Trial by Execution

by T. M. E. Walsh

  ‘I’ve had to put it all to one side and try to forget. The trail’s long gone cold. A cold case that will likely never be reopened, never mind solved.’

  Claire stood. ‘You didn’t know it was Knox.’ She walked towards him, eyes never leaving his. ‘You just wanted it to be.’

  ‘The others knew it was him,’ he said. ‘Ffion, Raja and Sophie. They told me as much. After Knox’s conviction. You don’t forget those eyes. That’s what Ffion said, although I never had much to do with them afterwards.’

  ‘Maybe they wanted to move on? Christ, hadn’t they been through enough? Knox was put away.’

  He avoided her eyes then. ‘It wasn’t enough to keep him from getting out, though, was it?’

  ‘That was out of their hands. Out of yours.’

  He looked affronted. ‘What are you saying? Shit happens?’

  ‘Of course not, but if we can’t handle what happens after we get people like Knox put away, then we’re in the wrong job.’ She paused. ‘Your words to me once, you remember that?’

  Simon avoided her eyes and pulled her empty mug from her hand, and she flinched, unaware she had been gripping it so tight.

  She watched him disappear into the kitchen.

  She was unsure whether to follow him. She edged towards the open door. He was boiling the kettle again. She took that as a sign he wasn’t about to chuck her out any time soon.

  ‘You said they – Raja, Ffion, Sophie – knew these unsolved rapes had to be Knox?’ She waited until he turned to face her. He nodded. ‘What made them think that?’

  ‘Victim profile. The women were all similar age, from similar social backgrounds, areas, and, let’s not forget, all these women are beautiful.’ He paused, remembering the three women and how they looked now. ‘Despite Knox’s best efforts with the final three.’

  Claire watched as he turned to make another tea for them both. When he was finished, he handed her a mug.

  ‘I take it you’re going to see them?’

  ‘Already been.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ she said.

  Simon took a sip of his own tea, winced at the heat. ‘Wasting your time there, I think.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Sean Clarkson always did have a problem with control. He managed Raja’s life. What she did, who she saw. He also forbade her from talking to the press.’

  Claire’s mind wandered back to Adam Crowley and his exclusive with Raja and the others. She’d be sure to monitor the reactions once the interview went into print.

  Simon watched her carefully. ‘In truth, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now.’

  She cast him a look.

  He raised a hand in protest. ‘Hey, I’m not saying it to be difficult. You’ve got a suspect list a mile long – it could be anybody, given the hate towards Knox. If someone knows anything, no matter how small, they’re going to be less than willing to help you put away someone who most people are rallying behind.’

  CHAPTER 19

  The Wolf

  I remember the moment he died. His mouth was slick with blood, face pale and drawn. He did try to speak but he was no longer able.

  That was my fault.

  He was in agony, watching his own blood saturate his clothes and drip on the ground; but please, don’t feel sorry for him.

  This was justice.

  Real justice for everyone he had ever hurt. Even for the ones who didn’t know him and had only read about what he’d done. It’s funny how one man’s death can bring a community together.

  When I think back to that day, I wonder what he would have said if he’d been able to speak. Maybe he would have said he was sorry. Maybe he would have begged for his life. None of it would have made a difference. Nothing would have made me change my mind, but it could’ve passed the time, prolonged his distress, I suppose.

  His suffering was all I cared about. All that drove me on. I held on to that feeling and cherished it. He knew what was coming, like his victims had known. They’d remember every touch, every scrape of his blade, every agonising rip of pain through their bodies.

  Now it was his turn.

  I remember the look in his cold eyes as I placed my hand against his chest, right above his heart. I felt when it stopped beating.

  It’s a moment I’ll take to the grave.

  It was a bitter-sweet kind of ending, really. If I’d had it completely my way, I’d have invited others to watch, witness history. It would have been quite something to see their reactions. I wonder if they would have borne any similarity to my own.

  Still, this was enough for me. That’s what I kept telling myself.

  Sadly, like so many times before, I was to realise I was wrong and this was only the beginning.

  *

  I stood hunched over, back crooked, head twisted at an angle.

  I stared at the table in the gloomy light. Even during the daytime, it remained mostly dark here. Not even tiny chinks of light penetrated through overhead.

  Limited light also meant little fresh air. I could breathe okay in the sense I wasn’t going to pass out from lack of oxygen, but the smell was rank. It felt heavy, earthy, and sometimes I thought it might choke me if I breathed in too heavily.

  Of course it didn’t help when the air was tainted with the scent of sweat and blood.

  Then there was the fear.

  I never believed it to be true until I experienced it for myself. You can almost taste it when someone is scared enough. It feels almost acidic on the tongue.

  I stared at the table again, and tipped the bottle of water I’d bought over the top. It rinsed away some of the blood and piss. I didn’t bother to wipe away the more engrained stains that were left. It’ll be dirty again soon enough anyway.

  I slid the handcuffs that I’d attached either side of the table up and down, listening to the sound of metal against metal. I wasn’t sure if they would be enough.

