Prosper stared at the box.
He shivered as a chill crept over him. This was the last thing he needed after what he had been through today.
It was their secret account.
The Kult account.
And the message could signify only one thing.
Trouble.
CHAPTER 5
The Oracle parked within the mantle of trees and exited the car as the sun peeked over the horizon, chasing the dark away. He loved the transition period between night and day as it seemed so serene. He recalled seeing the sunrise in other countries, and wherever he was, it never failed to invigorate him.
He stared at his watch, noticed the time was 7:20 a.m. That gave him exactly five minutes to complete his task.
Weaving through the oak, beech and chestnut trees, he followed the slope down from the car park to where the path cut the small copse in two.
The national newspapers had been full of stories about Jane Numan’s murder, but they hadn’t released details about the photographs he placed around the corpse, probably because the police were withholding the information until they knew what it meant. One of the papers called him a monster. He liked that. Craved more of the same if his plan was to work as he intended. The more heinous his crimes, the more his notoriety would climb and the more public outcry he would create. It only took one officer to decipher the clues, and then for one person, things would get really interesting, really fast. Payback’s a bitch.
With this in mind, his next target was a fourteen year old boy called, Michael Brown, a victim that should get the moral brigade up in arms. Like with Jane, he had been watching him, getting to know his routine, to know the little foibles that made him easy prey. Michael worked as a paperboy. He left the house at 6:45 a.m. each morning, and cycled the two miles to the newsagents to collect the papers. His route was indelible, and never wavered.
The Oracle inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh, invigorating scent of the woodland. Soon the daylight would rouse the nation from its bed and the hustle and bustle of daily life would ensue, but for now, he basked in the semidarkness, his body quivering with excitement.
When he reached the path, he scanned the area for anyone who shouldn’t be there, then he checked his watch again. He now had less than four minutes.
He took the spool of fishing wire – specially selected for its breaking strain and its thinness – from his jacket pocket and tied one end around a tree trunk. Then he tied the other end around a tree on the opposite side of the path before testing the tightness of the wire by pulling it back and letting it go. The wire twanged like a bow string, humming merrily before it settled.
Satisfied, the Oracle looked at his watch again, and then slipped behind a tree, out of sight as he waited.
It won’t be long now.
Earlier, he had watched Michael leave his house on time, then he watched him collect the newspapers. That’s when he drove ahead to set the trap.
A noise caught his attention, the whir of a spinning metal chain. From his crouched position, he peered around the tree trunk and stared back up the path to see Michael pedalling furiously.
The path sloped quite sharply, and the Oracle had noted that Michael pedalled at full speed for a quarter of the distance before coasting the final part of the way, probably to rest his legs.
He watched as Michael ceased pedalling at the same spot as usual, legs raised either side of the pedals as he coasted, jeans flapping, his gelled, spiky blond hair hardly disturbed by the speed at which he travelled, a smile plastered across his cherubic features.
Newspapers flapped through the air like a flock of seagulls as the wire caught the boy across the chest, shooting him from his saddle, his arms flailing uselessly, body bent at the waist, legs rising higher than his head.
Michael didn’t make a sound as his back smashed onto the path. His mountain bike continued for a short distance before coming to rest on the bank further along, the front wheel still spinning. A distinct line sliced across the boy’s chest, the cut welling with blood that soaked into his t-shirt.
Acting quickly, the Oracle sprang from his hiding place and hurried to the fallen body where he crouched down and used the chloroform soaked cloth to render him comatose.
Satisfied the boy wouldn’t wake, the Oracle took a knife from his pocket and cut the wire, balling the remains and stuffing them in his pocket. Then he picked up the newspapers, and rammed them back into the satchel before throwing the bag into the trees, along with the bike so that they weren’t visible from the path before he returned to collect them.
Certain they were well hidden, he picked the boy up, surprised by how light he was, threw him over his shoulder and traipsed up the slope, using the trees as cover.
Once he reached his car, he deposited the boy in the boot, bending his body to fit him inside. Then he returned to collect the bag of newspapers and the bike. The newspapers went into the boot with the boy, the bike onto the rack he had attached to the rear of the vehicle for this very reason.
Leave no trace.
As he drove out of the car park, the sun rose above the trees. A new day was dawning, and he had lots of work to do.
CHAPTER 6
The Oracle dropped Michael on the cold stone floor, the boy’s eyelids twitching as though he was dreaming. He withdrew the knife from his pocket and cut the boys clothes off, tossing them aside.
The air smelled faintly of rotting meat from Jane Numan’s corpse – or what was left of it – across the other side of the room. Rats had started to nibble on her flesh, her face the main course in a grotesque banquet. The vermin had already chewed most of her nose away to reveal the skeletal cavity below and one of her eyes looked about ready to slip from the gnawed socket.
Flies swarmed around the body, alighting now and again on the flesh before taking flight and hovering above it like a black cloud.
Leaving the boy on the floor, he walked across the room to a pile of scaffolding poles. He moved aside one with a flattened end, the metal tube producing a melancholy sound like the note from a church organ as it clattered against its partners, and then he picked up one of the other poles and one of the swivel connectors that lay stacked beside them.
