The Girl in the Empty Room - Neil Randall(ang.)

The Girl in the Empty Room Neil Randall

Copyright © 2017 by Neil Randall Design: Bukovero Editor: Crooked Cat All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously. First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2017

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For Rowena

Acknowledgements I would like to thank my family and friends for their continued support and encouragement. Without them, this book wouldn’t have been possible. I would also like to thank everyone at Crooked Cat Books – Laurence and Steph and all my fellow authors. It’s a very friendly literary community, where each release feels very much like a team effort.

About the Author Neil Randall writes in the sleepy fishing village of West Runton, Norfolk. The Girl in the Empty Room is his second novel with Crooked Cat Books. Find out more at: www.neilrandall.net Follow on Twitter: @NARandall1

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The Girl in the Empty Room

Chapter One When Helen Drummond did a final check of the school gates, she found Pippa Carmichael and her twin brother Liam still waiting for their mum to pick them up. The concerned teacher checked her watch. It was nearly three o’clock now; half an hour after the official end of the school day, and all the other children and parents had long since gone. Helen knew that Pippa and Liam lived just down the road, so their mum, Jacqueline, had no excuse to be late. It was becoming a regular thing. Ever since the twins started infant school they rarely arrived on time. Often they didn’t have any lunch or lunch money or P.E. kits, and time and again, just like today, Jacqueline had been late picking them up. Last time it happened, three maybe four weeks ago, Helen took her aside for a little chat, nothing serious, just a gentle reminder as to her responsibilities, and could smell alcohol on the much younger woman’s breath, and her eyes were all glazy and bloodshot, like she’d been smoking something. Helen walked over to the twins. “Hey, you two,” she said, smiling. “Your mum’s running a bit late today, eh? Did she say anything to you? Did she say she might be a little pushed for time this afternoon?” Both children shook their heads.

“Okay,” said Helen. “Why don’t you come with me? We’ll pop to the secretary’s office and give mum a call.” Once inside the main building, Helen directed the twins to chairs, looked through the contacts book and dialled Jacqueline’s mobile number. She was shunted straight through to voice mail. “Damn,” she cursed, checking her watch for a second time – she had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for half past three. Running her finger down the list of contacts again, she found the mobile number for Jacqueline’s mother, and gave her a call. “Hello.” She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello, Mrs Brooke, sorry to bother you. It’s Helen Drummond from the infant school here. I teach your grandchildren and, erm…well, I’m afraid Jacqueline hasn’t picked them up from school again, and I was wondering –” “What?” cried Mrs Brooke. “Not again! That girl! What on earth is going on with her? She’ll be the death of me, she really will.” Helen heard a sharp intake of breath. “Sorry. I’m rambling. Give me five minutes. I’ll drive down and collect them.” *** “I’m terribly sorry about this,” said Mrs Brooke. “I hope we haven’t put you out, and I – I hope you won’t feel the need to report the matter, to take things any further.”

“Well,” said Helen, not wanting to get caught up in a big discussion right now – if she hurried she might just make that doctor’s appointment, “I don’t think that’s necessary. Only it’s not the first time, is it? It might be worthwhile sitting down with Jacqueline and having, you know, a mother and daughter chat. I know how hard it must be, a single mum bringing up two kids on her own, but, loathe as I am to get social services involved, we can’t keep turning a blind eye to things like this.” “You’re right,” said Mrs Brooke, looking at her grandchildren through the window separating the office from the main foyer. “I think it’s time I told that girl some home truths.” *** “Right.” Mrs Brooke parked up outside her daughter’s terraced house. “I’m just going to pop in and see if your mum’s about. Won’t be a minute.” As soon as she opened the rusty garden gate, she knew something was wrong. The front door was ajar. Through the gap, she could see that the living room was in complete disarray. “What?” With a wary look over her shoulder, she slipped inside the house and pushed the door to. “My God!” The room had been decimated; the three-piece suite, the armchairs and settee, demolished, reduced to splintered wood and torn upholstery, as if someone had attacked them with a

sledgehammer. All the pictures had been knocked from the walls, including the children’s school photographs, shards of glass were scattered across the carpet. The television screen had been cracked down the middle, the DVD player and stereo system stamped to pieces, to no more than fragments of black plastic, so too the actual DVDs and CDs themselves. Even Jacqueline’s old acoustic guitar, her most prized possession, had been snapped in half, the strings all twisted and broken. In the adjoining kitchen, all the cupboard doors had either been wrenched off the hinges or were dangling precariously. Every plate, cup, dish or bowl had been smashed on the floor; the tiles a mess of splintered crockery. “Jacqueline!” shouted Mrs Brooke. No answer. She rushed upstairs. To the left, she could see all of Jacqueline’s clothes dumped on her bedroom floor, in a mutilated tangle of fabric, as if they’d been cut and hacked away at with scissors. A mirror had been smashed, the wardrobe turned over. On the wall above the bed, someone had spray-painted the words: SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT in big red letters. To the right, the bedroom the children shared had been reduced to a similar state: the bunk-beds demolished, all their toys, the Lego and doll’s

house, the rocking-horse and games console, had been bashed and broken and trampled underfoot. “Who – Who would do something like this?” With shaky hands, Mrs Brooke took her mobile phone from her pocket and dialled 999. “Police, there’s been a burglary…And – And my daughter’s gone missing. Her house has been completely trashed, and nobody can get hold of her…She didn’t pick her young children up from school. I’m so, so worried.”

Chapter Two Ten Days Earlier Jacqueline felt as if she’d been fighting all her life, fighting her parents, teachers, the benefits system, landlords, credit card companies, Ryan – the father of her children – men in general, but, most of all, herself. Why did she have to keep making the same mistakes? Why did she have so much bad luck? Why did she feel so angry, lonely and miserable all the time? Why couldn’t something nice happen to her for a change? – one single solitary slice of good fortune. The stranger lying next to her in bed started to snore. Up until that moment she’d almost forgotten about the lad she’d picked up in town. Up until that moment her sparsely-furnished, carpetless bedroom, a cold ugly space, now bathed in darkness, had felt almost comfortable, comforting. “Typical!” she muttered under her breath, resisting the impulse to elbow him in the ribs, face, balls. Reaching over to the bedside table, she fished a half-smoked joint out of an ashtray, and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. After a few lungfuls of smoke she started to relax; to run last night’s events through her head: how she’d been sitting in a pub with her cousin Bea, how, with the kids at their dad’s for the weekend, she’d only planned on

having a couple of quiet drinks and an early night, and how she’d got talking to this really goodlooking local lad, with big brown eyes and cropped hair, a bit docile and full of himself, but fit nonetheless. Wait. What was his name?…Aaron, that’s it – and she chuckled to herself, because she could clearly remember the moment he told her: “My name’s Aaron, Aaron Wells.” She had to chuckle again, because he said it like James Bond, only he had a horrible country bumpkin accent, the one she hated so much. But he did offer to buy her a drink, and he did walk down to the pier with her, and he did hold her hand, and he did talk loads, and showed a real interest in her life. And when she told him she had two kids he didn’t make some excuse about having to get off home soon. He asked about them, whether it was two boys or two girls or one of each, how old they were, did they go to school, and for the first time in a long time, Jacqueline hadn’t felt awkward talking about her children, and for that she felt a little gratitude, fondness, but more than anything else: guilt, because she knew the likely outcome of sleeping with him tonight. “So, Jacque,” Aaron had said earlier, as they walked back to her house, “do you maybe wanna go out for a drink sometime?” “Yeah, yeah,” she said, drunk, stoned, uncaring of the ramifications for either of them now. “That

would be…great.” Aaron stirred, rolling over onto his back. “Shit.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “What time is it?” Before she could answer, he reached out and put his arm around her, drawing her close, planting a warm kiss to her cheek, as if he’d been a regular fixture in her bed not just a passing boat in the night. He sat up. “I’m gonna have to take a piss, Jacque. Your bathroom’s downstairs, past the kitchen, right?” She watched him get out of bed, naked, the pale outline of his skinny white body, the non-existent buttocks and slender, almost girlish back, skipping out of the room. “What have I done?” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, all the time thinking, but if it happened to me, why shouldn’t it happen to him? It was like that time with her last serious boyfriend Jason, when he brought take-away curries home from town. At the kitchen table, the plates and cutlery all set out, she tipped her food from the foil containers, and then reached for the salt – Jason went berserk. “What the fuck are you doing? That curry’s got all the spices and seasoning already in it. You don’t need no salt or pepper.” This pissed her off, because she knew he didn’t really give a shit if she put salt on her curry or not.

He was just trying to exert control over her, show that he was the one in charge. “Look,” she said, determined not to be dominated by him. “It’s my fucking curry, if I wanna put salt on it, I’ll put fucking salt on it.” But when she shook the salt cellar the top came off (probably one of her kids messing about) and the entire contents, a mountain of salt, poured out over her curry, ruining her meal. “See,” he said, with that horrible, smarmy look on his face. “I fucking told you. Now you’ve got what you deserve. Now you’ll have to go fucking hungry.” From downstairs, she could hear Aaron’s fierce piss gurgling into the toilet bowl. Bet he goes all over the seat, she thought with completely disproportionate bitterness. As so often recently, little things could send her into a fit of upset or rage, so random and inexplicable. It was one of the ironies of her condition, how she managed to absorb all that psychic pain, the pain of rejection, infidelity, of being treated like a piece of shit by nearly everyone she met, especially men she genuinely liked, coveted, wanted to settle down with, but how an innocent word or gesture, sometimes even the Eastenders theme tune, could reduce her to something far worse than tears. Aaron tiptoed back into the room, got into bed and put his arm around her again; hugging her like

he really meant it. “Thanks for last night,” he whispered into her ear, “– for letting me stay, I mean. I didn’t plan on coming back, you know, and us sleeping together. Hope you don’t think I’m one of those lads who’s only after one thing, ’cause – ’cause I really, really like you.” His words made her feel sad and uncomfortable, because she wished it wasn’t him, someone she had little or no affection for, saying all those nice, tender things. Closing her eyes, she thought back to all the nights she’d shared this bed with Jason, how she could never get enough of him, how badly she wanted the two of them to get together properly, how the one good thing to happen in life was him: Jason. When Aaron nuzzled his head against her shoulder, as he snaked an arm around her waist, she knew she couldn’t take it anymore, she knew she had to get this imposter out of her bed, her house, as soon as she possibly could. With far more force than intended, she elbowed him in the side of the head. “Ah!” He bolted upright. “What was that for?” “For coming back here,” she cried, drawing on all her past pain, hurt and frustration, “drinking all my wine, smoking my weed, practically forcing yourself on me, snoring half the night, keeping me up.” Kicking out her legs, she peddled his skinny

body out of bed, toppling him over the edge of the mattress, where he hit the floor with a dull thud. “And you didn’t use a condom, did you? So I’ll have to get down to the clinic for a morning after pill.” “Morning after pill?” he said, getting to his feet. “I – I didn’t think. Shit. Do you want me to come down there with you? I could –” “Don’t fucking bother!” She shot out of the other side of bed. “You’re just like all the rest. I’m the mother of two young kids, you bastard, and you don’t give a shit. ‘Don’t think I’m one of those lads only after one thing!’ What a joke! Now get out of here!” Hurriedly, he picked up his clothes, pulling his shorts and T-shirt on, stepping into his jeans. “But, Jacque, I thought you liked me. I thought we were gonna go out for a drink. I – I thought this was gonna be the start of something.”

Chapter Three As Aaron walked through the cold October darkness, he couldn’t get his head around what had just happened. Ten minutes ago he’d been snuggled up in bed with one of the fittest birds he’d ever pulled. How had things gone so badly wrong? What had he said or done to upset her so much? Why had she gone off at him like that? He couldn’t understand it, any of it. It was typical of his luck, though. Just lately, he couldn’t seem to hold onto a girl for very long. It was as if his ex, Jade, had put a curse on him, one that went far deeper than just telling everyone in town that he was a wanker. Crossing the road, he dug his hands into his pockets and thought back to everything that happened last night: how he’d been down the boozer with a few mates, playing darts at the top end of the bar, how he’d clocked Jacqueline as soon as she walked in, how hot she looked, with her light-brown hair cut into a fringe and heavy eye make-up, and how he kept staring down the bar, just to get another look at her. Perhaps it was the beer (he’d had four pints of Stella, and always got pissed quick on that stuff), but he felt this proper strong impulse to walk right up to her, to offer to buy her a drink, to ask her out on a date. “Go on, then, Azza,” said his mate Goosey. “Go and talk to her, you twat. You haven’t been able to

throw a dart straight since she walked in.” Aaron told him to piss off, that he didn’t know what he was talking about. But he did, and maybe he only protested so much because he knew Goosey would taunt him even more, forcing him into a corner, challenging him to do the one thing he really wanted to do – go and speak to her. Eventually, after the expected ribbing, Aaron plucked up the courage. “Okay.” He downed the last dregs of his pint. “I will. I’ll go over there right now.” Confident as he was ever going to be, he walked up the bar, towards Jacqueline and her cousin. “All right,” he said, loud enough so she’d know he was talking to her. “Can I buy you a drink?” Breaking off from her conversation, she turned and looked at him like he was the biggest dickhead she’d ever seen, like he was proper rude, that someone like him had no right to march up and interrupt her chat, and he was sure she was going to tell him to piss off, that he was about to be humiliated in front of his friends. But she didn’t do any of those things – she smiled, and this soft dreamy light came into her eyes, which were lovely anyway, with the heavy Amy Winehouse mascara and everything. “Yeah,” she said, looking him over, as if she really liked what she saw. “All right, then.” “Great.”

Smiling back, he made a big thing of calling the barmaid over (purely for Goosey’s benefit), bought Jacqueline a pint of San Miguel (“girl after my own heart”, he’d said to her, even if he didn’t really like the idea of a bird drinking pints.) Knowing the score, the cousin soon skulked off, and he was left alone at the bar with Jacqueline. And he didn’t know quite what it was, usually he felt so awkward around women, especially at first, but with Jacqueline it was different. She had a way of making him feel relaxed, confident, she asked questions at the exact moment he was struggling to think of what to say next, and the conversation just flowed and flowed. “Yeah, I work down Cherrytrees, the turkey place – just temporary, if the money is bloody good.” “Really?” she said. “How much can you earn there?” He exaggerated wildly. “Four or five hundred quid, on a flat week. I’m saving up to do some travelling, and I’ve gotta keep my motor on the road, so…” “What sort of car do you drive?” “Nova, a souped-up job.” “You’re not a boy racer, are you?” “No, no,” he said, feeling that a boy racer was probably the worst thing he could possibly be – in Jacqueline’s eyes, anyway. “More an enthusiast

than anything else. Never catch me lapping ’round town with tunes banging out of the stereo.” “Ha! That’s funny.” They ended up down the pier, smoking weed, Jacqueline literally rolling one joint after another, telling him all about her life, her kids, an exboyfriend who treated her badly, her tattoos, rolling up her sleeves and showing him all these mad cool designs up and down her arms. But most of all, she mentioned people in town he was wary of – proper hard men, drug dealers, the kinds of people who cleared pubs if they ever walked in. But not in a flash, name-dropping type of way, to try and impress him, but in the natural course of the conversation, in the story she was then telling him. “Do you know Michael Babb, owns, amongst other things, the food factory up the road?” Aaron nodded his head. Babb was the town psycho, something akin to a mafia godfather, a huge man mountain, body-builder, had done time before, attacked some bloke with a machete for looking at his bird wrong down the boozer. “My best mate Katie has been going out with him for years now. She keeps trying to end things. But he won’t have it, keeps threatening her, telling her he’ll make her life hell if she ever leaves him. They’ve got two kiddies together, see. Makes me sick, those men who think they can control women like that. Do you know what I mean?” She handed

him a joint already smoked down close to the roach. “I think pricks like him should be taught a lesson.” It had all been going so well; they’d barely stopped talking from the moment he bought her that first drink. The only remotely off-key thing happened around midnight time, still on the pier, when deciding what to do next. “Maybe we could go back to yours,” she said. But that was out of the question. There was no way he could sneak a bird up to his bedroom, not with his parents in the next room – those council house walls were paper thin. And besides, his mum was a bit of a prude when it came to those types of thing, even if it was innocent, just a case of bunking down for the night. “No, sorry. I sorta live with me parents at the minute. Only temporary. So we -” “Sorry!” she snapped at him, went all schizo, like his living arrangements had really pissed her off, had changed everything. “Only temporary? Sounds like your whole life is only fucking temporary.” Neither spoke for ages; the gusting wind bashing into the shelter, whistling through the gaps in the cracked plastic windows, the only sounds. “Well,” she said, finally, “we could always go back to mine. It’s not very tidy, I’m afraid. Running around after two kids all day can be tough, you know. But I have got a couple of bottles of wine

stashed away.” Aaron didn’t know what to say. Her outburst, when she’d been so relaxed and easygoing, talkative, friendly and funny before, had really taken him aback. “Erm, yeah, okay, if that’s what you want.” As they got up she said something like “when has anyone ever cared about what I wanted?” which only made him feel warier, about what he said or did next. Things got back to normal once they were sitting around her kitchen table. In relative darkness, a lamp on in the next room, she played a few records he’d never heard of before: Talking Heads, Laura Marling – and they talked about all kinds of different things, about town, about people they both knew, about the trouble down the pubs, the way things were getting out of control, bouncers on the doors, kids glassed every other weekend. One thing he noticed, though, was the way she went at the wine, pouring like half a bottle into one of those big, deep wineglasses, and the way she continued to roll joint after joint, stubbing one out and starting to roll another one straight away. Only she didn’t seem to get particularly drunk or stoned, it didn’t seem to slow her down, affect her in the way he’d seen alcohol and weed affect people in the past. If anything, it just made her more talkative, somehow more coherent.

“I know this looks really bad,” she said, loading another cigarette paper with weed, “ – me drinking and smoking like this, spunking a shit load of money on a night out, when I’ve got two kids and all the financial responsibilities that go with it, when they need so many things for school – new uniforms, books and stuff – but it’s hard, you know, being a single mum. Everyone just expects me to grin and bear it, to get on with things, like I’ve made my bed and all that. But I’m only twenty-six, for fuck’s sake, and I still want to do a bit of living myself.” “I understand,” said Aaron. “I mean, it’s not like you’re some kind of robot, is it? It’s not like you can just carry on, day in, day out, that you don’t need a break or a good night out every now and then.” “Yeah.” She sprinkled some tobacco onto the weed. “I just wanna be able to do things from time to time, you know: go to gigs, festivals, buy clothes, music. I don’t wanna be stuck in the house all day staring at the walls.” She lit the joint with a cheap plastic lighter. By this point, Aaron was feeling completely mashed-up – even though he smoked weed most weekends, he’d never gone at it like this before. Slowly turning the joint around in her fingers, she blew on the end so it glowed all fierce and orange in the darkness.

“Shall we go to my bedroom? It’s a bit more comfortable up there.”

Chapter Four “At this early stage, madam,” said a uniformed police officer, a lanky man with a clipped moustache, “we’re treating this purely as a case of breaking and entering, criminal damage, a possible burglary.” “But what about my daughter?” cried Mrs Brooke. “She didn’t pick her children up from school, her phone’s going straight through to voice mail, no-one has seen or heard from her since this morning.” She paused to catch her breath. “And what about the threatening message on the wall upstairs? Surely that shows somebody has got it in for Jacqueline.” “I appreciate your concerns, but as you can see” – he gestured to the forensic team dusting for fingerprints – “we’re going over the place with a fine tooth-comb. And if your daughter hasn’t got in touch with you in the next twenty-four hours we’ll put out an official missing person’s report, alert the local press, things like that.” “But – But it could be too late by then!” Henry Franklin, Jacqueline’s father, a still handsome, bespectacled man in his early fifties, rushed in through the front door. “Jane, what on earth has happened?” “You got my message then?” said Mrs Brooke, her concern for her daughter overriding the almost

reflex need to snipe at ex-husband in some way. “Yes. I got here as soon as I could. What’s happened?” In chronological order, Jane relayed the details – the phone call from the school, how she picked up the children, and how she found the house like this. “And you say someone has written a message on the bedroom wall?” “Yes – see how you like it – or words to that effect.” “What?” Henry looked around the room, as if only then taking in the scene of devastation. “Look at this mess, everything’s completely ruined. Why would someone do this? Is she in financial trouble again? The other day, she did text asking for a loan, but I told her I didn’t want to go down that old road again.” “I just don’t know. After she got that court order that froze her debts for twelve months, I presumed things weren’t such a struggle now.” “Not to sound patronizing, but I take it you’ve phoned around, contacting her friends, that type of thing.” “Of course,” Jane replied. “But no-one has heard from her. And I know she’s had her moments, has been a bit unreliable, but she’d never just abandon the twins like this. Never!” They exchanged a worried glance, one which made them feel a little ashamed, because both

knew they were thinking the exact same thing – the worst. “And what are we going to do about the twins?” asked Henry. “Well, I thought they may as well stay at mine tonight. I’ll make sure they get off to school in the morning.” “What about Ryan, though? He is their father, after all. Shouldn’t we be consulting him first, before we come to any big decision?” “Let’s leave it for tonight, eh? You know how his mother feels about Jacqueline. You know what a hard time she always gives her. If she were to hear about her not picking the children up from school again, it’ll only give her more ammunition. And, with any luck, she’ll turn up sometime tonight.” “Mrs Brooke.” Jacqueline’s friend Katie poked her head around the open door. Jane swung round. “Oh, hello, Katie.” She walked across the room, being careful to avoid the forensic team still dusting for fingerprints. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you.” “Yeah, sorry about that. I had an appointment, my phone was off.” She, like Henry before her, looked around the room. “What’s happened? Has there been a break-in or something?” Jane told her about everything that had happened.

“Shit! And you can’t get hold of her?” “No. Her phone goes straight to voice mail.” Jane sighed and shook her head. “When did you last see her?” “Yesterday afternoon. I called round as usual, like I do most weekdays. We had a chat and a cup of tea.” “And she didn’t seem upset or worried about anything?” “No, not really. She was her old self, you know, she moaned a bit, about this and that, but didn’t act no different, like she had anything on her mind.” “And that’s the last you heard from her?” “No. We exchanged a couple of texts, and later, about ten-ish, I think, messaged each other on Facebook.” Jane nodded a few times, taking everything in. “And was she seeing anyone at the moment? A new boyfriend? As you probably know, she never tells me anything.” “No-one special,” said Katie. “I think, over the last week or two, she’d met a few lads for drinks, through a dating website, but no-one she really hit it off with, no-one she was planning on seeing again.” The policeman who originally spoke to Mrs Brooke walked over. “This is Katie, one of my daughter’s closest friends. They’ve got children of a similar age; they

see each other almost every day.” “I see,” said the policeman. “And when was the last – ?” “We’ve just been through all of that,” Jane snapped at him. “Like us, she hasn’t heard from Jacqueline today. They spoke last night but she didn’t indicate that anything was troubling her.” The policeman shifted uneasily, clearly stung by Mrs Brooke’s tone. He turned to Katie. “Is there anyone you know who might have a grudge against your friend, anyone she might’ve fallen out with recently, anyone who might’ve wanted to get back at her, for whatever reason?” “Erm, well” – she hesitated and bit into her bottom lip – “there was this one lad. Something had happened between him and Jacque, not quite sure what, but I think she knocked him back, and he wasn’t very happy about it. Aaron’s his name.” “Aaron,” said the policeman, taking out a notebook. “Local lad, is he?” “Yeah, I think so. Jacque told me he worked at the turkey farm.” “Turkey farm.” The policeman jotted everything down. “Okay. Thank you for that. We’ll bear it in mind, should Miss Franklin not return home this evening.” Henry fell in beside the two women. “Look, officer,” he said, very much in

professional mode, that of an experienced barrister addressing a courtroom. “I really think you should be putting out a search for her. I know people should be missing for x number of hours before you consider them an official missing person, but the situation here is so unusual, surely you could make an exception. If something was to go wrong, if her welfare was endangered, and you were seen not to have acted, it could have serious repercussions.” “Well I, erm…suppose I could contact main headquarters, speak to one of my superiors, just to see what –” “Cooper,” said one of the forensic team, getting to his feet. The policeman turned around. “What is it?” “You’re not going to believe this.” He made a sweeping gesture, taking in the whole room. “It’s not really possible. But the place has been wiped clean. We’ve not found one single solitary fingerprint.”

