Читать книгу DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw - Luke Delaney - Страница 26

I’ve seen her before. A couple of times. On both occasions I followed her home. She lives in Shepherd’s Bush, in a flat on the first floor of an old mansion block. The building has seen better days, by the look of it, but I suppose it’s not too bad for the area.

She works in a small advertising company in Holborn. She must be thirty or thereabouts. Reasonably attractive, but nothing special. Five foot five and strong, from the look of it, although not very fit. She does have very nice short brown hair though. The cut is unusually short for a woman.

But what really attracted me to her, what really caught my eye, was her skin. She has the most beautiful skin. Very lightly tanned. Faultless. It shone.

Did she know it set her apart? Was that why she kept her hair short, so nothing would distract from her skin? Probably.

But it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. She worked too hard. Always last out of the office. Trying to impress her boss or maybe just trying to impress herself.

I read an article in the Evening Standard the other day. Apparently young London workers are judging success by the lack of free time a person has. The most successful are judged to be those who have no time for themselves.

Pitiful. How could anyone really question my right to do as I please with you? You have no value any more. You know that yourselves. Pointless little animals, living pointless little lives. Only I can make you worth something.

When I’ve watched her in the past, she hasn’t left her office until after eight. Tonight was no different.

I thought about visiting her in the office. Leave a nasty surprise for her boss in the morning. Perhaps cut her breasts off, Jack the Ripper style, and leave them on his desk with a resignation note I’d make her write, just for the fun of it.

No. I couldn’t guarantee the level of control I’d need. I couldn’t risk being interrupted. A cleaner might walk in on me, or a fucking security guard. I would be able to deal with them easily, but the visit would be spoilt. So I decided to follow her home. Again.

She has an easy journey. Nine bearable stops along the Central Line to Shepherd’s Bush. The simple route makes it easier to follow her. I could wait for her to come home − I know where she lives from my previous follows − but I enjoy the thrill of the chase. It helps me build towards my climax. Allows the excitement to grow. It courses through my veins and arteries.

My blood carries the excitement around my body like oxygen. My heart beats so hard and fast I’m sure people can see my chest pounding, hear my heart thumping like a Zulu drum. But at the same time I know they can’t. It seeps into my muscles. Makes them contract and tense. Makes me feel strong. Invincible. I’m becoming alive again. I can see more. Hear more. Smell more.

I feel the twitching in my groin. I have to calm down and control it. It’s difficult, especially with her sitting so close. In the same carriage, only a few seats away. I think she notices my presence, but she seems unconcerned. You wouldn’t be concerned by my presence either. I read my paper, the Guardian.

Our stop is next. She stands first and moves to the exit door. I move to a spot a metre or so behind her. I can smell her clearly now. The scent is almost overpoweringly beautiful.

The train stops and we both step on to the platform. This is an underground station, so there’s CCTV everywhere. I make a point of stopping on the platform. I lift my foot on to one of the wooden benches screwed to the wall and make a show of tying my shoelace. If the police check the tapes at all, they’ll be looking for someone following her closely, not a businessman worrying about his shoes. Eventually I follow her, but I’m a long way back, exactly where I want to be.

She’s out of my sight as I go through the automatic barrier and into the street. I know the route she should take and pray there are no variables to contend with. If she goes into a shop or meets a friend, I may lose her. I’ll pick her up back at her flat, but the follow is important to me tonight. It is how I’ve seen it happening. It’s the beginning of making my desires reality. If any part of the sequence is changed from the way I need it to be then there would be no point continuing.

It’s about eight forty-five. There’s still some daylight. I move fast along Bush Green, the traffic heavy even at this hour. The Green resembles some kind of stock-car racing circuit and drivers are treating it accordingly.

I walk past a group of black youths loitering menacingly outside a betting shop. I feel their eyes fall upon my expensive wristwatch. I give them a hard stare and they look away. Respect.

Unexpectedly she walks out of a small newsagents. I almost trip over her, swerving to avoid her. She’s seen me. Definitely. And now I’m in front of her. I want to be behind her. Following her. This is not good. I can’t stop and wait for her to pass me. I need to do something and do it right away.

I do the best thing I can think of. I walk to the first bus stop I see and pretend to be waiting for a bus. There are other people at the stop. I only hope the bus doesn’t come. She walks past me. I feel her quickly look in my direction, but she doesn’t seem panicked. She walks on. I wait a few seconds and follow her again.

I have to be a lot more careful now. She saw me outside the shop, saw me go to the bus stop. If she turns around and sees me again, she may run. She may go into the nearest shop or café. It won’t cause me a long-term problem, but it’ll destroy tonight’s plans.

