Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  Blood gushes from her nose, merging into the vomit pillow circling her head. Limp legs sprawl, mimicking a chalk crime scene figure.

  I cower away, my palm stemming a rippling upsurge of sick.

  Goulding stares blankly, lips compressed to her cheeks, a shadow of death layering her face.

  “That was nasty. Nice girls are punished when they’re nasty,” Whitehall shrieks.

  Tears erupt down my face. She closes her eyes, falling unconscious. I’m too afraid to move.

  I was meant to take charge. Yet, the sick bitch still managed to crawl under my skin. She would have killed me, had the GHB not pulled her under.

  Their laughter echoes. I stumble to my feet. Eyes fixed on the devil. I skulk toward her, clasping the pin.

  I kick her lifeless legs. She’s unresponsive. I flip her onto her back. Her eyes remain closed, chest emitting laboured breaths, face smeared with sick residue.

  I secure the badge in place as though it’s a veteran’s medal and stare at the defeated animal. I store the image in my head and secure it there under lock and key.

  The fire will destroy the house, and her corpse, but I cannot risk leaving my blood behind. I use bleach and kitchen towels to erase every drop.

  I close Cipher on the laptop, slip on my shoes and overshoe protectors, and flee with the knife and photos.

  Dad’s hands tremble, his face colourless. I conceal my wounded arm, and smile offering him the relief he richly requires.

  “It’s time to watch her burn, Dad.”

  Dad returns the gesture, smiles uncomfortably, and offers a simple nod of approval.

  I grab the laptop, raucously pound the keys, inputting the code, and send a catastrophic overload to the meter.

  The darkness, deepened by cloud cover, illuminates with violent flashes of amber. Dad squeezes my hand and we watch the flames flicker through swaying trees, Goulding’s house aflame.

  “Emilia, we need to go,” Dad whispers.

  We stare at one another, and smile, knowing I’ve obliterated the main target. Cipher is going down for good.

  64

  DI CARMICHAEL

  FRIDAY 23 NOVEMBER 2018, 12.15 AM

  Cronwell drives like an escaped lunatic on the run as we enter Goulding’s lair. He wants this over.

  We’ve catalogued all the victims and cross-checked them with Goulding’s records. There are nine survivors who could be targeting Cipher.

  D.A.N.I.E.L.L.A – Daniella Cross

  E.M.M.A – Emma Fox

  M.A.D.D.I.S.O.N – Maddison Knight

  E.M.I.L.I.A – Emilia Francis

  L.I.Z.A – Liza Johannson

  T.R.A.C.Y – Tracy Simmstone

  D.E.B.O.R.A.H – Deborah Auck

  S.O.P.H.I.E – Sophie Dougherty

  J.U.L.I.E.T – Juliet Matthews

  “What the hell?” Cronwell screeches, lurching forwards, staring through the windscreen.

  A plume of smoke billows into the sky mirroring a tornado. Flames ravage Goulding’s home.

  Cronwell puts his foot flat on the accelerator. The car speeds to 90-mph as embers twirl in the sky.

  “Brace yourself and fucking call 999.”

  Cronwell smashes through the gates, metal colliding with metal. I half expect the bonnet to ripple towards the windscreen and shield my face to avoid glass bullets.

  I split my fingers into Vs and observe intact glass as the car continues racing at high speed.

  My heart hammers, mind stacked with confusion. I grab my phone and call the emergency services.

  The heat is oppressive, even from 300 yards. We exit the car, stand in cement boots and eye one another in silence.

  I inhale noxious smoke and shield my nose with the cusp of my sleeve as ash debris falls on us like snowflakes.

  “Round the back, follow me,” Cromwell barks.

  I fear we’re already too late. Goulding is inside, cooking from the inside out, or already burnt to cinders.

  Smoke belches through the windows. The elaborate mansion is wilting under the enormity of the blaze.

  Cronwell smashes the patio door glass and continues forcing shards out with raucous kicks and pointed elbows. I follow inside. Oppressive heat scorches my cheeks.