Chapter Five When Katie returned home she found the farmhouse lit up; the sensory-activated spotlights on the roof blazing out. Next to Michael’s SUV was a fancy car, maybe a Jaguar or Mercedes – she’d never been too good at telling cars apart. Despite the cold, Michael stood on the doorstep in just a muscle top and shorts, chatting to a skinny, balding, middle-aged man in a dark suit and tie. “Hello, babe,” said Michael, after she’d parked up and got out of the car. “This is Mr Wilmot, or Councillor Wilmot I should probably say.” The two men exchanged wide, exaggerated smiles. “This is my partner Katie.” “Nice to meet you,” said Wilmot, politely shaking Katie’s hand. “Lovely place you’ve got here.” “Yeah, it is. Thanks.” “We were just talking a little business.” Michael folded his arms across his chest, the word Katie tattooed in a heart shape on his forearm expanding, as if specifically for her notice. “Stuff about the factory.” Again the two men shared a smile, like a private joke, maybe at her expense, which made Katie feel paranoid and uncomfortable – pretty much a constant emotional state whenever around Michael these days.

“Right. I better get off,” said Wilmot, “– my good lady is no doubt preparing a fine meal.” He chuckled. “See you soon, Michael. Remember everything we discussed. If we stick to our original agreement regarding the, erm…merchandise, everyone’s happy. I can see no problems, no red tape.” *** “What was all that about?” asked Katie, even though she wasn’t particularly interested –Michael had so many business ventures these days, she couldn’t keep up. “Never you mind.” He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Budweiser. “Where you been, anyway?” He unscrewed the cap, took a swig, and put the bottle on the side. “Thought you said you were just popping to the supermarket.” “I was, but then I got a –” Michael bounded across the kitchen, grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. “Where the fuck were you!” he yelled right into her face. “Tell me!” “I – please, please. Let go. You’re hurting me.” He released his grip and pushed her away. “Well?” “I – I got a text from Jacqueline’s mum. Apparently, she didn’t pick the twins up from school again, her house has been proper trashed, everything smashed up, ruined, and no one has

heard from her since yesterday.” As if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just leapt across the kitchen and accosted her, Michael took a couple more swigs of beer. “Be bloody drugs, won’t it? You know what she’s like, owes money left, right and centre, nothing she wouldn’t do to get off her tits, like a bloody crack whore. I heard she gave a couple of blokes head at that party the other week for a line of coke.” “That’s bullshit, Mike,” she said with a force that surprised herself – she knew how futile it was to argue with him, “– and you know it is.” But Katie remembered the night in question, the house party, a mate of Michael’s fortieth birthday, a really good night, with decks set up in the front room, a proper DJ, disco lights, a barbeque pit outside with a full pig roasting on it, loads of booze, loads of old friends, a nice relaxed vibe, no trouble or hassles, despite Michael, who always seemed intent on making a scene, of ruining things, not just for her, but anyone within a ten-mile radius. With the kids at her mum’s overnight, Katie could have a few drinks, a bit of a smoke, a line or two of coke (when sure Michael was well out of the way), to properly let her hair down. About midnight time, she bumped into Jacqueline at the bottom of the stairs, alone, her hair all a-tangle, trying to light a joint with an old Zippo lighter which had clearly

run out of fluid. Amused, finding her friend’s clumsy, intoxicated struggle incredibly funny, Katie took a lighter out of her handbag and dangled it under Jacqueline’s nose. “Here, Jacque. Try this.” Giving a start, she looked up, her eyes, no more than puffy red slits in her pale, sweaty face. “Oh, right,” she slurred, swayed, and simply dropped the Zippo lighter to the floor, discarding it, despite the fact it was a tasteful, expensive thing. It was then Katie noticed the bloody, charred mark on her thumb, where she must’ve been flicking the lighter, repeatedly. “Cheers.” “Jesus, Jacque.” Katie handed her the lighter. “You better run your thumb under the cold tap or something. It might get infected.” Jacqueline shrugged her shoulders, and lit the joint, taking in a deep lungful of smoke. “I’m sure I’ll live.” She exhaled out of the side of her mouth. “And say, could I –” the pounding bass line from the front room swallowed what she said next. “You what?” asked Katie. Jacqueline leaned closer. “I hate to ask, only I’ve had a bit of coke and a few pills tonight, and I really wanna keep on the up, but I’m skint now. Couldn’t lend us twenty quid until my next payment goes into the bank, could you?” Katie felt that horrible feeling inside, when a

good friend puts you in an awkward position, especially where money is concerned. Because they’d been close for so long, there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Jacqueline, but she had to draw the line somewhere. So often did she get off her face, so often did she borrow money, so often did Katie give her a little weed or a bottle of wine, that she could never remember things clearly. At the last count, Katie reckoned up a rough estimate of how much money Jacqueline had borrowed over the last year or so, and it was probably close to a grand. “I would, Jacque,” she said, “but Michael’s got all the money tonight, and he’ll never let me have any. You know what he’s like when it comes to hard drugs.” “Hard drugs!” spluttered Jacqueline. “Him and his lot knock out more Class As ’round here than anyone.” Katie ignored her, presuming she was just put out, angry at not getting the money. Jacque could often turn just like that, even on an old friend. “Look,” Katie said, turning and looking over the heads of people standing in the hallway chatting. “I’m gonna go and get another drink from the kitchen. Do you want one? A vodka and tonic or something?” “Yeah, yeah,” said Jacqueline, distractedly, still absorbed in smoking the joint. “That’d be great.” But when Katie returned Jacqueline had

vanished. Much later, in the early hours of the morning, when Katie climbed the stairs to use the toilet before getting a taxi home, she saw Jacqueline stumble out of the bathroom with two really shady druggies, middle-aged men, faces all wrinkled and worn-out, lived-in, a small-town Keith and Mick, not far behind her. They were laughing and pointing at Jacqueline who was blindly groping for the wall to support herself now. As Katie rushed over she noticed that one of the men had his belt and flies unfastened. Michael let out a loud belch. “Don’t shoot the messenger, babe.” He put his empty bottle down by the sink. “And what do the Old Bill think has happened to her, then? They’re putting a search out, are they? See it on the local news, will we?” “Not sure,” said Katie. “When I popped round the police were talking about a person having to be missing for a certain amount of time before they got involved. Although Jacqueline’s dad did give it his best barrister bit, insisting that they inform police headquarters or something.” “Tut!” Michael clicked his tongue. “Shower of shit, ain’t they? Then again, she’s a bloody mess, that girl, probably lying unconscious in some drug den or puking up in some gutter. Shouldn’t be

allowed to keep hold of them kiddies, state she’s in half the time.” “Mike! Stop! Don’t talk about my mate like that. She’s a lovely girl, just a little bit lost at the moment.” “Literally – huh!” He took another beer from the fridge. “Right. With the boys sleeping round whathis-name’s tonight, I’ve got us a coupl’a slabs of fillet steak for tea, was gonna do ’em with chunky chips, all the trimmings. And I bagged up some of that red wine you like earlier.” “Oh right, great,” said Katie, not so much in surprise but disappointment, realisation, that despite everything in her life being so perfect: her children, her home, the lifestyle she led, the things being with Michael afforded: holidays, a wardrobe full of the latest fashions, she wasn’t in any way happy or content – in fact, she was about as miserable as a person could get. And big steak dinners, fine wines, candlelight, only exacerbated that sense of emptiness. “Why don’t you go and have your shower or bath or whatever?” said Michael, “– slip into something more comfortable. I’ll fire up the griddle pan, have everything ready in about half-hour or so.” *** After showering, as she rifled through the walk-in wardrobe she shared with Michael – his side all

designer suits, hers shimmery gowns, backless dresses, Jimmy Choo shoes – in search of a pair of jogging bottoms, Katie found a battered old holdall wedged down the back of a slide-out drawer. “What?” With a wary look over her shoulder, she opened the bag, finding a gleaming machete inside, so heavy she could barely lift it, the blade flecked with what looked like dark spots of blood. Wedged underneath it was a stack of Polaroid photographs, all headshots of young women, some who couldn’t have been much older than sixteen or seventeen years of age. On the back of each picture was a name and a cash value – Ksenia, £3,000, Natalia, £1,750 and so on. “Kate!” Michael shouted up the stairs so loudly and unexpectedly, she dropped the photographs, scattering them across the thick carpet. “Tea’s ready.” “Yeah, yeah,” she shouted back, gathering up the pictures as quickly as she could. “I’m coming. Be down in a sec, just getting changed.”

Chapter Six “You’re late! We expected you on the hour. We were about to give up, to turn back.” “Unavoidable,” said Macpherson, eyeing the two hulking men then walking out of the dark shadows of the night. “The weather’s been terrible. And your directions weren’t exactly the best.” “We’ve never had problems in the past.” “And you haven’t now.” Macpherson took a thick envelope out of his inside pocket. “I’m here. This is your payment. It’s all there, as agreed. Now, where’s the merchandise?” “In the back of the lorry.” One of the men gestured to the heavy goods vehicle parked close by. “O’Hara,” he said to his associate. “Bring them out.” O’Hara walked round to the back of the lorry. “They’ve been sedated, haven’t they?” asked Macpherson. “They won’t cause me any problems, will they?” “Ha! You don’t have to worry about that, my friend. This lot have been through hell and high water just to get this far. You will have no problems with them, on that you have my personal guarantee.” From the rear of the lorry trudged a group of young women, skinny, bedraggled, hunched-over, heads lowered, women who looked as if they

hadn’t slept or eaten properly for several days. “Put them in the back of my van.” Macpherson pointed to his own vehicle. “Cover them with tarpaulin.” He turned back to the other man. “I’ve been instructed to tell you that we’ll be in touch through the usual channels. All being well I’ll see you in a few weeks.” “Until next time,” he said. “Tell your boss I am always happy to do business with him. Tell him there’s always plenty more where they came from.”

Chapter Seven Six Days Earlier: The Tuesday Evening The doorbell rang at a time and day of the week when nobody ever called round to Jacqueline’s house – certainly not without warning her first. “Shit.” She hauled herself up off the settee – she’d just got the children bathed and into bed, had changed her clothes, slipping into sweat bottoms and an old jumper, and wanted nothing more than to stretch out in front of Come Dine with Me, smoke a joint or two, relax, maybe laugh a little. When she opened the front door, she found Aaron, the boy she slept with last weekend, standing on the doorstep. “What do you want?” “I wanna talk,” he almost shouted. “It’s important. It’s about the other night.” “Look. We’ve got nothing to talk about. I –” “Yes, we have. I’ve just been down the doctor’s. He told me I’ve gotta go up to the main hospital for blood tests and swabs and whatnot, reckons I’ve picked up some kind of sexual infection.” Their eyes met. Jacqueline quickly looked away. “Look, Aaron, I’m sorry you’ve picked something up, but just because you have doesn’t mean you got it from me. And I’ve got two young kids asleep upstairs. I can’t be arguing in the streets.”

“Let me come in, then. We need to talk about this.” *** “Come off it, Jacque. I’ve been single for a time now. So there’s no way I had anything wrong with me before I slept with you. I mean, you don’t have unprotected sex one night, wake up with a rash next morning, and the two things not be connected, do you?” Jacqueline tried to get angry, to shout, lie, plead ignorance – but she just didn’t have the energy. “Listen, Aaron, let me explain things. A few weeks back, I was mad into this lad, we were properly going out, boyfriend and girlfriend, were talking about moving in together, me and the kids, and that’s a big commitment. Only – Only he wasn’t who I thought he was, he was cheating on me behind my back, he got another girl pregnant and he –” “And he passed on this infection thing to you?” Reluctantly, she nodded. “Ever since, and I know this sounds horrible, disgusting, but I’ve – I’ve really struggled to cope with things. There’s so much other shit going on in my life – money worries, all sorts of stuff – and I just thought: fuck it! And I’ve been going around, getting off my face, and sleeping with different blokes, knowing full well that they’re gonna get what I’ve got…Oh, I don’t know, like revenge, I guess.”

Regardless of the situation, any thought of what Aaron might say or do next, Jacqueline felt a strange kind of relief for having got that off her chest, out in the open, even if it made her look like some bitter, twisted, psycho bitch. “How many men have you slept with?” “Not sure – seven or eight maybe. I signed up for this dating website and met a few blokes on-line, or went into town and picked someone up.” “Like you picked me up?” Aaron got to his feet. “Why? Why’d this have to happen? Why do I always have such shit luck? Why do people always screw me over? I – I really liked you, Jacque, soon as I saw you in the pub. I thought we might really make a go of it.” “Well, maybe we still can.” Jacqueline didn’t know why she said this; she didn’t mean it. All she knew was that she had to get him on side, just so he wouldn’t tell anyone about what she’d just blurted out, that he wouldn’t spread nasty rumours around town, whether valid or not. “What?” “Yeah.” She got up, shuffled around the kitchen table and took hold of both his hands. “But you’ve got to help me first, help me fuck everybody in this horrible little town over, help me get back at all those bastards who treated me like shit.” “Help you? How? I don’t know what you mean.” “By doing what I’ve been doing – sleeping with

loads of women, dosing them up, until the whole town is infected.” “What?” “Aaron, you’re a good-looking lad. With a bit of belief in yourself you could pull any girl you wanted. And the infection – it’s not serious; most people don’t even know they’ve got it. I looked it up on the internet. And if you do this, just for a week or two, then we can get ourselves checked out, treated, then we can be together, properly.” *** “You see.” Jacqueline uploaded the photograph she’d just taken of Aaron to the dating website. “It’s as simple as that. Your profile is all set up now. And if we click on region, we can scroll through your likely matches, girls who live nearby, girls looking for a date with someone compatible.” Scrolling through dozens of profiles, Jacqueline explained how she would sit here most nights messaging men in the area, how she sounded them out, got to know a little bit about them, flirted, made increasingly risqué, sexually-charged comments, until she could tell that they were only after one thing. “Once I know the score, that this man only wants a one-night stand, I arrange to meet him in town, usually in the Black Swan – it’s quiet in there, a bit up market, so I’m unlikely to bump into anyone I know. To make sure things run smoothly I

always get half pissed beforehand, just to relax, so I’m –” Her computer bleeped. “Look.” She pointed to the screen. “You’ve got a hit already, a message in your inbox.” She clicked on the link. “Straight in. And she’s not bad, quite pretty. Karen Jenkins. Yeah, I know her sister. I think their parents live just off the coast road.” She opened the message. “And she sounds really keen. Here. Have a look.” Aaron peered over her shoulder to read the message. Hi, Aaron, can’t believe a good-looking lad like you is on a dating website! You might not know me, but I know who you are all right, seen you in town loads, just looked at your pics and read your profile, we’ve got tons of stuff in common, if you fancy messaging me sometime, if you fancy going out for a drink or something, that’d be great. Karen XXX “What’d you think?” said Jacqueline. “If Karen is anything like her sister, who’s a right old trollop, it couldn’t be more perfect. She’ll know this might just be a one-off, and she’ll probably do the same thing next week, and the week after that, spreading

the infection all over town.” Aaron told her he wasn’t sure if he could do it, that he was terrible around women, especially on a first date, that he’d probably mess things up, that he’d let Jacqueline down, that it would be a huge waste of time. “Look,” she said. “Why don’t we message her straight back? – asking if she wants to meet tomorrow night for a drink, suggest the Black Swan. That’s sure to impress her. What’s more, I’ve got a date arranged there for tomorrow myself – Ryan’s got the kids overnight. We could meet here early doors, have a bottle or two of wine, then walk into town together.” The idea of Jacqueline being there, that they’d be in the same place at the same time, doing the exact same thing, made him feel a lot more comfortable about the whole idea. “That doesn’t sound too bad, with you being there.” “So you’ll do it?” “Erm, yeah, okay.”

Chapter Eight Detective Inspector Dan Hepworth drove an unmarked Ford Mondeo into town. He passed a green tourist sign emblazoned with words that should’ve read: The Gem of the Norfolk Coast – only vandals had spray-painted an R in between the E and M of the word Gem, rendering the proclamation: The Germ of the Norfolk Coast, a description some, despite the town’s raggedly beautiful coastline, picture postcard promenade and pier, would find almost fitting. His partner Detective Diane Priestly saw the sign and laughed. “What is it?” asked Hepworth. “Oh, just some graffiti,” she replied, tying her mousey hair up with a bobble she’d been wearing around her wrist. “Have you ever been here before?” “Not for years.” He slowed, indicated, and turned off the main coast road. “Used to have an uncle who ran a pub on the seafront, would spend a week or two here every summer when I was a youngster, fish and chips, sticks of rock, cricket and football on the wet sand, that type of thing. But the pub closed years ago – much like everything else, so I’m led to believe.” “Yeah, I googled the town last night – serious youth unemployment problems, fishing industry

decimated by E.U. quotas, small businesses going bust, cafes and pubs closing, high rate of teenage pregnancies, one of the worst per capita heroin addiction and alcoholism rates in the country. Not exactly the kind of place you’d come for a summer holiday anymore.” Hepworth drove along an unremarkable street with modest hatchback cars parked outside rows of red-bricked terraced houses. “It’s down here, number seventy-six,” said Priestly, using an App on her phone to direct them. “Just down from the school.” He continued for a few hundred metres, indicated once again, and parked in a space near the missing woman’s home. As soon as they got out of the car, a round-faced young woman dressed in a loose-fitting tracksuit, with a toddler in her arms, came rushing across the street. “Are you the police, come to have a look ’round that Jacqueline’s house?” “That’s right,” said Hepworth, seeing no reason to conceal the fact. The woman clicked her tongue. “Rum girl, her, bloody man-eater, bloody nymphomaniac. Most weekends, when her ex-partner has the kids, it’s like a procession, one bloke after another. By all accounts, them next door can hear her headboard banging all night. Paper-thin these walls, see.

Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s upset someone somewhere down the line, slept with a fella she shouldn’t have.” Hepworth and Priestly exchanged a quick, slightly bemused glance. “And your name is?” “Bernice Fletcher. I live over there.” She hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “Not that I heard or saw nothing yesterday, had to work, see, little Luke here was at the child-minder’s.” She bounced the child in her arms. “But rumour has it that Jacqueline’s gone missing now, that no one’s heard from her since the other night.” “I can’t really comment on that,” said Hepworth. “But thank you for the information, Mrs Fletcher, we better be getting on now.” “Oh right, course, yeah, expect you’ll be wanting to look ’round the house, search for clues, eh?” Since yesterday, the house had been cleaned up, all the broken, twisted electrical equipment, smashed glass and crockery, CDs and DVDs, swept up into bin bags and dumped into the wheelie-bins outside. All that remained of yesterday’s carnage was the damaged furniture, the settee and armchairs, things beyond repair, but too bulky to dispose of in such a short space of time. “Here.” Priestly scrolled through photographs on her phone, showing him a slide show of pictures taken by the forensic team: the front room, kitchen

and two bedrooms upstairs. “Someone certainly did a job here, all right,” said Hepworth. “And none of the other neighbours heard anything? No breaking glass or smashing crockery?” “No. As Mrs Curtain-Twitcher said, houses on either side belong to young couples, both of whom were, unfortunately, at work. Officers from the local station questioned everyone in the immediate vicinity, but no-one heard or saw anything out of the ordinary.” Straight away, that didn’t sit very well with Hepworth. Bearing in mind the time lines, the incident must’ve taken place in broad daylight between the hours of half past eight in the morning, when the missing woman took her children to school, and three o’clock in the afternoon, when the mother/grandmother entered the house. “And she lived here alone, right?” asked Hepworth, “– single mum, twenty-six, not in a serious relationship.” “That’s right.” Hepworth walked through to the kitchen and looked out of the window, at the small concreted area which constituted the back garden. Directly outside the back door was what looked like a rabbit hutch, empty, all the wires rusted and broken, a plastic water bottle, mildewed and brown, indicating that a pet hadn’t been housed there for

some time. “From the preliminary report,” he said over his shoulder, “I understand there were no fingerprints found, that the house had been, quite incredibly, wiped clean, suggesting this wasn’t the work of mindless vandals, local kids on the rampage, that whoever smashed this place up knew exactly what they were doing, that it was planned.” “Must’ve been,” said Priestly. “But at this early stage we don’t have any real motive.” She scrolled to her phone’s notepad function. “Only one half interesting lead. One of the missing woman’s friends mentioned something about a young man. Apparently he and Miss Franklin had a brief liaison, as it were. When she called things off he wasn’t very happy about it. The friend gave a name and likely place of employment.” She scrolled to the next page. “An Aaron, works at a local turkey farm, shouldn’t be too hard to track him down.” “Okay. We’ll check him out later this morning. Maybe he’s the missing link, because there was something spray-painted on one of the walls upstairs, wasn’t there?” “Yes – see how you like it.” “See how you like it,” Hepworth repeated. “What could that mean? That our single mum had a habit of breaking into people’s houses and wrecking their belongings? Unlikely. But what could she have done to provoke this kind of reaction?”

“That remains to be seen. Until we start digging around, talking to people that knew her best. Although there was one bit of good news. We found a laptop wedged down the back of the settee. Somehow it went unnoticed, and survived undamaged.” “Really?” Priestly took the laptop from her shoulder-bag and handed it to Hepworth. “Right.” He placed it on the kitchen table and sat down. “Let’s have a little look at you. Let’s see if you’re hiding any secrets.” Fortunately, there was no password required to open the laptop itself, and when Hepworth accessed the internet and the more popular social media sites like Facebook and Twitter, Jacqueline’s passwords had all been saved, too, allowing him direct access to her accounts. On her Facebook page, he scrolled up and down the newsfeed, but bar photographs of cats and dogs and links to different websites, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Clicking onto her profile, he accessed her photo albums finding literally hundreds of what he could only have called selfies, mostly head shots, soft focus, in agreeable light, Jacqueline Franklin looking straight at the camera, dreamy-eyed, a sexy smile playing upon heavily made-up lips, the kinds of pictures people take to attract the opposite sex, the kinds of pictures found on dating websites.

“A very pretty girl. And she certainly liked taking pictures of herself. Look at these.” He scrolled down screen after screen, image after image. “Strange. There’s not one picture of her children here.” Priestly leaned closer, peering over his shoulder. “Not one?” “No.” He clicked back onto her profile. Her status was set to single. There was no mention of her being the mother to two children. “Perhaps she used the site exclusively to meet potential boyfriends. Perhaps she didn’t want to scare men off. Perhaps she wanted to get to know someone first, before telling them that she was a single mum.” “Makes sense,” said Priestly. “Nothing out of the ordinary in that, I suppose.” Two knocks sounded against the front door. “Sorry to disturb you.” Henry Franklin shuffled through to the kitchen, his ex-wife not far behind him. “We’re Jacqueline’s parents. We were told to meet you here, to talk about her disappearance.”

Chapter Nine “Now we’ve established a chain of events,” said Hepworth, “I’m going to have to ask you some personal questions about your daughter. Please don’t be offended. At this stage, I really do have to be rather direct regarding her private life.” “Okay,” said Henry. “Ask away.” “Thank you. Now, we understand that your daughter wasn’t involved with anyone romantically, but what was her relationship like with her previous partner, the father of her children? Did they, as far as you know, get on? Were there any arguments regarding the children, access, anything like that? Moreover, is he a violent or aggressive man, someone capable of breaking into the house, smashing all your daughter’s belongings? Is he capable of harming her in any way?” “No, no,” Jane answered emphatically. “While they may have had their differences, Ryan’s not that type of person. He’s a very quiet, gentle sort, not in any way violent, probably due to all the marijuana he’s smoked over the years.” “Marijuana?” said Hepworth. “A drug user? If that’s the case, then does your daughter, to the best of your knowledge, also take recreational drugs?” Henry and Jane exchanged a quick, nervous, worried look. “You may as well tell him,” Jane said to Henry.

