Black Heart: A totally gripping serial-killer thriller

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  And I do like to be right.

  Chapter Four

  She took the communal stairs up to her apartment on the fourth floor carrying the purchases from a day’s West End shopping trip. Spending money had felt good; she’d earned it. High on adrenaline, she took the stairs two at a time, an abundance of energy coursing through her and making her feel powerful as the array of designer shopping bags she was carrying in both hands scraped against the walls. She’d spent around three and a half grand in as many hours today in Gucci, Victoria’s Secret, Selfridges, All Saints… But it was the thrill of what had taken place at La Reymond in penthouse suite 106 that had really given her a sense of omnipotence. She marvelled at how easy it had been to take another life and the unadulterated pleasure rush she had derived from it, and she wondered why she hadn’t done it sooner. Getting away with it felt like a reason to celebrate. She knew the first forty-eight hours were critical and they had passed by with no cause for concern. At least not for her. Clearly she’d covered her tracks efficiently enough and she felt a touch silly at fleetingly having doubted herself. She’d purposefully made the scene look like a grisly suicide on first sight, but she was aware that with further investigation the real motive would become apparent. Subconsciously she wanted it to be, really throw those fuckers into a spin questioning themselves. She’d been careful to cover any DNA trail but the idea that the police would eventually discover that Daddy Bear had been murdered excited her.

  She imagined the moment someone, probably the housekeeper, had walked into suite 106 and discovered the gruesome scene. Witnessing something like that scarred a person and it only added to her pleasure to know she had affected a total stranger’s life in such a manner. Daddy Bear’s wife though, she’d be having real problems right about now. That she could count on. He’d confessed to being married with two kids pretty much instantly when they’d connected online; she was sure he’d given their names and ages too, but she’d only feigned interest and couldn’t recall them. Now she wished she could, because it would have allowed her to visualise their grief with much more clarity. On a conscious level, she knew she was supposed to feel some type of remorse, pity or guilt for the family he’d left behind. Because that’s what human beings are supposed to feel. But her subconscious was blank, void and empty like a dark abyss. She had no access to such emotions and could only picture what they might look and feel like. Her emotions consisted only of visual fantasies, as she imagined his wife, hunched and crying at his graveside, the tragedy taking its toll on her face as she silently blamed herself, and his children, bereft, propping her up as they sobbed and grieved for their fat, useless fuck of a cheating father. She caught herself smiling at the thought of this scenario. It was the first time she’d considered his family since the slaying. Slaying. She liked that word; it was somehow more befitting than ‘murder’. Daddy Bear had been a sacrifice and his demise had left her feeling a height of euphoria she’d never reached before, not even during her past repertoire of deviant and perverted behaviour. It was sustenance to her psyche, filling up a measurable void inside her to the extent that she almost felt human, real, alive.

  She wondered if this was how other people felt in their everyday lives? Her morbid jealousy of other people’s ‘ordinary’ lives and their ability to self-generate happiness was part of the disorder that drove her to secure, entrap, then devalue and discard people. But not before sucking the very life from them first; draining them of every good, joyful human feeling and experience and leaving them a broken, empty husk of their former glorious selves.

  Taking things one step further towards physical murder however had been a long time coming. It had been a dark, insidious, gradual fantasy until it had manifested itself as a progressively logical reality in her twisted mind. It was a story she needed to tell – one in which she got to write the ending and set herself free.

  Thoughts of Daddy Bear’s family evaporated quickly as a pang in her belly alerted her to her hunger. All that shopping had given her an appetite. Maybe she’d treat herself to a takeaway tonight before getting back online again. She didn’t want to waste time, not when she was riding such a high wave. However, she suspected that procuring Mummy Bear was going to be a trickier process than entrapping Daddy Bear had been.

  Lost in her thoughts, she almost didn’t see the woman from the apartment opposite her at the top of the stairs. She was red-faced and looked agitated; a pile of grocery shopping bags was clustered around her feet. The woman smiled almost apologetically when she saw her coming up the stairs.

  ‘Hi,’ she said in response to her neighbour’s smile. She was in a good, no, great mood and felt like she wanted someone to witness it. ‘You okay? You look a little stressed out.’

