by Rosie Walker
‘No! This one’s mine,’ a man’s voice interrupts.
The woman stops, backs off. Her face changes, the anger immediately dissipates and her face shifts into a smile. From crazed Medusa to calm, loving mother.
‘Baby,’ she says. ‘You’re back. This evil girl was being so cruel, so unkind to me.’ She mewls like a kitten, sticking out her bottom lip. ‘She insulted McVitie.’
The man puts his hand on the woman’s shoulder, comforting her. ‘How dare you,’ he growls at Zoe.
The old woman stands by his side looking up at her son, her head barely reaching his shoulder. He rests his arm around her birdlike body, as if she needs his protection. There is a familial resemblance; their faces both long and narrow, a slight bump on the bridge of their noses. And a cruel, blank look in their eyes when they regard Zoe as she sits in the chair, restrained in the prison of their making. It almost looks like pride.
‘It’s time,’ she says, and her son’s body tenses. He stands taller, squares his chest. It’s clear that she’s the one with all the power, and he just follows her orders.
Zoe’s brain prickles as her understanding of the last twenty-four hours continues to realign. Until a short while ago, she thought this man was the biggest danger she could face. She thought he was the crazed rapist, murderer, kidnapper – everything. He wielded so much power, and she believed he was the one in charge, following his own motivations and urges. But he’s nothing more than a servant, like a cat who hunts for mice to drop at its owner’s feet.
This woman seemed so vulnerable, so alone. The faint voice through the caravan wall. Zoe can’t believe she fell for it; she would have led this woman to safety. She believed they were both victims.
‘Leave us,’ the woman demands of her son. ‘You’re no longer needed.’
The son visibly recoils, a look of intense anger on his face. He balls his hands into fists at his sides.
‘No, not this time. This time the girl is mine.’
Thomas
The cupboard is cramped, with Maggie’s shoulder pressed into his chest, her hair tickling his nose. She’s holding his hand, her whole body trembling with fear.
Through a narrow gap in the wooden door, Thomas can see the mother and son pacing back and forth, like frustrated tigers in a small cage.
‘You’re not ready for this,’ Bertha hisses, and her son slams his hand against the wall. One of the tiles falls and smashes on the floor, scattering shards in all directions across the room.
The inside of the cupboard smells stale, like old cleaning products that have leaked and dried over years and years. An ancient mop leans against the corner, its tendrils crispy and unmoving. There’s a roll of paper, which used to be blue but is now a dirty brown colour from whatever leakage it’s soaked up while it sat in the cupboard.
Maggie shifts, trying to get high enough to see through the gap too.
‘Don’t move,’ he whispers. ‘You’ll knock something over and then they’ll know we’re here.’
‘But I can’t see.’
‘I don’t care,’ he says, his hands on her shoulders. ‘There’s nothing to see, and they can’t know we’re here.’
‘They know we’re here. She told the woman, remember? Duh.’
He shakes his head.
‘She said she’d found help, but that could mean anything. I think we’re safe, for now. So, keep still and shut up.’
The son seems really angry, his voice loud and pace fast. ‘I’ve been ready for years. Since we started this.’
‘And every time you get a bit more rope, you hang yourself on it. Remember that girl you nearly let get away?’
‘I learned from that. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.’
‘Only because I won’t let you.’
‘I would never hunt that close to home again. I’m prepared, I’m careful.’
‘Not careful enough. Look at this one,’ she points at Zoe, who flinches away. ‘Her friend can give a dead-on description of you to the police.’
‘Her friend was a stupid idiot and I drugged her anyway. She won’t remember a thing. And I was wearing our mark’s disgusting hat. I introduced myself as him.’
The lady shakes her head. ‘Not enough, you know it.’
‘I’m well on the road to pinning it all on him.’
‘But you pulled the trigger too early. You’ve always been like this. Too impatient to do something properly. This girl was not part of our plan, I did not request her. But now I have to go and clean up your mess for you again.’
