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

by Rosie Walker

  It’s possible that others have had a life-changing, eviscerating twenty-four hours too. That jogger might have lost someone, or might get hit by a car on his morning run. The driver in front might have been sitting by someone’s bedside in A&E, wondering if their loved one would survive the night. Or maybe they caused an accident, but were away from the scene before they even knew the devastation behind them.

  Everyone’s got something going on, something big, life-changing, and none of them know what’s going on for Helen; that she’s driving to her ex-husband’s house to sit vigil waiting for news about their missing daughter. Her car passes by them and they won’t see it and think ‘that poor woman’. They’ll just think she’s like everyone else: heading to work, or home, or school like a normal day.

  There’ll never be another normal day again, not for Helen.

  Tony answers the door in his pyjamas and holds a finger to his lips to show that Melanie and the twins are still sleeping upstairs. The sight of him gives her a striking pang of nostalgia: in his tartan pyjamas, his hair ruffled and his face showing two-day stubble … he looks like home. All they need is Zoe.

  She steps into his arms and they hug tightly, in a way they haven’t hugged in many years. She feels her heartbeat start to slow a little.

  ‘Hey,’ she whispers.

  ‘Hey you,’ he whispers back. ‘Hey Alfie,’ he nods down at the dog, whose tail beats against the wall as it wags in response.

  ‘I’ve just put some coffee on,’ he says as he leads Helen to the kitchen. It’s not as pristine and immaculate as Melanie usually keeps it. Two matching high chairs are at the table, their trays smeared with orange-coloured crumbs. There are a couple of bowls and a mug on the table. Any other day, Helen would feel a glimmer of satisfaction that Melanie isn’t as perfect as she tries to pretend.

  Helen sits on the leather sofa in their kitchen, and watches as Tony shuffles around in his slippers pulling together coffee and toast. He looks much more comfortable than he ever did in their old kitchen; the master of his domain in a way he never was with Helen. ‘I read those articles,’ he says, as the kettle roars to life.

  Helen looks up sharply, but Tony won’t make eye contact. ‘And?’ Alfie jumps up on the sofa next to Helen and snuggles in next to her. ‘No, Alfie – get down,’ she points at the floor, but Alfie looks at her with a defiant expression.

  Tony shrugs. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll make an exception for today.’ He smiles and walks over to pat Alfie on the head. ‘But don’t tell Melanie,’ he says to the dog. ‘So. A speculative article from a freelance wannabe journalist trying to make her name by poking holes in the local police force. That’s not new; it’s rare that those types uncover anything genuinely new. And the other is a conspiracy theory website designed to tap into the fears of other conspiracy theorists. And neither of them have any tangible evidence for their claims.’

  Helen’s face gets hot, her muscles tense. ‘But, we have noth—’ Tony winces. She stops herself. Her voice is high-pitched and loud, and from experience she knows that he won’t listen if she’s like this. And what she needs more than anything is for Tony to listen. She tries again, willing her voice to be even and low, almost a whisper. ‘We have nothing to lose from looking into this. I understand what you’re saying, about the conspiracy theorists and stuff … but …’

  Tony brings her a coffee. ‘Mr X nearly ended my career.’

  She nods. ‘I know, I was there.’

  He looks irritated. ‘I know you were. What I mean is that we found everything there was to find about that case. And there wasn’t much. This new article that links the three criminals together … it’s thin, at best. There’s not much to go on. We don’t even have any proof that the contemporary one has actually killed anyone. I mean, what does the article say links them together, in the end?’

  Helen opens her mouth, closes it again. She pulls up the article on her phone. ‘Clean MO … the girls look the same.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Clean MO literally just means that there’s not enough evidence left behind to conclude anything. And the girls looking the same, that could just be coincidence.’

  Helen swallows hard. She really thought there was a way forward here, something to cling to.

  ‘Have you heard anything from Dane?’ Tony asks.

  ‘Not since last night,’ she says with a grimace.

  Tony nods. ‘Not the sharpest tool in the shed, is he?’

  ‘I don’t trust anyone any more. It was Max that sent me the article on that seedy website.’