  She didn’t recognise this woman. She must be new.

  The neighbour sighed heavily. ‘I’ve only gone and locked myself out,’ she said, shaking her head in disbelief at her own stupidity. ‘I’m such… such an idiot. Don’t know where my head’s at at the moment… All over the place…’ she berated herself, embarrassed.

  ‘Oh shit, really?’ She smiled, in an attempt to appear sympathetic. ‘You not got a spare set of keys?’

  The neighbour opened out her palms and looked to the ceiling. ‘Well, you’d think, wouldn’t you, but no. The spare set’s…’ she pointed to the locked door, eyes rolling, ‘in there.’

  ‘Oops… you poor thing.’

  ‘Dozy arse you mean… honestly, the week I’ve had…’ She shook her head, her unruly curly ginger hair looking almost as angry as she was with herself. ‘I’m going to have to call a locksmith now, more bloody expense.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yeah… those guys aren’t cheap. You can’t call your landlord? He’ll have a set, won’t he?’ She was being helpful, making suggestions. Sometimes it was fun playing human.

  ‘I own it,’ the red-haired woman said, apologetically again.

  She realised she was the type of person whose foot you could stamp on and they would end up being the one apologising to you for having a foot in the first place. A nice person. Now she had her interest.

  ‘Oh, you bought the place… lucky you. Wish I could afford to buy. The rent’s extortionate on my place.’

  ‘Part of my divorce settlement; he got to keep the house, but he didn’t get to keep me… It’s okay though,’ she quickly added, clearly not wanting to overshare.

  Her mind began to rev with possibilities as she mentally assessed the woman.

  ‘Look, why don’t you come inside, bring your shopping in and wait while you call a locksmith?’

  The woman’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

  ‘Really? Oh, that’s so kind of you.’ Her neighbour’s head fell to the side, reminding her of Daddy Bear and how he’d looked in the bath with his head titled, like it was trying to escape from his neck. ‘Only if you’re sure… I’m not putting you out am I? It’s Saturday, I’m sure you’ve got plans…’

  She smiled. ‘Yeah, planning on sorting through this lot,’ she held her purchases up proudly, ‘getting a takeaway and watching crap telly… it’s no bother at all.’

  The woman was picking up her bags now. ‘I’m so grateful, thank you…’

  ‘… Danni-Jo,’ she said. She’d been Danni-Jo for a while now.

  ‘I’m Karen, but everyone calls me Kizzy… my friends call me Kizzy.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Kizzy,’ Danni-Jo reached for her keys, ‘come on in.’

  Chapter Five

  Kizzy hung up the call.

  ‘They’ll be here within the hour,’ she said with that apologetic look on her face again, nervously chewing her bottom lip with her protruding front teeth.

  ‘No worries,’ Danni-Jo assured her, ‘really… I’m not doing much, like I said. Besides, it’s nice to meet a neighbour, a friendly one anyway. You know, I’ve lived here for two years and no one’s ever said so much as hello to me!’

  Kizzy looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘Really? But y
ou’re so nice and friendly yourself.’

  She feigned modesty, lowering her eyes slightly.

  ‘That’s nice of you to say, but I don’t spend an awful lot of time here, I’m always at work. Work, work, work…’ she sang the words in the style of the Rihanna song.

  Kizzy nodded sympathetically.

  ‘So what do you do Danni-Jo, for work, work, work?’

  She thought on her feet. Bought a few seconds by laughing. ‘I work in a hotel, up near Mayfair, it’s really not very exciting at all… but I’m studying to be an actor. I go to drama school.’

  Yeah, that sounded good: an actor. It made her sound interesting at least. She saw Kizzy’s eyes wander to the pile of designer bags she’d dumped on the armchair and guessed what she might be thinking.

