Taylor deposits the broken mugs in the bin and refills the kettle, before taking new mugs from the cupboard and dropping a teabag into each. Sam looks over to Harry and Cecil, now seated in the DCI’s office, chatting amicably. Both men look like they haven’t a care in the world. Oh, to have a—
“Ma’am,” says Taylor, interrupting her dark thoughts. “I was hoping we could, er, talk about what happened after we got back from Newcastle on Friday?” He steps from foot to foot, examining his shoes.
Sam runs her hand through her hair. “I hope you don’t mind, but I can’t talk about that right now,” she says. “I’m truly sorry, and really appreciate you getting me home safely. It was so unprofessional of me, but I can assure you, I have never done anything like that before and never will again. Please can we leave it?”
“No, of course, I know that,” he begins. “It’s just—”
Suddenly the space between them is filled with a song that Sam recognizes. Is that “Anti-Hero”? She can’t help but laugh. Taylor blushes and pulls out his phone, sliding to answer. After a series of mm-hmms, his face grows white. He starts to pace the room.
“There’s another real Denver victim,” Taylor says a moment later, his jaw twitching. “Melanie Davison. Apparently, someone else went to prison for her murder. That was his lawyer on the phone. The chap Denver claims to have framed for killing Melanie wants to meet us. I think we should interview him as a priority.”
Sam racks her brains. She can’t remember a Melanie, but it’s entirely possible she hasn’t managed to get to that chapter yet.
“It was the most compelling murder, for me,” Taylor says. “Reads just like a real whodunnit.”
Brutes
The kill itselfis very personal, and how you perform it is up to you. For beginners, I’d recommend having the victim restrain themselves by self-fastening to a solid object such as a bed frame or radiator. This obviously isn’t necessary with victims who are significantly physically inferior, but it’s a good habit to get into. Even the best serial killers have had victims escape. Jeff Dahmer was particularly careless, but the cops brought his boys back for him—you will almost certainly not be so lucky. Remember that in 15 percent of cases victims survive or escape, and in 1 percent of cases victims kill the killer. So take extra care.
Men are far more likely to fight you, but women are noisier, so plan accordingly and gauge your level of expertise against the prospective victim. I’d recommend using a gag. I also put socks over my victim’s hands. This prevents scratching, which can lead to your DNA being collected by the victim. Too many people are forensically aware nowadays (fuckingCSI) so vics will sometimes try to scratch you for this reason alone. I’ve even had one try to write a message in their own blood, so I now take care to minimize blood splatter, too. You can do that in avariety of ways; cling film (shout-out to my boy Dexter) and plastic bags work well.
Don’t use the victim’s bathroom. If you need to, pee in the sink and then run the hot tap for at least ten minutes. Definitely don’t take a dump, but if the worst happens, flush the toilet multiple times and use a lot of bleach. Don’t drink from the victim’s crockery or eat their food. A woman was recently captured by police after her DNA was found on a Krispy Kreme doughnut left at the crime scene. (I can’t blame her, really—who can resist a Krispy Kreme?) Don’t vomit. It’s almost always smell that makes one sick, so avoid rupturing the stomach and intestines where possible—the odor is overwhelming. Pin your nose in your early days; a simple swimmer’s nose clip does the job.
You might be tempted, as I was with Betty, to take a souvenir. This can be very risky, but I confess to having magpie-like tendencies and I admit that I found my favorite pair of earrings under the most unusual circumstances.
All across England there are affluent spa towns, inhabited mainly by the wealthy. In Victorian times, the gentry would retreat to these places to take the air and recover from the demands of the social season. I’ve always enjoyed British tradition, so whenever the stresses of life become too much, I find myself gravitating to these places and taking some time for myself. Who doesn’t love a firm-fingered massage?
Tony and I were enjoying a weekend of self-care, complete with riverside strolls. I spotted Mel crying on a bench by the river, her fake eyelashes hanging askew. Tears rolled down her orange cheeks. A cigarette dangled between two bronze fingers, tipped with neon-pink plastic. An ugly dog, some kind of bull-jawed fighting thing, was at her feet, straining on its studded diamanté collar.
“Don’t worry. She’s soft,” Mel said through a smoky exhale, as I approached.
I’d heard many an owner of these beasts say similar things to rightfully wary passersby. A week later the brute eats their baby. I hadTony on the lead and he whimpered as I sat at the far end of Mel’s bench.
“Is something wrong, my dear?” I asked, feigning a Home Counties accent to match my old-man disguise. Mel shook her head and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her polo neck.
I was tempted to leave it there; I rarely engage in conversation with victims beforehand, especially in public. It’s highly risky. But I was seeking a new level of challenge, and something about her person had set an idea germinating at the back of my mind. So I pushed a little.
“You can tell me, dear. I’ve seen it all already. I don’t judge.”
“It’s my bloke and his raging,” she said after another drag on her cigarette. “He never means it. He feels awful for it. But sometimes I piss him off so much he just loses the plot. Jealous, see.”
“Why is he jealous?”
“Not him. Me. I’m jealous. I seen another girl on his Facebook and started mouthing off again.” She shrugged, then winced with the motion.
“Oh dear. Jealousy is never good in a relationship. What happened next?”
Melanie took another long draw on the cigarette, forcing smoke out of the corner of her mouth and revealing a cracked incisor.
“Lashes out, don’t he? Gives me a slap round the head…” Mel lifted up her peroxide-blond hair to reveal a swollen and blackened lump of an ear, her fingertips tracing out more bumps across her skull. Then she pulled down the collar of her polo neck, revealing thumb-shaped bruises around her neck. I noticed tiny scars on her cheekbones and one on the tip of her nose, with faded stitch marks around it. A little diamond stud twinkled in the daylight; I remember thinking that the tiny rhinestone was the classiest thing about our Mel. Poor bitch.
“Lovely earrings, dear,” I said.
“Ta. Me mam got them. Real diamonds. My fella—Richie, he’s called—wants me to take them down Ramsdens and get a new TV.”
It was clear to me that this Richie fellow was a low-level predator. Barely bobcat level. Beating his tiny girlfriend around the skull wassmart: no visible bruises meant no proof. Fair enough—he might occasionally mishit and blacken an ear. But scarring her face? That was plain stupid. His stupidity pissed me off. Men like him give men like me a bad name. Driven by base instincts. No control. Unoriginal.
“Excuse my ignorance, dear,” I said, readying to ask the most obvious question in the world, the one dumb women like this one never want to hear, “but why don’t you just leave him?”
