COLD KILL. Neil White

blush took over her face. ‘Enough about me. What about you?’ she said.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘When are you going to let a lady sweep you off your feet?’

      Joe smiled. ‘I analyse things too much, so nothing seems to happen naturally.’

      ‘What about Rachel Mason?’ she said.

      ‘What about her?’ Joe said, his hand paused on the door handle.

      ‘You know she likes you,’ Laura said. ‘She stares at me whenever I’m with you, as if I’ve trespassed into her territory or something.’

      ‘Come on,’ Joe said. ‘The rest of the squad will be waiting.’

      ‘Is that your way of avoiding the subject?’ she said.

      ‘Something like that,’ he said, and stepped out of the car.

      Joe was still smiling as she joined him on the pavement. Laura glanced upwards, at the darkness of the sky, and took a deep breath. Getting on wasn’t just about turning up for work. There was this side too, being a squad member.

      But why did she feel so reluctant?

      She looked at Joe and her smile returned. ‘Your round,’ she said, and then headed for the pub door, Joe close behind.

      Chapter Fifteen

      He rewound the footage again, as he had done for the last ten minutes.

      It was Inspector Carson on the news. A stern look to the camera. We are not ready to reveal details of her murder, but I would like to say this: that whoever carried out this barbaric act must be caught. And then the flashback from the press conference three weeks earlier, images of Corley in distress. Oh, he liked that, but when will they be ready to disclose more?

      The image was back in his head. Corley’s daughter this time. Less fight than Roberts. A scream and then she was crying. She almost gave up, it had been too easy. Her choice. The wrong choice. She could have walked a different way, or put up more of a struggle, but she chose surrender, as if he was going to maul her and run. He was different. She should have realised.

      He was aroused again. His breaths were fast, and he knew he had to look at Jane again, but something wasn’t right, wasn’t how he expected it.

      He went to his study, really just something he had crafted from the space under his stairs, so that the slope of the steps was just in front of his face, smoothed out by plasterboard and wallpaper. It was cramped, and so his knees had worn blue marks into the wall where he turned in a tight circle on his chair. He couldn’t move back much, but it was private and felt like somewhere separate from the rest of the house.

      He felt the space close in as he shut the door behind him. The light from the screen bathed his face in flickering lights and his head was filled with the soft hum of the computer fan.

      Normally he liked the darkness, the confinement, but it wasn’t the same today. Jane was supposed to be the finale, the crescendo, but it didn’t feel any different from before.

      He closed his eyes. He could feel the hiss of the pressure release, like a loose valve. He had tried to smother it, but it was impossible, like a song in your head that never stops going round. You can try to ignore it, but eventually the beat gets in your fucking head and you just go with it. But, oh Christ, the thoughts of her. Her look of fright, short squeals, drowned out by his hand, tight around her neck, squeezing, her skin soft, bruised. His breaths came as short gasps, loud in the confined space.

      His hand went to his belt, but he stopped himself. Don’t waste it, not here.

      He went to the website of the local paper and read the story. He saw the outrage in the comments, but then he read the scorn for Jane. He remembered her differently. The swish of her hair, the soft scent of her perfume as he pressed her down, the roar of his thoughts as he gripped her. The struggle. The fight.

      He took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He had projects to complete, he knew that now. Jane was supposed to be the last one, but the need was still there. It didn’t feel like he was finished. He needed that final rush, to get somewhere near the intensity of his first time. And he should listen to that need.

      But it was hard not to think of Jane. The young woman. Pretty. Scared. The dirt. He had seen the buzz around the station, the big shirts wheeled in, and still they didn’t know of the connection. Jane and Deborah. He had to do more.

      He saw the reporter’s email address at the bottom of the article. It was time to go public. That had always been his plan.

      His fingers started to tap on the keys, soft clicks that echoed in his tiny office.

      Chapter Sixteen

      Jack’s movements felt sluggish as he read the words on the screen. He had thrown together Dolby’s article, questioning why the killer was still at large, a rehash of facts from the press conference mixed in with the article he had submitted earlier. It would appear in the paper in the morning. He had just opened a second bottle of wine and his vision was starting to swirl, fingers moving clumsily over the keys as he headed to the Blackley Telegraph site to check for the latest comments.

      He took another drink of wine as the page loaded, his name writ large at the top, and saw that snipes at Jane’s father had taken over from sympathy. Some had even found a racial angle, putting forward one ethnic group as potential suspects. Jack knew that the comments were moderated, but Dolby usually took a relaxed view because he knew that bile kept the page counter turning.

      He was about to shut down the computer when it flashed up that an email had arrived. He went to the inbox, expecting an offer for bogus medication, but instead there was a message entitled Blindness.

      He started to read:

      You’re writing the wrong story, Jack Garrett. So another woman has died in Blackley, just the daughter-whore of the town’s biggest thug. My message to him is that you’ve wrecked lives too, so how does it feel now? Both fathers. Both sinners.

      Spot the link, win the prize, because they won’t, I can guarantee it, those special boys in blue. Yes, spare a thought for the girl in the woods who gorged on the floor, but don’t think too long, think then of Daddy at last feeling the pain.

      Jack put down his drink, surprised. That was strong stuff. He checked the email address. It was a Google address, so it would probably be hard to trace the owner.

      He sat back and tugged at his lip. Crime reporting certainly attracted its fair share of oddballs, from those who sat at the back of court, just for the public viewing, to those who sent out paranoid emails without a second thought. But why the reference to gorging on the floor? And what was the link between the two victims? The police had hinted that they were random, that all women were in danger.

      Jack looked around for a notepad, and felt a familiar tremble of excitement in his fingers. If the police were holding facts back, he needed to know.

      He pressed the reply button and typed, Gorged on the floor. What do you mean?

      He clicked send and drank some more wine, wondering what the reply would contain. He didn’t have to wait long.

      Good to see that you’re alert, Jack, but this is just for you and me. If you tell the police, I’ll know. I’ll hear the whispers. But what about a poem, an ode to Jane:

      What is this that I can see,

      Cold icy hands taking hold of me,

      For Death has come, you all can see,

      Hell has opened a gate to welcome thee,

      He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk,

      He’ll bind your legs till you can’t walk,

      He’ll tie your hands till you can’t claw,

      And he’ll close your