by Diane Saxon
He needed to clean up. He couldn’t leave it in the state it was. After all, the original had been cleaned.
With meticulous care, he stroked the bleach dampened towel over her body to remove all traces of blood.
Anger simmered beneath the surface as he couldn’t resist checking the time. He’d thought it was easier than this, hadn’t imagined how difficult it would be, how much effort he needed to put into the clean-up process. How time consuming. He’d far rather have left the body where it lay. He’d had the satisfaction, now the killing urge had gone to leave him empty.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and then stared at the sweat beading on his skin. Tempted to use the second cloth to wipe it away, he hesitated and then smudged his exposed wrist on his PPE
DNA.
He should never leave any DNA.
He huffed out a disgusted breath. It was damned hot in her house. She’d kicked the heating up high and he was about to suffocate. Why couldn’t she have switched it off?
He stared at his own exposed wrist as the thought swirled around his mind that he may already have dropped a bead of sweat.
‘Too late now.’
A thin slice of panic wormed its way through the control. What if he left a hair behind? A droplet of sweat? His DNA would be in evidence. He’d be found out.
With determined resolution, he cut off that line of thought, yanked the sleeve of his jacket down and covered the offending exposed flesh.
‘It’s not too late. I’ve not dropped any sweat. There are no stray hairs around.’ He turned in a circle. ‘I’ll clean up.’
The acrid scent of bleach burned his nostrils as he poured almost the full bottle into her mop bucket. He wrinkled his nose against the temptation to sneeze. Soon. He’d be finished soon, and the discomfort would be worth it.
On his hands and knees, he rolled the plastic sheet as tight as he could and pushed it into a plastic bag, then inside his holdall, then he scrubbed the mop over the smooth surface of the tiles, time and time again. He changed the water in the bucket for the fourth time, slipped the covers from his feet and applied new ones.
Deep satisfaction filled his soul. The last part was the best. There. Breathless, he slipped the mop and bucket back into the corner and surveyed the scene. That was how it should be. The effort had been worth it. Perfection.
His lips curved up in a satisfied smile as he contemplated his workmanship. There wasn’t a thing out of place, not a speck of blood to be seen by the human eye.
Proud of his work, he stepped back and snapped a photograph with the little burner phone he’d stowed in his backpack. He hesitated, his thumb hovered over the send button before he backtracked. He tapped in a few words, his lips curving in a satisfied smile as he pressed send to the only number that was on the phone, and then slipped it back away.
He inspected the place. Satisfied.
Leave no evidence and they’ll never catch you. He grinned. It should be his motto. He could write it across the countertop in lipstick. But then the very thing he was wary of would become a truth and he’d have left evidence.
Ego. That’s where they all went wrong. When they allowed their ego to surface.
He slipped the remaining items inside his holdall and made one last check of the room before he stepped outside the back door and stripped off the PPE gear, stowing it alongside the plastic sheeting. He removed his generic black hoodie from a separate polythene lined pocket in the bag and yanked it over his head, pulling the hood up to shadow his face. No brand names, nothing identifiable.
Soft drizzle settled around him and washed away the heat of her house but wasn’t enough to rid him of the scent of blood and bleach. He drew in several long draughts of rain-fresh air, expanding his chest until his lungs burned with the joy of it.
Despite his misgivings, he’d done it. Totally on his own. No one would ever know.
The next time, it would be easier. He’d know what to do, it didn’t matter how many times you went through it in your head, until you physically made the kill yourself, you could never know. Never understand the sheer perfection of it.
A shiver of delight flowed over him. Such deliciousness.
He cracked open the gate and checked each way before he slipped out, striding down the alley at the side of the house, his head lowered to avoid anyone seeing his face.
His heart soared with power as he considered the next victim on his list.
5
Tuesday 4 February, 05:05 hrs
Dark satisfaction coiled snake-like in the pit of his stomach.
Nostrils flaring, McCambridge drew back his lips and sucked air in through his teeth.
