It almost happened to me.
It wasn’t very long ago—about two years, I’d say. I was an advanced practitioner, well beyond killing little old ladies and talking young men into jumping off bridges. I’d abandoned the gamery of lacing wine bottles with drugs and I’d let go of most of my disguises, too. I was at a point in my career where my victim count was so high that I knew I’d made it. I knew Mary Ann, Teddy, Jeff and the gang would all welcome me to warm my hands by Satan’s fireside as one of the greatest serial killers of all time.
I need to tread carefully here so as not to give too much away, so I will say nothing about how I selected this next victim. He was called Basiland he lived in a castle, although he referred to it as “The Lodge.” It had dozens of grand rooms, including a library with those rolling ladders like inBeauty and the Beast. (What? You think serial killers don’t do Disney?) There was a sauna, steam room, stables, fountains and staff who cared for the gundogs and hunting horses.
Basil was a little shocked when I stepped into his kitchen, masked and ready, but he offered me a stiff drink and proceeded to pull his checkbook from the drawer. No one in the real world uses checkbooks anymore, I told him. But he just tutted.
“Name your price, my man,” he said.
I always source my weapon from the victim’s home and you should too. I pulled a knife from Basil’s giant block. Embarrassingly, I’d selected the bread knife and had to quickly slide it back in and take out another. I stepped towards Basil with a large chef’s knife in my hand.
“Now, now, old chap,” he said, eyeing the knife. “Let’s be reasonable here.”
I lunged, and he dodged.
“This is rather silly, old boy. Just name your price,” he insisted.
I have no idea what happened next. He managed to clobber me with something and it’s possible I blacked out. The next thing I knew, he had a knife himself that he held to my throat and had activated a panic alarm—a button that rich people have whereby they can summon the police without the inconvenience of dialing 999.
“Now you’ve done it, old chap,” he said. “The police are on the way.”
Anyone who’s ever watched a horror film knows that the second the killer is incapacitated, you need to kill them properly—otherwise, they’ll just get up again. Basil was more of anOnly Fools and Horseskind of guy, though. I took a few seconds to catch my breath. It was difficult to concentrate, what with the wailing alarm throbbing in my skull, but I decided to appeal to his sense of class and decorum.
“May I please sit up?” I asked.
Basil hesitated for a second, the knife pricking my throat, then he nodded and stepped back slightly. I sat up and in one swift motion whackedhis wrist, sending his knife skittering across the waxed wooden floor. It took me a moment to climb to my feet, and I felt dangerously dizzy as I chased the old man up the stairs.
He locked himself in the bathroom. I threw myself against the door. A central panel broke free and I was tempted, for a split second, to stick my head in the gap and yell, “Heeeeeere’s Johnny!” But I figured that my genius would be wasted on Basil. I did, however, peek inside to try to determine where Basil was positioned and what the layout of the room was.
He was quick as lightning. I felt no pain in the first seconds, only the warmth of my own blood pouring from my neck and running down my chest. I stumbled backward, knocking over a laundry basket and falling most of the way back down the stairs. “The bastard got me,” I heard myself saying to no one.
The alarm was still wailing. From the amount of blood running through my fingers, I supposed he’d nicked an artery and I had about eight minutes left to live. It didn’t scare me. I wasn’t in pain. Then I had a thought that terrified me to my core: no one would ever know who and what I was.
I scrambled to my feet and somehow managed to get myself out of Basil’s house, to the electric bike I’d hidden in near by undergrowth, and back home. I crashed through my own front door and scraped my way upstairs to my office. The blood from my neck was sticky now, and I was covered in mud. I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen. Then I paused. I was losing consciousness. I doubted I’d regain it. I had seconds—not enough time to write down my full story. So, as my vision clouded over, I managed to scrawl one sentence. The one that whoever found my body would hopefully release to the police and the press, and secure my legacy forever.
My name is Denver Brady, and I am a serial killer.
Chapter Fifteen
When she arrives back at her desk the next morning, her brain still reeling from Andrei’s “confession,” what she sees makes her wonder if she’s finally lost it. Sitting in her chair, sipping tea from their least-chipped mug and nibbling on a Hobnob, is a young nun. Sam knows she’s a nun because she’s dressed in full nun gear, complete with white headdress and black veil over the top. To make the scene even more bizarre, officers are standing around the nun and seem to be laughing at a joke she’s just made.
As Sam approaches, the group disperses and the nun looks over at her before standing and dusting the crumbs from her chest.
“Ma’am,” Chloe says, smiling, “we have a visitor.”
“I see that.”
The nun stands. “Detective Hansen, I presume?” She takes Sam’s hand, grasping it in both of hers, and smiling warmly up at her.
“Yes. How can I help you…”
“Sister. Sister Mary Louise,” the nun says, her accent lightly northern. “There’s been some confusion, you see, because I’vebeen calling for a week or more now but the lovely Grace and Hannah, on your civilian team, thought I wasyoursister. I’m not—just in case you weren’t sure!” The nun tilts her head back and laughs heartily at her own joke, drawing a smile from Sam and a bewildered look from Taylor, who’s hovering over her shoulder. “Oh,” the nun says, “and who might this handsome fella be?”
“Trainee Detective Constable Adam Taylor, ma’am,” he says, stepping forward and receiving an equally genuine hand-hug.
“Well, didn’t the Lord bless you both,” the nun says, admiringly. “You’re the SIO in the Denver Brady case, I hear. I’ve only just learned what it means—Senior Investigating Officer. You’re so young to be called that, don’t you think, dear? Senior. Anyway… Denver Brady. Evil himself.” Sister Mary Louise makes the sign of the cross. “Denver is why I’m here and why I’ve been telephoning.” Her blue eyes glint and Sam’s certain there’s a hint of tears behind them.
“Please, Sister, let’s take a seat in—” Taylor starts.
