Senator Stanhope’s Home
November 28, 9.00 p.m.
Getting into a senator’s house, Sebastian had discovered, was a lot easier when no one but the maid and gardener were at home. Then it was fucking easy. You ring the bell, you deliver some flowers, you flatter the stupid bitch and tape the lock. She goes in, you wait. Count to five, go in after her and wham-bam, you’re in the house that John Stanhope built.
Of course, then you had to make sure you were able to wait it out, so you hid in the roof space and read books or just sat thinking.
You couldn’t turn the security system off either, even if you’d watched her punch in the eight-digit code, because it was a manual system linked to a company who had a pre-agreed list of times for locking or unlocking the system. If it varied by any time without a call, then they’d be there.
So it was best to hide and wait it out. He’d been there all day, as soon as he’d made sure Marty was too scared to tell the cops anything that Nick might have told him. Dee had taken the kids to visit her mother on that tedious retirement estate, but it was good because it freed up his time to hang around inside the senator’s house.
And there’s nothing more difficult than to kill a senator’s daughter and her family in their own home. It would strike fear in the heart of America. Rose was girl number seven. And that was all he needed for his sculpture; one more part and The Progression of Love would be complete. He had an idea about where he’d show it, too. The people who were going to look at it wouldn’t know what it was. The public were that stupid. They’d always underestimated him and now he was going to make fools of them all. Sebastian listened to the sound of family life emanating from below. Happy families made him want to exert his God-like power of life and death. He wanted to kill happiness and leave fear and pain in its wake.
And why shouldn’t he do it? Who said good is good and bad is bad? Who said anything? No one. The universe, as far as he was concerned, was silent, so you just did your own thing. Some worked at being senators’ daughters and some worked at killing senators’ daughters. That was the happy balance of the universe.
He’d been in the house half the day when Mrs Stanhope came home. She was pretty and organized with a hurried look in her eyes and a hatred of anything out of its place. The first hours after she arrived, he climbed out of the roof space when he heard her shower. He stood and watched her. She had a nice peaceful face. Nice long legs.
It had been hard to resist taking her there and then. It’d been too long since he’d had someone. The delicious Kitty in her own bed. He thought the desires had gone. He actually wondered whether the heat cycle had come to an end, but staring at Caroline through glass as it misted up he felt the surge of desire again — the powerful internal command to control her destiny.
But he resisted. It would be better with the whole family, with an audience to watch his depravity. It would make more of a splash. He had no idea what he was going to do with them all. It was going to be an impromptu party of his own.
That afternoon, he’d watched from a round window in the attic as Mary and Rose returned. Rose was all excited and full of life. She had a beautiful lithe figure that looked about as graceful as a flower. Mary looked a sullen academic type, staring with some deep disapproval at everything she saw. He would enjoy humiliating her. Rose reminded him of his sister, Bethany. Long time before. Sad times, too. He tried not to think of it again.
His golden princess with sunlight in her hair.
When Senator Stanhope returned, the killer was back in the roof. He needed to wait until they were all together; then he would make some theatrical entrance. He wanted to kill them in front of each other. He thought that would give him the sensation he craved. It was getting so difficult to feel anything at all. Each time, he felt the need to go one step further, cross one more taboo just to feel the same deep buzz of sensation.
He listened to the popping of champagne from below and heard the warm conversation of their party.
Enjoy the moment, he thought to himself. It will not last.
Sebastian’s plan for the Stanhopes was growing by the hour as he lay in that hot close loft. He was getting all horny too, reading about the thoughts and deeds of the psychopaths in a book called The Mask of Sanity. He liked to read about sexual murder and mutilation. He had never known why it made him excited. He’d never chosen it. He was just getting his inspiration.
He lay on his back as he read again about his hero Neville Heath. Heath was a good-looking all-star with a strikingly intense appearance who carried out a series of sexually perverse murders. They were remembered for one reason — they were horrifyingly brutal.
Sebastian repeated a phrase from the book. Acts of memorable brutality and horror. Such reverence the writer had for the killer. The world was terrified of but half in love with killers. Heath had tortured, killed and butchered two young women, gaining obvious sexually sadistic pleasure from his acts. Sebastian read on, getting more and more excited.
Sebastian was about to try it out himself. He had used Heath’s methods before. Heath had used a poker, but Sebastian had not found a poker to hand in his own murders. Open fires were not as prevalent as once upon a time. He had used a knife instead. He intended to re-enact the Heath murder with Rose and Mary. Except he was going to go one better: he was going to let Mummy and Daddy watch.
It was five to eleven. Eleven o’clock was party time. Sebastian took up his book again. He had to go through Heath’s murder one more time. Just to make sure he’d got it all right.
After all, he wouldn’t have time to consult the cookbook when he was baking the cake.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Marty Fox’s Home
November 28, 11.00 p.m.
Marty Fox was sitting at home waiting for his wife. The decanter of brandy was three-quarters empty. He stared from his window and looked at his watch. 11.00 p.m. His wife usually returned by 10.30 p.m. and Marty had been at the window for an hour.
He shouldn’t have let her go. He should have taken her and got in the car and headed to the hills. God, this was killing him. And what about Rose Stanhope? Marty felt the horrible sickness of guilt and inaction.
If Nick was right and Sebastian was more than a fantasy, then this girl was in danger, but so was he, so was his wife. Sebastian had shown that vividly enough. Those pictures constituted a threat, not to him, but to his wife.
Marty could still feel the vomit in the back of his throat. He loved his wife, didn’t he? He wanted to protect her, but protecting her meant that someone else was in danger. ‘I’m not an ethical man,’ he said to himself. ‘I’m a self-serving rat, a coward, a fucking liar and a cheat.’
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to stop the thoughts, the guilt, the terrible gnawing. He wasn’t a hero. No. And if he wasn’t a hero, then he had to stay quiet. Whatever happened to Rose Stanhope, happened. Right?
Right?
Come on, Marty! Am I right?
He drowned another quick brandy and walked to the front door. He opened it. The night was quiet, so quiet he could hear the wind in the high treetops. He stepped out in his socks and looked out into the darkness. ‘Come on, baby, please make it home.’
He walked further, out to the end of the pathway, and looked up and down the street.
Nothing — not a car anywhere. The world seemed deserted. He looked again. 11.06 p.m. Time was moving so slowly. He turned back to the house and walked towards it. He felt unusually tired. It was a mixture of drink and exhaustion. He felt his body slump as he walked two steps on to the veranda.
Something to his left moved. A sound. He looked across into the darkness.
On the porch, sitting there in the blackness, something.
Marty shook and looked for a weapon. He picked up a broom. Maybe it was just an animal of some kind. A