Zoe cries out at this. Thomas flinches.
‘I never asked you to. This one was mine, Mother. I worked hard for this, spent hours at Paul’s house laying the groundwork. Pretending to be his friend. Just like you taught me. Taking things, planting things. It was done, ready. I’m not impatient or slapdash, or whatever other names you like to call me.’
‘Even if you’re right. Even if you know everything, have prepared everything, have learned every lesson that I’ve taught you, it doesn’t matter.’
‘What?’
‘None of it is relevant when you’re a coward.’
There’s a huge crash, as the man lifts an old fire extinguisher over his head and heaves it against the wall. The case smashes open, and white dust plumes everywhere. ‘I told you, don’t call me that.’
Thomas can’t see anything except white, like smoke, but it doesn’t stop the woman ranting and raving at her son.
‘You could have killed this girl at any point in the last twenty-four hours. I know you wanted to. And you had many opportunities. You had the tools, the time, and the victim right there, tied up and waiting for you. So why didn’t you do it, eh? Why didn’t you slice her eyelids open like you’ve always dreamed about? Why didn’t you cover her airways until she blacked out? Why didn’t you press that knifepoint right into her carotid artery and watch the blood drain from her little body?’
The dust clears, and through the gap in the door Thomas sees the man crossing the room, pushing his mother against the wall, holding her shoulders with both hands. His face is bright red, a vein sticking out in the side of his neck as he faces up to her. He looks enormous, puffed up and muscular. The woman looks tiny and bird-like in comparison, but her expression is powerful.
‘No, don’t answer. I know why you didn’t do those things and it’s got nothing to do with me holding you back or not letting you, as if I’m the problem.’ She throws back her head and cackles, her mouth wide. Her teeth are black inside her mouth. ‘You can’t blame me. The only thing in your way is you, you’re a joke. You talk about how we’re both predators, and hunters; the self-selected tip of the evolutionary pyramid – but you’re no better than your security guard friend Bruce, grooming 15-year-old schoolgirls in front of the space heater in that hut.’ Her voice rises to a crescendo as she shouts: ‘McVitie would be ashamed of you.’
The man roars so loud that both Maggie and Thomas put their hands over their ears. Thomas sees Zoe, her face screwed up and her head turned away from the fighting pair. The man’s hands move to his mother’s neck, and he wraps them around her throat.
She’s still laughing though. She’s enjoying this. Even with his hands squeezing, she keeps going, fuelled by the adrenalin of the destruction caused by her words. ‘I am ashamed of you. Give up now. Give up and be normal, live a dull, ordinary life away from here and leave the hunting to me. Leave it to someone who knows how. I’ve tried for years to lift you to the standard that McVitie taught to me, and you’ve not got it in you. You’ll never reach your father’s status.’
His knuckles turn white around her neck and he squeezes hard, screaming with frustration and years of anger that he’s never expressed. The woman’s laughter stops, and for a moment she looks afraid: she didn’t believe he could do it. She didn’t believe he would, Thomas thinks. The smile slides from her face.
There’s a horrible crunch, and silence.
As quickly as it began, the man releases his mot
her, removing his hands from her neck so fast that it’s as if she’s burned him. He must have realised what he was doing. She slumps to the floor, and Thomas can’t see her any more from where he is peeking through the cupboard door.
The man turns and walks away, out of the room. His footsteps echo through the tunnels as he scuttles away. They listen for a moment. There’s no sounds of movement from the woman.
‘Let’s get Zoe and go,’ Maggie whispers, pushing open the door and stepping over the woman’s body to get to Zoe, who’s still tied to the chair, eyes streaming with tears.
Helen
‘Read this,’ the text message reads. ‘Just published ten mins ago. Gonna make everyone pay attention – we’ll find Zoe. Jan x’
Helen clicks to open the article.
