Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  “Richard Francis.”

  “And what is your date of birth?”

  “The third of August 1956.”

  “Please confirm there are no other persons’ present, other than your solicitor?”

  “That's correct.”

  “The date is the 28th of November 2018 and the time by the interview clock is 16.30 hours. This interview is being conducted at Weston-super-Mare Police Station. I would remind you a record is being made of this interview and it may be given in evidence, if you are brought to trial. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Fully,” Francis answers.

  “At the end of the interview I will give you a notice explaining what will happen to the tapes and how you may gain access to copies of them. Mr Francis, you have been arrested on suspicion of attempting to murder your wife, Claire Francis, at your home, during the early hours of Monday the 26th of November. Mr Francis, I expect you to listen carefully to my questions and I will give you time to respond. If you do not understand something please tell me,” Cronwell continues.

  “Can you account for your whereabouts on the night in question?”

  His solicitor, Daniel Waterman, instructs him to answer.

  “I was working a case,” Francis replies.

  “Could you confirm what your job is, and your place of employment?”

  “I’m a forensic scientist for the police force, as you are well aware.”

  Cronwell plucks an evidence bag containing a tube sample and slides it across the table.

  “I would like to refer to exhibit 4273/CWL/1.”

  “For the tape, DCI Cronwell is handing the suspect a sealed evidence bag,” I state.

  “This is a hair sample found on your wife. DNA taken from a swab you gave us is an exact match. This hair belongs to you, Mr Francis. I believe this may be due to you having taken part in commission of the offence in question. What do you have to say in response to that?”

  Waterman pushes the sample back across the table, answering on his behalf.

  “As you are aware, my client discovered his injured wife when he came home. He saved her life by stemming her blood flow. That explains the presence of trace evidence,” Waterman says.

  “A hair found on her body could be explained understandably as trace evidence. This sample, however, was embedded in a single fingernail crack. Her nails were otherwise immaculately manicured, this nail was damaged during an altercation. A head hair from her attacker became snagged in this split so tightly, that it has been evulsed with its root. It could have only got there as the result of a struggle. My suggestion is that you fought with your wife. You were the person responsible for your wife’s attempted murder.”

  97

  DI CARMICHAEL

  WEDNESDAY 28 NOVEMBER 2018, 4.45 PM

  Francis’ face is deadpan, a sickly grey, as if on the brink of death.

  “What do you have to say?” Cronwell probes.

  Francis and Waterman exchange glances.

  “It is hardly surprising that one of my client’s hairs has been found on his wife. As for being lodged in her fingernail, it could be argued that this occurred during an intimate encounter, rather than an altercation as you suggest,” Waterman answers.

  Cronwell ignores the remark and continues with his line of questioning.

  “Your wife’s blood was on your skin and clothing. You came into contact with the victim and there was a struggle.”

  “I was checking for a pulse,” Francis whimpers.

  “That may perhaps explain her blood on you, but it does not explain the hair fragment. Her nail must have cracked during a frenzied struggle. You tried to kill her, didn’t you? Like you killed the others!” Cronwell blurts, taking me by surprise.

  “What others?” he asks, shifting uneasily in his seat.

  “It is our suggestion that you’ve acquired a taste for murder. You enjoy having the power to evade detection. You are not only responsible for the attempted murder of your wife; you are responsible for the murders of Michelle Goulding and Hugh Baldwin. And perhaps your wife found out, which is why you tried to kill her, too. To save your own worthless skin.”

  Waterman leans back in his chair, arms folded defensively across his tailored navy suit, as he blurts, “Woah! What evidence do you have to support your theory, Detective?”

  “The killer of both victims was forensically aware. Very forensically aware. Mr Francis, you have the required skills to avoid detection. It is no coincidence that you were present at both crime scenes. You were there to protect yourself from prosecution and to collect any stray evidence, isn’t that the case? I’m suggesting you are responsible for two murders and the attempted murder of your wife. And who knows, maybe there are more victims that we don’t know about yet!”