“There’s no point holding anything back, the police need to know everything there is to know. That way they’ll have a better chance of finding out what has happened.” “Yes,” Henry told Hepworth. “Over the years, ever since she was about fifteen or sixteen, ever since we divorced, Jacqueline has regularly used drugs. At first just cannabis or marijuana or whatever you want to call it. But later on we’re pretty sure she used harder substances. What, we’re not certain? Ecstasy? Cocaine? Heroin?” Hepworth took a moment to digest this. “And did her drug-taking ever become a problem? Did it ever affect her ability to look after her children? Did it lead to any police action or visits from the social services?” “From time to time,” said Jane. “Not problems with the authorities as such. But she suffered from terrible post-natal depression, was never quite the same afterwards, and when she and Ryan split up she went off the rails, sometimes didn’t pick the children up from school.” “Just like yesterday?” “Yes, just like yesterday. And she’s had terrible money problems of late. We’ve been forever bailing her out. One time I sat down and tried to work out her finances, and couldn’t for the life of me understand how she’d got into such a mess. But I suppose she must’ve been spending it on drugs.”

“And do you have any idea where she might’ve been getting the drugs from? More to the point, considering yesterday’s events, do you think she may’ve got into debt with drug dealers? Were you aware of any problems of this kind?” “No, no,” said Henry. “She never discussed such things. Although, like Jane just said, she was forever asking to borrow money – twenty-pounds here, fifty pounds there – but it had gone on for so long, we’d both lost patience with her, she’d cried wolf once too often, and if she ever asked for a loan, we turned her down, point-blank.” “That’s understandable,” said Hepworth. “We’ll speak to local police, find out who supplies drugs to young people in the area, see if we can’t establish some kind of link. Perhaps your daughter had been receiving threats and decided to disappear, to lie low for a while.” “You really think so?” “It’s a possibility,” said Hepworth. “Are there any family members or close friends, people she trusts, people she might’ve contacted, where she might be hiding out?” “No,” said Jane. “Not that I can think of. Both Henry and I come from small families. We stay in touch with relatives but are not particularly close. Most of Jacqueline’s friends live in town, are young mothers just like her. There aren’t many other people I can think of, apart from that awful

tattooist.” “Tattooist?” “Yes,” she replied. “Jacqueline has, how can one put it? – dozens of tattoos, up and down her arms mostly, hideous things. And well, she got some of them before her eighteenth birthday – which was illegal. As you can imagine, we went berserk, wanted to know exactly where she’d had them done. In the end, after much haranguing, we finally managed to get it out of her, the name of the chap she’d gone to see. And you couldn’t have dreamt up a more unsavoury character –Bogus or The Boge is what the youngsters call him, although I think his real name is Bogdanovic. We tracked him down to a dilapidated caravan on a strip of wasteland just outside of town, near some woods. Couldn’t believe it, the place was like a rundown gypsy camp, stunk like an open sewer, dogs on chains, burnt-out cars. And the man himself, well! Impossibly tall, thin as a rake, covered from head to toe in tattoos, long straggly hair down his back, all these tribal beads around his neck, eyes like flying saucers. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s the one supplying drugs around here, from the look of him. What a sight! He was like some sort of shambling shaman, had a shaved monkey perched on his shoulder, for pity’s sake. And when we confronted him, he started rambling about God being his only judge, and that if Jacqueline really was under-age

he’d take any punishment we saw fit. He urged us to call the police. By then we were more concerned about her health, whether the needles he used were properly sterilised, and rushed her to the local hospital for blood tests, which, thankfully, all came back clear.” “And you say your daughter has had several more tattoos?” Both parents nodded. “By the same man?” “That we don’t know,” said Henry. “She never told us, and our relationship, how we communicate, has deteriorated over the years. “ “Okay,” said Hepworth. “For the time being, we’ll start speaking to people in town, your daughter’s friends, those closest to her, and a couple of other locals who’ve come to our attention. If nothing is heard from her by tonight, we’ll make the information public, contacting the local press and news stations, which will probably culminate in a televised appeal. Are you comfortable with appearing in front of the press?” “Yes, yes,” Jane answered for them both. “Finally” said Hepworth, “there’s no one you know of who’s got a grudge against Jacqueline, anyone who may’ve wanted to get back at her for some reason?” Jane and Henry exchanged another sideways glance. “No,” he said. “Not to our knowledge. She

may’ve knocked around with some, erm…shady characters from time to time, but no-one who would want to harm her in any way, of that I’m certain.”

Chapter Ten Five Days Earlier: The Wednesday Evening There was something about Jonathan Reynolds, a ridiculously well-groomed estate agent, that seriously aggravated Jacqueline. Perhaps it was his self-assuredness, how he displayed no apparent nerves, the way he sat on a leather sofa in a cosy corner of the busy pub, one leg crossed over the other, an arm draped over a cushion, like he was relaxing at home. Or perhaps it was the way he kept asking all the textbook first date questions, focusing the conversation solely on her, paying the occasional compliment. It was far too polished. It made her feel nervous, like this man was always going to be one step ahead of her. “Have you been active on dating websites, then, Jacqueline? Or is this your first time?” “I’ve met a few people on-line – nothing serious, though. What about you?” “Well, I lead a very busy life, with work and my various hobbies, so internet dating makes good sense. I’m a bit of a fitness nut, you see, lots of running and cycling, marathons and iron man challenges.” “Iron man?” she said, trying not to laugh. While he clearly looked after himself, he was quite short, maybe five foot six (shorter than Jacqueline, in

fact) and of slight build – not exactly the image the words iron man brought to mind. “Yes,” he went on, not noticing the mocking smile curling her lips. “I try and compete in half a dozen or so triathlons a year, mainly in the summer months when the weather’s a bit better.” “Triathlons? Is that like cycling and swimming and running? I remember watching the Olympics in London.” Very deliberately she looked him up and down. “I don’t think I’ve been out with an iron man before.” She ran her tongue over her top lip and gave him her best sultry stare. “You must be quite a specimen. May I?” She reached over and squeezed one of his biceps – which clearly massaged his ego. It was pathetic, she thought to herself, one simple compliment and men lose all composure, all sense of superiority. “Very impressive,” she said, shifting closer. “And I bet you’ve got a six-pack, haven’t you?” “Well…” He almost blushed. “I think I’d like to see that sometime.” “I bet you would.” *** “Thanks for the drink.” Karen guzzled back pear cider from a pint glass crammed with ice-cubes. “Can’t tell you how excited I’ve been today, had my hair and nails done and everything.” “Oh right,” said Aaron, struggling to remember all the things Jacqueline had told him to say. “Very

nice – your hair and nails, I mean.” “Ah, thanks, Aaron.” She smiled at him, her fleshy cheeks already flushed with good-feeling. “And it’s certainly busy in here tonight, for midweek, for the end of October.” “Yeah.” He turned and looked at the waiting staff ferrying plates to and from nearby tables. “You used to go out with that Jade girl, didn’t you?” Karen didn’t give him a chance to answer. “She’s very pretty. My sister said you were together for ages.” “Yeah we were,” he said, suddenly struck by the fact. “I’ve, erm…not really had a proper relationship since.” He lowered his eyes. “S’pose I just want to settle down, to meet someone special. Do you know what I mean?” “I know exactly what you mean, Aaron.” She reached across the table and put a hand over one of his. “And maybe that someone special could be me.” *** “Yeah, most weekends,” Jonathan slurred, sounding half-drunk already, “I usually run ten k along the beach. Good for the quads, especially (hiccup) on the dry sand. You can’t beat a good rush of endorphins…” Jacqueline had stopped listening, a voice at the bar; a man with a grating south London accent, just out of sight, capturing her full attention.

“Nah, come on, mate, what you need behind the bar is a fit-looking bird, blonde, big tits. Only way to bring the facking punters in. Yeah. Bit of talent, bit of eye facking candy.” Everything he was saying encapsulated everything Jacqueline hated most about men, how they stereotyped women, making degrading comments, talking as if every female was put on the planet purely for their pleasure. “Are you all right?” said Jonathan, sensing that her attention was elsewhere. “No, I’m not! Are you listening to this prick?” “Prick? What prick?” “That idiot at the bar, going on about barmaids, how they only work in pubs so men can ogle them. I’ve got a good mind to go over there and tell him to shut the fuck up.” “What?” said Jonathan. “I –” But Jacqueline had already shot to her feet and stormed through to the main part of the bar, where she found a runtish, balding man waving a jerky finger at a spotty, bewildered-looking barman. “Hey!” She prodded him in the back. “Why don’t you shut your mouth? You’re talking a load of bullshit. No-one wants to hear your sexist bollocks.” “You – You what?” He was so shocked he could barely form his words. “Yeah,” said the barman, encouraged by

Jacqueline taking a stand. “You’ve finished your drink.” He whipped the empty pint glass off the counter. “So why don’t you go home? You’re not the kind of person we want drinking here.” “But I –” “Go!” shouted Jacqueline. “You’re pissed. And you’ve made a right dick of yourself.” Sheepish now, he looked from Jacqueline to the barman, mumbled a few words under his breath, turned and stumbled over to the door. When Jacqueline returned to the sofa, Jonathan appeared to have sobered up a bit. “I don’t know why you just did that. It was stupid, unnecessary. Why question someone you don’t want any answers from?” “What?” “Pubs are full of idiots like him, regurgitating the same sexist nonsense. By calling him out you’re only showing that a dinosaur like him can still get to you.” “I’m just sick of having to listen to that shit, to muppets like him putting women down, talking about us like we’re nothing more than slabs of meat. All my life I’ve had to suffer twats like that. And I’m not having it. If something pisses me off, I won’t just sit there like a good little girl, nodding my head politely.” “Whoa!” He raised his hands defensively. “I couldn’t agree more. Only I don’t see there being

much benefit in such a confrontation. You know that old saying – Don’t argue with idiots. They’ll bring you down to their level then beat you with experience.” Jacqueline couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Ha! I suppose. Look. Do you want to come back to mine?” *** “Well, I don’t know.” Karen bit into her bottom lip. “Do you think it’s a good idea, going back to my flat? We don’t want to rush things.” “It’s only a late drink,” Aaron said as casually as possible. “And we’ll be able to carry on talking, getting to know each other.” “Okay, then.” She picked up her glass and drained her cider so quickly, the ice-cubes rattled and clunked, thudding against her top lip. Placing the glass back on the table, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “But – But we best not get too carried away, not on the first night. I mean, you can stay if you want to, you can sleep in my bed but…”

Chapter Eleven As the overhead conveyor belt clunked and rattled, Aaron grabbed a plucked turkey from a hook with one hand, and drove a long serrated drawing tool, like a giant corkscrew, up into the bird with the other, twisting and pulling, the entrails splashing into the blood-stained pit below. Such was the noise, the clamour, he didn’t notice the two plainclothed police officers, one male, one female, walking into the outbuilding, scrunching over straw and sawdust. Only when the belt juddered to a halt did he turn his head. “Who are you?” “Detective Inspector Daniel Hepworth.” He took out a wallet and showed Aaron his identification. “We need to ask you a few questions, Mr Wells.” “Questions? Why? What about? I – I ain’t done nothing wrong.” “No one said you had,” said Hepworth. “But a young woman of your acquaintance, a Miss Jacqueline Franklin, went missing yesterday afternoon. No-one has seen or heard from her since. Her house was broken into, lots of damage done to her property.” “Jacqueline?” Aaron said her name like he’d never heard it before. “That’s right,” Hepworth replied. “You do know her, don’t you?”

“Erm, yeah, yeah I do. We’re, erm…friends.” “Good. If you’d like to come this way, then, your line manager has been kind enough to let us use his office.” *** “Let me get this straight, Mr Wells,” said Hepworth. “You claim that, for the last week or so, you and Miss Franklin have been grooming men and women on dating websites, meeting them in town, and then deliberately infecting them with a sexual disease?” He nodded and lowered eyes red and brimming with tears. “Why, Mr Wells?” Hepworth glanced at Priestly – this was the last thing either of them had expected to hear. “Why would you do such a thing?” No response. “Okay,” said Hepworth. “Let’s recap on what you’ve told us so far. You met Miss Franklin in a pub one night. You had unprotected sexual intercourse. A few days later, you noticed a rash of some kind. You visited your GP who diagnosed a possible S.T.I., and advised you to book an appointment at the main hospital for a full sexual health check.” He checked his notes, turning a page. “That evening, the Tuesday, I believe, you called round to Miss Franklin’s house to confront her, and she told you that she had knowingly

infected you with said S.T.I., that she was trying to get back at the man who’d originally infected her, to get back at all men like him, men who exploit women. And during your subsequent conversation she persuaded you to help her, to sign up for a dating website, to meet local women and infect them, too. Is that just about the gist of it?” No response. “Mr Wells, you’re going to have to respond at some stage. Do you not understand the seriousness of the situation? Miss Franklin has been missing for some time now. She’s the mother of two young children. If she doesn’t turn up soon we’ll have to open a full-blown criminal investigation. And in the light of the information you’ve just given us, you will undoubtedly be considered one of the prime suspects. Moreover, to have gone around deliberately infecting sexual partners like this could well lead to a whole host of separate criminal charges.” “What?” Aaron sniffed and lifted his head. “But – But I’d never do anything to hurt Jacqueline. I love her. We’re gonna get together, properly, once this whole thing is over.” “What whole thing? What are you referring to?” “Her plan, to infect the whole town, to make all those bastard men sit up and take notice, to change their ways.” “I – I see,” said Hepworth. “And did Miss

Franklin tell you how many men she’d slept with since contracting the infection?” “’Bout seven or eight, I think she said?” “And did she mention any names to you?” “No, not really. But you could probably find out if you could access her profile on the dating website we’ve been using – meetyournewlover.com.” “Meet your new lover,” Hepworth repeated, slowly. “Okay. And the old boyfriend, the man who originally infected Miss Franklin, did she tell you his name? Was he a local man, to the best of your knowledge?” “Erm, yeah, yeah he is, but I only know his first name: Jason. And I don’t know what he does or whereabouts he lives, just that he’s from ’round this way, and that Jacqueline hates the bastard. Her friend Katie could probably tell you all ’bout him.” Hepworth nodded to Priestly, gesturing for her to make a note of that. “And when was the last time you saw or spoke to Miss Franklin?” “Oh, I’m, erm…I’m not sure. We both went out and met people last Friday – her ex-partner had the kids for the weekend, see – and we met briefly afterwards and made arrangements to speak later in the week, but it were always her that contacted me. She didn’t like it if I tried to get hold of her, said it freaked her out a bit.”

“I see.” Hepworth scribbled down a few notes of his own. “And where were you on the day Miss Franklin went missing?” “Here, at work. You can ask anyone, you can check my timesheet, when I punched in and out, didn’t leave the factory or main site all day, always have my lunch in the canteen with the rest of the lads. They’ll vouch for me all right.” “Okay, Mr Wells.” Hepworth got to his feet. “Thank you for your time. You can get back to work now. But I must warn you, we’ll need to speak to you again, and the information you’ve provided us with today could, as I mentioned before, lead to charges being brought against you. For the time being, I would advise you to contact all the women you’ve had unprotected intercourse with recently, informing them that they may have contracted some kind of infection. That way, you’ll at least have tried to right the grave wrong you and Miss Franklin knowingly perpetrated.” *** “What do you make of all this, Di?” She blew out some air and placed her phone on the dashboard. “I don’t really know. The lad is clearly a bit simple, a bit of a yokel, I suppose you’d say, but still, how’d the Franklin woman persuade him to go around infecting people with a sexual disease? Who’d agree to that? It’s beyond the pale. It’s sick. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Agreed,” said Hepworth. “But I’m certain Wells is telling the truth. A story like that is far too unlikely to have been a product of his limited imagination. And if nothing else it sheds a little more light on the message spray-painted on the bedroom wall: see how you like it.” “What? So you think it was an act of revenge – smashing up all her belongings like that?” “Maybe. Then again, it doesn’t really explain why she’s gone missing. But for now, I think we should work from the premise that one of the men she slept with recently is involved in her disappearance.” He slid a key into the ignition. “So we better get over to the local station and check her laptop again, see if we can’t access the dating website Wells mentioned.”

Chapter Twelve When Hepworth accessed the website, he was directed straight to Jacqueline Franklin’s profile. “Right.” He clicked on her message folder, finding hundreds of old electronic conversations. Starting from the bottom of the page, he scrolled up, reading each message intently, jotting down notes every now and then, the name and email address of each man. Soon a clear pattern emerged; the way Jacqueline would start out asking general questions: What type of music do you like? What do you do at weekends? Do you have any hobbies? All very innocent, the typical kinds of questions a person would ask when trying to get to know somebody on a dating website. But then, after contact had been established, perhaps a little rapport built up, usually based upon common interests, Jacqueline became increasingly flirtatious (and these changes could take place within a matter of minutes, in the exchange of a dozen or so instant messages). One of her favourite lines, one repeated to many different men, was: I don’t usually feel this kind of instant connection with someone. Maybe we should have a drink together – soon as possible – that way we’ll know if there’s really this much chemistry between us.

On nearly every occasion, the man receiving the message had responded positively, suggesting that they meet within the next few days. But, invariably, there was no follow-up message after, presumably, the night out in question, so Hepworth had no way of finding out what had happened when they met for the first time. He wrote the words one night stand in the margins of his notebook and circled them a few times. As he read on, the same pattern continued, the same messages were replicated over and over again, suggesting that she had taken to copying and pasting old messages to new potential dates, only it was clear, by the sheer volume of men she was now approaching, and discarding (presumably because they were unsuitable), that she had decided to ratchet things up a level. One of the more recent messages (and this was after over three hours of scrolling and reading and taking notes) immediately caught Hepworth’s eye. It was from a Jonathan Reynolds, the angry expletives and exclamation marks almost jumping off the screen. You skanky fucking bitch! This morning I woke up with a rash on my penis. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Or are you such a filthy whore, falling

in and out of bed with all-comers, you didn’t even know you were infected with something! I hope you’re fucking ashamed of yourself. But I doubt a common slag like you has much of a conscience. All that bullshit about men degrading women! Ha! What a joke! You’re degrading yourself. You’re the worst kind of slapper there is. Mark my words. I’ll get you bloody back for this, if it’s the last thing I ever do!

Chapter Thirteen In the early evening gloom, Michael Babb got out of the SUV, slamming the door shut behind him. “All right, Jason?” he called out to a skinny, shaven-headed young man stood in front of the house. “Yeah, yeah, MB,” Jason shouted back, raising a shaky, uncertain hand in greeting, “– all’s good.” Adjusting the collar on his camel-skin coat, Babb walked up the garden path, running an appraising eye over the two red-bricked former council properties that had been knocked into one, taking in each newly-fitted window, the skip outside, crammed with the old rotten frames, busted-up furniture, a cracked plastic bath tub, tables and chairs, curtain rails. “You got the place up and running, all spick and span, then?” he asked. “’Cause I don’t want any fuck-ups. I want the next lot straight in, rooms allocated, contracts exchanged, rent books signed, paperwork filed, everything above board. You get me?” “Yeah, I get you, Mike. There shouldn’t be any fuck-ups. I’ve spent all day clearing stuff, loading it into the skip. All the rooms are ready, just the way you told me – six to a room.” Babb put a hand on Jason’s shoulder – he flinched wildly, as if fearing a blow to the face.

“Whoa! You’re a bit jumpy, ain’t you?” He grinned and gave Jason’s cheek a couple of light slaps. “Come on, then. Let me have a look at the place, then we can sit down and talk about your duties.” *** “You know something, Jason? People warned me about giving you a job.” Babb glared at him across the kitchen table, as if to emphasise the point. “They told me you were a waste of fucking space, that you’d let me down.” He unscrewed the cap from a bottle of Budweiser and slid it across the tabletop. “Now you know what I need you to do, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I need you to run this place like a fucking borstal. I need you to get my workers to the factory every morning, and run ’em back here at night. I need you to get ’em food to cook, basic stuff, just enough so they won’t fucking starve. Ha! And I need you to collect the rent each week, money for the utilities, gas and electric. If those fuckers think they can come over here and have a free ride, they’ve got another thing coming. Should be thankful our borders are wide open, eh?” He took a swig from his own bottle of beer. “Any questions?” “Erm, no, I, erm…don’t think so. Everything seems straightforward. I’ve got me own room downstairs, the office, like, got to get the girls up in

the morning, load ’em in the van, drive ’em out to the factory, and pick ’em up at the end of the shift. Simples.” “It better be,” said Babb. “I don’t want no hassles, no comebacks, no police or social services sniffing ’round. Far as we’re concerned these girls are legit, hard workers looking for a bit of gainful employment, jobs none of the wasters ’round here want to do.” He took another swig of beer, a longer, deeper one this time. “And, Jason, on no accounts are you to start screwing ’round, sneaking birds into your room at night. If I hear ’bout any nonsense, you’ll wish you were never born. You’ll be meeting my old mate Mr Machete. Okay?” “Yeah, yeah, understood, MB, no funny business. I’m seeing some girl from town now, anyway.” “Really?” Babb leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Talking of birds, did you hear about your ex, that she’s gone missing?” “My ex? Which one?” “That fucking nutcase, Jacqueline, the druggie, the one with two kids, the twins. Didn’t collect ’em from school the other day, her gaff had been turned over, smashed up, and no one’s heard from her since.” “Bloody hell! No-one told me that. Don’t surprise me, though, not right in the head that one, off her face half the time, and got a helluva temper

on her. Yeah. I was well out of that relationship, I can tell you.” “Any idea where she could be, though?” asked Babb, scraping away at the Budweiser label with his thumbnail. “No, none at all. We, erm…didn’t exactly part on very good terms, had to change my bloody mobile number ’cause she kept pumping me abusive texts, couldn’t accept that I didn’t want nothing more to do with her.” “Is that right? Well, if you hear anything, if the Old Bill comes round asking questions, make sure you tell me first, eh? “Yeah, yeah, course, Mike. I’ll give you a call straight away.”

Chapter Fourteen After scrolling up and down Jacqueline’s Facebook page, searching for what she couldn’t have said, Katie came across a link Jacqueline herself had posted, a link to a site dedicated to conspiracy theories. This in itself wasn’t all that surprising. In the past, Jacqueline often went off on one about 9/11, J.F.K. and Marilyn Monroe, subliminal messages in advertising, especially if she’d been smoking weed. Only this looked different. Curious, Katie clicked on the link which directed her to an article entitled: True C.I.A. files, Selective Pestilence, The U.S. Government’s Early Experiments in Population Control The account you about to read was found at the home of former C.I.A. agent Ronald Arthurs (name changed for reasons of national security), in the hours following his mysterious death. Former Special Ops, Arthurs had served with distinction in Vietnam, receiving a Purple Heart for bravery in the field, and was recruited by the agency in the mid-nineteen seventies. His remit, and this is, of course, an area of much conjecture (not to mention vociferous official government denial), was to conduct a series of social experiments, whereby

known homosexuals in prison, those serving short to mid-term sentences, would be injected with a synthetic virus, one which attacked the immune system, and which was transferrable exclusively through sexual intercourse. Once they were released it was Arthurs’ job to keep them under strict surveillance, monitoring their activities closely, where they went, who they interacted with, and who they became involved with sexually. To counterbalance his findings, Arthurs, a lone operative throughout, performed the same experiment on female prostitutes in the area. In a seeming sting, he had dozens of known sex workers arrested and brought to a local police station. On threat of long prison sentences, the women agreed to take part in a bogus medical trial, a single injection that supposedly reduced the risk of sexual infection, but which was the same injection administered to the homosexuals. They were then released back into the community, to be monitored in the exact same way. If the findings were positive, if the virus spread through delinquent sectors of society, causing widespread fatalities, the C.I.A. hoped to use similar tactics on a much larger scale to eliminate undesirable elements, thus exerting control over recent swells in population. This is Arthurs’ story, as recorded in his private notebooks.

