When acid and water come into contact a chemical reaction occurs, with an immediate build-up of heat. She’ll be rendered paralysed from the SUX. Heat will burn through her stomach wall and destroy her internal organs.
SUX is mainly used in a clinical setting by anaesthetists. It has been used in the past by medical professionals to carry out murder.
Nicknamed ‘a perfect poison’, it breaks down in the body quickly and doesn’t always show up in Tox screens.
If it does, hospital staff will become suspects. The police will be looking for a killer doctor or nurse. Not little Emilia, the adorable primary school teacher. I laugh out loud.
What the hell am I laughing at? This really is no laughing matter. I’m literally playing with life and death.
Maybe laughing at this is the only way I can cope. I can lose myself in sick humour, so it doesn’t feel real.
What do they call it? Gallows humour? Graveyard humour? Somehow, it seems apt.
There’s one thing I do know for sure – he who laughs last, laughs longest. Cipher had their laughs, but the last laugh will be mine.
68
DI CARMICHAEL
FRIDAY 23 NOVEMBER 2018, 7.30 AM
Cipher must be removed from the crime scene to protect ourselves from prosecution.
White suits gather at the boundary, disembarking from their vehicles to assist and gather potential evidence.
We will intervene and get inside first, then remove Goulding’s laptop so it cannot be examined.
Glass crunches underfoot as we stride inside, no questions asked. Cronwell claimed authority on the case, sighting our initial involvement.
Flashbacks pound my head; we’re running through smoke to recover Goulding. Only, a tar-coloured figure engulfed with flames runs toward us, inches from death.
I shake my head, obliterating the perturbing image. Goulding’s alive and breathing. We all are, and for that reason, we must fight for our continued survival.
The fire damage is worse than predicted. We follow fire officers in thermal resistance tunics, illuminated with fluorescent strips. Cromwell walks with determination as though his own ass is on fire.
Cindered air clogs my lungs as we venture further into her den. A sheer drop has replaced the staircase, bannister twisted and hanging like a Helter Skelter, above debris.
The destruction acts as a vivid reminder that she’s hunting us, and we will be next.
Cronwell pauses outside the office, eyeing a CSI with a distrustful glare. Gloved fingers secure Goulding’s laptop inside an evidence bag.
He raises a palm, instructing me to stay back and let him handle matters.
We’re fully aware that IT specialists will scrutinise the laptop and gain access to our world, which will come crashing down.
“DI Christopher Cronwell,” he interjects, reaching out a hand.
The man, late 60s, lifts his gaze from the package, face framed with a forensic hood.
“Rich Francis, Forensics,” he replies, before ducking his head and continuing the task at hand.
“Why are you bagging the victim’s laptop?”
“Procedure. Anything electrical which may have triggered the blaze will be examined. We need to determine how the fire started.”
“No clue as to the exact cause yet?”
“Fire Investigation Officers are working on it; several theories flying around. Sorry, but I do need to get on.”
There’s a glint of alarm in his tone, eyes wavering between the two of us. Frantic fingers seal the evidence bag, which he labels.
“No problem. We’re heading back to the station now. We can drop that into the IT lab and save you the bother.”
“I must keep it with the rest of the evidence to ensure chain of custody, in case this becomes a criminal case.”
His face mirrors his white suit. A sheen of sweat gleams on his forehead. He retrieves three evidence packages and barges past us.
Cronwell and I stare at one another, horrified, in a locked silence as firefighters and a team of CSIs encroach on us.
Francis disappears into the hive of activity. There’s nothing we can do to stop him.
Cronwell darts to the desk drawer, plucking from it a USB flash drive, which he shoves discreetly into his pocket - a hardcopy of the Cipher database.
He and Goulding must have had a procedure in place should Cipher ever be compromised.
Cronwell’s words haunt me: “How is it that the killer is so forensically aware?”
Our killer had help. It’s as though a red alert beacon is flashing, but my mind won’t give me the answer.
I’m close, I feel it in my bones. We will learn the killer’s identity and stop her. Then it’s Game Over.
69
ANNABELLE
FRIDAY 23 NOVEMBER 2018, 8 AM
Ben lied to me. Lies always catch up with you.
Tears trace over my cheeks as I watch live news footage. DCI Cronwell and Ben entering a police cordon.
The reporter announces, ‘Hero officers return to millionaire’s mansion after saving owner, Michelle Goulding, from the flames.’
Ben told me he was with Tim making stag do plans - not in Wrington with Cronwell.
He maintains Cronwell is a vile ‘bent cop’. That can only mean one thing, Ben’s been turned.
We’re due to marry in 12 weeks, yet I feel as though maybe I don’t know the real Ben after all.
Our bond was unbreakable, but cracks have emerged. There’s a distance between us and now he’s lied to me.
No one takes me for a fool and lies to my face.
Sweat bubbles on your temples, a nervous trait you’ve always had, as you walk with trepidation.
Hairs bristle on my arms. It’s as though I’m observing a complete stranger.
What were you doing there, Ben? I will find out. The truth hurts, but so do lies.