  Francis shakes his head, categorically denying the accusation. He looks afraid.

  “You were responsible, weren’t you, Mr Francis?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve no basis on which to accuse my client of murdering anyone, and only the loosest circumstantial evidence to suggest he attacked his own wife!”

  “You’re an expert, Mr Francis. You know how to conceal murder and I believe you executed both Goulding’s and Baldwin’s murders with clinical precision. You never intended for Claire to fight back and capture your DNA. The evidence is irrefutable. Mr Francis, you are being charged and remanded in custody for the attempted murder of Claire Francis on Monday the 26th November 2018. We are not yet in a position to charge you with the two murders, but we are working on that. The time is now 17:12 hours. This interview is being concluded.”

  Cronwell switches off the recorder, removes the tapes and prepares a label seal, which he hands to Francis for a signature. He smirks and offers a wink. I feel sick. Francis will lose his freedom! Another life destroyed, all because of Cipher.

  98

  EMILIA

  THURSDAY 29 NOVEMBER 2018, 8 AM

  I’m just a girl being loved by the man of her dreams. Life is normal. Life is good. Only it isn’t, I’m still a serial killer; a killer with a Kill List. And I have not yet crossed out all the names on it.

  I push my murderous alter-ego to the back of my mind and snuggle against Mark’s chest, feeling safe.

  Sunlight blasts through the curtain illuminating my flaws. I feel ugly, and embarrassed to be naked.

  Mark sweeps my fringe from my face and plants a tender kiss on my forehead. My heart feels revived.

  They say love can heal. I’ve discovered in the darkest of times that you can find glimmers of light. Mark has provided that. He is my light; my knight in shining armour. And I am his devilish damsel in distress.

  Maybe I will be happy again, once my deeds are done, and my darkness fades. Maybe I can have a happy ever after.

  Fists hammer the front door jolting me from my reverie. I bolt upright, stunned, and scared.

  My immediate reaction is that Mark is married, and he’s been caught cheating, but I know that’s not true.

  Mark frowns and eyes me in a curious silence. I don’t understand what’s going on.

  Car doors slam, strangers’ voices become louder and louder. I know what this is; my downfall.

  A voice shrieks through the letterbox, “Emilia, how does it feel to learn your father tried to kill your mother?”

  Mark stares with disbelief, jaw slack. My head hurts. The room spins, edges blurring.

  “Emilia, it’s OK, I’m here,” Mark whispers, pulling me against his bare chest.

  “It’s not true!” I screech, pushing him away.

  “Emilia, your father has also been linked to the deaths of two murder victims. How does it feel knowing your own father could be a serial killer?” The voice shrieks.

  I lean over the bed and vomit, splattering red wine sick over the carpet. Mark pulls back my hair.

  I feel as though the world is falling from beneath me, yet again. I can never be happy. I’m only ever meant to endure torment and sadness.

  Ma
rk hands me a tissue. I snatch the TV remote control from the bedside and turn on the news.

  Daddy’s face fills the screen, captioned, “Forensic scientist charged with wife’s attempted murder.”

  My despair morphs to rage. Not content to attack my mother, the son-of-a-bitch has somehow framed Dad.

  “My dad is not a murderer! I need to see him.”

  “If he’s been charged, they may not let you. The police must have grounds for arrest, surely, though I find it impossible to believe?”

  “My father didn’t do this!” I shout.

  “Of course he didn’t do this. I’m sorry,” Mark answers, embracing me.

  I should have killed Cronwell sooner. Mum would be unharmed, and Dad would not be locked behind bars.

  My happiness was always going to be short-lived. I never deserved a fairy-tale ending after my killing spree. I’ve no choice but to confess. Daddy will not go down for this. I’ll swap his freedom for mine.