Subject A On the first Tuesday of the month, two physicians accompanied me to the penitentiary, where G. had been heavily sedated. A tall, rangy, fairy-cometransvestite, G. insisted on being called by a woman’s name – Rosetta – and was, apparently, saving up for a sex change operation. Several months ago, G. had been arrested in the bay area for soliciting, trying to pick up men outside a nightclub, offering sexual favours for cash, presumably to fund his drug habit, even though a gram of powder, a whole load of uppers and downers, and a few sticks of marijuana had been found in his handbag – enough dope to have constituted a long stay in the country jailhouse, if it weren’t for a history of mental health problems. We administered the injection at midday, waited for the subject to come round, before informing him that, due to a procedural error on behalf of the arresting officers, he was free to go without charge. Day One G. lived in an apartment block in a rundown area of town, all rusted fire escapes and shabby, threadbare clothing draped over makeshift clothes-lines, above a pretty grim-looking Chinese restaurant. There was

a park across the street, with a kid’s play area a little further down, a liquor store and a diner, a movie theatre and a whole series of bars, faggot joints G. was known to regularly frequent. Not much traffic passed the building, allowing me pretty much free access to park my sedan in an out of the way spot, with excellent vantage points of both the front of the building and an alley-way that ran round to the rear. If G. made any kind of a move, there’s no way I could miss him. More importantly, we’d planted a wire in the apartment, concealed in a skirting-board directly below the main window, the one looking out on the street, so I could listen in to whatever was being said inside. First three hours: no unusual activity, bar G. passing the window every now and then –once holding a telephone (but there must’ve been no answer, because he didn’t speak at all), another time, bare-chested, with what looked like a stocking over the top of his head. A little later, he played a record – a Judy Garland album, probably a greatest hits compilation – and ran himself a bath. Once immersed in the tub he sang along to Over the Rainbow in a high, caterwauling type of voice. At approximately eight o’clock in the p.m., G. left the apartment on foot. He wore hot pants, stiletto heels, a crop-top, falsies, or a brassiere filled

with tissue paper, to give the impression of a sizeable bust. On his head was a curly blonde wig, over his shoulder, a slim leather handbag. I got out of the car and followed him down to Fakes, one of the more notorious faggot joints in the area. From across the street, and the sidewalks were busy at this hour, with people spilling in and out of bars, diners, or queuing for the movie theatre, I was able to conceal myself behind some trash cans, remaining completely inconspicuous, watching G.’s activities through the bar’s big plate glass window. Theatrically, he embraced numerous males, exchanged many kisses on the mouth, talked with great animation, gesturing with his arms, throwing back his head and laughing. He drank two cocktails from a long-stemmed glass. He danced and flirted with several new arrivals before finally pairing off with one man in particular. After what looked like an intense conversation, G. and the mark went and sat in a booth concealed from view. It got dark. Loud music and colourful strobe lights started to pound and flash from Fakes and the other bars in the area. Every time a door opened, a wall of sound; a thumping bass line or frantic disco beat would blare out. Not so many people were on the streets now, which made my vantage point a little more exposed. At just after ten o’clock, G. exited the bar, hand

in hand with the same man I’d seen him talking to earlier, the mark he went and sat down with, a man wearing a tight T-shirt and flared denims. With a wary look over their shoulders, they cut down an alley-way that ran behind the back of Fakes. To be safe, I waited a full minute before crossing the street, and ducking down the same alley-way, a dank, dark, narrow space, only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time. Up ahead, a light to the rear of Fakes illuminated an alcove, what looked like a former entrance that had been bricked up. From this alcove, I could see human shapes, shadows cast against the concrete path, moving this way and that. Careful not to make a sound, I crept towards the light. The closer I got I could hear rustling and panting breath, a slapping sound, that of flesh against flesh. Angling my head, I saw the two men, G., naked from the waist down, bent over double, hands clasped around his ankles, showcasing surprising suppleness, while the mark, standing, his hands on his hips, sodomised him from behind, occasionally slapping one of his buttocks. “Yeah, yeah,” panted G.. “I want you to hurt me, humiliate me, treat me like a piece of trash, destroy me.” Their coupling went on for a very long time. When I first clocked them in flagrante delicto, I checked my wristwatch – ten past the hour. When I checked again, and it was nearly half-past, I

decided to withdraw – there was nothing more to see here. When the mark finally shuffled out of the alleyway, I made a foolish mistake – acting rashly, because G. didn’t immediately follow him. Approximately four minutes elapsed – still no sign. So I dashed back across the street, and peered down the alley-way, only to bump straight into G.. “Hey, what are you doing, buddy?” he said, puckering lips which looked to have been covered in a thick reapplication of crimson lipstick. “Say, are you Rolando?” Thinking on my feet, I said as indifferently as possible, “No. I ain’t no Rolando. I’m just looking for a place to take a piss.” “A piss!” he said, affecting outrage, a hissy fit. “Get away from me, you barbarian, you animal. Respectable people don’t piss in the streets. There are plenty of establishments around here with perfectly good restrooms.” As he stormed back into the club, I mumbled out a vague apology, turned and crossed the street, back to my previous spot, behind the trash cans. While jotting down notes, I heard another burst of rolling sound, music coming from Fakes, spilling out of the opened door. I looked up. G. and another guy, much like the first mark, and with the same wary look over his shoulder (no doubt checking for a squad car), ducked down the same alley-way.

This time I didn’t bother to reconnoiter the scene. One: it was too risky, having just clumsily interacted with the subject, letting him see my face. Two: I had no doubt as to what was taking place round the back there. In all, there were six other visits to the alley-way, with six different men. Most of the sex acts went on for ten-plus minutes, and were presumably of a purely anal penetrative nature. Two visits, however, were much briefer, under five minutes, which may indicate acts of oral sex. In the original incidence, I saw or heard of no evidence of prophylactics being used, only three references to a branded lubricant. After each sex act G. received a cash payment (I saw him slip money into his handbag), how much, I was unable to ascertain. At half-past midnight, G. walked alone to Collars and Cuffs, a nightspot a few hundred yards from Fakes, but the doorman refused him admission, citing intoxication and unsuitable attire. “Do you know who I am, you silly little freak?” shouted G. “I’ll have your job for this.” Seemingly at a loss, still agitated by the scene with the doorman, G. smoked a cigarette under a bright orange street light, one hand on his hip, one foot tapping away impatiently. After three or four pulls, he tossed the cigarette to the sidewalk, scrunched it out with a stiletto heel, and proceeded to another nightspot called Charlie’s. Outside, G.

ran into two middle-aged men dressed in well-cut suits. After a brief exchange of words, they hailed a taxi. Here I feared I might lose them, but heard G. say to the driver: “It’s just a few blocks, but my heels are killing me.” To my relief, after running back in the direction of G.’s apartment, I spotted all three of them walking inside the building through the front entrance, jostling each other, laughing loudly. As fast as I could I crossed the street, slipped inside my car, and put the earpiece into my ear. Through a burst of rolling static, I could clearly make out three voices: G. girly, theatrical, fairy tones, and two much deeper male voices, both with a hint of the East Coast about them, New Yorkers, maybe. G: Right…drinks, drinks (sound: padding feet.) Man #1: Fuck the drinks, baby. You got yourself a couple of stiff cocks to suck on here. Sounds: Giggling, more padding feet. Man #2: Yeah. We ain’t come up here for no fancy booze, but to get that pretty little mouth of yours working. I looked up to the window just as G., clearly visible

in the lamplight, drew the curtains. G: Whoa, look at the size of these things. (Sounds: sucking, squelching noises, the odd low grunt and moan.) I – I don’t think I’ve ever seen ones this big before. This continued for approximately three minutes. Then the subjects must’ve gone through to the bedroom, for I heard more rustling, chairs being scraped across a tiled floor, more giggling. After that, all I could make out were bed springs squeaking, a lot of huffing and puffing and groaning. A few minutes before dawn, the two strangers slipped out of the apartment, looking bleary-eyed and dishevelled. Day Two It was a little after three o’clock in the p.m. when G. reappeared, walking out of the building, crossing the street, and entering the diner. There he stayed for approximately one hour. When I reconnoitered, I saw him sitting at a window seat alone, flicking through a glossy magazine, but was unable to establish whether he had eaten a meal or simply drunk coffee (on my second pass, a waitress was topping up his coffee cup).

When he returned to the apartment he immediately made a phone call. “Is that Rolando? No, no, you don’t know me, sweetie…some very naughty boys at Fakes have been telling me some very naughty things about you…yeah, that’s right, baby, I go all the way. I’ll do things to you that you wouldn’t believe…right away? Well, aren’t you just peachy keen? Ooh, don’t worry about that, honey pie, just bring yourself. Leave everything else up to me…you know the address, right? Great. I’m getting all excited just thinking about it…of course you can bring a friend. The more the merrier…Yeah, that’s right, fifty bucks, and you can do whatever you wanna to do me.” Approximately one hour and twenty minutes after the phone call, two men, one white, one black, both in their mid- to late thirties, both with short, neat haircuts, both well-dressed, raincoats over what looked like expensive suits, got out of a taxi, paid the driver, and walked into the building. I put my earpiece in and listened. G. was humming a tune to himself, shuffling around the room. From the window, I saw a glimpse of him, wearing a much darker, longer wig than last night, although the rest of his attire was not observable. Sounds: Two knocks at the door, door unfastening, a chain, latch, hinges squeaking.

G: So good to meet you, such strapping boys…ooh, I can just tell this is going to be great. Can I take your coats, gentlemen? Sounds: rustling, footsteps clicking over tiles, chairs being scraped back. G: That’s right, sit yourselves down. Now would you like me to mix you a drink or –? Sounds: rapid movements, a slap, a thud, a crash, a soft whimpering noise, like crying. Man #1: Stop your balling, fairy. You know why we’re here. And it ain’t gonna cost us no fifty bucks, neither! Take her down, Johnny, get that gag in her mouth. Let’s get her into the bedroom, let’s fuck her ass until she bleeds, let’s rip this fairy in fucking half! Sounds: ripping clothes, tape tearing from a reel, muffled sobs, crashing and banging. I looked up to the window. One of the men, the white man, pulled the curtains shut. After that, all I could hear were squeaking bed springs, panting, the occasional exchange of breathless words, muffled sobbing.

This went on for approximately three hours, until the men reappeared, hailing a cab directly outside the building, and disappearing amongst the early evening traffic. Exactly ten minutes after they left (and I made a note of this), G. made a telephone call. “Oh, Pauly, I’ve just been attacked, assaulted in my own apartment…Yeah, yeah…I’m all busted up and bleeding. I can’t get it to stop…Yeah, yeah, it was nasty. These two guys, friends told me to call them, said they were…no, no, they didn’t even have the decency to use any rubbers…could you come over and look after me, Pauly? Please, honey. They hurt me real bad. I don’t think I can clean myself up on my own…No! I don’t wanna go to the emergency room…come on, Pauly, I’ve always been there for you in the past…how can you say it’s my own fault! Why, you bastard! All the things I’ve done for you…No! Don’t bother calling tomorrow; don’t call me ever again! In all I maintained close surveillance of G. for sixteen weeks. According to medical experts, the virus would take approximately three months to show up in a blood test, but, other symptoms – rashes and weeping sores on the genitals, scabs on the chest area, blood in stools, vomiting, and general virus-like, flu symptoms: high temperature, cold sweats – could all manifest within days of

unprotected intercourse. Towards the end of this period, I followed G. to a medical drop-in centre, one that specialised in sexual infections. He stayed there for three hours (presumably due to the numbers of people awaiting treatment), before walking back to his apartment, a brown bag, undoubtedly containing medicines of some kind, wedged under his arm. After the surveillance period, when we accessed his medical records, we found reference to nearly all the above symptoms. Tellingly, none of the antiviral medication he was prescribed had any effect whatsoever. The following month, G. was referred to the county hospital for more extensive tests. In the interim, I tracked down many of the males G. had had unprotected intercourse with. Nearly all had sought out medical help, and nearly all had failed to respond to treatment, too. In several extreme cases there were reported seizures, strokes, cardiac episodes, internal bleeding and rapid hair loss. Clearly the bodies of those infected couldn’t deal with the strength of the virus, the way it attacked the immune system. In the local press, practitioners were quoted as saying that the numbers of people, mainly promiscuous homosexuals, recently admitted to hospital with severe, debilitating, symptoms (and they listed many of them) had reached epidemic proportions. In short, the experiment in the

homosexual community has been an unqualified success. In a handful of months, hundreds of gay men were visiting clinics or emergency rooms. A few months after that, we had our first reported fatality. Day One-Hundred and Fourteen Subject P. After receiving the injection, P., a twenty-six-yearold, mixed race, mother of two, returned to the prefabricated home she shared with her children. This dilapidated dwelling, with boarded-up windows, a busted fence and scruffy overgrown lawn strewn with all kinds of cast-off materials: rusted bicycle frames, deflated, mildewed paddling pool, was in one of the most deprived areas of the city, a virtual shanty town, where armed gangs drove up and down the streets, bums slept out on the sidewalks, emaciated dogs sniffed around overflowing trashcans, young children ran around naked and barefoot, an area with an incredibly high crime rate – particularly rapes and murders. Within the hour, a rattling Oldsmobile pulled up outside the prefab, and a tall, well-built Hispanic male in tight-fitting denims and a leather jacket, (later identified as Ricardo Garcia, P.’s pimp), got out and entered the property without ringing the

bell or knocking on the door. As with all other surveillance operations, the residence had been fitted with a wire. Therefore, I could listen in to everything that was being said through an earpiece. Garcia: So yo’ go and get yo’ stupid muthafuckin’ ass arrested! Yo’ expect me to believe that shit? Sounds: A solitary thwack, slap, a gasp of breath and muffled sobbing (intermittent, as if P. is trying to suck back tears). Garcia: Now, yo’ listen and listen good, bitch. I lost myself a whole night’s dollar ’cos of yo’. So yo’ better work that pussy of yours down to the fuckin’ bone tonight, yo’ hear me? I got credit with yo’, bitch. I wanna see some serious green. If not, I be takin’ it out on yo’ ass myself. Yo’ understand me? He beat her some more before leaving, climbing back into his car, and skidding off in a cloud of dust. In the hours that passed before evening, little of note took place. In the kitchen, P. prepared herself a TV dinner, taking a ready-meal from the freezer, and putting it in the oven. When the food was ready she turned on the television (a melodramatic soap opera of some kind) and sat and ate at the

kitchen table, while presumably watching the show. After what could only have been a few mouthfuls (approximately two and a half minutes had elapsed), she got up and scraped the contents of the foil tray into the trashcan, muttering something about “can’t eat nuthin’ after that bastard go hit me so hard.” At dusk, a fat girl (also mixed race, and later identified as the subject’s younger sister Jermaine) called round to the house with P’.s two young children. In what quickly turned into a heated argument, P. pleaded with her sister to take the children back to the family home. Jermaine: But momma, she say yo’ gotta look after the children tonight. She say she ain’t no muthafuckin’ kindergarten. I catch hell if I bring them back with me, girl. Sounds: both children started to sob, pleading, through tears and mounting distress, for the grownups to stop shouting. P: But look at my face, Jermaine. If I don’t get my ass out on the street and hustle me up some serious dollar, I be in for some more of the same. The force of her arguments eventually won the sister round. Approximately forty minutes after

arriving, she exited the house with the two children, walked up the street and out of sight. P. took a shower. In the bedroom afterwards, she prepared for the evening, got dressed, sprayed deodorant and perfume, and applied (presumably) creams and make-up to her battered face. Thirty minutes later (at 9.48 p.m.), she left the house wearing a tight crimson-red top, leather miniskirt, no stockings, high heels, with a faux-crocodile skin handbag over her shoulder. I got out of the car and followed her on foot. P. walked a few hundred yards, six blocks in all, to the corner of Jenson and Mount Street, a lively area with a dozen or so bars close by, strip joints, titty shows, that type of thing. As I concealed myself across the street, a car pulled up to the sidewalk. “Hey, baby,” a man, quite young, with shoulderlength hair, leaned out of the window and shouted. P. walked over. “How much for a good hard screwin’?” P. answered quickly but I was too far away to hear her reply. The driver pointed across the sidewalk to a disused piece of waste ground round the back of a liquor store, all cracked concrete and rusted wire fences, an area which looked like it was now used as a temporary car park for customers visiting the store.

P. followed the car as it turned off the main street and parked up. In turn, I waited until she’d slipped into the passenger side before crossing over to the liquor store and reconnoitering the area. Too exposed for me to get a closer look, I remained on the corner, every now and then peering around the store to check on the car. In a matter of minutes, the vehicle started to rock and the windows steamed up. Due to the glare from nearby street lights, I could just about make out movement from the back seat, heads bobbing up and down, arms flailing. I checked my watch: 22:14. Four minutes later, the car stopped moving. I crossed to the other side of the street, much further away, but with a free and easy vantage point. When P. eventually got out, she straightened her skirt and top, patted her hair into place, and walked back across the strip of waste ground. As if undecided as to what to do next, she looked right and left before crossing the street in my direction. I sunk back into the shadows, where I knew I would be unobserved, and watched P. cut down an alleyway. Waiting a moment, I shuffled across the sidewalk and angled my head around the corner. Without attempting to conceal herself in any way, and in full glare of a security light, P. took some kind of antiseptic wipe from her handbag, hitched up her

skirt, pulled her panties down to her knees, and cleaned her vaginal and anal areas with the wipe. When finished, she scrunched it up and tossed it to the ground. She then lit a cigarette, drawing on it deeply four or five times in quick succession, exhaling huge clouds of smoke, smoking it all the way down to the filter in an incredibly short space of time. No sooner had she returned to her previous spot on the sidewalk than another mark, a broadshouldered man, causally-dressed, with a baseball cap pulled tightly over his head, approached her – on foot his time. After a brief exchange of words, they walked two blocks (the mark ten or so paces ahead of P.) to a cheap motel with a beaten-up neon sign flickering above the entrance. From the opposite side of the street, I watched and waited, before crossing over and slipping inside the motel. In a dimly-lit, fusty-smelling reception area a drunk was sprawled out on a couch, snoring loudly, a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag clutched to his chest. In the far corner, by the main staircase, a wiry, sickly-looking old man with a patch over one eye, presumably the proprietor, sat in a reinforced plastic booth, like a cashier in a bank (no doubt to protect himself from robbery or attack.) “What’d you want, buddy?” he asked, not once taking his good eye off the ball game flickering on a portable TV down to his right.

I slid a ten-spot along the counter, under the plastic window. “The guy who just came in here with the broad, which room did they take?” “Room fourteen.” He quickly pocketed the money. “Up the stairs, right at the end of the landing. You can take a look, buddy, but don’t you go harassing nobody. This is a respectable establishment. We don’t like our clientele being bothered none. It ain’t good for business.” “Don’t worry,” I said. “I just wanna look around.” Once up the stairs, I crept down the landing and put my ear to door number fourteen. “Yeah,” panted the man, his voice rising above groaning bed springs. “How’d that feel, bitch?” “Yeah, yeah, baby, yo’ sure are teaching me a lesson,” said P. (even through the door, she sounded bored and disinterested). “Yo’ sure are one of the best I ever had.” Reconnoitering complete, nature of activities confirmed, I exited the building, withdrawing into a darkened store frontage across from the flophouse. Approximately twenty-five minutes later, P. was back out on the street. Only this time her wait for her next client was much longer. A full half-hour passed before she became involved in an animated discussion with a slightly-built, curly-haired man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit. When they came to some

sort of agreement, P. set off in the direction of her home. Crossing the street, the new mark walked in the same direction, now and then darting a look at P., to confirm that she was still there. When they reached the prefab, they had another exchange of words (in my original notes, I wrote the following: perhaps he wasn’t happy about the location, knowing how dangerous this area could be). Regardless, he followed her up to the house and looked on as she unlocked the door and ushered him inside. By the time I’d got into my car and slipped on the earpiece, the mark was sitting on the sofa. Client: Nice place you’ve got here (tone: facetious, condescending, maybe a little nasty). Now, I don’t mean to alarm you, young lady, but I do have some rather peculiar sexual preferences. P.: That don’t bother me none, ’long as yo’ got the kinda dollar to pay for what yo’ want. Client: Oh, don’t worry about that. Look (sound: rustling, maybe flicking through dollar bills to show that he did indeed have sufficient funds to pay). I’ll give you a big tip if you do whatever I want. P: Hey, yo’ sure got yo’self a roll of bills there, baby. I bet yo’ must be a real important dude,

carryin’ that much bread ’round with yo’. Client: That’s right. I’m a very important man, a, erm…leader of industry, a famous philanthropist. And I want you to call me Sir from now on, okay? And I want you to take off all your clothes, only – only keep those heels on. They’ll come in handy later. When you’re done, I want you to undress me, slowly, item by item. Sounds: rustling, heavy breathing, unfastening, buttons popping.

zippers

Client: That’s it. Now I want you to take these song lyrics (sound: unfolding paper) I want you to suck me off, get me good and hard. Then I want you to use my cock like a microphone. I want you to sing those beautiful words right into it. Okay? A relatively long silence, presumably P. is reading the lyric sheet. P: Hold up a sec here, honey – I mean, sir. This looks like the words to that Hot Chocolate song. Client (agitated, prickly tones): That’s right. What of it? It’s a disco classic. You want an extra fifty bucks or not?

P: Erm, yeah, yeah, sure I do, baby – sir. And don’t you worry (sounds: heels clicking over wooden flooring) I’ll get you good and hard, just like you say, then I’ll sing my lil’ old heart out, just you see if I don’t. Sounds: sucking noises, squelching, a low satisfied murmuring and moaning. This went on for approximately two and a half minutes. P: Right (sound: paper scrunching).I believe in miracles (singing) where you from, you sexy thing… P. sang through two complete renditions of the song. Each time, the client became incredibly aroused, praising her voice through grunts and groans of pleasure, promising her an additional fifty bucks if she sang the song with a little more feeling, and if she inserted a finger into his rectum at the chorus. It was unclear whether any penetrative sex took place (in my original notes I circled the word unlikely), although it would appear that the client climaxed several times. As with all other subjects, I recorded P.’s

movements for a duration of sixteen weeks. In that period, she was an incredibly active sex worker, having maybe ten to a dozen clients each night (not including the times Garcia called round to her home, sometimes with four or five friends, and raped her repeatedly.) Using previous data, it was easy to calculate the potential rate of infection and spread of the disease. Only with the female prostitutes, the virus didn’t proliferate in the same way it did in the homosexual community. This could be due to a number of factors. Most notably: fear of pregnancy made the females more insistent on the use of prophylactics, especially amongst prostitutes (although it must be noted that many sex workers are taking some kind of contraceptive pill or using some kind of contraceptive device). Also: fear of venereal disease. And here the key demographic should be considered: many of the men who secured P.’s services were resoundingly middle-class, very probably married, therefore unlikely to risk contracting any kind of infection that could be passed on to their wives or regular girlfriends. Still this doesn’t account for the inconsistency in numbers, and the lack of concomitant symptoms found in prostitutes and those who used their services compared to those found in homosexual males. One theory suggests a longer incubation period may occur in females infected (although, at this early stage of the

operation, we have no way of verifying this with any kind of scientific certainty). Whatever the outcome, the success of the experiment cannot be denied. If the scope of any similar operation was increased I have no doubt that the agency could eliminate huge numbers of undesirables from society in the most cost-effective manner, such is the purity of the methodology, where those not adhering to social norms of behaviour, the drug users and sexual profligates, would actively be eliminating themselves, in effect, signing their own death warrants. At the end of the report was a comments box. Leave Comments Below: From: TexasBorderControl@ShoottoKill This sounds like the perfect kind of program. If some filthy junkie drop-out injects themselves with a dirty needle and gets infected with a fatal disease – good. One less waste of space to worry about. Same goes for any sexual deviant, fornicator or philanderer, those who don’t live by the Good Book. If you’re gonna fall in and out of bed with all comers, and if you ain’t got the gumption to use a simple condom, then you deserve everything you get. This program might have originated with the C.I.A. but is clearly God’s way of weeding out undesirables. Let their own miserable passions

destroy them. Deviants riddled with sexual infection deserve no better. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Poetic justice. Making the world a cleaner, better, far more harmonious place. Directly below the top comment, Katie was shocked to see that Jacqueline had also left a message, a retort to a similar bigoted rant. From: JacqueFrank89 You self-righteous bastards don’t know what you’re talking about. What about people infected with things like H.I.V. through blood transfusions? What about people infected who were in serious relationships, people who don’t deserve to have their lives ruined? When it comes down to it, not everyone suffering from sexual infections are deviants or undesirables. When it comes down to it, men should always wear condoms, because they’re the complacent, irresponsible bastards who spread these things around!!!!

Chapter Fifteen Post Written on Jacqueline Franklin’s Facebook Page, 31st October 2014 From: Kevin Little - 03: 21 a.m. Lads, don’t go near this skanky Jacqueline Franklin bitch, she’s riddled with VD. Trust me. I know from experience. Hope she rots in hell, the filthy slut. Mark my words. She’s going to get exactly what she deserves. Like Comment Share Priestly got into the car and handed Hepworth a hard copy of Little’s Facebook post. “My word,” he said. “Just like Jonathan Reynolds from the dating website. Looks like Miss Franklin has made herself another enemy.” He handed the print-out back to Priestly. “But I don’t think I’d have been too keen to advertise a sexually transmitted infection on social media.” “He was probably drunk.” “I’d say. And if nothing else it backs up the Wells boy’s story about our missing woman going around spreading a sexual disease.” He turned the key in the ignition, starting the engine. “Have you checked into Little’s background yet?”

