Secrets of a Serial Killer: An absolutely gripping serial killer thriller that will keep you up all night!

by Rosie Walker

  Helen flicks on the kettle. She pulls a couple of teabags from the cupboard, and waves one in Zoe’s direction. Zoe shakes her head.

  ‘I thought you start at eight on Tuesdays,’ says Helen. ‘Are you skipping class again?’

  Zoe grunts, non-committal, and gets up from the table. She opens the fridge and stares inside, the light illuminating her cheekbones.

  ‘We’ve talked about this so much – now is not the time for messing around.’

  Zoe raises her hands like someone with a gun aimed at them. ‘No, Mum. Chill. I’m not a skiver.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to chill.’

  Zoe shrugs. ‘Where did you and Alfie go for a walk?’

  ‘Up at the old Lune Hospital—’

  ‘That asylum gives me the creeps. Proper,’ she says through a yawn. ‘I can’t believe you walk up there on your own.’

  ‘I like it up there. There’s a comforting feel to the place, not scary.’

  ‘I’d be scared that some crazy person would come running at me, straitjacket flapping behind him …’

  ‘Not very politically correct, Zo.’

  Zoe sniggers, unrepentant. She grabs a yoghurt and closes the fridge.

  ‘Anyway, some of the patients in there weren’t even mentally ill by today’s standards. Annoying wives, epileptics, promiscuous daughters of disapproving families, even just people being a bit eccentric … Oh! And new mothers with postnatal depression.’

  Zoe’s eyes are wide. ‘What?’

  ‘Yep. I’ve been reading about it lately, since this new project started. Some really interesting cases up at the Lune.’ Helen watches as Zoe peels open the yoghurt and spoons it into her mouth. ‘And I bumped into one of the guards this morning. Appeared completely out of nowhere. Alfie wouldn’t stop growling at him.’

  ‘Ha! Good old Alfie, cramping your style.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that. But we talked about the building, it’s history. He’s worried about his job once the work starts, I think.’

  Zoe slowly licks the last traces from her spoon, thinking. ‘Was he good-looking?’

  Helen puckers her lips sideways, pretending to think about it. ‘I suppose he was quite handsome.’ She ignores Zoe’s raised eyebrows. ‘But—’

  ‘You should ask him out for a drink.’ Zoe grins, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She goes through phases like this, when she fixates on matchmaking Helen with a guy. But Helen suspects Zoe would change her tune if Helen did meet someone; both Helen and Zoe like their cosy twosome. The times when it had looked like someone was taking an interest in Helen, Zoe took an immediate dislike to them. Maybe that’s why Dane makes Helen so uncomfortable – his relationship with Zoe threatens to disrupt the last few years of just-the-two-of-us. Or maybe it’s something else, something about Dane himself; even at this stage of life, Helen still has to remind herself not to disregard her instincts.

  ‘No way. I’m not asking him out for a drink.’ Helen’s perfectly happy on her own. ‘Plus he was closer to your age than mine.’

  ‘I really don’t get it: you’re lonely, you’re bored, and you’ve got nothing to think about except me and what I’m doing—’

  ‘Hey.’ Helen’s voice is quiet.

  Zoe doesn’t seem to notice her Mum’s cautioning tone. ‘Seriously, though, it’d be great if you got a boyfriend. You’d be less stressy about me and what I’m doing all the time, for one thing.’

  Helen opens her mouth to argue. ‘Not everyone wants a—’

  ‘Hi, Mrs Summerton.’

  Helen jumps at the male voice in her house. Dane is, as usual, lurking – this time in the darkened corridor outside the kitchen. He sidles into the room, bringing with him the smell of patchouli, sweat and wood.

  ‘Dane. Didn’t know you were here.’ She opens the fridge and peers inside. She can’t look at him while she feels invaded like this. A virtual stranger in her house first thing in the morning is not comfortable. She grabs the milk from the fridge door and turns back to the room, trying to arrange a welcoming smile on her face.

  He smiles sheepishly and looks at his hands. ‘Yeah, I was just upstairs.’

