Page 23 of The Serial Killer's Sister
His breath was steady; no huffing and puffing like before as he finished dragging her towards the tent. He set her to rest at its door and, taking a step back, he looked to the tepee entrance and then at the woman, assessing. With a plan in mind, he turned the body so the head was closest to the tent. Then he backed himself into it, grabbed her arms again, and hauled her inside. Posing her would be more difficult than the last. He sat her up, bent her legs so they were crossed, and moved away from her. The top half of her body slumped over. He repositioned it, but the same thing happened.
‘Stupid, stupid bitch.’ He climbed out, took some deep breaths, shrugged and rolled his neck to loosen himself up, calm down. Then an idea came to him, and he ran downstairs. He gathered what he needed and returned to the tent. He jammed the wooden handle of the broom down the back of her jeans and used the tape to secure it along her spine and around her middle. Now she remained upright. Smiling, he repositioned her clothes, then put one arm in her lap and the other in front of her as though it were reaching for something.
Content with the pose, he retrieved the severed tongue from the other room. It looked like one of those joke shop props popular at Halloween, and for a moment hewas transported back to Finley Hall, the memory of past Halloweens spent there like a dark shadow in his mind. He placed the now-cool tongue between two pieces of bread then popped it onto the plate, which he positioned beside the woman’s hand.
‘A secret’s a secret – my word is forever. I will tell no one about your cruel endeavour.’
Only he intended to do just that.
Setting a triangle of Dairylea cheese beside it, he smiled. Just his final touch – his signature item – to add now. He supposed the fact he was posing the bodies, and with the current day’s newspaper nearby so that the date he’d committed the murder was clear, could be classed as his signature, but he needed to be sure. It required the extra ‘wow’ factor. Something that would be meaningful and specific toher. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he did it, his breathing coming fast. As before, he moved back to observe his scene from afar – to see how others would see it.
He reckoned it might take a while for the police to link this and the first murder. Being in different counties would slow things, and apart from the victims living alone – which was crucial for what he needed to carry out – they didn’t share similar physical attributes. Usually, serial killers selected targets based on physical or personal characteristics – they had an ‘ideal’. His choices were more complex.
Detectives would conclude it was the same perpetrator once the different police forces shared information and realised there was a calling card. This would signal to the police that they were dealing with a possible serial killer. After the next one, there’d be no denying it. It’s not thathe wanted to be caught – although he craved the notoriety, maybe, and the knowledge that he was the one to instil fear and gain revenge. The main thing was that he needed the murders to be linked so that she knew what was coming. Ultimately, he had one goal. Each murder would take him a step closer to her – and to uncovering the truth.
Some promises should be broken.
And some liars should never prosper.
Chapter 14
It’s pretty obvious from the new riddle that Henry’s intention is to torment me. He’s always felt let down, particularly by females – it’s unsurprising that women are his target victims. I guess his hatred of them began with Val – ‘mother’ – then shifted to Miss Graves at Finley Hall. While he was there he was let down by everyone around him, me included, so I can’t help wondering if everything he’s doing is purely an attempt to regain my attention; my time. He needs to be noticed.
The riddle could relate to any number of things – none of which immediately make sense. I stare at the words, reread the lines, but nothing stands out as being a clue to the next location – not like the first one. Henry’s making me work harder this time, adding pressure like a timer on a bomb, hurtling towards zero and the unavoidable explosion. I push the paper away. Obsessing over it isn’t helping; I need a distraction. That way, my brain will relax and find the answer.
The laptop is open on the dining room table, its screen blank – like a black hole, and just as deadly. I know within it lies a version of myself I cannot bear to face. Because of the visit to Finley Hall, I put the hideous zebra crossing incident out of my mind, but maybe I should be trying some damage limitation. Get on the school’s Facebook page, or at least open the teachers’ WhatsApp group to see what’s being said there. I can’t hide from it, not if I want to retain my professional standing.
I make a tentative step towards it, my heart thrashing like a caught fish on a line, hands gripped into fists by my side. I’m so wound up by the mere thought of what people are saying about me, that when I hear a noise from the back of the house, my first thought is that my eardrums have popped due to the pressure building in my head. But then I hear it again and freeze, fully alert. It’s the back door. Someone is trying to force it; break in.
Is Henry here?Oh, God – why did I turn down DI Walker’s protection offer? I’m going to look really stupid if Henry carries out his promise of me losing my head. I can almost hear the detective’s voice sayingI told her this would happen.
Act. Do something.
Hearing the creak of the door fully opening, I finally leap into action, rushing to the side table. I grab the lamp, yanking the plug from its socket, turn it upside down and loop the cord around my wrist. Ducking behind the half-open lounge door, I lift the solid-wood lamp base up high, ready to bring it down on the intruder’s head as they walk in.
A shadow grows bigger on the wall beside the door. I hear the breath of the person on the other side.Henry.How will I know it’s him? I haven’t even seen a photo for the past seventeen years. Doesn’t matter, though. Even if it’s not him, it’s someone wishing me harm. Or someone stealing from my home. Either way, this will be self-defence.
As the door pushes open, I let out a huge war-like cry and launch myself at the person entering. I’m about to crash the lamp against his skull, when his equally loud cry stops me.
Ross cowers, his hands over his head protecting it from my swinging lamp.
‘Fuck!’ he yells. ‘Anna, it’s me.’
All power leaves my legs and I collapse in a heap on the floor, the lamp thudding down beside me as my grip on it loosens. I swallow hard and try to gulp in air at the same time, causing a weird hiccup to escape. ‘Sorry,’ I gasp, the realisation dawning that I just almost killed my husband.
‘Why the hell did you jump out on me like that?’ His eyes are wide, black, his pupils obliterating his irises.
I feel a flash of anger. ‘Why the hell are you sneaking in the back door?’
‘I … I just …’
‘What?’
‘I came from the other way – I’d been looking at the property behind ours.’
‘Okay, well you don’t usually use that back entrance.’ I gather myself, get up onto my knees. Ross gets to his feet first and offers me a hand. ‘Thanks,’ I say. Neither of us speak for a few moments as we recover our breath. Ross leans back against the wall.
‘That was close.’ His hand is on his chest. I look into his eyes and see the shock still in them.