I keep a reasonable distance. Ten metres or so. I’d like to be closer, but can’t risk it. I’m sure she can feel my presence, even at this distance. It’s important to me that she can. The Chinese swear that dog meat tastes all the sweeter if the dog is terrified before being butchered. I would have to agree.

I try and anticipate when she’ll look behind her and if so, which shoulder she’ll look over. It gives me the best chance of avoiding her field of vision. But she doesn’t turn her head. We’re still walking along Bush Green and there are lots of people about, which makes her feel safe.

She turns left into a side road. Rockley Road. On either side the road is lined with four- and five-storey terraced houses, Georgian or maybe Victorian. London’s demand for housing and cheap hotels has turned the street into a mess of dirty-looking flats and fleapit boarding houses.

She turns left into a side street. Minford Gardens. This is where she lives. It’s an altogether more pleasant street. Smaller houses with trees lining the pavement, but the houses are still scruffy and split into flats. It’s much, much quieter.

I begin to walk faster. The excitement is rising to a point of explosion. I want to rage over this woman. I want to tear her to pieces. Rip her open with my nails and teeth. But I won’t. I will show my strength. My control. I’m not like others. I’ve learnt to control the power I have.

I close the distance between us. Walking ever faster, but so silently the sound of the breeze drowns out any noise. There’s no sun in the road any more. The houses have blocked its fading light. I’m so close. The street lamps begin to flicker.

I’m close enough to touch her now. I see the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. She feels me. She spins on her heels and looks into the eyes of my mask. Soon she will meet the real me.

Linda Kotler was thirty-two years old and single. She’d been in a relationship for eight years, but when she pushed for marriage he, unbelievably, got cold feet and ran away. Christ, they’d been living together for six and a half years, but apparently the mere mention of the word ‘marriage’ suddenly made him feel ‘trapped’. Perhaps it was just the excuse he’d been waiting for.

She was rapidly learning what it was to be single when all your friends are couples. Eight years is a long time with someone. Her friends were his and his hers. They thought of them as a single entity. One personality. When he left her they had been so nice, to the point of being irritating. Her married girlfriends didn’t look compassionate any more, they looked smug. And suddenly she was single. That made her a threat to their own fragile relationships. True, she’d been guilty of a little flirting with her friends’ men, but she needed to feel desired. Now more than ever. Rejection hurts.

She’d been working late again tonight. Maybe she’d secretly been hoping someone at the office would invite her for a drink. It was a lovely evening for it, but no invitation came. Time to go home to her much-loved prison.

She checked herself in the mirror of her compact. Her hair was short enough not to have to worry about it. Her skin was as excellent as ever. Years of living with him hadn’t changed that. She was proud of her skin. She dabbed moisturizer on her fingertips and massaged it into her face. A little lipstick was all she needed. You never know who you might meet on the Tube.

Holborn station wasn’t too busy. She’d long missed the main rush hour. The platform was only sparsely populated compared to the scene two or three hours before. Rush-hour platforms scared her. She’d been brought up in a small town in Devon and the size and speed of London still intimidated her. How could those people stand so close to the edge as the trains flashed past? Was getting home a few minutes earlier really so important? They must have more to go home to than she did.

She saw him almost as soon as she slid the heavy briefcase off her shoulder. He was standing a couple of metres to her right and slightly behind her. She noticed him because she’d seen him before, about a week ago, maybe less. It happened more than people think. When you travel the same route day in, day out, eventually you start seeing the same people.

She had thought he was rather attractive. A little older than she usually went for, probably the wrong side of forty, although only just, but he clearly took care of himself. He dressed well, too. She tried to catch a whiff of his cologne, but she didn’t think he was wearing any.

He didn’t look at her, but she somehow could feel he had noticed her. She couldn’t see properly, but she was pretty certain he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, just a nice wristwatch. An Omega, she thought. So he had money too. That always helped.

The train came and they ended up in the same carriage. She read the adverts adorning the carriage and sneaked glances at him. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he sneaked the odd look back. Most of the time he read his paper. The Guardian. So he had liberal views on the world, like her.

She wondered where he would get off the train. She guessed Notting Hill − no, Holland Park suited him better. But he didn’t.

The train approached Shepherd’s Bush. She sneaked one last glance at the man and moved to the exit. She wasn’t one of those confident types who would sit and wait for the train to stop before staking their claim at the exit. She was always afraid the doors would close too quickly and she’d miss her stop. Worse, she’d be left on the train feeling foolish. Uncomfortable stares would rest on her.

