Psychopath for Hire: A Novel of Extreme Horror

by Matt Shaw

  “Supposedly. Last I heard it wasn’t confirmed. He was just wanted for questioning.”

  “He’s wanted for questioning and then he disappears? You don’t think that is suspicious?”

  “Depends how you look at it,” he replied, “on the one hand - yes - I do think it is suspicious. On the other hand, for all I know, you caught up with him and silenced him, stopping him from telling anyone else about your one on one sessions. For all I know - you could have killed his ex-girlfriend in an effort to cover up his disappearance. It would make sense.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Told you; if you knew me - you would know why I am here.”

  I pulled back when he reached into his pocket. He took out a business card and held it out for me.

  “What’s this?” I asked. I leaned forward and took it - a plain business card. Detective Andrews written across the top of it, an address for a police station and a couple of phone numbers. One was a mobile and one was a landline.

  “Think of it as my credentials,” he said. “Go home when you’re finished here, put my name into your Internet browser, see what comes up. I told you - if you knew me…” He paused a moment. “My mobile number is on the bottom. You can call me anytime.”

  He stood up and walked from the room. I just sat there, unblinking, staring at the card.

  III

  I sat on my mobile phone using the 4G connection to Google Detective Andrews as I waited for the usual faces to come through the doors ready for the group session. I have to be honest - I wasn’t expecting what I came across. His life story read like a version of the movie Se7en. He went against a serial killer, the serial killer stole his life from him. The beginning of the detective’s downfall.

  Hard to believe but, the more I read, I actually started to feel a little sorry for him. It put things into perspective and I could understand why someone like that would come and see me. Well - I can see why he would come for the services that I offer at least. The problem was, I still didn’t necessarily believe it all. Sure I can see that this would have happened to him - there were enough sites on the Internet which all said the same woeful story - but it didn’t mean he was here for anything other than the sourcing of concrete evidence to put me away. That little nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me not to trust him. Another voice - though - suggesting everything was above board and I should meet up with him and see what he has to say for himself. See if his story is the same when he recounts it. If it happened, he’ll pretty much have the details down perfectly. It doesn’t read as something you could easily forget. And then - of course - there’ll be the emotion there. If he recounts it without any emotion - chances are he isn’t for real and these stories are nothing but plants.

  I’ve had many people at my table who have recounted their stories in front of the group with a complete lack of emotion. Something about the size of the group which helps them remain focused I guess but the moment they’re at the table - the moment it is just the two of us - they all break down. Mr. Andrews - or rather Detective Andrews - will be no different to the others.

  Still had a few minutes to kill before my session started. A few people here - helping themselves to the hot drinks - but not enough to put me off making the call he had asked for. I fished his business card from the pocket I had slid it into and looked for his number on the bottom corner. I cancelled my phone out of the Internet browser and dialed his number. A couple of seconds silence and then the call connected and a ringing tone played into my ear. A couple more seconds and he answered. I was curious to see how he would answer the phone. He didn’t know my number and I’m sure an officer of the law had the potential to receive a lot of calls from numbers they didn’t recognise.

  “This is Andrews,” he said.

  This is Andrews - not Detective Andrews. A little weight to his story?

  “It’s Mr. Cole.”

  “Oh?”

  “Seems like you’re quite the celebrity,” I said.

  He didn’t answer me. Perhaps calling someone, who had lost their family a “celebrity” wasn’t the most respectful of things to say.

  “Used the Internet then,” he said after a slight pause. “So now you know why I was so interested in seeing you,” I told him.

  “I do but it doesn’t mean you were told the truth about me.”

  “We both know that what I was told was factually accurate,” he said.

  I didn’t answer him. I didn’t want to confirm anything. Not yet. And especially not on the telephone.

  “Can you help me out then?” he asked.

  There was definitely a desperation in his tone that I had heard in the voices of most of the people who had come for my extra services. Another factor lending weight to his story. Unless he is undercover and just a bloody good actor?

  But what if he really does want your help? That little voice in my head again.

  Can’t just let him suffer.

  “I think you have the wrong end of the stick,” I told him. “Whatever Tim told you - it just isn’t right. And I’m not sure why he said it to you either. Especially if the two of you aren’t friends. It’s strange. I think though - it might be a good idea for the two of us to meet up. In private. Have a conversation and set the record straight. What do you think?”

  “Okay. When?”

  He knew there was more to what I was saying than the actual words themselves. He knew there was more between the lines. Of course he knew. He used to be a detective, so he says. His whole job was based around reading between the lines.

  “After my session. There’s a pub on the corner. It’s usually relatively quiet.”

  “Fine.”

  “It’ll be about an hour and half from now,” I confirmed.

  “I’ll be there.”

  I hung up on him without saying goodbye. Still not sure how this will play out but it’s worth looking into. I can always stick with my story of not knowing what Tim was talking about. I can always walk away. Play it cool for a few months, maybe a couple of years, before helping anyone out again. Make sure I’m not being followed or investigated. Or I can always offer to help him - if I think he is telling the truth.

