giving him away was his breath. It was quiet, unnaturally quiet. Not many chose to walk these streets at night as they feared for their safety from marauding groups of teenagers hell bent on terrorising their neighbourhood.
Even though the area was known to the police for its vandalism, drug dealing and the permanent smell of marijuana in the air, a policeman walking the beat was unheard of.
Drugs dens were discreetly tucked away from prying eyes, children on bikes were employed by dealers to peddle their valuable merchandise. Using children as their drugs mules lessened their risks—and their overhead. It was business to them. They weren’t worried or concerned about the misery it caused, or the suffering it brought to the vulnerable, the dependencies it created nor the crime it created to fuel insatiable habits.
The target was just opening the boot to his Mercedes E220 when his fate was sealed.
The killer came from behind; he was braver and more assured of his stealth approach this time, the bravado swelling inside him. He wasn’t scared on this occasion; he was more determined to stay on the path he’d chosen and do the right thing.
He held the gleaming blade of the dagger high above his head as he closed in on his target. The target had little time to react before he reached an arm around his head to trap him, and plunged the tip of the blade deep into his neck.
The victims’ body reacted to the vile intrusion by rearing up defensively, the victim’s strength draining away as he thrust the blade in deeper. The victim started to fall into the open boot of his car, his left hand coming up to the site of the wound. The killer retracted the blade before plunging it in again impaling the victim’s hand in the process and pinning it to his neck.
The victim didn’t move after that. He lay there head first slumped in the boot. The only sound to break the silence was the gurgling of blood as it escaped through the victim’s mouth through his final breaths.
The killer, still hell-bent on meting out his own justice, twisted the blade left and right, the victim’s mutilated hand twisting and turning with the knife, the sound of wet flesh tearing from beneath the hand as the serrated edge tore and mangled the flesh.
He withdrew the blade and wiped it on the victim’s back knowing his job was done. Globules and sinews of flesh and veins clung to the blade, a testament to the ferocity of the assault.
With one hand the killer pulled back the victim’s head by his hair whilst forcing something into the gaping, blood-filled mouth that expressed the silent horror that had taken place just moments ago.
As he stood there breathing rapidly, sweat beading on his forehead and creeping down the centre of his spine, he felt cold and numb. It wasn’t the cold night air that made him feel that way; it was the lack of feeling and emotion left by the dark void inside him.
He turned and walked away, his trousers damp once again from where he’d pissed himself.
Chapter 9
By the time Scott and Abby arrived, the circus was in full swing. There was a hive of activity behind the blue tape cordon that been set up around the residents’ car parking in Warbleton Close on the White Hawk estate.
It was an estate well known to the police. Due to a lack of investment in local services, broken promises from successive governments and high unemployment amongst the locals, the estate had its fair share of bad press.
If you asked most of the residents they’d have plenty to say about how good it was living in close-knit community. However, anti-social behaviour, criminal damage and its share of violent and sexual crimes often tarnished the image of the area in the eyes of external observers, and gave the local tabloids plenty to write about.
Scott had parked on the corner of Whitehawk Crescent behind a police panda car. A growing crowd of locals hovered, perversely curious to see what had happened during the night. After being let
Even though the area was known to the police for its vandalism, drug dealing and the permanent smell of marijuana in the air, a policeman walking the beat was unheard of.
Drugs dens were discreetly tucked away from prying eyes, children on bikes were employed by dealers to peddle their valuable merchandise. Using children as their drugs mules lessened their risks—and their overhead. It was business to them. They weren’t worried or concerned about the misery it caused, or the suffering it brought to the vulnerable, the dependencies it created nor the crime it created to fuel insatiable habits.
The target was just opening the boot to his Mercedes E220 when his fate was sealed.
The killer came from behind; he was braver and more assured of his stealth approach this time, the bravado swelling inside him. He wasn’t scared on this occasion; he was more determined to stay on the path he’d chosen and do the right thing.
He held the gleaming blade of the dagger high above his head as he closed in on his target. The target had little time to react before he reached an arm around his head to trap him, and plunged the tip of the blade deep into his neck.
The victims’ body reacted to the vile intrusion by rearing up defensively, the victim’s strength draining away as he thrust the blade in deeper. The victim started to fall into the open boot of his car, his left hand coming up to the site of the wound. The killer retracted the blade before plunging it in again impaling the victim’s hand in the process and pinning it to his neck.
The victim didn’t move after that. He lay there head first slumped in the boot. The only sound to break the silence was the gurgling of blood as it escaped through the victim’s mouth through his final breaths.
The killer, still hell-bent on meting out his own justice, twisted the blade left and right, the victim’s mutilated hand twisting and turning with the knife, the sound of wet flesh tearing from beneath the hand as the serrated edge tore and mangled the flesh.
He withdrew the blade and wiped it on the victim’s back knowing his job was done. Globules and sinews of flesh and veins clung to the blade, a testament to the ferocity of the assault.
With one hand the killer pulled back the victim’s head by his hair whilst forcing something into the gaping, blood-filled mouth that expressed the silent horror that had taken place just moments ago.
As he stood there breathing rapidly, sweat beading on his forehead and creeping down the centre of his spine, he felt cold and numb. It wasn’t the cold night air that made him feel that way; it was the lack of feeling and emotion left by the dark void inside him.
He turned and walked away, his trousers damp once again from where he’d pissed himself.
Chapter 9
By the time Scott and Abby arrived, the circus was in full swing. There was a hive of activity behind the blue tape cordon that been set up around the residents’ car parking in Warbleton Close on the White Hawk estate.
It was an estate well known to the police. Due to a lack of investment in local services, broken promises from successive governments and high unemployment amongst the locals, the estate had its fair share of bad press.
If you asked most of the residents they’d have plenty to say about how good it was living in close-knit community. However, anti-social behaviour, criminal damage and its share of violent and sexual crimes often tarnished the image of the area in the eyes of external observers, and gave the local tabloids plenty to write about.
Scott had parked on the corner of Whitehawk Crescent behind a police panda car. A growing crowd of locals hovered, perversely curious to see what had happened during the night. After being let
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