DEAD GONE (41 page)

Jemma waited. Heard footsteps come down. Held her breath, as she waited to be found. Out of her room. She shouldn’t be out of there. That was her home now.

No. She had to get out.

She heard a voice, old, soft. Phlegmy.

‘Tom was my experiment, Mr Murphy. I wanted to see how obedient he would be, how pliant. I wanted to make him my own personal project. He went further than I ever could have imagined. In that room there, is Tom’s first experiment. She’s mine now though. I want to break her. Like Tom couldn’t.’

Jemma willed herself to move, to run past them, up the stairs.

Out.

‘I never thought I’d be in a position to do this again, but you came right to my door. Made it so simple for me. But I see now that it’s too dangerous.’

Jemma put one foot forward, praying he wouldn’t hear her.

‘I’m going to take care of you, and then leave. I’m a very wealthy man, Mr Murphy. I can disappear any time I like. It will be fun to start again.’

Jemma kept moving towards the open space where she hoped to find the stairs out of there. Whoever had come down them face first had fallen to the side, four or five feet away from the staircase. She could see by the light coming from the top, a man crouched over him, talking to him.

He felt the pain. His head was muddy, like he was trying to think through treacle.

He felt the pain though.

Then, he could hear him. Talking.

He opened his eyes, tried to focus. The lack of light made it difficult.

Murphy knew what was coming. Didn’t think it’d end like this. He tried to move, but couldn’t, pain firing across every inch of him.

He felt the hand over his mouth, his nose being clenched tight. He tried to move. He tried. He tried.

He was slipping away.

Sarah. Mum, Dad.

He’d told Rossi. But he knew it wasn’t enough. It was too late. Then, movement. He’d almost missed it, but there was a shadow. He looked past the professor, focusing.

It was Jemma.

He willed her to run. To go, not look back.

Murphy would be okay dying down there, if it meant someone else got to live.

She paused at the top of the stairs.

She should go. Run. She’d made this mistake before.

She was going. Leaving whoever was down there.

They probably didn’t exist. They weren’t real. Outside was real. Daylight was real. She remembered it.

Rob was real.

Rob was dead. She finally accepted all she had heard down there.

She could hear gasping from below. She turned away from it.

It was too late. She had to leave.

Then she saw the cane leaning against the doorway. Heavy.

He couldn’t breathe.

He was going. Fading.

He never got the chance. To fix things. To make up for what he did to Sarah.

Murphy’s foot moved. Reflex.

Jemma Barnes really had been down there, a whole year. He couldn’t imagine it. He was almost thankful for the fact the professor was ending it this quickly for him.

Then, he heard a loud crash and both hands, the one over his mouth, the other over his nose, went slack.

He sucked in air, as the professor slumped over him.

Murphy looked up, someone standing, holding the professor’s cane to her side, panting heavily.

Jemma looked down at him, kicked the professor’s limp body away from Murphy.

Then, the cane came down again, Murphy flinching as he heard skull crunching, something wet sprayed across his face.

Blood.

He became aware of screams, Jemma, taking out one year of frustration on what Murphy hoped was a now-lifeless body.

Let her have it. Let her have her justice.

He welcomed the darkness as its waves crashed over him.

She breathed heavily, throwing the cane to one side as she’d finished. It was done. She could leave, escape. In the dim light she could make out the two bodies at her feet. One old man, no longer breathing.

The other man, lying there, shallow breaths. Eyes closed.

She didn’t know if he was one of them; she didn’t even know how many were involved. There could be more waiting up the stairs.

She wrung her hands, pulling on the ends of her short hair, throwing the strands which came away to the floor.

No more. No more. No more.

She was talking out loud, without realising.

Looked at the cane where she’d thrown it to the floor. Back towards the other, still breathing, man.

Cocked her head to one side. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

Turned and ran.

The rain stopped falling as the clouds parted, allowing a dull sun to shine down. She stepped out of the car, her mum rushing around to the side of the car to lend her a hand. She brushed her off, wanting to do it alone.

‘Stay here.’

She had to do it alone.

She walked slowly up the path towards the building at the centre. She paused every few steps, pretending to read gravestones as she went, in order to not worry her mum.

She reached the centre display. The dim sunlight glinting off the gold plaques for those cremated instead of buried.