  Could go either way.

  I called the group members over to take their seats. Sooner we start, the sooner we finish.

  IV

  I was sitting in the pub waiting for Mr. Andrews to come in. I had purposefully come in a little earlier to ensure he came alone. My heart skipped a beat every time the door opened and someone else walked in. Each time I thought it was going to be him. A quick check of my watch revealed he was five minutes late so far. It will be so much easier if he doesn’t come. It would take the decision out of my hands as to what to do; how best to proceed. I can’t see him doing a no show though. Not after all the trouble he has gone to. He’s probably just running a little late - maybe stuck in traffic?

  Five minutes turned to ten and eventually he walked in. I put my hand up to signal where I was; a small corner booth. Private and away from prying eyes. He nodded as he walked over to the table. He sat opposite me. The pair of us sat there in silence for a moment or two. The two of us weighing up the other.

  I broke the silence, “Do you have your phone?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Can I see it?”

  He pulled it out of his pocket. I put my hand out, palm open, to take it. He took the hint and handed it to me. I activated the screen and checked it wasn’t recording. I was pleased to note it wasn’t. I put the phone down on the table between us. He didn’t reach out for it.

  “Want to frisk me?” he asked.

  “You’re a cop…”

  “Was…”

  “Can’t be too careful.”

  “I told you - not here as a police officer. Here as a man who has lost everything he cares about.”

  I shifted in my seat, “You can understand why I am uncomfortable?”

  “You’ve seen the reports about me, about what I’ve gon
e through, you can understand why I want to end it.”

  I nodded.

  He continued, “We both know Miller told me the truth. You help people such as me, people who want to die. You give us a way out.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just sat there looking at him, unsure of how best to proceed. The pain my mother suffered towards the end - I often wished I could turn the clock back and help her out. Put her out of her misery. I don’t agree with government rules not allowing people to be ‘put to sleep’ if they’re in pain. I think everyone should have the right to do with their life as they see fit. If someone wants to die - what right does another person have to tell them they’re not allowed to? And it doesn’t just have to be people, like mother, who are terminal but people who suffer from depression too. Or people like Mr. Andrews. He’s lost everything and feels like he can’t go on. Let him die. Let him have peace.

  I looked him straight in the eye. Usually you can see traces of someone’s soul.

  I saw nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Martin Andrews

  Enough

  I

  “Is it that hard to believe that I’d want to leave all this behind?” I asked. My voice cracked as I struggled to hold it together. What I was going to say to him, what I was planning to say… I hadn’t said out loud to anyone. I had kept it quiet. Tried - unsuccessfully - to bury it. Drown it out with the booze.

  He didn’t answer me. Just sat there looking at me. He was judging me just as I had been doing the same to him.

  “Arthur was his name. He took my family from me.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. Opened it up and showed him a small photograph. My unborn child. Our first baby scan. “Never had the chance to meet my child. That luxury was taken from me.” I struggled with my emotion. Funny how I can get upset about my child but my wife - don’t recall ever crying for her despite my best efforts to do so.

  “Well I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of bad things. You know I watched a new mother kill her own child? Baby was lucky to be alive in the first place. Her partner stabbed the mother whilst she was carrying it. Doctors saved both mother and child only for the mother to kill it as soon as they were left alone. I watched it happen and there was nothing I could do about it.” A tear rolled down my cheek catching me by surprise. “I’ve seen so much. I’ve tried to forget but the bad thoughts linger. Lost my job because of them when I turned to alcohol…”

  I rubbed my wrist. Damned thing is so sore. Have barely had anything to drink today and still haven’t taken any tablets to ease the pains. Cole noticed my actions.

  “May I see your wrist?” he asked.

  I held it out for him.

  “Underneath the bandage,” he pushed.

  “Worried it’s make-up?” I laughed. I pealed the bandage back enough to reveal the seeping wound underneath. Not looking too good. Looks as sore as it feels.

  “Looks painful,” he said.

  “Hardly the kind of thing I’d do to myself just to make a bust.”

  He looked at me. He knew I was sitting here because I wanted his help.

  “So how did Tim meet you? How did that come about?” he asked.

  “Contacted me out of the blue. I worked on a case involving his friends. He found my business card and called me up.”

  “Why?”

  “Wanted me to arrest you. I didn’t tell him I was no longer on the Force.”

  “He wanted me arrested?”

  “Said you're a murderer.”

  “Do you think I am a murderer?”

  “I’m not sure what to make of you.”

  The man sitting in front of me was a killer. There was no doubt about that. But he was killing people who asked to be murdered. The courts would put him inside for his crimes but there was a part of me that thought what he was doing was admirable. Kind of. It was strange sitting opposite a known murderer and agreeing with his reasoning.

  “I have never killed someone who didn’t ask for it,” he said.

