was undeniable. The pain, guilt and horror etched on Peter’s face when they picked him up was the same as on Amy’s. These guys were living calling cards, a flesh-and-blood testament to somebody else’s sadism. Was that the point of all this?
It was obvious now that they were dealing with a serial killer. Helen had done the courses, read the case studies, but still nothing had prepared her for this. Normally the motive, the connection to the victim, was easy to fathom, but not here. This wasn’t an anti-woman thing, wasn’t a sex crime, and there seemed to be no correlation in age, gender or status between the victims. Helen felt herself being sucked into a long, dark tunnel. A wave of depression assailed her and she had to pinch herself to snap out of it. She would catch the person responsible. Of course she would.
Helen and Mark approached the mouth of the pit. Helen called for a ladder to be brought over – she was anxious to get down there quickly, eager to know the worst. The hatch was already open, so she peered inside. And there in the gloom lay the body. The man Peter had murdered. Ben Holland.
‘Do you want to go down or shall I?’
Mark’s question was well-meaning and he was straining not to be patronizing. But Helen had to see this for herself.
‘I’m fine. This won’t take long.’
Carefully, she climbed down her ladder into the body of silo. The smell was strong down here. Gas fused with coal dust and excrement. The forensic team had found strong traces of a powerful sedative, benzodiazepine, in Sam and Amy’s excrement. They’d probably find it here too. Helen turned her attention to the body. He was lying face down, a pool of blood congealed around his head. Taking care not to touch him, Helen knelt down, craning round to look at the victim’s face.
Disgust and then surprise. Disgust at the bloody hole where his left eye used to be. And surprise at the realization that this was not Ben Holland.
24
Jake was shocked to see her again so soon. Up until now, she’d been fairly predictable: one hour-long session per month. He’d been tempted not to answer the buzzer when it rang – it was after 11 p.m. and all encounters had to be pre-booked for safety reasons. But when he’d seen her face on the screen, he’d been concerned. Concerned and intrigued.
Something was up. She didn’t look at him when she entered the flat and made no mention of the late hour. Normally, he got a brief smile or hello at least. But not tonight. She was distracted, looking inward, even less communicative than usual. She put the money on the table and removed her clothes without looking at him. Then she took off her bra and knickers – standing naked in front of him. This wasn’t really on – this kind of thing usually led to propositions. He was a dominator, not a whore. He provided a service, but not that kind of service.
He had his speech ready as she walked towards him, but she sailed straight past, towards his armoury of goodies. Another rule broken – only he was allowed to choose the method of punishment. That was part of the gig – the submissive didn’t know exactly how they were going to be punished. But Jake said nothing, something in her actions brooked no argument tonight. Jake felt a little frisson of fear and excitement. It was as if the game were being turned back on him and for once he was not the one in charge.
She ignored the crops, heading straight for the studded whips instead. She ran her fingers along them before selecting the nastiest. This was only for the hardcore masochists, not really her thing, but she gave it to him and marched over to the wall. He shackled her. Still not a word had been spoken.
He felt oddly tentative as if he didn’t know what game he was playing. So his first strike was a bit soft.
‘Harder.’
He obliged, but it wasn’t enough.
‘HARDER.’
So he let her have it. And this time he drew blood. Her body flinched with the pain, then seemed to
It was obvious now that they were dealing with a serial killer. Helen had done the courses, read the case studies, but still nothing had prepared her for this. Normally the motive, the connection to the victim, was easy to fathom, but not here. This wasn’t an anti-woman thing, wasn’t a sex crime, and there seemed to be no correlation in age, gender or status between the victims. Helen felt herself being sucked into a long, dark tunnel. A wave of depression assailed her and she had to pinch herself to snap out of it. She would catch the person responsible. Of course she would.
Helen and Mark approached the mouth of the pit. Helen called for a ladder to be brought over – she was anxious to get down there quickly, eager to know the worst. The hatch was already open, so she peered inside. And there in the gloom lay the body. The man Peter had murdered. Ben Holland.
‘Do you want to go down or shall I?’
Mark’s question was well-meaning and he was straining not to be patronizing. But Helen had to see this for herself.
‘I’m fine. This won’t take long.’
Carefully, she climbed down her ladder into the body of silo. The smell was strong down here. Gas fused with coal dust and excrement. The forensic team had found strong traces of a powerful sedative, benzodiazepine, in Sam and Amy’s excrement. They’d probably find it here too. Helen turned her attention to the body. He was lying face down, a pool of blood congealed around his head. Taking care not to touch him, Helen knelt down, craning round to look at the victim’s face.
Disgust and then surprise. Disgust at the bloody hole where his left eye used to be. And surprise at the realization that this was not Ben Holland.
24
Jake was shocked to see her again so soon. Up until now, she’d been fairly predictable: one hour-long session per month. He’d been tempted not to answer the buzzer when it rang – it was after 11 p.m. and all encounters had to be pre-booked for safety reasons. But when he’d seen her face on the screen, he’d been concerned. Concerned and intrigued.
Something was up. She didn’t look at him when she entered the flat and made no mention of the late hour. Normally, he got a brief smile or hello at least. But not tonight. She was distracted, looking inward, even less communicative than usual. She put the money on the table and removed her clothes without looking at him. Then she took off her bra and knickers – standing naked in front of him. This wasn’t really on – this kind of thing usually led to propositions. He was a dominator, not a whore. He provided a service, but not that kind of service.
He had his speech ready as she walked towards him, but she sailed straight past, towards his armoury of goodies. Another rule broken – only he was allowed to choose the method of punishment. That was part of the gig – the submissive didn’t know exactly how they were going to be punished. But Jake said nothing, something in her actions brooked no argument tonight. Jake felt a little frisson of fear and excitement. It was as if the game were being turned back on him and for once he was not the one in charge.
She ignored the crops, heading straight for the studded whips instead. She ran her fingers along them before selecting the nastiest. This was only for the hardcore masochists, not really her thing, but she gave it to him and marched over to the wall. He shackled her. Still not a word had been spoken.
He felt oddly tentative as if he didn’t know what game he was playing. So his first strike was a bit soft.
‘Harder.’
He obliged, but it wasn’t enough.
‘HARDER.’
So he let her have it. And this time he drew blood. Her body flinched with the pain, then seemed to
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