She walked slowly, looking at each one in turn.

She knelt down when she found the one she was looking for.

‘Hi, Rob, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to visit. I’ve been asking to leave for so long, but they wouldn’t let me go until they were happy with my progress. I’m doing better now, I’m eating properly, I can be out in the daylight again.’ She smiled, it not reaching her eyes.

‘I miss you so much, Rob. Towards the end, I started to forget your face. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Rob.’

She wiped the tears from her eyes.

‘I brought you something. I was going to keep it, but this way, I’ll always have a reason to come here.’

She dug into the earth behind the stone, making a small hole. She put her hand in her coat pocket, removing the bracelet. She traced a finger round the dolphin charm. She took out a small plastic pouch and placed the bracelet inside, sealing it closed.

‘I can’t wear this without you around. So I’m leaving it here for you to look after for me, okay?’

She dropped the bracelet into the small hole, moving the soil back over the top of it.

‘He took you away from me, Rob, but there’s something he can’t take.’

She traced a finger around his name on the plaque, the letters raised in black. Rob had been cremated, she’d been told. A plaque on a stone structure filled with grass and flowers in the warmer months, rather than a grave to visit.

‘You taught me not to run. You showed me there was a place for me here. I’ll never forget that.’ She touched her fingers to her lips and then to the plaque.

‘I love you.’

She stood up, dull pain in her legs, less sharp than it once was, getting better every day.

She walked back to the waiting car, the smell of damp, recently cut grass heavy around her.

Jemma reached the car, noting the concern on her mum’s face. She pulled her into an embrace, tucking her head into her mum’s shoulder.

‘I’m okay, Mum, really.’

Jemma broke the clinch, wiping her eyes again. She saw him, standing with folded arms about a hundred yards away. His size gave him away.

She walked towards him, meeting him halfway as he did the same.

Uncomfortable silence. She broke it.

‘You don’t have to say it.’

‘I think I do.’

She smiled softly. ‘If you hadn’t turned up, I wouldn’t have been able to get out.’

‘And if you hadn’t come back, I’d be dead.’

‘How are you?’

‘Good thanks. Broken arm and a couple of broken ribs. Don’t think my back will be right for a while. Good job I had all this weight to cushion the fall. You?’

‘Can’t complain. It’ll be a while before I’m back out in town, but little steps and that.’

‘You need anything, you contact me. Any time.’

He handed her a card. She pocketed it without a word.

They looked at each other. Something passed between them. He withdrew a hand from his pocket, placed it on her shoulder. Gave a soft squeeze.

She smiled more strongly at him. Then turned back towards her mum.

She reached the car. Her mum raised her eyebrows. Jemma responded by pulling her into an embrace, hugging her tightly.

She broke it off, wiping her face. ‘Okay. I’m ready.’

Murphy leaned forward, shifting the phone to his other ear as he grabbed his coffee from the centre console. Only one a day now, otherwise he’d be up late. He was sleeping better, and didn’t want to disturb that.

‘Sad. At least they’ll get closure now. The families I mean.’

‘True. We’re still checking on his movements though, see if there are any more possible victims. I think he’s been doing this for a long time.’

‘How is she doing?’

‘About as well as can be expected. It’s going to take a long time for her to be normal again, if ever. A year, Jess. Can you imagine it?’

‘I’d rather not, Bear.’ Jess paused. ‘How are things going?’

‘Can’t complain. Start back soon. Once I’m out of this sling. Looking forward to it.’

Jess laughed. ‘It won’t last. Are you ready?’

‘Yes. Bring it on. Like the kids would say.’

Jess snorted. ‘No kids say that. Not for years.’

Murphy rolled his eyes. ‘I was being sarcastic.’

‘Course you were.’

‘I’ve got to go.’

Jess sighed. ‘I’m already being shunted out of the way for her again. I knew this would happen.’

Murphy laughed. ‘Of course not. Just, I wouldn’t make the trip over any time soon. And maybe ring ahead from now on?’

Murphy sat on Rossi’s car bonnet, placing his phone back in his pocket. The rain began to fall gently, as they watched Jemma leave.

Rossi stood off to his side, her face creased into a frown.

Murphy looked up at Laura. ‘How has she been … really?’

