by Diane Saxon
28
Sunday 9 February, 14:25 hrs
He clawed trembling hands over his face. Stupid, stupid fucker. He dragged tear drenched fingers from his eyes. He’d fucked up. A fist clenched in the pit of his stomach as he rocked in the corner of the room.
He’d not followed the rules. All he’d needed to do was follow the stupid fucking rules. Instead, in his blind fury, he’d lost sight and ignored them.
He stared over at the crumpled, broken body with bloodied, purple face where he’d beaten her senseless twice, a red mist of fury at his earlier failure rising to swallow him up. He trailed his gaze over her nakedness and retched. Blood and semen stuck her thighs together. There was nothing he could do about that except douse her in a good amount of bleach and hope it washed away all traces of him.
He swallowed hard. He knew that would never happen, but if he was to get through this, he needed to believe it was feasible.
The sight of her wasn’t what made him sick. There was a certain dark pleasure in what he’d achieved. He’d done it before, knew the pleasure was a sickness that had taken him so much further. Rape. That’s why he’d been in prison.
All that DNA, though, his fingerprints, his semen, his vomit.
He pushed through the fogginess in his brain as whirling sensations overwhelmed him. He centred his attention on his own flaccid dick, covered in her blood from ramming so hard into her. That’s what sickened him. Not the act. From what he remembered through the red haze of desperate, ferocious lust. No. He was sickened because this was what would get him caught.
He touched shaky fingers to his swollen lip, where she’d headbutted him in the brief moments she’d revived. Bitch knew how to scrap. Dark pleasure had torn through him as he’d put her down again. Just where she belonged. He had no regret about that. His regret was the loss of control, the mess he’d made. The crime scene. His crime scene.
He should have watched out for the deposit of pubic hairs. Used a fucking condom. But not a single thought had entered his head as he’d poured his rage down on her.
Panic sliced into his heart.
He circled his gaze around the room, crazed by the sheer destruction. He needed to make good. He gasped in another lungful of air, nodding to himself as he assimilated the situation.
He scrambled to his feet, using the wall to brace against. He flicked a glance up at the kitsch wall clock and huffed out a stressed breath.
He could do it. Bleach. Wash everything down. Clean the fingerprints off. Panic skittered through him. He needed the kitchen chair, rope, he’d forgotten a fucking basic rope. His mind sparked into action. A dressing gown tie would do.
It wasn’t too late. He could rectify the situation. He scrubbed his hands along his thighs, less to remove the blood, than to get his circulation going.
Fuck! Fuck, what had he done?
He wrenched on rubber gloves, all too late for the fingerprints he’d already smeared all over the place. He swiped the back of his wrist across his sweat-beaded upper lip and lifted the blind a mere inch to scan the front garden and check for movement from the neighbours before he started on the task. Still quiet outside with no cars around. Everyone at work.
He dropped the blind back into place and stepped back.
The mournful howl of a dog seeped through from next door and sent a shudder through him. Little fucker probably knew his owner was dead. They sensed these things, that’s why he never went near them. He’d never break into a house with a dog, no matter what size or breed it was. Too fucking dangerous.
The hard tremor of his fingers refused to still as he hauled on the white PPE suit over the top of his clothes. The ones soaked with her blood and DNA, traces of her bodily fluids soaked into his jeans and possibly strands of her hair where he’d wrenched it from her head to stop her vicious attack. He grabbed a cloth and sluiced away evidence he should never have left in the first place. All too late, he knew. Surprise caught him at the dead weight of her for such a slight person.
He scrambled over the body to haul her upright into one of the two straight-backed, wooden kitchen chairs. Her cheek stroked against his and he reared back, revulsion adding to the tremble, while he shook all over until it almost broke him apart.
The smear of wet blood on his skin sent panic skittering into the heart of him. He swiped the cloth doused with bleach over his face, hissing at the burn of it.