“Works in a local bookmakers, thirty-four-yearsold, lives alone, two cautions for possession of small amounts of cannabis, but, by all accounts, a pretty average small town nobody.” “Okay, good.” Hepworth checked the rearview mirror. “We’ll pay him a visit at some stage. For now, let’s go and see this Bogdanovic, the tattoo artist.” The dirt-track leading to Bogdanovic’s homestead was rutted with deep, wide potholes, making the lane difficult to negotiate. On either side of the track were high grassy banks, beyond them woodland and fields. By the entranceway, where a gate of some kind had once been sited, stood two wooden posts, around twelve feet apart, no more than stakes in the ground. On top of the right-hand post was what looked like a pig’s skull; draped over the left post the skeletal remains of dozens of small animals – rodents, rabbits, cats – the bones tied together with string, like puppets, thick rope dangling from each neck, like a gallows scene. Behind this post, on a grass verge, stood a plywood sign with the words The Boge daubed on it in dark-red paint, decorated with long elegant feathers, maybe peacock feathers. “What do you make of this, Dan? – some kind of animal sacrifice?” Hepworth didn’t answer; he was too struck by the curious scene opening up before him: two static

caravans, side by side, both ramshackle, with rusted outer shells and boarded-up windows, behind them a series of wooden outbuildings (maybe former stables), a large pen housing scores of mudspattered pigs, a dilapidated tin shed containing plastic drum-like containers, an old red telephone box, hundreds of garden gnomes, all painted black and white, two stuffed crocodiles by a large area of scorched, blackened earth, what looked like a barbeque pit with charred iron stakes shoved into the ground. “What a place!” Hepworth parked up, unfastened his seatbelt and reached for the door handle. “I don’t think I’ve ever–” “Hold on.” Priestly grabbed his arm. “Those two don’t look too friendly.” Fighting dogs, Irish Terriers with long snouts, both shackled to a lengthy metal chain attached to one of the outbuildings, scampered over, barking, growling, straining at the leash, baring vicious teeth. “What shall we do, Dan?” Hepworth pumped the horn twice. “Wait. Hope this Bogdanovic character is at home.” Almost immediately, a caravan door swung open, and out stepped an incredibly tall, incredibly skinny man with colourful tattoos and shiny piercings all over his face and body. With hollowed-out, concave cheeks, long matted, jet-black hair, he

wore a filthy vest and loose camouflage trousers tucked into army boots, had countless tribal beads around his neck, and feathered earrings dangling past his shoulders, like Red Indian adornments. Hepworth, one eye on the dogs, wound down the window. “Mr Bogdanovic,” he shouted, to be heard above the barking and growling, the snapping and snarling. “We’re police officers. We need to ask you a few questions.” Bogdanovic answered without breaking stride: “I know why you’ve sought me out.” He took hold of the metal chain and, with a strength belying his emaciated frame, dragged the two dogs back inside one of the outbuildings. When he reappeared, he picked up a plastic bucket and walked over to the pigpen. “Well,” said Priestly, “I suppose that’s about as close to a welcome as we’re going to get.” They got out of the car and walked over to the pigpen. His back to them, an elbow resting on the top railing, Bogdanovic scattered handfuls of grainlike feed into the pen. Inside, the pigs snaffled and snorted away, roughly jostling for position. “Strange,” whispered Priestly. “Yes,” Hepworth whispered back. “And I’ve got a feeling this is just the beginning.” Once they’d sidled up alongside Bogdanovic, Hepworth coughed and cleared his throat.

“As I said, Mr Bogdanovic, we need to ask you a few questions.” “All in good time,” was his distracted reply. “A noble creature is the pig, one of God’s finest. Bright, companionable, got the same skin as us humans, you know. And that’s not the only similarity. Each one has its own unique personality, mannerisms, the way they snout around, so full of curiosity. In many ways they’re like young children, into everything, grabbing this and shaking that, ’cause they’re seeing or feeling it for the very first time. Yeah. You won’t find a better friend than one these here porkers.” He turned to face the police officers, his eyes, circled with mascara, were possessed of such an intense, unsettling brightness, they looked almost unreal. “If you wanna talk, best we get ourselves inside, for a hard rain’s gonna fall in ’bout six minutes and twenty-four seconds.” *** “In here” – Bogdanovic opened a flimsy wooden door – “is my waste receptacle-come-compostheap.” The stench that wafted out of the grotty toilet unit had both officers covering their faces. On the floor stood a standard toilet bowl (without a seat) filled to the brim with old potato and carrot peelings, used teabags, and what looked like a sizeable lump of human excrement. “Got a pipe running over to my vegetable plot, see. Won’t get fresher, healthier produce, that you won’t. You can

have a bag of my lettuces to take back with you, if you like.” “Please, Mr Bogdanovic,” said Hepworth. “We really need to –” “And here’s where I skin and hang my meat.” He pointed to the carcasses, the rabbits, pigeons and pheasants hanging above the sink. “All good local stuff, best around.” “Very impressive,” said Priestly. “But we need to speak to you about a missing person, a friend of yours, we believe, a Miss Jacqueline Franklin.” Bogdanovic gave a visible start; his whole demeanour changed, stiffened. “Aye, I know.” He gestured to the worn banquette. “Sit down over there. I’ll help you best I can.” Hepworth sat down first, taking in the cluttered, filthy surroundings, the windows (those which weren’t boarded-up) grimy and covered in mildew, the rubbish bags (containing what, it was impossible to tell) stacked next to piles of old, yellowed newspapers and magazines. “So, you’re well acquainted with Miss Franklin, then?” Bogdanovic, still standing in the kitchenette, his arms folded across his chest, nodded his head. “That I am,” he said. “I s’pose you’ve come to talk ’bout this.” He thrust his wrist forward, into the relative light, showing them a tattoo of a woman’s

face, a woman with long dark hair and heavy makeup around the eyes, a face both Priestly and Hepworth instantly recognised as Jacqueline Franklin. To confirm this, Hepworth asked, “Is that Miss Franklin?” “That it is. For every image I scrape across a person’s skin I have the image of that person scraped across mine. Here. I’ll show you.” He turned around, pulled up his vest, and showed them his bony back, covered in hundreds of tattoos of heads, all around the size of a chicken egg, all intricate and detailed. “See.” Hepworth leaned forward to get a closer look. “So, Mr Bogdanovic, what you’re telling us is that every time you tattoo something onto someone’s body, you have their face tattooed on yours? But who, may I ask, performs the work on your body? Do you have an assistant or –?” “No, no.” Bogdanovic pulled his T-shirt down and turned back to face them. “I’d never let another’s needle profane my body. I scrape these faces across my skin with my own hand.” This was completely preposterous – no person could tattoo their own back; it was a physical not to mention artistic impossibility. Not wanting to get bogged down in irrelevancies, let alone argue such a plainly ridiculous point, Hepworth let it pass. “Okay. Let’s forget about your body art for a

moment, and concentrate on Miss Franklin. We understand that you’ve known her for several years, that she approached you for a tattoo and -” “Incorrect,” said Bogdanovic. “She were sent here by special envoy, by spirit guides, who told her she should have the face of Chief Wanayama, the wise and vengeful one, tattooed on her forearm, for he is the embodiment of the righteous struggle, of the indigenous people’s battle against the white man’s genocidal greed, a greed which wiped Wanayama’s descendents from the face of the earth.” Heavy rain started to hammer against the roof. “Ah!” Excited, Bogdanovic raised his elbows, chicken-wing like and jigged on the spot. “What’d I tell you? Rain!” “Forget about the weather,” said Hepworth, “– this is a very serious matter. Miss Franklin’s parents tell us that she had her first tattoo when she was under-age, and that you were the man who did it. Now, we’re not here today to look into that particular matter, but are you an officially trained and qualified tattoo artist? Have you certificates? Do you adhere to all the health and safety standards required, with regards to needles and hygiene and so forth?” “I have no need of such things.” “But those things, the various accreditations, are a legal requirement, if you want to be a practising

tattoo artist.” Bogdanovic waved his words away Patience stretched, Hepworth shifted position and rubbed a hand across his clean-shaven chin. “Look, Mr Bogdanovic, Miss Franklin went missing two days ago. No one has heard from her or seen her since. It’s our understanding that you were quite friendly, that you not only tattooed her skin but spent time with her and her former partner, here, at your home. So can you please tell us about the nature of your relationship, and when you last saw her?” Bogdanovic scrunched up his face, raised a bony hand, and, counting off with his fingers, did some mental calculations in his head. “I haven’t seen nor heard from her in weeks – not since she fell ill.” “Ill?” asked Priestly, a note of surprise and intrigue in her voice. “I could tell by the eyes,” said Bogdanovic. “I offered her some herbal infusions to help clear the infection, but she refused to admit that there was anything wrong with her.” “And was this meeting here?” “That it was. She often came here to get away from things, to forget her troubles, who she really was in relation to who she so badly wanted to be.” “And what kinds of things did you do? What kinds of things did you talk about?”

“In the main, we worked the yarrow sticks, formed the hexagrams, and discussed our future conduct in accordance with the ancient judgments.” “Yarrow sticks? Hexagrams?” said Priestly. “Are you talking about the I Ching now, The Book of Changes?” Bogdanovic nodded enthusiastically, rifled through some papers lying on the nearby diningtable, dusted off a layer of grime, and handed a single crumpled sheet to Hepworth. “Here, this was our last hexagram, the one that no doubt sealed her fate.” Hepworth studied the sheet of paper: a six-line hexagram, the words WU WANG/INNOCENCE, THE UNEXPECTED printed out in incredibly neat block capitals, below it, in lower case: means misfortune from without. Beside that the commentary: If someone is not as he should be, he has misfortune, and it does not further him to undertake anything. By turning back one is freed of guilt. Hepworth looked up from the sheet of paper. “And you discussed this hexagram with Miss Franklin?” “That I did,” said Bogdanovic. “Were sat round this here table for hours, we were, looking at it

from every conceivable angle, so long, in fact, she were late collecting her children from school. But this were far too important to ignore, this changed everything.” “Changed everything? How so?” “’Cause she were a very conflicted young woman, lots of psychic pain burning in her heart, lots of regret, but she knew she couldn’t simply turn back as the book had told her, knew there was no way to escape her own sense of guilt, knew there was no way out, that she’d have to take radical action.” “What kind of action?” Bogdanovic hunched his thin shoulders, but not in perplexity, more resignation. “There be more than one way to skin a cat.” A long silence. “Okay, Mr Bogdanovic, that’s very interesting. So you hadn’t seen Miss Franklin for some time, but were you aware of any other problems she was having, any arguments or disagreements she may’ve had with local people? Was there, to the best of your knowledge, anyone who may not have been very well disposed to Miss Franklin? Did she have any enemies, anyone who may have wanted to do her harm?” “Her biggest enemy was herself.” “Right, I see, and…” to a series of further general questions Hepworth received a series of

similarly vague, cryptic answers, things he could make little or no sense of. Frustrated, he changed tack. “Did you and Miss Franklin take drugs together? Did you ever supply her with illegal substances?” “Course I did,” said Bogdanovic. “But that be strictly off the record, ’cause, for one, I know you ain’t really bothered ’bout no drugs today, but in getting information ’bout the girl. For two, you’d never find nothing incriminating on these here premises, not if you brought in a whole team of sniffer dogs, not if you turned the place over with a fine toothcomb.” As if to emphasize the point, he dug around in one of his pockets and pulled out an old, tatty comb missing several teeth. “Yeah, she were a great one for trying to cleanse the doors of perception but found no palace of wisdom, only one dead end after another. Completely lost and alone, she weren’t so much a searcher now as a destroyer, but it were a journey she had no other option but to take.” “Journey?” said Hepworth. “Are you talking about some specific destination, a place Miss Franklin might be now?” “Course,” Bogdanovic replied. “Whether earthly or spiritual in being, the soul never dies, never ceases to wander, like Chief Wanayama, she must avenge herself on those who oppressed her, before she will ever be at peace again.”

Chapter Sixteen Three Days Earlier: The Friday Evening “Nice place.” Nicky Thomas smiled nervously. “Sort of up market, flash, but with a few traditional touches.” “That looks so good.” Jacqueline ignored him, making pointed reference to the food the waiting staff was taking over to nearby tables. “Been so rushed today, not had a chance to have anything to eat, feel so hungry right now.” But he was so caught up in trying to make a good impression, to be charming and funny, it went right over his head. Why do men have to be so stupid, she thought to herself, so slow on the uptake? “So what sorts of things do you like to get up to, then?” She felt like telling him the truth: smoking and drinking myself into oblivion every night, just to forget how truly shit my life is. But instead said, “Oh, I’m big into music. I like going to gigs, festivals, which type of thing. I read a lot, too…” but quickly tired of regurgitating personal details to someone she didn’t have much interest in getting personal with. “You know, I get a bit bored of beer sometimes, but it’s just so easy, isn’t it? What shall I have to drink tonight? And the lager pumps are the first things you see, all lit up, staring you in the face.”

Only this time he took the hint. “Really? Me too. I drink a lot of wine at home, you know, mid-week, in front of the Champion’s League football.” He picked up the wine list. “Do you fancy ordering a bottle of red or something? They’ve got some nice stuff on here. My treat.” “Yeah, yeah, why not? That’d be great.” *** “So to be honest with you,” Anita Jones said in a shaky voice, “I’m not really looking to jump straight back into a big relationship or anything like that.” “I understand,” Aaron replied. “When you split up with someone you’ve been with for a long time, you feel a bit, erm…lost, like you don’t know what to do with yourself. Going out on the lash, meeting new people, nothing heavy, is all you really want to do.” “Exactly,” she said, visibly brightening. “You know something? It’s been good talking to you, Aaron. You know what I’m going through, and I’ve really enjoyed meeting up tonight, you’re such a good listener.” “Yeah, well, a problem shared and all that.” A brief silence – Aaron could feel her eyes all over him. “You know something else? I can’t believe you haven’t got a girlfriend. I know you and Jade only split up a short while back, but you’re such a good-

looking lad, you tick all the boxes. Isn’t there anybody you fancy? Haven’t you been out on dates or anything?” Aaron took a sip of lager. “Well, there was this one girl,” and he really emphasised the past tense, even though it was very much a here and now set of emotions. “I thought loads of her, but she was really intelligent, a bit posh, out of my league, I s’pose you’d say. And I ended up making a bit of a twat of myself.” Anita reached over and touched his hand. “Oh, don’t say that, Aaron. Brains aren’t everything. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to be a good person, a good boyfriend. Besides, you probably just weren’t compatible with this posh girl. And let me tell you, she’s the one missing out, not you.” Laughter broke out at a nearby table. Aaron turned his head, could see Jacqueline sat at an intimate table in the far corner of the room, sipping wine from a deep and wide wineglass, and he so badly wanted to be the man sitting opposite, talking, touching her hand, he felt like banging his fist against the table. “Maybe she is,” he said without any conviction whatsoever. “I guess when you’re in our position, on the rebound, you need to get blind drunk, jump into bed with someone you like and trust, a fuck buddy.”

He meant it as a bit of a joke, but Anita clearly didn’t take it that way. “Wouldn’t that be a bit risky? When you feel a bit all over the place, emotionally, wouldn’t that just lead to you getting hurt again?” “Not necessarily,” he said. “Not if we both know the score, if we just want to be there for each other, and know that nothing might come of it.” Anita drained her glass of wine. “Yeah, perhaps you’re right.” *** Jacqueline leaned her back against a cold brick wall, could hear frothy waves crashing against the shore, ocean spray splashing against the promenade. “Wait,” Nicky panted, bending his knees, taking her weight. “Isn’t this a bit risky? What if someone comes?” “That’s what’s so exciting. Besides, I’m the only one you should want to come.” He laughed breathlessly, and started to thrust away, cradling her naked buttocks with each hand. “Wait,” he said, stopping mid-thrust. “I – I haven’t got any condoms. Shouldn’t we really use –?” “Oh, don’t worry about that.” She bounced up and down, kissing his neck, “I’m on the pill.” *** “Jacqueline.”

Startled, she swung round, leaving the keys dangling from her front door. “Aaron? Is that you?” She squinted up her eyes in the darkness. “What are you doing here?” “I had to come and see you.” He walked up the garden path. “We need to talk.” “Look, Aaron, it’s really late. I’m tired. Can’t this wait until next week?” “No it can’t. Can I come in, just for five minutes?” *** “Like I said – be patient.” Jacqueline drew deeply on a joint, exhaling a cloud of smoke out of the side of her mouth. “Once I hear that that Jason bastard has been implicated in all of this, we can move on, just the two of us.” Aaron reached across the kitchen table and touched Jacqueline’s wrist, near the tattoo of an Indian chief. “Where did you get these done?” he asked. “Who are they supposed to be?” She brushed his hand away. “That one’s Chief Wanayama, a Native American, a famous freedom fighter, a symbol of purity, of standing up for your rights; of fighting oppression. It was done by the Boge. Do you know him?” Aaron gave a start. “What? That weird bloke

who lives in those caravans in the woods, the one who catches stray cats and dogs and hangs ’em?” “He doesn’t do that. That’s just stupid small town gossip.” “Really? Well, yeah, maybe it is. My dad says that this town is so bad for chin-wagging, that if you sneeze by the church, by time you’ve got to the bus station you’ve shit yourself.” “Ha! Very perceptive.” Jacqueline laughed. “And the Boge’s just different, that’s all. And that’s what fucks me off about people around here, people in general. If you don’t do or think or dress the same as everybody else, it makes you into some kind of freak, when really, the people who conform like bloody robots, getting up for work each day, paying their taxes, being good little boys and girls, are the freaks, because they haven’t got an original thought in their heads.” She yawned, picked up her phone and made a big show of checking the time, going so far as to let out a staged gasp: is it really that late? “Maybe I should go and see the Boge, then, eh?” said Aaron, oblivious. “Maybe I should get myself a tattoo, and stop being a bloody robot.” “Yeah,” she replied, feeling like she would say or do anything got get rid of him right now, “maybe you should.”

Chapter Seventeen Jason poured more wine into Christina’s glass and then sat next to her on the sofa. “Oh no,” she said. “I, erm…do not think I should drink so much, already I feel a little tipsy, and – and I only came to see you to get something to help me sleep.” “Don’t worry.” He shuffled that little bit closer. “It’s your first night, after all – new country, new place to live, new job. You need to relax. You’ve had a long journey. A couple of glasses of wine and a movie are just the ticket.” “Erm, well, maybe you’re right.” “Course I’m right.” He grinned and looked her over, eyeing her full rounded breasts, soft tanned skin, the shiny blonde hair that fell over her shoulders. “Besides, all the other girls have crashed out now, and if you can’t get off to sleep, what’s the point of lying in the dark, tossing and turning, eh?” He picked up the remote control and aimed it at the plasma screen television. “What’d you fancy, then? Gravity? Avengers Assemble? The new James Bond?” “You have all these movies, to watch now, on screen, here?” “Course.” He flicked through the menu. “At my fingertips, anything you want.” Still scrolling, he

stole another greedy glance at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Maybe we could, erm…make this a regular thing – movie night, me and you, a nice bottle of wine.” “Really? I think I would like that very much. Back home, I do not get the chance to go to movie theatre very much, and films that they show are not always the best, not like this.” “Well, consider your wish granted. Here, Gravity, starring no less than Sir George Clooney himself.” *** The orchestral music reached a rousing crescendo, the final credits started to scroll down the screen. “Oh, thank you so much, Jason.” Christina flashed a wonky drunken smile and tried to sit up properly. “I enjoy very much, so exciting, especially when Sandra Bullock goes spinning off into space, amazing special effects. I jumped so many times, I nearly fall off sofa. Ha!” “I know,” he said, an arm still around her from the first time she gave a start. “Lucky I was here to catch you, eh?” He leaned close and breathed in the delicate scent of her hair and skin. “And I’ve, erm…really enjoyed tonight, hanging out with you. You’re good company, Chris.” “Me too,” she said. “And you will really speak to your boss? You will ask if he can get me better job, with better money?”

“Yeah, yeah, course. I’ve got quite a lot of pull up at the factory. In fact, me and Michael, the official owner, the bloke with his name above the door, like, are practically partners.” “What? So you own half the factory?” “Yeah, only I like to keep it low-key, you know? And I can tell you’re a cut above the average worker who comes over here.” “Really?” “Yeah.” He touched her cheek with his free hand. “You’re sharper, more intelligent.” He pressed his lips against hers, softly, testing her out, seeing how far he could push things. But she didn’t respond; her body stiffened. “What is it?” She lowered her eyes. “I’m, erm…not sure this is good idea. I’m a little drunk.” “Course it’s a good idea.” He lifted her chin with his forefinger, moving his head right and left, up and down, trying to look straight into her eyes. “Me and you could be really good together.” He went in for another kiss, a little rougher this time, his hand snaking its way around her waist. “No, no.” She tried to wriggle free. “I’m not sure. I do not want to do this.” “Oh come on, Christina.” He pushed her down onto her back and clambered on top of her. “You know I really like you.”

