The Hunted Page 8

  “Amanda Lacey here.”

  “Amanda, it’s Sergeant Phillip Reynolds, one of the team checking the nearby rubbish bins.”

  “Yes? Have you found something?”

  “No, not exactly, but we have found something a little out of the usual. A bag of vomit in the bin outside the chippy. Should we leave it or bring it in? Only the reason I ask is that if you were puking in the street, you wouldn't bag it, so it seems a little odd to me.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is, though on the surface I can't see how it might fit in. Bring it in anyway, and I'll give it to the forensic team to take back with the victim. Though I do know there's no DNA in stomach contents, funnily enough: stomach acid destroys it. Don't ask me how I know.”

  “Eh? Right you are. On my way.”

  Amanda finished the call and slipped her phone back into her trouser pocket, thinking about why someone would put a bag of vomit into a rubbish bin. Nothing sprang to mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The hot, steamy bath had felt wonderful, and she felt her shoulders relax as she sat down on the soft sofa in her robe, curling her legs up underneath herself. The clock on the wall in the lounge said she'd been soaking for over an hour. An hour well spent, and it had given her the time to think in peace, something she had initially been afraid of doing. But she felt surprisingly calm, the task complete, and felt no remorse at all. Being on a mission was different than being a stone-cold killer: it was something she must do, not something of choice and certainly not for pleasure like the real psychos in the world, the likes of Fred and Rosemary West or Peter Sutcliffe. In the hours since her first kill, she'd not looked at her own newsfeeds or the television or turned on the radio, choosing to find out what was happening only when she'd fully downloaded her actions of the day to herself, in the sanctuary of her hot bath, the enormity of her downright irregular activities settled.

  She got up to pour herself a third glass of red, grabbed another small packet of her endless supply of cashews from the kitchen cupboard and took them both back into the lounge. She sat up straight on the sofa, pulled her laptop towards her, rested it on her thighs and went straight to her newsfeed. Surely the police would have been notified by now, and techs in white paper suits would be buzzing around the crime scene like bluebottle flies round rotten eggs. The first post she saw of the incident was from a news channel. The headline read, “Death selfie in own newsfeed.” She clicked the link and read the short article, tearing into the individual packet of nuts and popping cashews into her mouth one after the other as she read.

  “Well, I guess that’s me they are referring to as a killer, though I would say killer is a bit harsh. Not a killer per se; more of a missionary.” She scrolled further on and read the other comments from her friends who had shared similar articles on the subject of her activities earlier, though of course they wouldn’t know it was her. It felt odd to have the secret over them. And what a whopper it was. Talking out loud to herself helped her sort through what she’d done, to process it.

  “From the articles, it doesn't look like the police are saying much at the moment, which is good. I wonder how much they know? Guess I'll find out soon enough if they come sniffing at my door. Though why would they?” Picking cashews out of her teeth with her tongue, she took a large mouthful of wine and gently swilled it around the inside of her mouth, holding the liquid in place without swallowing, savouring it there while she thought. She found Fiona’s profile page and looked at the posts her friends had tagged her in. Only then did she finally swallow.

  While the actual picture was no longer staring out at her, there were plenty of condolence messages and platitudes to each other about being strong and surviving such a terrible time.

  “Tell that to the buffalo she killed,” she muttered. “Who’s being strong for it?” But her job here was almost over and it had been a fruitful one, though she expected there was much more work to be done yet.

  She was about to shut the laptop and wrap up for the night when a picture of a man in Fiona’s friend list caught her eye. He was posed beside the carcass of an African leopard, looking pleased with himself, rifle in hand, broad smile stretched across his face like killing this magnificent animal was the most natural thing in the world to have done. The animal’s glorious tawny coat was patterned with black rosettes, its head and belly spotted with solid black. It truly was a magnificent beast, though it would have looked even more magnificent prowling in the sunshine in its natural African habitat—alive. She clicked on the man’s profile to see more about him, and wasn’t surprised when she found dozens of pictures in the same vein. Her heart started to vibrate in her chest, simmering rage building at the discovery of yet another human being with the same vile habit of hunting for pleasure. Moisture gathered on the back of her neck, heat building inside as her pulse quickened, and it was all she could do not to scream her frustration out loud.