  Tony rears back with a frown. ‘Max, as in that friend of hers, boyfriend of the little shit who got Zoe into this in the first place?’

  Helen nods.

  He folds his arms. ‘Something stinks about this.’

  ‘Who stinks?’ says a chirpy voice, and Helen’s heart sinks. Tony on his own was a relaxing, familiar presence but the whole dynamic changes when Melanie enters the room, with her arched eyebrows and spiky tones.

  Melanie’s carrying Lucy on her hip, and Lucy’s got her thumb in her mouth and her head resting on Melanie’s shoulder, her eyelids half-closed.

  Tony crosses the kitchen and kisses his wife on the cheek. Helen looks away and strokes Alfie, who is resting his head on his paws looking like he’s trying to blend into the sofa.

  Melanie looks at Tony, then at Alfie on the sofa and her best Le Creuset cafetière sitting in a puddle of water on the counter. Helen can almost see the cogs whirring in Melanie’s brain as she works out whether it’s worth making a comment, and then thinks better of it, considering the circumstances.

  ‘Just popped down to say hi,’ says Melanie. ‘Any news?’

  Helen and Tony shake their heads.

  ‘Glad you’re here, Helen. Family’s got to stick together at times like this.’

  Helen feels a brief moment of genuine warmth towards Melanie, even though the only thing they have in common is having been married to the same man. She takes a sip of coffee, which is so strong it makes her heart beat faster immediately.

  ‘Helen, do you know Zoe’s email password?’ Melanie pours herself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter.

  For once, Lucy’s quiet, patting Alfie on the sofa.

  Helen frowns. ‘Maybe. I mean, I might. Why?’

  Tony’s eyebrows pull down in a puzzled look. She meets his eyes and he forces a smile at his wife.

  ‘She has an iPhone, doesn’t she?’ asks Melanie, pulling open a laptop and typing something.

  Tony’s eyebrows raise as he realises what Melanie’s driving at.

  Helen doesn’t understand. ‘Why? What are we talking about here?’ Helen’s never had an iPhone and isn’t very good with technology at the best of times.

  Tony grins at his wife. ‘Genius,’ he says, and Melanie grins back at him. She swivels the laptop around to Helen. It’s open to a login screen, requesting username and password. The page title reads ‘Find my iPhone’.

  ‘If you can get into Zoe’s account, it’ll tell us where her phone is.’ Melanie folds her arms, a wide smile still on her face. She looks so proud of herself.

  Helen’s throat constricts. ‘There’s a way to locate her phone?’

  Melanie nods, her smile wide.

  Helen’s skin burns and prickles. She clenches her fist, holds it with her other hand. ‘Melanie, you’re telling me that my daughter has been missing for more than twenty-four hours and this is the first I’ve heard of it? You didn’t think that it might be a good idea to mention that there’s a frigging website that’ll show me where she is? Jesus, Melanie.’ She wants to slap Melanie’s face until that smirk disappears. She stands up. She sits down again. She pounds her fist into her free hand, into her thighs.

  ‘I didn’t think—’ Melanie reaches out, tries to touch Helen’s shoulder but Helen wrenches herself away. Helen can’t stand the idea of that woman touching her.

  ‘And the police; don’t they have access to this software? And the
y didn’t say a word about this. How dare they? No one is doing their job.’ Helen growls. They had a way of finding Zoe immediately and did nothing with it until it was too late. ‘What time is it?’ She stands up. ‘I’ll drive to the station as soon as it opens and scream at the first person I can find. Why does it take desperate amateurs in the middle of the night to think of this approach?’ She starts pulling on her coat, ignoring Tony’s attempts to calm her.

  The police did nothing with it until it was too late. As suddenly as it began, her fury dissipates. She drops her head into her hands and shakes her head. ‘Don’t even bother, Melanie. It’s not going to work,’ she says.

  Melanie frowns. ‘Why not? It’s worth a try, surely?’

  Helen rubs her hair, pulling her strands taut with her fingers. ‘Her phone is off. I’ve been trying to call her since yesterday morning, and it’s gone through to voicemail every time. It must be out of battery or something.’