He’d stepped off the train right behind her, but she couldn’t feel him close any more; it was as if he’d somehow faded away. He must have gone down another corridor, heading for another exit.

She wanted to be subtle. If he was somehow still behind her, she didn’t want him to see her looking for him. She took the chance to glance back as she travelled up the escalator. She couldn’t see him. If he had been heading her way he should have been within view. He must have gone another way. The butterflies in her stomach left her. They were replaced with an empty, disappointed feeling. She preferred the fluttering wings.

By the time she’d exited the station she’d forgotten he had ever existed. Ground level brought its own reality and he wasn’t part of it. She hurried along Bush Green. The heavy bag slowed her, the straps cutting into her shoulder, drawing attention to her. She must learn to travel lighter. She saw a group of young black men standing outside the betting shop and pulled her briefcase closer, tightening the grip on her handbag, head down and walking past them as quickly as she could. She felt their stares as surely as if they were beating her. She felt like a racist and it made her feel guilty.

She entered the small shop. It smelled like most newsagents or off-licences in London, spicy and sweet. She liked the smell. She liked the different cultures of London. Mostly, anyway.

It took her less than a minute to buy the pack of Silk Cut Mild. She’d tried to smoke Marlboro Lights or Camel Lights, like everyone else in London. They tasted funny to her. They didn’t smell like the cigarettes adults had smoked around her when she was growing up in Devon.

As she left the shop she wasn’t looking where she was going. She almost bumped straight into him, the man from the Tube. It made her stop in her tracks. He swerved around her and kept going. If he’d wanted to talk to her he’d had the perfect opportunity. He hadn’t taken it. Maybe she had just imagined that he’d noticed her earlier? Being alone in London was beginning to get to her. She was craving the attention of strangers.

He walked in front of her now. Still along Bush Green. He stopped at a bus stop. He didn’t seem the type to be getting a bus in Shepherd’s Bush. She tried to imagine where he could possibly be going. Putney, or perhaps Barnes. If so, it was a strange route.

She passed the bus stop and kept heading west. She turned left into Rockley Road. The noise of Shepherd’s Bush Green seemed to die away instantly. Immediately she felt more relaxed. Her pace slowed, almost as if she were enjoying an evening stroll. The pain of the bag strap cutting into her shoulder reminded her she wasn’t. She considered stopping to light a cigarette, but decided to wait until she got home. Maybe she would have a glass of wine too. She was pretty sure she had an unspoilt bottle in the fridge.

The street was empty. Quiet. She could see and hear people in their homes, but the road itself was lifeless. It made it easier to sense a disturbance. She did. She was being followed, she was certain of it. Was it one of the men from outside the betting shop? If it came to it, they could have her briefcase and her handbag. Just so long as they left her alone.

She started walking faster. She was aware she was breathing heavily under the strain. She tried to listen for footsteps, but she could hear only her own. The street lamps flickered into life. They cast faint shadows across the pavement. The noise of the leaves rustling in the trees all around her suddenly became deafening.

She felt someone coming closer. She wanted to stop, turn and confront them, be brave, but fear was taking a hold. It licked at her skin like a fire surrounding its victim. Every hair on her back stood erect, reverberating. She felt so cold. Panic was close now.

Too late, she heard the footsteps. He had been right behind her. At the last second she spun around, ready to scream. It was him. The man from the underground. He looked as scared as she felt. He jumped back a step.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he said. He had a nice voice. Well spoken.

‘Christ,’ she managed to say. She held a hand dramatically over her chest. ‘You almost scared me to death.’ They both laughed.

She moved away a little from him. Her expression became serious. ‘Are you following me?’

He put his hand in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small black leather wallet. He flicked it open and showed it to her. She could see the Metropolitan Police logo on the metal badge. She sighed in relief. Her entire body seemed to relax.

‘I couldn’t help but notice a couple of lads having a good look at that briefcase back there.’ He pointed over his shoulder.

‘The ones outside the betting office?’

‘Yeah. I hate to stereotype people, but thought I’d watch them for a bit. Keep an eye on them.’

‘Is that why you stopped at the bus stop?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You noticed? Surveillance never was my thing.’ They both laughed again. ‘Two of them looked as if they could be following you, so I thought I’d better do the same, just in case. But I seem to have lost them back at that junction somehow.

‘Do you have far to go?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I live down here. A few houses along.’

‘Nice,’ he said. She couldn’t tell if he meant it. ‘You’ll be okay from here,’ he said. ‘I think you got away with it today.’ He winked at her. She could tell he was about to leave. She didn’t want him to.