  “Goulding! Where the fuck are you?” Cronwell bellows.

  It’s dark, the electricity severed by the flames. We walk through suffocating smoke, clogging our airways.

  We haven’t long before the smoke damages us, or kills us, too, and we both know it.

  “Goulding! Answer us God damn it, help us find you!”

  Flames lick the bottom staircase, the lower level a sea of autumnal waves cresting and peaking.

  Panicked, we run for our lives, and Goulding’s. It’s as though we’re negotiating a labyrinth.

  Cronwell crashes to the floor. I stop, fan my hands to clear the smoke, and identify limp legs.

  I’m rooted to the spot, overcome with terror and exhaling smoke in deliberate bursts to prevent lung damage.

  Cronwell’s fingers fumble for a pulse.

  “She’s breathing! Get your arse here, Carmichael.”

  The scene is playing out in slow motion. I’ve lost all sense of reality. I snatch air; burning gases from smouldering plastics and wood scratches my throat.

  “Carmichael, what the hell are you doing?”

  I decipher the two silhouettes through the mist and my mind reconnects to my limbs, rushing to her aid.

  We place one hand under each of her arms, the other at the back of her knees, and lift her in unison.

  Flames disintegrate the stairs. We’re out of time.

  Cronwell panics and drops her. He stares in horror as Goulding’s head smashes the floor with a sickening crack.

  “Pick her up,” I screech.

  We haul Goulding along the landing. Sirens wail in the distance, suppressing the noise of destruction.

  Terror hits me, watching flames continue their hungry chase. I cannot die here – I start running.

  We drop Goulding like a catch of fish on a trawler, slumped on her back on the decking pontoon.

  Glass shatters. I observe in horror as the ceiling folds inwards like origami. Bricks and plaster break as quick as Play-Doh between a toddler’s palms.

  Fresh air refuels my head, eyes, and lungs. I stare at Goulding, a charcoal-stained object with a dash of white between parted lips. She looks dead, but her chest rises.

  I fixate on silver, amid soot. A tarnished infinity pin is secured on her blouse. I punch the air with balled fists.

  Cronwell stares in horror, searching my face for an explanation. I glare at him with contempt.

  “Look at her!”

  He scrabbles onto his knees to take a closer look.

  “God damn it. She’s done this!”

  I watch his confusion fade as realisation sinks in. His eyes fix on the double infinity pin - a replica of Peterson’s.

  “This wasn’t an accident. She tried to burn her alive.”

  Cronwell’s mouth is as slack as Goulding’s, words unable to creep off his tongue.

  “We’re next. It’s only a matter of time before the past catches up with us. We’re going to die.”

  65

  DI CARMICHAEL

  FRIDAY 23 NOVEMBER 2018, 12.45 AM

  Goulding looks as though death has become her; her venomous soul slipping away.

  Two paramedics, carrying rescue packs and a spinal board, rush to her aid as emergency sirens screech closer.

  “Is the casualty breathing?” The female paramedic asks, dropping to her knees.

  I stare at her name badge - Kyli, clinical care assistant.

  “Sir?”

  She searches for a pulse on Goulding’s neck.

  “Pulse is weak,” she informs her male colleague, Andy.

  Kyli kneels behind Goulding’s head and places a Bag Valve Mask (BVM) over her mouth and nose. She lifts Goulding’s chin, and Andy pumps the bag to provide ventilation.

  “On
e, one-thousand, two, one-thousand, three, one-thou‐ sand, four, one-thousand, five, one-thousand, six, one-thou‐ sand,” she counts.

  Goulding chest rises and falls, her lungs filling with oxygen.

  I’m nauseous and have head pain - symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning from smoke inhalation.

  “Is she going to die?” I ask.

  “We’ll do everything we can,” Kyle answers, as she and Andy slide Golding onto the spinal board.

  Three blaring fire engines and two further ambulances arrive.

  Cronwell and I are treated promptly; both fitted with oxygen masks and transported to Bristol Royal Infirmary.