He shielded the bright light of the screen with his hand as he cruised his gaze over the words.
The first of many.
Far from the pure thrill of carrying out the execution himself, he’d have to satisfy himself with the vicarious pleasure of someone carrying the job out for him.
He touched the tip of his finger to the screen as pleasure heated his blood, anticipation coursing through his veins while he waited for the image to appear.
Vicarious it may be, but each time she died, satisfaction seared his soul. His hands were quite literally tied. His incarceration preventing him from carrying out the deed himself.
A slow smile slid across his features. No worries. This was the next best thing.
His work continued under the guise of another, but it was his mark on it. His style. His revenge.
Revenge on the woman who’d stolen his life with her self-centred thoughtlessness.
His mother. A nurse. Why hadn’t she known better? Known what would happen to him when she took her own worthless life. The selfish bitch.
He closed his eyes and let the anger surge up to close his throat and choke him. The vivid image of his mother’s limp body slumped forward in the kitchen chair, a river of blood washed over her uniform and splattered on the surrounding tiles. The short, sharp kitchen knife protruded from her neck where she’d slammed it into herself, blood still pumping from the carotid artery.
‘Mummy! Mummy?’ The little boy had grasped her head, pulling her face up to meet his. The smudge of blue tears streaked her face, the reek of gin filled his lungs.
Drugged eyes flickered open. Empty. Soulless. The flutter of a breath hovered on her lips for a brief moment before her dead eyes closed, her crimson, bloodied lips slackened.
He’d learned later that it barely took minutes to bleed out from a slash to a main artery. Her death had been quick, if messy. And she’d left him with a whole lifetime of bitterness. A seven year old boy put in the system, pushed from pillar to post, abused, neglected, all because his mother hadn’t loved him enough to live.
His fist enclosed the small phone. Four bars registered. Plenty enough for an image to download.
Far into the night, he waited with the dull glow of the screen turned to his face. His blood simmered, anticipation turning to fury.
The first of many.
But where was the image? Where was the fucking photograph?
6
Tuesday 4 February, 05:50 hrs
Detective Sergeant Jenna Morgan leaned her elbows on her desk and pressed the heels of her hands as deep into her eye sockets as she could without popping her eyes out of the back of her head. If she did, it would only be an improvement on the pain of a hundred woodpeckers stabbing into her brain through her left eye.
The low level buzz of bright electric lighting in West Mercia’s Malinsgate police station jackhammered through her head and stabbed at her eyes.
‘Night on the town?’
With reluctance, Jenna raised her head to squint at her partner. A pitiful groan squeezed its way from her lips.
Detective Constable Mason Ellis shot her an evil grin as he dumped his tall frame into the typist’s chair opposite and wheeled it to the desk, bringing his head in close to hers.
Unable to focus on him at such a close range, Jenna bowed ba
ck and swallowed the heave of nausea. ‘Girls’ night in.’
‘Ooooh, do tell.’ He leaned his chin on his hand.
‘Just me and Fliss.’
Barely discernibly, his eyes flickered at her sister’s name, then he grinned.
‘Well, you look like shit, boss.’ Only he could get away with speaking to her like that. He’d known her too long and any sense of propriety had long since evaporated, except when in the company of other officers.
‘Thanks for that.’ She screwed her eyes shut and raked her fingers through her thick, choppy hair. She felt like shit, she knew it, what was she thinking of on a school night, and the start of a twelve hour shift? She’d barely been able to drag herself out of bed. But really, she didn’t need Mason to tell her. All would be well if she could lie down in a darkened room, pull the covers over her head and sleep for twenty-four hours. Oh God, she should never have had so much to drink. Her head still spun, but worse than that was the acid burn in her stomach.
Saliva filled her mouth and she pressed the fingers of one hand against her lips and leaned her forehead on the other hand while her eyelids fluttered. ‘It was the Prosecco.’
‘Prosecco?’ Mason quirked his dark eyebrows.