‘You don’t sound like a policeman.’ It was all she could think of.

‘Really,’ he replied, smiling. ‘Well, we don’t all sound like they do on the television. Some of us can even read and write.’

She liked him.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get on. Somewhere there’s a crime being committed and all that.’

She felt her embarrassment rising, but it was worth it to flirt a little. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t get your name.’

‘Sean,’ he replied. ‘It’s Sean Corrigan.’ He was already walking away though.

‘If he turns around he’s interested,’ Linda whispered to herself. ‘Any time now.’ He turned and gave her a casual wave and slight smile. ‘Yes,’ she said to herself. ‘Yes.’

Donnelly arrived home via his favourite local watering hole in time to catch the start of Crimewatch. He felt sorry for Sally being stitched up by Sean like that, but at least it meant he didn’t have to do it. Although there were always ways to get out of unpleasant tasks like telly work, especially for those with a little imagination and a lot of experience. He walked up the driveway of the family home, a large semi-detached in Swanley, Kent. The five kids were all growing up fast. He had to live out here to be able to put a roof over their heads. London prices were out of the question. Still, the train ride was just about bearable and there was no need to worry about getting caught driving half-pissed. He gave the decaying Range Rover, the only family car, a pat of appreciation as he passed it. It hadn’t cost him a penny in years.

His wife, Karen, confronted him as soon as he opened the front door. ‘You’re late again,’ she accused in her East End accent. They’d been married for more than twenty years.

‘Overtime, my sweetness,’ he answered. ‘May I remind you we need every penny I can lay my hands on?’ His wife answered with a roll of her eyes. ‘Speaking of financial burdens, where are the kids?’

Karen thrust her hands on her hips. ‘Jenny is out with her boyfriend, Adrian is out with his girlfriend, Nikki and Raymond are upstairs on the PlayStation and Josh is in his bed.’

‘Jenny lives at home?’ Donnelly asked with mock surprise.

‘She’s only seventeen, remember? Still at school, doing her A-levels?’

‘Bloody further education,’ he moaned. ‘We’ll be broke before any of our lot get themselves a job and leave home. By the time I was seventeen I was working in the shipyards in Dumbarton, earning a decent wage and learning a proper trade.’

‘Until you decided it was too bloody hard and ran off to join the police in London.’

‘Aye, well,’ he stalled. ‘All the same, I was paying my own way in the world.’

‘Spare me.’

‘Give us a kiss and I’ll think about it,’ he teased.

‘I don’t bloody think so. When it comes to you, my mother was right: kissing does lead to children. And seeing how we’ve got four more than we can afford, you’re going to have to park your lips somewhere else. Besides, I hate it when your moustache tastes of beer.’

‘I’ve not touched a drop,’ he lied.

‘A likely story.’

‘Very well, I shall retire to the lounge,’ he sulked in a put-on accent. ‘I need to watch Crimewatch tonight anyway.’

‘Jesus. Haven’t you had enough of the job for one day?’

‘Our case is on tonight. It would be bad form to miss it. It’ll be the talk of the canteen tomorrow.’

‘I wanted to watch that programme about Princess Diana tonight.’

‘You can watch the repeat,’ he told her unsympathetically.

The television was already on in the living room. Some cheap production with a shaky set and worse acting. He pointed the remote at the offending programme and surfed the channels until he found what he was looking for.

‘When is your case on?’ Karen asked.

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to watch the whole bloody thing, no doubt. Bloody Crimewatch. Waste of bloody space, if you ask me.’

‘Oi. Stop your swearing, the kids might hear.’

‘Saying “bloody” isn’t swearing.’ He flopped his heavy frame into the old armchair reserved for his sole use. ‘Media appeals, waste of time. Expecting the public to solve crimes for us. It’s not how we used to get the job done.’

‘We all know how you used to get the job done,’ Karen said.

‘Bloody right. We did what we had to do to keep the baddies off the streets. We may have sent the wrong man down for the wrong crime, but they were all criminals anyway. It’s our job to put them away. Didn’t matter how we did it, so long as we got the job done. The people we put away never complained either. They knew the score. For them it was just an occupational hazard. It’s my job to keep the scum off the streets. How I do it is my business. Everyone else can stay in their nice, fluffy little worlds.’

‘The old days are gone,’ Karen reminded him. ‘So you had better be careful.’

‘Aye,’ he grumbled. ‘Don’t worry about me, love. I can look after myself.’

‘I don’t doubt it, but who’s going to look after me and the kids if you get the sack for fitting someone up?’