Suspected serial killer: Police deny link in missing girl’s case
By J. Mitchell
Lancaster police ignore newest evidence in case for active serial killer
A missing teenage girl whose name has not yet been released is locally rumoured to be yet another victim in the case of a suspected serial killer, according to neighbours and friends. Yet local police still deny the existence of this killer, refusing to start the manhunt.
Joining a growing list of local missing teenage girls, sources say the teenager disappeared from a local pub on Thursday evening and has not been heard from since.
Police are known to be searching the area after the teenager was reported missing by her parents. An area in the car park of the Richard the Lionheart pub was cordoned off earlier today, and friends close to the girl have been questioned, but no charges have been filed.
Other victims
She is the sixth individual of this demographic to go missing recently in what Lancaster Police refuse to acknowledge as a potential serial kidnapper and murderer operating in the area.
See also: Is this the work of a “Lancaster Ripper”?
Authorities have been accused of not investigating properly at the time. A source close to the police has said that there’s no serial killer: that with no bodies, no suspects and no forensic evidence, there is no case.
Anyone with information about any of the missing women in this article can contact Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111 or email [email protected].
There is no case.
Helen drops her phone to the bed and looks around the bedroom, blinking back tears and feeling the cold metallic weight of fear. It’s so frustrating; she feels like she’s the only person screaming and shouting about what a massive situation this is, and no one is listening. No one believes her. They all think Zoe’s a typical teenage runaway, and Helen just knows that’s not true. Deep in her bones, she knows that Zoe wouldn’t leave by choice, that Zoe always comes home.
The riot of colour splashed around the room hurts Helen’s tired eyes as she stares at the walls. Zoe’s bedroom represents years of devotion to crafting an identity, plastered across every inch of a space which enables self-expression. Looped around the top of the room are white fairy lights, twinkling away and creating the atmosphere of a magical grotto. Against one wall is a single bed, scattered with plump bright-coloured cushions, a doll and a teddy bear.
Helen sits on Zoe’s bed and pulls the doll onto her knee, hugging her close as if that might help her connect with Zoe.
There’s a noise in the corridor and Zoe’s bedroom door nudges. Helen looks up, startled, but it’s just Alfie nosing the door open. He flops down on Zoe’s rag rug, an explosion of colour that Zoe made herself when she was fifteen.
On the wall next to the door there’s a huge collage of photographs of Zoe and her friends, at festivals, concerts, camping trips and parties. They’re all blazingly happy, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders and huge grins on their faces. Their skin is clear and fresh, like babies. Not a care in the world.
Helen notices a more recent picture: Zoe and Abbie, cheeks pressed together, and Max stood slightly behind, half his face obscured by a pint glass. They’re in a local pub – possibly the one they were in last night too, the Richard the Lionheart. She stares at the photograph, combing it for a clue like a detective. But the background is dark and nothing else is visible except the teenagers and their smiles.
Her phone beeps and she grabs it.
She drops her phone to the floor. Not Zoe.
‘Any more news? Don’t forget what I said – do the investigating yourself x’ the text reads. It’s Janet again, the journalist from next door. Friends have been checking in all day, bless them, but there’s only so many times you can send the same ‘No news’ text message before it becomes unbearable.
She starts to text back but pauses with her fingers poised over the touchscreen. Even though there’s nothing to tell, she doesn’t know whether a journalist is friend or foe. Right now, any help is welcome; but Tony’s very wary of Janet based on his past experience with journalists. Helen decides to go for it.
‘Nothing. Police interviewed her boyfriend. Not a suspect but he saw someone who might be. Didn’t have much to go on though.’
She wonders if the police got anything extra out of Dane when they questioned him at the station. She still can’t work out whether he has anything to hide.
Alfie whines and pushes his chin onto her knee. She moves the doll out of the way – Alfie has a history of taking custody of Zoe’s toys and returning them slightly damp and chewed. She strokes his head, running the tip of her finger along the soft white hair on the bridge of his nose. He whines again.
