The Covid testing tent is still there and he sees only sporadic evidence of the social distancing the government has asked for. The Starbucks and Wetherspoons outdoor seating areas are filled to capacity, with a few groups hovering, ready to pounce should a table be vacated. He slouches past them, keeping his distance and enters City Library. The computers are upstairs, so he heads up, drifts round till he finds a vacant one and again smiles at just how easy the restrictions are making his job.
Doesn’t take long to disable the paltry firewalls installed by Bradford Council. He uses a zapper he’d created himself – courtesy of his years of studying – and is free now to surf whichever dark corners of the web he might want to. But this isn’t his bag – no, he just wants access to a few sensitive databases. Easy really, but the anonymity of using a well-used PC just adds insurance and he is nothing if not canny.
He thinks back to the gobby CSI and sweat trickles down his back. Bitch has brought out the worst in him and he isn’t going to let her get off with it. No damn chance. She is going to get what is coming to her. He hums as he works, his fingers flying over the recently sanitised keyboard. Straight into the database that lists all the West Yorkshire CSIs. He scans the list, studying their personnel files. Sid … that would be the one they called Hissing Sid. Christ, the stench he produced had infiltrated even the attic space. Dirty little turd. Maybe he’d have been the one to get it tonight if Erica dear hadn’t shown her lack of respect. At least the human fart machine seems to be impressed by his work, by the detail, the ritual of it all.
Not that bloody Erica though. She’d crossed a line and he is well happy to spread his particular brand of misery a little wider. Stretch the police a bit – make them work for it. They expect his next kill to be another ritual one. He laughs out loud, well more fool them – they won’t realise till it’s too late that he has two plans running congruently. Wonder if the Carlton bloke will pick up on that possibility. Probably not. Too easily groomed into following the DIY serial killer profile of a consistent type and modus operandi.
He scrolls down, scanning the names until he finds it, Erica Smedley. There she is. Early twenties, superior smile, and there is her home address. Brilliant. He flicks his fingers over the keys again, making sure his obtrusion into their data base is hidden, but almost as an afterthought he takes note of Sid’s address too. Who knows? He might need that shortly.
Next step is a little trickier. Medical records are always a bit trickier to get into, but he’s found this particular site quite easy to navigate anonymously. He’s already chosen his second ritual victim, but for his third, he wants to escalate. Wants to go for the shock – wants to make headlines. He’d been warming up before, but now he needs to up the ante. He scans down the list looking at dates, names, and addresses. He is very particular about what he needs and in a city the size of Bradford, he knows he’ll find it. The thing is, he needs time to research each target – make sure he can get access to them without alerting the neighbours – he’d had to give up on two other possible targets before he killed Miranda Brookes and before he selected his newest target, three women had proved inappropriate for one reason or another – usually to do with their lifestyles.
Well, well, well. What have we here? His cursor hovers by a name. His smile widens, his heart rate increases, and if he wasn’t in such a public space, he might punch the air. This is bloody brilliant – unexpected, which makes it all the more brilliant – just what he needs. All he has to work out, is when this one will become his target. His instincts tell him to make her his grand finale … he googles the address – hmm, not appropriate for his usual MO, but if he leaves her as his final montage – his last calling card, it could work. Hell, he’ll bloody make it work.
Satisfied, he continues working with a smile on his face underneath his mask. By the time he is ready to leave, he’s added five possibles to his list. Tomorrow will be spent scoping them out, assessing their vulnerabilities, and making his preparations. But tonight, he has something else entirely in mind. DI Gus McGuire and his team won’t know what is about to hit them.
Chapter 13
Bradford
Silence, except for the yelps of Bingo and his parent’s dogs frolicking across the grass, and bird tweets from the woods surrounded the three of them, like a huge cloud of accusation and dread. Her brother? Gus couldn’t formulate a word of response. His mum didn’t have a brother.
‘It’s actually your mum’s foster brother, Angus. He’s not a well man. He’s…’
But Gus jumped to his feet. ‘I don’t want to hear another word. I’ve had it with the lies and deceit and secrets of this bloody family. First all that stuff with Gabriella and Katie last year … and now I’ve got an uncle I knew nothing about. What’s happening to us? What’s happening to you?’
He spat the last sentence out, savouring the way his parents