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t drink Prosecco.’ He sat back and squinted at her, pulling at his earlobe. ‘You’ve always said it’s a trend for people who pretend to be what they’re not.’ He clicked his fingers as the correct word came to him. ‘Pretentiousness.’
‘Gah, well, I was pretentious. I pretended to be what I’m not and look where it got me.’ She peered at him from between her fingers. His face swam in the mist of her eyesight. ‘I should have stuck to gin and tonic.’
‘You drank gin and tonic too?’
‘Only at first. Then Prosecco.’ The memory of it bubbled in her stomach and she caught herself just before she heaved.
‘Bleh. Not a recommendation. You should never mix your drinks. I thought you were seasoned enough to know that.’
She was. She thought she was.
She covered her wide yawn with her hand and shook her head at him. ‘We really didn’t eat much last night.’ She breathed in as she tried to recollect. ‘Olives.’ Her stomach churned. ‘Prosciutto and sun-dried tomato bread.’ Her lips tightened at the memory. ‘We were going to make lasagne, but…’ She gave a vague wave of her hand. ‘I don’t suppose you have access to a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich?’
Spreading his empty hands wide, he shot her an unsympathetic grin as he leaned back in his chair while it creaked its protest. ‘Sorry, I can’t oblige.’ He squinted at her. ‘It’s not like you to drink midweek. What were you celebrating?’
‘Fliss.’ Again, the quick flash of awareness at the mention of her sister’s name. Jenna’s hangover fuzz cleared a little and she paid closer attention to him. ‘She’s been offered a new job.’
Surprise raced over his features. ‘I didn’t know she wanted a new job. You never mentioned it.’
‘Yeah. She’s not settled since she was…’ she hesitated over the word, still finding it difficult to acknowledge what had happened to her younger sister, ‘… kidnapped.’
Heat rushed over her, less to do with the memory of the incident than the acid churning in her stomach. She rubbed the back of her aching neck and swallowed the excess of spit in her mouth.
‘She says she’s not sure she can cope with the constant sympathetic glances she keeps getting from people at school who weren’t even her friends before. She feels she needs a change. Perhaps teaching elsewhere would help.’
Mason gave a solemn nod. ‘I can understand that, but with the exposure she got in the press, it’s unlikely she’ll get away with anonymity, no matter where she goes. It hit the papers nationwide.’
Anger unfurled in her, temporarily overriding the nausea. ‘Bastard press with bastard Kim Stafford. Who the hell keeps leaking shit to him?’
‘Dunno, but when Inspector Gregg finds out, he’ll rip their intestines out.’
‘Hopefully, he’ll rip Kim’s out soon. He’s not helped the situation with Fliss. I don’t know if she’s making the right move, but maybe because they won’t know her, they won’t feel entitled to give their opinion. Yet.’
He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk. ‘Where’s she thinking of going?’
‘Wolverhampton.’
‘Really? That’s a fair commute. That’s going to be tough on both of you.’
Tears grabbed Jenna’s throat and squeezed tight. She should never have had so much to drink on a work night. The desperate hangover allowed her emotions to spill over. She hoped she wouldn’t become a blubbering mess. Especially not at work. ‘She’ll probably move there, if she accepts the position.’
‘Oh.’ The one flat word reflected his opinion and hers.
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ll miss her and that furry fiend of hers.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ Filled with bravado, she forced further words from her throat, knowing if he pressed too hard, she’d be in floods of tears and he’d be mortified if she cried over the Dalmatian. ‘Domino’s a pain in the arse. You’d have thought he’d have learned a lesson, but no, he’s just as exuberant as ever.’ She sucked in her upset for the sake of the man opposite.
More comfortable with hitting people, feminine tears destroyed Mason.
She was destroyed herself. She couldn’t imagine her life without Fliss and the gorgeous Dalmatian. She’d held her close – both of them close – ever since they’d been attacked. Domino left for dead and her sister abducted. She’d probably overprotected her. Stifled her, as she allowed her to do whatever she wanted, just as long as she was safe. Her beautiful Dalmatian dog, Domino, so severely injured, now slept on Fliss’s bed where he’d never been allowed before.