She looks down at him. ‘What is it, Alfie?’
He deposits a toy on her knee and backs off, his tail wagging. He wants her to throw it.
It drops to the floor and Alfie skitters forward, believing the game has already started.
‘What have you got there?’ She pushes him back gently and reaches down to pick it up. The last thing she wants is anything of Zoe’s getting chewed right now.
Helen draws her breath in sharp through her teeth. It’s that shoe, the one from the Hospital yesterday. She holds it in both hands and really examines it. Now that it’s dry, the stains on it look less and less like mud. It’s a size 5, a small ladies’ shoe. Why was it there? And why only one? No one loses only one shoe.
She remembers that man, the security guard. Alfie hated him. She’s never known him to react like that to anyone before; it was strange. As if he sensed something sinister about the man.
Sure, he was handsome. But his gaze was distant; it made her feel like his actual expression was a covering for something else underneath, like his real face was hiding behind a carefully constructed veil or mask, and the only true indicator was the eyes.
He couldn’t get her away fast enough, despite his friendly chat: all the time they were talking, he was escorting her off the premises. He wanted her out immediately.
She looks at Alfie, his head resting on his paws on Zoe’s bedroom floor, looking up at her and the shoe in her hands.
She needs to talk to someone, to untangle all these different ideas.
Helen fumbles with her phone to call Tony, but it just rings and rings.
‘Your daughter’s missing, you idiot, answer your phone.’
She starts to call the police station but stops herself just before hitting the green button. It isn’t enough. They won’t listen to her. What would she say? ‘Alfie didn’t like this guy I met once. And I found a shoe’? It’s not … anything. Certainly not sufficient evidence for anyone to do anything, Helen’s watched enough TV police procedurals to know that.
She dials Zoe’s number again, and her heart sinks anew when it goes straight to voicemail, same as it has been all day. ‘Hello, you’ve reached Zoe’s voicemail. Don’t leave a message, I never check them. I’ll see your missed call and call you back as soon as I can! Bye!’ Her cheerful, happy voice makes Helen’s eyes fill with tears.
She remembers the conversation they had the day Helen discovered the voicemail greeting, asking Zoe whether she thought that un
iversities and future employers would find that kind of attitude professional, or whether they’d discount her immediately and hire someone else.
Helen shakes her head at herself, disgusted that she tried to change her beautiful Zoe even slightly, ashamed of every time she was short or angry with her. She should have just let her be exactly herself, every single day. No mistake is unfixable, and every experience worth learning from. Why couldn’t she just let Zoe be Zoe? Why did she have to nag and whine and try to force her to grow up?
She buries her face in Zoe’s cushions and lies back onto the bed, not even moving when Alfie jumps up and snuggles in next to her, sensing her anguish and licking the tears from her face with his big pink tongue.
She’s drifting off to sleep as her phone vibrates once more; she doesn’t hear the quiet ping of a new email in her inbox.
Thomas
Zoe hasn’t said a word since they cut her free. They used Maggie’s knife to release her from the creepy chair’s restraints, and the first thing she did with her free hands was rip the tape from her eyes so she could blink. She’s still conscious, barely, but Thomas is grateful for every moment she’s still alive, especially as she’s moving her feet and holding up some of her own weight. If she faints, he doesn’t think they will be able to get her out. Her weight hangs from his shoulder, her arm wrapped around his neck, and Maggie’s on her other side.
Thomas winces, and puts his left hand flat on the wall. It feels clammy and rough beneath his fingers as they make their slow progress along the tunnel. He walks carefully, step by step, back towards the stairs which lead to fresh air and freedom.
He’s managed to quash his terror for a few minutes; now there are two other people to look after, especially as they’re girls. He needs to protect them, get them home safely. And if that’s his job, it’s the job he’ll do, and there’s no time to be scared right now. So, he tries to switch off the fear, like a light.
