close to perfection – her slim neck and pale skin, her straight black hair and brown eyes. And she was young too – no more than twenty-three or four. She was almost everything he had hoped for. His heart began to beat faster, pushing blood around his body, oxygenating the muscles of the Great Snake
–
swelling its head as it prepared to seize her in its powerful jaws, from which there would be no escape.
‘D’you mind if I just pull my knickers to one side?’ she asked, ‘or d’you want me to take them off? Either way, you’ll have to wear one of these.’ She showed him the condom already palmed in her hand. ‘Can’t be too careful these days.’
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ His words confused and scared her. ‘You don’t understand what is happening to you.’
‘Hey,’ she told him, nervously pulling her clothing tight against her chest, ‘if you just want to talk – get something off your mind, that’s fine by me, but you still got to pay.’
‘The Great Snake
pays for nothing,’ he glared at her, inching closer. ‘He takes whatever he wants. And now, he’s going to take you.’
***
Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan entered Streatham Police Station in south-east London and jumped the queue of customers
waiting to plead their cases at the front desk, flashing the civilian receptionist his warrant card. ‘Can you tell me where the Dylan incident room is?’ he asked without introducing himself. The receptionist slid his practised hand under the counter to press the door-lock release button while he answered.
‘Through that door,’ he nodded, ‘then up the stairs and straight ahead on the first floor. It’s about halfway down the long corridor on your right. I think they’ve got a sign on the door or something.’
‘Thanks,’ Sean told him. He pushed through the now-open door and immediately entered the inner sanctum of a working police station, although without a lot of the noise and bustle he was used to. Most of the control and custody facilities had been moved away to Kennington and Brixton Police Stations since the Met introduced the borough policy for policing, leaving Streatham to be manned and run predominantly by constables and sergeants – those left behind feeling like a doomed patrol in some forgotten outpost, waiting for the ever-growing enemy forces that circled outside to finally wipe them out.
Sean climbed the stairs and walked along the narrow corridor, searching for the Heather Dylan Murder Enquiry Office. Since her death there had been four more victims, but as she was the first to die at the hands of the man the media had labelled
The Reaper,
the investigation would forever bear her name. Through her own violent death she had achieved infamy.
He spotted a couple of detectives spilling out from a door and assumed correctly it would lead to the incident room. This was not his usual stomping ground. Even as a fellow detective he was an outsider here – respect and trust would have to be earned. The investigation had already been running for almost a year and still no significant arrests had been made. His sudden appearance would be treated with great suspicion and he knew it.
Don’t be a bull in a china shop
, he warned himself.
Take a little time. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut
. He took a steadying breath and entered the office.
If he’d been expecting the room to fall silent and all heads to turn towards him then he’d have been disappointed. His entrance was met with complete indifference. Outside a police station a cop’s instinct was always to look at anyone and everyone who walked through the door, but inside was very different – as if outside rules didn’t apply here – as if it was safe ground.
Sean grabbed the attention of the first person who tried to walk past him – a female detective in her early thirties. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked, without telling her who he was. ‘Where can I find DI Ramsay?’
She looked him up
–
swelling its head as it prepared to seize her in its powerful jaws, from which there would be no escape.
‘D’you mind if I just pull my knickers to one side?’ she asked, ‘or d’you want me to take them off? Either way, you’ll have to wear one of these.’ She showed him the condom already palmed in her hand. ‘Can’t be too careful these days.’
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ His words confused and scared her. ‘You don’t understand what is happening to you.’
‘Hey,’ she told him, nervously pulling her clothing tight against her chest, ‘if you just want to talk – get something off your mind, that’s fine by me, but you still got to pay.’
‘The Great Snake
pays for nothing,’ he glared at her, inching closer. ‘He takes whatever he wants. And now, he’s going to take you.’
***
Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan entered Streatham Police Station in south-east London and jumped the queue of customers
waiting to plead their cases at the front desk, flashing the civilian receptionist his warrant card. ‘Can you tell me where the Dylan incident room is?’ he asked without introducing himself. The receptionist slid his practised hand under the counter to press the door-lock release button while he answered.
‘Through that door,’ he nodded, ‘then up the stairs and straight ahead on the first floor. It’s about halfway down the long corridor on your right. I think they’ve got a sign on the door or something.’
‘Thanks,’ Sean told him. He pushed through the now-open door and immediately entered the inner sanctum of a working police station, although without a lot of the noise and bustle he was used to. Most of the control and custody facilities had been moved away to Kennington and Brixton Police Stations since the Met introduced the borough policy for policing, leaving Streatham to be manned and run predominantly by constables and sergeants – those left behind feeling like a doomed patrol in some forgotten outpost, waiting for the ever-growing enemy forces that circled outside to finally wipe them out.
Sean climbed the stairs and walked along the narrow corridor, searching for the Heather Dylan Murder Enquiry Office. Since her death there had been four more victims, but as she was the first to die at the hands of the man the media had labelled
The Reaper,
the investigation would forever bear her name. Through her own violent death she had achieved infamy.
He spotted a couple of detectives spilling out from a door and assumed correctly it would lead to the incident room. This was not his usual stomping ground. Even as a fellow detective he was an outsider here – respect and trust would have to be earned. The investigation had already been running for almost a year and still no significant arrests had been made. His sudden appearance would be treated with great suspicion and he knew it.
Don’t be a bull in a china shop
, he warned himself.
Take a little time. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut
. He took a steadying breath and entered the office.
If he’d been expecting the room to fall silent and all heads to turn towards him then he’d have been disappointed. His entrance was met with complete indifference. Outside a police station a cop’s instinct was always to look at anyone and everyone who walked through the door, but inside was very different – as if outside rules didn’t apply here – as if it was safe ground.
Sean grabbed the attention of the first person who tried to walk past him – a female detective in her early thirties. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked, without telling her who he was. ‘Where can I find DI Ramsay?’
She looked him up
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