  “Another selfish shit!” she thought.

  She fought to get herself back into calm control by focusing on her breathing, slowly walking up and down the room for a couple of minutes, biting at a perfectly good fingernail while she thought about what to do with her discovery. Then realisation hit. It was too much of an opportunity to pass up. She’d successfully stopped the first one hunting ever again; there was no reason why she couldn’t stop this one either. Thinking quickly, she knew what she had to do. But she couldn't operate under the name Jackie Masters again. She had to create another persona, and one that looked quite different from either of her current identities. It was too risky to stay as “Jackie” for any longer: the police were going to be all over Fiona's accounts during the investigation, and she just couldn't risk them putting two and two together. Eventually they would realise hers was a fake account with a mixture of Fiona’s real friends and some fake ones behind it. What good luck that one of Fiona's other friends had the same vile hobby. It was time to move on, and quickly.

  “Time to delete Jackie and try my luck as someone else,” she said out loud, determinedly. Even to herself, she sounded like she was at a blackjack table and thinking of switching games. Drinking back the remains of her fourth glass of wine, she screwed up yet another empty cashew packet and tossed it onto the coffee table. “But I did rather like the name Jackie. Shame, really.” She sat pondering, fingers lightly tapping her chin. Everything had to be thought through to the last detail again, and while she already had done so for her first victim, she needed to be doubly sure for the next. With each one, there was more risk of making a mistake. Mistakes could get her caught, and that wasn't an option. She couldn’t believe she’d settled on her second victim so soon. After all, it was only a few hours ago she was hunched over and puking into a plastic bag and fleeing a crime scene involving a very dead woman. Whom she’d killed. Her finger paused over Jackie's ‘delete account' button for a moment. Once done, it couldn't be undone, so she had to be sure.

  Click. The mouse pointer icon stared at her. She confirmed delete with a nervous ‘yes.’ Jackie Masters and all that went with her online profile was now deleted.

  “Right, then. Brunette, here I come,” she said with renewed vigour. Pulling up an image site, she picked a woman around her age and size with long straight brown hair and saved a copy of it to her desktop. She created a new profile login and then busied herself setting up another identity using the fake picture. She entered some basic details of occupation, age, and location and then began sending friend requests to several of her new target's friends, many of whom were males. She was banking on them not looking through her past posts too much before they accepted her request because there wasn't a great deal to see. Since friends of friends had worked well last time, it made sense to try this tactic again. Besides, her new persona looked very appealing, hot even. She figured the men would accept her friend request in an instant, and that the women would find her nonthreatening and more natural-looking persona more so and press ‘accept’ as well. Then she’d be at liberty to get into their lives.<
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  By the end of the evening, her profile was filled out fully and even though she didn't have many ‘friends' yet, she had a few, and more importantly the right ones—some friends of her intended prey. She found the original man's profile again, sent her friend request and hoped the picture of ‘her' and all of their mutual friends would do the trick.

  The sexy Frankie Green was about to make her entrance.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  She woke with the headache of her life. It had all gone according to plan: her first victim was dead, yet Philippa didn’t feel right, not as she expected, anyway. Though what exactly would “right” feel like for an unseasoned murderer? And her head was throbbing like an idling motorbike. On it went, and she rubbed her temples to try and ease the pain, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. She'd spent most of the night tossing and turning, going through the events as they had happened: the images of Fiona's house, her body as she lay dying on the floor, the blood-soaked towels, her own upset stomach. All of it. She hadn't enjoyed the feeling of taking a life, but she hadn’t thought she'd feel so bad about it afterwards either, not like she did now. And the wine probably hadn't helped.