  Even from across the room, Helen can see the dirt on his hands, ingrained in all the creases and under his nails. He’s a carpenter specialising in turning huge fallen tree trunks into beautiful coffee tables, stools and other furniture. According to Zoe, they met when Dane was invited to Zoe’s college to speak about ‘alternative career paths’ – vocational careers which don’t involve going to university. Helen suspects that Zoe met Dane long before that day at her college, and kept his existence secret for a couple of months because she was afraid to tell Helen about their seven-year age gap.

  ‘You stayed over last night?’ She doesn’t want to think about what they were doing in Zoe’s room before Helen came home.

  He leans against the door frame, taking up a lot of space with his six foot four-inch height and wide shoulders. He tucks his hands behind his back, looking strangely military.

  ‘Dane, I’m afraid you can’t stick around this morning. Zoe’s got to get to college.’

  Zoe opens her mouth in protest. She seems happiest when Dane hangs around at their house, taking up too much space in their living room, eating all their food, his giant shoes cluttering their front porch.

  ‘I’ll see you tonight, though, babe?’ Zoe says to Dane.

  Helen cuts her off. ‘Zoe has plans to go over to her Dad’s house tonight.’ She turns to Zoe, who is midway through rolling her eyes again. ‘Remember?’

  Zoe scowls, and Dane just looks confused. Zoe’s clearly forgotten that plan. Zoe looks over at Dane and shrugs. Dane shrugs back, looking even more gormless than usual.

  ‘Plus, don’t you have coursework?’ Helen doesn’t know what it is about Dane’s presence that puts her in this snarky, naggy mood. Something about him turns her into a shrew. Perhaps she’s trying to make up for the negative influence he’s clearly having on Zoe’s college work.

  Zoe groans. ‘I don’t have coursework today, Mum.’

  ‘Revision then. Or reading. I’m sure there is something you’re supposed to be doing which will prevent you from failing your A Levels. Plus, your Dad will want to catch up with you.’

  Zoe groans and turns to Dane. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she says, as if Helen is the teenager and Zoe is the adult embarrassed by Helen’s behaviour. ‘Wanna go back up to my room?’

  Helen grits her teeth.

  ‘I think I should head off,’ says Dane.

  Helen flashes him a thin smile. Maybe he’s not that bad after all if he can pick up on some social cues.

  ‘Got work, you know,’ he mumbles.

  They wander down the hall to the front door; Helen hears them whispering while Dane prepares to leave. There are whispers about a pub, but Helen chooses not to hear whatever it is. There’s a limit to how much hovering and nagging she can do for one morning.

  After a few minutes, the door shuts and Zoe stomps down the hall back into the kitchen, where Helen has poured herself a cup of tea in preparation for the upcoming argument.

  ‘Why do you have to be like this? I’m actually embarrassed,’ Zoe says, folding her arms and looking remarkably similar to a photograph Helen remembers taking when Zoe was about three years old, mid-tantrum because she could no longer fit her feet into a favourite pair of red shoes.

  Helen takes a sip from her mug, delaying the start of the argument for an extra five seconds. ‘This is the most—’

  ‘Important year of my life,’ interrupts Zoe. ‘I know that. You tell me that all the time. Dad does too. But I still need a life. I’m allowed a social life and a boyfriend, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Remember last term? You skipped so many History classes that they wrote a letter home. And you got a D on your Spanish exam. You need to pull your socks up if—’

  ‘What a stupid phrase, pull my socks up.’

  ‘My choice of phrase is not relevant here.’

&nbs
p; ‘You got a D in one of your A levels. AND you were dating Dad at the time. You’re such a hypocrite and you think you can somehow fix it all by nagging at me. You won’t fix it, Mum – you won’t fix YOUR bad decisions by obsessing about my life.’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Helen taps her hand on the worktop. They’ve had this argument so many times, and it’ll just go in circles. There’s no point. Helen remembers being that age: no clue about consequences, no idea that danger might sprout from your decisions like a dandelion through gravel. ‘This has nothing to do with my life or my past choices and everything to do with your future.’

  During the argument, Zoe has been edging closer and closer to the door, ready to implement her usual tactic in the end stages of a disagreement: drop the last word like a bomb and then stalk out of the room, stomping upstairs and slamming her bedroom door.

  ‘My choices are fine. Go on a date or something. It’s not my fault you don’t have a life of your own.’ Her last word is shouted, and sure enough, she then storms out of the kitchen.