I’ll never allow myself to be deceived. I saw how it tore my mother and father apart. I will find out what you’re hiding, Ben, even if it kills me.
70
DI CARMICHAEL
SATURDAY 24 NOVEMBER 2018
The answer had been standing right in front of me.
Forensics drew a blank in every Cipher member crime scene, with not a single piece of trace evidence found.
For that to happen, the killer was meticulous and forensically aware, or she had help.
Richard Francis was tense and fled Goulding’s crime scene.
It set off alarm bells, so I started fishing around.
I made a few enquiries, asked a couple of questions. I was informed Richard was married with grown up kids, a son, and a daughter.
Now, I see clearly. Richard Francis and his daughter, Emilia Francis, are a deadly duo. Emilia is one of the potential survivors of Cipher.
Richard, a forensic expert, is cleaning up the filth who damaged his precious daughter. And who could blame him?
He was at Goulding’s house concealing evidence and mistakes because the fire hadn’t gone as intended.
Cipher’s hands are tattooed on Emilia’s skin. The only way she can rid them is with revenge. She’s playing her own game now and I fear, if she’s the girl I attacked, and she survived, then I’m a target too.
An engorged lump constricts my throat. I already know what Cronwell’s planning; murder.
He wants her dead so that he’s safe from harm. And he’s going to make me do his dirty work.
I won’t allow him that victory, no matter who she’s killed. I may be a rapist but I’m not a killer.
“Clever little bitch, calling in Daddy to help! We need to teach her that you can’t compete with the elite. With revenge comes collateral damage,” Cronwell says.
“What collateral damage?”
“She must die!”
“We destroyed her, that’s why she’s doing this!”
“Shut the fuck up. It was a game.”
“Not to her. Cipher ruined her life.”
“Don’t be a pussy. Why
do you care if she dies?”
“I can’t live with myself; we destroyed her life!”
“You’re pathetic. You’re not one of us.”
“You’re right. You’re all fucking sick.”
His vengeful stare burns my eyes. I feel regretful as soon as the words spill from my lips.
“Wow, Carmichael, is that all you’ve got?”
“I never wanted any part of this. You all made me do it. You wanted to ruin me.”
“You’re a spineless coward. But you’re part of Cipher now. You do as I say, or I’ll fucking kill you myself!”
“I don’t care if she targets us. We deserve to die.”
His face changes, wearing a veil of hatred.
“Shut up! She must be silenced, so we’re protected.”
He stares, deliberating. I won’t continue to be his dogsbody.
I‘ll run away with Annabelle.
Cronwell plucks a cigarette packet from his jacket. He thumbs a lighter and sparks one up, calming himself.
His face insinuates that he has an alternative course of action in mind. He smiles and my heart rattles.
“Fine, have it your way. We teach her a valuable lesson. Revenge is a destructive weapon; it comes at a cost. We target her family. One of them must die.”
71
EMILIA
SATURDAY 24 NOVEMBER 2018
I killed Daddy! I grabbed the knife and stuck it in, piercing his heart and severing our blood ties forever.
I awake, sickened and dripping in sweat. I’d never kill Daddy, he’s my saviour, my world.
In the nightmare, he’d turned on me and we rowed, furious that I hadn’t stuck to the plan and had identified myself to Goulding.
“Our game is over,” he screeched.
It was true, I’d put us in terrible danger; Cipher would turn the tables, and hunt and kill us if Goulding wakes up and identifies me.
“Too many mistakes have been made, we’re taking too many chances. There’s one risk left to us, and that’s if Goulding wakes up,” Dad shouted, eyes flaming.
“I won’t let that happen!”
“We make sure she doesn’t wake up and then that’s it, Emilia. We have to walk away. While we still can.”
“I can’t, not until they are all dead!”
“Emilia, listen to me. Once Goulding is eliminated, we end this. We must, to protect our family. You will not disobey me this time!”
I saw red. Possessed by rage, I grabbed a knife and stabbed him. No one would stop me from retribution.
Dad’s face looked crestfallen; eyes watery with betrayal. The terror forced me to consciousness.
I step into the shower to wash the distressing nightmare down the plughole, aware that we’re one step ahead of the game.
We’ve produced the deadly killer concoction - my own nerve agent to take the bitch out.
Goulding will die as intended, she’ll cook from the inside out, burning in her own Hell.
Revenge is like a stubborn splinter, trapped between skin ridges, which you cannot pull out, no matter how hard you dig your nails in. It becomes a part of you, of who you are, who you become. I’ve become a merciless killer.
I’m inside the hospital, donning a blue hospital tunic, black rimmed glasses and jet-black wig.
I chuckled when examining the unidentifiable killer nurse in the mirror. Yet, it’s no laughing matter. I’m about to commit murder, again! Or, at least, to finish what I started at Goulding’s house.
Discovering which ward Goulding was on was easy - ITU or Berrow ward, which cater for respiratory patients.
I stride, head bowed, along the upper corridor, ignoring the foul stench of carrots and beef.
My sweaty gloved hands are tucked inside my pockets, right palm clutching the syringe.
