What Lies in the Dark (24 page)

Robert stands up. “You people are bloody idiots if you keep doing this.” He slams out of the door.

“He is just upset, he will come round,” Chris mutters unconvincingly.

Jennifer says nothing.

“Maybe we should stop, the four of us aren’t going to be that effective.”

“For fuck’s sake, Joe!” Chris looks around for someone else’s support.

Mr Taylor waits on his wife’s lead. Nothing. “Let’s take a break, see if Robert comes to his senses,” Mr Taylor finally says. “We won’t patrol tonight and we will talk again tomorrow.”

Another person slams out. Mr Taylor nods at Joe awkwardly before retreating.

“Are you OK, Jen?”

“That poor woman.”

“We weren’t to know, Jen. If it hadn’t been Jack, it would have been someone else. So many people have talked about it.”

Jennifer’s eyes focus on her daughter’s photograph. All that planning, all that preparation, for what? Another woman has died, a homeless woman and what did they do to help? They targeted a completely innocent woman.

“Why don’t you get some sleep, Jen?”

She isn’t listening, too many people have told her to get some sleep recently. “I think I might have another lead, why don’t we meet tomorrow and talk about it?”

“Hello Brandi! Guess what? Your sister has got engaged! Isn’t that wonderful? She wants you to be in charge of the guest book! It would be a perfect opportunity for you to get to know Brian. Give me a call back and we will talk about your dress.”

She scratches him with something sharp. He hadn’t expected that. Bitch must have had it in her hand the entire time. He can feel warm blood trickling down his face. Oh it is on, bitch! She goes for another strike. He slashes at the offending arm with his knife. Whatever she has scratched him with, clatters onto the floor. She gives a scream and rakes her other hand across his face, plunging sharp nails into his cheek. With a furious shove, he plunges his knife deep into her chest. Game over, bitch. She splutters and stops, fuck, he didn’t mean to kill this one so quickly. He intended to make the bitch bleed more for scratching his face. What the fuck had she struck him with? Where did it go? His fucking blood is going everywhere.

He reaches to pull his knife out of her chest, time to brand this bitch. Behind him, he hears the sound of someone running. He looks up to see a figure about a hundred metres away and closing. He stands, turns and runs.

“Stop!”

No fucking way. He keeps running, down an alley and out of sight.

“Brandi! Darling, why haven’t you called me back yet? I know you are busy, but please call me back.”

Fletcher reaches the girl and is about to keep chasing the suspect, when he hears her give a weak splutter. She is alive … he can’t leave her.

“I need an ambulance now.” Fletcher screams into his radio, reeling off his location and the direction the suspect
has run. The girl splutters again, knife still lodged deep within her chest. Helplessness washes over Fletcher. There is nothing he can do to save her … and he has let the suspect go.

She is dead by the time the ambulance arrives. But there is still hope. In her nails, there is the killer’s DNA, ready to be clipped and placed in paper packet and tamper-proof sealed bags. The knife is carefully removed and sealed. The dropped razor blade, photographed, bagged and sealed; the blood drops swabbed and sealed. Irrefutable evidence, if they catch him.

They are hopeful that the blood on the razor blade will belong to the killer. It is a pity Fletcher only really saw his back, not enough to identify him. It is a shame the pursuing officers don’t know that the killer is bleeding, don’t know that a very small blood trail is being left. Very small spots, splattering every other step.

It is enough to ease some of the tension back at the station. Out of their list of five hundred names, they have already received a hundred grudgingly given DNA samples. Now they are sure that they had the killer’s DNA from the razorblade. If Bullface is right, their list of suspects is about to get a lot smaller. If Bullface is right! Some have their doubts, they believe her theory is flimsy but even they can’t deny that they are getting closer. They still have the girl to identify though, it is too early for her to be reported missing and she doesn’t appear to be carrying a purse.

Fletcher still quits.

“Hi Brandi, this is Mike. Just wondering why you weren’t at work today. Please give me a call back soon. Hope you are OK.”