Muted sunlight streamed through the dusty high windows, the temperature in the cavernous room already rising, increasing the aroma of spoiled meat in the vicinity of the corpse. The smell didn’t perturb the Oracle in the slightest. He had gotten used to the stench of death a long time ago.
After removing his shirt, he used a spanner to tighten the nuts on the swivel connectors, erecting a simple framework about eight feet square. The clang of metal echoed around the room as he worked and he kept wiping the sweat from his face, the drops peppering the stone floor.
A scuffling sound drew his attention and he turned to see the boy shuffling backwards, his eyes wide with fear.
“Please,” Michael said, his voice weak and eyes wet.
The Oracle remained impassive. Channelling his anger into a tiny ball he picked up one of the scaffolding poles with a flattened end and strode towards the boy.
Michael stared up at him, his lower lip trembling. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“Revenge,” the Oracle said as he let the anger out in a controlled burst, ramming the pole through Michael’s stomach until it struck the concrete underneath the boy’s back, jarring his arm with the force of the blow.
Michael screamed and blood gushed out of his mouth in big globs to splatter his chest. He twitched and jerked like a fish out of water, his hands scrabbling to get a purchase on the pole, and then he stopped moving. His arms fell to his sides as he exhaled long and slow, the tiny bubbles in the blood streaming from his mouth popping softly as his eyelids drooped.
The Oracle released the pole, and it clattered to the ground, turning Michael’s corpse onto its side, and the killer turned away to continue his construction work.
CHAPT
ER 7
Prosper stared at the photograph Jill had just handed him, his stomach turning itself in knots. He tried to swallow but his throat wouldn’t work, his tongue a lump of rock. A label attached to the bottom of the photo read, ICARUS FALLEN, courtesy of the Oracle.
The picture was that of a naked, blond haired teenage boy suspended within a rectangular framework of metal scaffolding poles. His skin puckered where the poles entered his body, making him look like a human kebab. One pole pierced the boy’s abdomen. Two separate poles punctured each thigh, obviously shattering the thin bones, another one his chest, and another his shoulder. One bar pierced the boy’s left palm, holding the arm above his head in parody of a waving gesture.
As he looked at the photograph, Prosper couldn’t help thinking about his own son, Leon, and how he would feel if something like this happened to him. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would hurt a child in such a heinous way. It was inhuman. He shivered involuntarily and then turned his attention back to the picture.
“That’s just sick,” he said, looking up at Jill and Mike who stood beside him, their expressions pensive. “Although it’s got similarities, are we sure it’s the same killer as Jane Numan’s?”
Jill nodded. “It’s got the same M.O. and signature with the inclusion of the serial killer photos, so it looks like our boy has emulated his heroes and turned into a serial killer himself.”
“He’ll need to kill again before he can be called that. So let’s not let it get that far.” The thought of tracking a serial killer sent a slight shiver through Prosper, half excitement, half trepidation. “What’s the pathology report say?”
Mike withdrew a bundle of notes. “They say that as all the bar wounds appear bloodless and the edges dry, the first tube through his stomach was the one that killed him, then the rest of the mutilation was made post mortem.”
“Great. And how does that help us?”
“It doesn’t, but it might offer some comfort to the family of the victim that he didn’t suffer.”
Prosper almost choked. “Didn’t suffer! The maniac rammed bloody scaffolding poles through him. I think he suffered a lot, don’t you?”
“I’m only reading what it says,” Mike said, turning up his palms and shrugging slightly. “Anyway, that supposedly rules out the sociopath who commits a sadistic assault while the victim is still alive.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’ll cheer them up no bloody end.” Prosper stared at the photograph again, focusing on the pictures attached to the poles. “So do we know who these portraits pinned around the corpse are of?”
Jill passed across a piece of paper with a list of typed names. “It took a while, but we put names to them all.”
Prosper accepted the sheet and stared at the names.
Dr. Harold Frederick Shipman (twice). Robert William Pickton (twice). Anatoli Onoprienko (twice). Richard Leyva Ramirez (twice). Mack Ray Edwards. Coral Eugene Watts. Dennis Andrew Nilsen.
Prosper wondered why the killer added some photos twice. He also noted that Onoprienko had appeared in Jane Numan’s photograph, as had Shipman and Nilsen.
Are these the killer’s favourites? A serial killer’s heroes?
Prosper rifled through a pile of notes. “Okay, let’s go through what we know. The lad’s name is Michael Brown. He’s fourteen, fairly intelligent according to his teachers, and quite popular at school. Sporty, he played on the school football team and was involved in various out of school activities such as golf and cricket. He left the house on Thursday morning to do his paper round. He collected the papers at about seven, and then no one saw him after that. We know he delivered the first ten papers, but then he disappeared. We’ve gone over the route he would have taken, but haven’t found anything. Next thing we know, the photograph turns up. Like Jane Numan’s, there are killers portraits deliberately placed around the corpse. Any thoughts? Anyone?”
Mike scratched his stubbled cheek and shook his head.
Jill cleared her throat. “Why kill a disfigured girl and then a young lad? What’s the connection?”
