The One

by John Marrs

  Now with the crime scene cleaned up, Amy searched Christopher’s pockets. All they contained were two phones – his regular mobile and a burner he’d used to check Number Thirty’s location. Neither contained any clue of their owner’s identity but she took them anyway.

  Amy stood in front of Christopher and took a deep breath. Then with all her strength she dragged him and his chair, inch by inch, through the kitchen, towards the rear door that Christopher had broken through, and out into a courtyard. She went back inside and took a duvet from the spare room and covered Christopher in it from head to toe. She dialled 999 from the girl’s landline, asked for the police and whispered ‘help me’ when connected with an operator. Then she discarded the phone on the kitchen worktop and assumed the police would arrive within the hour and find the girl.

  Outside, she removed two litre bottles of white spirit she’d brought with her in her own kill kit and poured them over Christopher’s shrouded frame until the duvet absorbed the liquid. Then she stepped away, lit a match and threw it at him. She turned her back and walked away as Christopher caught light – she had no desire to witness the flesh melt from the bones of the man she had loved.

  Given what you’ve just heard about those fake Matches, was he really the one or were you just in love with the idea of finding your Match? she asked herself suddenly. Think about it, surely to God someone like you who wants to do good couldn’t have been Matched with a man like that? Your results must have been hacked. You just got caught in the moment.

  Amy nodded and decided it was the only logical explanation, even though deep down she wasn’t sure. The thought of choosing to love a man who turned out to be a serial killer was just bad judgment, and far better than having her DNA Matched to him. It was the lesser of two evils and, in time, she might just about live with it.

  As Amy left a painted stencil mark outside Number Thirty’s home, she knew it could be months before Christopher’s body was positively identified. She drove back to his home and let herself in with his keys and planned to clean the place from top to bottom over the following week to remove as much of her DNA as possible. Then she would leave his car with the keys in the ignition in a South London crime hotspot, certain it wouldn’t remain there for long.

  There were very few ways Christopher and Amy could be linked once the police discovered who he was. He’d always paid cash so there’d be no credit card trail of where they might have eaten or visited together. His computers were heavily password controlled but she would destroy them with a hammer anyway and dump them. And as they hadn’t met each other’s friends, families or colleagues, there’d be nothing tying them together as a couple – with the exception of their Match Your DNA link. However, no proof would ever be found that they’d taken it a step further. Even their few introductory text conversations were to Christopher’s anonymous pay-as-you-go phones, which she would also smash to pieces.

  In the months to come, Amy’s colleagues would never discover why the last person to die in the baffling, unexplained serial killer case was male, why he’d been chosen and his body set ablaze. It would be an added twist to the story and she was sure Christopher would approve of her self-preservation skills.

  Christopher had reached his target, only he’d been the thirtieth kill. He’d also kept the anonymity he so desired and the only thing his story lacked was the nickname he’d been affronted not to have been given. Suddenly, it came to Amy.

  When I go to work tomorrow, I’m going to suggest they call you The Saint Christopher killer, she said to herself, imagining him watching her and picturing his smile. Thirty kills and a name … you got your wish in the end, didn’t you?

  Chapter 102

  NICK

  The town was more grand and picturesque than Nick had given it credit for after having looked it up on Google Street View.

  The climate was balmy and almost Mediterranean and he wore his cargo shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops as he’d wandered around the well-kept streets that surrounded the town’s Spanish mission-style architecture. He now sat on a wooden bus stop bench, taking in the hot December morning. The rows of shops he faced were tidy and organised, and there appeared to be enough there to satisfy each of the town’s 73,000 inhabitants.

  Every now and again, Dylan made a cheery gurgling noise from his stroller, both amused and excited by the plastic ring of colourful farm animals attached to his wrist, which rattled every time he waved his hand. He had coped with the twenty-three-hour flight remarkably well for a four-month-old, with only the occasional outburst of tears during some particularly troublesome turbulence.

  After checking into their B&B, Nick had been too animated to give in to sleep, so they made their first excursion to the park to explore the winter gardens and to feed the ducks. Then they stopped off for a snack in a café before making their way to their Russell Street destination. Ahead of them and three doors to the right was the building that held the man they had flown 12,000 miles to see.

  The street in Hastings, New Zealand, was becoming busier as the lunchtime trade picked up and the staff left their work to grab a snack or meet with friends in cafés. Nick bided his time, trying to remain calm, but really all he wanted to do was run through the shop door to announce his arrival.

  Even moments before he opened the door, Nick could feel his presence, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies had, en masse, risen up from the pit of his stomach and taken flight inside his body. When he appeared, Nick’s breath was well and truly taken away.

  Alex stood still for a moment, not seeing him, and Nick noted that his wavy hair was shorter than when he’d last seen him, almost nine months earlier. He’d shaved off his stubble too, revealing a clean-cut, more angular face. Suddenly, Alex looked flustered, as if he knew something was out of kilter but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  Nick knew what he was feeling because he felt it too.

