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
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by my hand and so you will. Who am I to argue with Nature? Who are you to? Nothing can stand in the way of Nature’s design.
But I’m no sick case locked in a bed, sitting alone every night slashing my chest with razor blades while masturbating to violent pornography. Not me. I’m no self-destructive psychiatric case just waiting or hoping to be caught. Neither am I seeking fame or notoriety. I don’t even want to be infamous. You’ll not see me sending the police clues, playing a game, phoning them up with tasty morsels of information. None of that interests me. I’ll give them nothing. I must remain free to continue my work. That is all that’s important now.
And even if they do catch up with me, they’ll never prove a thing.
My third visit was the most satisfying experience of my life. A development. A further sign of my growing strength and power.
In a way it is merciful. A new-born killer can make a terrible mess of things. Prolong the victim’s agony. An efficient killer is exactly that. Efficient. I grow more efficient with each kill. That’s not to say I don’t like to have a little fun, every now and then.
Besides, I have to make a mess sometimes, to keep the police guessing. Can’t stick to the same method of dispatching the chosen few. That would make it all too easy. They’re already sniffing around very close to home, not that that concerns me.
I rented another car. A big fat Vauxhall, with a big fat boot to match. The car rental companies around London were doing quite nicely out of me lately. Still, I was doing quite nicely out of them. Again I parked the car in a car park overnight, this time in the shopping centre at Brent Cross in North London. I bought a new raincoat from the same shopping centre, along with new plastic-soled shoes. I bought a nylon T-shirt and a new pair of black Nike training bottoms, all of which I stored in the hired car until I needed them.
I was all set. I returned to the car park early the following evening. The shops were still open. I took the clothes from the boot of the car and changed into them in a public toilet. I returned to the car and quickly covered the real number plates with false ones. I had been careful to park in a CCTV blind spot.
All went smoothly and I drove south towards King’s Cross railway station, a modern monstrosity of a building. I drove against the flow of traffic and arrived there around 8 p.m. It wasn’t quite dark yet, so I parked the car in a side street. It was free to park at this time of night. That was important. I couldn’t risk a parking ticket or the unwanted attention of a bored policeman.
I left the car and walked towards the West End, along Euston Road. From my research I knew there was a Burger King close to St Pancras station. Despite the excited tightness in my belly I felt a little hungry, so decided to grab a bite to eat. It was as good a way as any to kill an hour and let the night grow dark. Wait until winter comes, I thought. Sixteen hours of darkness a day. What fun we’ll have then.
I ate my Whopper with cheese, chewed a few fries and slurped a diet 7UP. I amused myself watching the people milling around me, unaware they were dancing so close to death. Young foreign students mainly, being served by life’s losers.
My attention became focused on three young Spanish girls. They picked at their food and giggled. They were attracting the attention of a group of dark-skinned youths. I didn’t think the youths were Spanish − probably Italian or, worse, Albanian. Probably more interested in stealing the girls’ handbags than their virginity.
I would have liked to tie the giggling girls up. Spend plenty of time with them. Watch their tears of pain and fear flow, hear their stifled squeals of agony and humiliation as I had my fun with them one by one. Then I’d make them watch and see my power as I slit their throats. A twisted, bloody tribute to the beauty of violent death.
I had to calm myself. My imagination was over-exciting me and the tightness in my belly was becoming painful. I had my subject for the night. It had been arranged. Carefully planned. I had to guard against acting on impulse. The Spanish girls would live. Someone else would not.
When the time came, I left the restaurant. On the way out I walked close to the Spanish girls. I breathed them in deeply. They smelled sweet. Like bubble gum. One of them glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back. Her friends noticed and all three returned to a giggling scrum. Some other time, perhaps.
I’d been agitated by the girls. My heart beat faster than normal. I was on the point of being desperate. I’d prayed my chosen subject would be where they should be. I walked faster than I should have. Had anyone noticed me? Thought me a little out of place? On reflection, I didn’t think so.
I reached my chosen vantage point, at the far west tip of King’s Cross station. I was so excited I almost wandered into the range of some CCTV cameras attached to the side of the station wall. I managed to stop myself. I looked across the five lanes of Euston Road traffic and focused on the small, brightly lit café. I could see straight inside. It was typical of the cafés around the station. A real shit hole. The owner sold poisonous food and child prostitutes.
The game machines by the front door were a sign. A beacon to the young homeless. Runaways from the North and Midlands often made it no further from the railway station than this café. From here, they would be farmed out to various pimps across London. That would then be their life. Prostitution, crime, drugs and early death.
Other hunters visited this place. It was like an African watering hole. Most hunting illicit under-age sex. Some, very occasionally, hunting to kill, but none quite like me.
She was right where she should be. Pumping money into a fruit machine. A lost cause chasing a lost cause. She must have been between fourteen and sixteen, about five foot three, long dirty blonde hair, white skin, beautiful like marble. Slim. Half my size.
I’d been watching the place off and on for a couple of weeks. Nothing took my fancy, but I persevered. After a few days she appeared, rucksack in hand. From the first moment I saw her, she was mine.
I hadn’t been any closer to her yet than this. I hadn’t heard her speak, so I didn’t know where she was from. I didn’t know the colour of her eyes yet either. I hoped they were brown. Brown eyes set against that marble skin would be stunning. I needed to see her blood on that skin. I started getting an erection. I took some deep breaths and calmed myself down.
During the times I’d watched her, she hadn’t been taken away by anyone. I didn’t think she’d succumbed to the inevitable life of prostitution yet. Good. The more innocent they are, the greater my pleasure is. Is there anything sweeter than violated innocence?
I kept watch. Waiting for her to make a deadly mistake. No one noticed me. There were thousands of people around the station. For once the weather forecast had been accurate and it was drizzling, hence my raincoat seemed perfectly normal, even at this time of year.
She did it several times a night. Walked out of the café and around into a side street, close to where I’d parked the car. At first I wondered what she was doing. Urinating? Giving clients fumbling oral sex? Then I saw her. She was going for a cigarette. She didn’t want to share it with the other runaway fuckers. And why should she? They say smoking is bad for your health. If only she knew.
I patiently watched her. Still excited, but less agitated now. I had more control over myself. I could wait. It was only a matter of time.
My patience was rewarded. I saw her speaking to the other youths huddled around the machine. She was making her excuse to leave. The others didn’t seem interested. She stepped out of the café, looking up and down the street. She knew she was mere prey. She was nervous about moving away from the safety of the herd. She disappeared into the side street. I crossed the road by the pelican crossing. The light rain made the yellow, red and green lights of the street dance on the shiny road and the vehicles that passed.
The girl was out of view now, but I could smell her. Feel her. I moved in closer. Drawn to her. I had the police identification in my coat pocket. My hand rested on it. Ready. In the other pocket I had a small carving knife in case she tried to run or squeal. I’d bought the knife months ago and hid it in my study at home. It was a common brand. Very good for slicing tomatoes, or so the sales assistant had