Chapter Eighteen “Hey, you two.” Katie ruffled Pippa and Liam’s hair. “What a nice surprise.” Lifting her head, she saw Ryan trudging across the park, loaded up with bags, looking as miserable as the weather – dark skies, blanket drear. “Why don’t you go and play with Jesse and Jack?” she said to the children, pointing to her sons climbing up the slide. “Me and your dad will be just over there, on the bench.” The children dashed off. Katie turned to Ryan. “Still no word from the police, then?” “No,” he said, as they walked over to the bench and sat down. “If we don’t hear anything by tonight, they’re gonna make it public, make a statement to the press or whatever. That’s when it’s gonna be hard, with the twins and everything, once it’s out there, kids talking at school and stuff.” “Keep your chin up, eh?” She leaned across and gave him a quick hug. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.” “Oh, I don’t know. Ever since we got together she’s been a proper nightmare, nothing but hassle and aggravation. Still, I never thought something like this was just ’round the corner. And I keep racking my brains: what could’ve happened to her?” “Me too. I’ve even been through her Facebook

page, scrolled through her posts, friends, anyone she might’ve got talking to recently.” Jesse, at the top of the slide now, shouted, “Mummy! Watch!” Giggling, he slid down to the bottom, threw back his head and laughed, shot to his feet, and ran around for another go. “That was a good one!” she shouted back, clapping her hands. Then she said to Ryan, “What about you? You got any idea where she could’ve gone, or who she could be with?” “Nothing definite. Only Jacque was out in town, a week or so back, and apparently she had a load of weed on her. And I know she’d been pretty skint of late, so she must’ve got it on tick. And there’s only one bloke ’round here who’d give her any credit.” “The Boge?” “Yeah.” “Huh! I never knew what you two saw in him, bloody weirdo, freaks me out, he does.” “Oh, he’s all right, more eccentric than anything else. Few years back, before the twins were born, we used to go round there right regular, used to smoke this really strong hash through a bong, got in some right states, ’specially during mushroom season, mental – some of the stuff he’d come out with.” “Who? The Boge?” “Yeah. This one time, we went up there to ask him about tattoos. Jacque was desperate to get one

– probably just to piss her parents off – and we knew the Boge did ’em on the cheap, and that he was supposed to be shit hot, like a proper talented artist. And he gets out this book, of all his old sketches, and shows us this picture of a Red Indian, you know with a proper feathered headdress on.” “The tattoo Jacque’s got her wrist?” “Yeah, exactly,” he replied. “At first, neither of us were that keen, on the tattoo, that is, but then the Boge gives us a couple of bongs and tells us this geezer’s life story, the Red Indian, Chief Wanayama, tells us about settlers to the New World burning down his village, and about this serial killer, murdering people, like hundreds of years later, being his direct descendant. He went on for bloody hours.” “Really? And what was his life story, exactly?” The Story of Chief Wanayama The first serious colonizers arrived on the Western seaboard in the late part of the sixteenth century. Spanish, they were, of battalion strength, some three hundred men, sailing aboard The Marauder, the largest ocean-going galleon ever constructed. But these were not explorers venturing out into uncharted lands with noble thoughts of discovery, these were highly-trained soldiers, killers, men sent to conquer not trade, learn and assimilate. Stored in

the hull were canons and muskets, endless rounds of ammunition, swords and bayonets, the likes of which had never been seen on the pure, peaceful, paradisiacal continent before. Kept in pitiful conditions, worked incredibly hard, no more than galley slaves, with food severely rationed, by the time the men sighted dry land, many were what doctors today call stir crazy. Being locked away below deck, in dark, cramped quarters had had a dire effect on their mental welfare. Already there had been several violent altercations, two cold-blooded murders, men thrown overboard, acts of rape and cannibalism. It was all the ship’s captain, Eduardo de Maria, could do to pacify the men, to keep them below deck until he and the other officers had made first contact with the indigenous peoples. The captain himself was a tyrannical officer, a nobleman by birth, from an ancient, well-respected family, with close links to the royal house. A swarthy, strikingly-handsome thirty-four-year-old, always dressed in the finest silks, he had distinguished himself in many a sea battle, and been awarded the highest naval decorations. Under this valourous veneer, however, was a heart of utmost darkness, a cold, sadistic, unfeeling soul, a deviant who took great pleasure from torturing and brutalizing captured enemy soldiers. Behind closed doors, his sexual profligacy knew no moral bounds

– a wife driven to suicide, a string of downtrodden mistresses, homosexual trysts, bestiality, not to mention preference for children not long out of swaddling clothes. In the corridors of power, it was rumoured that de Maria was losing his mind due to some kind of sexual disease, that syphilis or the like had addled his brain, turning him into a psychotic monster, and that he had only been assigned the voyage because there was little hope of success, let alone a return to Spain, that his many vicious and perverted crimes had made him a liability, a man far too dangerous to contain. When the indigenous tribe saw the spectacular galleon on the horizon they dropped to their knees and prayed, taking it as a sign from God. Accordingly, they lit fires, prepared the finest foods, filled wicker baskets with gifts: wood carvings, tribal headdresses, exotic fruits and vegetables, cured meats, tanned and dried buffalo hides, gold and precious stones, all as peace offerings to the newcomers. For these were a harmonious, non-violent people, with distinctive coal-black hair, tanned, healthy skin, supple, muscular frames, and strong white teeth – beautiful specimens of the human animal. Moreover, this was a happy, vibrant, prosperous, well-organised society. Centuries later, archeologists found irrigation channels, effective if primitive drainage and sewerage systems, wells for clean drinking

water, abodes built of an early form of brick, places of worship and entertainment. Imbued with a deep spiritual connection to nature and all living things, the tribes scattered across the Western seaboard were respectful of the environment and wildlife. They hunted buffalo, fished the oceans and rivers, looked on water as a source of eternal goodness, containing a bountiful supply of food. Perhaps that was why the galleon’s appearance struck them as so providential, deserving of their deference, because it had floated atop waters they held so sacred. On disembarking from a small rowing boat, de Maria and his most trusted advisors approached the welcoming party, some three or four hundred natives, unarmed, dressed in traditional outfits, heads bowed respectfully. Their leader, Chief Wanayama, a wise and powerful man of great spiritual enlightenment, offered de Maria his hand in friendship, had his beautiful wife and seven angelic daughters present the captain with gifts of food and drink, and motioned for the other visitors to sit before a roaring fire. In return, de Maria offered the Chief all kinds of trinkets from the European continent: wooden rocking-horses, mirrors, jack-in-the-boxes, babies’ rattles, shiny, superfluous things which both baffled and charmed the inquisitive tribesmen, drawing gasps of astonishment. But perhaps de Maria’s most

cynical gift was strong dark spirits, potent alcohol fermented in his country’s most infamous distilleries, because he knew what a devastating effect it could have on the uninitiated. As his fellow tribesmen marvelled at the gifts the visitors had brought ashore, Wanayama walked de Maria around the settlement, showed him the well that provided an unlimited supply of fresh water, the finely-constructed abodes, the pens containing livestock, the horses used for hunting, the hunting implements themselves, and finally their place of worship, a simple yet elegant building which contained many golden, bejewelled objects, a glittering treasure trove which set de Maria’s pulse a racing. Before returning to the galleon, de Maria insisted that Chief Wanayama and his people partake of a toast, having his men fill receptacles with the strong spirits. “To friendship,” he proposed, smiling and embracing Wanayama, encouraging him to swallow back the alcohol in one go. When they finally rowed back to The Marauder the Spaniards could hear raised voices, singing and uproarious laughter. With a look over his shoulder, de Maria saw the natives stumbling around the shoreline, falling over each other, some already arguing over the bottles of spirit he had given them. “Perfect.”

Later that evening, he gathered his most ruthless and efficient soldiers together. Using empty bottles to demonstrate, he reconstructed the entire settlement, building by building, showing his men where the tribesmen slept, where the only weapons of any kind, the spears they used to hunt with, were stored, and described the layout and contents of the place of worship. “If we approach by the cover of night,” he told them, “we can slaughter the menfolk and liberate the settlement of its riches.” In three boats, sixty handpicked soldiers quietly rowed from the galleon to the shore, where they found the vast majority of tribesmen passed out on the sand, snoring; lost deep in the midst of alcoholic unconsciousness. Their task, therefore, one de Maria relayed with relish, was to go around cutting the slumbering innocents’ throats. As they set about these nefarious acts, unsheathing daggers, digging blades into soft supple necks, severing jugular veins, blooding a pure, welcoming people like pigs, a flash of blinding light lit up the entire beach. Startled, each and every man swung round. Stood in the flicking flames, like a supernatural being, was Chief Wanayama, dressed in full battle garb, his face and body painted. With an empty bottle in his hand he strode over to de Maria, shook his head emphatically, and then gestured towards

the dark shape of The Marauder, anchored offshore, as if ordering the strangers back from whence they had come. Unfazed, de Maria simply took out a pistol and shot the Chief in the chest. “Ha!” He laughed as Wanayama fell to the ground. And turning to his men, he ordered, “Proceed as planned. Leave not a single man alive. Any delectable females, round them up on the shoreline. Burn the dead. And then we can have our pleasure.” In the abodes, the Spaniards encountered little resistance. Like the men passed out on the beach, nearly all those inside were far too intoxicated to stir or put up any kind of fight. After cutting throat upon throat, stacking the bodies outside, the soldiers then dragged the female population from their beds, stripped them naked, tied their hands, and gathered them on the beach just as de Maria had requested. “Right,” said the captain, putting a flaming torch to the mountainous pile of corpses, burning the bodies of men they had just murdered in their sleep. “Now we can –” from out of the dark shadows, Chief Wanayama leapt at de Maria, clawing his throat, knocking him to the ground, shrieking, cursing the captain and all his men. Rushing over, soldiers grabbed the Chief, pulling him away from their commanding officer, dragging

him across the sand, beating him with rifle butts, subduing him, bounding his hands behind his back, and stuffing a gag into his mouth. “So” – de Maria stood and dusted down his silken tunic – “you see fit to attack a representative of the Spanish court, do you? Fool!” He swooped down and grabbed a handful of Wanayama’s hair. “You, my good sir, are nothing but a savage. Men.” He stood and straightened. “Bring over those beautiful creatures, the Chief’s wife and his seven daughters. Let me give their leader, husband and father a true demonstration of our superiority.” In a brutal, inhuman scene, de Maria violated all seven of Chief Wanayama’s daughters and his austere, proud-faced wife. Using implements of torture, drawing tools and a cat-o’-nine-tails, de Maria then gouged eyes from sockets, pulled limbs from joints, tore into soft, supple flesh, ripping the very uteruses from their bodies, dragging bloody entrails across the sand. When finished, he had each and every one of his men do exactly the same thing to the other women. “Now,” said de Maria, “round up everything of value and return it to the ship. Kill the wenches, set fire to the bodies, burn this village to the ground. Tomorrow we shall conquer this entire continent.” With evil adrenaline pulsing through his corrupted veins, de Maria suddenly remembered Wanayama, bound and gagged on the sand.

“Oh, and what shall we do with our all-mighty chief?” He looked right and left. “Bring over that chair, the wooden one. Tie him to it. Let him watch, let he himself burn while everything he ever held dear burns, too.” They gathered more firewood and wedged it under Chief Wanayama, put a torch to the pyre and burnt him alive, bound to his own ceremonial throne. Legend has it that the noble Indian chief did not utter a scream; that he did not so much as grimace, that he just sat and glared at de Maria with eyes full of hatred, until his whole body was engulfed in flickering orange flames. At first light, the heavily armed expeditionary force, three hundred strong, set out to explore the area, to befriend any tribes they came across in the same way they had befriended Wanayama’s tribe yesterday, offering trinkets and strong spirits, before raping and pillaging, destroying any settlement, liberating it of anything of value. A few hours into an arduous march, hacking away at thick jungle vegetation, one of the men from the rear of the battalion reported a strange occurrence. “Sir,” he panted, having run a considerable distance to address the captain. “I don’t quite know what has happened, but it would appear that some of the men, over seventy of ’em, have disappeared, have somehow got separated from the rest of us.”

As the men were due a break, de Maria called a halt to the march, told them to rest up in the shade, to drink from flasks, while he and the other officers rode on horseback to the rear of the battalion. “When did you notice the others were missing, Garcia?” he asked a swarthy Basque soldier. “Couldn’t have been too far back, Sir. I remember talking to a few of the lads not long after we crossed that river.” “If that’s the case,” said de Maria. “They can’t be more than a mile or so back, lost in the undergrowth, no doubt. We shall ride over and gather them up.” He turned to his adjutant. “Return to the front of the battalion, tell the rest of the men to remain here until we get back.” They rode for a few minutes, across accommodating ground already levelled due to their original advance, before someone let out a strangled cry. “My God!” Each man reined in his horse. “What is it?” shouted de Maria. “Bodies, scores of ’em, hacked to pieces.” When de Maria and the other officers dismounted, they found that the fatal injuries the soldiers had suffered were of the bloodiest, most grotesque kind imaginable. Each man had been scalped; the back of his head removed with what could only have been an incredibly sharp machete-

like blade. To make sure they were dead, each had had their throats cut, too. But most unsettling of all, they had been stripped naked, and on the genital regions were hideous black rashes, like the mark of the plague, oozing some kind of slick, oily-looking substance. “What on earth is that?” de Maria asked his second-in-command, Velázquez. “I – I have no idea, Captain. The likes of this I have never, ever seen before.” After conferring with other officers, the captain decided to proceed with the original mission, with the added provision of heavily armed guards at the rear of the battalion. They had lost a little time, but still wanted to travel several miles before setting up camp for the night. They proceeded without incident. Just before nightfall, the men made a camp by the banks of a mighty river, erecting tents, lighting fires, digging trenches, and stationing guards with the best vantage points of the surrounding area, to keep watch until morning. After eating some of the provisions procured from Wanayama’s tribe, they settled in for the night. Early next morning, just as de Maria and the rest of the officers were about to rise, a young soldier rushed into their tent. “Sir,” he said breathlessly. “More men have been

killed overnight, scalped, all cut up, and their – their…” The officers rushed over to the scene, finding eighty or more men, those bivouacked closest to the river, horribly mutilated, in the exact same fashion as yesterday, and with the exact same hideous black rash marking their genitals. On further checks of the camp, it was found that all soldiers who stood guard overnight had also been killed. “What’s happening?” asked de Maria. “Who’s doing all these terrible things to my men?” “It would appear, Captain,” said Velázquez, “that we are being tracked and hunted by vengeful local tribesmen, perhaps some of Wanayama’s people, those who may not have been around when we routed their kinfolk. And if that’s the case then they will stop at nothing until all of us are dead.” In fear of his life, de Maria rounded up what was left of his men, and ordered an instant return to The Marauder. Only this time they were to form in tight flanks, one column of soldiers covering the other, with mounted patrols on either side, whom would, every five hundred or so yards, fire a volley of shots into the air. In this fashion, they hoped to both startle and warn off any would-be attackers planning to ambush them. And it worked. Through the rest of the day until nightfall, there were no reported incidents or

fatalities. Only when they reached the shoreline did they have any cause to be suspicious. The burnt-out remnants of the entire settlement had been cleared, all the charred corpses removed (to where it was impossible to say), there was no rubble or debris of any kind, even the sand had been swept clean – as if nothing untoward had happened here at all. “I don’t like it,” de Maria whispered to Velázquez. “If Wanayama’s people did all this, then surely they would’ve sabotaged our rowing boats, surely they would’ve ventured aboard The Marauder.” “Agreed,” said Velázquez. “Therefore, we must prepare for battle. We must board the smaller vessels with our weapons primed, for surely they must be lying in wait for us, out there, on the ship.” But when they approached the galleon, rifles aimed, they encountered nothing but the soft sound of water lapping against the vessel’s vast hull. “Climb aboard, Garcia,” de Maria ordered. “Search the ship, down below, compartment by compartment.” Ten minutes later, Garcia reappeared. “Nothing stirs, Captain,” he shouted, leaning over the bow. “Everything is just as we left it.” Relieved yet still wary, de Maria told his men to climb aboard and immediately set sail for home. While undoubtedly a failure, the mission was not

without its positive points. They still had the valuable objects they had taken from Wanayama’s tribe to show for their efforts. Moreover, his chief navigation officer had charted the entire voyage, the findings of which would prove invaluable in the future. “Push off, lads,” shouted de Maria, on the main deck, wrenching his filthy tunic off over his head. “Captain!” said Velázquez. “Come quickly. Look. Natives are crowded on the shore.” Bare-chested, de Maria dashed over. “What the –!” On the beach, to the sound of beating drums, hundreds, if not thousands of Indians in full battle dress waved spears and flaming torches in the air, chanted and shrieked, while performing some kind of aggressive, ritualized dance. “Good Lord!” cried de Maria. “I – I don’t understand it. If there were so many of them, then why didn’t they attack us, crush us, take revenge for killing their spiritual leader?” “Best not to question, Sir,” said Velázquez. “Best we concentrate on getting ourselves home.” But The Marauder never made it back to Spanish waters. Ten months later, the ship was found floating off the Cape of Good Hope. When officers from an English trading vessel boarded, they found a scene of pestilential horror, the air stolid with the stench

of death and decay, of rotting human flesh. All crew members were dead; the corpses in a terrible state of decomposition, indicating that the ship had been floating unmanned for weeks. Most gruesome of all, each man’s genitals were oozing a black festering substance. On closer inspection, removing the trousers from one corpse, the entire groin region, including the sex organs, perineum and anus were covered with an oily rash, the likes of which the chief medical officer had never encountered before. “Mummy,” said Jesse, running over to the bench. “Can we play football now?” “Course you can, darling.” Katie rummaged around in her bag and pulled out a cheap plastic football. “There you go.” She rolled it to Jesse; who kicked it over to the other children, who, in turn, rushed over to a five-a-side goal, shouting at each other, vying for different positions: who was going to go in goal, who was going to be Wayne Rooney or Christiano Ronaldo. “The Boge!” said Ryan, lighting a cigarette. “Christ, can that man tell a story, used to put on different voices, wave his hands around in the air, stalk up and down the caravan, like he was up onstage, performing.” “And what was the other part of the story?” asked Katie. “Didn’t you say something about

history repeating itself, a serial killer, a descendant of the chief?” “Yeah, yeah.” He exhaled a cloud of wispy smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Apparently, hundreds of years later, there was a series of unexplained murders in America, on the West Coast, right near where the original indigenous settlements had been excavated.”

Chapter Nineteen The Story of Chief Wanayama (Part Two) The small town of Nattawa had fallen on hard times. Always in the shadow of the big city metropolises situated a few hundred miles up the coast, since the collapse of the logging industry the area had suffered a serious economic downturn – high unemployment, low wages, a real lack of hope and opportunity. With a population of just over two thousand, a high proportion of which had Indian blood, nothing out of the ordinary ever happened in Nattawa, local people simply struggled along, living very much hand to mouth. That was until oil was found near ancient burial grounds, a nature reserve awaiting World Heritage Status, a great swathe of relatively unspoiled land which Native American descendants considered to be holy, sacred, their own. When a big multinational corporation was granted permission to drill there, the local community was up in arms, petitions were signed, protest marches organised, but nothing could stop the wheels of global capitalism from turning. Within three months of a court injunction being dismissed, hundreds of heavy-duty vehicles descended upon Nattawa, temporary buildings were erected to house the workforce, drilling platforms constructed,

blighting the countryside. All that could be heard through the night was the chug-chug pounding of industrial apparatus, the dull incessant hum of generators, the march of so-called progress. Two days after the drilling operation commenced, one of the workmen, a nineteen-yearold Texan, away from home for the first time, was found horrifically murdered in woodland near the temporary sleeping quarters. His injuries were extensive. He had been scalped in the traditional Indian manner, had had his throat cut, and was suffering from a bizarre sexual complaint, his entire genital region covered in a black rash oozing a slick oily substance. What troubled police most, however, was the card left on the body. The same shape and dimension as a standard business card, it displayed the silhouetted outline of a Native American, complete with feathered headdress, like the images of Sitting Bull or Hiawatha that had become ingrained in the public consciousness. As the killing bore all the hallmarks of a ritual Indian murder, Sheriff Roscoe Peterson and his deputy, Eugene Vinton, went from household to household interviewing all local people with Native American blood. But nearly everyone they questioned had cast-iron alibis, were either at home with their families or working nights when the murder took place – relatives and co-workers verified this.

At the end of each interview, Peterson pulled out a photograph of the card left at the scene. “Now, have you ever seen this image before?” “Why yes,” said Moonbeam River, from the first household the sheriff visited. “That is a depiction of the great Chief Wanayama.” “Wanayama? Who’s he?” Moonbeam told the Sheriff the story about the Chief, the legend passed down through generations, how evil forces, white men who’d travelled across vast oceans, destroyed an entire settlement, murdering and raping innocents, how they had burnt Wanayama alive, and how the great chief had returned in spirit form to curse them, infecting them with the black mark of death. Peterson gave a start. “What was that you said ‘bout the black mark of death?” Later, as the two policemen climbed into a squad car, Vinton said, “what do you make of all that, Sheriff?” “Just a load of superstition nonsense, Eugene. Best we don’t pay it no mind.” The coroner who performed the autopsy concluded that the victim had died of blood loss due to the savage wounds to the back of the head and throat. However, he was completely baffled by the black rash. After taking various swabs, testing blood and urine, he found traces of some kind of

sexual infection, but an infection unlike any recorded before. In need of a second opinion, he sent pictures of the rash and the results of the blood and urine tests to a renowned specialist in the field. Next day, security at the complex was heightened. At night, armed guards patrolled the perimetre fence with sniffer dogs. But, incredibly, the following morning, thirteen men were found dead in their bunks, all scalped and with gaping wounds to the neck, the same hideous rash to the genital region, and all with identical calling cards left on their bodies. The governor called a state of emergency. Drilling was suspended. Federal Agents flew in to take over the investigation. On arrival, Special Agent Dwayne Macmillan, a highly experienced, steely-haired man of fifty-two, surveyed the crime scene, walking around the compound, checking each and every possible point of entry. He shared his findings with his team. “In my opinion, there’s no way an assailant or assailants could’ve entered the compound, not to mention the sleeping quarters – and remember, a guard was stationed by the door at all times – and not have alerted anyone, especially when we consider the violence of the murders themselves. If we were dealing with one killing, maybe two, the chain of events wouldn’t be so hard to piece

together, or believe for that matter, but to have gone from bed to bed hacking away at the top of a man’s head with a machete on thirteen separate occasions, and not have caused a serious disturbance is, again, beyond the realms of all possibility.” “What are you saying then, Sir?” “I’m saying that we’re clearly dealing with a highly irregular situation here, son. I’m saying that we may well be dealing with something beyond our usual comprehension.” Within twelve hours, the coroner received a reply from the specialist he had contacted. After undertaking rigorous tests, I’m still at a loss as how to classify this highly contagious sexual infection. Its origins and make-up are so unusual it leads me to believe that it is a manmade, synthetic virus, probably produced in a laboratory, one that is as contradictory as it is potentially devastating. I will undertake various other tests, consult with colleagues, and update you with my findings. It wasn’t long before the national press took an interest in the macabre events. One reporter from NBC News tapped into the Native American angle, the fact that drilling operations were taking place on ancient burial grounds that may well have caused outrage and resentment. Like the Sheriff, he

started interviewing all families with Indian bloodlines. “What do you think happened up at the compound, all the grisly murders?” “In all likelihood,” said Moonbeam River, “the spirit of Chief Wanayama has been disturbed, and now he is inflicting a grave vengeance on those who attempt to desecrate land sacred to our people.” With the drilling area cordoned off pending a full investigation, the workforce, instead of returning to their homes, some of which were thousands of miles away, took board and lodgings in town. Spending most of their time drinking in local bars the men were soon at a loss as to what to do with themselves. “Hey, guys,” a journeyman worker from North Carolina was heard to say one afternoon. “I hear there be one of the best little whorehouses on the West Coast just thirty or so miles away. So why don’t we rustle up some form of transportation, and get ourselves out there for a bit of fun, a bit of poon-tang? Sure beats sitting on our hands in a dive like this, drinking ourselves into a stupor.” After consulting with the barkeep, the men hired a van, piled into the back, and drove out to the whorehouse. Across town at the local police station, Macmillan had run a check on any crimes,

nationwide, that could in any way be connected to the Nattawa killings – incidents with a similar M.O., of scalping and throat-cutting, anomalies to the genital regions. After dismissing a few tenuous leads, cases that involved machete attacks, usually racially-motivated, cases of revenge or selfdefense, where predominately white aggressors had been found scalped, a seemingly unrelated matter caught his eye. In the mid-seventies, homosexual men on the West Coast were struck down by a mysterious sexual infection, one which baffled doctors, and proved untreatable, even with the most advanced anti-viral medication. In all, over ten thousand men eventually died of the virus or related illnesses. Despite considerable medical research into the outbreak, no real conclusions were ever drawn as to its origins or how to control it in the future. Early next morning, the sheriff’s office received a phone call. “Sheriff, yo’ better get yo’ ass out to Mandy’s place,” said the cleaning woman of the region’s only legalized brothel. “Some Goddamn maniac only gone and killed ’em all.” A bloodbath. Some fourteen young men, eleven prostitutes, the proprietor, two bartenders, and seven additional staff members had all been murdered in the same horrific manner as the men at the drilling site – scalped, throats cut – and all had

the identical sexual infection. Macmillan arrived about half an hour after the sheriff and his deputy. “What have we got here, Sheriff?” “A massacre, Sir. Some lunatic went on a rampage, looks like he used the same kind of machete as in the previous murders, looks like this is the same boy who go done the other killings.” Already forensic teams were busy collecting evidence from the scene. “Jesus Christ,” said Macmillan as he walked from room to room, looking at one bloodied corpse after another. “What on –?” “Sir.” Vinton caught up with Macmillan on the upstairs landing. “We just found this on the counter in the bar area out back.” He handed him a card with the image of an Indian chief on it. “The same one that was found near the other victims.” “So it would seem.” Macmillan studied the card in his hand. “And like the murders at the compound, it’s impossible to believe that this is the work of one man. No. We must be dealing with a team of maybe six or seven here. There’s no other credible explanation.” Initial reports from forensics only further muddied the waters. There was no finger- or footprints corresponding to any assailants entering or leaving the scene. In none of the rooms, where men had been copulating with prostitutes, was there

evidence of third party contamination, despite the fact two people had been murdered in the most brutal manner, a manner which had to leave some sort of trace. “What does all this mean?” said Macmillan, galled by such a baffling report. “That we’re dealing with some kind of ghostly apparition.” “As far as physical evidence goes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, Sir.” To placate local residents, as much as to avert a national scandal, negative press on a huge scale (environmentalists held big sway in congress), the multinational corporation suspended all drilling activities on an indefinite basis. As a further act of goodwill, they cleared the area they had violated, and made a substantial financial contribution to World Heritage, should the area be granted status in the coming years, monies which could help fund improvements and regeneration of the town to facilitate future tourism. The killings stopped, the case, which remains open to this very day, was never solved, and medical research into the sexual infection proved inconclusive. In the days after the burial site had been vacated, the region was subjected to torrential rain- and thunderstorms, an exponential amount of rain falling in an incredibly short space of time. Business premises as well as residential properties

suffered severe flood damage, locals were displaced, and another state of emergency called. In the confusion, the ferrying of those affected to places of refuge – the town hall, the local school – residents reported seeing a strange and terrifying sight across the plains, the image of an Indian chief conducing forks of lightning all across the burial grounds. And although no-one could provide any corroboratory evidence, the Native American families were certain it was the sprit of Wanayama finally reclaiming his holy land from the evil white man. “But the most fucked-up thing about the whole story,” said Ryan, tossing another cigarette to the ground, “were the calling cards the killer left behind, ’cause the Boge pulls a card from one of his drawers, all crumpled and blood-spattered, saying it was one of the original cards found on the murder victims. And it was the exact same image he proposed Jacque get tattooed on her forearm.” “What ? That’s weird.” “Yeah, but what’s weirder was that Jacque was well up for it now, said she understood the symbolism, what the tattoo would represent, went on about freedom and injustice, spirituality, and how she really identified with Chief Wanayama, all that hippy shit she used to spout when she’d been smoking and drinking. “The whole thing really freaked me out, ’cause

as the Boge was halfway through the tattoo I noticed all these machetes in his caravan, hanging from hooks on the walls, just like the ones he was describing, the ones used to scalp people.”

