Dead Blonde Read online

  It was perfect, perfectly ordered, and perfectly systematic, just like the way he dealt with everything; in a neatly structured methodical way. Dressing for it slowly, ritually, the clothing same as the last time, the time before that, every time. His executioner’s clothes. Pulling the sweater over his head, he stared at his newly emerged reflection in the mirror. The same style plain black sweater, over the same black shirt, every item bought new each time of course.

  Reaching for the pair of black trousers that were currently hanging over the back of a chair to his left, he pulled them on, fastening the zipper, and tucking himself in. Plucking a pair of brand new black socks from the seat of the chair, he slipped them on to his feet.

  This was all part of the ritual, the dressing for the act, in the same clothes he always wore, this was essential to it and he liked to savour the moment. Slipping his feet into brand new black leather loafers, he looked at his reflection in the mirror again. Grinning at himself, he raked a hand through his dark hair, making a shooting sign at his reflection.

  "Go get 'em Ladykiller," he said out loud, pointing his fingers, the irony making his grin wider as he gave a stagey wink to the mirror. Opening the left drawer of the dresser, he revealed a box of latex gloves. Removing a pair, he pulled them on carefully over his hands. Opening the right drawer, he carefully withdrew a small wooden box.

  The inside of the box was divided into three sections, two larger sections and the middle, a smaller raised square. The section at the back contained a pile of gold links, the one at the front contained three necklace clasps and three claw foot settings, of the kind that jewellers use when setting stones. The smaller, middle section contained three gemstones; a diamond, an emerald, and a pearl. Picking up a small silver coloured pair of tweezers from the top of the dresser he began to work steadily.

  An hour later, he paused, satisfied. Holding his handiwork up to the light, he turned it first one way and then the other, admiring it.

  The little emerald sparkled under the light, as the necklace dangled from his gloved hands, the fine gold chain swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

  “A gemstone fit for a filthy whore.” Go away Mother. Not now.

  Picking up the little red velvet box from the dresser top he placed the necklace carefully on to the black satin cushion, closing the lid, and slipping the box into his trouser pocket. Opening the large bottom drawer of the dresser, he removed a rectangular wooden box about 15” in length and 10” in width, placing it on the surface of the dresser.

  The six inch blade, its edges razor sharp, seemed to wink at him as if sharing a joke. The knife was the only thing that wasn't new about his outfit but it was part of the ritual all the same. Fingering the edges lightly with latex gloved hands, he examined the blade appreciatively before replacing it.

  On the dresser lay a pair of new and pristine thin black leather gloves, and he slipped them over the latex ones he already wore. Flexing his fingers in the gloves, he made his way to the three pegs hanging on the back of the door. A new black coat hung from one of them. Taking it off the peg, he placed first one arm in then the other, fastening the three big buttons and crossing the room again, returning to the box on the dresser. Lifting the blade out, he tucked it in to his right coat pocket.

  The excitement churned in his stomach, his ritual helping to build the anticipation. Come here little mouse. Let me play with you. Walking over to the door again he reached up to the two other pegs, taking the baseball cap and woollen scarf that were hanging from them. Placing the hat on top of head, he wrapped the scarf around the lower half of his face. It wouldn’t do to get sloppy; he knew how thorough they were. That’s why he needed to be one step ahead of them.

  He was always careful to obscure his identity on nights like this one. Pulling the hat low over his face, he opened the front door and slipped out into the night. The ritual, the preparation was complete. It was time to act.

  ***

  Standing in the shadows outside Marilyn Channing’s house, he stood, watching and waiting. He had been following her home nearly every night since he’d met her, it had become his hobby, watching her, learning all about her, savouring every detail.

  He’d followed her down Regent Street that Saturday afternoon, as she wove her way in and out of shops, emerging periodically with arms full of expensive looking paper carrier bags. He’d watched her late at night too, staring up at her window as she stood silhouetted through the flimsy curtains in her bedroom; undressing, unhooking her bra, bending over to remove her underwear. He’d shadowed her as she made her way out of the little Mayfair club, clicking her way on stiletto heels as she walked, unaware of his presence several yards behind as he followed her to the bus stop.