  Lying under her duvet, with the morning sun hidden behind depressing grey clouds, she felt rough, remorseful even, and somewhat depressed—she was in a real funk. Lifting her head off the pillow, it felt like a dead weight, like someone had filled it full of stones while she'd slept. She flopped back down with a loud groan. The clock told her she hadn't got long before she needed to leave, but she couldn't muster the energy to get up and do so. Rolling over onto her side, her back to the clock and the window, she closed her eyes again and let sleep take her back to a welcome place.

  More than two hours later, she was awakened by a phone ringing. Thinking it was part of her dream, she ignored it but it persisted, and at last she realised it was her mobile, ringing and vibrating on the bedside cabinet. As she put her arm out to get it, the noise stopped, but the screen said three missed calls—all from work.

  “Damn!” she exclaimed. The clock on her phone read nine thirty; she should have been at work well over an hour ago. Sitting up in bed, she prepared to swing her legs out when it all came flooding back to her—just exactly what she'd done. She pressed her hand against her forehead; the volley of pain in her head was extreme. There was a familiar roll in her stomach and she realised she'd probably got a migraine.

  “Oh, hell. That hurts,’ she said, wincing, and reached for her phone with her other hand. Even if she went in later, she still needed to call the clinic and let them know, and apologise for not being there now. She hit the missed call number. Shruti answered on the fourth ring.

  “Shruti, it’s me, Philippa.”

  “Are you okay? You sound terrible.”

  Philippa made her ‘throbbing head’ excuses, and after a quick ‘Goodbye. I hope you feel better’ from Shruti, she hung up and flopped back down, groaning and sighing at the same time, then pulled the duvet up over her head to block the world out.

  She felt bad for shirking her responsibilities and taking the day off work. Yes, she had a headache, but that was stress and wine induced, and only she knew why, coupled with what had turned into an anxious night and lack of sleep. . What the hell had she started?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “So what are you saying then, Doc? She was dead before her throat was slit?” Jack asked incredulously. They were all back in the lab, the autopsy complete, Fiona Gable’s body lying covered with a sheet on a stainless-steel gurney.

  “That's exactly what I'm saying, Jack. The etorphine stopped her heart, which was why there wasn’t much blood at the scene. Her throat was definitely cut after the fact.”

  “So the throat being slit has got to be symbolic to something, then. Otherwise, why bother?” Amanda was deep in thought as she listened to Faye talk through her findings.

  “Tell me more about the drug, then,” said Jack. “What’s it used for?”

  “It's primarily used to knock out big animals, like elephants, for instance, and incredibly lethal, as you can imagine, if it's going to do that job properly. You don't need much to kill a human. Did you ever see the American TV show, Dexter?”

  “Can’t say that I have. Why?”

  “Well, it was his weapon of choice, though the show didn’t portray it as realistically as they might have. He used to stab people in the neck with a syringe full, which really would have killed a herd of elephants, and his victims would lie unconscious for a while. Not in the case of Fiona Gable. A few drops would have been enough to stop her heart permanently. I would say the drug was to incapacitate her while her throat was cut.”

  “I’m still struggling with why someone would do that. There has to be a particular reason, and not just to kill the victim,” Amanda said.

  Jack was twiddling the left side of his moustache. “Then we need to find that reason. And we need to keep any mention of this drug away from the press. We also need to find out how the perpetrator got hold of the drug. Who would have access to it, Doc?”

  “Vets primarily. And anyone familiar with the dark web, of course. If you know what you're looking for, you can find just about anything online these days. Any ordinary person could be the killer.”

  “Then we should start with vets, see who uses it and their stock levels, whether anyone has reported any missing.” Jack was taking notes in his little book. “I bet there are thousands to go through.”

  Amanda was searching online with her phone as he spoke. “Only about twenty-five thousand registered in the UK,” she announced. “Need to narrow that down somewhat. I’ll get a team on it. Let’s start with those who deal with large animals first off, near zoos and parks, and work from there.”

