My heartbeat matched his stride as it closed in on me. I felt cold. No, hot. Heart thumping. Blood pumping. Hot through the ice that filled my veins and froze my heart. I was hot cold. Freezing hot.
Then there he was. He rounded a corner and was no more than ten yards in front of me. I hadn’t seen him so close up and he was taller than I’d thought. Maybe six foot two. Cropped, fair hair. Honeymoon tanned. Happy.
He smiled when he saw me. That threw me but only slightly. For a long time now, strangers smiling at me had struck me as odd. Strangers were strange to me. I knew it was just me though. I’d lost my reason to smile. Lost my reason.
But Brian Sinclair didn’t think like me. He liked people. He smiled at strangers. Or perhaps I wasn’t completely unfamiliar to him. He had a look that suggested he might have seen me before. And of course he might have.
I had watched him for a month. Watched from afar. I had seen him leave the house over the river. I had seen him arrive at his dental practice. I had seen him set out on his run. I had seen him return.
I had seen them walk, hand in hand, whispering, laughing. I had seen them walk the springer spaniel. Sometimes it was Brian, sometimes Mary. Most often it was Mr and Mrs Sinclair together. They liked togetherness. They were wrapped up cosy in it.
But then I knew what they didn’t.
As Brian Sinclair stood there, the look on his face was one that said ‘Hey, I know you. I’m not sure where from but I do know you, don’t I?’
I wasn’t particularly pleased about his recognition but soon it wouldn’t matter.
Sinclair saw me holding my ankle. I was sitting on a boulder, the right leg of my jeans pulled up to the calf.
Of course, I hadn’t sprained it. Brian thought I had.
Are you OK? he asked. I said I was – in a voice that said I wasn’t.
He looked around. What did he expect to find? A crutch, a doctor, an ambulance? He wanted to help. Brian was a nice guy.
I’d already taken the newspaper from my back pocket. It was rolled-up tight but I wrapped it tighter still. Brian might have seen it but thought nothing of it. He couldn’t see that the paper was weeks old.
He kneeled by me and said he’d take a look at my ankle.
He was talking. Words about help. About being careful. About ankles. I didn’t take them in. I only heard noise.
My eyes were on him. On his throat. I gripped the newspaper tighter. Then even tighter.
My breathing was heavy, I knew it. I was sure he’d just put it down to my supposed fall. I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart.
He was closer, trying to lever me up. His head was by mine now. It was nearly time but I couldn’t rush it. I would only get one chance. If I messed it up it was all over.
The newspaper was hot in my hand.
He took hold of my ankle, checking it for me. He was about to find out that it wasn’t swollen. I saw the puzzled look on his face. He was about to ask, about to doubt.
I knew it was as much about accuracy as strength. I would get as much force behind it as I could but it was more important that I caught him in the soft of the throat. It is all about tensile strength. It makes a newspaper as good as a hammer. It makes it near lethal.
His eyes were just turning up towards mine when I stabbed at his throat with the paper. It caught him full and hard, driving against his larynx. It knocked him off his feet. If he’d looked puzzled before then he was bewildered now. His eyes streamed, he clutched at his throat, he gulped and coughed.
I got above him quickly and placed the end of the paper a couple of inches off his forehead. I used the flat of my hand as a hammer and drove the paper against his skull. He passed out with nothing more than a groan.
I was over him then. A newly gloved hand pinching his cheeks and encouraging his mouth to open.
I carefully forced the end of the paper into his mouth and turned it slowly as I fed it to him. Three, four, five inches of it disappeared easily. Easily for me.
Then it hit the back of his throat and went no further. Until I used my hand as a hammer again and hit it hard.
When it didn’t budge, I hit it harder. His throat opened and the newspaper moved down it.
His eyes suddenly opened, bulging wide. They strained down, trying desperately to see what was being forced into his mouth. As if seeing the intruder would free it. It wouldn’t. It didn’t.
I pushed further.
Sinclair waved his arms like a drunk. No power and no direction. They barely flapped. He was choking. Slowly. Hopelessly. It was fascinating to watch.
His eyes watered. His cheeks strained red with effort. His neck was swollen, muscles stretched tight.
Then there was blood at his eyes. Amazing. He cried blood.
The strangest thing was his throat where I could see the outline of the paper. It thrust against his tight skin, trying to burst free.
I hit the top of the paper again. I forced it. I pushed down on it. I literally rammed it down his throat.
The process was incredibly simple if not particularly pretty.
He choked to death in front of me. Silent all but for a few pathetic gasps and a scream that stayed deep down inside him, strangled at birth.
I worked the newspaper back out, a far easier job than putting it in. Wet with saliva, blood and traces of vomit, it slid along his surrendered throat and out.
I sat it on the rock I’d been sitting on and took a cigarette lighter from my pocket. One spark was enough for the damp paper to light and burn and dance and disappear before my eyes. One murder weapon gone.
I swapped the lighter for the secateurs and severed his pinkie.
CHAPTER 28 The Herald, 18 March 2010
Newlywed found murdered in woods
Has Ripper killed again?
The Daily Record, 18 March 2010
NUMBER FIVE!
Ripper kills again
EXCLUSIVE by Keith Imrie The body of a Glasgow dentist was found in woods near Inchinnan yesterday – the fifth victim of Jock the Ripper. Brian Sinclair (32) had been on his daily run through the woods when the killer struck. It is not yet known how Mr Sinclair was murdered but police have confirmed that his right little finger was severed. Officers are bracing themselves for the finger to be posted as has become the norm after the Ripper has killed. Mr Sinclair had been married for only six weeks and his devastated wife Mary was last night being cared for by her family. The brutal murder will bring even greater fear to a city already haunted by the shadow of the Ripper. Full Story on pages 2 and 3. The Courier, 18 March 2010
Dentist murdered as police fear serial killer has claimed new victim
The Daily Express, 18 March 2010
RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN
The Daily Star, 18 March 2010
RIPPED
The Daily Record, 19 March 2010
THE CUTTER
EXCLUSIVE by Keith Imrie The infamous Glasgow murderer who struck for the fifth time on Wednesday has revealed himself to the Daily Record as The Cutter. The serial killer sent a harrowing package to this reporter containing a house key belonging to murdered dentist Brian Sinclair. It was accompanied by a ‘business card’ adorned by the printed words ‘The Cutter’. The package and the printing were identical to a previous envelope from the killer which contained the finger of slaughtered businessman Wallace Ogilvie. Police have confirmed that the key was for the front door of Mr Sinclair’s Inchinnan home and that he always carried it with him while out running. Strathclyde officers have also confirmed that they took delivery of a package which held the severed right little finger of the victim. Psychologists have told the Daily Record that by allocating himself a nickname, The Cutter was affirming his ownership of the killings. They say that it was his method of declaring that he was in control of the situation, not the police or the media.
