Читать книгу Broken Hearts - Grace Monroe - Страница 18

She knew that the body had been found by now and she assumed that the police were treating it as a serial case. Actually she could only ever make assumptions about what the police would do. All she knew for sure was that they were stupid. That they screwed up. That, even when they had a cast-iron case, they still got things wrong.

She needed to leave them in no doubt.

Ever since she had got here, she had known that this was where it would end. The years of waiting, of being used and being treated like a victim–it all stopped here. There were things that she couldn’t get out of her mind, images that wouldn’t go away, but these days she had other pictures to put in their place. When you knew what you were doing (as she undoubtedly did), there was a comfort to be found in killing. She felt that she had found her purpose in life–and God knows she had needed one for so very long.

There were those along the way who had helped her to get to this place, and they were often good people. They had no idea that they were assisting her to do what she needed to do, but they were part of it, nonetheless. However, there were others, of course there were others, who had been the real impetus. She thought about it for a moment. She had no way to describe what had been done to her. There were no words. There were no emotions. No one could understand. No one could empathize. But it had happened. It was done. Now, all she could do was make sure that the payment was exacted from the right place.

She had her methods by this point. There had been a lot to organize and it had taken a while to do it, but she was exactly where she needed to be. She thought back on the three men already dead at her hands. She laughed to herself, a low, soft noise that made her seem gentle and warm. She had read all of the books on how to do this, on how to avoid being caught, and on what killers do. She couldn’t believe that some of them kept mementoes, trophies. She had all of that in her head. She had nothing against those men as such–yes, she hated them, and had taken their lives, but it wasn’t personal. What on earth could she have taken from them? They were just symbols in themselves. Was she expected to fill her handbag with cufflinks? Locks of hair? Photos of them in their final moments? She had what she wanted from them–their bodies, their deaths; and the absolute knowledge that they had helped her.

Since she had arrived here, it had all been so easy. These men, they all thought their needs were so important. Each of them so easy to spot. She always looked for particular cars–single businessmen were no use, she needed to make sure that they were guilty beyond her own certainty. Bigger cars, expensive cars, but ones with baby or booster seats. Little triangles on the back saying ‘baby on board’. Mr Men sunscreens that had been rolled up but were still identifiable. Good men, good fathers. Making sure their children were safe, happy and provided for. And while they themselves were away from home, what was wrong with a few minutes of downtime?

Every businessman in every city in the country knew where to go. If they didn’t, there were websites to tell them. There had always been so much publicity about the red-light district in Edinburgh that it wasn’t hard to find. Even if the girls had been moved around a bit, it didn’t take much to discover where. The drugs were everywhere, too. Edinburgh had changed. There used to be less dependency amongst the prostitutes in the capital than in other cities, but in the last couple of years it had got as bad as anywhere. Cheap rates for everything. That worked well for her on two levels. She could get heroin easily and for next to nothing. And because she was clean, good looking and articulate, she appealed to the better class of punter as soon as he rolled down his window.

The first one? He couldn’t believe his luck. Neither could she. It had been so easy for both of them. When she approached his car, she had expected to be nervous, but there was actually an amazing feeling of calm. She had been without true purpose for so long that this felt like the real thing, as if she was finally doing what she should be doing. His accent was closer to hers than she felt comfortable with, so she’d had to make adjustments there, but she had learned from that point not to be so worried. It wasn’t as if her victims were going to be around to give the police clues. She laughed softly to herself again. Her stomach had lurched at one point–not when she killed him, but when she had to…do what she had to do. The next two were easier. She was getting better, and she’d keep getting better.

Now–now she had to find the next one. Time was pressing on. This had to end.