  “Right.” Turning back to Faye, Jack asked, “Where was she injected? Did you find the puncture wound?”

  “Yes, she was injected here on the back of her right arm,” Faye said, demonstrating on her own arm. “The killer would have been behind the victim and plunged the syringe in like so.” She demonstrated on Amanda, her back turned to Faye, lifting her own arm and slamming it down, almost touching Amanda's right arm from behind. “The entry angle suggests from up above, and that would seem the most likely way if you were taking someone by surprise. And of course, you'd want to make sure you punctured the skin; the back of the arm is nice and soft.”

  Thinking, Jack added, “So let’s say the victim let her assailant in, walked back towards the lounge and was hit from behind. Then she was taken into the lounge, laid down . . . and that’s when her throat was cut?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Faye.

  “So what about the towels, then? If her heart had stopped, why place towels nearby?”

  “There would still be some blood, but I’d say maybe your killer wasn’t sure what would happen or was expecting more. Maybe it was their first victim?” Faye was tossing ideas into the air and Amanda caught one.

  “I've been wondering why the killer didn't just grab a towel from the bathroom but took a beach towel out of the hall cupboard. Any ideas, Faye?”

  “None on that score. Sorry. Does seem odd, though: the bathroom towels would be the most obvious choice location-wise. Maybe the perpetrator has a conscience. Best use the older towels, maybe? I’m guessing, though. I’m not a criminal mind reader, only an evidence reader. You’d have to ask a forensic psychologist for their take on it.”

  “Anything else, Doc?” asked Jack.

  “Nothing. You have it all. Time of death around ten-thirty a.m., heart stopped with etorphine, throat cut after death with a seriously sharp blade, smooth edged, probably a hunting knife, puncture from the injection in the rear of her right arm. Nothing of note in her stomach—only the remains of her breakfast cereal and coffee—and no other evidence found on her body. That’s all I can give you. And you’ve still not found the murder weapon? No knife?”

  “No, nothing found. It could be anywhere, though. We may never find it,” said Jack, sounding somewh
at defeated although it was still early in the investigation.

  Amanda thanked her for her findings, and both she and Jack started walking towards the exit door. Jack spoke first.

  “Whoever it was had to have planned this. You don't just have lethal drugs on you ready to go unless you set out to kill. And they had to be sure of gaining access to the victim's home, so they probably knew her. I think if we can figure out why her throat was cut, we'll understand a whole lot more. And let's hope this is a one-off.”

  “I agree,” said Amanda. “The computer forensics team hasn’t had much luck either, locating where the image was posted from or locating her phone. If the SIM card has been removed and the phone destroyed, that’s the end of that. And what about that cryptic message, about Fiona being a trophy? It seems we’re one step forward and two steps back, and nothing much to show for it.”

  Amanda was deep in thought as they made their way back to Jack’s car. She looked at her watch. It was 1.30 p.m. “Thought I was hungry. Let’s grab a sandwich and head back.”

  They drove in silence for a while, and then Jack spoke up. “Thinking of the drug the perp used reminds me of lethal injections, like what they use for death row inmates.”

  “How so?”

  “Do you know how a lethal injection works?”

  “Can’t say I’ve given it any attention, but I suspect you’re going to fill me in with one of your fun facts, am I right?” She caught Jack’s smile and joined him. He really was a walking encyclopaedia at times.

  “You’d think there was just one injection, right? Wrong: there’s three. Sodium thiopental to make them unconscious, then pancuronium bromide goes in to cause muscle paralysis and respiratory arrest, and finally, they shoot potassium chloride in to stop the heart. And what do you know—death. Put them in in the wrong order, though, and all hell breaks loose. It’s excruciatingly painful for the person, particularly the potassium chloride part. But that doesn’t stop it being the most common way to legally kill those on death row, even if it is botched up regularly. I think I’d rather have a firing squad if I had to choose. Got to be less risky and painless, don’t you think?”