‘Murders are different. You don’t fit people up with murder. Maybe you can give the evidence a bit of help here and there, once you’re absolutely certain you’ve got the right man, but you never fit someone up.’

‘Your DI Corrigan doesn’t sound like the sort of man who would want you giving the evidence a bit of help.’

‘Don’t underestimate the man,’ he told her. ‘Corrigan knows the score. He’s no accelerated promotion, graduate entry, brown-noser. He’s come up the hard way. If push comes to shove, he’ll do what it takes.’

‘Sure of that, are you?’

‘Absolutely sure.’

Linda Kotler half-watched Crimewatch. She listened to the item about the murder of Daniel Graydon and then the next item too. A sixty-year-old Post Office attendant killed in Humberside for a hundred and twenty pounds. It was not improving her mood. She turned over and began to watch another re-run. It made her think of the policeman from earlier. Sean Corrigan.

The telephone interrupted her reminiscing. Despite her loneliness, she decided leave it until the answerphone betrayed the caller. It was her sister. She decided she was in the mood to speak after all. She had a secret to share.

‘It’s me. It’s me,’ she said into the phone. ‘Ignore the answer machine. I’m here, I’m here. Damn thing’s going to record us now.’

‘Screening your calls again?’ her sister asked. ‘That’s a nasty habit you Londoners have.’

‘We have to,’ Linda replied. ‘Otherwise the only people we’d ever speak to would be telesales people and unwanted relatives. How are you?’

‘We’re all good, thanks.’ Her sister was married to a man she’d been at school with. They had three children. She was younger than Linda. Once, her sister had been a little jealous of her. Now Linda was a little jealous of her sister.

‘What about you?’ her sister asked. ‘Met a nice, good-looking man yet? Preferably rich?’ It was the same question she’d been asking for the past few months. Since he had left for pastures new and green.

‘No,’ Linda said. Then added, ‘Not really.’

‘Not really?’ Her sister’s tone was inquisitive. ‘What does “not really” mean, exactly?’

‘Well, I met this guy on the way home today and one way or the other we ended up talking. He seemed really nice, and good-looking too. It’s not like we swapped numbers or anything, although if he wanted to find me, he could.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because he’s a policeman. A detective, I think.’

‘Oooh,’ was her sister’s reply. ‘And does he have a name?’

‘Sean,’ Linda answered. ‘Sean Corrigan.’

Having introduced myself, I let her go. For a while anyway. It’s the way I’ve seen it happening. Now I need to lose myself for a few hours. Wait for my old friend the darkness to arrive. I’ve done my homework and know the Boat Show is on at Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre. I have absolutely no interest in it, but it is nearby and doesn’t close until eleven. It’s a good place to hide myself. In a crowd, amongst the herd.

I mingle with them, my mask as secure as ever. It would be all too easy to lash out at them. Drag whoever into the stinking toilets and slaughter them there. But it is lack of control that more often than not undoes my kind. Control is the key. Control is everything.

How I admire the man with the rifle in Germany who features in the news reports every now and then. Every three months or so he blows the head off a nobody and disappears. He is a rare breed indeed. Most sniper killers take a rifle, find themselves a nice little vantage point and kill until they are killed.

Why? Because they lack the control. Once they taste the power to kill they just can’t stop. To take one life and then calmly pack away the rifle and go home is too much for most. They get greedy, drunk on the killing, and before they realize what’s happened they’re surrounded by police marksmen. Most make the decision to go down fighting, but not this one in Germany. He is to be admired. I shouldn’t think he’ll ever be stopped.

Me, I prefer a knife. Or my own hands. A rifle’s not personal enough. I like to smell their last breath in my face.

I leave the show after eleven. I walk back to Shepherd’s Bush. It’s a fair walk, but I could use the exercise. It’s a good warm-up and also means I avoid potential witnesses like bus or taxi drivers. Pedestrians in London rarely look at each other. I’m carrying a small rucksack slung over my shoulder. It contains all I need.

By the time I get back to Minford Gardens it’s close to midnight. Late enough for most people to be tucked up in bed, early enough for the sounds of the night not to be too alarming.

I move around to the side of the house. I’d checked the window here a few nights previously. It’s a sash window, leading to the bathroom. The lock is a classic style. A simple spin-around metal latch. Any thin metal object will make short work of opening it. She should have added side deadlock bolts. She probably used to share the flat with a man. That made her feel safe when she slept. Now she’s alone, but hasn’t had time to see to the window. On these warm nights she sleeps with the windows closed. Clearly she’s not totally unaware of the dangers that lurk in this city.

