The Watcher : A Chilling Serial Killer Thriller

by Netta Newbound

Hannah gasped. “Oh, no! What will you do?”

  “Fuck only knows.” He rubbed his face angrily. “If I organise you a ride to pick up your car, will you be okay to go back to the hospital without me?”

  “I’ll get a cab. Don’t worry about me. And Daddy’s here now, anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Just go.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I get a spare moment.” He hurriedly dressed in slacks and a short-sleeved, checked shirt. Grabbing his jacket off the sofa, he bent to kiss her, before rushing out the door.

  Hannah took another quick shower, dressed, and left.

  She waved a cab down outside, and headed to her flat to collect her car.

  Standing at her car, she rummaged in her bag, but couldn’t find her keys. Max had picked up her door key, but must’ve left the car key behind.

  The flat seemed eerie after the chaos of the previous day. She found her keys on the benchtop beside the cooker. Instead of heading out, she stepped into the living room. Everything appeared normal, not as you’d expect if somebody had attacked her mother.

  She flopped down on the chair, moving the cushion onto the arm. What a mess. She prayed her mother would be showing some signs of recovery when she got back there. Losing her wasn’t an option.

  She needed to head back. Climbing to her feet, she plumped up the cushion, and placed it back on the chair.

  She froze.

  The centre of the beige cushion was covered in make-up. Lipstick and foundation. At the top of the large smudge was the same shade of her mother’s powder-blue eyeshadow.

  It was true! Somebody had tried to kill her mother!

  Running on shock and adrenalin, she raced back to the hospital. She tried Max’s number on the way, but it went straight to voicemail.

  Up on the eighth floor, things were the same as she’d left them. Her father was dozing in the armchair. Her mother was still unconscious.

  “Daddy, it’s true! I found the cushion covered in Mammy’s make-up. Somebody did this to her.”

  Chapter 44

  Once the doctors were informed of Hannah’s discovery, they all rallied around, and the police were called.

  Her father was angrier than she’d ever seen him before, and kept snapping at her, as though he blamed her. But, she knew he didn’t mean it.

  The specialists told them her mother seemed to be responding, and, although Hannah couldn’t see it, she figured they were the experts, after all.

  Max’s phone was still going to voicemail.

  She didn’t know how he’d react when she told him of her theory. The more she thought about it, the more she believed Angela could be responsible. If not her, then who? Angela clearly blamed Hannah for everything. But, could she be angry enough to actually kill her mother? It didn’t seem likely, but she would need to tell the police, and let them check it out.

  *

  It was almost 7pm, before the police arrived. The senior officer introduced himself as Detective Rudy Owens. He had a pockmarked complexion and fine, wispy blond hair. A younger, geeky-looking detective was with him

  Hannah got the impression they thought they were wasting their time. However, the more they heard, the more excited they appeared.

  Before they left, they asked for Hannah’s key to arrange for the flat to be searched. They said they didn’t think it would be until the next day, but advised her to stay away, until they contacted her.

  Max still hadn’t called. She presumed they hadn’t managed to restore the campaign. The same thing happened to her once when she was still at the Daily Post. The entire team had to work all hours to redo it from scratch, and that wasn’t anywhere near the scale of the Sullivan account. He’d no doubt be tied up all weekend.

  Her father was still very cool towards her. She’d tried to talk to him several times, but he cut her dead. She knew he was heartbroken. Her parents had been together since they were teenagers, and the only time she stayed away from home without him, her mother ended up in hospital fighting for her life.

  They shared a pizza for dinner in silence.

  Before they settled down for the evening, she strolled to the family room, and tried Max one last time.

  Voicemail.

  ***

  Don’s phone rang as he headed in for the nightshift. He pulled the car over before answering.

  “Don Henry.”

  “Good evening, Don. Cheryl Thompson, from Asset Recruitment.”

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m working on the advertisement for the security position. Max told me to liaise with you regarding the job description.”

  “Ah, yes. He did mention it. I told him I’d be available to sit in on the interviews—the way Steve did.”

  “Really? Okay, that won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

  “I’m heading into the office now. I’ll get the information together this evening, if you like?”

  “No hurry. I won’t be back at my desk until Monday morning.”

  “Could I ask you something?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Do you organise all the employment contracts, or is that down to Mr Myers?”

  “I do. Why?”

  “I haven’t received my new contract yet. I wanted to renegotiate a pay increase in accordance with the increased responsibility.”

  “I don’t negotiate the salary of existing staff, I’m afraid. Just new contracts.”

  “Yes. But, mine is a new contract. I’ve been doing the job since Steve died. I’m not saying I want it backdated. But, I would like to get it all signed and sealed, as soon as possible.”

  “There must have been some confusion, Don. The position I’m advertising for is Steve’s—Head of Security. But, you could always apply, like anybody else.”

  A sharp pop went off inside Don’s mind.

  ***

  Max had been snowed under all day. It turned out the loss of the campaign file was down to human error, and nothing to do with a server crash. It seemed that Francine Powers, the campaign manager, had actually deleted the wrong file, and then, to top it all, she’d emptied the deleted items folder, too. Once she realised what she’d done, Francine tried to blame everyone and everything, rather than make the admission herself, but the evidence spoke for itself. Max hadn’t been too hard on her. Mistakes are made all the time. But, it was going to take days to fix. He missed Angela more than ever.