  I’m ushered into a cubicle to continue with oxygen therapy and have no idea where Cronwell or Goulding are.

  I’ve been told my carboxyhaemoglobin level must decrease to less than 10 per cent before I can be discharged.

  We cannot wait. Crime Scene Investigators and Fire Investigation Officers will comb over Goulding’s house at first light to ascertain the cause of the fire.

  If any part of the house survived, Cipher is at risk of exposure.

  The curtain snatches open. Cronwell’s sullied face appears, wild eyes probing.

  His cheek scar is embedded with soot, as though a child has etched a black crayon on his face.

  “We’ve got to get the fuck out of here!”

  I remove my mask.

  “Any news of Goulding?”

  “No idea where the fuck she is.”

  Cronwell paces, chewing his charred lips.

  “We’ve got to get inside Goulding’s house before forensics do.”

  My nausea returns, the fear of exposure hammering my mind.

  I picture Annabelle, hands cupped to her face, as Cronwell, Hamilton, Goulding, and me, are charged as part of a web torture sex ring, raping, and killing women.

  We’re handcuffed, stepping from a police van, led by a prison warden amid a throng of placard-waving protestors demanding justice. One spits on my face in disgust, Annabelle.

  I stem my assaulting tears. Cronwell will never see my guard dropped. He stands before me, defiled by smoke, face gritted, and my hate toward him multiplies.

  Cronwell is a bioterrorist armed with his own Anthrax. He infected my mind with Cipher’s disease, and now it has spread through every organ in my body.

  “Did you hear me? We need to get our arses back there!” he spits.

  Annabelle’s haunting image lingers, eyes fixed with disbelief. She can’t learn the truth. I will crawl through debris and destroy Goulding’s laptop, to prevent my exposure.

  “We need to be reassessed,” I utter, pathetically.

  “Fuck that, Carmichael. We’re breathing, aren’t we?”

  Cronwell’s face remains locked with terror, the thought of being exposed weighing on his mind.

  He twitches, mimicking a child holding a wee, teeth gnawing skin on his blackened thumb.

  “We’ll obliterate the evidence and come back for Goulding. Protecting Cipher is our number one priority. Then we’ll kill the bitch and end her twisted game!”

  66

  EMILIA

  FRIDAY 23 NOVEMBER 2018, 7 AM

  I’m tumbling, falling to my knees, awaiting execution.

  I should have listened to Dad. He warned I would come unstuck, and now my world will fall apart.

  In our heads, everything was so simple. The plan came together with precision. Until my carelessness.

  We’d heard sirens but weren’t worried. Goulding’s house was well-alight, and she was unconscious, unable to escape. Yet, ITV News is portraying a different scenario this morning: ‘Police Officers Rescue Woman from Burning Mansion’.

  Dad remains calm, pacing my apartment. In his mind, we did everything correctly. He remains unaware that I violated the rules and made myself known to Goulding.

  But I wanted her to know that she was going to be punished and die for her crimes against me. I hadn’t envisaged a rescue mission falling into the equation.

  The charred remains of Salcombe Hall are being depicted live; only, half of the property survived the blaze.

  Dad eyes me, wondering why I’m paper-white, eyes overflowing with tears.

  It’s not the evidence that concerns me. I cleaned-up, just like Daddy taught me. It’s the fact that Goulding could survive and identify me to those fiends, and that terrifies me.

  “Emilia. I know things didn’t go to plan, but we can work it out,” Dad says, placing his arm around me.

  I can’t look at him, but I must confess.

  “What’s troubling you, Emilia? Goulding is unlikely to survive. She would have been overcome with smoke inhalation. She’s probably already dead, darling.”

  “But we can’t be sure.”

  “Even if she survived, there’s nothing linking her to us. The GHB would be untraceable now.”

  I cup my face, shielding myself from the impending ambush.

  “Emilia?”

  He knows I’m hiding something.

  “What if you’re wrong? What if she survives?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge if it comes to it and eliminate her.”

  “When?”

  “When the time is right. We’ll go after the others first. We can’t panic. We’ve got this under control.”

