Predator: an absolutely gripping psychological serial killer thriller

by Zoe Caldwell

  Martin was in his late thirties, privately educated, loud, brash, and not as smart as he thought he was, yet pumped full of self-importance nonetheless. He treated the Cambridge Gazette as though it were The Sun and he was Rupert Murdoch. Three other graduates and I worked under him. We all thought he was a fool, but we were ambitious enough to support his self-delusion – treating him like the big boss – in our efforts to get ahead and move on to greater things. I could handle Martin’s delusional nature, but I couldn’t handle the way he groped my arse in the staff kitchen, stroking his fingers over me, ignoring my shudders, knowing I’d be too stunned to say anything. I couldn’t bear the way he’d wrap his hand around my knee as he told me which stories he wanted me to cover. I hated the way he always sat too close, or crouched over me, breathing onto my neck. I couldn’t handle his invasive questions about my personal life, the texts at the weekend, the phone calls – his constant aggressive interest.

  He was making my life hell and I didn’t know what to do about it. Our paper was such a low budget operation that we didn’t have an HR person and I knew anyway that if I tried to report Martin, it would be his word against mine, and that had never worked out well for me in the past. All that would happen would be that he’d find a way to fire me, I’d lose my job, get a reputation for being a troublemaker and struggle to find work. The only person who’d suffer would be me. And I wasn’t able to simply leave my job. I didn’t have anyone to support me. It’s not like I had warm understanding parents to take me in and help me get my life back on track. I was terrified that if I quit, I’d become unemployable and I’d fall back into the life I was trying to run away from: a life of poverty, struggle and misery. I applied for dozens of jobs, but no one was getting back to me. I guess it didn’t look great that six months into my first position, I already wanted to leave. Meanwhile, I felt I had to keep taking Martin’s abuse without complaint out of fear he’d give me a bad reference.

  I was miserable. Utterly miserable. Between covering court cases and Martin’s abuse, my days were characterised by rape trials, court cases for break-ins, violence, sexual assaults, and the odd murder. I’d spend my time sitting in the courtroom, trying to maintain a thick skin, before heading back to the office to endure Martin’s bullshit. My colleagues weren’t really on my side. They hadn’t taken to me, which didn’t particularly surprise me; I’ve never exactly been the popular girl. And my colleagues were from different worlds: they had nice families, most of whom were supplementing their low salaries. They could afford to do fun things and go out at the weekends, while I couldn’t. I was a loner with no family and no money – pitiful, a drag. I spent my weekends alone, reading, wondering if this was all life had in store for me? At least at university, hope had got me through, it had driven me forward, but now I was a fully-fledged adult and all I could do was ask myself, was this it? I went on a few dates with random guys I met online, looking for company, fun, but I only got preyed upon. I sank into despair, falling into an abyss-like rut, until one day, I couldn’t take it anymore.

  Martin went too far. I was making tea in the office kitchen and he let himself in as the kettle was boiling. I smiled and turned to pick it up, pouring steaming water into my mug. Martin approached from behind and reached over me to get something out of the cupboard. He was too close, and I shrank away, recoiling, but he moved closer and then I felt something hard against my lower back. I spun around to see his dick tenting his trousers, pressing into me. I shrieked and jumped away, splashing hot water all over the counter, but Martin just laughed, smirking, as though the whole thing was a funny accident. I ran to the loos, although I didn’t even feel safe there. I was shaking, my heart pounding in my chest. I felt dirty, disgusting, despairing. Why me? Why had Martin chosen me? There were other pretty girls at the paper, but he’d targeted me. Would I always be fair game for abusers? Was there something about me?

