control. And if I had to guess, I would say he’s sexually deviant.”
“Why do you say that?”
Mackie shrugged. “Another feeling.”
Gilchrist thought he detected a hint of regret. “And?”
“This case is personal to you.”
“Let’s have it, Bert.”
Mackie frowned. “Whoever is doing this gains little or no pleasure from normal sexual activity. At a guess I’d say he’s into necrophilia.”
Necrophilia? Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. For God’s sake.What could he say to Jack? He closed his eyes and in his mind’s eye saw Chloe naked, her eyes staring blind-sighted to the ceiling, her small breasts shuddering from rhythmic thudding.…
Dear Jesus. He opened his eyes, gulped some air.
“Live bodies. Dead bodies.” Mackie’s jowls shivered. “I don’t think it matters which to this demented creep.”
Gilchrist stared off to the horizon. The sun was shooting pink streaks across the sky. How could the beauty of nature be spoiled by the rotten-to-the-core creature known as homo sapiens , who killed its own species for … for.…
For what?
Pleasure? Sexual satisfaction? Dead or otherwise?
He knew of no other species that killed for sexual pleasure. But maybe they were out there, hidden deep in some undiscovered tropical forest. Or at the microscopic level, where the struggle of life and death took on a—
“I’m sorry, Andy. I shouldn’t have.…”
Gilchrist shook his head. “I need to know your thoughts, Bert.”
Mackie reached for Gilchrist’s shoulder, and squeezed. “How’s Jack?”
Gilchrist thought back to last night, at Jack’s show of bravado, at eyes that lay dead behind a forced smile. “Having a tough time.”
“And you?” Mackie asked. “You look as though you’ve been out on the binge.”
Gilchrist could use a pint right there and then, but was not sure he could keep it down. “Tired,” he said.
Mackie gave Gilchrist one of his direct stares. “Any suspects? Any ideas?”
Gilchrist shrugged. “Working on it.”
“I think the answer’s in your past, Andy. Maybe someone you put away, someone vindictive enough to get even with you. Maybe someone recently released from prison.”
Gilchrist’s own thoughts had already paralleled Mackie’s. Whoever was doing this wanted to get even for some reason, likely because Gilchrist’s investigation had put him behind bars. He already knew that.
He had just not wanted to believe it.
“And cut back on the booze,” said Mackie.
Gilchrist walked towards the seafront, the breeze refreshing on his face. He inhaled, tried to clear his thoughts, chase his fears away. Cut back on the booze . What was the point of that? So he could be stone-cold sober when he next witnessed the sickest depravities of mankind? He reached the seafront. Several joggers were already running along the West Sands. A woman slipped onto the beach from between dunes and marched across the sand with arm-swinging strides. He followed her progress, felt his mind pull him back to the cryptic notes.
Murder. Massacre. Bludgeon.
He saw a sequence. But it was too vague. He could be wrong. Dear God. Tell me I’m wrong .
He inhaled the sea breeze, reached for his phone. He was wrong. He had to be.
He needed to hear her voice, needed to know she was all right. He dialled her number and eyed the black silhouette of a ship sliding over the horizon.
“Hello?”
Maureen’s voice sounded tired and heavy, and he pulled up an old image of a sleepy-headed toddler. He used to waken her with, Wakey wakey let’s get shaky , and bounce her bed with a roughness that always pulled a smile to her face. Then she would reach up to him with tired little arms, and he would lift her from bed and carry her downstairs, the smell of sleep in her hair like her personal morning fragrance.
“Wakey wakey let’s get shaky,” he whispered.
“Dad?”
“The one and only.”
A rustling of covers, then a tired chuckle. “It’s been years since I’ve heard
“Why do you say that?”
Mackie shrugged. “Another feeling.”
Gilchrist thought he detected a hint of regret. “And?”
“This case is personal to you.”
“Let’s have it, Bert.”
Mackie frowned. “Whoever is doing this gains little or no pleasure from normal sexual activity. At a guess I’d say he’s into necrophilia.”
Necrophilia? Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. For God’s sake.What could he say to Jack? He closed his eyes and in his mind’s eye saw Chloe naked, her eyes staring blind-sighted to the ceiling, her small breasts shuddering from rhythmic thudding.…
Dear Jesus. He opened his eyes, gulped some air.
“Live bodies. Dead bodies.” Mackie’s jowls shivered. “I don’t think it matters which to this demented creep.”
Gilchrist stared off to the horizon. The sun was shooting pink streaks across the sky. How could the beauty of nature be spoiled by the rotten-to-the-core creature known as homo sapiens , who killed its own species for … for.…
For what?
Pleasure? Sexual satisfaction? Dead or otherwise?
He knew of no other species that killed for sexual pleasure. But maybe they were out there, hidden deep in some undiscovered tropical forest. Or at the microscopic level, where the struggle of life and death took on a—
“I’m sorry, Andy. I shouldn’t have.…”
Gilchrist shook his head. “I need to know your thoughts, Bert.”
Mackie reached for Gilchrist’s shoulder, and squeezed. “How’s Jack?”
Gilchrist thought back to last night, at Jack’s show of bravado, at eyes that lay dead behind a forced smile. “Having a tough time.”
“And you?” Mackie asked. “You look as though you’ve been out on the binge.”
Gilchrist could use a pint right there and then, but was not sure he could keep it down. “Tired,” he said.
Mackie gave Gilchrist one of his direct stares. “Any suspects? Any ideas?”
Gilchrist shrugged. “Working on it.”
“I think the answer’s in your past, Andy. Maybe someone you put away, someone vindictive enough to get even with you. Maybe someone recently released from prison.”
Gilchrist’s own thoughts had already paralleled Mackie’s. Whoever was doing this wanted to get even for some reason, likely because Gilchrist’s investigation had put him behind bars. He already knew that.
He had just not wanted to believe it.
“And cut back on the booze,” said Mackie.
Gilchrist walked towards the seafront, the breeze refreshing on his face. He inhaled, tried to clear his thoughts, chase his fears away. Cut back on the booze . What was the point of that? So he could be stone-cold sober when he next witnessed the sickest depravities of mankind? He reached the seafront. Several joggers were already running along the West Sands. A woman slipped onto the beach from between dunes and marched across the sand with arm-swinging strides. He followed her progress, felt his mind pull him back to the cryptic notes.
Murder. Massacre. Bludgeon.
He saw a sequence. But it was too vague. He could be wrong. Dear God. Tell me I’m wrong .
He inhaled the sea breeze, reached for his phone. He was wrong. He had to be.
He needed to hear her voice, needed to know she was all right. He dialled her number and eyed the black silhouette of a ship sliding over the horizon.
“Hello?”
Maureen’s voice sounded tired and heavy, and he pulled up an old image of a sleepy-headed toddler. He used to waken her with, Wakey wakey let’s get shaky , and bounce her bed with a roughness that always pulled a smile to her face. Then she would reach up to him with tired little arms, and he would lift her from bed and carry her downstairs, the smell of sleep in her hair like her personal morning fragrance.
“Wakey wakey let’s get shaky,” he whispered.
“Dad?”
“The one and only.”
A rustling of covers, then a tired chuckle. “It’s been years since I’ve heard
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