He glanced over at the sink, considered flushing water over his cheek and then reconsidered. They’d check the sink, the plughole, the drains, for evidence of DNA. And his DNA was on the system. He had no idea what skin cells he would wash down there. He settled for scrubbing the sleeve of his PPE suit over his skin until the burn subsided to a gentle glow.
Blinded by panic, his belly contracted, and the foul stench of his own fart stuck in his throat. He raced for the downstairs toilet, wrenching the PPE from his body in a desperate effort to get it off before he shit all over it.
His bowels purged themselves in the porcelain toilet as pain clawed at his stomach, so he curled forward with his head touching his knees. The putrid stench of it had him raising his head and breathing in through his mouth in an effort to avoid fainting.
He grabbed the roll of toilet paper from the shelf beside him and wiped himself as he stood long enough to reach behind and flush the toilet. He was fucked if they decided to test for DNA down the toilet. He was fucked anyway.
He cleaned himself up, flushed again, then sat for a moment while the fast pace of his heart slowed down and the stabs of pain subsided.
When he was sure he’d expelled everything he could, he came to his feet, pulling his underpants and trousers up, yanking the PPE up over them once again. Sharp pains griped again, but he gritted his teeth and looked around for the toilet brush and disinfectant, pouring a small amount on the gloves he still wore to wash them clean. One pair wasn’t enough. Next time he’d make sure he brought several so he could strip them off at each stage of the clean-up.
He staggered from the toilet and stared around. It was too much, all too much. He didn’t have a problem with the job, rape brought a dark enjoyment, the addition of killing her hadn’t disturbed him one iota, but the fallout was too hard. He needed to consider whether it was worth it. Would he do it again? Would he be given the opportunity?
Panic pressed down on him as he raced upstairs, the chocolate brown of the carpet concealing any traces of bodily fluid his shoes deposited on it. He’d have to take the risk that none of the DNA was traceable to him, if they were going to catch him, it was unlikely it would be from any tiny piece of shit on the stairs.
He wrenched the tie off her dressing gown and while he thought about it, he snatched the tiny camera he’d installed in her wardrobe and raced, breathless, back down the stairs.
The corpse, in the absence of support, had flopped back onto the floor, but a thrill of pride shot through him. He hauled her up again into the pose as far as he could remember. Without referring to the photograph in his bag, he positioned her, yanked the tie hard around her waist to keep her in position. He’d done it with no outside help. It was his job, his pride.
He stared at the kitchen and let out a dark chuckle. It was cleaner than when he’d arrived. He hoped Julia appreciated the free house clean.
Before he forgot, he reached up and snatched the other camera down from behind the blind. There was no further use for it in this house and he wasn’t made of money. Besides, they may be traceable. He may have bought them down the pub for a fiver, but you just never knew.
While he wrapped the wire into a small roll, he tilted his head to one side to study the limp body. Stupid bitch. Hadn’t the intelligence to realise when a predator was in the room. Served her fucking right.
He slid open a kitchen drawer, the bright glint of light from sharp knives stilled his hand for a moment as he studied them. He selected a short handled thin blade and placed it on the counter beside him.
He wrapped his gloved hand in her hair and yan
ked her head up. She didn’t deserve the makeover. His lips twisted as he took in the mess she’d made of herself. Blood, snot and tears. He swiped her face with a bleach drenched tea towel, scrubbed at it, but couldn’t remove the deep imprint of his fists. He dipped into his backpack and retrieved the make-up. Using a cheap sponge applicator, he swiped the blue across her purpled eyelids with careless disinterest and then smeared crimson lipstick over her swollen mouth.
With his fist still in her hair, he tilted his head to one side and slashed the knife across her throat, not so deep as to make a mess but deep enough that it was an acceptable copy of the original.
She’d have to do. She wasn’t the one he wanted in any case. She’d ruined that for him. He’d have to look at his list again, find a match. She’d certainly fucked up any chance he had of coming back for Julia.
