The figure, covered from head to foot in light blue operating-theatre scrubs, doesn’t move. “Come on, this isn't funny any more.” She is beginning to get worried. It is one of her friends, isn’t it? He — she thinks it is a he; it must be Joey — starts to walk towards her. Now she is more than worried. She no longer believes it is a prank.
She tries to run to the door, but he is faster and cuts off her escape route. His arm is round her neck and she takes a deep breath, ready to scream for help, but as she breathes in he pushes a chloroform-doused cloth over her mouth and nose. She loses consciousness.
*
When she comes to, she is unable to move. Her arms are bound tightly behind her and thick rope bites into her ankles. She can still smell traces of the chloroform on the cloth that is now being used as a gag. She screams but no sound comes out. Then she sees him, and wishes that she had remained unconscious.
He is balancing a twelve-inch carving knife in his gloved hand. She knows that knife; it is one of hers and is sharp enough to slice a hair lengthways. She imagines he is smirking at her, but cannot see his expression behind the mask. Only his eyes are visible, and they bear down on her. Then she hears him laugh.
*
He sees the look of terror in her wide-open eyes. She is probably wondering, Why me? He wonders if she would find it as funny as he does if she knew that it was because, initially, she reminded him of somebody else. Now he looks at her closely, he no longer sees the resemblance. She is just a victim of fate, a casualty of the game that he is going to play. She never will know any of that, though. He laughs again.
He switches the television on, just in case he needs to mask any noise. The volume isn't turned up high, but is loud enough to drown out any unusual sounds. He is surprised to see that the news channel comes on; he thought that she would be more of a soap fan, or perhaps a viewer of one of the many music channels. The solemn tones of the newscaster carry across the living room.
“Police are still searching for the escaped serial killer, Morgan Gregory. It is almost a fortnight since he absconded from the secure mental health unit of the hospital in Lancashire, and in that time nobody has seen him and there are no clues as to his whereabouts.”
He laughs. That isn’t quite right, is it? I’ve seen him, and I know where he is, but then again, I would do, wouldn’t I?
“…public are reminded not to approach him but to telephone the police if they have any information as to his whereabouts. Gregory is infamous for the so-called ‘Magpie’ murders that occurred a decade ago, and if it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of a local police constable he might never have been caught. In other news …”
He doesn’t smile any more. Quick thinking? That wasn’t what was said all those years ago. Then, it was more a case of being in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place and time, whichever way you liked to look at it. He stares at the woman again. She has heard the news, and she has made the connection. The newscaster almost seemed disappointed that there were no sightings. Perhaps it was a slow news night and they were short of anything else with which to fill the programme? Well, after tonight, there will be no shortage of stories on which to report.
He weighs the knife once more in his hand, and the woman’s eyes widen even further. If it weren’t for the gag, he imagines that everybody within thirty miles would be able to hear her screams. He can even see flecks of red appearing around the tight edges of the cloth; they are just a prelude to the coming blood-letting.
Slowly, as if to savour every last second, he takes the knife and slits open her blouse and her skirt, flicking the halves to either side to reveal her pale skin. Her chest rises and falls like an express train; his calmness is more than surpassed by her panic. Even more slowly, he begins to trace a line around her body, starting at the nape of her neck, just below the necklace that contains her initial in gold: an ornate letter M that is becoming moist with her sweat. He moves the blade lightly across the ribs on her left-hand side, scoring it over her flat stomach and down to her thighs, before returning along a similar route up the right-hand side. As careful as he is, he cannot prevent the occasional piercings, and soon droplets of blood are standing up in more than a dozen separate locations. He looks at his handiwork. The image isn't quite right.
Forcing himself to remain calm, he repeats the process, tracing a route a fraction of an inch inside the first line. He knows he has to take it slowly and carefully. Even though the previous murders occurred some years ago, he has standards to live up to. Besides, the police have to be one hundred per cent certain who it is they are dealing with. He wants them to know. He needs them to know. He doesn’t want them to waste any time looking for somebody else. That would take away all his enjoyment.
He remains dissatisfied with the shapes that he has carved, and begins again. After three more circuits, five ovals of decreasing diameter can now be seen, the angry red swellings standing out against the woman’s porcelain body. The picture isn’t perfect, but she is prepared. He takes the knife again, and this time he gently pushes the point until it is located in the loose skin between the second and third oval; with a well-practised motion, he twirls the knife handle and an inch of skin curls around the point, forming a cylindrical cone around the silver blade. Then he begins to pull.
*
It doesn’t take as long as he expects. He looks at his handiwork, and is surprised that a single body can contain so much flesh. Or so much blood. He wipes his brow inadvertently; his hand still holds the knife, and he is fortunate not to cut himself. A single hair floats down and settles on her blood-stained fingers. He makes no attempt to remove the strand. Indeed, he wants it to be found; there must be no doubt as to who they are dealing with.
But, just in case they are too stupid to see what is before their eyes, he will leave them a message. He knows how they will react; they will see his name and they will call him. It will begin, and, eventually, his vengeance will be complete.
He takes an artist’s paintbrush from his tool bag and dips it in the congealing blood before beginning to write on the walls. It is a short message, but it has to be written ever so carefully. He takes his time, checking and rechecking to ensure there are no mistakes. At last, he is satisfied. He returns the brush to the bag, then cleans the knife thoroughly and replaces it on its stand. Finally, he removes his blood-encrusted outer clothing and packs it away carefully inside the bag, which also holds two bottles. He has already used the one containing chloroform, and now he takes out the second bottle, filled with what looks like water. He removes the stopper and pours its contents, an oily, colourless liquid, all over the butchered body. A strong smell of ammonia fills the air.
Then, taking care to make sure that everything is left exactly as it should be, he leaves the flat. It is just before a quarter to five in the morning and everywhere is in silence. It has taken exactly forty minutes. He steps out into the streets and, sticking to the shadows, he heads for home.
Everything is in motion now; let it begin, he thinks as he climbs into bed.
One – Goblins and Elves
The phone rang shortly after six p.m. and I replaced my bookmark before putting my novel down on the table. I hadn’t spoken to anybody for a couple of days, so my voice was a bit throaty as I answered. “Ben Watson speaking.”
“Watson. There’s been a…it’s a bit difficult to talk about on the phone. There’s been an incident and it involves you.”
I knew straight away who the caller was: DI Jordan Creswell, my former boss; it was rare for any of those bods to call anybody from my department. There could only be one reason. “Is it anything to do with Gregory?” I asked. “He hasn’t been seen, has he?”
“Not