  ‘My dad died recently, he was an actor too. Starred in a few films, did pretty well for himself really. Enough to see me right when he passed anyway.’ The first, and last part, incidentally, were true. Her cunt of a father had recently died. And once news had reached her through the solicitor that she’d been bequeathed his entire estate, she’d celebrated his passing with a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a Domino’s pizza. He hadn’t been an actor, although he’d done a pretty good job at acting like a loving, caring father when he’d needed to. That monster had owed her every penny of her inheritance, and the moment it had been signed over to her she’d promptly sold off the family home in Surbiton and bought her Mayfair pad. That house held nothing but terrible memories; sick, deviant, dark and twisted memories, and she’d been happy to get shot of it. Her mother had died in that house, and had she not been taken away when she had, she felt sure she would’ve died there too.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kizzy said mournfully, ‘I understand what it’s like to lose a loved one. My sister passed away some years ago. Breast cancer, she was only thirty-four.’

  Danni-Jo shook her head. ‘That’s so sad. Was she older or younger than you?’

  ‘Six years younger than me, she was my baby sister. I can remember her being born.’ Kizzy looked visibly upset. ‘When she went, it made me re-evaluate my life completely.’

  ‘Things like that do,’ she replied, guessing. She was in her late forties. Around the right age. ‘Hence the divorce?’

  Kizzy looked down into her lap and sipped on the hot herbal tea she’d been offered.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘No, no, not at all… Yes, it was really. It was,’ she shifted uncomfortably on the soft couch, ‘a pretty toxic relationship. Took me seventeen long years to finally build up the courage and self-esteem to leave him. After Megan died something in me just said “no more”. That man took the best years of my life.’

  Abuse victim. It figured. Kizzy had clearly been conditioned into feeling invisible. Years of never having her own needs met had whittled away her personality to a subservient shell, apologetic just for being alive. She was skittish, her movements jerky and nervous. She’d reached for a biscuit on the coffee table almost like a child who’d already had too many and was waiting for it to be slapped away.

  ‘Did you have children together?’ Danni-Jo knew she was asking personal questions but she figured she had the right to, being as Kizzy was in her apartment sitting on her sofa, drinking her herbal tea and eating her Hobnobs.

  ‘No kids,’ she said, quietly. ‘I wanted them but I’m glad I didn’t have them with him… now.’

  ‘Well, it’s never too late,’ she said breezily, sensing her guest had begun to feel a little melancholy.

  Kizzy laughed but it sounded hollow. ‘Oh, I’m way too old for all that now, and besides, I’d have to find a man first!’

  Danni-Jo scoffed. ‘Well, there’s plenty of those fuckers around let me tell you.’

  Kizzy’s face reddened a bit – at the use of her bad language she presumed, or perhaps it was simply the thought of getting some prospective dick? She couldn’t imagine her engaging in such a pursuit.

  ‘Maybe for an attractive young woman like yourself,’ she said. ‘But me…?’

  ‘Don’t do yourself down,’ Danni-Jo said, almost wanting to like her for a moment. ‘You certainly don’t look old.’ That was a lie; Kizzy looked every day of her forty-something years and then some, though she suspected with a decent makeover she’d scrub up alright. The teeth were a problem though: she had a large overbite and one of her front teeth slightly overlapped the other, adding insult to injury. They were really quite offensive. Suddenly she had a vision of grabbing Kizzy by the back of her ginger hair and slamming her face into the glass coffee table, smashing her bad teeth to pieces.

  ‘You should get yourself online you know, plenty of divorced men on the hunt out there, plenty of married ones too.’

  ‘Oh nooo.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not brave enough for that. All that… rejection.’ Kizzy smiled awkwardly.

  ‘Well, you never know, this locksmith might be “the one”.’

  ‘I admire your positivity,’ she replied.

  Positivity. Now that was a first. She was actually beginning to rather enjoy her odd neighbour’s company now. Kizzy clearly saw Danni-Jo as superior; prettier, more talented, wittier, younger and more confident. She basked in such an image of herself being reflected back to her.

  Poor woman literally reeked of eau de low self-esteem and with her almost childlike gestures, she suspected she may be mentally challenged in some way, bipolar or borderline perhaps. Not that it mattered, so much the better. This would make her tracks easier to cover. Suddenly she thought of the bottle of arsenic, the tiny vial hidden in her kitchen cupboard along with the condiments. But no, she couldn’t, could she? She hadn’t thought it through properly, hadn’t had enough time to plan thoroughly, and she hadn’t established a genuine relationship with her: not yet at least. But the situation had somehow seemed to present itself to her and she decided this must be a sign. A positive sign.

