They’re bagging things too, talking all the time. He tenses as one of them calls him a ‘sick fucker’. He’d like to swing down from the loft and deal with that disrespectful creature, but he won’t. He listens carefully. He is good with voices – and if he listens, he’ll learn her name, he’ll find out all about her – it’s easily done – all it needs is half decent computer skills and an ounce of common sense. He’ll extract payback, one way or another. He enjoys strangling – but he can be equally happy with a swift knife job to the abdomen. Yes, that bitch will pay. He was looking for a target close to the investigation and this one has just delivered herself into his lap. His grin widens. He’s got her name now – Erica, now that’s a start. A CSI called Erica won’t be very hard to find.
Someone else is talking now. A male voice. ‘Wonder what all the stuff laid out beneath her is?’
‘Ritual, I reckon.’
That’s the Erica cow – smart-ass, know it all. He’ll enjoy making her pay. It’s not really a ritual – but he wants them to think that. They’re not smart enough to work out that it’s a subterfuge. It’s all smoke and mirrors, but he doubts they’ve got the capacity to understand that.
Raised voices are drifting up the stairs now. Someone else on the scene. He presses his ear to the crack. Yes – he’s here now. DI Gus McGuire. One of the ones he’s been waiting for. McGuire’s voice is deeper than he expected. He doesn’t mince his words, says it like it is. He’s picked up on the strangeness of the scene straight away – not that that’s rocket science. Still, reassuring to know that he’s not a complete idiot. He’s ordered the CSIs who are already upstairs to stay there. Brilliant for him. He’ll maybe get some more info on that Erica cow. They’re not happy, but when I hear McGuire talk about Professor Carlton, my heart skips a beat. This is too much to hope for – far too much. McGuire has realised that this is only the beginning. Brilliant! He so enjoys a worthy adversary. He settles back grinning, humming a little tune in his head. Today is turning out to be better than he’d ever envisioned. It was such a thrill to hear first DI McGuire’s, steady confident tones and then Professor Carlton’s jolly, slightly upbeat ones. He’ll have to be careful not to underestimate the man. He’d met people like Carlton before, people who projected a certain image to keep opponents on the hop. No, he won’t succumb to that – he is too wise. Besides, you can never fool a fooler, can you?
Now Gus and Carlton have left the scene, he wonders when the third of the trio will arrive. Dr Fergus McGuire, the estimable DI McGuire’s father – the trustworthy pathologist, with his deep Scottish brogue and heavy steps and audible breathing, he is the slow and trusty tortoise. Again, another one not to be underestimated. Another one with hidden charms. He’s most interested in the pathologist’s reaction. He holds his breath and listens, carefully attuned to the movement below. The big man gasps followed by a long pause where he doesn’t breathe.
Come on, Dr McGuire, don’t forget to breathe, he thinks smiling, satisfied by this reaction. If only the gap was wider, he’d be able to witness the other man’s reaction first-hand. Now all he can do is imagine. Has his face paled? Has he recognised the significance of his little clues … but more importantly, the silence that follows – that elongated pause – that’s the most telling. For the big man doesn’t turn and spill the beans. He doesn’t set off an alert, he doesn’t reveal his knowledge, and that means he can be manipulated.
By the time he’s ready to wiggle back the way he came in silence, he’s buzzing. Not only has he executed his plan to perfection, but he’s also met his top three adversaries. Happier than he could have imagined ever being, the Man in Black wriggles backwards dragging his bag with him, avoiding the creaking floorboards he’s already mapped out. Still, the tune is in his brain as he moves, his head nodding to the beat. Four houses further along the street he’ll swing down from the loft. The house is empty. Didn’t take much for him to gain access. Back-to-back terraces are usually not over-protected security wise – and especially one that’s falling into disrepair like this one. Once out of the loft, the loft door replaced, he drops to the small landing, opens the larger rucksack that awaits him there and gets changed, stripping all the way down to his boxers, and bundling his black clothing, except for his gloves, in a bin bag before getting dressed.
When he gets out of the house, pulling the door shut behind him, he hoists his rucksack onto his back and walks down the alleyway, his peaked cap pulled down over his eyes and sunglasses on. Without a glance down the street to the crime scene below, he walks up towards the main road and out of sight. Nobody notices him and he whistles to himself as he strides out, pleased with a job well done. Pleased that he’s thrown down the gauntlet to the three musketeers. Pleased to be able to move forward with his plans.
He had never expected that he’d end up doing this