  He'd even returned again to the gaudy Soho strip club where he'd first laid eyes on her, standing in the shadows at the back this time, as he watched her grind her body, his rage growing inside him. How dare she flaunt herself like that.

  “Filthy whore. It’s a sin, a wicked perversion.”

  Picturing her face he felt the same rage, as he imagined her taunting, mocking him as she stripped. The way she looked at him as she sat in his lap to remove her bikini top, it was as if she were reminding him she would never be his.

  “She could never love you. Even your own mother couldn’t love you.”

  She was just like all the rest, they never wanted him, none of them did, they all would have rejected him if they had been given the chance, just like Sally had.

  Clenching his hands he visualized Marilyn above him, as she had been when she had danced, her legs parting as she looked down at him. Only this time it wasn't her face he was seeing but Sally's. She was wearing her hair loose in pale gold waves, the way it had been the last time he’d seen her, and his stomach twisted. His throat felt dry and scratchy. He remembered that day like it was yesterday. He’d slipped her a note in Geography class asking her to meet him by the train tracks after school.

  He’d thought he might be able to talk her around, say something to make it all alright again, something that would make her change her mind. But the almost pitying expression she had had on her face as she rejected him all over again had hurt more than her initial reluctance to accept his gift. It was as if he'd never meant anything to her, as if it were all a joke, like he had been nothing at all to her.

  "Look for fucks sake I’m not gonna spend all day arguing with you about it. We’ve been standing here almost half an hour already.

  “I just…I thought you might change your mind when I explained it to you?” He looked up at her hopefully.

  “I’ve told you what I think about that. You’ve got to get real,” she said, her expression was stony.

  “You can’t say it didn’t mean anything to you… what we had?”

  She sighed, visibly irritated.

  “Look it was just a bit of messing around, you didn't really think that we could ever be serious did you?”

  “You acted like it was more than that, you told me…I was special,” he whispered, his cheeks burning with humiliation.

  “Sorry if you feel I led you on a bit but I'm not, I'm not interested in that. Not really. This was all just a bit of fun for me. Call it healthy experimentation,” she giggled, looking at him half apologetically.

  “No,” he blurted out angrily, “No, don’t say that, it was more than that, we had something-“ he stopped suddenly noticing her raised eyebrow. Steeling himself, he continued, trying to stop the rising lump in his throat.

  “We had something special. You can’t deny it.”

  “For fucks sake, look it has to be over. I told you, Carl can’t know about us. I really like him, I don’t want this messing things up for me," she said, her tone unyielding.

  Staring in disbelief at her, he felt sick. She couldn’t mean what she was saying, she was the first person who had ever shown him any real love, the only person he had ever been able to form a real attachment too, she couldn’t take it all away like that. He had trusted h
er enough to confess the deepest darkest secrets of his heart to her. Now she was rejecting him like it had all meant nothing to her? Rejecting him like he'd been rejected all his life. And Carl, Carl who had been his friend once, he was being dumped for Carl. The ultimate humiliation, this couldn't be happening, it was just too cruel.

  Anger rose within him, her words corroding his stomach. That had been the moment when he'd first felt it properly, the white hot rage, blinding him and burning up his gullet. The acid that rose up and scalded his throat made him taste bile in his mouth, as he stood in front of her, his vision a blur. First he'd had to bear the humiliation of seeing Mayes with his hands all over her, and now she expected to stand there mocking him, pretending he had meant nothing to her, as she taunted him about his old friend?

  Something snapped inside him then and he reached out, grabbing her by the throat with both hands, and squeezing tightly. Overwhelmed by his sudden strength, her large eyes bulged at him in terrified surprise, as her slender hands clawed at his, trying futilely to prise him off as he choked her.

