the whale, the proboscis monkey, the Penan forest people of Malaysia and the old Atheneum theatre. She’d have been better off trying to save herself.
She loved hillwalking and clubbing, lusted for Ashton Kutcher and admitted a guilty fancy for Al Gore. She barely looked her twenty years. Slim and pale. Long, dark curly hair. A near constant, guileless smile on a pretty face.
One of the other girls, one of the lucky ones, sat with her back to me. Whatever she was saying, Lara smiled, laughed and nodded. Quick impressions were that she was smart and lively, an intelligent face, not too loud, interested. Nice. Beautiful. All to live for.
I saw a couple of other guys in the pub looking at her too, checking her out and nudging their mates. That helped. It wouldn’t seem so odd if someone caught me staring at her. And I did.
In fact, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Lovely, laughing, lively Lara.
But I wasn’t looking for the same reason the other guys in the bar were. It wasn’t the slim waist, the long hair or the beautiful smile. I was staring because I was going to kill her.
I wasn’t like them. I wasn’t gawping at her slim neck because I wanted to kiss it. I wasn’t like them at all.
I wasn’t like anyone. Not in that pub or anywhere else. I hadn’t been like anyone else for a very long time.
Not since my wee girl died under the wheels of Wallace Ogilvie’s car. Not since I had taken the lives of Carr, Hutchison, Tierney, Ogilvie and Sinclair. And I would be a lot less like anyone else after I disposed of the young girl sitting a few yards away from me.
I had no choice. There was no choice. The dice said so. Facebook said so. The others, Ogilvie apart, were the unlucky losers in my Cutter’s lottery. She was part of the afterthought, the camouflage, the extra padding, the rest of the plan. Not the way a young life should be described. Not the way things should turn out.
There was something about her neck though. My eyes kept being drawn to it. A pretty neck but slender. Fragile.
I’d watch what she was doing – taking in her friends, her movements, trying to pick up more clues about her – but again and again my eyes went back to that delicate neck. Brass neck. Won by a neck. Red neck. Up to your neck in it. Dead from the neck up. Pain in the neck. Stick your neck out. Millstone around your neck. Hung from the neck until dead. Broken neck.
She would be just a couple of years older than Sarah would be now. Maybe Sarah would have been at college or university now too. A young woman. Out on the town with her friends. Her life ahead of her.
I shook my head. Shook the interfering thoughts out. No time for that. A distraction I didn’t need. I mentally apologized to her for doing so but it had to be done. Out damn thoughts.
They kept coming back though. Maybe Sarah and Lara would be friends. Maybe Sarah would have been on her Facebook list, swapping messages with Maz, Ash and Christine. Maybe she’d have been in that happy group in Jinty’s with white wine, vodka and cranberry and bottles of beer.
I’d been mugged by my memories again. Sarah came flooding back, pushing at me, arguing with me. She was saying no, I was saying it had to be. The plan, the dice, Facebook. They all demanded it.
I shook the thoughts out of my head again and screwed my convictions to the sticking place. It had to be done. That neck. I was still looking at it when I became aware of someone standing at my shoulder. I hadn’t paid any attention to the door opening or the two sets of feet that had walked near me.
I looked up and saw the inquisitive face of Detective Sergeant Rachel Narey looking back down at me.
CHAPTER 33
We were back outside the pub, standing on Ashton Lane, groups of people passing by on their way to the Loft, Vodka Wodka or Brel.
Me, DS Narey and wide, balding DC Dawson.
‘How nice to see you again.’ DS Narey.
‘Is it?’
‘I’m just being polite.’
‘Oh well, they say it’s nice to be nice. You not making house calls these days? I missed you the last time when you came round to chat to my wife.’
‘She confirmed that you were with her and asleep when two of the killings took place.’
‘I know. Strangely enough it did come up in conversation.’
‘You must be pleased that she put you in the clear. And yes, I suppose that is a question.’
‘Hardly. I had no need to be put in the clear. Instead I had to comfort an already troubled woman after her husband was accused of being a serial killer.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘OK, maybe I’m not. I didn’t accuse you of being a serial killer but I understand why you might resent the suggestion. I had to look into all aspects of the case but then I explained that to you before.’
‘You did.’
‘You see we are trained to always look close to home before examining the possibilities that a murder might have been committed by a complete stranger.’
‘Are you now?’
‘The percentage of what we call stranger murders is pretty low. Most victims know their killer. There is usually a reason for it in my experience. Random killings just don’t happen very often.’
‘But they do happen?’
‘Oh they do, yes. But I’m an awkward sort. Someone tells me something I tend to doubt it. I blame my parents.’
‘I’m sure they are very proud of you. The newspapers seem certain that these murders are being done at random.’
‘Don’t you know you shouldn’t believe everything you read? I wouldn’t believe the date on half those rags. Maybe they’re right but I’m keeping an open mind on things.’
‘Well done. So is that why you are speaking to me again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh good. And are you having me followed or did you just pop in here for a quiet drink with DC Whatsisname here. I thought they frowned on officers drinking on duty.’
‘They do if we get caught.’
‘Does that go for serial killers too?’
‘Oh most definitely. But no, my visit wasn’t entirely accidental. I fancied a quick word with you and a wee birdie told me you were in here.’
‘The wee birdies are awful well informed. So why do you want to talk to me then?’
‘Oh it’s not just you. All aspects of the case remember? All of the victims of this killer had given someone a reason to want them dead. Just that in some of the cases we maybe don’t know what the reason is yet. In your case, maybe we do.’
‘I told you. I didn’t kill him.’
‘I know you did. And I told you I’d understand it if you had wanted to. I don’t have children of my own but I think I know how you must have felt.’
‘Believe me, you don’t. Not even close.’
‘A drunk that knocked and killed a daughter of mine? I’d want him hurt. I’d want revenge. I’d maybe do anything to make him pay.’
‘Maybe you would.’
‘I understand that need to make things right. That’s my job. To sort things.’
‘You don’t seem to have made too good a job of it, DS Narey. No offence.’
‘None taken. You can surely see why you would make a good suspect for the killing of Wallace Ogilvie