  Helen tries to chuckle. She remembers similar arguments with her own parents at the same age, but she can’t help feeling stung by Zoe’s final parting shot.

  Helen is proud of who she has become, although now Zoe is the same age that Helen was when she met Tony, a new panic has set in. She doesn’t want to see history repeat itself, and there’s something in the self-assured sparkle in Dane’s eye that reminds her of Tony and his cheeky charm, which may have seduced more women than she knew of while they were still married.

  She switches on the television and flicks to BBC News, as the coverage flashes to a photograph of a young girl wearing a graduation robe, flanked by two proud parents. Even though the volume is low, the grave expressions on the newsreaders’ faces tell Helen that this girl’s future is not bright, promising or full of potential. There are bigger dangers out there lurking for carefree teenaged girls: much, much worse than a boyfriend with a roving eye.

  Helen shivers and takes another sip of tea. As she drinks, something catches her eye in the middle of the corridor just outside the kitchen. A dark shadow, the size and shape of a rat. Her muscles clench with dread. Please, not rats.

  She slowly lowers her mug to the countertop, staring at the ominous shape on the floor. It doesn’t move. If it’s a rat, it’s already dead.

  She crosses the kitchen slowly and sighs with relief as she moves closer. Not a rat. She bends down to pick it up. It’s a blue ballet flat, stained with mud. The one Alfie found at the hospital; that silly dog must have brought it home. She turns the shoe, examining it from all sides. Something about it doesn’t look right. Under the orange-tinged hall light, the shoe’s stain is metallic and brown, like rusted metal.

  Thomas

  Thomas pushes down on the handle and nudges the kitchen door inch by inch, wincing at the creaks and clicks. He steps into the still-darkened room.

  Light sifts through the blue curtains, staining everything as if the room is underwater. The air smells musty with a faint reminder of dinner: southern fried chicken and baked beans.

  He pulls open the curtains to let in the morning light. It is a combined kitchen-and-living room with high ceilings and windows that rattle when trucks drive by. He considers opening a window, but the traffic noise might wake Mum in the next room. She needs as much sleep as possible when she works long hours at the paper and does research late into the night.

  He pulls the Coco Pops from the cupboard, the orange juice from the fridge, and is reaching for a bowl when Mum walks in. She is dressed for work in a smart skirt and jacket, her long brown hair tied in a low ponytail and an ID badge clipped to her pocket.

  ‘You look pretty, Mum,’ says Thomas.

  She looks at him from under slightly swollen eyelids. ‘Thanks, baby. I don’t feel pretty; I feel knackered. You’re dressed for school already? You’re a good boy.’ Mum stares at him, frowning. ‘Where are your glasses?’

  He reaches up to the cupboard where they keep the tumblers for juice.

  ‘Thomas?’

  ‘I maybe left them at school.’ That could be true, he thinks to himself, hoping they are safely in his desk in Room 5B.

  Mum doesn’t say anything else.

  She pours two bowls of cereal, Coco Pops for Thomas, muesli for herself. Mum’s muesli looks to Thomas like the food they give to Ronald, the big fat hamster in 6D.

  Thomas settles down on the sofa and reaches for the remote to see what good programmes are on.

  ‘Did you remember Maggie’s staying over for the next few days? I hope you cleaned your room last night.’

  Thomas groans. ‘Why does she have to sleep in my room?’

  ‘Because we don’t have a spare room.’

  He frowns. ‘But it’s my room.’

  ‘And Maggie’s part of your family, and family shares things.’

  Thomas folds his arms.

  ‘You used to love it when Maggie stayed over.’

  ‘Yeah, but that was before.’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Before Dad disappeared and Mum got sad and busy and was always at work. And before Thomas began to spend more time outside, exploring nearby woods and paths because it gets him out of the house that smells different now Dad’s gone. The only part of the house he likes now is his own bedroom, and he doesn’t want to share it with Maggie. Maggie has her own dad and her own bedroom on the other side of town. And he doesn’t want to share Mum with Maggie either.

  ‘Why does she have to stay here anyway?’

