Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  “I understand.”

  I hold his hand.

  “Dad, I love you and for that reason, you must walk away. Pretend it didn’t happen.”

  His head lifts studying my face, absorbing the enormity of what I’ve said.

  “Emilia, you cannot go it alone. You’ll make a mistake.”

  I refrain from taking offence and fold my arms in a defensive stance.

  “You’ve taught me everything I need to know, Dad. I can and will go it alone.”

  He withdraws his hands in disgust, slamming clenched fists on the table.

  “Enough, Emilia,” he blurts.

  His outburst takes me aback. I flick my gaze over to Tom, the pub landlord, and observe an inquisitive stare through his chunky black glasses.

  I shoot Dad a dagger look, one that says calm down, you’re drawing attention to us.

  His palms wrap around his neck, kneading it as though it is dough, for comfort, or to suppress his rage.

  “I love you, Emilia, and I’m telling you, as your father, that you must stop.”

  It’s a different side to him, one that I’ve not seen since I was a child.

  “This isn’t what I want for you, Emilia, or for us. Their deaths are plaguing me. I see what the killing has done to you, darling. Please listen.”

  His eyes are full of desperation.

  “Come home. Me and Mum will look after you and keep you safe. I’ll protect you and make you better.”

  I close my eyes and find myself back in my childhood bedroom snuggled under the duvet watching ‘Friends’ on TV, Dad offering me a spoon of Nurofen to make me well.

  The image morphs to the last time I woke in the room; I’m crying and plotting murder.

  “I need to punish them. They can’t get away with it, Dad. You’ve seen what they did to me.”

  His face grimaces, having recollected a memory of my scars, which he erases with a quick head shake.

  “They ruined me inside and out. I won’t ever heal. Don’t you get it? There is no way back from this; from what we’ve started. The game must continue until the chess king is in checkmate and I win.”

  Dad rubs his eye sockets, then makes eye contact. His expression ominous, like he’s crossed sides and joined my team.

  This is the dad that I went to for help, the man who cleaned up for me. The person who taught me to kill and planned their deaths.

  It’s as though the memory of my scars acted as a striking match, showing him the light.

  “We do what we set out to do, Emilia, but we get it done quickly and move on with our lives.”

  My heart warms. I smile.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  He shoots me that look that says you always could wrap me around your finger.

  “I love you, too. You always were stubborn.”

  I close my eyes, dredging my Kill List to the front of my mind. I see the names crossed out, and the remaining players highlighted in order.

  “It’s time to destroy Cipher’s creator, Dad. The one whose fault all of this is.”

  I push my fingertips under the neckline of my jumper, finger hovering over a welt. I do so to remind me of Goulding’s crime and the pain she inflicted.

  “Burns.”

  It’s the only word that falls from my lips.

  “What do you mean, Emilia?”

  “That’s how Goulding will die. You know what she did, you saw it with your own eyes.”

  He doesn’t want to discuss the scars.

  “We punish them accordingly, don’t we?”

  Dad rises to his feet without warning and heads to the bar. Tom greets him with a warm, cheery smile. He’s a kind soul; the type of loving person, I once was.

  Tom pours our drinks. Dad is scouring his mind for answers. He’ll find a solution, he always does. Daddy always comes to my rescue. It’s what he does best.

  We were always going to have a wobble, it’s only natural. What we are doing is inhumane and goes against everything we believe in.

  Things change. Unspeakable actions happen in life which have implications on who you become as a person. I’ve become a killer, one who will not rest until I’ve stolen my rapists’ last breaths.

  57

  EMILIA

  SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER 2018

  Cipher flipped me from good to bad. I’ll go to Hell for what I’ve done. I deserve to, and I fully accept my fate.

  But why shouldn’t I make them pay after what those bastards did? Why should I let them continue to walk the streets, choosing targets?

  I’m saving women. I’m a modern Mother Teresa brandishing a knife and a match.

  Dad returns and places our drinks with precision; colour has returned to his cheeks. He has the answer.

  He takes a deep breath, ready to outline his plan, as though he’s a judge delivering a verdict to the defendant.

  I shake the recurring image which springs into my mind - me shackled in cuffs in the dock being sentenced for murder.

  “Fire won’t work on its own. She could flee unscathed, we cannot run the risk,” Dad says.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “We drug her in her own home and render her unconscious. Then it’s time to play with fire, Emilia, only we won’t get our hands dirty this time.”

  Dad smirks. I nod, indicating my acceptance.

  “We plant GHB into the liquid contents in her fridge - opened bottles of milk, wine, and juice.”

  “The date rape drug?”

  “Yes. It’s clear, odourless, and leaves the blood system after 12 hours. It wouldn’t be found during an autopsy. She won’t be aware she’s been drugged until it starts to wreak havoc on her system with nausea, vomiting and muscle spasms. When it takes hold, she’ll be left in a clinically comatose state.”

  I smile, imagining her writhing on the floor in agony.

  “The effects worsen with alcohol. Once she’s out of it, you can attach our calling card to her clothing. The double infinity metal pin will survive the blaze, leaving DI Carmichael and his sidekick a vital clue.”

