Page 42 of Dropping Like Flies

Patrick’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’ve been obstructive enough that people might ask questions about what you were trying to hide if you were fifteen years younger and good looking enough to get men to go home with you.”

Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “That’s—”

I didn’t wait around to see what it was, flinging the door open and exiting the bedroom into the circus that lay beyond it, half of those people barely waiting until I was out of the way before they pushed their way back into the room. Word had spread about who I was since the first time I’d tagged along with Ben to a crime scene. I could tell from the way they looked at me and the constant whispers behind my back. No doubt at least some of that information had come from Patrick in the form of a rant about the desecration of his crime scene.

The whispers followed me down the stairs, the murder having taken place in a four-bedroomed house in Shepherd’s Bush. “DCI Weaver?” I enquired to a group of uniformed officers, all of them shaking their heads. Which could have meant they didn’t know who he was, or that they knew and they didn’t know where he was. Either way, they were no help.

My search for Ben took me to the living room, the pair of wine glasses on the coffee table capturing everyone’s attention, with photos taken and the forensic team meticulously fingerprinting every available surface. I doubted they’d find anything. Satanic Romeo had already proved he wasn’t that stupid. Either he wore gloves or he carefully wiped down anything he’d touched before leaving. Common sense would dictate that the latter was true. Even Satanic Romeo couldn’t be so charming that his prey would look past him wearing gloves. “DCI Weaver?” I asked again.

A dark-haired police woman jerked her head toward the back door standing open. “Out there.”

I thanked her and headed in the direction she’d indicated. It led into a small enclosed yard, the press of bodies in the house not extending to out here. Which was presumably why Ben had found his way here, my lover sitting on an ornate garden bench and staring morosely into the distance. He didn’t turn his head as I joined him, the bench giving beneath my weight. “I assume I didn’t miss anything?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. I kept trying for a while, but he’d been dead too long to bring back.”

Ben nodded, his jaw tight. “I should have stayed.”

Once a quick glance to the still open door reassured me that no one was the least bit interested in us, I reached out and placed my hand on Ben’s thigh, warmth leaching through his trousers to my palm. “The result would have been the same whether or not you were there. You stayed long enough to realize how fruitless the whole endeavor was. I was just more stubborn.”

Ben gave a quiet laugh. “You, being more stubborn. Surely not? I feel like there’s a lesson about life in there if we look hard enough for it.”

“Probably. Anyway… surprise, surprise, my stubbornness didn’t make the slightest bit of difference.”

“Two-zero to him so far,” Ben said bitterly. “And yes, I am only counting the murders since you came on board. Going back any further than that is way too depressing to even contemplate.”

“Yeah.” Although neither of us voiced it, I knew we were both thinking the same thing. How many murders did it take to raise a demon, and had Satanic Romeo reached that total yet? Was there a demon running around London at this very moment? Would we even know? So many questions and zero answers to be had to any of them.

“Eighteen,” Ben said with a shake of his head. “They’re getting younger.”

A PC had already briefed us on the victim before we’d set foot in the bedroom. Adam Freeman, only two months past his eighteenth birthday. A trainee bricklayer. Someone who had only come out when he was seventeen and had spent the past year celebrating that fact by hitting the gay clubs regularly at the weekend. He shared a house with four other housemates, two male, two female, two of them working for the same construction business he did, while the other two were trainee hairdressers.

In a twist of fate, all of Adam’s housemates had been away this weekend, one on a training course, two visiting parents, and the other spending it with his girlfriend. That twist of fate left Adam as the perfect victim and ensured his body would lie undiscovered for the best part of two days, until one of his housemates returned home to a sight that would no doubt scar her for the rest of her life. I’d passed her on the way in, the young woman only able to stop sobbing for a couple of minutes before she started again, the police constable interviewing her passing tissues across more often than he asked questions.

“He’ll slip up eventually,” I said. “Nobody is perfect.”

Ben heaved out a sigh, the responsibility resting on his shoulders weighing heavily on him. “That’s not good enough. I can’t say that to Adam’s parents. Or the parents of the other victims. I can’t tell them we’ll catch him eventually, that they just need to wait. Not when it won’t bring any of their sons back.” He turned his head my way. “And what if we don’t catch him? What if he achieves what he’s set out to do and just stops? Everything we’ve heard… all the profiling done on him… what the professor had to say… all those things point toward this being a means to an end rather than someone who can’t control himself. Those people we catch because they can’t stop even if they want to. They have a compulsion to kill. Urges that won’t go away. But this is colder, more clinical. He’s trying to raise a fucking demon, for Christ’s sake, Griff.”

I knew not to take Ben’s antagonism personally, that it was simply his way of letting off steam. “You’ll get him.”

Ben heaved out another sigh. “Not sat out here feeling sorry for myself, I won’t. I should be in there asking questions, overseeing the interview with that poor girl who can’t stop crying.”

I shuffled closer to him along the bench. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, I hated to see Ben be so hard on himself. Especially when he was the most dedicated person I knew, that dedication having provoked a fair few arguments when we’d been together and he’d had to cancel something because of work. “Everyone’s entitled to a wobble every now and again. Even you.”

Ben tried for a smile, but it only stayed on his lips for a few seconds before disappearing altogether. “I just want to look into his eyes and see what kind of man can do this. I’ve seen evil before, but I’ve never seen anything like this. Whoever he is, he must be a monster.”

“Do you think?”

Ben turned his head. “You don’t?”

“I don’t think a monster could get these men to take him home.”

Ben’s lip curled. “Ted Bundy springs to mind.”

“The name rings a bell, but I’m not familiar with who he is.”

“American serial killer who raped and murdered at least thirty women in the 1970s. His modus operandi was to use charm to lure them to their deaths. He’d often pretend to be in trouble so they’d take pity on him.”

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