  Tony stands up. ‘Give it a go, Hel. It’ll show the last known location. Where the phone was when the battery died.’

  ‘If that setting was switched on, anyway,’ Melanie says, sounding less sure of herself now.

  Helen shrugs and pulls the laptop towards her. She types in Zoe’s email address: zsummertonz@gmail.com

  She pauses, her fingers hovering over the keys. What would her password be? Helen thinks back to helping Zoe set up her first email account, years ago.

  She types ‘Alfie1234’ and presses Enter.

  Incorrect password. You have 3 more attempts before your account is locked.

  ‘Shit.’ Helen puts her head in her hands, trying to think.

  ‘Wait,’ says Tony. ‘Zoe used this laptop the other day, right?’ he asks Melanie.

  Melanie nods.

  Tony smiles and pulls the laptop towards him. ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’

  He opens up the settings and navigates to the saved passwords. ‘I just hope she’s silly enough to … yep. There it is.’

  Tony’s got tears in his eyes as he turns the laptop back to face Helen and Melanie. ‘She’s such a good kid.’

  In the list of saved passwords, there’s Zoe’s email address and her password:

  AlfieLucyBen

  ‘Yesss!’ says Melanie, grinning.

  The screen goes blue, and then a compass spins over a map of the world while the page loads.

  All three of them crowd around the computer screen, watching the compass spin. After what feels like minutes, the map materialises over Lancaster and zooms towards a grey circle in a patch of green, far away from houses and streets.

  ‘What?’ asks Tony, squinting at the map. ‘The middle of nowhere?’

  ‘Next to the M6,’ says Melanie, pointing at the nearest landmark: the motorway.

  Helen squints at the map. She reaches for the mouse and clicks on the grey circle.

  Device name: Zoe’s iPhone5

  Last known location: 26XJ+R3 Lancaster

  Last time device seen: 28 hours ago.

  ‘Twenty-eight hours ago,’ mumbles Melanie. ‘She could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ says Helen. ‘Tony, put your coat on.’

  Tony frowns. ‘What? Where is that?’

  Helen pulls on her shoes. Alfie leaps off the sofa and wags his tail at her, looking expectant.

  ‘It’s the Lune Hospital.’

  ‘The old asylum?’ asks Melanie. ‘Isn’t that apartments now?’

  Helen ignores her and grabs her coat. ‘Tony. Coat.’

  Tony holds his hand out in a ‘stop’ motion. ‘I think before we do anything we should call the police station and tell them our hunch. They can send someone over with us if needed. It’s just best to have backup, or at least stuff on record. Just in case.’

  She waves him away. ‘It’ll be patronising bullshit about not jumping to conclusions and having enough evidence, but it was in the article. McVitie lived there, the first killer. And I was there the other day. I know what I saw, Tony.’

  ‘What? What did you see?’ asks Melanie.

  Helen shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t enough without this, but now that we can see where Zoe’s phone was … it’s something. That shoe I found. And here’s something funny going on with a guy who works there, and it matches what Dane said about the guy in the bar. It all links together.’

  Helen feels like her brain is fizzling with new connections as she outlines it all to Melanie, whose eyes get wider with every word: the serial killer sentenced to the insane asylum in the 1960s, his pupil Mr X operating throughout the 1980s and 90s, and now the missing girls who look just the same as Mr X’s victims. Almost a century of murders with no sign of stopping.

  ‘I understand McVitie’s link with the old hospital; he was a patient there. But what about the other two? Mr X and this new guy? What links them all together?’

  ‘Sounds like you have an idea?’ Melanie asks.

  ‘It’s the old asylum. It’s like the centre of a spider’s web.’

  Melanie gathers Lucy from the sofa next to Tony. ‘You two get going. I’ll call the police station and catch them up. No time to waste.’

  ***

  In the car, Helen clips in her seatbelt. She looks at the side of Tony’s head, examines the rough stubble on his jawline as he checks the rear-view mirror and turns on the ignition.

  ‘Look.’ He turns in his seat to look out of the back window as he reverses out of their drive. ‘I know you want to find Zoe, I do too. But one thing I do know from my police days is that we’re going to have to be very careful, especially if this hunch is right.’