  He couldn’t persuade the team to stay late, so they called it a day, just after 6pm.

  On the way to the lift, he tried to call Hannah, but his phone had died.

  Don Henry appeared in front of him. His face looked greasy and red.

  “Ah, Don. I almost forgot. Come up to my office, and we can have that chat you wanted.”

  The lift door opened, and Max indicated Don should enter first. It was clear something was terribly wrong with him. In fact, Don’s cold, protruding glare was unnerving Max a little.

  “I’ve had a hard day,” Max said, trying to fill the silence, as they travelled up to the top floor. “Some idiot deleted a whole campaign, and we’ve had to start again from the beginning.”

  Don said nothing. His jaw muscles flexed, as he stared at the numbers of the console.

  “Are you alright, Don? You don’t seem to be yourself. Has something happened?”

  Don slowly turned his head to face Max. “I’ll tell you in your office.”

  “Okay.” Max’s mouth had dried up. He’d never really liked this man; he’d always felt there was more to him than he let on. However, he’d always been polite and respectful.

  They stepped from the lift, and walked the rest of the way in silence. Max suddenly felt very vulnerable, as he glanced around the deserted floor.

  Once inside his office, Max flicked on the light, and rounded his desk trying to put some space between them. “Take a seat, Don.”

  Don snatched up the chair, and threw it aside. It slammed off the filing cabinet and settl
ed on two legs, leaning against the wall.

  “What the…?” The contents of Max’s stomach turned to molten lava, and he thought he might shit himself right there.

  Don leaned forwards, his knuckles on the desk, and his face twisted in an uglier, scarier version of himself. “Look at you. Sitting there, all business-like, pretending to care,” he growled.

  Max licked his lips nervously. “I do care, Don. If you have any problems, just tell me, and I’ll see what I can do to help you.”

  “You don’t fucking get it, do you?” Don roared. “You’re my problem.” He swiped a pile of papers off the desk onto the plush brown carpet.

  Max jumped backwards, chair and all, and slammed into the wall behind him. “Calm down, Don. This isn’t the way to behave. Think of your job.”

  “That’s a joke.” Don’s nostrils flared, and his lips were drawn back, showing a full set of uneven teeth. “What job?”

  Completely shocked, Max didn’t know how the hell to deal with a situation like this. In the past, if something seemed to be getting out of his control, he’d call security. But, this was security!

  “Don,” he said, trying to make his voice remain even. “Whatever it is, we can sort it out. Just calm down, take a seat, and let’s discuss it properly.”

  “It’s gone too far for that! I don’t want to talk to you—I want to rip your scraggly fucking head off your neck, and stick it up your arse.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand.” Don mimicked in a whiny voice. “I had a call from Cheryl Thompson. She wants me to send her the job description for the security vacancy. I thought she wanted the description of my old position—but no! She said you’re advertising for the Head of Security.”

  “I—I…” Max shook his head.

  “Oh, don’t worry. She said I was welcome to apply. Wasn’t that kind of her?”

  “Don. I promise you, she’s mistaken. I told her we had a vacancy, and she obviously heard about Steve, and just presumed.” He could tell he was getting through, as Don’s hands dropped to his sides. His face smoothed over, and he stepped back, as his anger dissipated.

  “So, you didn’t tell her to advertise Steve’s job?”

  “Not at all. Now, if that’s all, Don—I’ve had a shitty day, and could do with getting in the shower.”

  “Of course.” Don bent and picked up the pile of papers from the carpet, and returned them to the table. Then, he righted the chair, and muttered his apologies before leaving.

  Max released the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. What the fuck? He didn’t know how he was going to get out of this situation, without feeling the wrath of that head case. But, that was a problem for a later date—he’d had all he could stomach for one day.

  Chapter 45

  Back at the hub, Don wiped some of the earlier footage, and replaced it with footage from the day before—Max walking from the lift, and into his office—alone.

  Then, he radioed down to Ken. He knew exactly where the lazy bastard would be—on the front desk, playing some kind of stupid war game on the computer. The dumb fuck thought Don didn’t know what he got up to, but nothing much escaped Don’s attention.

  “Ken? I’ve just had a call from Mr Myers. He wants me to collect a bag belonging to Ms McLaughlin, and leave it at the front desk. He’s going to swing by later and pick it up.”

  “Okay…”

  “I’m sat on the shitter—dodgy curry. Could you go and get it for me? It’s a gym bag down the side of his desk.”

  “Yeah, of course, boss. I’ll go now.”

  “Good man.”

  Don watched on the monitor, as Ken ambled over to the lift. He wished he could put a rocket up the idle bastard’s arse—it drove him wild how lazy the younger generation was.

  Ken arrived on the top floor, and, as he passed the last camera, Don quickly pasted an hour’s worth of empty corridors onto the tape, waiting for Ken to return, carrying Hannah’s bag.

