by Leon, Taylor
He lied and said, ‘Of course, Hayley. How are you?’
Her smile was beautiful, like she was genuinely pleased he remembered her.
‘I’m good,’ she said. ‘I was just leaving the pub myself and thought it was you, so I followed you out here. Just to say hello. I hope you don’t mind.’
He straightened up a little. Not too much, as he’d developed a permanent stoop in recent years. ‘No, of course I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It’s always a pleasure seeing old friends.’
She looked up at the sky. ‘Oh cripes, it’s going to rain and I haven’t got an umbrella.’
He looked across the car-park at the building behind them. It wasn’t quite kicking out time, and most of the others were locals who would walk home and leave through the front entrance. His was the only car parked out here. He could offer her a lift home.
As if she read had his mind, she said: ‘I just live two minutes up the road. I don’t suppose you could drop me off on your way?’ He turned back round to face her and she gave him a seductive smile. ‘I’d be ever so grateful.’
He tried not to laugh. She had no idea he had no interest in her; that his wife had really been a platonic companion. Females were not his thing. Nevertheless, giving her a lift home was the only gallant thing to do. Especially for an ex-student who not only remembered him, but appeared to hold a candle for him as well.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ he said and climbed in.
The girl walked around and climbed into the passenger seat. He reached back for his seatbelt and glanced over to see her sitting still, with a strange and serious look on her face.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked, letting go of the belt and turning to her.
She suddenly pushed up against him, one hand sliding round the back of his neck, pulling his head forward into the crook of her neck.
‘My dear,’ he coughed and tried to pull back. ‘I’m really not…’
He felt a sharp pain in his chest. She released him and he fell back into his seat.
She was looking at him oddly, as though he was a strange artefact. He suddenly felt very giddy. He tried to draw breath, but was struggling to do so. His first thought was that he was having a heart attack, but as his eyes travelled down to her lap, he saw she was clutching a large knife, covered in blood. He glanced down at his front. His stomach was pumping out globules of blood.
He slid down in his seat, too weak to cry out.
She threw herself back over him. Gone was the sweet seductive smile, replaced by a hideous mask of anger, as she plunged the knife into his chest again and again.
10
THE GAMES-MASTER continued to watch his players through their computer screens every night, intrigued by the lives these serial killers led. He so wanted to understand how they could snuff out other people’s existences and then return so effortlessly back to their own hum-drum lives.
His screen was split into three. There was FRIGHT-NIGHT in his lounge, working out in a sports vest and shorts. He really was one of the vainest people THE GAMES-MASTER had ever seen, spending an inordinate amount of time in front of the huge mirror that could be seen on the far-wall. Up-close he was extremely handsome. THE GAMES-MASTER could see why that made him such a successful serial killer. He could take his victims by surprise because they wouldn’t expect a good-looking, clean cut young man to be a vicious psychopath.
Meanwhile, BABYFACE was in his bedroom, painting behind his easel. It was a small room and the easel took up most of the space between the bed on the left and the wall on the right. The small window at the back was open to negate the paint fumes.
In the third panel, he could see THE CHAMELEON had taken her lap-top out of the kitchen and placed it on the dresser in her bedroom. She was lying on the bed, dressed in a smart blouse and jeans. She was typing into her phone, but then suddenly got up and came over to the computer. She had just sent him a file. One of the special encrypted ones.
He felt the blood pounding in his head.
He clicked it open and typed in the passcode.
‘Oh my,’ he said out loud. ‘You have done well.’
The first photo showed the old bastard, Elias James, his eyes wide and staring. He was sitting up in a car, a yellow insipid glow emanating from the car’s interior light. Blood was oozing out from a hole that had been punched through his heart. The tide of blood had spread from its gory epicentre, across the whole of his front. His shirt, tie and jacket looked like it had been dipped in a vat of sticky red dye. His left sleeve had been pulled up and turned, so his watch-less wrist was facing the camera.
