moral leadership in society, and
a psychologist argued there was inadequate screening or support for
the kind of unstable men who are driven to commit such atrocities.
The government representative, a junior Home Office minister,
seemed on the brink of tears.
The killer muted the TV and opened Hotmail again. Read the
new message that had taken the place of his own in the Drafts
folder.
Quite sure. You failed.
Try again. This time get it right.
No loose ends.
He snarled at the screen, feeling a resentment familiar to footsoldiers
everywhere. All very easy to dish out orders from a comfortable office
somewhere; not quite so simple to accomplish on the ground. And
where was the recognition of what he had achieved?
He felt disgusted. On the verge of refusing. But he knew he
wouldn't. There was too much at stake. He had no choice but to
carry on.
Like the message said, he would have to try again. And this time,
make sure he killed her.
No loose ends.
Nineteen
In the dreams she always died.
In the dreams she was chased, hunted, caught and killed. Each
time she died she found herself back in the darkness, her pursuer hot
on her trail, and the whole terrible story played out again. The dreams
went on in another world, where fears could not be rationalised,
reflected on, dismissed.
A world with no escape.
Then, quite abruptly, she found herself in a room flooded with
light. At first she didn't know who she was, but that lasted only an
instant. With identity came one startling recollection: her parents
were dead.
The grief was suffocating. She wanted to believe it was part of the
nightmare, but when she searched her memory the details came too
clearly and rapidly to be anything other than genuine.
It was mid-December, a squally evening. Both she and her brother,
Neil, had spent the day trying to reach them by phone, and finally
Julia agreed to drive over after work.
Pulling up outside the terrace in her red Mini Cooper, she had
noticed the house was completely dark. For a minute she remained
in the car, gathering her nerve. Rain pounded on the roof, making
her feel cocooned and yet vulnerable at the same time.
She knew something was wrong as soon as she unlocked the front
door. A wave of cloying heat was sucked into the storm, leaving an
imprint of the stillness which had preceded it, like the after-image of
a flashbulb. There was something else, too. An ominous quality to the
silence that ran like a cold finger along her spine. She felt an overwhelming
urge to turn and flee.
She stepped inside and turned on the light. Once she'd filtered
out the muted howl of the wind, she began to identify sounds from
inside: the sombre ticking of a carriage clock, the staccato buzz of
the fridge, the roaring boiler.
Already the heat was building again. It felt sinister and out of place.
Her father was notorious for his thrift. When she and Neil were kids
he'd always been turning off lights in their wake. He wouldn't go out
and leave the heating on at this level.
Which suggested that they hadn't gone out. They were here. In the
dark.
'Mum! Dad!' she cried. 'Are you there?'
No answer. She could see all the downstairs rooms were unlit, but
there was still a chance they were in one of the bedrooms.
It was a forlorn hope, she knew as she climbed the stairs. With
each step her legs seemed to grow heavier and more reluctant.
Reaching the landing, she experienced a little pitch of nausea and
had to grab the handrail.
There were no lights on upstairs.
'Mum?' she called again, and paused, stalled by dread. 'Dad?'
She faced her parents' bedroom and slowly eased the door open.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the light switch. Despite the
gloom she could just make out the twin shapes beneath the lilac M&S
duvet. It brought back a long-forgotten memory of childhood, one
Sunday morning, giggling with her brother on the landing while
strange gasps and moans emanated from the bedroom. Then, as now,
she'd felt she was intruding on
a psychologist argued there was inadequate screening or support for
the kind of unstable men who are driven to commit such atrocities.
The government representative, a junior Home Office minister,
seemed on the brink of tears.
The killer muted the TV and opened Hotmail again. Read the
new message that had taken the place of his own in the Drafts
folder.
Quite sure. You failed.
Try again. This time get it right.
No loose ends.
He snarled at the screen, feeling a resentment familiar to footsoldiers
everywhere. All very easy to dish out orders from a comfortable office
somewhere; not quite so simple to accomplish on the ground. And
where was the recognition of what he had achieved?
He felt disgusted. On the verge of refusing. But he knew he
wouldn't. There was too much at stake. He had no choice but to
carry on.
Like the message said, he would have to try again. And this time,
make sure he killed her.
No loose ends.
Nineteen
In the dreams she always died.
In the dreams she was chased, hunted, caught and killed. Each
time she died she found herself back in the darkness, her pursuer hot
on her trail, and the whole terrible story played out again. The dreams
went on in another world, where fears could not be rationalised,
reflected on, dismissed.
A world with no escape.
Then, quite abruptly, she found herself in a room flooded with
light. At first she didn't know who she was, but that lasted only an
instant. With identity came one startling recollection: her parents
were dead.
The grief was suffocating. She wanted to believe it was part of the
nightmare, but when she searched her memory the details came too
clearly and rapidly to be anything other than genuine.
It was mid-December, a squally evening. Both she and her brother,
Neil, had spent the day trying to reach them by phone, and finally
Julia agreed to drive over after work.
Pulling up outside the terrace in her red Mini Cooper, she had
noticed the house was completely dark. For a minute she remained
in the car, gathering her nerve. Rain pounded on the roof, making
her feel cocooned and yet vulnerable at the same time.
She knew something was wrong as soon as she unlocked the front
door. A wave of cloying heat was sucked into the storm, leaving an
imprint of the stillness which had preceded it, like the after-image of
a flashbulb. There was something else, too. An ominous quality to the
silence that ran like a cold finger along her spine. She felt an overwhelming
urge to turn and flee.
She stepped inside and turned on the light. Once she'd filtered
out the muted howl of the wind, she began to identify sounds from
inside: the sombre ticking of a carriage clock, the staccato buzz of
the fridge, the roaring boiler.
Already the heat was building again. It felt sinister and out of place.
Her father was notorious for his thrift. When she and Neil were kids
he'd always been turning off lights in their wake. He wouldn't go out
and leave the heating on at this level.
Which suggested that they hadn't gone out. They were here. In the
dark.
'Mum! Dad!' she cried. 'Are you there?'
No answer. She could see all the downstairs rooms were unlit, but
there was still a chance they were in one of the bedrooms.
It was a forlorn hope, she knew as she climbed the stairs. With
each step her legs seemed to grow heavier and more reluctant.
Reaching the landing, she experienced a little pitch of nausea and
had to grab the handrail.
There were no lights on upstairs.
'Mum?' she called again, and paused, stalled by dread. 'Dad?'
She faced her parents' bedroom and slowly eased the door open.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the light switch. Despite the
gloom she could just make out the twin shapes beneath the lilac M&S
duvet. It brought back a long-forgotten memory of childhood, one
Sunday morning, giggling with her brother on the landing while
strange gasps and moans emanated from the bedroom. Then, as now,
she'd felt she was intruding on
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