Most of the upstairs windows are virtually impossible to reach, but not the bathroom window. There’s a solid metal drainpipe that runs past it. It’s secured to the wall with large steel brackets riveted to the brickwork. It’ll take my weight. I’ve already tried.

I begin to strip. I remove my shirt and tie. My trousers. Shoes, socks, underpants. I fold them all very neatly and place them in a pile beside the drainpipe. The alley by the side of the house is dark and quiet. No one would have cause to come down here at this hour. The feeling of standing naked in the warm dark night is beyond the imagination of most. The blood pumps through me, bringing me to life. I stay in the alley longer than I’d intended, but it is not a moment to be rushed. I wish I had a full-length mirror to watch myself in − and rain. Heavy warm drops of rain pounding against my skin, forming small, fast-flowing streams that would find the channels of my swelling, aching muscles, making my skin shine like steel in the moonlight, the water flowing over my body looking like liquid metal, like mercury. If only it was raining. Never mind.

I pull a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the bag and put them on. I bought them from JD Sports in Oxford Street about a month ago. I also pull on a tracksuit top, bought at the same time, from the same place. They’re matching blue. I take a roll of wide gaffer tape from the bag and meticulously tape the bottom of the trousers around my ankles. I need to seal the gap. I take a pair of new leather gloves bought from Selfridges and put them on. Rubber ones would have torn on the drainpipe. I use the tape to seal the gap at my wrists. I pull a stocking over my head. It doesn’t cover my face, there’s no need for that, so long as it covers my hair neatly.

Last but not least, I put on a pair of flat rubber-soled shoes, bought a week ago from Tesco. I’ve never worn any of the items before. I hid them in the tiny car park at work until I needed them, in one of the ventilation shafts.

The shoes have little grip so I use my upper body strength alone to pull myself up the drainpipe. I’ll let my legs dangle. If I start to use them to climb I run the risk of making too many scuff marks on the wall. I’d rather keep the police guessing how I got in for a while, although ultimately I want them to work it out.

I make certain the rucksack is secure over my left shoulder, hanging so the bag is to my front. I begin to climb. I keep my legs crossed at the ankles, to help resist the temptation to use them to help. The leather gloves give me good grip as I pull myself up. It’s not too difficult and I keep enough control to make the climb fast and silent.

The ledge of the bathroom window is narrow and rotting, but I can rest a knee on it safely enough. I hold on to the drainpipe with my right hand and slip the other into the bag. I pull out a small metal ruler, the type favoured by architects and surveyors. I work it into the gap between the upper and lower sash window and begin to work the latch.

It takes a few minutes to do it quietly. Millimetre by millimetre I rotate the catch. My right arm is burning with the effort of holding on to the drainpipe and my knee is growing sore. It’ll be bruised for sure. That’s unfortunate.

Once the catch is open, I put my left hand flat against the bottom pane and push the window in gently. I can feel it is a little loose in its fitting. It’ll make a noise if I’m not extremely careful and patient.

I pinch the protruding wooden frame and carefully apply upward pressure. At first nothing happens. The window is stiff. I ease on more force. It slides upwards too much and makes a noise. Damn it to hell. I freeze flat against the wall, clinging to the drainpipe like a lizard. I listen hard. I wait like that for at least a minute. It seems an hour. I’m glad I’ve been exercising as much as I have.

Nothing stirs. I slip my left hand under the window’s base. I’ll be able to apply more even upward pressure now. I’m past the worst, though I still take my time.

When the window’s open fully I throw my left leg through, then my left arm. I have to contort to get my head and upper body through. My right leg and arm trail after me through the window like smoke seeping through a gap under a door.

As soon as I enter the flat I can smell her. Every room will smell like her, I know it. The bedroom will have the strongest odour of all.

It’s dark in the bathroom, but my eyes are already used to it. I can see I’m standing in her bath. The chrome taps are on my right, shining in the dark. I have little interest in the bathroom. Too many other smells that mask her scent. I can see that the door is closed. Unfortunate. More risk of noise. It’s only midnight. She may not be asleep yet. Noise is my enemy now. Sometimes it is my ally.

I move stealthily across the small bathroom. I exaggerate my movements. I look like a ballet dancer performing an animalistic dance, my muscles tensing together. I wish I could be naked to feel her presence against my skin, but I can’t take that risk. I remain sealed in my forensic cocoon. I turn the handle on the bathroom door. It’s in good order and makes no noise. I inch the door open, patiently, controlled. As the door opens to the rest of the flat the smell of her rushes through the gap. I inhale deeply, almost too deeply. I feel a little dizzy. My blood flows so quickly I can feel my temples thumping. A drop of sweat is cool in the cleft of my upper lip. I wipe it away. I won’t leave any of me here. Not even a drop of sweat.