He moved to the second picture and a close-up of the wrist, with the marking “3” carved into it.
THE GAMES-MASTER felt the familiar shortness of breath and light headedness that came with another kill and another step nearer to the finale.
My Angels of Death.
His excitement was such, that he broke one of his own rules when he asked:
-HOW DID YOU DO IT?
After a minute, THE CHAMELEON replied:
-HE GOES TO THE SAME PUB EVERY NIGHT AND DRINKS ALONE IN THE CORNER…
I always had Elias James down as a loner, THE GAMES-MASTER thought. Who’d want to be with someone like that? I read that even his wife bailed out on him and died. Suicide, I heard.
-… I MET HIM IN THE CAR PARK. I TOLD HIM I WAS ONE OF HIS OLD PUPILS AND HE HAD ALWAYS BEEN MY FAVOURITE TEACHER. I MADE A NAME UP BUT HE SAID HE REMEMBERED ME…
THE GAMES-MASTER looked up at her in the top-right of his screen. He could understand why Elias James would have fallen for her if he had been into girls. But he wasn’t. Perhaps he just wanted the company.
-… I CHECKED THERE WAS NO-ONE AROUND AND THEN I ASKED HIM FOR A LIFT. I CLIMBED INTO THE CAR NEXT TO HIM. I THINK HE THOUGHT I WAS LEANING OVER TO KISS HIM. HE BACKED AWAY LAUGHING...
She’s not his type, THE GAMES-MASTER mused. She’s female.
-BUT OF COURSE, A KISS WAS THE LAST THING I PLANNED TO GIVE HIM,
-AND IS HE STILL IN HIS CAR?
-YES, HE IS.
THE GAMES-MASTER paused for a moment, his fingers hanging over the keyboard. She had made him very happy tonight. All of the first-round targets had now been eliminated.
He saved the pictures she had sent him of the dead teacher, and filed them alongside the photos BABYFACE and FRIGHT-NIGHT had sent him of their victims. Then he flipped to the league table he had prepared, entered the number of successful strikes against each name; one apiece, and then he awarded them their points.
As expected, when their computers pinged they each stopped what they were doing and went to their screens. BABYFACE, leading, of course had a big grin plastered across his face. FRIGHT-NIGHT looked pissed-off and surprised that one of the other targets had been disposed of before Jennifer Brooks. THE CHAMELEON didn’t show any emotion, barely a flicker of interest (I bet she’s the most dangerous of all, THE GAMES MASTER thought).
Then he sent the same message to each of them.
CONGRATULATIONS ON COMPLETING YOUR FIRST TASK.
FOR THE SECOND CHALLENGE, THERE ARE JUST TWO TARGETS- NUMBERS 4 AND 5. I WILL SEND EACH OF YOU THE DETAILS SHORTLY. WHOEVER ELIMINATES THE TARGETS AND SENDS ME THE EVIDENCE WILL COLLECT THREE POINTS FOR EACH ONE.
ONE OF YOU AT LEAST WILL MISS OUT.
GOOD LUCK
THE GAMES-MASTER
He moved to his files, scanned passed the first three thumbnail photos, and then clicked on the fourth. A photo he’d copied across from a social media site filled his screen. She was standing outside, perhaps in her garden on what looked like a summer’s afternoon. Her dark hair was brushed neatly down to her shoulders, her face made up to just the right level so it didn’t seem overdone. But he was drawn to her mouth.
Wide and smiling.
At him.
Then he went down to the fifth picture. This girl had a short bob, a pretty face and thick red lipstick.
He sent both their details across to his player
s.
11
ANOTHER BODY FOR the slab. Victim number three.
Three bodies in less than a week, marked, “1”, “2” and “3”.
