried away. I like Americans,’ adding another flower to her basket. ‘They are very friendly people.’ She raised her blue eyes to see if Cecelia was still listening. Her eyes were bright and lively and targeted with mischief, and then she smiled. ‘I am here to help you get the most out of your flowers. Flowers are my life as well as good health—I make all my clothes by the way. I am very bohemian and also, you must have guessed by now, I like to talk. Sorry, but I lost my cat today. And the only way I can come to terms with it is to talk. I appear to talk about anything which comes to my mind when what it really is, is that I miss my cat.’