Chapter Twenty “It is exciting, no?” Katarina skipped along the dirttrack, now and then stepping up onto a grassy bank to avoid the puddles pooled in deep, wide ruts. “Oh, I don’t know.” Agna followed on behind, treading in her friend’s footmarks, being careful not to get her shoes wet. “Perhaps we should turn back.” “Come on,” Katarina said over her shoulder. “All we do is work, work, work, wake up, go to the factory, sort through frozen chips and waffles, boring, boring, boring. Now we have the day off, why not explore the countryside? This is a very nice part of the world, beautiful. It feels like we haven’t been outside in the fresh air since we got here.” “True,” said Agna, falling in beside Katarina. “Only I don’t want to get lost. We must’ve walked two or three kilometeres from the town centre.” “Don’t worry. It was a straight road. Besides, I think it’s best to be out of the house today. That Jason, I don’t like him. I don’t like to be alone with him. He has a very nasty look in his eyes.” “I know I…” Agna trailed off, when seeing something strange up ahead, at the top of the track. “Hey, what’s that?” She pointed to two wooden posts, a pig’s skull, and what looked like skeletal remains, tiny pieces of bone strung together, like

macabre puppets. “Very strange. And what does this say: The Boge?” She knelt and picked a few stray pieces of bone up from the ground. “What is the Boge? Who is the Boge? Like the bogeyman? Ha!” “Look at this place!” Katarina walked through the entranceway. “There’s one of those famous red telephone boxes, the ones they have in the great city of London. I remember them from the television when I was growing up. And look at all those gnomes, painted black and white. They’re adorable.” Agna pocketed the pieces of bone and followed Katarina. “And over there, by the caravans, are they stuffed crocodiles? What is this place?” They both crouched and examined the crocodiles, prodding the scaly skin with a finger. “Urgh!” said Agna. “Not so nice. I –” a draught of cold, icy wind gusted and swirled; a dark shadow fell over them, like a cloud obscuring the sun. Before they could turn around, rough hands clasped them both around the neck, so they could neither move nor scream nor put up any kind of resistance. “God forgive me for what I am about to do,” mumbled their attacker, lifting them high off the ground. “There simply is no other way.”

Chapter Twenty-One The packed press contingent fell silent when Detective Inspector Hepworth and Jacqueline’s parents walked into the briefing room. Grave-faced, they sat at a table laid out with a jug of water and glasses. Projected on the wall behind them was a giant photograph of Jacqueline, a recent picture Hepworth had selected from her Facebook page, and which both parents had approved. “Sorry to have gathered you here so late in the afternoon,” said Hepworth. “But on the request of the family, we decided to make a statement regarding the missing woman now, as opposed to first thing tomorrow morning.” He shuffled through some papers. “Now you’ve all been briefed re: her disappearance, so I shall now read from a prepared statement.” Two cameras zoomed in on Hepworth. “On the twenty-ninth of October, at some time between the hours of 8.45 a.m. and approximately 3 p.m., Miss Jacqueline Franklin, a twenty-six-yearold single mother of two, went missing from her home. Last seen dropping her young children off at the infant school a few hundred yards from her front door, nothing has been seen or heard from her since.” He turned a page. “We would, therefore, encourage anybody who has any information, no matter how trivial it may seem, regarding

Jacqueline’s potential whereabouts to contact Norfolk Police headquarters as soon as possible.” A barrage of questions, clicking and flashing cameras, quickly followed. “And have you got any leads, Detective Inspector, any idea why the young lady might have gone missing?” “Nothing concrete,” he replied. “At present, we’re interviewing people who may have seen or spoken to Jacqueline in the days leading up to her disappearance.” “And were there any unusual circumstances involved? Any personal problems? Anything out of the ordinary?” “Only one incident, a quite alarming one, that may or may not be connected to her disappearance. Her house, a council property, was broken into on the day she went missing, and most of her belongings were destroyed.” “So you think there might be some kind of motive, that a person or persons, as yet unknown, had some kind of grudge against Miss Franklin?” “At this early stage,” said Hepworth, “it’s impossible to rule anything in or out.” “And, presumably, the missing woman’s children are staying with her former partner? How was his relationship with Miss Franklin?” Ignoring the question, Hepworth told everyone gathered that Jacqueline’s father would now like to

say a few words. Cameramen wheeled mounted cameras into position. With shaky hands, Henry Franklin poured himself a glass of water, and took a few considered sips before speaking. “I would just like to say, if you’re watching this Jacqueline, then contact me or your mum as soon as possible. We love you dearly, and are both worried sick. If anyone out there knows anything about Jacqueline’s disappearance, or where she is now, please, please, contact the police. My daughter is mother to twins, Liam and Pippa, who desperately want her home safe.”

Chapter Twenty-Two Two Days Earlier: The Saturday Morning “Hold on,” said Jacqueline, glancing over her shoulder, catching disapproving stares from the other customers queued behind her. “What do you mean, that there’s, erm” – and this she whispered – “a charge for the morning after pill now?” “Afraid so,” the pretty young girl behind the counter replied. “Due to costing issues, we now have to charge thirty pounds for the provision of the contraceptive pill.” Jacqueline gulped back some saliva. Despite brushing her teeth twice this morning, all she could taste was tobacco, weed and last night’s red wine. “Thirty pounds?” She could feel her anger rise, but desperately wanted to avoid a scene, to avoid looking like a cheap small town tart who couldn’t keep her legs shut. “But where am I supposed to get thirty pounds from? I’m a single mum.” “I really am sorry. But maybe if you popped into the surgery first thing Monday morning, they could give you the seventy-two-hour alternative, which, I believe, is pretty much as effective as the morning after pill.” “Seventy-two hours?” Jacqueline did some mental calculations, which, if nothing else, neutralized her anger. “Oh right. I’ll, erm…do that, then.”

*** At first, Jacqueline didn’t pay any attention to the muffled sobs, she was too busy lighting a cigarette, still seething inside, pissed off that things never ran smoothly for her. Only the sobbing got louder, more pitiful, as if someone was really balling their eyes out. She turned her head. Behind the surgery, face pressed up against a red-bricked wall, a young woman with long blonde hair, dressed in loose-fitting sweat bottoms and a winter coat, was crying, shoulders shaking, coughing and spluttering, as if choking on her upset. “Are you all right?” Jacqueline walked over. The girl, red-eyed, hair all tangled and stuck to her face, turned around. “I – I have big problem,” she said in a shaky, heavily-accented voice. “But doctor, he cannot see me because I cannot show passport. And girl in pharmacy cannot give me medicine because I have no prescription, even if I pay for myself, even if –” “Wait. Why can’t you show your passport? Aren’t you supposed to be here? Are you an illegal immigrant or something?” “No, no,” said the girl, as if offended by that. “I work. I work in food factory. I pay taxes and national insurance. I work hard. But boss, he look after all paperwork, our documents, our passports.”

“Your boss?” “Yes, yes,” she said, very animated now. “He arrange for me to come here, he organise house and job, but I – I cannot go to see him about this, because horrible man, the man that runs house, the boss’ friend, he did this to me.” “Which man? Who? Did what to you?” “That bastard Jason, he get me alone, he tell me he can get me better job, that he really like me, he force himself on me, and now I have this rash, this disease, he give it to me.” Jacqueline could barely contain herself. For as soon as she heard Jason’s name (and she knew it was her Jason, she’d been told about his new job), she was determined to do whatever she could to help this poor young woman. “What’s your name?” “Christina.” “Okay. Come on, Christina.” She took her arm. “Come back to my house. I’ll take a look. Maybe I’ve got some creams or something that might help.” *** When Jacqueline saw the extent of the rash, she nearly burst into tears. It was so severe, like thirddegree burns, like something out of a horror film – a dark red and purple breakout (it had even started to go black in places), covered all her genital region, spreading out to the groins and the top of

her thighs. “How – How long has it been like that?” “A long time, nearly a week, but I was too ashamed to tell anyone. I try and scrub it in bath but it only get worse. I try everything to make go away, but…” Jacqueline perched herself on the edge of the bath, next to Christina. “Look. This is serious. I think you might have to go to the hospital to have it properly treated – but, please, don’t look so worried.” She smiled warmly and gave Christina a towel to cover herself. “The doctors and nurses over here are really understanding, they’ll give you the right medicines to help make you better. But first, you better tell me everything.” She shifted position so she was facing Christina now. “Tell me what’s been going on in that house. Has Jason been sleeping with other girls?” Christina nodded. “He try and act like Mr Nice Guy, like he want to help us all to settle in. He offer to show us around town, drive us out to the country in van. He try and get us drunk all the time. He always creeping into the rooms at night. At first, I really like him, he ask me lots of questions about my country and my family, the things I miss most, and he always listen very carefully, and he always helped out, filling in forms, that type of thing, he always take an interest in our lives.”

As Christina relayed all this, Jacqueline couldn’t help thinking back to her relationship with Jason, how he made her feel so comfortable, asking questions about her kids, what she got up to at weekends, her interests, until she was telling him her life story: her parents’ messy divorce, the postnatal depression, the way pregnancy had twisted her body out of shape, her money problems. Only now, looking back, it was as if he’d teased all this information out of her so he could use it against her in the future, so he could undermine her confidence, making her feel worthless and ugly, completely under his control “But your real boss, the one at the factory, is Michael, Michael Babb, isn’t it?” “I think so, yes,” Christina replied. “I hear his name a lot, very big man, huge muscles, everybody afraid of him. When two of my friends, from the same house, go missing a few days ago, we get Jason to call Michael, but he say we cannot report to police. He say we have to keep secret, that they might send us home because we do not have proper visa, even though our families pay good money for us to come here. Then he say that we should not worry, that my friends probably ran away, that they did not like work at factory, and hitchhiked to London. But I know Katarina and Agna, and they would never have gone without saying goodbye to me.”

Jacqueline couldn’t believe what she was hearing – they’ve got away with it again! Despite her plans, that bastard Jason was taking advantage of a houseful of young women now, like an endless supply, on tap. And as for Michael, he was capable of anything. If two young women have gone missing and he was involved, then you could only fear the worst. “Look.” She took hold of Christina’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll call a friend, get you taken to the main hospital, try and get you seen to straight away. Then – Then we’ll try and find out about your friends. Then – Then I’ll have a word with Michael fucking Babb.”

Chapter Twenty-Three From the Front Page of the Coastal Courier’s Website, 2nd November 2014 WOMAN FOUND DEAD, WASHED-UP ON BEACH – POLICE FEAR IT MAY BE MISSING MOTHER OF TWO, JACQUELINE FRANKLIN In the early hours of the morning, a body was found washed up on the town’s east beach. Early reports, which, at this stage, have not been verified, suggest the corpse belonged to a female in her mid- to late twenties. Unsurprisingly, with an official investigation into the disappearance of local mother of two, Jacqueline Franklin, currently ongoing, police fear that the body could well be hers. Veteran crab fisherman, Wilber Davies, who discovered the corpse, said, “Well, it’s not the sort of thing you expect to find first thing of a morning – a dead body on the beach. Hell of a mess, she were, crabs crawling out of her eyes and mouth, skin all green and mottled, half the back of her head hanging off, like she’d been scalped or something.” Only when a full autopsy is conducted (which, as the Courier understands, is a matter of utmost priority) will a positive identification be confirmed.

All we, Miss Franklin’s family and friends, and the rest of the local community can do is hope and pray that she was not the poor unfortunate washed up on the beach today. Anyone with any information, please contact the police immediately. Steven Bland (Deputy-Editor) “Any word back from the coroner yet?” Hepworth asked Priestly, as they strolled through the blustery, overcast town centre. “Not as yet.” She moved aside to make way for a cavalcade of teenage mothers pushing prams. “But we’re hoping to have a positive identification before the end of the day.” “Okay. Good,” said Hepworth. “And what about the other men you mentioned in your email last night?” “Well, yesterday, early evening, Ray MacArthur, a local journalist of some sort, contacted the helpline. By all accounts, he saw the public appeal on television, and recognised Miss Franklin as a woman he’d had a one-night stand with a couple of weeks prior to her disappearance.” “Right. And did he mention any kind of sexual infection?” “No. No he didn’t. But he left his contact details, so we can get hold of him as and when. He said he was freelance, worked from home most days, and

was happy to answer any questions anytime.” “Excellent. We’ll try and see him later this morning, then. And what about this Jonathan Reynolds character? – you’ve tracked him down too, right?” “That’s correct. Although” – she hesitated – “it would appear that Mr Reynolds is married, so he may not be as, erm…forthcoming as our journalist friend.” “Understood.” Hepworth came to a stop and glanced at the two dishevelled, bleary-eyed men standing outside the bookmaker’s, puffing on rollup cigarettes. “We’ll call him later, too,” he said to Priestly. “For now, let’s go and have a chat with Mr Little, shall we?” *** “Look,” said Kevin Little. “I know why you’re here. I saw the public appeal last night. And I know I wrote that stupid message on Facebook, but I was pissed up, angry. I didn’t have nothing to do with that young bird going missing.” “Okay, Mr Little, calm down.” Hepworth raised his hands, palms upturned. “We’re just here to ask a few related questions, that’s all. Now, where were you on the twenty-ninth of October between the hours of, say half-past eight in the morning to three o’clock in the afternoon?” “Here, at work.” He slid a timesheet across the desk. “That proves it. And I’ve got witnesses, my

work colleagues, people on the same shift.” Hepworth studied the relevant column: 29th of October. In: 08:30. Out: 17:30. “Okay.” He lifted his head. “Now, presumably, bearing in mind the content of the message you posted on Miss Franklin’s Facebook page, the two of you were intimate at one time.” “Yeah – one time and one time only. A Friday or Saturday night, can’t remember which now, we met in town, she was all over me, wanted to go back to my place for a smoke. So we finished our drinks, walked to mine, had a few joints, spun a few tunes, and ended up in the sack.” “And a little while afterwards you realised that you’d contracted a sexual infection of some kind?” “That’s right.” He lowered his head, as if ashamed. “I – I couldn’t believe it, ’cause that Jacqueline is a proper looker, and only young, not the sort of bird you’d think would be dosed up with some sexual disease.” “And other than the message you posted have you had any further contact with Miss Franklin?” “No, I swear. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since.” *** “From what I gather, Mr MacArthur,” said Hepworth, “you spent the night with Miss Franklin a couple of weeks prior to her disappearance. But in your original phone call, you made no mention as

to any ramifications following the night in question.” The still handsome, middle-aged journalist gave a visible start. “So you know, then, about the infection?” “Information found at Miss Franklin’s house suggested she might’ve been carrying a S.T.I. of some kind,” Hepworth lied, not wanting to give anything away to a member of the press. He moved quickly on. “Did anything unusual happen during the time you spent with Miss Franklin?” “Erm, not really, not until the next morning, when I woke up in her bed. I tried to sneak out, you see, without waking her. I knew it was only a onenight thing, and didn’t want to go through all the awkward formalities. But I must’ve disturbed her and she – she, well, she seemed really offended, like I was the typical male bastard, got what I’d wanted and now didn’t want anything more to do with her.” “And why do you think that?” “I don’t know, really,” he replied. “But from some of the things she said, you know, unguarded comments, drunken slips, she did seem to have a huge chip on her shoulder, especially where men were concerned, like she’d had some really bad experiences, and hated being taken advantage of in any way.” “I see,” said Hepworth. “And where were you

on the twenty-ninth of October between the time of half past eight in the morning, and three o’clock in the afternoon?” “Like I said to the lady on the helpline, I was out with my sister. We try and get together every other week, have a meal, stuff like that. On the twentyninth we went to an art exhibition in Norwich, got an early train, made a day of it, had a long boozy lunch. These are her contact details. She’ll only be too happy to confirm everything I’ve just said.” *** “And why did you use your real name on the dating website?” asked Hepworth. “Isn’t that a bit risky, with you being a married man?” Jonathan Reynolds shrugged and pulled a sour, surly face. “My wife and I have an arrangement,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “An open relationship? She’s aware of your extra-marital activities but turns a blind eye, is that what you mean?” “Not exactly,” said Reynolds. “My wife suffers from a rare skin condition. As a result, she’s come to abhor all forms of physical and sexual contact. Therefore, she doesn’t question me if I come home late at night, or if I don’t come home at all.” “A kind of unspoken agreement? Okay. I understand.” Hepworth picked up a sheet of paper, a print-out of the message Reynolds had sent

Jacqueline via the dating website. “In this message, Mr Reynolds, you make pointed threats against Miss Franklin. What were you –?” “Look, Detective Inspector. I was furious when I wrote that message. I was sure she’d done it on purpose, you see, that she’d knowingly infected me with a sexual disease.” “On purpose?” said Hepworth, affecting surprise. “How’d you mean?” “Oh, I don’t know. It was just some of the things she said and did.” Hepworth placed the sheet of paper back on the desk. “And where were you on the twenty-ninth of October between the time of half past eight in the morning, and three o’clock in the afternoon?” “Erm, if memory serves me right, I was at home all day, on my own, catching up on some paperwork. I sometimes work from home, tend to get more done that way.” “And can your wife verify this?” “No she can’t, I’m afraid. She was in London, visiting a specialist dermatologist, took the train down, wasn’t back until late that evening.” *** “Dan,” said Priestly, having just shown Nicky Thomas out of the interview room, “I just got a message from Jenkins.” Looking at her phone, she relayed the following: “Been checking Miss

Franklin’s bank records. Apparently, a cash payment of ten thousand pounds was deposited into her account on the twenty-ninth of October, the day she disappeared.” “Ten thousand pounds? Who from?” “That’s just it – from, apparently, some off-shore account in the Bahamas, hard to trace, like one of those tax haven jobs.” “What? Why would a single mum living in a small coastal town receive a payment like that from the Bahamas?”

Chapter Twenty-Four “Good morning, Mr Brandon.” Dr Mitchell gestured for the nervous-looking young man to take the visitor’s chair. “What can we do for you today?” “Erm, well” – he hesitated and bit into his bottom lip – “it’s a bit embarrassing. And I’ve, erm…been putting off coming to see you.” “Okay. I see. But, please, don’t feel embarrassed. I’ve been a general practitioner for over thirty-five years. There’s nothing I haven’t seen in my time, young man, believe me.” Brandon gulped back some saliva. “Well, a couple of weeks back I met this girl in town. We, erm…got a bit drunk, went back to hers, and slept together. Next morning, well, not next morning exactly, but like a few days later, I noticed this redness, like a rash on my, erm…my penis. At first, I didn’t think nothing of it, ’cause every time I had a shower it disappeared, and I didn’t see it again for days. But over time it’s just got worse and worse, and I – I felt so ashamed. And now I think I might’ve left it too late.” “Okay, Mr Brandon, don’t upset yourself. From what you’ve just told me, it sounds like you’ll need to undergo a full sexual health check, have swabs, blood and urine samples taken. Unfortunately, we don’t do that from this surgery, so you’ll have to

refer yourself to the G.U.M. unit at Norfolk and Norwich hospital, you’ll have to ring up and make an appointment.” He scribbled a phone number down on a piece of paper, ripped it off and handed it to the patient. “They’ll do all the relevant tests, find out if you’re suffering from an infection, and if necessary, propose a course of treatment.” “But how long will that take?” “A few days, Mr Brandon, a week at the most.” “But don’t think I can wait that long. My – My…it looks bad today. It’s gone all black.” “Black!” said Mitchell. “You mean to say your genital region is now black?” “Yeah, and this stuff is kinda oozing out of it.” Brow furrowed, Mitchell slowly got to his feet. “Okay, Mr Brandon, if you could step over to the treatment table, climb up, pull your trousers and underwear down below the knees, I’ll take a look.” While Brandon did as instructed, Mitchell walked over to the sink, squeezed some antiseptic hand-wash onto his hands, ran them under a tap, dried off on a paper towel, and then pulled on some surgical gloves. “Right, Mr Brandon,” he said, approaching the treatment table, “I’m sure this is nothing to worry a…My God!” He stopped in his tracks. The much younger man’s entire genital region – the penis, scrotum, all the way down towards the perineum – had turned black, like a nightmarish bruise, with an

oily-looking substance leaking from the skin. “I – I…”

Chapter Twenty-Five Two Days Earlier: The Saturday Afternoon Aaron looked over the camp – the two caravans, pigpen, wooden outbuildings, phone box, army of black and white gnomes, and two stuffed crocodiles – all the weird, bizarre things he’d prepared himself for. Only now he was here, where the Boge lived, he didn’t know what to do next. It wasn’t like walking up to someone’s house and knocking on a door or ringing a doorbell. But that was the only thing he could think of doing – knocking and waiting. Before he could a caravan door swung open, and out rushed Bogdanovic – wild-haired, wild-eyed, in a tatty vest held together with safety pins and camouflage trousers tucked into army boots. “Ah, so you’ve finally come.” He took Aaron’s arm and sniffed him through his bomber jacket, from the wrist all the way up to the elbow. “You’re sick, my young friend. You suffer from maladies, both physical and spiritual. This is why you have sought me out, no?” Unnerved, frightened – Bogdanovic was such a strange, intimidating figure – Aaron gabbled, “No, no, I’m a, erm…friend of –” “Jacqueline’s, of course.” He released Aaron’s arm. “This I know. I can smell her on you.”

“Smell her on me? But I haven’t seen her since last night. I’ve had a shower and –” “It matters not,” said Bogdanovic. “He who is drowned is not troubled by the rain.” He gestured towards the caravan. “Come inside. We have much to discuss.” *** “Well, what I really want is a tattoo,” said Aaron, sitting on the grimy banquette. “Only I’m not sure what to go for. I want to impress Jacqueline, see. I want to show her that I’m not like everybody else. And I know you did a few of her tattoos, so…” Bogdanovic lifted his vest, turned around and showed Aaron the array of tattoos on his back. “Whoa! Look at those. Who did ‘em for you?” “These?” Bogdanovic turned back round, tugging his vest down. “I did them myself.” “Oh, right,” said Aaron, trying to mask the doubtful tone from his voice. “I see. And I, erm…I have money, to pay for a tattoo, that is.” “How much money?” “Plenty. I got paid yesterday.” He patted his inside pocket. “Got a whole month’s wages in here, more than enough for a tattoo.” “Don’t be so sure. My tattoos are infused with magical powers, and often money is an insufficient method in which to buy them.” Bogdanovic shuffled over to the dining-table and rummaged through some papers. “Yes. Here we are.” He

handed a crumpled sheet to Aaron. “The Oracle has already decided for you.” Aaron studied the sheet of paper with a shape of some kind on it, made up of six lines, two of which, the second and third up from the bottom, were broken. “Wu Wang,” said Bogdanovic, his eyes squeezed shut. “Innocence, the unexpected. There is arousing, there is thunder. Supreme success. Perseverance furthers.” “Perseverance?” Aaron repeated, thinking solely of how that word related to him and Jacqueline. “Why of course.” Bogdanovic opened his eyes. “If someone is not how he should be he has misfortune, and it does not further him to undertake anything. However, innocence, your true spirit, my young friend, brings good fortune, for the original impulses of the heart are always noble, so you must follow them, be confident and assured of good fortune, and the ultimate achievement of our collective aims.” While not really understanding any of this, Aaron couldn’t help but be encouraged. “Therefore” – Bogdanovic rummaged through another pile of papers – “I have the perfect image for your first piece of body art.” Finding the sheet of paper he was looking for, he handed it to Aaron. “Here.” On the paper was a detailed tattooist’s sketch of

a bloodied pig’s head mounted on a stake. “What?” said Aaron. “I don’t want a dead pig on my arm.” Bogdanovic waved his words away. “But the pig is a perfect representation of the innocence of which the Oracle speaks. The pig is not a dirty animal, the kind of creature derided in the Koran. No. He is intelligent, companionable, resourceful.” He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “So, my young friend, this image is essential for you, for Jacqueline, for she would understand the symbolism, for she knows of the terrible massacre that took place not a few hundred yards from this very spot, the awful crime against God.” “Massacre?” Bogdanovic stalked over to the window, the only one that wasn’t boarded-up. After wiping his bony palm across the grimy, mildewed glass, he pointed to the surrounding fields visible in the distance. “Over there, that is where it took place, that is where those innocent creatures lost their lives in the most savage and indiscriminate manner.” “What? I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” Bogdanovic rushed back over, sat next to Aaron and draped an arm around his shoulders. “Many years ago, the Americans came here, the military, along with a big multinational corporation, a true representation of the evil U.S. war economy.