  She looks cross. ‘Because my sister has no idea that other people have lives and thinks I can just drop everything for her whenever she wants to swan off on a last-minute holiday. You’d think she’d have some consideration, what with everything that’s been going on.’

  ‘What about Duncan and Sandy? Where are they going to stay?’ He hopes they can stay, too. They’re much more fun than Maggie and they want to do daring stuff like rope swings, climbing over walls and staying up late.

  ‘Julie says they’re old enough to take care of themselves.’

  ‘But not old enough to take care of Maggie?’

  ‘Kinda makes sense,’ she says with a shrug. ‘I wouldn’t want those two boys looking after anyone either. They’re wild.’

  Thomas frowns. ‘Why can’t Auntie Julie take Maggie with her on the holiday?’

  Mum drops her spoon in her bowl with a clatter and looks at him, her eyes fierce. Her frown lines deepen and her lips get thin. She doesn’t look as pretty anymore. ‘Listen, I’m the mum here and I’m saying you have to let Maggie sleep in your room with you and be nice to her. You used to be best friends.’

  ‘She’s bossy. And she never stops talking. She’s really annoying.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘She always wants to play stupid pretend games.’

  ‘Pretend games are normal, TomTom. You’re ten.’

  ‘Pretend games are for little kids. And I’m eleven, not ten.’ He looks down at his cereal, where the milk has turned chocolate-brown and the pieces of Coco Pops are bleached a strange grey colour. ‘Eurgh. Fine,’ says Thomas. ‘But she doesn’t get to use the iPad.’

  He does like Maggie really; he just doesn’t want her in his room touching his stuff. She’s nosy and she fiddles with everything.

  ‘Weren’t you two doing a school project together? Maybe you could work on that tonight.’

  Thomas nods. The teachers always put them together for pair work because they’re cousins. It’s annoying sometimes, like when they’ve had a fight (like the time Maggie broke Thomas’s massive Lego Star Wars project that he made with Dad. It took weeks to build and Maggie broke it when she picked it up and pretended it could fly like the real Death Star).

  But other times it’s quite fun being partners. Maggie is clever and has good ideas, so they get high marks.

  ‘We did some of the project, but we’ve got to finish the ending. It’s a ghost story in an
old farmhouse and there’s an old smugglers tunnel like in the Famous Five. It’s got pictures we got from the internet and everything.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s all ghost stories and secret passageways with you and Maggie.’ She stands up, yawning. ‘I need to go to work. Feels like I’ve hardly been home five minutes.’ She ruffles Thomas’s hair. ‘Short shift today. I’ll pick up you and Maggie after school.’

  He pushes his spoon into the chocolatey milk in his bowl, letting the liquid seep onto the spoon and not allowing any of the Coco Pops to breach the dam of the spoon’s sides.

  ‘Look at me,’ she says, bending down to lift his chin with her hand. Two faint frown lines between her eyebrows make her look even more tired than usual. ‘You’re a big boy, nearly all grown up and able to do anything you like, but I still need your help. Sometimes I need your help with chores in the house, and other times I need your help by making things easier for me, like not making a fuss when Maggie’s coming over. You’re the man of the house for now, alright?’

  ‘Alright,’ he says in a quiet voice. He wants Dad to be the man of the house, though, so he can be the kid of the house again, even though eleven feels much more grown up than ten. And Mum could be the Mum of the house instead of trying to do everything and not having any time to relax or play silly games together.

  ‘I wish it wasn’t just me, but I’m doing my best to be the best mum in the world.’

  He nods. He does want to help. He’s just so cross with everything and sometimes he’s cross with her. Sometimes he thinks it’s her fault Dad left. Maybe if she was different Dad would still be here. Maybe if he was different Dad would still be here.

  She smiles at him. ‘Now it’s your cue to tell me I am the best mum in the world, silly billy.’

  He smiles. ‘You are the best mum in the world. Really truly.’

  Mum kisses him goodbye, a big sloppy kiss on his forehead, which makes a loud noise and causes him to giggle. Mum’s really funny sometimes, when she’s in a good mood.

  He hears the front door open and close and then his mother walks briskly past the window, turning to wave at him like every morning. Thomas finishes his cereal and takes both bowls to the sink, rinsing them under the tap and then laying them out to dry on the draining board.