that she had deliberately copied in part from the late Iron Lady, and also from Jeremy Paxman, whose sometimes derogatory and haughty manner she had admired when he had fronted Newsnight .
Laura kept it together, concealing the blaze of anger that rose in her gorge, as magma might in a soon to erupt volcano, and said, “I think that any criticism you have, Ms Pearson, is unlikely to be of any practical help. I just want the viewers to be aware of the fact that we have a repeat killer active in the area; a twisted coward who is preying on girls and young women. All females need to realise the danger that he represents to them. It is a fact that so far he has shown a penchant for blondes with blue eyes, but that does not guarantee immunity from him. His warped mind could fixate on anyone.” Pausing, Laura looked directly into the camera’s lens and continued. “Do not go out alone, especially at night. And do not put yourself in a position that could result in you being abducted, raped and murdered.
“While we are hunting this maniac down, you must be alert and take all practical measures to ensure that you do not become a victim. If you are suspicious of a stranger, or think that you know who this man is, call us. We need your help to capture him. I’m sure that this psycho thinks he is too smart to be caught...but he isn’t. He is just a very sick little man, who we will apprehend.”
“And do you really―”
“That’s all, Ms Pearson,” Laura said, unclipping the chest mike from her lapel and flipping it across the news desk. With that gesture, she pushed the chair back, stood up, nodded at the now harassed-looking presenter, gave her a small, game, set and match smile and walked off, out of the studio.
“Jesus, boss!” Hugh said as Laura pushed through the swing doors. “That was a bit over the top, wasn’t it?”
“No, Hugh. We need to hassle the son of a bitch and put him off balance.”
“You might just redirect him towards yourself, boss, with all that shit you just threw at him.”
“If I couldn’t swim, Hugh, I’d stay out of the water.”
He watched a repeat of the interview on the late night update, and hurled the remote control handset at the TV as he jumped up, his bare feet ploughing through the pile of Polaroids on the carpet as he ran to the set, hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat at the screen.
“Fucking bitch!” he shouted at the image of the split arse copper as he pounded the top of the TV with white-knuckled fists. “I’ll make you eat those words, you whore.” His body shook with fury and his vision red-misted as he emitted a long, high-pitched whining that sounded inhuman. After almost a minute, he went up to the bathroom and turned the shower on. It was a long time before he calmed down under the ice-cold spray. Shivering, he used a thick, fluffy towel to dry off. He would show Detective Inspector Laura fucking Scott. He dressed in T-shirt, blue jeans and Timberland boots, and then splashed aramis over his clean-shaven face. His fair hair was medium length, swept back from his forehead above metallic-blue eyes that showed no hint of the madness that festered behind their enigmatic surfaces. Putting on a black leather jacket, he left the house, determined to vent his fury against not only his mother, but also against the female copper. This one would be dedicated to Laura Scott, and immolated to appease his now wounded ego.
He drove west through the city, out onto the A59 Harrogate road. He had already chosen his next victim; had first seen her over a month ago in Yates’s Wine Lodge on Church Lane, then followed her home and added her to his list of potential targets, which now boasted five names and addresses; enough to be going on with.
Parking the car half a mile from the Stroud household, he went into a phone box.
“Hello.” A male voice, presumably her father.
“Hello. May I speak to Shelley,
Laura kept it together, concealing the blaze of anger that rose in her gorge, as magma might in a soon to erupt volcano, and said, “I think that any criticism you have, Ms Pearson, is unlikely to be of any practical help. I just want the viewers to be aware of the fact that we have a repeat killer active in the area; a twisted coward who is preying on girls and young women. All females need to realise the danger that he represents to them. It is a fact that so far he has shown a penchant for blondes with blue eyes, but that does not guarantee immunity from him. His warped mind could fixate on anyone.” Pausing, Laura looked directly into the camera’s lens and continued. “Do not go out alone, especially at night. And do not put yourself in a position that could result in you being abducted, raped and murdered.
“While we are hunting this maniac down, you must be alert and take all practical measures to ensure that you do not become a victim. If you are suspicious of a stranger, or think that you know who this man is, call us. We need your help to capture him. I’m sure that this psycho thinks he is too smart to be caught...but he isn’t. He is just a very sick little man, who we will apprehend.”
“And do you really―”
“That’s all, Ms Pearson,” Laura said, unclipping the chest mike from her lapel and flipping it across the news desk. With that gesture, she pushed the chair back, stood up, nodded at the now harassed-looking presenter, gave her a small, game, set and match smile and walked off, out of the studio.
“Jesus, boss!” Hugh said as Laura pushed through the swing doors. “That was a bit over the top, wasn’t it?”
“No, Hugh. We need to hassle the son of a bitch and put him off balance.”
“You might just redirect him towards yourself, boss, with all that shit you just threw at him.”
“If I couldn’t swim, Hugh, I’d stay out of the water.”
He watched a repeat of the interview on the late night update, and hurled the remote control handset at the TV as he jumped up, his bare feet ploughing through the pile of Polaroids on the carpet as he ran to the set, hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat at the screen.
“Fucking bitch!” he shouted at the image of the split arse copper as he pounded the top of the TV with white-knuckled fists. “I’ll make you eat those words, you whore.” His body shook with fury and his vision red-misted as he emitted a long, high-pitched whining that sounded inhuman. After almost a minute, he went up to the bathroom and turned the shower on. It was a long time before he calmed down under the ice-cold spray. Shivering, he used a thick, fluffy towel to dry off. He would show Detective Inspector Laura fucking Scott. He dressed in T-shirt, blue jeans and Timberland boots, and then splashed aramis over his clean-shaven face. His fair hair was medium length, swept back from his forehead above metallic-blue eyes that showed no hint of the madness that festered behind their enigmatic surfaces. Putting on a black leather jacket, he left the house, determined to vent his fury against not only his mother, but also against the female copper. This one would be dedicated to Laura Scott, and immolated to appease his now wounded ego.
He drove west through the city, out onto the A59 Harrogate road. He had already chosen his next victim; had first seen her over a month ago in Yates’s Wine Lodge on Church Lane, then followed her home and added her to his list of potential targets, which now boasted five names and addresses; enough to be going on with.
Parking the car half a mile from the Stroud household, he went into a phone box.
“Hello.” A male voice, presumably her father.
“Hello. May I speak to Shelley,
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