Page 34 of The Serial Killer's Sister
‘No, I haven’t.’ I scrunch my face up.
‘Because I need to know—’
‘I promise you’ll be the first to know when I do. Have to go, detective.’ I disconnect the call, guilt surging through my body at my false promise. Why did I do that? He’s not going to trust me once he realises I outright lied.
Not wanting to waste any time now, I park as close to the café’s entrance as possible. It’s double yellows, but I don’t intend to be long. Hopefully the civil enforcement officer will be at the other end of town. I can’t see a tell-tale hi-vis jacket as I lock the car and run into Dogs In Town. The underlined part of the riddle has led me to a public place, which seems odd given Henry is on the run. Surely he won’t have been in here, much less hidden something in the hope only I’d find it. But it’s the only solution to the riddle I can think of.
‘Can I get you anything?’ a woman asks as I burst in. ‘We’ve got speciality teas and every type of coffee,’ she says, beaming at me.
‘Oh, erm … can I just go through?’ I point to theback of the café, where I can see the patio doors opening onto a decking.
‘Of course.’ She gives an uneasy smile. I’m probably coming across a bit odd, but I carry on through unperturbed. I’ve no choice – I have to be here and I have to hunt for the hidden item. I lay my hands over my griping tummy – the thought of what might lie hidden is making my bile swirl.
It’s not what I imagined out here. There’s seating at park benches and plenty of room for dogs to roam, but in addition, there’s a child’s play area. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I rub my hand over it as my eyes flit around. A serial killer could well have been inches away from innocent children. Imagine if any of my pupils from Seabrook had been on the swings or climbing frame while Henry walked by them, unobserved by the adults. The thought of them being in such close proximity to someone who is willing to take lives purely for attention makes me sick. An awful thought pushes into my mind: if he’s been watching me, what’s stopping him from snatching a child from Seabrook? The security is good, but some of the older children are allowed to walk to and from school, their parents confident a small village like Staverton is safe.
As I walk around, my mind scrambles to spot something unusual, a hint to where Henry has hidden the next item. I sit on the bench and scan every part of the grounds. He could’ve chosen anywhere. I swivel around on the bench to look behind, catching sight of the bronze plaque on the back. It’s a thank you for a large donation to the dog café:With thanks to the Walcott family. The name rings a bell, but the memory floats away as I turn back.
Think, Anna. And then it seems obvious. If someonewere to come here and try to remain low-key, they’d likely sit on this very bench because it’s not in direct view of the other customers. I lower my head and my pulse skips as I notice freshly dug earth in front of the rose bush next to me.
Jumping up from the bench, I give a wary look around. There’s a couple sitting at a table, their dog lazily slumped on the ground underneath, and two women deep in conversation over their lattes, each with a handbag-sized dog sitting on the chair beside them – but once I duck down, I’m not in plain view. Henry must’ve realised this too when he chose this spot.
Or, of course, there’s a big chance that this area of dug soil is where one of the dogs has buried a juicy bone and I’m about to feel really stupid. I pause, checking around to see if there’s anywhere else that could be the hiding place. The earth is neatly laid back, though – a dog would’ve left it messy. This has to be it. It’s worth a try, at least.
I take a deep breath, plunge my fingers into the damp soil and begin scooping the earth into a pile, hoping whatever is buried isn’t sharp. With that sudden thought, I slow down, use the side of my palm rather than delving my fingertips in first; I wouldn’t put it past Henry to hide something that could cause me injury. With the next scoop, a plastic bag is partially revealed. I pull at the corner and the loose soil slips off as I drag it fully out of its grave. I sit back on my heels, the carrier bag in my hands. Half of me wants to delay opening it – just take the evidence straight to the police. But, no doubt as Henry anticipated, my fearful curiosity wins over and I slowly open the bag. Inside is a large, flat envelope and I’m surprised to feel a snag of disappointment. Is this just another riddle?