Rossi sighed. ‘Malnourished, light sensitive, confused, disorientated. As well as can be expected. It’s going to take a lot longer than a week or so before she’s back to normal. She’ll be going through counselling for years probably.’

Murphy looked away towards the cemetery, pleased to feel its hold over him not as strong as before. ‘How much do you reckon he was worth?’

‘As in money?’

Murphy nodded.

‘Good few million I reckon. Lot of it will be tied up in property. Why?’

Murphy turned back to Rossi, ‘just makes you think doesn’t it? You can be screwed up, no matter what your background.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get there in time. She shouldn’t have had to do that.’

‘I think she’ll be all right.’ No charges were going to be filed against her. Murphy had put in a word. Embellished the life or death situation in her favour a little.

‘Hmm. I keep thinking, why?’ Rossi continued.

‘Who knows,’ Murphy replied. ‘Maybe he’s a tortured genius. Wanting to use humans for experimentation. Wasn’t that long ago people accepted it. Or maybe he was just a nutcase. Not our job to analyse. We solved it all, end of story for us.’

Rossi came around and sat next to Murphy. ‘And you?’

‘I’m good. Much better now. This is a new beginning, Laura. Me and you, we’re going to do some good work together.’

He looked towards her, smiling as he saw her expression relax. ‘Did you ring that bloke from the university?’

Rossi turned away from him. ‘Early days. Think he might be a bit too posh for me.’

‘Give it a chance, Laura. He seemed alright to me.’

She nodded, standing up off the bonnet. ‘Want me to drive you over the water? I don’t mind. Even if it is technically woollyback country,’ she said, smiling.

Murphy scratched at his beard. Looked to the sky, letting the rain hit his face a little more.

‘No. It’s okay. I’m not going there,’ Murphy replied. ‘I’m going home.’

There’s something about the serial killer – that rare breed in reality which nevertheless has filled the pages of many crime novels in the past thirty years – which has captivated crime fiction readers. Even going back as far as Agatha Christie, the serial killer has stalked the pages of many a thriller or police procedural, utilising numerous methods and reasons for their murderous intentions. However, how do our favourite fictional serial killers measure up to the reality? And what’s really under the surface of the modern serial killer?

The popularisation of serial killers within modern crime fiction can be traced back to the creation of Hannibal Lecter by Thomas Harris in 1981. Even though serial killers had been utilised in crime fiction previous to this, it was Lecter and his effervescent allure and charisma, combined with his capacity for extreme violence, which captivated so many readers and has led to a plethora of serial killer novels. Much like the case of the real-life serial murderer ‘Jack the Ripper’, and the attempts to unmask his identity, the serial killer has become the story, rather than the victims, with his (or her – however this is much less the case in reality than in fiction) crimes, emotions, reasons, being of more interest than the victims. There’s design, formula, with (invariably) someone in authority pitting their wits against the killer.

The growing attention given to the murder of multiple victims by a single person, gave rise to the term ‘Serial Killer’, during the late 1960s. The term which is usually attributed as being coined by FBI Agent Robert Ressler, was in fact first used by John Brophy in his 1966 book ‘The Meaning of Murder’. Robert Ressler is however widely credited as being at the forefront of the explosion of concern for the seemingly growing trend of mass murders. It was at that point, profiling of serial killers began to gain some traction; predominately through the work of Ressler and John Douglas and the interviews they carried out with thirty-six mass murderers in various prisons. This in turn led to Holmes and De Burger in 1988, and then further in 1996, classifying serial killers into four different types; namely ‘Visionary’, ‘Mission-Oriented’, ‘Hedonistic’, and ‘Power/Control Oriented’. Each type has certain characteristics which mark them out as different to each other. The Visionary type, is one who commits their crimes whilst being told or commanded to do so by voices or visions. The Mission-Oriented type believe they have a certain goal which they must reach, or problem to solve. This could take the form of eliminating a certain group from their surroundings, such as prostitutes or children. Victims are often unknown to the killer in this category. The Hedonistic type, which contains many strands, uses the umbrella term to describe a killer who commits their crimes for pleasure. Lastly, the power/control oriented killer type shares many aspects of the hedonistic killer. However the difference is at the epicentre of their motives, which is to exert complete control or power over another human being. The act of murder provides the finality of a series of acts all providing pleasure to this type of killer.