Secrets of a Serial Killer: An absolutely gripping serial killer thriller that will keep you up all night!

by Rosie Walker

  ‘It’ll be the knife next time, so watch yourself. And watch me,’ he snarls.

  Now her eyes are open open open.

  Helen

  ‘So, you were in the Richard the Lionheart.’ Detective Constable Audrey Parks looks not much older than Zoe, but she’s very serious and focussed on the case at hand.

  Dane nods, and they go over the details once more. Helen stares at her hands circled around her mug of tea, listening with one ear while her brain thrums with fear. They’ve covered the basics: when they last saw Zoe, who she was with, where she said she was going. The hardest part was their questions about Zoe’s relationships with Helen and Tony; did they argue (not much), had Zoe ever run away before (never), did she have any friends she might be staying with (none that they haven’t already checked with). All infuriating questions, but Helen and Tony both answered politely and patiently, knowing that the quicker they give information the quicker the true investigation can start.

  ‘And the last time you saw Zoe, she was talking to the guy at the bar too?’ asks DC Healey, pushing the questioning ahead. Healey is Tony’s age. The men haven’t met before, but occasionally exchange pally looks to show that they both know the ins and outs of the police world more than all the other civilians in the room.

  Parks flashes her colleague an irritated look; she clearly wants to operate at a slower, more careful pace than Healey.

  Dane blushes and shifts in his seat, but Helen wants to believe it’s due to nerves about the seriousness of the situation, not that he’s hiding anything. She’s trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  He looks a lot younger, flanked on either side by these police officers. He sits on his hands, his shoulders hunched up around his neck, unsure of himself and awkward like a tall teenager. He’s picking at a loose strip of skin at the side of his thumbnail, pulling and pulling until a line of blood threads the edge of the nail. Helen can’t look away from Dane’s bloodied, ragged thumb.

  He’s trying to give the answers he thinks the grown-ups want to hear, like a school child who’s in trouble with the headmaster. He looked different next to Zoe: older and more sophisticated.

  ‘Before you and Max left them behind, and went to another bar?’

  Dane flinches, but keeps nodding.

  The coffee table is laden with mugs of half-drunk tea gathered around the teapot, milk bottles and half a plate of biscuits. Helen hugs her cooling mug of tea to her chest, both hands wrapped around it while everyone talks.

  Melanie flits in and out, refilling the teapot and stocking up the biscuit levels. She never stays in the room long; as soon as she leaves the kitchen, the twins start whining and causing a scene. Eventually she gives up and takes them upstairs to Helen’s bedroom, trying to get them to nap.

  ‘Can you describe the bar guy for us, Dane?’ asks Parks, frowning at her colleague.

  Dane rubs his forehead with his hands, crinkling the skin. Then he ruffles his hair, almost massaging his scalp to encourage thought. ‘Um …’

  Helen leans forward, every muscle in her body taut. Come on, Dane. You’ve got to remember. For Zoe. This is too important to forget. She wills him to remember anything useful.

  ‘Just a normal dude, I guess,’ he mumbles.

  Helen wants to jump up and slap him around the head to try and knock some sense into his stupid brain. Think, you imbecile. Don’t let my daughter be lost forever just because you couldn’t make your brain work. She’s shocked at the force of her anger. She manages to hold it in; says nothing, just clenches her fists and silently wills him to think.

  ‘Can you remember his hair style?’ prompts Parks, in a kind tone.

  Dane perks up. ‘He was wearing a hat,’ he says, proudly. Helen’s heart sinks. Anyone can wear a hat. He could look like anyone.

  Parks makes a note in her book. ‘What kind of hat?’

  ‘It was black.’

  Helen suppresses a growl of frustration. This is a waste of time.

  ‘I’m going to need a bit more from you, here, Dane,’ says Healey, and Parks flashes him another look.

  ‘I mean, was it a woolly hat or …?’ says Parks, wresting control back into her hands from Healey’s.

  ‘It was a black baseball cap,’ says Dane, almost standing up out of his chair. ‘Oh! And it said something on it. In white letters, but I couldn’t read it from where I was.’ he says, looking so proud of himself.