I access ICU with ease; there’s no intercom, or swipe-card access.
It’s lunchtime. Patients are distracted with their vile food plates, nurses taking turns on break.
I sneak a glimpse of reception. A sister is hunched over, scribbling on paperwork. Behind her, the whiteboard reveals patient names.
Goulding is situated in the second side room. Her head rests on two pillows, body cocooned under a blanket, apart from her blistered, puny arms, which rest on top.
She’s alone, aside from me, her angel of death. I close the door. Keeping my identity secret is crucial to me being able to finish what I’ve started.
I take a breath and approach her bedside, staring at the creature before me. No one will miss her.
An IV line is secured to her left hand, tube attached to a hanging, saline bag above. I inch closer, knee colliding with a chair. Metal scrapes the floor and I feel panicked.
I stare at the door but remain alone. It’s time to play with fire and eliminate the bitch once and for all.
My eyes cast back on the devil, stunned - she’s awake! Her petrified eyes dart from my face to the needle.
She tries to scream, but the ventilation tube taped to her upper lip prevents it.
I smile. Inside, a part of me says a silent ‘thank you’ that she is awake, aware. It will heighten her terror and suffering just that little bit more.
Her eyelashes blink as if trying to erase me from a nightmare. A palm scrabbles for the ‘nurse-call’ alarm.
“Don’t resist. It’s time to die,” I whisper.
“Remember, you brought this on yourself, you sick bitch. Your game is over. This is my killing game now, and I’m about to win. The last laugh is mine.”
I inject the SUX and drain cleaner directly into the medication administration port on the saline bag.
Her alarmed eyes flicker. Death is coming for her, she’s fully aware of it, and knows that there’s no escaping it this time. Saline contains water, which will react with the concoction. I adjust the control flow on the IV tube, increasing it to maximum.
There’s nothing she can do; her mouth remains silenced by the breathing tubes.
I retreat, back pressed against the wall, and wait. Goulding thrashes, flaying arms frantic, trying to pull out the ventilation tube, so she can scream. They fall limp, crashing on the blanket, the SUX taking full effect.
Her limbs are paralysed, face reddening as the heat builds inside her body. It’s as though I’m watching a steak in a skillet. The acid is cooking her gullet and stomach, working its way through the lining to her internal organs.
Her begging eyes plead. I’ve no sympathy. You get what you deserve. What goes around, comes around. Karma is a bitch, and so am I.
I study the spiking electrocardiogram peaks, and her rapidly rising heart rate on the monitor. I must leave before she deteriorates further and the alarm sounds.
The infinity pin rests in my palm. I clip it to her clothing stored in the bedside cabinet.
“Time to die you fucking sick bitch!”
I offer her a childish wave, and vacate the room, feeling so very alive.
Beeping emits, followed by thunderous footsteps from the nurse’s station to her death chamber. Her time is up. I hope she burns in Hell.
72
DI CARMICHAEL
SATURDAY 24 NOVEMBER 2018
Goulding’s dead. She was murdered, I know it.
Cronwell assumed Goulding would be safe in hospital. He was wrong; Emilia got to her.
A part of me had hoped that my theory would be unfounded, that the killer was nothing to do with Cipher.
But her own father unwittingly gave her up with his presence at Goulding’s crime scene.
This killing spree is about revenge and is directly related to my atrocious crime.
Emilia Francis wants retribution. I’m on her radar as a target to be obliterated.
Footsteps emerge into Goulding’s empty room. I turn and encounter a stocky sister, her face offering the practised look of empathy.
In her hand, she clutches a bag of soot-sullied clothing, which she hands over to Cronwell.
“I’m sorry to inform you that Michelle Goulding
passed away this afternoon. Her body went into shock and we believe she died from acute noncardiogenic pulmonary edema,” she utters.
“There is no next of kin on her medical records and she’s had no visitors. These are her personal possessions.”
Cronwell takes receipt of the bag.
“You’re certain that’s how she died?’ He asks, brow deepening, as he stares with probing eyes.
“Ms Goulding did not regain consciousness, despite our continued medical efforts. Her condition had stabilised, but she had sustained serious chemical damage to her trachea and bronchi, resulting in systemic carbon monoxide poisoning.”
She pauses and then adds, “Smoke contains chemicals that damage the membrane between the air sacs and the capillaries, allowing fluid to enter the lungs. This can cause noncardiogenic pulmonary edema, which often proves fatal. She deteriorated within minutes.”
Cronwell’s eyes scrutinise the bag, turning it anticlockwise. He injects a livid stare, handing the package over to me.
A second double infinity knot is secured alongside the charred pin, resting as shiny as a ten pence piece.
“Is everything OK?”
“It’s a sad loss, that’s all, especially after being spared from the fire,” Cronwell answers.
“Thank you for everything that you did to assist her,” I interject, hurrying us out of the side room toward the exit.
We eyeball one another. Emilia killed her. The calling card is irrefutable proof.
“The cunning little bitch,” Cronwell hisses.
“How did she find out where she was? Let alone get close enough to kill her?” I reply.
Kill List Page 16
