by John Marrs
‘You’re a dark so and so, aren’t you?’ Amy said. He returned to find her standing in front of his bookshelves, her head tilted to one side, reading the titles printed on their spines. Each shelf was colour co-ordinated and placed in size order. ‘Inside The Mind Of A Serial Killer, The Zodiac Killer, Serial Killers Anthology,’ she read out loud. ‘Plus four books on Jack the Ripper and two on Fred and Rosemary West … I’m sensing a theme here, Chris.’
‘I like to know what makes people tick,’ he replied matter-of-factly, and poured two glasses of wine, making sure their levels were identical. ‘Human behaviour interests me. Even if it’s dark.’
He recalled reading many biographies about Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, who’d murdered thirteen women back in the 1970s and 80s, right under the nose of his unsuspecting wife. Christopher had wondered how he’d got away with it and what fulfilment he’d gained from taking such a risk. Had he truly loved his wife, or in Sutcliffe’s world of paranoid schizophrenia, had she been the anchor that’d kept him from setting sail into complete insanity?
He had begun to spot parallels in their lives, all bar the mental illness. He knew one of the many advantages he had over Sutcliffe was that he didn’t need such ballast as he wasn’t insane; far from it, in fact. All the studies and tests he’d taken proved he was operating well above the average person’s level of intelligence. His killing spree was a challenge, not a compulsion.
‘Even your choice of fiction is macabre,’ Amy continued, ‘Hannibal Rising, American Psycho, We Need To Talk About Kevin, Donald Trump’s autobiography …’
Christopher had read and watched many depictions of psychopaths, but he had very little in common with them. So many like him had had their images misused, misrepresented, exaggerated and caricatured by novelists and scriptwriters because they were easy targets and shocked audiences. American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman, Hannibal Lecter, Gone Girl’s Amy Dunne or the malformed soul of Cathy Ames in East of Eden all had varying degrees of psychopathic traits, but none like his.
Only the eponymous Tom from the novel The Talented Mr. Ripley bore any resemblance to him, with their shared love of the finer things in life and how the manner in which they attained them showed a clear lack of guilt. But Tom’s machinations resulted in a curious mix of triumph and paranoia, while Christopher’s did not.
Suddenly Amy’s attention was drawn to a white book that had no name on the spine. Christopher’s heart raced and he held his breath as her hand pulled it out a couple of inches further. The danger-seeking side of him had deliberately left it there and had wanted her to remove the book and open it, but his dominant controlling side knew that it would be game over for her if she did.
‘Your meal is getting cold,’ he said, and Amy left the book where it was and joined him at the table. ‘Why hasn’t your serial killer been given a name?’ he asked, firmly cutting into his steak.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, most serial killers are given a nickname, either by journalists or by the police. The Yorkshire Ripper, the Zodiac Killer, the Angel of Death … this guy hasn’t been given one.’
Christopher was genuinely insulted that his efforts had not yet been rewarded with a moniker. It made him question why nine dead women – and hopefully another to add to the list the following night – weren’t enough to be taken seriously.
‘I don’t know,’ Amy replied. ‘It’s usually the media. Would you like to come up with one yourself?’
‘Isn’t that a bit distasteful?’
‘Coming from a man with twenty books on his shelves about serial killers? You’re an expert.’
‘You need to tell me what you know about him first before I can pick a name.’
‘Well, this comes from my DI who’s been having meetings with all departments this week, just in case anything about the suspect sounds familiar. The psychological profiles tell us he’s male, aged between twenty and forty. He prefers to target single women living alone. His MO is always the same: he breaks in through a ground-floor door or patio doors by picking the lock – their doors are almost always quite old and security lapse – he kills them in the kitchen then lays their bodies out, arms to their sides and legs straight. Then he gives himself anywhere between two and five days to kill another woman, returns to the scene of the last crime and places a photograph of the most recent victim on her predecessor’s chest. He leaves no DNA that we know of, so he is methodical, but while the women targeted are only in the London area, he seems to be taking a scattergun approach to where they live, which makes it harder to narrow down where he might strike next.’
