The Killer Inside Read Free

with her a little. Part of the tease.
    ‘Yes. Maybe.’ Then I look down into my lap for effect. ‘Maybe one.’
    And I think: your textbook is right .
    But then I picture Audrey.
    ‘Audrey David?’ Her voice softens as though she is being sensitive to my emotions.
    ‘Time’s up, Doc.’ And I smile a smile of superficial charm.
    She glances up to her right at the clock on her wall. There are fifty minutes left.
    ‘Indeed it is.’ Her eyes close briefly as though she is thoughtful and setting me at ease. Understanding me. Building a trust between us. She understands me.
    I am just making my stay here more tolerable. This is entertainment.
    This is practice.

January
    August 2009
    Violent Crime Office, London
    ‘You do not walk out on me when I am talking. OK?’ I wring his throat a little as I ask the question and he forces a pathetic nod. ‘You do as I say. And right now you are coming with me and Paulson to every site where a person has been killed on this case, and you are going to fucking dig. With your hands, if you have to,’ I say, somehow pushing him further into the wall. ‘If we get there and we don’t find anything, you can go off and report back to whoever is pulling your strings.’
    This is the second case in a row that I have acted physically towards Murphy and it is going to come back and bite me. It doesn’t matter how vague Paulson makes his account of the events sound, or whether Chief Inspector Markam supports me, you can only cut procedural corners if you get the job done and, even then, there’s a ceiling. Someone wants me out. And in my current mental state I’m not doing anything to strengthen my own position.
    But this is the breakthrough we have needed on this case, I think. If we find the box buried at the crossroads in Parsons Green, we’ll be a step closer. We can understand the ritual of these killings, we can extrapolate motive, we can build a stronger, more accurate profile of this killer.
    ‘I don’t know what you—’ Murphy tries.
    I tell him to shut up and eventually release the hold on his neck when Paulson’s agitation becomes too much to bear.
    I need clarity. To solve this fucking case and regain some control. Because, stupidly, I think it will all be over when I bring this murderer to justice. It will give me time. The uneasy cure for a troubled mind.
    But time is what Eames wants. Concentration on something other than the man who tried to kill my wife twice. Even thinking a dalliance with a cut-price version of Audrey will heal my broken mind.
    Everything is a distraction. And he’ll be coming for me again soon.
    There is no end.

Eames
    August 2009
    Crowthorne, Berkshire
    Dear God
    I am not sorry. I am not your child. If you exist, then it is your own fault that I do, too. You are the biggest killer of all. I respect that . Only that. But I do not want your forgiveness. Save it for somebody who has nowhere else to turn. I’m not finished yet .
    I write a reply to the latest too-Christian Christian impersonating the figure they fear and love the most. There was no address on their letter to me, so I fold the page, place it inside an envelope and write the word heaven on the front. And they call me insane …
    The scribbler of the original letter actually lives in Oxford, but they will never receive my response. That is not the point. I am acknowledging every letter sent to me. It will make the real correspondence more difficult to notice.
    Dearest Paula
    Thank you, firstly, for your picture. I can see that you keep yourself in shape. That’s very wise, the world is a dangerous place and physical weakness is often exploited.Please do not change your hair colour. You are not a synthetic woman, I can see that. Remain natural, it is your greatest allure .
    Thank you, also, for the cards. All hearts, I see. An excellent choice. Regarding your question about how I would choose to kill you, I feel we should get to know one another a little better first. Feel free to