Elizabeth Mitchell sips her tea slowly. Finally she feels at peace. Old Arnie’s place has gone up for sale. The hooligan is gone. She saw him and his mother loading up the small moving van. The skip filled with his rotting nasties has been taken away. The house looks nice and welcoming again. She is sure he was glaring at her when his mother wasn’t looking. He was harmless, she can see that now, harmless and
pathetic. Elizabeth Mitchell hopes whoever buys the house, buys it soon, she doesn’t want the boy to change his mind and come back. Definitely does not want him to even think about coming back.

Elizabeth closes her eyes; she hasn’t slept well in weeks. She thought he would do something. She has been waiting and watching for something. Always in reach of the phone, ready to call the police if he should even dare come on to her property.

The doorbell rings, interrupting her peaceful afternoon.

“Brandi, please call Mother, she is really upset that you haven’t called her back yet. Please don’t be upset that I am getting married before you.”

It is over now. He really fucked that one up. Had Fletcher seen him? Had that even been Fletcher? It sounded like him … Fletcher probably hadn’t seen him, he made sure to keep his head down and run without looking back … had it been anyone else then they wouldn’t have recognised him. But they were going to recognise him now weren’t they? Even the people who hadn’t noticed him before, everyone was going to notice him. What had that fucking bitch cut him with? What had she done to his face? He needs to get home. Needs to see what she has done. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Is anyone still following him? Has anyone else seen his bleeding face? The darkness seems to be working in his favour, but he isn’t sure. Everything is going wrong tonight.

Home.

Bathroom.

He surveys the damage to his face. It isn’t bleeding as badly as he thought, finally a little luck. There is no way he would have been able to go to hospital for stitches. He could have told them his best lie but they would have still been suspicious. The nail gouges could have come from only one thing. He held one of the best white towels against the deep razor cut. There is no hiding this one, it runs straight across his other cheek. No one would believe a shaving
accident. No one would believe a cat attack. It doesn’t really matter anyway. It is going to be over sooner or later. He carefully applies a large plaster to the nail marks. A plaster will make it easier to explain. Back to the long razor line, it has stopped bleeding, that’s good, but it is too long for any kind of plaster. Anger wells inside, he really hopes that fucking bitch has died.

It was the news report earlier that had set him off, set him out hunting. The report said, ‘This is the area where he lives.’ His name is probably already on the list of suspects. How the fuck had they figured out where he lived? Had someone seen him? Did they already know? No, if someone had seen him, he would have been arrested already. The DNA request had been slipped through his door while he was out. But they were testing hundreds. He had a little time. But time to do what? If he refuses to take the test, it is a massive bullseye. If he asks someone to go in his place, well that will work only if there is someone stupid enough to take the test for him and loyal enough not to blabber. No, anyone he asks is likely to go running straight to the police. What had the request said? Within twenty days. After tonight, it will be nineteen, at least. Depends on how long it takes to go through the results. That is enough time to go down with a bang, isn’t it?

His face really fucking hurts. He knew she would be trouble when he first saw her. That’s why he chose her. She looked like a challenge. A dark-haired girl with an even darker scowl. Everything about her screamed misunderstood youth, leave well alone. She had glared at him, “What the fuck do you want?” Since no one had been around, he didn’t even bother trying the nice guy routine. But when he had tried to grab her, she slashed at him with something sharp. Bitch must have had it in her hand the entire time, just waiting for someone to fuck with her. Just like he had his knife in his hand the entire time, half hidden up his sleeve so no one could see – waiting for someone.

“Brandi, if you don’t call Mother back soon, then you are not going to be in my wedding at all!”

He has been working so hard for years for this. So many years exploiting the city’s weak spots. Looking for dump sites, the places where not so many people dare go. Studying endless forensic and true crime magazines so every rookie mistake could be avoided. So much time spent being perfect. OK, maybe his first ones weren’t perfect but it’s not like anyone noticed. So much time in proving he was better than everyone else. So much time enjoying himself. He always knew he would enjoy this, even as a child, he just enjoyed hurting people. His mother thought he had grown out of it. He just became better at hiding the evidence, convincing other children it was in their best interest not to say anything. He has always known he was better than these people, that they were his to control and destroy. It had all been so perfect.

