Читать книгу COLD KILL - Neil White - Страница 19

He rewound the footage again, as he had done for the last ten minutes.

It was Inspector Carson on the news. A stern look to the camera. We are not ready to reveal details of her murder, but I would like to say this: that whoever carried out this barbaric act must be caught. And then the flashback from the press conference three weeks earlier, images of Corley in distress. Oh, he liked that, but when will they be ready to disclose more?

The image was back in his head. Corley’s daughter this time. Less fight than Roberts. A scream and then she was crying. She almost gave up, it had been too easy. Her choice. The wrong choice. She could have walked a different way, or put up more of a struggle, but she chose surrender, as if he was going to maul her and run. He was different. She should have realised.

He was aroused again. His breaths were fast, and he knew he had to look at Jane again, but something wasn’t right, wasn’t how he expected it.

He went to his study, really just something he had crafted from the space under his stairs, so that the slope of the steps was just in front of his face, smoothed out by plasterboard and wallpaper. It was cramped, and so his knees had worn blue marks into the wall where he turned in a tight circle on his chair. He couldn’t move back much, but it was private and felt like somewhere separate from the rest of the house.

He felt the space close in as he shut the door behind him. The light from the screen bathed his face in flickering lights and his head was filled with the soft hum of the computer fan.

Normally he liked the darkness, the confinement, but it wasn’t the same today. Jane was supposed to be the finale, the crescendo, but it didn’t feel any different from before.

He closed his eyes. He could feel the hiss of the pressure release, like a loose valve. He had tried to smother it, but it was impossible, like a song in your head that never stops going round. You can try to ignore it, but eventually the beat gets in your fucking head and you just go with it. But, oh Christ, the thoughts of her. Her look of fright, short squeals, drowned out by his hand, tight around her neck, squeezing, her skin soft, bruised. His breaths came as short gasps, loud in the confined space.

His hand went to his belt, but he stopped himself. Don’t waste it, not here.

He went to the website of the local paper and read the story. He saw the outrage in the comments, but then he read the scorn for Jane. He remembered her differently. The swish of her hair, the soft scent of her perfume as he pressed her down, the roar of his thoughts as he gripped her. The struggle. The fight.

He took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He had projects to complete, he knew that now. Jane was supposed to be the last one, but the need was still there. It didn’t feel like he was finished. He needed that final rush, to get somewhere near the intensity of his first time. And he should listen to that need.

But it was hard not to think of Jane. The young woman. Pretty. Scared. The dirt. He had seen the buzz around the station, the big shirts wheeled in, and still they didn’t know of the connection. Jane and Deborah. He had to do more.

He saw the reporter’s email address at the bottom of the article. It was time to go public. That had always been his plan.

His fingers started to tap on the keys, soft clicks that echoed in his tiny office.