  “We haven’t.”

  “What do you mean? Talk to me, Emilia.”

  I lift my head and study his curious eyes. I recall the wrath I endured when he plucked the bloody stiletto off the floor at Hugh’s crime scene.

  It’s a look I never want to encounter again. But it is coming. Daddy doesn’t like mistakes and I’ve made my biggest one to date. I made myself known.

  “She saw me, Dad.”

  The words punch him in the face.

  “Goulding saw you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His face reddens, anger simmering.

  “I wanted to mess with her head. I wanted Goulding to know it was me who had come for her.”

  “What did you do, Emilia?”

  “Something stupid.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  His hands grapple my arms, shaking me.

  “Emilia! Tell me what you did!”

  I take a deep breath.

  “I played her the recording.”

  “For goodness sake. Why?”

  I dip my head, ashamed for deviating from the plan.

  “It doesn’t matter, the PC was probably destroyed,” he says.

  My eyes remain anchored on the floor.

  “That’s not all.”

  Dad’s fingers hook under my chin.

  “Emilia, spit it out.”

  “I planted photographs of my attackers, and of me.”

  “Why would you be so reckless? Where are the images?”

  “I took them. They’re in my bag. She saw my reflection in the window and came after me.”

  Dad’s eyes rage with terror.

  “Killing Goulding was one thing but letting her die and her knowing why is what this is about. She needed to know I was getting my revenge.”

  I lift my jumper sleeve, exposing a bloody tea towel wrapped around the stab wound. Dad looks puzzled.

  “What the hell happened in there?”

  “She was going to kill me, Dad. I fell on the floor. She was on top of me with the knife.”

  Dad is riling with me for my actions and with Goulding for trying to harm me, again.

  “I thought she was going to stab me, Dad. But she collapsed on top of me as the GHB took hold.”

  “Did you clean up after yourself?”

  “I took the photos. Cleaned the blood and wiped Cipher from the screen.”

  “And what happened to the knife?”

  “I took it too. It’s in the rucksack.”

  Dad sighs, relief lifting the weight off his shoulders.

  “There is nothing to implicate you, you’re certain?”

&nb
sp; “Yes. But she still saw me. If she survives, my days are numbered. I’ve ruined everything. They will hunt me and kill me.”

  “Not if we get to her first.”

  67

  EMILIA

  FRIDAY 23 NOVEMBER 2018, 7.45 AM

  I cannot be exposed to Cipher. Goulding must die before revealing my identity.

  Dad is at the crime scene in his official capacity, having ensured he was rostered as the on-call scientist.

  He will ensure any potential evidence is destroyed or taken from the scene, where he can dispose of it.

  I was meticulous. I used bleach to clean up the blood. I wore gloves and shoe protectors. There will be no prints anywhere.

  According to news reports, ‘A woman remains in a critical condition after being rescued from a house blaze’.

  Not for long. We’ve devised a plan to eliminate her. She will die by means of fire, only in much more imaginative, gruesome manner.

  Dad has ordered ‘SUX’, Succinylcholine, a neuromuscular paralytic drug, from a site on the Dark Web. It’s part of a three- drug cocktail used for lethal injection executions.

  It targets the muscles and nerves in the body, causing muscle paralysis, including those used for breathing.

  Without ventilatory support, Goulding will die from asphyxia. The only downside is that it doesn’t meet our full criteria in relation to burns. Therefore, we will turn it into a super killer concoction.

  We’ll collect the SUX tomorrow from a mail storage facility and make a deadly potion.

  Dad is a genius. He recalled prominent cases. One involved a former ‘Bond Girl’ drinking industrial drain cleaner, the other where a woman’s boyfriend tricked her into drinking it neat.

  Both suffered the unimaginable torment of being cooked on the inside, from the heat generated by its main ingredient, sulphuric acid.

  I’ll gain access to Goulding and inject an ample 40mg dose of SUX, mixed with Plumbers Mate (a drain unblocker containing sulphuric acid), into her intravenous saline drip. She will suffer the torments of Hell.