  I wrap my arms around me as a comforter, as though my mannerism will lessen the depravity of discussing murder.

  “How do you propose we start a fire? Surely, the fire investigating officers will realise it’s arson and that she was murdered?”

  Dad feigns a smug expression.

  “You learn a thing or two in my line of work and from the Internet.”

  He sits straight, eyes transfixed on mine. It’s as though our earlier conversation never took place.

  “Go on,” I urge.

  I shuffle closer for his explanation.

  “Remote hacking. This time we use the Dark Web to our advantage.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to eradicate them with your own hands. I’ve been telling you this all along.”

  I nod, willing him on with his explanation.

  “Fire, darling. She hurt you by means of fire, so that’s how this works isn’t it? We punish them accordingly.”

  I’m starting to follow his wavelength but I’m uncertain how fire and hacking go together.

  “Cyber hacking crimes happen. In Russia, predators hacked into baby webcams, watching new-borns in their cribs to choose a viable target; ones who met the requirements of the bidders.”

  My stomach folds like origami.

  “A Russian website streamed material from thousands of unsecured cameras, allowing users to see inside children’s bedrooms. It happened because baby monitors connect to the Internet,” he says.

  “Once it’s part of a network, it’s easy for hackers to target the monitor and attack it because people are foolish enough not to create a password when they install them. This means that they either have no log-in codes at all, or they work on a default password pre-installed by the manufacturer. Pre-installed pass‐ words are available on the Internet.”

  I’m nauseous imagining paedophiles snatching kids.

  “Goulding w
ouldn’t have a monitor. I’m confused.”

  “I’m explaining how hacking is achieved. Even pacemakers can be hacked and turned off or charged with lethal voltages to kill a person. So can smart meters – they often can be insecure with holes in outdated security protocols that hackers can slip through. You told me Goulding’s house was state-of-the-art; it’s bound to have a smart meter.”

  “Yes, it does. A wall-mounted device in the hallway.”

  “Then this could work. We set up a piece of equipment masquerading as a home device and ask to join the smart meter’s network. In return, we receive the encryption keys to get inside her home and take complete control. A single line of malicious code can tamper with its software and cause a catastrophic overload. I’m saying it can be programmed to explode and cause a fire.”

  My stomach churns at the prospect of pulling off such a complex plan.

  “Most smart meters use GSM, the 2G mobile standard to communicate with a utility company. Its weakness means a hacker, with a fake mobile tower, can take control of devices from the real tower by using a strong signal. In GSM, devices must authenticate with towers, but not the other way around, allowing the fake mast to send commands to the meter. We trick the meter into exploding and boom.”

  Dad flicks his fingers above his head mimicking fireworks for visual effect.

  “Could we do it?”

  “Did you think you could hack into a computer, Emilia?”

  I concede his point.

  “Yes, we can do this, and I’d be more comfortable if we’re not killing her with our own hands.”

  Dad gulps his beer. A surge of adrenaline kicks in. I’m going to enjoy dousing her with GHB. It’s probably what they used to render me unconscious and abduct me.

  I will relish seeing the tables turned. Goulding, you played with fire and now it is your turn to be burned.

  58

  EMILIA

  SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER 2018

  The loft hatch swings open and I climb the ladder to my ‘haven’ – a place where I hide my disturbing secrets.

  I haul myself into the attic space. My gloved fingers unfold a padded fibreglass quilt to reveal my ‘Death Box’.

  Dad doesn’t know it exists. It’s the one secret I’ve kept from him, but I required a place to collate all the intel I’ve gathered.

  It’s Baltic. My breath hovers like cigarette smoke. I flip the shoebox lid off and pluck the pile of photographs of each target, acquired during surveillance.

  Hugh and Piers’ pictures are tainted with a red marker cross stretching from corner to corner to highlight they’ve been eliminated.

  Leaving evidence is foolish, but I will destroy it the moment they are all dead. For now, it is my only salvation. I cannot store everything in my mind, there isn’t room.

  I study Goulding. Her expression is sinister. She’s the devil in disguise; the sinner who invented Cipher.

  She was moulded from evil, having been forced into prostitution as a kid. But even having escaped, she chose to live her life on the dark side.

  I was on the verge of throwing the towel in when Dad crumbled today, having seen how this has changed him. But the memories came back, taunting me, and I’m no quitter.

  I must keep going, overriding my trauma, and replacing it with the faces of the dead. Both the moral Emilia, and the murderous villain Emilia, can co-exist.

  I open my leather-bound book and admire my Kill List. I omit the previous statement alongside Goulding’s name and make a new edit.

  Hugh Baldwin - DEAD

  Piers Whitehall - DEAD

  Geoffrey Peterson - DEAD

  Michelle Goulding - DIE FROM BURNS WATCH THE BITCH BURN UP IN FLAMES

  Christian Hamilton - UNDECIDED

  Old cop - UNDECIDED

  DI Benjamin Carmichael - UNDECIDED

  Seeing it written makes it more real. Now I must undertake research and learn about remote hacking.