  I knew I needed a way out. Over the next few days, I came up with a plan. Rumour had it that Martin had money. His father had died a few years earlier from a stroke, leaving him thousands of pounds. I didn’t know exactly how much, but I’d heard it was a lot. Apparently, his dad had been dealing in some black-market trades, not declaring income, flying under the radar by storing stacks of money in his home. Wads of cash were supposedly found in shoeboxes under his bed when he died. Paranoid about his bank or HMRC asking questions, Martin was said to have followed his father’s lead, keeping the money close by. A few colleagues said he’d been bragging about it after his dad’s death. I hadn’t paid the rumours much attention, writing them off as nonsense, office gossip, but after the incident in the kitchen, I began to wonder. If the rumours were true, then I was going to use Martin’s money as my ticket to freedom.

  I’d rob him. I’d wait until a time when I knew he’d be out, then I’d break into his house and root around for that money. I’d take it, stash it away somewhere, carry on like nothing had happened for a while, and then take flight. I’d leave my job and use Martin’s cash to start afresh somewhere new. It’s not like I’d have any guilt about stealing from him, when his behaviour had driven me to it. My plan gave me a feeling of hope that I hadn’t felt for months – a sense of purpose. I stopped wallowing in self-pity and planned my break-in instead. I carefully researched Martin’s home – a little bungalow in the countryside on the outskirts of Cambridge – first using Google Maps and then another time, when I knew he was heading to London to see a band in Shepherd’s Bush with a friend (a rare highlight on his pretty much non-existent social calendar that he’d been talking about for days), I headed to his house in person. I scoped out his bungalow, examining doors, locks, windows, analysing points of entry, checking for security, neighbours, dogs. I found a loose brick falling off a garden wall and I was half-tempted to just chuck it through Martin’s bedroom window there and then and get the whole thing over and done with, but I resisted. I had to do this right, there was too much at stake if it went wrong.

  I installed encryption software on my laptop to hide my internet activity and began researching lock-picking techniques and tools, tricks for jimmying doors open, clueing myself up on all things breaking and entering. I was browsing lock-picking sets when I had an idea. I’d been covering a spate of break-ins across Cambridge. As a reporter, I was one of the first to know when three or four salubrious family homes had been broken into during half-term while the occupants had been on holiday. I even interviewed an investigating officer about the burglaries. I knew a lot about the incidents, from the burglar’s description (a slim white male, around six foot) to his preferred method of entry (lock picking), the type of thing he was prone to pinching (jewellery, cash, designer goods), how he got away (on foot), and even his shoe size (eleven). With his practised lock-picking skills and ruthlessly methodical approach, combined with similar incidents having taken place in nearby towns, the police believed the culprit to be a gypsy – an experienced criminal passing through. I didn’t get the impression they were particularly optimistic about their chances of catching him. I decided I’d carry out a copycat break-in in the hope that the police would link it to the profile of the burglar they already had. I’d hardly be a likely suspect – a quiet unassuming reporter – but my plan still gave me peace of mind. I needed to get away with this so I could start my new life.

  I got ready. I bought lock-picking tools, watched dozens of how-to videos, practised on my own front door and any other lock I could get my hands on. I bought some size eleven trainers, leather gloves, a black beanie, a black hoodie, a dark backpack. Then I waited patiently day after day, week after week, until Martin finally mentioned in office chit-chat that he was going away at the weekend for a cousin’s wedding. My moment had arrived, and I was raring to go. On Saturday evening, I tweeted about how I was heading to the local cinema, and I really did go. I cycled there, bought a ticket, and chatted for far longer than necessary to the cashier in a bid to leave an impression (in the highly unlikely event that I might need an alibi). I even went
inside the theatre, before sneaking out the fire exit, hopping back on my bike and pedalling to Martin’s place. I left my bike a few roads away from his bungalow, pulled on my hoodie and hat and crept through the surrounding fields to Martin’s house, adrenaline surging through me – more excitement than nerves. I was confident I was going to get away with it and after all this time being put down by Martin, I couldn’t wait to finally get one over on him.