  Reaching into the pocket of his school trousers, his hand closed around the kitchen knife he had taken to carrying with him, ever since he'd been robbed coming home through the estate late one night. His switch to a one handed grip on her, allowed her to gasp for deep lungful of air, but the breath was cut short. Sweeping the blade across her slender neck, he cut deep, the blood spurting out in a rush, her frantic scream horrible, as the blood pumped out of her.

  Dropping the knife, he held her in his arms, as her life leaked away. Regret coursed through him, but so too did something else, a feeling, that he hadn’t been able to define. Looking back he realised it had felt like happiness, as in that moment, and for only a moment, she had belonged to him. The balance of power had shifted and the pendulum had swung to him.

  No more rejection, she couldn't reject him anymore, she could belong to him now. As she slumped against him, he felt peculiarly peaceful, the two of them locked in an awful embrace, her breathing coming out in ragged bursts. As she breathed her last he stood there, still holding her, rooted to the spot, not knowing quite how it had happened. Stood there, holding her body as her blood ran over his hands, turning the collar of her white school shirt a deep scarlet, and pooling in her long, blonde hair.

  Standing there like that, he'd found himself quite unable to move, to tear himself away from her. But the weight of her made him stagger to stay upright, and he'd had to lay her down there, on the muddy ground at the bottom of the school fields, close to the Chertsey to London railway line.

  Bending down to arrange her hair, that glorious golden sheaf that had entranced him so much, he fanned it out carefully around her. Looking at her, he couldn't help think she had never looked more beautiful than now, as she lay there, still, bathed in the moonlight, her hair spread all about her. He wanted to stay there with her, just looking at her like that forever but the urgency in his brain screamed at him. He had to get away, no one must see him here, they would lock him away for ever if they knew what he had done.

  Tearing himself away he ran from the scene, squeezing through the gap in the fence that led out onto thetrain tracks. Sprinting across them, he ran through the dense woods on the other side, his school shoes scuffing through the twigs and leaves. Emerging out at the side of the little lake, he put his PE bag down, and stripped off his clothes and school shoes, burying them in the boggy marsh at the side of the water.

  He realised he was still clutching the kitchen knife, and wading in to the cold water, he immersed it deeply along with himself, totally scrubbing at his arms, dunking his head under, and letting the cool water run down into his eyes. Climbing out, he pulled out the towel from his gym kit and dried hurriedly, stuffing the knife into his gym bag then hastily dressing in his PE kit, and lacing up his trainers. He was cleansed, baptised. Baptised in blood.

  A motorbike roared down the street, bringing him sharply back to the present as it screeched loudly to a halt, almost tailgating a black sedan, whose driver honked and waved his fist. Pushing up his sleeve he glanced at his watch.

  3:15 am, Marilyn would have got off the bus by now and should be making her way through the Hammersmith night. Each step she took bringing her closer to him, to her destiny. Thrusting his right hand into his coat pocket, he felt the blade with his gloved hands, as he waited silently in the shadows of the front garden.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - DEACON

  Deacon stood over the corpse peering down at the dead blonde, as all about him forensics officers worked in a hive like fashion, hurrying around gathering evidence and photographing the crime scene. Her platinum hair spilled out all around her, on to the white faux fur coat she wearing, some of the strands matted together with thick dark blood. The tight, white dress she wore underneath was one of those that had a split to mid-thigh level, and now it revealed one motionless leg, a silver stiletto half hanging off her foot, the other discarded to one side.

  It must have come off in the struggle, he mused. There would have been one wouldn’t there, after all, how many murder victims don't try to fight, fight for their lives? Life, the precious thing we all try to cling to above everything else. Well struggle she may well have done but it certainly hadn't helped her. Shaking his head he took in the situation; the position, the arranging of the hair, the necklace, the details near identical to the other seven victims that had been found.

  It was Birthstone’s handiwork alright, it had to be, but how did they stop him?