My erection is growing fast, but I won’t rush. There are things to prepare. I move along the corridor, away from her bedroom. The entire flat is in darkness. No flickering of a TV screen. No noise at all.

I enter the living room. It’s too dark to make out details, but it looks fairly cluttered. Too much furniture. Too many cheap prints on the walls. Too many ornaments. I stand in the middle of the room away from the windows, relishing being here alone. What was hers is now mine. This will be the best yet. I’ve learnt so much. I’ll take my time and when I’m finished her very being will be mine.

After almost half an hour I move to the kitchen and silently search through the cupboards and drawers until I find what I need. A knife. It’s not very new or sharp, but it’s a nice intimidating shape. Slightly curved blade and a metal handle. It’ll do.

I go back to the corridor and begin to walk towards her bedroom. The corridor is much darker than the room ahead. The street lights don’t penetrate this far into the flat. The warm glowing yellow light of the bedroom draws me like a moth. I move so very slowly. This is perfection. Exactly how I’ve seen it. Each step is choreographed. How I wish I could be naked. My penis is so hard I fear I may reach orgasm before even getting to the bedroom, but I will not rush this.

The door to her bedroom is ajar. I begin to push it slowly open with my left arm. It swings gently aside. I can see her. Lying in her bed. She’s wearing a pyjama top. The only bed linen is a white sheet. It’s still too warm for more. The sheet only covers her from the waist down. I suspect she’s wearing underwear to make her feel less vulnerable.

I cross the bedroom. She hasn’t closed the blinds properly. The street lights cast a long shadow of me as I walk towards her.

I reach her and stand by the bed. She hasn’t sensed me yet. I watch her breathing. Her skin looks metallic in the dark. Like the black-grey metal of a gun. Her chest rises and falls gently, but I can tell she is not yet in a deep sleep. I am surprised she hasn’t woken. I stand and wait.

She turns on to her back and stops. Her eyes begin to open. She sees me and blinks a couple of times. She seems to recognize me. Her mouth is open in surprise, but she doesn’t scream or speak. The surprise is overwhelming her.

She becomes fully awake. I see the fear spread across her face. I smash my right fist into it. She begins to turn before impact and the blow hits her full in her left cheek. I think I feel the bone break. She makes a funny little noise.

Before she regains her senses I grab her around the throat with my left hand and lift her upwards and backwards with one arm. I crash the back of her head into the wall and let her fall unconscious back on to the bed. I watch her for a few seconds. She’s still alive. Good.

I move back across the bedroom to a set of drawers. I take a handful of her tights back to the bed. There’s some blood coming from the back of her head, but not too much.

I take the gaffer tape from the rucksack and tear off a six-inch strip. I fasten it across her mouth. I turn her on to her stomach, turning her head to the side so she can breathe.

I take a pair of tights and tie them tightly around her neck, although not too tightly. I attach these to another pair that I draw straight down her back. I bend both legs so they are folded back on themselves. I connect them to the tights running down the centre of her back.

Lastly I use another set to tie her hands at the wrists, also behind her back. These I don’t connect to the other bindings.

I take the knife I found in the kitchen and use it to slice her pyjama top open along her back then rip it off her. She is wearing knickers as I suspected. I cut them on both sides and pull them away. I step back and admire my work. She lies naked and trussed.

I wait patiently. She groans. She’s regaining consciousness. This time her eyes don’t flicker open gradually. They spring shockingly wide in an instant. As if awakening from a nightmare. But she’s not. She’s awakening into a nightmare.

She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious for. Her mind woke a split second before the rest of her body. When the body caught up her eyes fired open. Jesus, God please help me.

She desperately needed to fill her lungs with air, but couldn’t. Something was across her mouth. She tried again to open her jaws. It was no use. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it hurt. She breathed through her nose instead, but it was impossible to get enough air into her lungs. Tears and mucus had narrowed her nasal passage. If she panicked now she would suffocate to death.

Had she been raped? Why had he left her like this? For the first time since regaining consciousness she felt the pain in her cheek. It was an excruciating dull, throbbing pain. Her left eye was already swollen shut. It was so painful it masked the pain at the back of her head completely.

She tried to get up off the bed. Simultaneously something tightened around her throat and ankles. She tried to move her hands. Something tightened around her wrists. She felt around with her fingers as much as possible. She realized they were touching her own feet. She’d been tied like a dead animal. She became aware of her own nakedness. The panic that could so easily kill her began to rise to new levels as the horror of what could have happened while she was unconscious dawned.