We were talking with the pub landlord, when Arnie showed up. He waited until we finished and then we took him over to the car. The body, still slumped behind the steering wheel, was a bloody mess. A knife had been plunged straight into his heart causing thick gobs of blood to blow up out of his chest like boiled tomato soup. His eyes were cold and staring up, his left arm stretched out with his killer’s carved insignia “3” clearly marked on the inside of his wrist.
‘Another victim and a different method,’ Cade said looking down at the body. ‘If it wasn’t for the numbers there is no way you would think these are connected.’
‘And it can’t be a copycat because we haven’t made the markings public,’ I reminded him.
‘He still had his wallet with money and credit cards on him,’ Cade said. ‘So, like the two girls, this wasn’t a robbery.’
‘So, it wasn’t robbery and it wasn’t sexual.’ Arnie muttered. ‘What do we know about him?’
‘His name is Elias James,’ I read from the notes. ‘He’s seventy-three and lives alone. Married once, but his wife died several years ago. He was retired, and used to teach at Rosenthorpe Secondary School. No children. He has one sister living in France. We’re trying to get hold of her.’
‘The three victims so far are two women aged ten years apart, and a male pensioner,’ Arnie said.
‘They’re either random killings,’ Cade said, ‘or there’s someone with a connection to them all that we need to find.’
‘We’re checking the girls’ and their families’ bank accounts and finances to see if they owed money, or received any unusual large payments that may give us a clue,’ I told Arnie. ‘We’ll do the same with this victim.’
We were walking through the car park and then down the side of the pub to where our cars were parked on the main road. I could see there was a large crowd forming behind the cordon, amongst them the usual pack of journos.
Detective George Vranch was parking up and then pushing his way through towards us.
‘Is that George Vranch?’ Arnie muttered.
‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re best buddies with him as well.’
Arnie looked at me confused before Cade interjected. ‘He’s working the Melissa Fairweather case. Victim number one.’
Vranch came over and shook hands with Arnie. ‘Good to see you again, sir,’ he said.
He looked at us. ‘Heard you’ve got victim number three back there.’’
Cade thrust his hands deep into his pockets and looked back. ‘Old guy, nothing like the other two.’
‘But he has the number three cut into him?’
We nodded.
‘Mind if I take a look?’ he asked
We watched him go back the way we’d come.
‘You okay with us letting him in on this, aren’t you?’ Cade asked Arnie.
‘Can you trust him now?’ Arnie asked.
‘I’ve been assured that he’s sorted himself out.’
‘He’d better have,’ Arnie said, unimpressed, and walked on ahead of us.
12
I STOOD INSIDE a small room looking through a glass screen while the pathologist, Barney Rivers, examined Elias James’s body, now laid out naked on his table. His flesh was pale and bloated apart from his chest which was a cavernous hole.
I was holding a slim file with all the information we had collated on the victim so far. He was as ordinary a person as I had ever seen with no obvious connection to the dead girls. Neither of them had attended Rosenthorpe school where he had taught. I still needed to check out the girls’ families. Maybe that would provide more of a clue.
In the meantime, we had found Elias James’s sister in the South of France who insisted it had to have been a random killing. ‘He didn’t have an enemy in the world,’ she told us.
These could be random murders, I thought. Victims picked out in the night, simply because they were out alone.
‘Do you think there’s one killer responsible for the three murders?’ I asked Barney through the microphone.
He looked up at me, as he held one of Elias’s arms out for examination. ‘Impossible to be sure,’ he said. ‘The method used to kill each victim has been different. I’ve never come across such differences from one killer, especially within such a short space of time.’
He looked at the markings on the wrist. ‘The sleeve was pulled up,’ he said, ‘the shirt cuff unbuttoned, and then the cuts were made. The killer took his time doing this, yet the attack itself was frenzied.’ Barney pointed at the late Elias James’s chest. ‘I count eleven stab wounds, all around the same region creating that hole. There was a pause while our victim passed away, and then the number was carved into his wrist.’
‘A frenzied attack Was it rage that drove the killer to do this, then?’
