Whoever you are right now, today will soon be gone. Once you fulfill your potential as a serial killer, you will leave behind this world of jobs and public transport, poor healthcare and women who say no. You will be more than everyone around you.
However, it’s important that when you embark on your career as a serial killer, you shape your legacy from day one. How do you want to be remembered? What do you want the headlines to say? What will they call your Netflix documentary? Providing that you have devoted yourself fully to the advice in this guide, you will become an infamous serial killer and, despite our efforts, the nature of your fame will be decided by others, and this can be difficult to stomach. Once a legacy is formed, the real version of you becomes irrelevant. To repeat: once a legacy is formed, the real version of you becomes irrelevant.
However unimpressive, average or outright disappointing you are right now, it won’t matter. A legacy transcends this reality. You can be a spotty virgin from a Welsh sheep farm and, providing you follow my advice, you will become the most fascinating creature in any room.
My own legacy, I have sought to shape with this book. As I intend to continue to get away with murder for the rest of my days, I have found a way to shape my living legacy. Should I be caught—which I won’t be—the man behind the mask will not matter. All that will matter is the art and the legacy I have built for myself within these pages. I have no doubt that once this book receives the attention it deserves, men will line up pretending to be me. Men will revere me; they’ll think of me when they fuck. They’ll wear T-shirts with my name on. They’ll talk about me down the pub.
Providing that you shape your legacy as well as I have shaped mine, it doesn’t matter who the man behind the mask is. If you’re so disappointing that they can’t wrap their little minds around it, they’ll simply refuse to believe that the police have caught the right guy. Either way, the fan mail will come, women will fall at your shackled feet, and Trevor McDonald and Piers Morgan will fight for your attention. God, I hope Sir Trev is still alive and kicking when you’re reading this.
I’ll say it again: once you have created your legacy, the real you ceases to matter. You could be anybody—a toothless bricklayer from Peckham, a skirt-wearing Glaswegian with moobs, an illegal immigrant with a dozen kids and zero prospects. No matter how disappointing you may be in real life, you’ll be like God in the eyes of the world. Better than God. No one believes in that loser anymore. Everyone will know that you exist.
With that notion, I leave you.
You, my beautiful reader, have been wonderful.
Denver Brady, SK.
Chapter Twenty
Sam looks up at the office building of Windsor, Forbes & Knight. It has a narcissistic presence, giving the impression of power and self-importance, even though it’s no better than the other towering structures on either side of it. Its tinted windows capture Sam in their reflection and twist her out of shape, distorting her until she barely recognizes herself. A revolving door swirls silently, and Sam lets herself be pulled into its current.
A few seconds later, Sam is ejected into a whoosh of air-conditioning that smells like a chemical replica of garden jasmine. The scent is perfectly complemented by the tinkling of piano music that seems to echo off the white walls, floors and furniture. A single, curved white desk sits in the center of the tiled expanse and it takes Sam an uncomfortable amount of time to reach it, causing her to look down at her feet accusingly, as if they’re deliberately dawdling. A lone receptionist grins at her for the duration of her approach, only to direct her to an iPad for the purpose of checking in.
Sam touches the screen and scrolls to the bottom to click on“W.” The solicitors’ stylish black crest appears alongside several other businesses also beginning with that letter. She wonders how she didn’t make the connection before.
An electronic whirring announces the arrival of a printed badge, which Sam slides into a lanyard taken from a waiting wicker basket. Also white. Sam looks around, uncertain where to go next.
“If madam would like to pass through security, she’ll find a lobby and complimentary refreshments inside,” says the receptionist.
Sam nods and walks toward a scaled-down version of an airport hand-luggage check, placing her phone, keys, tissues and gum into a small tray. Just as she does at Heathrow, Sam takes a deep breath before walking through the body scanner as innocently as she can. The light turns red, and Sam glances at the guard. The woman is handling Sam’s phone, turning it off and dropping it into a thick cloth bag, which she secures with a plastic device that looks similar to the anti-theft tags shops use on clothing.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks, bristling. The woman simply points to a sign: “GUESTS’ DEVICES WILL BE STORED SECURELY FOR THE DURATION OF THEIR VISIT.”Interesting, Sam thinks, wondering what else goes on inside this building besides the writing and editing of murder manuals. Sam’s eyes move instinctively to the corners of the ceiling. No cameras.
She turns away from security and heads to the whitewashed sea of sofas and armchairs. She’s surprised to see a glossy white piano in the center of the seating area. No one is sitting at it, yet the keys are moving, as if the ghost of Bach has signed a zero-hours contract in SW1.
“Amazing tech, isn’t it?” says a young man from an egg-shaped chair. He looks a lot like Adam Taylor, so Sam smiles. He holds up the pouch containing his phone and looks at it longingly. “I’m lost without it. This is like torture.”
“Fans have to put their phones in pouches just like these atBob Dylan concerts,” Sam says. “He feels it makes the experience more authentic.”
“Either that, or he sounds rubbish live and doesn’t want any recorded evidence,” the man suggests.
Sam rolls her eyes and turns to make a frothy coffee using a machine with an unnecessary number of buttons. She takes a croissant. It’s warm and fresh and dusted with icing sugar.
“Who are you here to see?” smiles the man. His nosiness is striking and he looks her up and down casually, dissecting the detail of her. She does the same back. He looks well dressed but his shoes aren’t the real deal like Taylor’s, suggesting he’s not as well paid as he wants people to think.
“You’re a journalist,” Sam concludes through her croissant.
“Guilty,” he nods, impressed. “Well, an investigative YouTuber, actually. You must be a detective, with those powers of observation.” He’s smiling but his face drops when Sam doesn’t deny it. “Shit,” he says, leaning forward. “Are you here to see Denver Brady’s lawyer? I’m interviewing—”
“I’m meeting an author,” Sam cuts in.
“Oh, right. Must be a big name to afford a desk in SW1?”
Sam shrugs in a way that conveys that she won’t be falling for any questioning techniques.
“Fair enough.” The man slumps back in his chair and sends a waft of musk Sam’s way. They sit in silence for a moment, watching the piano play itself. “You know,” he says, spinning his egg-chair like a child, “I heard on the grapevine that there are over two thousand companies registered in this building. That’s over three hundred million quid a year, this real estate costs. What are all of those companies really up—”
“Why interview the lawyer?” Sam interrupts again, already bored.