  Then, as their eyes locked, Alex took a step backwards in shock. The pushchair especially must have been quite the surprise, he thought.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ Nick began, making his way towards him.

  Alex was too stunned to reply.

  ‘Alex, meet Dylan. Dylan, meet Alex.’ Alex moved his disbelieving eyes from Nick’s towards Dylan. He took in the boy’s darker skin and looked at Nick, bewildered.

  ‘It’s a very, very long story,’ Nick continued, ‘and I have to warn you now, he and I only come as a package. But if you’ll have us, we’re here for keeps.’

  Alex tried to cover his mouth with his hands but it was too late to hide his huge, white smile or to stop the tears from falling down his face. And he gave Nick the firmest, most longed-for hug he’d ever received, which Nick took as a yes.

  Chapter 103

  ELLIE

  Ellie sat behind the desk in her office and stared at the spot where, seventeen months earlier, she had bludgeoned her fiancé to death.

  She’d heard whispers that some members of staff who’d remained within the company had questioned why she would stay in an office where such a violent act had occurred. And when her refusal to budge from that space was leaked to the press, they too branded it ghoulish and macabre. But Ellie would not allow anyone to bully her from the seventy-first floor of the tallest building in London. What happened the day Matthew was killed would not define the work for which she had sacrificed everything to call her own. He had deserved to die and she didn’t regret that decision for a second. Now, alone in the room, she had earned the right to remain head and shoulders above everyone else.

  Since that day, Ellie had effectively erased the man she had known as Tim from her memory. Even when being cross-examined in the witness box at her trial, she was vague about their life together despite her barrister’s attempt to paint her as human and not as the monster millions witnessed online committing a lethal act. That Ellie was woeful and powerless, and had convinced herself to fall in love with a man she had no business loving. That Ellie had been the architect of her own misery and this
Ellie had no desire to ever meet or replicate that woman again. So she spent seven days a week working in an office with a ghost to remind her never to be that pathetic.

  She took a moment to note how hushed it was in the corridors and offices surrounding hers. Not so long ago it had bustled with life, from Ula and her assistants fielding telephone calls and chatting together. Now, with the business scaled back and a third of staff having quit and not been replaced, the floor was silent. Even her own office was quiet, with her computer switched off, her landline removed and her mobile phone switched to airplane mode.

  Her eyes glanced across the room to a stack of the week’s newspapers and magazines piled upon the glass coffee table. From day one, the media’s reaction to her arrest and charges was as she expected. The tabloids went to town with predictably savage character assassinations and they frequently crossed the line when it came to what they could legally report on in a case that had yet to come to trial.

  The images of the twenty minutes that changed Ellie’s life had been repeated so often on the news and online that they had become iconic. Like constant replays of the Twin Towers collapsing or the Sri Lankan tsunami that swept thousands to their deaths, viewers gradually became desensitised to the crux of the story – that they were witnessing the murder of a man. But it had worked to her advantage because, to an ever-expanding majority, Matthew had become the enemy.

  Media commentators and psychologists analysed the footage in depth to judge his character, body language, lies and motivations, and had labelled him borderline psychopathic. It was Twitter, Facebook and other social media platforms that took it a stage further, making her a poster girl for the victims of mental and emotional abuse. For the first time since she sprang to fame, more than a decade earlier, those who once described Ellie as a ruthless businesswoman, unafraid to trample over anyone to get what she wanted, had now been referring to her as an ordinary girl who’d been cruelly manipulated. The PR company she was paying hundreds of thousands of pounds had done a sterling job. Ellie loathed how she was being perceived by the public, but her extensive legal team had frequently reminded her, if it kept her out of prison, then it was for the greater good.

  However, while Ellie’s popularity rose, confidence in Match Your DNA was at an all-time low. All these months later and, despite robust marketing campaigns, it continued to suffer the aftershock of Matthew’s 2 million mis-Matches. In the first month, the number of new testing kit applications dropped by 94 per cent. The weeks that followed saw the steep downward curve lessen, but potential customers were no longer willing to place matters of the heart in tainted hands.

  The lawsuits arrived thick and fast, and TV channels worldwide broadcast adverts from opportunist law firms offering no win, no fee representation to those who believed they were part of the 2 million. Match Your DNA’s insurers were threatening to not cover any successful compensation claims, accusing the company of being negligent for its ineffective online security that had allowed Matthew to hack into. Without the insurers’ backing, Match Your DNA would end up in inevitable bankruptcy.