  ‘Careful how?’

  He checks both ways as he pulls out from a junction. ‘Now, I’m not saying that these articles are reputable journalism in any way. But if they are right, there’s someone incredibly dangerous out there. If we encounter him, we can’t provoke him. Even if we think he’s the new Mr X or whatever the internet’s calling him, we can’t show that to him. We have to pretend that we suspect nothing, and we walk away. We’re just out to look for Zoe.’

  Helen glances at the clock. ‘At six in the morning.’ She peers out of the windscreen as the Lancaster Lune Hospital emerges out of the dawn light in the distance, its turrets poking over the surrounding trees.

  Tony chuckles. ‘Yep. At six in the morning. That’s all.’

  ‘Got it. Pretend we know nothing, otherwise we’re dead.’

  Alexander

  He’s been prowling around the building for nearly two hours and there’s no sign of the girl. Not even footprints. Back into the grounds. She can’t get far. It’s not possible after what she’s been through.

  He is the ultimate apex predator now. The only one. He imagines he is a panther: black, sleek and muscular. He stalks through the undergrowth, thigh muscles stretching and flexing, stretching and flexing. Twigs brush his face, scratch his skin. He barely notices; his concentration is absolute. Powerful and strong, he crouches low to the ground, his eyes glowing through the dawn. His steps barely make a sound.

  His world is divided into predators and prey. And he’s going to hunt down his prey and end its life.

  Every rustle of leaves in the morning wind, every bird cawing into the night; his ears prick at each tiny noise. He can smell the dirt ingrained under his fingernails where he has been pawing, scraping at the ground. He can smell the bark of the trees, the dog piss, the rotting vegetation and the decay. Nasty, putrid and damp; even in the dawn light his senses tell him exactly where he is.

  He pushes through the bushes and into the open, listening, smelling the air. The whole building seems to shiver, as if it’s alive.

  A crunch from deeper in the woods, crackling of leaves and snapping of twigs. He stares through the darkness; his eyes open wide. Something moves.

  He plunges into the trees, following the sound, running as fast as his strong legs will push him.

  This is his territory. It is his duty to guard, protect and destroy. That’s how he was raised.

&n
bsp; Is that a flash of colour ahead, through the trees? Is there a faint scent in the air? Chocolate. Chocolate and skin. She’s not far away, he can sense it.

  He feels a quick shiver of excitement prickle over his flesh.

  He edges past branches and twigs, taking care not to make a sound. He’s just like his cat Petra, pressing his paws gently into the forest floor, testing his weight on every step before he commits.

  The woodland has stilled and the wind has died. Nothing moves.

  He halts behind a large tree and listens to the quiet forest. He’s going to find her, and when he finds her he will destroy her so that it will be as if she never existed.

  But there’s nothing: no movement, no sound, no girl.

  ***

  He enters the security office, a pokey room in what used to be the gatehouse of the Lune Asylum. Back when the mental hospital was in operation, the gatekeeper would sit in here and ensure that only the sane ones left through the gates.

  The damp seems to rise through the floors. The security company provides a pitiful electric two-bar heater and a kettle, but nothing can prevent the oozing chill of the old stone building.

  He scans the CCTV feeds, eyes flicking from screen to screen. There are three monitors, with twenty-one cameras covering the perimeter of the building, a couple covering the grounds and one inside the entrance hall above the main door, showing the large staircase. Most of the perimeter cameras overlap in their coverage, so if she’s outside the building he should be able to spot her quickly enough. The only place not covered is the security office itself, but he can hear anything that happens just outside the door.

  He clicks through each feed looking for the girl throughout the building and the grounds. There’s no movement on any of the screens, their fuzzy grey flickering taunting him with blankness. His hunting instincts failed him, and now technology too. He’s one moment away from punching his fist through one of the monitors. But that won’t help. Keep your cool, Alexander.

  He clicks through the feeds a couple more times, examining every flicker of a pixel. For a second, he thinks he sees something at the edge of the wood, but it turns out just to be a crow hopping around, pecking at twigs.