Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  In those painstaking minutes, I decided if you’d killed yourself, I’d only ever find solace by taking my life, too.

  The silence was shattered by a car engine. My stomach leapt to my mouth, picturing uniformed officers at the door, hats rested against their torso with the practised look of empathy etched on their faces.

  But the door opened, and you stood there like a mirage.

  It was as though I’d been given a second chance to save you and make things right.

  My fears of you contemplating suicide were well-founded. You stepped inside, bedraggled and shaking, as though you were having an epileptic seizure. I wanted to hold you in my arms and never let you go.

  I inhaled the stench of seaweed and salt but didn’t probe you. I had you back and that was all that mattered. I would never let you down again.

  The only way I believed I could save you, and fix your heart and soul, was to make all the brutes pay. We would kill your monsters together, one by one.

  I’d help you eradicate their evil for your own recovery, and mine. It was the only option and one I’d been contemplating ever since I stood over Hugh’s body wishing I’d been the one wielding the murder weapon.

  I would teach you all you needed to know; teach you how to get away with murder.

  32

  EMILIA

  FRIDAY 10 AUGUST 2018

  Dad made me see clearly. I need to rid the world of their evil and end their sordid game.

  We both agree that too many innocent women have been brutalised and murdered at the hands of my attackers. There can be no more, we won’t allow it.

  Dad has made me see that going to the police is not an option; Hugh’s murder prevents it. I’ll become a prime suspect if the authorities know he, and I, were ever linked by Cipher, and I’ll be behind bars for life.

  Instead, we’ve plotted their punishments. While we both agree they all deserve to die a brutal death, Dad says that we have to be clever.

  I only have murder on my mind. The need for revenge is unceasing, like an incessant itch.

  I will let my face be the last thing my attackers ever see. They will see how revenge manifests itself, how it changes a person, pushes them over the edge to darkness.

  “Emilia, they will suffer,” Dad utters calmly.

  His words excite me and lure me from my self-pity cave. At last, I feel invincibly strong, mentally and physically, ready to play my own game.

  My rape has torn a hole in Dad’s heart and the only way to seal it, is to make all those responsible pay.

  Dad has become my lecturer, and is helping me gain a new degree, in killing.

  Painting a ‘normal’ life is key to our success. Dad insists that I return to work with immediate effect.

  By day we’ll be teacher and crime scene investigator, by night we will practise our dark hobby.

  In the past, Dad and I had volunteered at a local soup kitchen for the homeless. We will resume those roles.

  Dad suggests we volunteer on Sundays, then afterwards, we will enjoy a family Sunday roast.

  Mum will be thrilled, and it will strengthen our family bond, which has become frayed of late.

  Dad cuts an orange in half and presses it firmly on a juicing gizmo. He chuckles.

  “What’s so funny, Dad?”

  “The answer is staring me in the face!”

  “What answer?”

  “How we punish Whitehall,” he whispers.

  Whitehall was vicious with his fetish for picquerism His death needs to be callous and satisfying.

  “I’ve an idea. We use the blade on him, as he did on you, only with a devilish twist.”

  I picture Piers pleading, I long for him to know how it feels to be wounded with a blade while you are conscious.

  “I worked a case once, whereby gang members killed their victims by ‘juicing,’” Dad smiles.

  My mind conjures images of pulverising Hugh’s body in a blender to a thick, berry smoothie.

  I listen intently, while continuing to take apart a chicken carcass for our hot pot lunch offering for the homeless.

  “Three victims died after being ‘juiced.’ Blades were smeared with grapefruit juice before penetrating the skin.”

  I shudder, recalling the time vinegar sunk into a cut on my finger.

  “The acidic nature of the grapefruit causes a lasting searing pain inside the victim. It would be excruciating!”

  It sounds horrific. Yet, it mirrors the brutal way he hurt me that fateful night.

  “Look!” I point to the savaged chicken. “That’s Whitehall’s hand, and that’s his legs. Chop, chop, chop,” I giggle, butchering the meat with a kitchen knife.

  Dad lets out an enormous belly laugh, which makes me smile for the first time in months. Volunteers re-emerge in the kitchen and we fall silent.

  We’re in agreement. I will ‘juice’ Piers and let him suffer; watch him writhe in agony before I kill him. Karma’s a bitch. And now, so am I.

  33

  EMILIA

  MONDAY 27 AUGUST 2018

  Revenge takes exceptional planning, as does murder.

  I have to execute my mission without detection and download Tor to access the Dark Web and be untraceable.

  Dad has taught me how to hack a computer and I’ve gained access to Piers’ PC, to examine his Internet history.

  I discover one of his pastimes is dogging; meeting women in car parks and open spaces for sex. That’s how I will lure him.

  I create a website with an array of female profiles, email the link from a spam account, and wait for him to take the bait.

  Within hours, Piers requests to meet a buxom blonde I’ve named Chardonnay.

  Sand Bay car park is a hive of activity from Thursday to Sunday, with spectators viewing the action. Monday evenings are dead. I arrange, therefore, to meet him tonight, at 11:45 p.m.

