I handed the homemade birthday card secure in its clear plastic envelope back to Dr McDonald. She isn t gagged.
He s tired of the silence, tired of them wriggling and grunting behind the duct tape, he wants to hear Megan scream.
The bedroom was plastered in posters horses, boy bands, girl bands, puppies, kittens There was barely any wallpaper left. A single bed sat beneath the window, a computer desk with a sticker-covered laptop on the other side of the room, some books, some stuffed toys, a nineteen-inch flat-screen TV mounted on the crowded wall above an Xbox, a wardrobe full of designer grunge.
The window looked out over a triangular back garden studded with tiny lights, then a fence, then a hill topped with jagged silhouettes. Moncuir Wood. You could almost believe you were living in the country, instead of a sprawling development of identical yellow-brick houses with identical orange pantile roofs and identical built-in garages too small to take a real car.
Murmured voices came through the floor beneath my feet DCS Dickie, a Family Liaison officer, and Megan s parents.
Dr McDonald took out her mobile and snapped a picture of the birthday card, then fiddled with the image a bit. Pressed a button. Thirty seconds later her phone rang. Hello? Henry, how are you? Yes I know. Hold on, I ll put you on loudspeaker She did something with her phone and a tinny version of Henry s voice crackled into the room.
Hello? I hate these things. Are you there? Ash?
Hi, Henry.
Right, the thing we have to consider is why he s varying his pattern. What makes Megan Taylor different to all the others? Why her?
Dr McDonald popped the phone on the bedside cabinet, then propped the birthday card up next to it, wrapped an arm around herself and fiddled with her hair. She s his twelfth victim: this is the penultimate one, he s been building up to number thirteen all this time, Megan s his last chance to get it right before it really matters?
What a lovely thought Rebecca and all those other girls were just a dress rehearsal. They didn t mean anything.
Henry cleared his throat. Maybe we shouldn t be too hung up on numbers.
I picked a book off the shelf, flicked through the first few pages, but it wasn t a first edition. If Megan s number I cleared my throat. If she s number twelve, who s number eleven?
Silence from the other end of the phone.
Henry was going to tell her, I knew it, I never should have trusted him. Should ve kept it to myself.
A sigh came from the speaker. We won t know till next year, when the card arrives. It s halfway through November now; he s only taken girls twice in December; I think he s already got one under his belt. Alice is right: he s experimenting. That s why she s not gagged, and that s why the card arrived today.
I closed the book. So, he had time to grab her, get back to his place, tie her up, take her photo, print it, make the card, and get it in the post before the last collection. What s that: six six-thirty tops?
Perhaps
She s on CCTV leaving the shopping centre at quarter past three. Call it fifteen minutes to abduct her, fifteen twenty minutes to get her home I mean it s do-able, but it d be tight.
He s been planning this for a while, refining his methods. Silence from the other end of the phone. Then,
And let s suppose for a moment that Megan isn t number twelve.
Fuck: here we go. Henry, you
We re assuming that he didn t take a victim five years ago, but what if he did? What if the parents haven t come forward with the birthday card?
Dr McDonald frowned. So he wasn t in prison that year, or abroad somewhere She twiddled her hair.
Why wouldn t the parents come forward?
I licked my lips. Maybe
Perhaps they died, or left the country, or perhaps they think they ve got good reasons for not getting the police involved. Whatever the reason, we can t discount the possibility that Megan Taylor is his thirteenth victim: thirteen girls, killed on their thirteenth birthday. Megan s not an experiment, she s his masterpiece. He needs this to be perfect, because it justifies everything he s done.
Thank you, Henry.
It was like a valve being opened in my chest I could breathe again. You think he s going to stop?
Dr McDonald sat on the edge of the bed. Or perhaps this is a transformative moment for him, I mean now he s reached his target he s realized he doesn t have to stop, he can keep on going, getting better and better at what he does, that s why he s experimenting
No, it s too significant he s been building towards his grand finale. When he kills Megan Taylor it s going to be cathartic.
She shook her head. The pattern s changed: there s no gag, the card arrived today instead of next year, it s more immediate.
I put the book back on the shelf. I need to know if he s going to stop. Is this it? Does the bastard just disappear back into the woodwork?
Yes.
No.
He s been building to
Henry, you don t walk away from something like this, it s an acquired taste and you ve got it, you re good at it, and they re never going to catch you, it s time for ambition and vision, time to feed on what you create She bit her bottom lip. Why would he give all that up?
Henry?
Silence from the phone. Then the metallic crackle of the top being screwed off a fresh bottle of whisky. It s about power It s always about power. Glugging.
If you re right, he ll be monitoring the media: getting off on the reports, the press conferences, the public displays of grief. Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.
Dr McDonald stared down at her red Converse Hi-tops. He ll want to experience it in person what if we help him, I mean, we could put on a candlelit vigil, or something?
Yes: Ash, you need to set up one of those over-the-top affairs where everyone leaves teddy bears and flowers and football scarves. Somewhere big and impressive. Lots of public sackcloth and ashes. Get some cameras on the crowds, our boy won t be able to resist.
She nodded. He ll stand in the middle and feed off the grief, knowing it was all him, he did it, he has the power of life and death
I picked the birthday card off the work surface. I ll see what I can do.
We ve got this big party organized: bright pink stretched Humvee limo, DJ, jelly and ice cream, smoked salmon and sushi the works. Bruce Taylor fiddled with his tie a black one, funereal, it went with his pallid face and bloodshot eyes. Is Are you sure this is all right, I don t look threatening in a tie? Maybe I shouldn t wear a tie?
His wife perched on the edge of a large red sofa, still as a shallow grave. As if someone had replaced her with a waxwork dummy, eyes fixed on the middle distance, a little crease between her neatly plucked eyebrows. Mouth pinched.
Andrea, do you think I should change?
She didn t even look at him.
He fiddled with his tie some more. Maybe I should change
Dr McDonald placed a hand on his arm. Wear whatever makes you comfortable. With all the cameras, and the flashguns going off, and everyone shouting questions, you don t want to be worrying about your tie. If you don t like the tie: screw the tie.
A little smile twitched across his face. Then disappeared again.
She s still alive.
Dickie nodded. She s still alive. We ll put out Megan s picture, appeal for witnesses, ask him to let her go The DCS glanced at me. Cleared his throat.