Even his job was perfect, factory work with six days on night shift and then four days off. His wife could barely keep track of him, she knew how he loved his running, football, jogging and of course his drinking to keep up appearances. Had she suspected anything since he started? He really, really doubted it. Maybe recently, but probably not. Did he ever even love her? Well isn’t that why he made that first one, that cheap little woman, number two? His wife would always be number one. He had been thinking about it for so long, fantasising over and over again about what it would be like to take a life. Masturbating over images of other people’s victims, wanting his own, looking for an opportunity to lure one of the stupid ones over, without anyone seeing. Wanted so badly to feel a person’s pulse fade through his fingers. Then finally he noticed her, a little no one, no one would miss and no one did miss her. So many years on, even when he had flung them a clue, even when her reconstructed face was everywhere, no one knew as much as her name. 2- Marie, then number 4, Amie or Abbie, something like that. Why no number three? He always knew that they would find his discarded trash one day. Never knew how far this might go but always thought they would find some. So why not fuck with them? All the even numbers,
nothing odd about that, hah! There was six months between Marie and Andy, he had been so sure they would find something. He had been so sloppy, so eager with that first one he had enjoyed himself so much. Then the realisation hit, no one was watching. No one cared about these women. Why would they? Plenty of them. No one even noticed they were missing. Still kept it under control though. Had to stop for six months after his wife had broken her wrist, he needed to be there for her. Then number six, another hooker, one with a funny name Flonna or Flora. Then there had been that teacher, Joanna. He had been really surprised no one had noticed her sooner. She had taken a lot of talking. It’s when he realised he could still put on the charm, that women still liked his face. He had been doing so well. It was all coming together now. No one suspected a thing and that was fine. Fine for over two years, six more secrets. Bodies were beginning to pile up and smell. He never realised how much blood and other vile things humans had, how much they could smell. Humans are really disgusting inside and out, except for him.

No one had noticed they were missing. That had been fine for a while, it meant he could snatch women away and no one would care. But then it became less fun, he wanted more, he wanted people to notice now, notice his work. He wanted them to see him, to fear him. He wanted them to know he was better than them, smarter. He saw their fear, how stupid they became when they were scared, he saw how to control them, to destroy them.

Elizabeth sits in her chair frozen. The doorbell rings again, even the once loved melodic chimes sound threatening. Go away, go away, go away. Elizabeth tries to tell herself it is just a doorbell. Someone nice is at the door, she should get up and open it. She isn’t expecting anyone but it could be her neighbour, it could be a delivery, it could be her friend Lorna … it could be a greasy angry hooligan. No, she can’t open it. It is him, isn’t it? She thought she was safe but she isn’t safe is she? Could he see her from where she was
sitting? Does he know she is in here? What if he comes to the windows? No, no one could see her from this position, unless they go into the garden … is the kitchen window still open? Someone as skinny as him could probably squeeze through if it is open …

They had been neighbours for a long time. He could have been watching her. He would know how often she was alone in the house. He would know the best way into the house. He might have even seen where the spare key was kept … what was that thought she had earlier? He was harmless. Harmless and pathetic. Was he really though? She remembers the look of pure hatred he had given her when he was leaving. She had thought he was responsible for the deaths of those poor girls. She had almost been certain of it, especially when she went into his room and saw those awful satanic posters. Then to see that poor girl’s wallet … she was only trying to protect them. He wouldn’t see it like that would he? He would be back for revenge. She would have to be ready for him, ready for when he came back. She has to get up and protect herself. She has to get up. She has to get up.

Then when they knew about him, when they were shitting themselves trying to work out his numbers, he had to do bigger, more daring ones. He was still proud of luring away the cop, Shannon. She knew him vaguely, had been talking quite happily to him as they searched. Not even questioning why he was there, just thinking he was a volunteer. He’d had to be careful about keeping out of sight of the others, so no one would inconveniently remember seeing him. They were so close to searching near his place, he had been worried that they were going to find it, but then the sun started going down. She had bent down to tie her shoe and head met rock, cop shock.