  I arrive on foot, having left my car in a deserted lane. Dad and I have carried out our homework, checking for CCTV and any ANPR cameras that will capture my registration. The site meets all our requirements.

  I pace in three-inch heels as though I’m soliciting, my heart on the verge of detonation. I adjust my wig and layer on lashings of Poppy rouge.

  Car headlights appear and illuminate my silhouette-like figure. I hide a gun behind my back and allow my anger to resurface.

  I saunter over like the grim reaper, hourglass in hand waiting for the last sand grain to fall, so I can collect his soul.

  Piers allows me to slip into the passenger seat and greets me with a twisted smile, and gaping trousers in anticipation of what he thinks is about to happen. I return the gesture and then point the pistol in his face.

  His smile slips, face wrinkled with confusion.

  “Give me your phone!” I demand.

  His quivering palm hands it over and I switch it off.

  “Drive!”

  Piers pees his pants. The dark stain grows as the fabric absorbs his urine and he drives away into the nightfall. Had he disobeyed, I’ve a needle ready to inject his neck.

  I tell myself to stay focused but there remains a tiny part of me that isn’t a murderer.

  To proceed with my plan, I recall memories of him inflicting his knife. That cements my urge to kill.

  The charges against me are mounting fast; possession of a firearm, abduction, false imprisonment, soon to be extended with assault, battery, GBH and, once again, murder.

  34

  EMILIA

  TUESDAY 28 AUGUST 2018, 12.17 AM

  Piers doesn’t struggle upon encountering Dad, and seeing us, a double act.

  We gag him, secure his hands with cable ties, and drag him through long, wild, grass to a derelict ramshackle barn.

  The crime scene is near the M5 motorway. Dad said it was the perfect place to conceal a body because it would remain untouched unless a developer came along.

  By the time we are finished, there won’t be any remains to be unearthed.

  Tools and tarpaulin are laid in
preparation, illuminated by LED camping lanterns at each quadrant.

  We drag him onto the sheeting where he lands like a compnm√ ost bag, cowering with panicked eyes. He doesn’t look as confident now he’s the victim, pining like a stray dog.

  There is no going back. I will follow the plan. Piers is an abscess that needs eradicating by death.

  My heart races but my gloved hand remains steady as I jab the ‘juiced blade’ into him. He howls like a wounded animal.

  Dad offers an encouraging smile, which further cements our bond, and then disappears out of sight. Watching me commit murder is too much.

  Piers sits, face frozen, eyes black, mouth slack with shock as I remove his gag.

  “What the fuck is this?” Piers screeches.

  “This is your death,” I say, offering a cheery smile.

  “Let me go! You’re insane!”

  “You turned me mental Piers. You, and your wicked, sordid game. That’s why you’re here, to be punished for your crimes.”

  “What crimes? I’m a respectable paediatrician!”

  “By day perhaps, not by night. I know your dirty little secret, you fucking filthy rapist! That’s right don’t look so shocked. I know what you do after dark because I’m one of your victims, one who got away.”

  I yank his trousers and pants down to his knees.

  “But I’m back and I want fucking revenge!”

  He stares horrified as I lunge the knife toward him cutting off his penis in one slice. He ejects a hideous piercing shill that scratches my eardrums.

  I shove his dick into his whimpering mouth, plugging it.

  “Go on, suck it, choke on your dirty dick before you feel real pain,” I screech with an insane grimace.

  “Perhaps now you know how it feels to have it forced into your mouth against your will,” I mock manically.

  I add a coarsely severed bollock for good measure. Blood casts over his chin, dripping like strawberry syrup down an ice cream.

  I vomit at the repulsive sight and at my own actions. To calm down, I tell myself he’s nothing but animal bones which need disposing of.

  My shaky hands grab the tungsten wire. I coil it around him like the string encasing a lamb shoulder joint.

  I stare at the beast. His eyes are bulbous with fear, almost popping out of their sockets.

  The sight is disturbing, and for a moment, I’m unsure whether to proceed. I close my eyes and the memories flood back, him stabbing me over and over.

  I retreat to the car, turn over the ignition, and put my foot down. Piers looks like a fox frozen in the headlights as I speed toward him. He thinks I’m going to ram into him and slams his eyes shut.

  I hit the brakes, turn off the engine, and re-emerge with jump leads. Piers shakes violently, fighting his restraints and tries to shake the wire off his body. I smile, step closer and attach the crocodile cable clamps to the wire.

  He spits his bloody manhood from his mouth and screeches,

  “Stop, I’m begging you!”

  “I begged you!”

  I laugh in his face, walk back to the car, and turn over the engine. It blasts current through the wire, which glows amber and bursts into flames.

  “Burn in Hell, motherfucker!”

  I inhale burning flesh and step back.

  “Dad, you can come back now, it’s done,” I yell.

  Dad returns and douses the flames with a fire extinguisher, so we can proceed with the clean-up.

  I collect Piers’ mutilated charred remains. We chuck everything, apart from his skull, in an oil drum, and add sulphuric acid, dissolving the contents to a concentrated pink sludge.

  His skull we will have fun with. First, I remove his teeth with pliers, otherwise DNA could pose an issue. They’re added to the acid, along with his Rolex watch.