Christopher felt the butterflies in his stomach circle in a swarm and take off en masse, making his entire body buzz with excitement. He’d never heard anyone speak in person about his work in such detail before; his only interaction with others on the subject had been via anonymous web message boards.
‘We think he leaves the photographs either to taunt us, or to show he has no plans to stop,’ Amy continued. ‘And he leaves the same spray-painted image on the pavement outside each one of the victims’ homes to identify she’s inside – it looks like a man carrying something on his back.’
‘Yes, I saw the picture in the Evening Standard.’
‘He’s like a ghost in the way he just vanishes and then appears again.’
‘The Ghost Killer.’
Amy shook her head. ‘That’s a rubbish name for him.’
‘The Silent Killer.’
‘Isn’t that carbon monoxide?’
‘The Cheese Wire Strangler.’
‘The word “cheese” sounds like you’re trivialising what he does.’ Amy stopped abruptly. ‘How do you know he uses cheese wire?’
Christopher paused briefly, realising his error. All the reports he’d read about the murders had stated wire had been used to strangle the victims, but not specifically wire used to slice cheese.
‘It stands to reason,’ he said, thinking on his feet. ‘If you’re going to strangle somebody with wire that tough, you’re going to need handles to hold on to otherwise you’ll risk severing your own fingers.’
‘We think it’s cheese wire too,’ Amy said.
Good, she’d bought the lie.
‘Based on the width and depth of penetration, and the chemicals left in the victims’ wounds, it’s cleaned regularly between killings.’
‘Do you know where the weapon’s from?’
Amy nodded and ate another mouthful of steak.
‘And I bet it’s been available to buy across the country for years, hasn’t it?’
‘John Lewis and it’s been on the shelves for a decade at least. You’ve done your homework, haven’t you?’
Christopher nodded. Amy had no idea just how much homework he’d done or how happy she’d just made him.
‘Well, if you come up with a name for him, you should mention it at work,’ he urged. ‘How often do you get to come up with a nickname for a serial killer?’
‘Probably about as often as I spend time with one.’
Chapter 28
JADE
The man standing before Jade was most definitely Kevin, but clearly the pictures he’d sent her had been taken some time ago.
This was not the Kevin she had travelled so far to see. His face was youthful but his eyes had lost the sparkle that’d been captured in so many of his photographs. He was almost completely bald, all bar some soft wisps of hair covering his scalp. His arms were sinewy – his tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt had probably once fitted him but now hung loosely like they’d been thrown onto a scarecrow – and his skin was pale and gaunt. In his left hand, he held a portable drip, which was attached to a metal frame with wheels. Jade took in his appearance from head to toe, both astonished and confused by it. Her initial anger towards him rapidly dissipated.
‘Do you mind if we sit?’ Kevin smiled and she nodded, too lost for words to reply. She followed him into a spacious, brightly lit reception room with huge windows
that overlooked miles and miles of fields, stretching as far as the eye could see. Kevin steadied himself against the arm of a chair and slowly lowered himself into it.
‘I’m sorry I asked you to leave when you called, but you kind of took me by surprise,’ he began, the youthfulness of his voice belittling his appearance. ‘The last thing I expected was for you to fly over here to see me.’
‘I only decided a few days ago,’ whispered Jade. ‘I … I’m … sorry.’
‘Wow – do you know that in the entire time we’ve known each other you’ve never said sorry?’ Kevin teased.
‘It’s not a word I’m used to.’
‘I’m kidding, and you shouldn’t be the one who’s apologising, it should be me. I haven’t been honest with you about everything. Well, I guess that’s pretty obvious. There’s no easy way to say this Jade but I have lymphoma. It’s now at stage four which means … well, it ain’t good.’