She heard a lamp being switched on. The room was flooded with a soft red light. She didn’t recognize it. She didn’t have red lighting in the room. A gloved hand slipped under her jaw and twisted her head around towards him. She gripped her eyes as tightly closed as she could. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She didn’t want to see him.

He said nothing. Just held her and waited. Her breathing was terribly fast and erratic, as if she was having an asthma attack. Slowly she began to open her eyes. There was enough light to see.

She looked into his face. It took a few seconds to recognize the man. He looked different and had something over his hair. It was him. The policeman. Sean. She stopped breathing, trying to comprehend what was happening. She almost began to feel relieved. She knew this man.

She saw a spark of red light reflect off the blade of his knife. He moved so quickly and surely. She was still lying on her stomach. He pointed the knife at her swollen eye. She tried so hard not to cry, but she wasn’t strong enough to stop the tears that began to stream down her face. They made her damaged eye sting and burn.

He brought his face close to hers. He spoke quietly into her ear.

‘If you do as I say, you will live. If not, you die.’

It was the most exquisite experience of my life. The others were wonderful, but this was so much better. To spend so much time with her before she died. To watch her writhing naked in front of me, fighting with her bindings. At first she cried constantly. I could hear her muffled pleas, but I ignored them. I couldn’t hear what she was saying clearly. It was a shame. I would have very much liked to have heard what she was saying.

After I bound and gagged her I tortured her for a while. Then I put on two extra-strength condoms and entered her. I’d already shaved off all my pubic hair, so there was no chance of leaving them a hair sample. I told my wife I had a suspected hernia and the doctor had asked me to shave myself before he examined me. The stupid bitch will believe anything I tell her.

With her face twisted to one side, I could see her profile. She looked shocked when I entered her. As if she just couldn’t believe I could do this to her. If she knew me better, she wouldn’t have been so surprised. The more she struggled, the harder I pulled on the stocking that ran down her back. As I pulled, the bindings tightened simultaneously, drawing her legs further up her back as the thin nylon tightened around her throat. All her crying had released the mucus in her nasal cavity, making disgusting noises as she tried to draw breath. It was distracting and spoiling my experience. I hadn’t pictured that she would be so disgusting. I told her she had to stop sniffling or she would die. Once she’d stopped I loosened her harness and allowed her body and head to fall back to the bed.

I had never felt so powerful. I was magnificent above her, on top of her, holding her in the harness made from her own clothing, her face pressed into the mattress. I consumed all of her. As I reached orgasm I pulled the bindings as hard as I could, my eyes shut in ecstasy. When I opened them again she was dead. Her own urine ran down the inside of her legs − even in death the bitch tried to spoil it for me.

I let my penis go flaccid while it was still inside her before carefully pinching the ends of the condoms and pulling myself out. She slumped to the floor on her side. Very carefully I removed the condoms, my flaccid penis falling into my waiting hand, warm and slippery with sperm and spermicide, the feel of it in my hand causing the excitement to return, but there was no time for any more fun here. I put the condoms into a self-sealing freezer bag and then into my rucksack. I took the tape off her mouth and put that into another self-sealing bag. I would have so liked to have been naked myself, but it was too dangerous. I must work out how to be naked next time, without leaving a treasure chest of evidence.

I pulled my tracksuit trousers up and grabbed the rucksack. I checked the room and saw the dressing gown was still over the lamp. It had given off a delicious light, making her pale skin appear blood red. No need to remove it. The drawer I had taken the tights from was open too. No need to close it. There was a slight blood smear on the wall behind the bed. No need to clean it.

I moved quietly across the flat to the bathroom, leaving the same way I came in. I want the police to find it, so considered leaving it open, but decided that might be too obvious. My muscles have grown somewhat tired by now, but I have enough strength to hold on to the drainpipe with one arm while I move the catch back to the locked position. I make sure I leave enough scratches on the latch so even the police can find them.

I climb down the drainpipe as quietly as a spider on a thread. I strip off the clothes worn in the flat and put them in large bin liners. These in turn I place inside the rucksack. My other clothes wait in their neat pile for me. I take my time to dress. No need to hurry. I enjoy the calm I feel spreading beautifully through my body and mind, feeling a hundred times more powerful than I did before my visit. The warm night air wraps around my body like smoke around a smouldering log. I put the bag over my shoulder and head towards Shepherd’s Bush, although I’ll keep walking for a few miles yet before catching a night bus far enough away that it’ll never be checked by the police.

I will go visiting again soon and next time will be the greatest yet.