  Rolex keeps advanced records for purchases. Each timepiece is inscribed with a hidden serial number, which can be easily traced back to the owner - another vital piece of knowledge acquired from Dad.

  At this point, experts would diagnose me with Psychopathic Anti-Social Personality Disorder – a condition manifested in anger, aggression, and impulsivity.

  The type of person who experiences no remorse when killing; Daddy has moulded me well.

  This is an eye for an eye. I’m doing Francesca a favour, doing women a good turn by preventing him laying his hands on anyone else. I don’t see myself as a murderer, after all; I’m a saviour.

  For the finale to our masterplan, I remove his charred skin and jaw to make his murder a real puzzle.

  A partial skull would be far more difficult to identify, according to Dad. That, too, I dissolve. Next, we pour in concrete to seal the drum contents.

  Daddy taught me corpus delicti – a process whereby you do not need a body to prove a murder has taken place.

  If a microscopic sample of remains is shown to be human, it proves a crime has been committed.

  We are therefore over cautious with our disposal methods. Piers will never be unearthed.

  We drive to Sand Bay and climb Sand Point, walking a quarter mile out to sea along the clifftop. I dangle the skull over tv’/∫~¬he edge and let go.

  I smile, satisfied, as it finally splashes into The Severn Estuary. With strong tidal currents, it will soon wash ashore, and a grim discovery will be made.

  Police will attempt to identify it, then cages will be rattled. Cipher will know it is being hunted.

  I’ll return to school tomorrow like none of this ever happened. My pupils don’t know the real me, the damaged me, the killer.

  No one would ever suspect what lurks beneath the surface because I’m clever, and I now know how to get away with murder.

  35

  RICHARD

  WEDNESDAY 29 AUGUST 2018

  Have I created a monster?

  At the outset, I wanted them all to die. I longed to be the one to silence them and take Cipher down.

  Only you wouldn’t have it. You convinced me it was your battle to fight.

  It made sense. You should be the one holding the weapon and personally execute your revenge after they violated you to within an inch of your life.

  Discussing Piers’ murder seemed simple enough, you would stab him like he’d stabbed you.

  It was my idea to cut off his head, so we could toy with the authorities and kick-start a complex murder investigation.

  Once the police had established his identity, it would trigger a tsunami of fear within Cipher. They would wonder, after Hugh’s death, if they were being hunted.

  You were excited, and I taught you well. I treated you like a student, not a daughter. That’s where I went wrong. We’d agreed upon a pact and, having failed you, I was not prepared to convince you otherwise.

  We’d prepared your murder kit and methods of disposal – the acid, cement, and tarpaulin.

  In my mind it was a game, one we were living out, but the sheer nature of it didn’t seem real.

  Perhaps I thought one day I would wake from the dream. But you pulled into the car park with a gun pointed at his head and the plan sprang into action.

  One minute he was behind the wheel, the next he was shackled as your prisoner.

  I should have insisted I kill him. The look in your eyes told me to back off. You’d changed beyond recognition.

  You never imagine in your wildest nightmares you would watch your daughter wielding weapons, but that’s what you did.

  I watched as you pricked his flesh as easy as a toothpick gouging a tooth. You looked possessed, mimicking the devil in his worst form. I walked away, horrified.

  When I smelt smoke, I returned. You were hysterical, tears diluting all the blood on your skin. My Emilia re-emerged from the darkness and needed comforting. I held you in an embrace, fused together by his blood.

  Your howls reverberated off the barn shutters like a predatory wolf and I told you that I loved you. Those three words of comfort were all you needed to hear to stop your mind and heart from shattering. You requi
red my love and my approval.

  I offered assurance, pretending that his body was merely chopped animal thighs ready for barbecuing. But I couldn’t sustain the pretence when I helped to collect his charred limbs. I became frightened of the monster I’d created.

  I’d meant to save you, but I’d only worsened matters. I wondered, as I stared at his head you swaddled in your arms as though it were a new-born, if I had destroyed any part of the real you that was left.

  36

  DI CARMICHAEL

  FRIDAY 31 AUGUST 2018

  The sight before me is disturbing; a heinous crime committed.

  A bludgeoned skull rests between sunken paw imprints and pebbles, which span the Somerset coastline. It’s missing the lower jaw, and the teeth have been extracted by force.

  Forensic Co-ordinator, Bindy Cardy, has established the crime scene parameters by cordoning off the area.

  To preserve as much evidence as possible, she establishes a secure pathway with tape for all personnel to follow. A log is also established of any person entering and exiting the scene.

  “A terrified seven-year-old girl made the gruesome discovery this morning,” Cardy informs me, confidently.

  She paces the sand in blue plastic overshoes and crouches beside pathologist Laura Harper.

  Camera flashes illuminate the yellow evidence triangle marker, as CSI Muirhead documents macro shots of the skull in situ.

  The persistent lens snaps, capturing hollow eye sockets; empty windows to the departed soul.

  “Cause of death was blunt force trauma,” Harper states.

  Cardy nods in agreement, but her attention remains anchored on the skull, deciphering it microscopically as she takes a plain drawing of the area with measurements.