  Helen shakes her head. It’s not enough.

  ‘He was taller than both of the girls, about a foot taller.’ Dane’s eyes are closed. He seems to have reached some kind of bank of memories, and Helen silently encourages him, barely moving except to nod her head along with his every word. ‘And he … I think his head was shaved under the hat. I don’t remember hair. But there was something weird about him … a kind of stony look on his face.’

  Stony. Great. Thanks, Dane, thinks Helen. What the fuck does that mean?

  ‘Great, Dane,’ says Parks. ‘I think we’re just about done here.’ Parks tucks her biro into the special loop on her notebook and closes the lid. Her face settles into a serious expression. ‘Dane, I know you’ve co-operated and given us all the information you can. We’d like to continue questioning you at the station.’

  Colour drains from Dane’s face. He stares at Parks.

  ‘You’re not under arrest. You aren’t obligated to come.’

  Healey takes over. ‘But it’s in the interest of Zoe’s safety, mate. And we can tell that’s what you care about most.’

  Dane nods slowly, as if in a trance. ‘Of course I’ll come.’

  ‘Of course he’ll come.’ Tony slaps a hand on Dane’s thigh. He sounds almost triumphant. ‘He’s got nothing to hide, have you, mate?’

  Dane stands, looks around the room for his coat. He shakes his head, not speaking.

  Parks stands too. ‘We’ll head back to the station with Dane and get someone to send this information out to all units, make sure everyone’s looking out for Zoe,’ she looks at Helen, her eyebrows raised as if she expects a pat on the head. ‘And we’ll get a team out at the Lionheart to check out the area.’

  Helen has run out of politeness. ‘Is that it?’ she asks, knowing she’s on the verge of explosion. ‘That can’t be it. It’s not enough.’

  She’s at the point where she can either burst into tears or start shouting, and she really feels like starting to shout would accomplish more than tears. ‘We need to find my daughter,’ she says loudly. ‘You can’t all go home and eat your dinner and go to bed. It’s dark and raining and she could be anywhere, with anyone. She could be hurt.’

  Parks nods, at the same time as Healey shakes his head.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Parks says, while Healey says ‘Not at all, madam.’

  ‘Neither of you have a clue,’ she shouts, and Tony puts his arm around her. ‘I’ve found more information in ten minutes on the internet by myself than you two have in the last hour of questions.’

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ says Tony. ‘Very stressful time, you know.’

  ‘We totally understand,’ says Parks. ‘Don’t we, Healey?’

  Her partner sniffs reluctantly in agreement.

  ‘We’re going to do everything we can to find Zoe, Helen. Everyone in the department will be doing everything they can. We’re going to make sure of it. We can tell that Zoe isn’t the kind of girl to run off, and this a very high priority case.’

  ‘Don’t you need more information, like other cases? There are others, I’ve found them online.’ The police and Tony look at Helen with blank expressions, not understanding her question. ‘Aren’t there others?’ Her skin prickles with goosebumps. ‘Missing girls? Are there any—’ she stops, almost unable to ask the question. ‘Are there any other girls like Zoe? Because I’ve found articles—’

  Parks reaches out her hand and puts it on Helen’s. With that and Tony’s arm around her, she feels propped and bolstered, like an old tree with limbs held upright with wooden posts.
<
br />   ‘There have been a few similar cases.’ She pauses and resets her face to a bright expression. ‘But most cases like this are solved quickly, with the missing people returning or being found in the first twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Being found …’ says Helen, and her skin crawls.

  ‘With the child home safely,’ adds Tony very quickly. He pats her shoulder again. ‘Most of them come home safely, love.’

  ‘Zoe’s not what we would call a high-risk individual,’ says Healey, scratching his stubble.

  ‘You mean she’s not a drug addict or prostitute, then?’ asks Helen, deciding to dispense with any bullshit. ‘What about the drugging? The Rohypnol. Dane told you about Abbie in the car park.’

  The officers promise to contact the pub and Zoe’s friends. Parks and Healey rise to their feet, clearly ready to leave before another outburst or tricky question.