  This cannot fail. Dad will ensure that we’re meticulous and it will strengthen our unshakable bond.

  Dad loves me. The lengths he has gone to since I arrived on his doorstep demonstrates how blood runs deep. You protect your own, no matter what they’ve done.

  He’d wanted to spare me from further damage, but he was fighting a losing battle and he knew it. It is time to finish what I started. Cipher, I’m coming for you.

  59

  RICHARD

  MONDAY 19 NOVEMBER 2018

  Life will never be normal. We have blood on our hands and demons haunting our minds.

  I’m an accomplice to murder and have turned you, my sweet, loving daughter, into a cold-blooded killer.

  I’ve never been able to control you. I've always let you get away with murder metaphorically. Now, you’re doing it for real.

  The consequences of our actions could be grave, but there is no stopping you.

  I won’t let you do this alone. You’ll make a mistake and I’ll lose you forever.

  The scumbags deserve to die but my conscience is telling me to change tactics.

  I close my eyes. I can’t face an inquisition or defend your weight loss for the umpteenth time. No matter what I say, Claire thinks you’re dying but you are refusing to tell us to spare us the truth and ugliness of it all.

  Her assumption is vaguely true, you’re dying inside. Each time I see you, there’s a snippet missing. A part of the old Emilia that’s gone; lost forever.

  On your birthday, you seemed different; happier. For a moment, I thought I could bring you back from the depths of despair. I was wrong. A broken person can’t ever be fixed.

  I’m overridden by shame and remorse for my role in your crimes and for teaching you murder methods.

  I should have been a responsible parent and insist I kill them and not you. But it’s your battle to fight, not mine.

  I’d intended to convince you to stop. I had scripted it in my head - what I’d say to influence your decision.

  I even persuaded myself it was the right thing to do, despite me wanting them all dead, almost as much as you do.

  Whatever I believed should happen to them, protecting you, is more important. I could see you were falling apart.

  I’d grown angry listening to you say you would continue your quest alone. You are smart but not forensically aware. You’d slip up, make a mistake, and leave a DNA trace.

  In a split second, my plan fell apart and my script turned to flames.

  Your fingers caressed a welt on your shoulder and my heart sank. My princess had been permanently damaged, and the evidence littered your body like freckles.

  Perhaps it was an innocent touch, or you were highlighting it on purpose to remind me - make me recall the sight of your tortured body.

  The gesture worked, you had me back on board. I reverted to our original plan, to our sinister deeds. Only, we would make the game’s ending swift.

  I yearn for the anguish to end, even if it means both of us losing our minds. I will remain by your side, Emilia, at all costs.

  We will get away with murder because I’ve learned from the best; hardened criminals.

  In just five minutes, I’ve downloaded Tor software onto my laptop to surf the uncensored Dark Web.

  My IP address is bouncing from one server to another across the globe, making me untraceable.

  Using a Dark Web search engine, I’m redirected to a directory featuring .onion (dark websites), offering a range of commercial and non-commercial links.

  My stomach flips, seeing weblinks to hire assassins, watch torture abuse, child porn, and even hire girl sex slaves for 30 days, delivered to your door.

  I search for drugs and find sites readily selling cannabis, cocaine, and MDMA.

  A deeper trawl, some 20 minutes later, takes me to VOYUS, an anonymous marketplace, selling 120ml of GHB for $120 (0.01272 Bitcoin).

  Recreational beginners use 3ml; 5ml for more advanced patrons. A 10ml dose would dissociate the user from reality. Anything higher is blackout territory. Th
at’s the dosage bracket we will use to knock the bitch out.

  I purchase Bitcoin cryptocurrency and place the GHB order – it will be posted to a mail storage facility for collection.

  What we are doing isn’t normal. I don’t believe there has ever been a father and daughter killer duo in history.

  There are notorious killer couples; Bonnie and Clyde, Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, Fred and Rosemary West, who all killed for love.

  That’s what I’m doing. I’m helping you kill because I love you and want to bring you peace.

  A person who makes a child's heart bleed must face the wrath of a protective father; whose unconditional love will avenge that deed.

  60

  DI CARMICHAEL

  TUESDAY 20 NOVEMBER 2018

  I’m consumed with fear. She’s coming for me. I’m going to suffer a hideous death.

  The killer will only be satisfied once she’s punished us all, as she deems fit.

  If the truth comes out that I’m a rapist, involved in a torture game, mutilating women, Annabelle won’t even attend my funeral.

  The world would turn on her - friends, family, strangers, web trolls. She would be hounded.

  I shake my head, trying to erase an image of graffiti on the front door, spelling RAPIST.

  The only thing I can do is to turn the tables and discover the killer’s identity.

  I gulp a pint of Thatchers Gold. Alcohol has weaved its way back into my life as a coping mechanism.

  Cronwell is enjoying seeing me crumble, lowering myself to his level, the gutter.

  He eyes me with suspicion, his mind wondering why I’ve invited him to talk. It’s time to share my theory.

  I hand the case file over. Cronwell flips it open and is confronted with an image of Peterson’s dead body.

  Death photos once made me nauseous, but I’ve become accustomed to them.