  His bungalow looked strangely vulnerable as I approached it in the darkness. I scanned for neighbours and passers-by, but the street was silent. I rang the doorbell, just to be on the safe side. I waited, rang it again. Nothing. I looked over my shoulder, slipped my lock-picking tools from my pocket and began picking Martin’s lock. In less than a minute, I’d got it open. I was in. I stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind me. Martin’s place smelt stale. It was messy. He’d left his worn leather shoes discarded in a pile by the front door. A couple of pegs were loaded with old jackets, scarves, blazers. The hallway was dirty and unswept, not particularly surprising since Martin was a bit of a slob in the office, but I noticed I was leaving good, solid, size eleven footprints in the dust from the men’s shoes I was wearing. I crept straight to his bedroom, having already memorised the layout of his bungalow from my previous visit.

  Martin’s bedroom was a depressing spectacle. Dirty clothes had been slung all over the floor, amongst discarded scuzzy tissues, a grubby laptop, even McDonald’s wrappers. Gross. I quickly drew the curtains, before rushing over to his bed and kneeling on the floor, peering under it. I found a few files, some old bills, letters, but no cash. None. My heart was hammering in my chest. I needed the money. There was nothing else worth taking. I turned to Martin’s chest of drawers, briefly noting the dead cactus on top of them. So useless he couldn’t even keep a cactus alive, what a man. I began pulling the drawers open, starting from the bottom, praying I’d find the cash hidden away, while wondering if I’d got all this wrong. What if the rumours were just rumours? Was this whole thing a bust? Was I going to have to go back to my old life, dealing with Martin day in, day out, putting up with my shitty job and miserable existence, only to be even worse off than before, because on top of everything else, I’d have the additional stress and worry of potentially getting caught for this pointless crime?

  I ransacked every drawer and found the square root of fuck all. Just boxers and T-shirts and jumpers and jeans. Despairing, I ran over to the wardrobe, but there was nothing in there either, apart from familiar suits and shirts. A car drove past outside, my heart was pounding, and I was close to giving up, when I spotted a bedside table I’d completely overlooked with a small tarnished lock on the front, and I wondered, could it really be there? Could Martin really be keeping thousands of pounds in his bedside table, behind a lock that I could probably jimmy open in a few seconds? I walked over to it, with a strong inkling that the money would be there: right by his bed so he could sleep next to it. So stupid, and yet I wouldn’t have put it past him. I wrenched the door open with a screwdriver. It swung on its hinges and the first thing I saw was a shoebox. I pulled it out and lifted the lid, only to find it full of cash. Time stilled as I took it in. There it was: money. Stacks and stacks of money. I pulled out another shoebox, prized it open. More money! I pulled out another, and another. The rumours were true. I grinned to myself, my heart pounding with excitement now as I crouched over the bed and emptied the boxes into my backpack. I was going to be free. Free! It was all going to work out after all, but then, all of a sudden, I felt a chill sweep over me and it was like the air pressure had shifted. In my excitement, I hadn’t noticed that someone else had entered the room, but now I could hear their breathing.

  I turned around and there he was: Martin. Standing there, watching me, eyes wide.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asked, his voice ominously low.

  I stood up, staring at him, my mind racing as I tried to figure out my next move. What was he doing here? He wasn’t meant to be back until tomorrow.

  ‘You crazy bitch. I’m calling the police.’ He reached into his trouser pocket for his phone.

  ‘No!’ I shrieked as he swept his thumb over the screen, lighting up the darkness between us.

  I reached over and slapped his phone out of his hand before he could dial. It landed on the floor.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Martin scowled, before plunging to pick it up.

  I shot down and tried to grab it first. There was no way I was letting Martin call the police. No way. He grabbed the phone, and I gripped his hand, desperately trying to seize it, pleading with him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Martin. I’m sorry. Please don’t call the police, please. It was just a mistake. I’m so sorry.’

  But it wasn’t working. Martin was hell-bent on calling. He wasn’t going to let me off the hook.

  ‘Get off me,’ he hissed, yanking his hand away.

  ‘Please, I’ll do anything,’ I begged, meaning it. I’d have fucked him at that point if that’s what it took, anything to stop him calling the cops, but he wasn’t listening. He was looking at his screen, he was about to dial. It wouldn’t take long before the police would be here, before it was game over. I needed to do something.

