off the road, take a detour and exact his own form of justice. I can see it in the reflection of his troubled eyes that refuse to acknowledge I’m being tossed around the back seat of this car as he exaggerates every turn.
He could say that I tried to escape. That there was a struggle. That I fell as I was running and hit my head on a rock, dying instantly. Nobody would believe it but nobody would care. They think I’m psychotic. It would just be another sicko taken off the street.
Imagine the hypocritical pats on his back from the colleagues who doubted his sanity. The collar is enough for them; there is no need to dig deeper if they have a confession. The truth doesn’t matter.
Think about the lies that the detective inspector will have to tell himself every day. That capturing me gives him the closure he needs to move forward. That the only unanswered question remaining in his life concerns his missing sister. His Cathy.
Consider the weight of a failure only he feels. How it will eat away at him. How, no matter how hard he tries, it will prevent him from recovering his relationship with Audrey. My Audrey.
Our Girl 4.
We are for ever bonded now, Detective Inspector January David. Linked by love and hate. Our history and our future. I will gain notoriety for the things I have done, theseso-called crimes I have committed. You should kill me. You should cut my throat and burn my bones. Erase me. Watch as my skin melts. Make yourself feel better, if only for a moment. By taking me in and being the good cop, the righteous man, you immortalise me.
He takes a sharp left at speed and I fall to the right. I’m cuffed tightly and my wrists are bruising more with each corner he screeches around. I wonder whether he would notice if I loosened them slightly.
Eames
July 2007
Violent Crime Office, London
Where were you on the night of blah blah blah?
‘I was fucking Dorothy Penn, then handcuffing her to a bed and shooting her through the mouth.’ I smile. I know that I do not have to say anything and that anything I say may be given in evidence against me. I recall Detective Inspector January David’s misplaced sanctimony as he read me the rights he thinks I do not deserve.
I am giving them what they need.
I am fitting in with their profile.
In a way, they did get something right. I wanted to be caught.
‘Why did you call her Girl 1?’ I ask, staring at only my adversary, as though the fat one – Detective Inspector January David’s trusted partner, the one they call Paulson – isn’t even here. ‘Surely, taking away their identities was the biggest mistake. It was all in the name.’
‘And how did you find these girls with the right names?’ The overweight one jumps to his partner’s aid. He will pay for interrupting.
‘She’s a girl. I know a lot of girls.’ I look directly at the man Audrey married, and he knows I’m talking about her. I’m thinking about her.
‘And Carla Moretti?’ He ignores my tease about his unfaithful wife and presses on. And just like that, Audrey is safe. Free of guilt. They do not push me on how I gathered the correctly named girls that I wouldeventually kill. These apparently innocent women who merely shared the surname of famous illusionists whose most well-known trick I would warp into their demise. I couldn’t know that many women. I had to use Audrey’s recruitment company database.
‘Moretti. That worthless bitch,’ I snarl. ‘A mistake. She never deserved the peace I gave to her.’
It wasn’t easy to find a Moretti. He should press me here for more information. He would if it were not me in the chair opposite him. This has become a process: obtain the admission, file the paperwork, get your picture taken for the paper and get out. Move on. Save your marriage. Next case.
You are still making mistakes, Detective Inspector January David.
‘But you killed her?’
‘Yes, I fucking killed her. You know I did. I killed them all, apart from your lovely
He could say that I tried to escape. That there was a struggle. That I fell as I was running and hit my head on a rock, dying instantly. Nobody would believe it but nobody would care. They think I’m psychotic. It would just be another sicko taken off the street.
Imagine the hypocritical pats on his back from the colleagues who doubted his sanity. The collar is enough for them; there is no need to dig deeper if they have a confession. The truth doesn’t matter.
Think about the lies that the detective inspector will have to tell himself every day. That capturing me gives him the closure he needs to move forward. That the only unanswered question remaining in his life concerns his missing sister. His Cathy.
Consider the weight of a failure only he feels. How it will eat away at him. How, no matter how hard he tries, it will prevent him from recovering his relationship with Audrey. My Audrey.
Our Girl 4.
We are for ever bonded now, Detective Inspector January David. Linked by love and hate. Our history and our future. I will gain notoriety for the things I have done, theseso-called crimes I have committed. You should kill me. You should cut my throat and burn my bones. Erase me. Watch as my skin melts. Make yourself feel better, if only for a moment. By taking me in and being the good cop, the righteous man, you immortalise me.
He takes a sharp left at speed and I fall to the right. I’m cuffed tightly and my wrists are bruising more with each corner he screeches around. I wonder whether he would notice if I loosened them slightly.
Eames
July 2007
Violent Crime Office, London
Where were you on the night of blah blah blah?
‘I was fucking Dorothy Penn, then handcuffing her to a bed and shooting her through the mouth.’ I smile. I know that I do not have to say anything and that anything I say may be given in evidence against me. I recall Detective Inspector January David’s misplaced sanctimony as he read me the rights he thinks I do not deserve.
I am giving them what they need.
I am fitting in with their profile.
In a way, they did get something right. I wanted to be caught.
‘Why did you call her Girl 1?’ I ask, staring at only my adversary, as though the fat one – Detective Inspector January David’s trusted partner, the one they call Paulson – isn’t even here. ‘Surely, taking away their identities was the biggest mistake. It was all in the name.’
‘And how did you find these girls with the right names?’ The overweight one jumps to his partner’s aid. He will pay for interrupting.
‘She’s a girl. I know a lot of girls.’ I look directly at the man Audrey married, and he knows I’m talking about her. I’m thinking about her.
‘And Carla Moretti?’ He ignores my tease about his unfaithful wife and presses on. And just like that, Audrey is safe. Free of guilt. They do not push me on how I gathered the correctly named girls that I wouldeventually kill. These apparently innocent women who merely shared the surname of famous illusionists whose most well-known trick I would warp into their demise. I couldn’t know that many women. I had to use Audrey’s recruitment company database.
‘Moretti. That worthless bitch,’ I snarl. ‘A mistake. She never deserved the peace I gave to her.’
It wasn’t easy to find a Moretti. He should press me here for more information. He would if it were not me in the chair opposite him. This has become a process: obtain the admission, file the paperwork, get your picture taken for the paper and get out. Move on. Save your marriage. Next case.
You are still making mistakes, Detective Inspector January David.
‘But you killed her?’
‘Yes, I fucking killed her. You know I did. I killed them all, apart from your lovely
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