  Don smiled. He was just too fucking smart for this lot.

  Once Ken had arrived back down on the ground floor, Don tampered with the alarm again on the top floor.

  “The alarms are at it again, boss. You still in the bathroom?” Ken said.

  “I am. Just disarm the whole floor again, Ken. We need to get it checked out next week.” Just like last night, Don ran up one flight of stairs, while Ken headed to the hub to disarm the alarms.

  Moments later, the racket stopped.

  Now, there had been two separate nights where Ken had switched off all alarms and footage for the top floor. Ken would be the one to record it in the day book, and fill out the incident reports.

  Things were working out perfectly.

  He headed back up to the top floor, making sure the sensor lights were not flashing on the cameras. They were all off. It was a design flaw the security staff were aware of. To disarm one area on a level would disarm everything.

  Don headed to the caretaker’s room, where he found most of what he needed—cable ties, tape, a multi-knife tool, rubber gloves, and a large tube of expanding foam, which he thought might come in handy. As he was leaving, his eyes lit up, as he spotted a container of lighter fuel beside a box of matches. He slid them into his jacket pocket.

  In Max’s office, he approached the door which led into the flat. Max and Steve had the only two security passes for the flat. Don grinned, as he pulled out Steve’s pass, and silently opened the door. There was no sign of Max in the room.

  Don felt suddenly sick. Had he missed Max leaving the building?

  A sound from the bathroom allayed his fears. Max was still in the shower.

  Don was blinded by steam, as he opened the bathroom door. The terrible singing coming from the cubicle assured Don he hadn’t been heard.

  Poised, ready to strike, he grinned again. He’d been waiting for this moment for so long. He intended to savour every exhilarating second.

  ***

  Max switched the jets off. Nothing could beat a long, hot shower after the kind of day he’d had. The massaging shower head was so powerful, the water had numbed his skin, and pummelled his aches away.

  He needed to call Hannah. His phone was charging, but took a while to restart after being totally drained. Then, he was going to get an early night—he was shattered.

  The sudden whoosh of the shower door opening startled him. He whirled around expecting to see Hannah, not the sturdy metal torch aiming for his head. He deflected the first blow with lightning speed. The torch glanced off his shoulder. The sudden pain was excruciating, but Max was used to pain. His years playing football had seen to that. He reacted to the assault by punching out wildly. His fist connected. His assailant staggered backwards, dropping the torch. Wiping the shower water from his eyes, Max focussed on his attacker.

  “Don! What the fuck’s got into you, man?” he yelled.

  Don lunged forward with a roar, wrapping his arms around Max’s waist. Max fell backwards, and crashed into the shower screen.

  With a deafening crack, the glass shattered into a million tiny pieces, covering the floor. Max landed heavily on the bed of glass, with Don still on top of him.

  Max was too stunned to move for a second. This gave Don the chance to get to his feet, and grab his torch.

  When Don pounced, Max saw the murderous look in his eyes, and he knew there was only one possible outcome—one of them would die. Determined it wouldn’t be him, Max raised his feet, and rammed them into Don’s midriff, flinging him backwards.

  Max rolled towards the rear wall, startled by the sight of blood covering the tiles. He was oblivious to the pain, as he scrambled to his feet.

  Suddenly in front of him, Don kicked out, catching Max square in his naked balls with his leather combat boot. Then, he brought his knee up. It connected with Max’s chin.

  Max crumpled back to the tiles. As he landed, sharp pain made him examine his legs. Lumps of glass had torn into the flesh of his knees and shins. When
he looked up, it was too late to react. The torch smashed into his skull.

  ***

  Don dropped the torch, and his body sagged in relief. He staggered backwards to the wall, sliding down into a squat.

  That had been a fight and a half. He had new respect for Maxwell-fucking-Myers, who now lay unconscious, covered in blood and glass, on the tiles. He’d expected the Nancy-boy to crumple after the first whack, but he hadn’t—he’d put up a fucking good battle.

  Don hadn’t felt this exhilarated since Afghanistan.

  Forcing himself to move, Don hurried back to the office and wheeled the chair through to the bathroom. He lifted the naked man onto it, and used the cable ties to secure the bloodied ankles and wrists. He smiled at all the cubes of glass protruding from Max’s skin. Don knew when Max came around, the pain would be unbearable. He looked forward to that.

  **

  Max opened his eyes to a spinning room. Eventually, his feet came into focus. They were a mess—sliced, cut, and bloody. He tried to move his head, but the pain was too intense. “Fuck!” he cried out in agony.

  When he attempted to lift his hand to block out some of the bright light, he couldn’t move. He realised he was fastened to a chair.

  He squinted, and spotted Don leaning against the wall opposite. “You crazy bastard. What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Max couldn’t bear the excruciating pain a moment longer. His head flopped forwards once more.

  After a short while, he roused himself again.

  Don hadn’t moved. He just sat staring at him, showing no emotion.

  “You’re not gonna get away with this, you know—you sick fuck!”

  Don stood up, raising his torch high above his head.

  “No! No, don’t, Don. Please. No more.” He closed his eyes tight, and braced himself for the impact.