After a surreptitious glance around the gardens, I open the A4 envelope and peek inside, my breath held. It looks like it’s nothing more than some photos. My adrenaline level reduces – they can’t depict anything too bad. Henry didn’t own a camera when we were at Finley; I never saw him with one anyway. And even if he did have photo evidence of our shared secret, surely he’d have used them before now – blackmailed me or something.
I pull them fully out. My jaw slackens. I scan through the photos quickly – there are five of them – then I focus in on the first again. A sob catches in my throat and I throw my head back, looking skywards in some vain attempt to rid the images from my mind. My hands start to shake violently as I look through them again, and without warning vomit erupts from my mouth. Green bile pools on the grass behind the bush. I wipe away the remnants with the back of my hand and get to my feet. I only manage a few paces before collapsing back against the trunk of a tree, the rough bark pushing painfully into my spine. But I can’t move; I need the support. I survey the area.
‘Where are you, you bastard?’ My initial shock and sadness is replaced with a hot, gut-wrenching anger deep in my belly. I propel myself away from the tree and stomp around the garden, shouting a string of words I can’t even decipher myself – they flow out of my mouth like lava. Rage like this hasn’t surfaced for years and I frighten myself. But I’ve a right to be mad. How could he do this to me? Ross is the last person I’d ever suspect of betraying me.
The woman who asked me if I wanted anything comes out the patio doors, a bemused look on her face, and theother customers are all staring at me. I ignore them and push past the woman to get back outside. To anyone watching, I must look so rude. Is Henry witnessing this?
‘Come out, come out wherever you are.’ I shout as soon as I’m standing in the street, spit flying from my mouth. ‘Think you’re clever, do you?’ A woman walking by with a toddler pulls them in close, shooting me an alarmed, judgemental glare. Realisation hits me – I’m in a public place, and I’ve already gained online notoriety; being seen like this will only cement their belief that I’m unhinged and not fit to teach children. I shut my mouth, and hurry towards my car, quickly getting in and slamming the door. I throw the envelope on the passenger seat and sit, motionless, shock seeping through me.
Maybe I shouldn’t really be mad at Ross. I don’t even know when these photos were taken – although from what Ross is wearing, the way his hair is, it’s pretty recent, not years ago.
Henry has decided he will tear down every part of the life I’ve worked so hard for; the life I love. He’s made it blatantly obvious he wants revenge. Wants me to suffer before whatever macabre conclusion he has planned for me.
I can’t let Henry win. Or, more to the point, I must not lose – because this isn’t just a game.
Chapter 22
I see right through your words in everything you do.
Teary eyes, broken heart: life has torn you apart.
MAY
One year ago
The smell was like nothing he’d known before. Or maybe it was similar to the butcher’s, now he thought about it – only much more potent. Overpowering. He stepped away from the bloody mess on the plastic sheets and stuck his head outside the bathroom door, gulping in some fresher air. He should’ve brought a mask. He’d become cocky, he recognised that. Thought it would be easy now this was his fourth killing. Even a serial killer can be surprised, though. At least there was a human side to him still, he considered. All this murder hadn’t diminished that part of him – he wasn’t an evil psychopath like he would be portrayed as in the media.
The media attention would be a challenge. They’d thinkhe’d done it all for the wrong reasons – the pseudo-psychologists and psychiatrists would come out of the woodwork giving their two penn’orth, their theories about why he is the way he is; what traumas in his childhood had affected him and made him into a monster. They’d say that his inability to maintain relationships had turned him into a woman-hater. They’d all be wrong. And that was a hard pill to swallow. He knew there was a small part of him that would want to put them right; ensure they printed the truth.
He just needed to find out what that truth was.
With more neutral air in his nostrils, he went back into the compact bathroom – to the torso with its remaining two limbs – and bent down to retrieve the saw. Sweat beaded his brow and dark patches spread under his armpits. His hands were wet beneath the gloves but he continued to hack away, determined to finish the job. While he worked, he imagined all the ways in which he was going to tearherlife apart, too. The rush of adrenaline his fantasy created was enough to power him through even the toughest bones.