  Ellie looked at her watch: 2pm. She stood up, applied fresh lipstick, slipped her sunglasses on, threw her handbag over her shoulder and made her way out of the office. As she moved into an elevator and down to a floor housing one of The Shard’s six restaurants, she was flanked by her recently appointed trio of bodyguards and took a moment to think about her former head of security, Andrei. For his own sake, it was best that he disappear from her world rather than face charges for assisting her in disposing of Matthew’s body. She assumed he’d gone back home to Eastern Europe; the payoff was generous enough to allow him not to work for many years to come.

  She walked confidently through the bustling dining room, noting the hushed tones and cocked heads as she brushed past each table. She was no longer concerned by what people thought of her; she’d let her PR team take care of that. That extended to her family, too, who she hadn’t seen since Matthew’s death. There had been intermittent contact with them through Ula, and she had felt huge waves of guilt when their home had become besieged by reporters. But by accepting Tim into their lives, they too had been complicit in breaking down her barriers and allowing him to poison the waters. In Ellie’s mind, Tim and her family were intrinsically linked and, to cut him out, she had to cut them out too.

  She kept her sunglasses over her eyes as the maître d’ lead her to a corner table overlooking the Thames. She ordered her usual Hendrick’s gin and tonic and thanked a nervous young waiter whose hand trembled as he filled her glass with sparkling water. She could smell Ula’s perfume before she reached Ellie’s table.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but your barrister’s just called,’ Ula said, unable to disguise her concern. ‘The jury is ready to return with its verdict.’

  Ellie nodded, took a sip of drink and followed Ula and her bodyguards into the lift, towards where her car was parked by the service entrance. They sped off in the direction of the Old Bailey courts where she had spent every day of the last four months on trial for Matthew’s murder. She had pleaded an assertive ‘not guilty’ on the grounds of diminished responsibility.

  ‘Have you made a decision about the re-tests? Will we be offering them to those unsure if they’re a Match?’

  ‘No, I don’t think we will,’ Ellie replied coldly. ‘Everyone included in that time frame who may or may not have been mis-Matched will have to follow their instinct. Sometimes, the grass isn’t greener on the other side and we should stay in the field where we belong. And sometimes we just need to take a gamble and hope for the best.’

  ‘And if you don’t get the verdict you hope for?’ Ula asked. ‘What then?’

  ‘You know what to do,’ Ellie replied. ‘Press the button and let the world start making its own mistakes again.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The first person I’d like to offer my thanks to is John Russell. Much gratitude comes to you for allowing me to bounce so many ideas at you over Oscar’s dog walks, and for coming up with some alternative twists and turns of your own. For a man who rarely reads a book, your ideas and suggestions were amazing! Thank you also for your patience while I hid myself away in our office as you kept me fed and watered.

  Thanks to my mum, Pamela Marrs, for being my most loyal supporter and the inspiration for my love of books. And a huge thank you to Tracy Fenton, Queen of Facebook’s THE Book Club, for her advice and frequent abuse. To writers both experienced and new to the game, you’re a Godsend.

  I’d like to offer a massive shout-out to members of the aforementioned and largest online group of like-minded readers. There’s no other group out there like you and I’m grateful to every one of the thousands of you who have downloaded my novels to date.

  Special thanks to the wonderful Governess of Grammar Kath Middleton and Randileigh Kennedy (fantastic authors themselves), Anne Lynes for your eagle eyes and the inimitable Samantha Clarke. Also thanks to my early readers/self-titled groupies Alex Iveson, Susan Wallace, Janette Hail, geography expert Michelle Nicholls, Janice Leibowitz, Ruth Davey, Laura Pontin, Elaine Binder, Rebecca Burntin and Deborah Dobrin. And a special mention to my friends Rhian Molloy and Mandie Brown, both early-days readers.

  Gratitude goes to my fellow writers Andrew Webber (your enthusiasm helped so much) and James Ryan. Thanks to Peter Sterk for his advice when it comes to DNA and genetics; Angela Holden Hunt; Chloe Cope Neppe for medical advice and use of Aussie slang; and Julie McGukian for her crime scene clean-up suggestions – Christopher couldn’t have got away with murder without you.

  Thanks to my friend Adam Smalley from thedesigngent.co.uk for the mock-up web pages that even I believed existed. I also found the website psychopathyawareness.wordpress.com very useful when examining Christopher’s psyche.

  A whopper of a thank you goes to Emily Yau, my commissioning editor at Ebury. Of the hundreds of new books popping up online every day, you came across mine and took a punt on downloading it. You have chang
ed everything, and for that you’ll have my eternal gratitude.

  Finally, my thanks go towards you, whoever you are, for taking the time to purchase this book. You’ll never know quite how much this means to a writer.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781473551084

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  Del Rey, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

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  London SW1V 2SA

  Del Rey is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © John Marrs, 2016

  Cover © Head Design

  John Marrs has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Likewise, Match Your DNA is a fictional business and bears no affiliation to any other company.

  First self-published in 2016 as A Thousand Small Explosions

  This edition published by Del Rey in 2017

  www.penguin.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library