Jade found it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. She couldn’t make the connection between the man she had fallen in love with by telephone and text message and the sliver of a person standing before her.
‘I was diagnosed a year ago, before you and I were Matched,’ he continued. ‘I wanted to know if my perfect girl was out there somewhere and a few months later it turned out to be you. And I did consider leaving it at that and not giving out my contact details – it wouldn’t be fair on you – but it’s human nature to be curious and, when you spend so many hours of the day stuck in hospital or in this house like I do, it’s all you can think about. I really couldn’t stop myself from wanting to find out more about you. It was selfish and I’m sorry.’
Jade nodded and conceded that if their roles were reversed, she too would want to know everything about her Match. ‘How much …’ her voice trailed off, deciding what she was about to ask was insensitive, even for her.
‘How much longer do I have left?’ Kevin continued for her. ‘Probably not much more than a month or two.’
‘What about the photos you sent me?’
‘They were taken last summer.’
‘And this is why you didn’t want to Skype or FaceTime? A few minutes ago I was going to tear strips off you. I was convinced you were married with kids.’
‘Ha!’ he laughed. ‘I don’t reckon I’ve got a Buckley’s chance at marriage.’
Jade suddenly realised it meant the same for her and she began to feel very, very alone. She might eventually go on to fall in love with someone, but it wouldn’t be with the one. It wouldn’t be with Kevin.
She offered him a sympathetic smile but no hollow words; there was little she could say that would make the slightest bit of difference.
‘Listen,’ Kevin continued, ‘I understand if you want to leave, I honestly do. Because if I were in your shoes, I’m ashamed to say I’d probably seriously consider it. You didn’t sign up for this.’
Jade gritted her teeth and curled her toes up inside her trainers. She wouldn’t permit herself to become upset in front of him.
‘Neither did you, Kevin,’ she replied. ‘So if you don’t mind, I’ll hang around a little longer so we can get to know each other in person. How does that sound?’
Kevin gave her a nod. He could barely suppress the grin that was spreading across his face.
Chapter 29
NICK
‘I thought you’d quit the smokes?’
‘I have. Well, I had. It’s just been a … peculiar … few days.’
‘What’s wrong, is it the S&D account?’
Nick paused to take in the view of Birmingham’s city centre from his spot on the office building’s fire escape. He could hear the warning bells of the trams making their way up New Street, while below him rush hour commuters bustled along Corporation Street towards the train station.
Rhian had been leaning against the railings puffing on her vaporiser when Nick appeared. He too had an e-cigarette in his desk drawer, but today wasn’t a day for half measures.
He’d promised Sally he’d given up as a New Year’s resolution. It would be another lie to add to the rapidly growing list. He’d also promised that he was still 100 per cent sure Sally was the only one for him, that they could live happily ever after and that he hadn’t given Alex a second thought since he’d met him. In reality, he was all Nick had thought about.
‘Yes, it’s the S&D account,’ Nick told Rhian. ‘The MD is getting confused about the message he’s trying to get across. It’s such a ball-ache.’
‘Well, start channelling your inner Don Draper because you’ll need to pull something out of the bag.’
In his three years at the agency as a junior copywriter, Nick had yet to be beaten by an account he’d been assigned to manage, even though he worked on many obscure products he hadn’t previously heard of or even dreamed had existed. His work in making market leaders of a new yeast infection cream and a herbal remedy for erectile dysfunction had won him the office nickname of The Genital Giant, which quietly amused him. He prided himself on being able to sell anything to anyone with a smart tag line, but this week he’d been too preoccupied to make a pubic lice lotion palatable.
He’d tried his hardest not to allow his mind to wander towards Alex, and had come close to convincing himself that the emotions he’d stirred in him were imaginary. But while Nick made a living persuading consumers to buy into something they hadn’t realised they needed, he knew he couldn’t fool himself. He had truly felt something and it wasn’t like anything he had ever experienced before. And he was convinced Alex had too.