  "Barnes!" he barked, spying the young cop by the garden gate, talking to a forensics guy. He vaguely recognised the forensics guy from the force's Christmas party. Barnes looked up at him and he motioned for him to come over.

  "Got an ID on this one yet?" he quizzed him.

  "Yep her names Marilyn Channing Sarge, she was a resident, lived here in this building. Found outside the door like this by another resident here, on his way out for an early morning jog before work.”

  “Where is he?”

  Barnes gestured to the open back doors of an ambulance, parked outside the house. Inside, on one of the seats, a rather shaken ginger haired man was sitting, wrapped in one of the kind of tin foil blankets distributed to victims of car crashes, sipping on a thermos of what looked like hot tea.

  “He was quite shocked by it Sarge, was shaking, said she was a lovely girl, though he'd not spoken to her much.”

  “Did we get an estimated time of death yet?”

  “Pathology guy said likely to have been between 10pm and 5am but nothing definite yet.”

  “Did he hear anything?” He motioned to the man in the back of the ambulance.

  “I asked him if he had heard anything and he said he thought he heard a scream in the early hours but thought it was a fox and went back to sleep. Apparently the vic worked late, went out every Tuesday night at around 8pm and didn’t usually return until the small hours.”

  "What did she work as?" he enquired, looking down at the body once more, taking in the long painted fake fingernails, the revealing dress, the heavily made up eyes. Barnes scratched at the large mole underneath his eye and gestured to the back of the ambulance again.

  "He said she told him she was a dancer once, when he asked her what she did.”

  “What kind of dancer?”

  “She didn't say. Forensics are upstairs dusting for prints but I told them not to remove or disturb anything until you arrived. Her flat's up on the second floor."

  “Alright take him in for questioning anyway, after he's been treated for shock of course," he said nodding curtly at Barnes. Well it was unlikely but you never knew, there might be something in the old maxim that criminals always tended to return to the scene of their crime.

  A cluster of forensics officers parted deferentially to let him through as he walked up to the open front door. Entering, he was presented with a staircase almost straight in front of him and climbing it he made his way up to the second floor, where a white painted door was slightly ajar. P
ushing the door open and entering through it, he found himself in what appeared to be the lounge area of Marilyn Channing’s flat. He spied two male forensic officers on their knees, busily dusting the glass topped coffee table for fingerprints.

  The officers looked up at him as he entered.

  "Hi Sarge," one of them said, greeting him with a slight nod. He nodded briefly in return, looking about. The lounge was airy, and had been decorated in the minimalistic fashion that Maria seemed to favour, all creams, caramels, and soft chocolate browns, with tasteful cushions scattered artfully about on the new looking beige leather sofa.

  The carpet was a thick cream shag pile, and there were several recreation framed prints hanging in glass frames on the walls, the kinds that were prolific in cheap art stores. The pictures were the usual pedestrian stuff, Van Gogh's Sunflowers and the Scream, Manet's Lilies. Ms Channing obviously had been fairly conventional when it came to her artistic tastes if not her choice of career.

  The place looked spotless, there wasn’t a speck of dirt to be found on anything, she had obviously liked to keep things scrupulously clean. An obsession with cleanliness was a trait he'd found peculiarly common in those who worked in the sex industry. It was a clichéd assumption but perhaps there was a grain of truth in it, after being surrounded by all that grime and sleaze, you wouldn’t choose to be surrounded by it at home as well would you?

  He wondered if perhaps the killer had first seen her at the club where she’d worked, watched her dance in some seedy back alley dive establishment before deciding to murder her. Perhaps he’d even made himself known to her as she danced for him, before following her home and murdering her, ending her short life brutally with the blade that sliced through her neck.

  They had to find out the name of the club Marilyn Channing had worked at and question the staff, see if anyone remembered anything at all, if any of the customers had seemed strange, or had taken a particular interest in her. Just then a couple more forensic officers, a male and a female, came out of the adjoining room, and seeing him there the female rushed up to him eagerly.