  “So you say.”

  “At this stage why would I lie? I try and help people with the group that I run. The money the government pays me to run it is minimal. I’m doing it because I care, because I want to help. Those who I can’t help via the group, I help in the other way. Tim came to me because he wanted me to end his life. Told me he couldn’t go on having lost his girlfriend. He came round for the evening and changed his mind so I let him leave. Had I known he was going to go and murder his ex-partner - would I have let him leave? Not sure what I would have done. Never killed anyone who didn’t ask for it.”

  We sat there a moment in silence before I asked the question, “What about me? Can you help me?”

  He hesitated, “Yes. Yes, I can.”

  I smiled. First time in a while.

  “Well,” I said, “how about a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  I stood up and walked over to the bar to order two drinks. I didn’t ask what he wanted. He could join me in a whiskey. A drink to toast our arrangement and discuss what happens next. I didn’t look back at him whilst I was ordering. I didn’t need to. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I’m not sure if he trusted me one hundred percent still but it didn’t matter. By the time we finish these drinks and we both leave - going our separate ways - he’ll know I’m not here to take him down. After all - he had confessed to me now. If this was a sting operation I would have been wearing a wire and the door would have already been kicked in with several officers running in to take him away. He’s safe. Deep down I think he knows it too. I ordered the drinks from the skinny looking barman and returned them to the table. One for him, one for me.

  “Cheers,” I said.

  We clinked glasses and drank. Mine went down in one. His didn’t.

  “There’s a certain way I do things,” he said slowly. “An order to what happens next,” he continued.

  “Okay. What’s the plan?” I asked.

  For the first time in as long as I could remember I felt positive. I mean one hundred percent positive. And it all came down to the thought of dying without having to dirty my own hands. Obviously there was more to it than that but for all intents and purposes - the main reason for my sudden positivity - I knew I didn’t have to endure this for much longer. Soon I would be free and it was all thanks to an old case turning sour. Had I managed to solve the case of Mark and Becky Stephens, Tim Miller would never have found the business card. He would never have phoned me. I’d have still been in the dark, living in that squalid apartment surrounded by the scum of the city. Funny how things turn out.

  II

  I left the pub with Cole a few whiskeys later. It was clear he wasn’t really a drinker. His legs were wobbly and his speech slurred whereas I barely felt the effect at all. I asked him how he was getting home and he said he’d get a taxi. I offered him a lift. He had given me his address earlier ready for our evening tomorrow but he still declined. Said he’d rather use a taxi. Fair enough. His money to waste.

  We said our goodbyes and I walked towards where I had earlier abandoned my car. It’s funny - knowing what was planned for tomorrow - everything felt different. The air felt clearer. Easier to breath. Fresher. By the time I got to my car I realised it wasn’t the air or the environment which felt better - it was me in general. A weird feeling considering tomorrow is the day I die. Almost like my body is telling me it wants to stay alive and - not only that - that it’s not too late to make a final bust whether I’m an officer of the law or not.

  I climbed into my car and shut myself in. Jumped when I spotted Lucy in the rear-view mirror. She was sitting on the back seat. At least that’s what my mind told me. I knew she wasn’t there. She was shaking her head - looking at me with that disapproving look she saved for special occasions when she thought I had crossed the line.

  “Please let it go. Don’t go and see him,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” I told no one.
<
br />   I turned around to have a proper conversation with her - explain what I was going to do - but she was gone. Of course she was. Stupid. She was never there. I turned back to face front and put the key into the ignition. I’ll see her again soon enough though. I smiled. A real damned smile. Fancy that.

  I slammed the car into reverse and started to pull away from my parking spot before hitting the brakes. Some idiot pulled up behind me and blocked me in. I was about to get out and give them a deserved mouthful of abuse when the driver turned on their blues and twos and I realised it was a damned copper. Of course it was. Can’t have a moment’s happiness, right? I killed the engine and stepped from the car. One of the officers had already started to come for me.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  Didn’t recognise the face of the officer. Either he’s new or I have been out of the game longer than I care to remember. A shame though. Had they known me it would have been easier to get myself out of this without the breathalyser test.

  “It was.”

  “Know why we stopped you?”

  “Because you realise you can’t stop the real evils in the world, you can’t put right the many wrongs that are happening - the wrongs which break lives and damage society that little bit more so you thought you’d harass innocent people who’re trying to have a pleasant evening?” usually I was more tolerant of the police. It helped that I used to be one of them (usually) but tonight I couldn't be bothered with them. I knew why they had blocked my car and they were well within their rights to do so. If anything - they were doing their job perfectly. They’d seen a man walking out of the pub and climbing into his car before attempting to drive away. The only reason I was irritated was because I don’t deem this as a real crime; drink-driving. To make it should be a slap on the wrist and a ticking off - nothing more and nothing less.

  “How much have you had to drink this evening, sir?”

  “Do I look like a sir?”