  99

  RICHARD

  THURSDAY 29 NOVEMBER 2018, 7.33 AM

  It’s only a matter of time until I’m labelled a serial killer.

  Cronwell is a twisted, clever bastard. He’s done a proper job on me; the evidence may be circumstantial, but he’ll find a way to make it irrefutable.

  He’ll link me to the Cipher murders, too, through evidence tampering, I’m sure of it.

  I picture the headlines. ‘The Perfect Killer.’ ‘Criime Expert’s Callous Killing Spree.’

  I’d imagined various endings to the game, yet this was not one of them.

  Never in my worst nightmares did I imagine Claire would get caught in the crossfire, or that I’d be framed and charged for her attempted murder. It’s like I’m part of some surreal nightmare. But I’m not dreaming. This is all too real.

  I cannot continue to live in this vile, sinister world, it’s killed every part of me.

  Waterman didn’t utter a word when he escorted me to my cell. He was questioning the evidence in his mind. I could see it in his suspicious eyes.

  Emilia will know this is a set up. Tom will know in his heart, I would never harm his mother, yet Cronwell has been making an increasingly convincing argument.

  The only way I can spare Emilia’s name from being dragged into this and through the mud, is to end this now. Cipher will keep coming for us until one, or both, of us is dead. This is my final gift to Emilia. I will protect my family.

  Blood is thicker than water; it connects you. The bond between a father and daughter is unbreakable, no matter how damaged.

  I never expected Cronwell to come knocking at my door. I cannot blame Emilia for that, and I won’t let her carry that burden for the rest of her life.

  My guilt will be assumed. The case will be closed, wrapped neatly in a bow. In their eyes, I’m responsible for two murders; Goulding and Baldwin, and the attempted murder of my own, loving wife. I’d been caught, and simply couldn’t live with the shame.

  I chose to become an accomplice to murder to avenge Emilia and I’ve no regret that her monsters are gone.

  My only regret is Claire getting caught in the crossfire and harm coming to a single hair on her head.

  Emilia’s strong and determined. She’s a fighter and she will help Tom, and Claire, through this. Together, they will be united in grief. It’s time to escape this life and the torment that seeps through every vein. I want to be free.

  I tug the concealed plastic Biro from under my sleeve, one I acquired from Daniel without his knowledge. I crack it between my teeth, creating jagged, sharp points and stab the barrel forcefully, gouging it into my neck.

  All half dozen major blood vessels in the neck are vulnerable to destruction. I push the pen deeper, stirring to enlarge the cavity, before withdrawing and stabbing again, puncturing the carotid artery, breaking blood supply to the brain.

  Blood spurts against the white walls, littering them like a dot-to-dot canvas, my body experiencing rapid exsanguination.

  My eyes close, shielding them from the bloodshed, mind drifting as I free the pen from my grip. This is my time, my end. Death is coming for me.

  Emilia wouldn’t want this; she’ll be angry and frustrated. I envision her once happy, smiling face, the old Emilia before they killed her inside.

  She will know in her heart that I did this for her, to avoid her detection and incarceration.

  Darkness shrouds me, I feel the restraints being released from my limbs. I’m floating, light as a feather, flying away from this cruel, cruel world.

  Emilia, Tom, I’m sorry. Take care of each other, please. Claire, sweetheart, please stop fighting and join me. Come, fly away with me into the arms of the angels.

  100

  EMILIA

  THURSDAY 29 NOVEMBER 2018, 8.10 AM

  I’m afraid, now more than ever. Punishment awaits.

  I open the door with the firm intention of telling the reporter to go fuck himself. Only, I’m rendered frozen. Cronwell’s sinister face attempts an expression of sincerity, but it’s a practised look for the cameras.

  He opens his mouth to speak, deepening the facial scar on his cheek and releasing a waft of liquor off his breath.

  “Emilia Francis? I’m DCI Christopher Cronwell,” he states formally.