Barney nodded. ‘Possibly. The first stab wound is deep and is the fatal one. The rest were shorter and fast.’
He opened Elias James’s hand. ‘I saw the file on the first victim Melissa Fairweather. The number there was carved into the palm of her hand. The second victim’s number was cut into her neck.’
‘So?’
‘Why didn’t he do the same here? Why go to the trouble of rolling up his sleeves?’ Barney looked up at me. ‘If it was the same killer why didn’t he just do the same as last time and carve the number into the palm or neck?’
My phone interrupted us.
‘How’s it going?’ Cade asked.
‘I don’t think we’re looking at one killer.’
‘Is that what Barney says?’
‘It’s a view because of the different methods used to murder and then number the victims.’
‘Arnie’s under pressure from upstairs to get these solved fast,’ Cade said.
‘Isn’t he always?’
‘We’ve got the G7 summit here in a couple of weeks,’ Cade explained.
‘So?’
‘It’s all the leaders from the top economic-’
‘I know what it is, John. But what’s that got to do with this?’
‘All eyes are going to be on London. After having just escaped a terrorist attack a few weeks ago, the last thing he wants is some lunatic knocking people off at random.’
‘There may be more than one “lunatic”.’
Cade went quiet.
‘John?’
‘You better turn on the TV,’ Cade said. ‘Arnie’s giving a press conference with the Superintendent.’
I stepped out of the room, into the corridor where a small group of people had gathered around a communal TV. The Superintendent was reading a statement, with Arnie looking grim-faced by his side. I approached the crowd and gently pushed my though to the front so I could hear what he was saying.
‘…we believe the murders of Melissa Fairweather and Jennifer Brooks were carried out by the same person.’
There was a question from an unseen journalist: ‘What are the links between the two victims?’
The Superintendent said: ‘We cannot make that public at this stage.’
I lifted the phone back to my ear. ‘Why’s he rushing to say that?’ I hissed at Cade.
‘It’s called damage control,’ Cade said.
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘That’s what he calls it.’
13
ORIANE LAW TOOK the bus to Patti’s place. It was dark, but not late, and her friend’s flat was just a short walk from the small-town centre where the bus stopped.
There were only a few people on the lower deck of the bus tonight. She pulled up the collar of her padded shiny blue jacket. It was a cold evening and the sooner she was inside Patti’s flat the better.
The town centre was quiet as she hopped off the bus and started walking towards the huge tower of council flats in the semi-distance. Most of the shops were c
losed, only a small convenience store and a smaller Polish supermarket were lit up.
She looked over her shoulder and saw a tall figure had stepped off the bus behind her. He was wearing a knitted beanie and a grey woollen coat with the high collar turned up. His head was down but he was walking in the same direction as her, albeit he was a couple of hundred yards behind.
Past the small parade of shops was a plot of wasteland behind wire fencing. There were cranes and diggers in there. Oriane imagined the area had been flattened before it was turned into a car-park or another block of flats. She had never come this way in the dark before, it had always been at weekends, or in the summer when it was still light. She could see Patti’s block on the other side of the wasteland. There was a small alley along here somewhere that she could cut through. It would save her following the main road around for an additional fifteen minutes.
She looked over her shoulder and saw the guy was still there. He wasn’t looking at her, but she sub-consciously reached for the mobile in her coat pocket, her hand tightening around it. She looked again. He was walking faster now, head down as though he was in a rush to be somewhere.
She reached a corner of the ring fence. She could cut through here onto a quiet dirt track that ran for two hundred yards and led straight to Patti’s block, but she wasn’t happy about going down there with that guy behind her. She could either speed up, or stop and make a call, just so she had someone listening in while she let him pass. Thinking about it, she didn’t need to really speak to anyone, she just needed him to think she was. So, she stopped and held the phone to her ear, pretending to be in mid-conversation as he approached her.
He didn’t look up as he strode past, head still down, man-on-a-mission.