  Helen sees the police out along with Dane, and when she returns to the living room, Tony and Melanie are readying the twins to leave, shoving their arms into jackets and finding scattered shoes while the kids whine and wriggle.

  She stops in the doorway, watching them, the happy family. ‘Told you they’d look at the boyfriend first,’ Tony says, pulling a woolly hat onto Bennie’s head.

  She brings her palms to her face, cooling her hot cheeks. ‘Dane’s got nothing useful to say. He can’t help them.’

  She closes the front door behind them with dread, turning back to face the silent house and Zoe’s empty bedroom.

  Him

  He doesn’t like the noises she’s making. Her feet stamp on the tiles, pawing the ground. It’s boring and repetitive, just like all the others. He wanted this one to be different, to keep that spark and fight for longer. But he made the mistake of removing the duct tape from her mouth, and now she whimpers and screeches, like a dog.

  He presses the electrodes into her temples, standing over her with his legs straddling hers. The machine whirrs, ready to blast electricity into her brain. He’s wanted to try this for weeks, ever since he found the machine in the back of a storage cupboard and hooked it up to an old battery.

  Her face is coated in a sheen of sweat and tears; liquid trickles down her oily cheeks. He pushes his face against hers, burying his nose in the matted hair behind her ear, breathing her in. He catches a vague hint of the perfume she applied hours ago, masked now with the animal stench of fear.

  ‘Ready?’ he whispers, his hand on the dial.

  Her whole body shivers as he stuffs a sock into her mouth. ‘Stop you biting your tongue. I’m not all bad.’

  The sock muffles her howls.

  He presses his nose into her soft cheek. He opens his mouth and pushes his teeth into the skin of her face, the beautiful layer of muscle which coats the cheekbone. He doesn’t bite; he rests his teeth on her skin, feeling the tension, testing the strength. Her rounded cheek fits nicely into his mouth.

  He increases the tension, closing his jaw slowly, slowly. He doesn’t break the skin; it’s strong and elastic, a thin layer of muscle and nerves. He could bite down hard, wrenching his head away and tearing her face.

  But she’s shaking violently and whimpering too. It’s just boring, all this whining. It’s time to move this forward, really push through any hesitation he might have and prove he’s capable of this. He can do it; he’s been waiting for this his whole life. Coached into it. Everything he’s ever learned has been leading towards this event.

  He stands back, looks at her reclining in the restraint chair, eyes taped open, tears running down her cheeks. He feels nothing but contempt.

  ‘Blast off!’ he yells, and turns the dial to ‘MAX’.

  Sparks. Shrieking. Then nothing. The ETC machine stops humming.

  ‘What the fuck?’ The battery blew out. It didn’t work.

  The girl still watches him, breath shaking as she huffs through her nose.

  He kicks the leg of the chair and swears. Fine. It was only a whim anyway. He’s played for long enough and now he’s ready to begin the final act.

  He draws the boning knife across her throat, scratching lightly across her neck. A promise, not a real injury. Little drops of blood pool along the cut, each growing larger until the membrane bursts and they trickle down her neck to bloom into her t-shirt. He watches as the rivulets stain the girl’s pale skin.

  She’s breathing heavier and heavier, until some snot splatters from her nostrils and speckles his face. He pulls back, disgusted.

  He’s wants to slice her throat like a pig in an abattoir. He imagines pressing in hard, feeling the blade scrape against bone. But first, he looks at her one last time, and her pinned eyelids and tear-soaked face, her stained clothes and the shaking, panicked breaths shuddering out of her nostrils.

  Soon, she’ll stop making noises, she’ll finally be quiet. And even as she dies, she won’t be able to close her eyes.

  But still he doesn’t make the final cut. What is he waiting for? Get on with it. His hand twitches, knuckles white as they grip the knife handle.

  He knows what this will be like, how it was for the others. There’ll be the promised surge of euphoria, as he imagines a heroin addict might feel after a long-awaited hit. His heart will pound, the blood pumping through his veins. But then, disappointment and disgust with them, with their weakness and how they die so easily, with so little fight.

  He fills his lungs with air tinged with the hint of death.

  ‘Stop.’