Prosper stared at Jill “So we’re in agreement that he’s actually killed them, are we?”
Jill looked down at her hands and nodded.
“Well, perhaps there isn’t a connection. Perhaps they’re random, opportunistic killings,” Prosper said. “Now, what about the photos? Anyone got any thoughts on why they’re included?”
“They could be there to mislead us,” Mike said.
“In what way?”
Mike shrugged.
“No,” Prosper said, “I think there’s more to it than that. The killer’s gone to a lot of trouble to include them, so they must mean something. Mike, run another check through the database to see if any other murder cases have featured photographs of other killers at the scene, but widen the search to include any photographs left at the scene.”
Mike nodded and hurried out of the room.
Prosper ran a hand through his perspiration-damp hair. He looked back at the photograph, and felt Jill’s eyes boring into him, eager for answers he didn’t have.
The room felt like an oven, adding to the growing nausea he felt after staring at the latest picture. The killings were the last thing he needed, and he certainly didn’t need them after reading the e-mail sent to the Kult account the other day. It was the last thing he had expected to receive, but the e-mail served as a stark reminder that the past has a way of catching up.
Looking away from the pictures, Prosper could see his square face and clenched jaw in the reflective panel of the door behind Jill. Not liking the severe expression he saw, he slowly parted his teeth, allowing his features to relax. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his white shirt, wafting the collar to combat the stifling heat.
Jill, dressed in a smart blue skirt and jacket with a white blouse, seemed as immune as ever to the temperature. With not a brown hair on her head out of place, she carried herself with the bearing of one who lived her entire life in a sauna, now impervious to the vagaries of the weather. Her big brown eyes appeared wider than usual as she surveyed the photographs.
“Did that lead come to anything?” Jill asked.
Prosper snorted and shook his head. “It was just another crank. Where do all these nutters come from? I can’t understand why anyone would want to take the credit for something as sick as this.”
“Well, it’s better to have a few cranks who want to take the credit, rather than more killers willing to commit the act.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Thanks. It’s nice to see you actually agree with one of my theories.”
Prosper shook his head and swatted at an irritating fly before turning away. He didn’t want Jill to see her cockiness annoyed him, but now he had no choice but to face the photographs again. He let his gaze wander over them, not lingering too long on either one.
After a moment, he glanced through the glass partition into the adjoining incident room. Maps of the area covered part of the wall, decorated with coloured pins where Jane and Michael had been spotted prior to their disappearance. Lines had also been drawn on the maps that indicated the routes they were likely to have taken, or intended to take. Closed circuit television footage from shops and garages helped verify the routes, and helped create a timeframe, but the abduction/killing took place somewhere that the cameras didn’t cover, indicating the killer had done his homework.
The new fan on the table behind Prosper circulated the warm air, the plastic streamers hissing like snakes as they rasped together. The heat caused the photographs to shimmer, making them appear almost surreal. Wiping his brow with his handkerchief, Prosper turned back to Jill.
“Right, get a move on. I want you to go over Michael’s route again with a fine toothcomb. We need to find out where the abduction took place.” He paused and eyed her in annoyance. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
He watched her walk out of the room, then turned and looked at the photographs again, focusin
g on the pictures dotted around the corpses.
What the hell are you trying to tell me?
CHAPTER 8
Betty Granger left the bingo hall at just before ten o’clock. She couldn’t believe her luck, or more precisely, lack thereof. She hadn’t won anything for months, not even a line. Doris Hall on the other hand had called two full houses in the past four weeks – not that she deserved it – what with her having just remarried for the third time to a man with more money than bloody sense if he couldn’t see that Doris only wanted him for his wealth.
They didn’t call Doris the black widow behind her back for nothing.
A taxi pulled up alongside Betty, and a group of young men and women looking much the worse for wear exited and staggered into the brightly lit casino next to the bingo hall. Betty watched them enter before continuing on her way, pulling her coat around her frail frame, her bag clutched tightly within her gnarled hands as she hobbled along.
These young ones, more money than sense most of them. She figured they probably wasted more on a game of roulette than she had to spend in a week on groceries with her pittance of a pension.
That’s why a good win at the bingo would help ease some of her financial burden. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t paid her dues; attending every Thursday for near on thirty years, hardly ever missing a session.
Seeing the young couples made her think of John. She missed him so much that it caused an ache in her stomach. They’d been married for fifty years when the Lord took him in his sleep. It was a peaceful way to go, but waking up with his body had been awful, his flesh so cold.
Now, she dreaded dying in the same way, because who would be there for her? She could lie undiscovered for weeks before anyone found her, and it wasn’t as though her daughter, Gillian called often enough to notice. No, she had a family of her own, and Betty was lucky if she got to see her grandchildren once a year, usually on her birthday for a couple of hours. So while everyone else was enjoying family get-togethers, Betty would sit by herself with a single leg of turkey and the same artificial tree she’d used when Gillian was a child, its tinsel having lost its sparkle many years ago. But at least she made the effort, hoping that one day Gillian and her family might call around at the last minute to deliver her Christmas card in person. Betty would even visit them if she thought she’d be welcome.
Prosper Snow Series Page 3