  I carefully laid out the tools on the table at the far side of the room that were mostly for appearance’s sake, then I changed my clothes.

  After I laced up my shoes, I adjusted the hood over my head, and stared into the makeshift mirror I’d hung on a rusted nail that had been driven into the brickwork decades ago.

  Sometimes I didn’t recognise the face that looked back at me any more. In many ways that was better.

  A noise coming from outside distracted me from my thoughts.

  I froze.

  Then I recognised the rattling sound and allowed myself a brief smile. It gave me comfort knowing where it came from, knowing I wasn’t completely alone.

  I headed outside.

  The sun was beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. Faint spots of rain had been falling all morning on and off, and now a beautiful catchment of colour from a rainbow was arching across the sky.

  I stared up a moment and closed my eyes. Drops of rain still fell from the sky, feeling cool against my burning skin.

  I opened my eyes to stare at the rainbow again.

  Today would be a good day.

  #DahliaRapist and #VigilanteUK.

  That’s a hashtag, or something. I don’t fully understand it but that’s what users are writing on that website called Twitter. I never usually bother with social media, but I confess, it’s been entertaining to see the world buzzing about what I did to Raymond Knox.

  Well, he did always want to be infamous.

  And now he is, immortalised in an abundance of poor-taste memes – or whatever they are called – out there for everyone to see.

  All the latest articles, and headlines have brought it all home to everyone just how savage a man Raymond Knox was.

  He got what he deserved, yet all doesn’t feel completely right yet.

  I will make it so.

  PART TWO

  ‘Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burn
s it all clean.’

  Maya Angelou

  04/04/1928–28/05/2014

  (American poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist)

  CHAPTER 20

  17th April

  Tilly Hartley wandered into the park, taking the shortcut back home.

  She was glad of the light summer rain that fell from a sky so dark that not even the stars had come out to shine. Not tonight, on what she felt was the end to one of her darkest days in a while.

  She tilted her head back, raindrops landing on her closed eyes. The rain had always helped her think.

  Right now, that felt like all she could do – think.

  Think about how her love was gone for ever.

  She had memories at least: the things she’d made into scrapbooks, spiral-bound and bulging with clippings, along with the badges of support she’d made.

  Then there were the letters.

  The love letters she’d written that had been returned unread, some of them now clutched in her hand, bound together with bright-red ribbon, the others in a safe place.

  Tilly stuffed the bundle in her bag and sniffed back tears. She looked up, saw the black outline of the children’s playground under the light by the cricket pavilion.

  She pulled her mobile from her bag.

  It was nearly ten o’clock.

  Her mother wouldn’t be expecting her home for another hour yet, so Tilly opened the gate to the playground and sat on the nearest swing. She scrolled through her mobile, checking her Facebook, then her Twitter account.

  She stared at the last tweet she’d sent.

  It had had one retweet. She read the name of the woman who’d shared it and Tilly knew the woman was a kindred spirit.

  Still, Tilly felt a twinge of jealousy.

  The rain brought a chill to the air and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Her choice of clothes had been foolish for the changeable weather: a tight black skirt and shirt. Her bare legs shivered and her red pumps were soggy on her feet after walking through the grass and mud.

  She ran her hands over her long, dark, curly hair, pushing back wet, loose tendrils that stuck to her face.

  She let the tears fall when she saw his face in her mind. Her black eyeliner started to run over her pale cheeks.

  She felt empty, and she didn’t want to go home.

  She rested her head against the chain links holding the swing to the metal bars. She closed her eyes and felt the rain ease, becoming nothing more than a fine drizzle of mist.

  When she opened her eyes she saw someone standing underneath the light by the cricket pavilion’s main doors, watching her.

  Tilly dropped her mobile in fright.

  It hit the ground hard.

  She didn’t retrieve it. Instead her eyes were glued to the playground gate as it was slowly pushed open.

  CHAPTER 21

  The smell was the first thing that hit her. A musty, thick stench in the air, coated with something else. Sweat, urine, and the faintest hint of copper.

  Tilly opened her eyes.

  She saw shadows licking across the ceiling above her. A source of light was coming from the corner of her eye, but she dared not twist her head to see. She took in a shallow breath, felt a tightness in her chest, tried to scream but couldn’t.

  The events from hours ago flickered in her mind, unravelling like celluloid film. She remembered getting her phone, but she had no memory of putting it in her bag or pocket.

  A van! There was a van. She remembered getting into it. The smell, the earthiness. She remembered a smile and a hand on her shoulder.

  The rest was a blur, broken fragments, missing.

  A salty tear fell from her eye.

  She shifted her arm, felt metal bite into her wrists.

  Risking a glance to the side, she saw the handcuffs securing her to a rickety metal gurney. Instinct caught her, and she pulled at both wrists. The sound of metal against metal shattered the silence in the room.

  Feet shuffled across the floor in the room from someone who seemed to melt into the shadows.

  Tilly sucked in a deep breath.