  His hand freezes. The voice is clear, familiar. He turns to face the figure in the doorway, her white nightgown glowing ghostly blue in the torchlight.

  She holds out a hand towards him. ‘Don’t do this.’

  She’ll try to stop him, but he’s ready to fight her. The knife is still in his hand, poised to cut. This is too important, he’s waited too long. Nothing can get in his way.

  He tightens his hand around the knife handle, resolves to ignore the protests. He closes his eyes for a moment and reignites the feeling he held a moment before: anticipation, readiness.

  And then there’s another noise from further away, deep in the building. They both turn away from the girl, towards the door, straining to hear the sound. Someone else is here. Someone uninvited.

  Zoe

  Paul pushes the woman out of the way as he rushes from the room, plunging his two captives into darkness; his headtorch was the only light source.

  His footsteps recede as he runs along the corridor, on the hunt for the origins of the noise. There’s a distant metallic clang: the slam of a door as he shuts them in. No chance of escape.

  She releases her breath in a huge rush, the breath she was holding in her lungs as he pressed the knife to her throat. That could have been her final breath. She was moments from death. Her whole body is shaking. As she tries to calm herself, Zoe manages to spit out the dry, wadded sock that the man had crammed into her mouth.

  ‘You saved me,’ she whispers into the darkness to the woman, whose voice she recognises from the other side of the caravan’s wall. ‘You got here just in time; he was about to kill me. Are you okay?’

  She can’t hear anything, the silence heavy in her ears. A blast of cold air hits her in the face, along with the stench of body odour.

  She caught a glimpse of the woman before the light went out: framed by a wild tangle of dark hair, she has the face of someone who was once beautiful. Large eyes, wide open and clear, sharp cheekbones, and lips pulled up into a gentle smile, the smallest glint of teeth.

  The woman is wearing a gown, once white but now closer to grey. It reaches her knees; either a nightgown or a hospital gown, Zoe couldn’t tell which.

  Long, long fingernails: so long they’re almost hooked.

  ‘Hello? Please! Can you unfasten me? Quickly. I’m strapped to the chair.’ Maybe Paul knocked her down as he ran from the room; although she’s tall, Zoe can tell the woman is weak from years in captivity here. Her legs and arms are spindly, like a plant kept from the light. Perhaps she’s lying on
the floor, just on the other side of the room, unconscious or losing blood from a head wound, as Zoe stands there, helpless in the dark with her arms fastened to the wall. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Now she can hear her: the woman’s raspy panting echoes through the room, closer now. ‘I need to find a light.’

  ‘Thank God you’re alright. I thought he might have hurt you.’ She tries to see movement in the darkness, but there’s nothing, not even a pinprick of light.

  ‘You’re so brave.’ Zoe can hear her shuffling around, moving things. ‘Hurry please. He’s tied me up, I can’t move. And he’s done something to my eyes, they’re taped open.’

  ‘I’m going to find a light.’

  ‘Quickly, please.’ Zoe pulls at her arm restraints. ‘Untie me and we can get away before he comes back.’

  ‘He’s bad.’ The woman sounds upset, her voice shaking with emotion. ‘Very bad.’

  Zoe nods in agreement. ‘He’s evil.’

  A door opens and closes, and Zoe is left in silence.

  Thomas

  ‘ATCHOO!’ Thomas sniffs as hard as he can and wipes his nose on his sleeve. There’s a tickle in his nose that feels like he could sneeze again at any moment. He tries to stifle it, holding his nose.

  Facing the reality of the derelict asylum, Thomas’s new-found bravery has already started to falter, but Maggie’s set on finding the padded cells from her brother’s story. They begin to climb the stairs, their feet imprinting in the dust. Halfway up, they take the left branch of the staircase to the first floor.

  The moon shines through a window on the floor above, lighting up the hall below in eerie silver. Maggie climbs the stairs ahead of him, Duncan’s folded knife creating a bulge in the back pocket of her jeans. She’s humming to herself as she climbs.

  There’s sudden clunk from below, like an object falling or a door slamming, and it’s over as quickly as it began. Maggie stops singing.