  ‘Listen,’ Danni-Jo said, resting on the arm of her sofa and meeting Kizzy’s watery green eyes, framed by crow’s feet, ‘once the locksmith has done his job and you’re all sorted out, if you fancy it, give me a knock. I’ve got a night off and I’m getting a Chinese takeaway and opening a bottle of Prosecco if you want to join me? We can watch The X Factor together if you like? I’ve got a guilty crush on Simon Cowell, but don’t tell anyone,’ she giggled conspiratorially and Kizzy joined in, placing her hand over her mouth as though it were the most outrageous confession she’d ever heard. Perhaps it was.

  ‘Really?’ she said, clearly taken aback at the unexpected invitation. ‘Well, you know, that’s so lovely of you but I couldn’t possibly intrude on your Saturday evening.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Danni-Jo lightly dug her in the forearm, ‘I’d love it if you could join me. Better than sitting here all on my tod.’

  Kizzy looked elated. ‘Well, if you’re sure, then that would be great. I love Prosecco and I could murder some sweet-and-sour pork balls.’ She laughed at the irony of her statement.

  ‘Pork balls it is then.’

  Chapter Six

  I’m driving down the M25, doing around 75 mph and listening to Kasabian. They’re a hybrid mix of Oasis and Muse in my opinion: all driving guitar riffs and catchy choruses with a lot of swagger, even though they’re from Leicester, which isn’t a particularly rock-and-roll place all told. I imagine they’re right jumped-up little dickheads, you can just tell, but they’ve got a few tunes so fair play. I’m contemplating messaging back ‘Keen Shirl’ – as I’ve decided to call her – and agreeing to a second date, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be fair, because I just don’t think I fancy her. I reckon she’d have sex with me though, Keen Shirl. In fact, I’m sure she would, and I don’t mean that in an arrogant way. I just know, you know, but really I’m not that kind of bloke. I’ve never been one of them fuck ‘em and forget ‘em types, just out for the score. And I’m too old for one-night stands now.

  Rach had never had a one-night stand in her l
ife, so she told me, and I believed her. ‘They all just kept coming back for more,’ she laughed, throwing her head back like she did whenever she laughed. She had an infectious laugh, you had to join in. Often the laugh itself became the joke. God help me, I miss that girl.

  My mind wanders back to Janet Baxter, even above the din from the stereo. I’d rather it didn’t, and I turn Kasabian up a few notches, but it doesn’t drown out my thoughts, so I go with them.

  ‘My Nigel would never kill himself.’ I see her shaking her head vehemently, grief and conviction in her watery, red-rimmed eyes. She says this is as an absolute unwavering fact. Cynicism in this job is par for the course. You could sum it up with, ‘you think you know someone…’ Being a copper has taught me that, hey, you might think you know someone, but one day you wake up and find you’re married to a serial killer. That shit really happens. What I find interesting in those situations is the doubt that’s often directed towards the wives. ‘She must’ve known, surely? She must’ve suspected her husband was a rapist/paedophile/cross-dresser/whatever, they’ve been married for twenty-five years!’ It’s pretty unfair, because I think in some cases the wife genuinely doesn’t know the person she’s married to. You’ve got to remember who you might be dealing with; psychopaths are absolute masters of disguise, able to shape-shift and operate on a level that would make a chameleon look like an amateur. They are incredibly skilful at pulling the wool over people’s eyes; their ability to manipulate and con makes them utterly convincing, consummate liars of the highest degree, devious beyond the realms of human comprehension and devoid of a conscience and empathy. The absence of empathy: that’s the crux of their disorder, the heart of the matter. Empathy prevents most of us from murdering, pillaging and raping each other. Conscience and the ability to empathise with fellow humans stops us from butchering a child, cutting its body into pieces and inviting its mother round for tea and biscuits. But it does happen. I’ve seen it.