  As the light from the corner of her eye flickered, disturbed, she thought she saw the shadows of demons dancing over the ceiling.

  ‘Please?’ she said, with a voice that didn’t quite sound like her own. ‘Let me go.’

  The feet shuffled against the floor, the sound coming from her left this time. Her eyes swivelled in their sockets. She saw little in the darkness, but she could just make out the outlines of objects on a small table barely two feet from her. She saw her handbag, open. Her precious letters still neatly tied as a bundle.

  The light in the corner flickered again, and Tilly felt the presence of the one lurking just out of view in the shadows.

  ‘Please let me go.’

  She saw a shadow move across the ceiling. Her head shot to the right, and she finally saw the candles in the corner, resting on a metal shelf.

  All was silent again, until she felt breath, hot against her exposed neck. An involuntary shiver shot down her spine. Her eyes squeezed shut as she suppressed a deep moan of despair, her lips pressed tight together.

  Tilly felt fingers walk their way over her shoulder.

  Gooseflesh puckered her skin when she realised her shirt had been ripped away. Her hands shot to her stomach, the handcuffs clanging in protest. She let out a deep breath when she realised she wasn’t naked down there, but her relief was short-lived.

  A whimper escaped her lips. She’d seen the headlines, read what had been done to Raymond Knox. She knew what was coming.

  She knew there would be pain. Lots of it.

  She tilted her head back, saw a shadow retreat back to the wall, saw the outline of brickwork, ragged and worn.

  Her head shot from side to side, desperate to find a way out. She saw the outline of what looked like car tyres piled in one corner. She saw the rough, concrete floor, awash with the remnants of dead leaves that had been carried in on the violent winds from the storms that January.

  She sniffed hard, biting back more tears.

  Then an almighty shadow appeared on the ceiling, the candles flickering, flames fighting not to go out, and Tilly felt something in the air shift.

  Her body trembling, eyes looking at the candle flames, she waited. The shadow in her line of vision soon gave way to a dark mass, rising like an evil entity.

  The black mass gave way to hair and flesh.

  The candle flames soon became blocked from view, with only a hint of light glowing like a halo behind the evil thing beside her.

  A retractable blade came into view, its surface dull, but Tilly saw every line, every scrape that had tarnished the blade.

  ‘Oh, God, no,’ she said, saliva flecking her lips, and convulsions ripping through her body.

  She heard the whisper. ‘God is not here.’

  A low groan of despair escaped Tilly’s lips, which soon gave way to deathly screams.

  CHAPTER 22

  18th April

  The Wolf

  This is the perfect place to start a fire. I used to start ones like this back when I was a child. I remember being mesmerised by the flames licking at the sides of the metal barrel, bright oranges and yellows, like this, in the here and now.

  I like the way the flames almost snatch the clothes from my hands, as I lower them inside the old metal drum. I like to think that the fire is erasing a part of that person – blood and skin, turning to ash.

  I’m getting better at this.

  Better than I thought I’d be. This time it felt like all this is worth it. It felt right.

  She was heavier than she looked.

  That’s what I’ll remember when I think of Tilly Hartley.

  This breeze is calming, even if it is drying the sweat on my bare skin. Some of Tilly is drying there, too. I wonder if, when I smell my skin, I’ll be able to imagine Tilly is still with me?

 
I had to take her body further than I’d wanted to, but since her mother had alerted the police that her daughter was missing, I had to change my plans.

  I was going to take Tilly’s body back to the park. I planned to leave her on the swings where I found her, take the chance a child might find her the next morning, hoping a jogger would get there first instead, but I had to rethink the plan.

  There were too many people about. Tilly’s mother must have reported her daughter missing after she found her mobile, screen smashed where I’d knocked it from her hand in the struggle to get her into the van.

  I drove to the outskirts of Haverbridge instead, just before the regeneration reserve, and dumped her by the roadside.

  Too late I saw the dusty, white residue on the hem of her skirt. As I tried to pry the garment from her lifeless body, I heard the sound of an approaching car. It sounded far off in the distance, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  I drove away, in the opposite direction, glancing at the clock on the dashboard.

  04:00 am.

  Time enough for me to get back, right after I finished here.

  In the drum, the final scrap of fabric curls to nothing in the flames and I can’t tear my eyes away.

  I’ll take this moment to think of the last thing Tilly said to me before I silenced her for ever.

  CHAPTER 23

  When the call came in that a body, matching the description of missing girl Tilly Hartley, had been found, nobody was too surprised. It wasn’t unusual for young women to go missing and turn up dead in Haverbridge, but when news filtered through of what had been done to the body, Claire was quick to arrive at the crime scene.

  The road had been closed, but Claire was allowed past after flashing her warrant card at the uniformed officer beside the police cordon. Ahead she could see the lights from an ambulance, several police cars and the Beds and Herts Scientific Services van.

  A white incident tent had been erected, not only to preserve evidence from the elements, but also to keep the prying eyes of the media at bay.