Dark amusement shifted his mood.
Julia.
His chest rumbled with laughter. He’d wanted to spook her then kill her. The cameras were just for his own satisfaction. To watch her move around the house, observe the awareness dawning that she was being watched.
Her death was no longer on the cards, but he could never have anticipated the terror this one act would invoke in Julia. It was just a shame he couldn’t risk leaving one of the cameras, but the police would go through the place with a fine-tooth comb.
Perhaps, when the initial furore was over, he’d contact her again. Ask her out on a coffee date. See how she was holding up.
All provided they didn’t track him down.
He rubbed his aching chest as he settled on the idea, imagined the emotional mess she’d be in and grinned before he set to work on Karen again.
Instead of cleaning up the wash of blood over the messy heap of her clothes, he dropped the hold he had on her and listened to the muffled thunk as her chin hit her chest. There was no point dressing her in the nice, neat scrubs Julia had in her drawers – the only neat thing about her. Karen wasn’t a nurse. It would look like he’d made a mistake. Fucked up.
It was her who’d fucked up. And she’d paid the price. She could stay naked.
His stomach contracted again as he raked his gaze over the small kitchen and took up another cloth, dousing it in bleach and water and then wringing it out over the sink. With broad strokes, he swiped the surfaces clean, conscious of time slipping away.
He rolled up Karen’s clothes and the tea towels he’d used, rammed them into his backpack, then grabbed Julia’s mop, plunging it into the scalding water he’d run into the bucket, and added a few glugs of disinfectant. He swiped it over the tiled floors, side to side, as he walked back towards the door like he’d been taught in prison so they left no footprints in the wet, something that could identify them. Not that he could be identified from his generic, supermarket trainers. He wasn’t that stupid. His mind flicked back to the stair carpet. He no longer had the time to get a vacuum out. He’d have to risk leaving it.
Satisfied, he snatched up the backpack and flung it into the hallway and then finished cleaning the kitchen floor, then took the bucket to dispose of the water down the toilet. He skimmed around the rim and seat with another bleach-infused tea towel and then glugged the entire bottle of bleach down the toilet.
When it was done, he surveyed the room. Everything in order, each surface clean. He curled his lip with disgust. Not his finest hour.
He’d do better next time. Not make such a mess.
He backed out of the room and, with a quick survey of the street, he let himself out of the house, leaving the key in the lock as he stripped off his PPE and rammed it on top of the other items in his backpack.
The haunted keening of a dog in pain chased him down the street as little Alfie poured out his distress. He hated fucking dogs, he’d have killed Alfie as well if he’d had the chance.
29
Sunday 9 February, 20:55 hrs
Jim Downey stared up at Jenna from where he squatted in front of the young woman’s naked body, tethered to the kitchen chair. His face wreathed with confusion, he rolled his lips inward, then blew them out again with small puffs of air.
She came down on her haunches, eye level with him, to see what he could see. Her heart sank while she ran a critical eye over the scene. Another one. Not the same, but similarities. Copycat or not, they had a serial killer on their hands. Every detective’s nightmare and it happened to be on her watch. At least DI Taylor would be back in charge once he’d recovered from his jet lag.
She wandered her gaze over the familiar set-up.
‘Tell me what you know.’
‘I know the woman is dead.’ There was no sarcasm, just factual disappointment in Jim’s tone.
‘Sadly, she is.’
‘I also know this wasn’t the same standard of work as previous.’
Jenna squinted at the body. Similar pose. Victim tied to the chair. Head flopped forward. Naked though.
Jim came to his feet, pointed with a pencil. ‘He hasn’t taken the same time and care with her.’ He circled the pencil in the air above the young woman’s head. ‘The make-up is sloppier. Rushed, maybe.’
‘It was sloppy before. A bloody disgrace no woman would be seen wearing.’ He was a man, what did he know about make-up?