  I want to yell in his face, ‘I know who you are, you twisted, evil fucker. And I know what you’ve done, you dirty rapist.’ Loud enough for all the poised cameras to capture it live on air.

  I’d love nothing more than to expose him on television for his atrocious crimes, but I must play along.

  My lips remain sealed. I fear Dad has cracked under inter‐ rogation and has implicated me, and the press is here, to capture my arrest.

  I read the expression on Cronwell’s face. He isn’t surrounded by armed officers for backup. I’ve read this all wrong. Daddy is dead. Oh my God, Daddy is dead!

  “What can we do for you officer?” Mark asks, breaking the silence, as he places an arm of solidarity around me.

  I feel sick to my stomach – Cronwell has just identified Mark as another potential target that he’ll use to hurt me. Oh, Mark, why did I let you into my macabre world? I should have been strong, protected you from those beasts. I’ve failed you; failed everyone.

  “Miss Francis, I am sorry to inform you but, as of this morn‐ ing, your father was arrested on suspicion of attempting to kill your mother at their home,” Cronwell states.

  There’s a glisten in his eye, a hint of smugness shining through. He’s playing a game of his own, acting as though I’ve never encountered him before, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

  How dare he have the audacity to come to my house. I ought to take the knife from my bag and slash his throat wide open, right here, right now, and offer the cameras some real action.

  “Furthermore, I regret that I must tell you that, while in police custody, shortly after he was charged, your father attempted suicide. He was rushed to hospital, is in a stable condition and is expected to make a full recovery. An investigation is ongoing as to how this even occurred. I would like to extend my sincere sympathy to you, and to, er ….” He looks at Mark, as if inviting an introduction.

  I’m sure he will now do his best to identify Mark. I’ll be damned if I am going to give him any help, so I blatantly ignore his pleading gesture.

  Mark’s grip intensifies, offering support. I take a breath, drawing courage to enter a conversation with the man who’s ruined my life.

  “How did my father attempt suicide?”

  “With a pen. Despite having his personal effects removed, your father somehow acquired a Biro, and used it to try to end his life while he was alone in his cell. We believe this was an act of guilt.”

  Cronwell offers a slither of a smile, one that I want to smash my fist into and shatter those hideous Tic-Tac teeth. I cannot believe he has the nerve to stand there, in front of me, knowing he’s responsible for the series of events.

  Dad foresaw this; he knew Cronwell would abuse his positio
n of authority to close the investigations and distance himself from having any involvement.

  He thinks he’s gotten away with it, too. Not in my lifetime. I’ll never, ever let him walk away from his crimes, no matter if it kills me.

  The crowd of journalists disperses. Cronwell turns and steps aside, revealing Tom, weighed down by grief. I look in his fragile eyes. He simply stares in disbelief.

  Tom will see your attempted suicide as guilt. He’ll believe that his own dad is capable of murder; but more than that, capable of trying to kill his own wife.

  Oh Daddy, I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me. I need you. You’re my rock. Don’t leave me, not now.

  This path was treacherous, but I believed it would be deadly only to me, and not those that I care about.

  Revenge is a drug, a Class A addiction. It weaves its way into your bloodstream, tarnishing you like poison. It affects your mind and shatters your heart.

  A torrent of tears streams down my face, as I take Tom’s hand. Cronwell raises a brow, putting two and two together – he realises Tom is my brother.

  Cronwell whispers a veiled threat, “This ends now,” and walks away.

  The underlying message: stop this game or I’ll go after those who are left - me, Mark, and Tom.

  Revenge is like staring down the barrel of a half-loaded gun. There’s a good chance it will kill you, but you are too destroyed to care.

  Now, more than ever, I know I must continue my quest and destroy all that destroyed me. If anything, I must show Dad that he taught me well, and make him proud.

  I’ll never be able to start a new beginning, but I can turn the tables and create a new ending. Not the one that Cronwell has in mind; it will be my perfect ending.