Jenna had thought that was the way their life was to continue. When Fliss had brought two bottles of Prosecco home, Jenna had put on a brave face, smiled, celebrated with her little sister while inside her heart had broken. Which was why she’d allowed herself to drink so much. Less a case of celebration and more drowning her sorrows.
Mason raised his head and stabbed his forefinger on the table. ‘She’s making a mistake. You need to tell her to stand her ground.’
Amused at Mason’s opinion that she had any sway in Fliss’s decisions, Jenna mustered up a weak smile. ‘She’s a big girl now, she needs to make up her own mind.’
Mason shuffled in his chair and grunted just as Jenna’s stomach served to remind her it still needed to punish her for her excesses of the previous night. If only she hadn’t consumed that gin and tonic before Fliss had got home.
The wild sway in her mushy brain had her clutching the sides of the desk so she didn’t crawl over the ceiling.
Determined to centre herself, Jenna studied him through narrowed eyes as she could only imagine what thoughts zipped through his mind.
‘So, how’s the dog-walker working out?’
Surprised he’d remembered the plan Fliss and her had put into place to have Domino walked on the days both of them were at work, Jenna shrugged to cover the little glow of delight. ‘She’s good. Very caring. Pip Lovell.’
‘Can she handle him?’
‘Him and two others, she literally has them eating out of her hand, walking at heel and virtually dancing on their hind legs.’
‘That should keep him out of mischief.’
‘If you mean it should keep him from eating any more of my kitchen, that is the idea.’
Mason chuckled then fell silent, his gaze turning serious.
‘You know…’ With thumb and forefinger, he tugged at his bottom lip as his gaze skittered over hers and then away.
‘Yes?’ She wasn’t sure she had the patience for his hesitant intimations. Couldn’t he just get on and spit it out?
He pushed the chair away from the desk, almost came to his feet, and then slumped back down again. ‘Would it be weird if I asked your sister out?’
> At last. It had only taken him several months to voice what Jenna had known was coming. She hummed a soft sigh as she leaned back in her chair, her gaze directly on Mason’s slightly pinkened face. ‘It would be about time.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Mason, how long have you wanted to go out with Fliss?’
‘Well, forever.’
‘Yeah. And how long have I been a detective?’
His lips twitched. ‘For about the same length of time.’
‘Right. So how long do you think I’ve known that you have a thing for my sister?’
‘Shit.’ This time, he rolled all the way to his feet and paced away across the room. When he swung around on his heel, his eyes had narrowed. ‘So, why haven’t you ever brought the subject up?’
‘Because she had a boyfriend.’
‘He was a wanker.’ He’d have loved the opportunity to smack him one in the mouth, she knew.
Jenna smiled. ‘Indeed.’
There was no denying Fliss’s ex had been a complete moron and caused indescribable damage to her self-confidence, but it was being attacked and incarcerated in a small, damp cellar for several days that had caused a huge change in her younger sister. She’d become more determined, more single-minded and less sociable. It was time for her to get out, to establish new relationships and Jenna could think of worse people than Mason for Fliss to establish a relationship with.
She glanced up at him and blew out a long breath. ‘Look, ask her out. Don’t, for the love of God, tell her you asked my permission. And, Mason?’ With a malicious grin, she locked eyes with him. She knew how to wipe the look of relief from his face.
‘Yeah?’
‘You hurt her, and I won’t kick your arse for you.’
The little glimmer of hope was pitiful. ‘No?’
No.’ With a flat expression, she stared him down while she dealt him more truth than he would ever know. ‘I will bury you. Alive. Where no one will ever find you. There will be no witnesses. There will be no evidence. There will be no forensics. And there will be no one there to rescue you. You will die alone and petrified, having pissed your own trousers several times, because it will be a long drawn-out death.’