‘Not really. It was a parody, meant as an insult. If not to his victim specifically, then to all women. As though he had no respect, he wanted to show what in his mind women wearing make-up look like. Sluts, whores…’ His voice trailed off.
Jim tucked the pencil behind his ear and leaned forward, using both gloved hands to raise the victim’s head with gentle reverence, in direct contrast to the suggestions he’d made about the attacker.
The woman’s battered and bruised face had Jenna sucking in her breath through her teeth.
‘Dear God. He must have fists like hammers. It looks as though he’s broken every bone in her face.’ The soft bloatedness of it tugged at Jenna’s heart.
With a sharp intake of breath, Mason reflected her own shock as he reared back from where he’d leaned over to get a closer look.
Jim’s mouth pulled down at the edges as he inclined his head, eyes filled with a deep sadness.
‘He quite possibly has. Perhaps the previous victim, Marcia, didn’t put up a fight and maybe this one did, but it seems like a compete loss of all control.’
Jenna nodded her agreement while she tried to see beyond the discolouration of the woman’s skin at what Jim drew her attention to. ‘Could he have been in a rush? More flustered? If she’d fought back, maybe she took more time than he expected and got frightened, became panicked.’ Jenna squinted at the victim. Slashed across the woman’s face, she could see now that the make-up lacked the deliberateness of the previous victim’s.
‘Could have been.’ But Jim’s face reflected shadows of doubt. ‘When we checked the make-up on Marcia’s face, it didn’t match any of the make-up she had in her house.’
Jenna nodded, recalling that snippet of information. ‘Mmm, so we assume it was a deliberate choice of colour which the perpetrator provided. Brought along with him. Came prepared for the job.’
‘Yes. We’re tracing the brand, the colour. It takes a while. There are so many out there.’ Jim lowered the dead woman’s chin onto her chest and stepped back to rest his fists against his hips while he chewed on his top lip. ‘If you want my opinion, I don’t think it’s the same make-up.’
Jenna screwed her face up. She always wanted his opinion. She’d never known him to be wrong on any matter. Jim Downey only offered his expertise in areas he was confident he’d not be challenged on. If it wasn’t his area, he was old enough and wise enough to recommend where to get the information.
‘Why?’ She reached forward, kept her hands light as she raised the girl’s head and cruised her gaze over the face, closing out the damage to focus in on the eye make-up. The style, the colour. Darker blue than before, she guessed, not as garish. ‘Could just be the darker skin tone, the bloodied, burst vessels.’ She traced the puf
fy, misshapen line of lips with her gaze to zero in on the texture of the scarlet lipstick and cast her mind over the previous victim’s. ‘It’s glossy.’
Again, Jim nodded while Jenna continued to peruse.
‘Was the previous one a dull lipstick? Red, but you know, what do you call it?’
‘Matte.’
At the sound of another voice, Jenna glanced over her shoulder, reminded that Ryan was there. He stood further back from the scene, close to the door, possibly in case he puked again. She couldn’t blame him. There had been times in the beginning at crime scenes when she’d wanted to barf. With a little flick of pride at the fact that she hadn’t, she shuffled to ease the ache in her thighs as she’d squatted for longer than was comfortable.
Aware Mason had stepped in over her shoulder again, she had no choice but to remain where she was. ‘Bastard.’ The low-whispered retort only reflected her own thoughts. About to lower the girl’s chin, Jenna halted. She had to give the lad a chance. His pride was also at stake. ‘What else can you see, Ryan?’
She sensed Mason moving back to allow the younger man access.
Solid this time, Ryan stepped in close, hunkering down until he was shoulder to shoulder with her, at ease moving into her personal space. The burn of pride warmed her stomach at his competent, respectful demeanour.
He studied the form with intensity, eyebrows dipped low as his gaze skimmed over the victim’s face, down to her chest, where he halted his perusal.
‘Blood.’
Surprised at the speed with which he called it; Jenna questioned. ‘What about the blood?’