  I spotted an empty bottle of lager on his bedside table and decided I’d knock him out and make a run for it. Then it would be his word against mine that I’d ever been here. I was wearing gloves; it wasn’t like I’d left fingerprints anywhere. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any traces of my DNA. And I had my cinema ticket after all, there was a chance I could get away with it. I grabbed the bottle and in one swift motion, I swung it, smashing it hard against Martin’s lowered head, still illuminated by the light from his phone. Smack. But the blow didn’t knock him out like on TV, instead, the bottle just smashed against his head, causing blood to pour from his temple. Martin stared at me, in horror, bringing his fingers up to the deep gash, blinking in shock at the droplets of blood.

  ‘You crazy cunt!’ he yelled.

  Anger flooded his eyes, and not just regular anger, but rage. It’s a look I recognised instantly. There’s a switch that goes off in a person when rage takes over, and they become unstoppable. I used to see it in my dad’s eyes when he’d beat and abuse me, and I saw it in Martin’s now too. I knew it was him versus me.

  ‘You psycho bitch,’ he screamed, lunging at me, fists bared.

  I dodged his fists, brandishing my broken bottle in defence. I had to get him before he got me. There was still a chance I could get away with this, that it could be Martin’s word against mine, if I could get out of here without leaving blood, DNA. He swung at me, but I ducked, then he pushed me hard. I fell onto my back, and just before he climbed on top of me to strangle me, punch me, rape me, God knows what, I shoved the half-smashed bottle into his neck. I don’t know if it was self-defence, self-preservation or just pure rage, but I rammed the bottle in deep, as far as it would go. Blood began pouring out of him. I wriggled out from underneath him and scooted back as he collapsed onto the floor, blood gushing from his neck, soaking the carpet.

  Fuck.

  I wanted to run. But the money was still on the bed. I grabbed it, my hands violently shaking as I shoved it into the bag, shoebox by shoebox, stack by stack, getting as much in as I could, while keeping an eye on Martin over my shoulder as he bled all over the floor. I felt like I was being watched. It was as though his soul was leaving his body and watching me from the corner of the room as I pocketed each wad.

  I zipped up my bag and took in Martin’s lifeless form. The blood was still oozing from his neck, shining darkly in the grey light seeping through the window. I peered down at him. His eyes were half open, but there was nothing behind his irises anymore. He was gone. And yet, I was coursing with adrenaline – shock, fear, rage, excitement, surprise, awe – and I felt more alive than ever.

  I snuck out of the back door of Martin’s bungalow and raced in the darkness through the fields until I arrived at the side road where I’d left my bike. T
hen I cycled home, a cool, steady wind blowing over my face, strong and sharp – refreshing – like the rush of triumph flowing through me.

  The police ended up putting Martin’s murder down to a burglary gone wrong, pinning it on their traveller suspect just like I’d hoped. According to Martin’s cousin, he’d got into a fight at the wedding and had left in a mood, driving back after one too many drinks. The police suspected he’d confronted the burglar and things had got out of hand, which I guess in a way was true.

  I got away with it, and it was almost too easy.

  ‘Excuse me. Madam? Madam?’

  I blink. ‘What?’

  I realise a barista is staring at me. A coffee machine churns in the background.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he asks pedantically, as though it’s the third or fourth time he’s had to ask.

  ‘Err… a venti Americano, black,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘And a venti chai latte, please,’ I add, ordering for Jess too. She loves chai lattes.

  The barista punches my order into the till. He’s wearing a branded cap, looks mid-twenties, Spanish.

  ‘Daydreaming, huh?’ He smiles indulgently, his eyes flickering with flirtation.

  ‘Yeah.’ I laugh. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Thought so,’ he says, holding my gaze.

  I pay for my order, swiping my card against the reader.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  I raise an eyebrow. Is he really going to chat me up? Right here? In the middle of Starbucks?

  ‘Err… Camilla,’ I tell him hesitantly.