Nick slept very little in the days after their meeting and his constant fatigue made him impatient and ratty with Sally. He found himself sniping at everything she said or did, from her innocuous requests to pick up more kale from the little Waitrose on the way home to what new box set they should begin on Netflix.
Something in Nick’s heart had deviated from the path it had been following, and it was making him nauseous. Or maybe at that moment it was the cigarette that made him want to vomit, he couldn’t be sure.
As Rhian headed back inside the building, he took one long, last drag right down to the filter and stubbed the cigarette out on the metal step. He sniffed his fingers and turned his nose up at the smell. Stinking clothes and skin – he hadn’t missed these bi-products of being a slave to nicotine.
His mobile rang and he looked at the screen – the number was withheld but he answered it anyway.
‘Hello, Nick Wallsworth speaking,’ he began.
There was a pause that Nick assumed meant an automated message was about to begin, inviting him to talk to someone about claiming a PPI refund, and he prepared to hang up, until he heard a voice that he recognised immediately.
‘Hi,’ Alex said.
Nick’s heart went from zero to sixty in a second. He felt part terrified, part thrilled.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Alex continued. ‘Who came to see me.’
‘Yes,’ Nick whispered, his mouth suddenly dry. Neither spoke for a moment before Alex broke the silence.
‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were?’
‘In case you thought I was mad. And because I don’t believe in the whole Match Your DNA thing.’
‘Neither do I. Well, I didn’t until …’
‘… until I was leaving …’
‘… and you felt something too, didn’t you? It wasn’t my imagination, was it?’
‘No, mate, it wasn’t.’ Nick felt his body shiver even though he wasn’t cold. ‘I’m sorry I lied about my name. How did you find me?’
‘I got the Match Your DNA email and I knew my Match was a guy. Then as you were leaving I just knew it was you. I paid to access your details and guessed you’d used a different name.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK, I probably would have done the same myself.’
There was another break in the conversation as both men fell silent. Nick steadied the hand he used to clasp the phone to his ear to stop it from trembling.<
br />
‘This is awkward, isn’t it?’ said Alex.
‘You’re not kidding.’
‘It’s bullshit though, right? The test results, bullshit.’
‘Yeah, of course. Total bullshit.’
‘How has it happened?’
‘Some glitch or ghost in the machine or something.’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘Do you think we should get together and talk about it? You know, over a couple of beers some time, if you think that’s a good idea?’
‘How about now?’ Nick caught himself saying.
‘OK, say in half an hour in the Bacchus Bar in the arcade?’
‘Yeah, sure. See you there.’
Alex was the first to hang up and Nick froze, waiting for his head to stop spinning, before he hurried back to his office to grab his coat.
Chapter 30
ELLIE
‘Sorry, they look really pathetic, don’t they?’ Tim looked sheepish as he presented Ellie with the bouquet of flowers lying on the bar in front of him. ‘I didn’t pinch them from a cemetery, honest.’
‘No, they’re lovely,’ Ellie replied, glancing at the poor selection of wilting white carnations and red roses, their stalks wrapped in brown paper. She appreciated the gesture though.
Tim raised his eyebrows like he didn’t believe her.
‘Well, they’re a tiny bit pathetic, but it was a very sweet thought.’ She smiled.
‘I’ve been carrying them around all day which is why they’re battered. I bought them this morning in case I couldn’t find another florist.’
Ellie was touched by his naivety in thinking there might only be one flower seller in London.
He’d already been waiting at the restaurant when Ellie arrived several minutes late. She’d gone against her security chief Andrei’s wishes and had set off alone by taxi, despite his protestations that now, with a serial killer loose in the city, the need for him to escort her was more important than ever. The venue of their second date, this time in a quiet street near London’s Notting Hill, had been chosen by Tim: a family-run French brasserie whose decor hadn’t seen a lick of paint since the Thatcher government.