They had designed a new super-bullet, but had still not tested its efficiency. And because swine have similar skin to humans, they buy hundreds of pigs from a local farmer, the very man who used to own this land. And they shoot them, the pigs, as part of a test, to see how destructive their new bullet really was, one after another.” Bogdanovic leaned closer. Aaron could smell his warm, stale breath. “That day, the sky was a vivid crimson colour. And you know what they say about a red sky in morning?” Aaron shook his head. “It’s a shepherd’s warning…” The Story of the Pigs The troop transporters arrived just before dawn, demolishing grass verges, clattering into overhanging branches, leaving the narrow roads a mess of collapsed banks and rutted mud. Slowing, each vehicle turned down the dirt-track leading to the pig farm, closely followed by a military jeep Dozens of armed soldiers disembarked, and marched over to a cordoned-off area of farmland. A natural dip separated this area from the pig farm itself, leaving around fifty meters of relatively flat ground in between. Guards patrolled the woods on either side, others were sent to the farm gates. As a contingency, a wall of baled straw had been stacked behind what was to become the target area. Just out

of sight of this, yet more soldiers had set up a temporary pigpen. In addition, the medical team had erected a large tent to act as a field hospital. Directly opposite, dozens of artillerymen carried out last-minute weapon checks, the repeated snap and click of rifle cartridges being locked and loaded the defining sound. As I said, the sky was a vivid crimson colour. The wind had started to pick up, rustling through the surrounding trees. At the pre-appointed hour, a soldier led a pig with floppy ears over to the target area, a piece of rope around its neck like a dog lead. Another soldier brought up the rear, coaxing the pig along with a few slaps to its rump. The closer they got the more the doomed animal resisted, prescient of its impending demise. It pulled up, strained and squealed. To placate it, some feed was placed in a small trough. This seemed to have the desired effect: the soldier could remove the rope from its neck, leaving it snuffling and rooting around the trough. “Carroll?” shouted the commanding officer. A stern-faced soldier, with a hooked nose and tufts of inky hair poking out the sides of his beret, stepped forward, rifle to hand. “Yes, Sir.” “Proceed with the first shot,” the officer ordered. “Go for the back leg just below the rump. Fire

when ready, Carroll.” The soldier moved into position. As he raised his rifle spots of rain started to fall. With the wind blowing right into his face, stirring up pieces of loose straw, he had to take aim several times before being satisfied. Oblivious, the target pig continued to snort and snuffle around. The marksman took in his intended target one more time. “Fire when ready,” the officer repeated. The soldier squinted to focus. His brow wrinkled. His finger slowly squeezed the trigger. BANG. The bullet discharged like a clap of thunder. The almost instantaneous thud knocked the pig over by sheer force. The screech of pain was high-pitched and agonized. The impact area fizzled and flashed as the bullet exploded and pulpy matter spattered forth. The animal writhed around on the floor. Its back leg had been completely ripped off from the hip joint; the severed limb blown several metres away, its trotter still twitching. The marksman walked away, looking at his rifle, like someone who’d never fired a gun before, as if realising for the very first time what his weapon was truly capable of. A medical team comprising of one male and one female soldier moved in, kneeling by the stricken animal. The pig was still writhing around, still making that horrible screeching noise. By the time they assessed the injury dark blood was smeared up

their forearms drenching the front of their uniforms. The female soldier administered a painkilling injection which took a few seconds to take effect. The mutilated pig’s cries subsided, as did its movement. Two other members of the medical team rushed over with a stretcher. The young woman looked up and shook her head. “What’s the problem, Neary?” shouted the officer. “It, erm…didn’t make it, Sir.” She peeled off her surgical gloves. “I think the shock combined with the potency of the injection must’ve killed it.” “Damn! Never mind. We’ll get the offending cadaver removed. Have some junior members of the team play around with the wound, dressing it and whatnot. Let’s turn this negative into a positive, and get another target out here pronto.” The next pig was slightly larger and had a black mark on its rump. The first gunshot had clearly startled it. Its wide eyes were so full of terror, so expressive – so very human. The two soldiers had trouble dragging it over to the target area, having to force its snout into the trough, and wait there until it became absorbed with eating and rooting around inside. “Marshall, let’s be having you,” the officer shouted. “Chop, chop.” A tall, lean soldier stepped forward. “Fire when ready, Marshall.”

He didn’t waste any time. No sooner had he took aim than he fired. The super bullet impacted much lower; the back leg shattering, sending the pig tumbling over, kicking out its other legs. The medics dashed over. “Isolate the wound,” Neary instructed. “Apply some pressure to the severed artery.” With utmost care, she administered another painkilling injection, more successfully this time around. For the broken animal quieted and its movement receded, yet breathing was discernible. The two medics set to work, cleaning and dressing the wound. All the time, the young woman patted the pig’s head, whispering soft practised words of reassurance. “The flow of blood has been successfully stemmed, Sir,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Condition is stable. I reduced the painkilling dosage this time and it seems to have done the trick. The, erm…patient is ready for removal.” “Good work,” said the officer. “You two can take a break now.” Walking over, he took out a service revolver, placed it to the pig’s head and fired. Bloody discharge and yet more fragments of pulpy matter spattered against his shiny combat boots. “Shepherdson,” he shouted. “Start digging those disposal trenches. We’ll bury the dead animals as and when from now on.”

The rain fell heavier. A dozen more pigs were disposed of. The sound of gunfire; the explosive impact; the squealing; the stench of death carried on the blustery wind. The target area became a quagmire of mud and blood. Pieces of dismembered animal were strewn everywhere. Drenched to the bone, soldiers with stretchers shuttled wounded or dead pigs from the temporary field hospital to the open grave. Inside the tent was pandemonium. The bloodstained medical teams were either sawing off damaged limbs or frantically attending to a series of head and trunk injuries. All kinds of military personnel rushed around shouting for instruments, medication, or some form of assistance. The prostrate animals lay on treatment tables with eyes rolling, whimpering and shivering; many too traumatised to utter a sound. Outside, the straw bale wall had been partially demolished. Soldiers were forcing a pig into an upright position, wedging it in between two metal barriers, while another zipped up a bulletproof vest. When elevated the animal became strangely passive; only its head lolled from side to side. The soldiers moved away. Three marksmen approached, took aim, and with clinical precision fired an even, controlled burst of shots direct into the vest. The power and intensity knocked the pig back and forth. The barriers

wobbled and rattled as bullets ricocheted from the body armour. A side of the vest was then breached; a jet of dark liquid spurting forth. One barrier gave way. The pig toppled over, splashing to the muddy ground. It had been killed outright. The officer called ceasefire and began issuing further instructions. Soldiers started digging drainage trenches in an attempt at diverting the rainwater, while others erected barriers around the target area. The mud had become so thick they had difficulty keeping their footing. A dozen or so pigs were then brought down from the temporary enclosure. “Right, team, gather round,” the officer shouted, to be heard above the pouring rain. “This will be the last exercise of the day. We’ll fire a few warning shots to startle the targets. Then fire at random into the enclosure. Wait for my signal, and then fire again. Understand.” “Yes, Sir,” they shouted back. On his first command they did as instructed. On his second they fired into the enclosure. Several pigs were mown down, screeching and writhing, crashing into muddy puddles. The unharmed animals that had fallen in fear were struggling to get up due to the thick mud-slides flowing through the enclosure like a river. “Ceasefire,” the officer shouted.

The medical teams moved into position. The rain continued to hammer down in long, unrelenting sheets. The commanding officer stepped forward. “Okay, men. Reload. Then fire again when ready.” No-one moved back into a firing position. “I said – reload and fire!” the officer roared, raindrops streaming down his face. “What’s wrong with you? Are you disobeying a direct order from your superior?” One soldier was brave enough to speak out. “Sir, with all the respect in the world, we’ve been shooting these poor defenceless creatures all morning. It’s too much. We’ve had to deal with all this screeching and squealing and blood everywhere. It’s enough to put you off the army for good. By God it is.” The officer took a few moments to digest this. “Medical team,” he said on the half-turn. “Enter the enclosure and treat any injured animals as best you can. Destroy those that are of no use to us.” He turned back to the riflemen. “Men, help clear the area. Ferguson – report direct to me when we get back to base. I will not tolerate any show of insubordination or breach of discipline. Do you understand me?” “Yes, Sir.” Due to the natural dip in the land a pool of dark water had formed. As they packed up their

equipment troops splashed through it, dismembered heads and hoofs bobbing to the surface of… …Heavy rain rattled against the roof and windows, breaking the spell of Bogdanovic’s story. “What?” said Aaron. “So they just lined those pigs up and shot ’em, just to test out a new bullet?” Bogdanovic slowly nodded his head. “Now you understand.” He leaned over and kissed Aaron full on the mouth. “Now you understand how important this tattoo is.” “Yes,” he said, feeling strangely mesmerised, as if he was back in the story, watching all those pigs being shot, jumping at the crack of each bullet registering, at each terrorised squeal. “Excellent.” What happened next was like a memory, like something that had already taken place in Aaron’s life before, maybe many years ago. When he looked down, when he could clearly take stock of his surroundings again, Bogdanovic was scraping a needle across his skin, working with incredible skill and speed. “See. It’s taking shape, no? Already you can feel the power seeping into your veins, and it hurts you not, does it?” “No. I – I can’t feel a thing.” When finished, Bogdanovic dunked a swab of cotton wool into a jar of spirit and dabbed it over

Aaron’s wrist, carefully wiping all the blood away. “There,” he said, proudly. “Now I must anoint my own skin with your beatific features.” Aaron looked up confusedly. “How do you mean?” “You must help me,” said Bogdanovic. “See that stool, the short, squat one with the large seat, over there? Bring it to me…that’s it…place it under the light there. That way I will be able to see what I’m doing.” With everything in place, just as Bogdanovic requested, Aaron went and sat back down on the banquette. Bare-chested, facing the other way, sitting cross-legged on the stool now, like a Yogi in meditative prayer, Bogdanovic began to hum Om in a soft yet convicted monotone. Then, slowly, his head started to turn, but it didn’t stop when Aaron could clearly see one side of his face. No. It continued to turn all the way around, through one hundred and eighty degrees, until Bogdanovic was staring straight at Aaron, his face where the back of his head should rightly have been. In the same manner, Bogdanovic’s arms swung back and around, clicking in and out of their sockets, manipulated like a plastic action figure. “Now” – he picked up a fresh needle – “I will scrape the holy needle across my skin, capturing you at this very moment, creating a permanent record of the magic that has passed between us

today.” The needle started to buzz in his hand. Working with the same skill and speed as before, he outlined a perfect representation of Aaron’s head, filling in the features with an artistic flourish, until the face was complete, until Aaron was staring into his own eyes, until he found it difficult to discern between his flesh and bone self and the inky representation so perfectly formed on Bogdanovic’s skin. *** “Now,” said Bogdanovic, still on the stool, his head and arms returning to their normal positions. “You must pay me.” “Pay you? Oh, yeah, of course.” Aaron unzipped his jacket and pulled out a wallet. “How, erm… much do you want?” He looked down at his wrist, at the tattoo which seemed to have miraculously healed already, and which now felt so important to him, because he was certain it would be the catalyst in bringing him and Jacqueline closer together. “What I require,” sad Bogdanovic, levitating off the stool, hanging in the air, suspended, his eyes, once again, squeezed tightly shut, “cannot be paid for with such clumsy currency.”

Chapter Twenty-Six From the front page of The Coastal Courier, 3rd November 2014 LOCAL SURGERIES OVERWHELMED BY INCREASE IN SEXUAL INFECTIONS – COUNCILLOR BLAMES LACK OF EDUCATION IN SCHOOLS In recent weeks, surgeries and drop-in clinics in the region have reported an exponential increase (in some cases over 500%) in patients requiring referral or treatment for sexually-transmitted infections. District Councillor Perry Wilmot said of this alarming rise, “With cases of H.I.V., syphilis and herpes on the increase, sexual infection rates in the 18-35 age groups are reaching epidemic proportions. Clearly our young people are playing Russian roulette with their long-term health. If we don’t drum the safe sex message into them from an early age we face potential catastrophe.” Local GP Jeremy Mitchell had this to say, “I can’t remember anything quite like this before. Some of the symptoms I’ve seen in patients are so unusual I’ve had to refer them to the main hospital’s G.U.M. clinic for tests.” Full story continues on Page 5

Steven Bland (Deputy-Editor) “Okay.” Hepworth switched the phone from right hand to left. “The body washed up on the beach definitely wasn’t Miss Jacqueline Franklin. Good. I’ll make sure her loved ones are informed… Okay. And are there any clues as to the identity of the body? Interesting…so you think she could well have been Polish, and headquarters are going to contact our Central European counterparts to see if anyone fitting the deceased’s description has been reported missing. Great…Yes, yes, I will. Thanks again, Brian. Goodbye.” He finished the call and looked across the office at Priestly. “So, if the body wasn’t Miss Franklin’s, we’ve still got an ongoing missing person’s investigation to conduct. And did I hear you say something about the dead girl being Polish?” “That’s right,” he replied. “Apparently, there was a gold band around her ankle with a Polish hallmark, and a distinctive filling in one of her back teeth. HQ are going to run a continental-wide check on all missing persons – might turn something up, might not – because, from what I gather, there’s quite a lively mix of immigrants working in the region. So perhaps we should start checking out the factories, cafes and bars, just to see if any young women have gone missing. Who knows? This could well be connected with the Franklin

disappearance.” “Good idea. And I’ve had a chat with our fraud squad. That off-shore account in the Bahamas is proving incredibly hard to track down – where one paper trail ends another doesn’t naturally start up again. In short, we’re having trouble finding out exactly where the money deposited into Miss Franklin’s account came from.” Hepworth thought about this for a few moments. “Nevertheless, we can draw a few conclusions. Of the men we’ve interviewed so far, most have alibis for the day in question, and didn’t appear to be potential kidnappers or murderers.” “Agreed,” said Priestly, “Although I must say I didn’t like the Reynolds character very much, or find his story particularly convincing. Out of all the men who came forward he had a bit of a nasty streak; he was the only one who seemed capable of exacting revenge. Perhaps he called round to Miss Franklin’s house to confront her, things got out of control and…” “Or maybe none of the events that have taken place are connected.” “How’d you mean?” “Well, maybe Reynolds, in a fit of temper, broke into the house, trashed the contents and sprayed that message on the wall, simply to get back at Miss Franklin, but had nothing to do with her disappearance. Perhaps the money is completely

unrelated, too.” “But surely – “ “Look. Don’t listen to me, Di. I’m just thinking out loud.” He checked his wristwatch. “Right, nearly a quarter past. Let’s go and make a few calls, talk to a few local businessmen, see if we can’t shed any light on all of this.” *** “Old Bill?” Michael Babb gestured for the officers to sit down in visitors’ chairs. “What have I done this time? Forgot to pay a parking fine?” “No, no,” said Hepworth. “We just called in on the off-chance. We’re conducting the investigation into the disappearance of Miss Jacqueline Franklin. As you probably know, a body was found washed up on the beach recently, that of a young woman of around the same age. But this morning the coroner informed us that the body wasn’t hers.” “Really? Well, that’s a, erm…relief, I s’pose.” “Indeed,” said Hepworth. “But items found on the deceased indicate that she’s of Polish origins. With your company being one of the biggest employers in the area, a company that takes on immigrant workers, we wondered if you were aware of any young women going missing recently?” Babb leaned so far back in his leather swivel chair, the material squeaked and the hinges groaned.

“We’re right in saying that you employ a significant proportion of Poles and Romanians at the factory?” “One or two, yeah,” Babb finally replied, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s something we’ve been asked to encourage; the town council got us to sign up to some initiative scheme. But to tell you the truth, the factory is only one of many businesses in my, erm…portfolio. Day to day, a team of managers runs the place. It’s a sheer fluke that you caught me here this afternoon. I had to stop by to sign some papers.” “Oh, oh I see,” said Hepworth. “But presumably you’d have been informed if one of your employees disappeared.” “Disappeared? How’d you mean? – disappeared?” “Just that, Mr Babb.” For the first time, Hepworth’s voice betrayed a little impatience. “A girl of Polish origins washes up on the beach, we’re simply visiting local businesses that employ foreign workers to see if anyone has left recently, maybe abruptly, without giving notice.” “Well, as I’m sure you appreciate, we do employ a lot of casual staff here, not on zero hours contracts or nothing like that, just temporary workers during busy periods of the year. As its pretty grim, boring, backbreaking work, quite a few people bail out on us after a day or two, so we have

a relatively large turnover of staff.” “Understood,” said Hepworth. “But you do keep records?” “Yeah, course, but without speaking to the chap who hires people I couldn’t tell you about any comings and goings, not off the top of my head.” Hepworth took a business card out of his jacket pocket. “Fair enough. Here.” He handed it to Babb. “This has both my mobile and office numbers on it. If you could make a few enquires and get back to me, it would be most appreciated.” Babb took the card but made no acknowledgement or promise to contact Hepworth. Both officers got to their feet. “Out of interest,” said Hepworth, “are you acquainted with Miss Franklin, the missing woman?” “Yeah, I am as it goes. She’s good friends with my partner, Katie. Can’t say I’ve got much time for her, though, bit of a druggie, ain’t she? Don’t really like the idea of Katie spending so much time with her, a young mum being pissed up and stoned round her kids is something I don’t agree with.” “And was that, to the best of your knowledge, a regular occurrence?” “Bloody right it was. If she ain’t have gone missing – and, please, don’t take this the wrong way, ’cause I’m not wishing her any harm – social

services or whatever would’ve taken those kiddies off her. Forever forgetting to pick up ’em up from school, never used to feed ’em proper. She was a right state. In many ways those twins are better off without her.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven With Michael out all afternoon, Katie found herself scouring the internet again, pursuing all kinds of tenuous links: the C.I.A. conspiracy theory, the proliferation of sexual infections, the story the Boge relayed to Jacqueline and Ryan, the story about the Indian tribe being slaughtered. As pointless as all this seemed, she finally stumbled upon a magazine article entitled: The Bogeyman or Chief Wanayama: Copycat Killings in the Town of Nattawa. At the top of the article, under the headline, was a poem or, more correctly, a few lines of verse, apparently from a song sung by local children during and after the killing spree, which completely freaked Katie out: The Boge, the Boge is not a real man The Boge, the Boge will kill you out of hand The Boge, the Boge will make you understand The Boge, the Boge is the bogeyman Article by Lake Palmer. Copyright 2009 The summer of 2004 was one of the hottest on record. The West Coast of America experienced some of the highest temperatures in living memory – sidewalks melted, rivers ran dry, forest fires raged. Nowhere was hotter than the small town of

Nattawa. Famed for its Red Indian nature reserve (which finally received World Heritage Status in 1998), this sleepy backwater, heavily reliant upon the tourist trade, an area, in fact, completely rejuvenated following the status upgrade, was location of one of the most brutal and bizarre killing sprees in American criminal history. The story begins on the morning of October the 29th. At around eight a.m. the sheriff’s office received a phone call from Hattie Western, proprietor of a cheap boarding house in a rough, rundown area of town, notorious for drugs and prostitution. In gabbled tones, Western reported that a dozen of her guests had been murdered in their sleep. Promptly, Police Chief Pete Kennedy, a wily, silvery-haired law enforcement officer with over forty-years’ experience, attended the crime scene with his deputy, Tommy-Lee Jenkinson. The boarding house itself was a ramshackle affair, a three-storey wooden building constructed in the colonial style, but which had fallen into serious disrepair. Most of the first and second storey windows were boarded-up, the front lawn was scruffy and untended, and the porch area dilapidated, with broken wooden floorboards and a busted rail. As soon as the policemen stepped out of the squad car, Hattie Western, an aging, snow-haired

mulatto, a former bordello madam and lively local character, pushed her way past the many onlookers gathered on the sidewalk, waving her hands in the air, crying, “They’ve killed ’em all.” After calming her down, Kennedy and Jenkinson asked her to show them to the scene of the crime. The room in question, set aside for migrant workers looking for cheap overnight lodgings, was situated on the ground floor, down a narrow, dusty hallway with peeling paper on the walls. What Kennedy and Jenkinson saw inside that room would remain forever etched in their minds. “Jesus Christ, Pete!” On the floor of this large, dimly-lit space, bereft of furniture, were a dozen old mattresses, lined up, one beside the other. On these mattresses were the twisted, bloodied corpses of twelve men. Stripped naked, they had all been scalped in the manner of a traditional Indian ritual killing, had had their throats cut, and their genitals sprayed with what looked like (and what was later confirmed by a forensic team) black paint. On the blood-flecked forehead of each man rested a card with the image of an Indian chief on it, complete with feathered headdress. On the south wall, sprayed with the same black paint were the words: SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT. All of which set alarm bells ringing in Kennedy’s head. Once back at headquarters, he dug up some

archive material regarding a famous case that was never officially closed. In the late nineteen seventies, dozens of drilling workers excavating for oil on the neighbouring Nature Reserve (years before it received World Heritage Status) had been murdered in the exact same fashion as the men from the boarding house: scalped, throats cut, and with a similar card left on the corpses. Only in the earlier killings, the men had all been infected with a strange sexual disease, a hideous rash which spread over the entire genital region, and which, like the case itself, had never been satisfactorily explained. While FBI agents were flown in to investigate the original killings, another massacre took place, this time at a bordello some thirty or forty miles from town. Here the men (those also engaged in drilling activities, but on temporary leave due to the first set of murders) were slaughtered in the exact same way as their colleagues. This unnerved the multinational corporation so much they suspended drilling activities indefinitely, withdrawing from the area, never to return. The killings stopped. This led federal investigators to believe that the murders must’ve been undertaken by members of the Red Indian community, reprisal attacks for the desecration of holy ground. When questioned about the identity of the killer, Native American descendants living in the area, those who had, and

would go on, tirelessly trying to protect their sacred land, said that the evil white workers had been murdered by the Bogeyman. One journalist, who questioned police afterwards, was guilty of a clumsy misquote. Next day, in one of the largest papers in the state, the headline ran: LOCAL NATIVE AMERICAN REPRESENTATIVES SAY THE BOGE RESPONSIBLE FOR KILLINGS. A name which, in the fruitless months of investigation that followed, stuck, becoming the stuff of legend and folklore, ingrained in the minds of local people. Perhaps most baffling of all, none of the crime scenes yielded any physical evidence whatsoever – not a finger- or footprint, fibre of clothing or strand of hair. Certain of a concrete link, so closely did the murderer (or murderers) M.O. match the unsolved killings that took place all those years ago, Kennedy was convinced that he was dealing with a twisted copycat killer. The only thing lacking in this case was a clear motive. When considering the victims’ backgrounds, he found nothing which could connect them to the previous killings. Here were an impoverished band of migrant workers, men who moved up and down the country, who picked seasonal fruit and vegetables, worked in factories and fields, sometimes even went off to sea. They were, in effect, invisible men, men who had slipped through the cracks of society, certainly

not those engaged in activities which could’ve caused heinous offence to a deeply spiritual people. The case stalled. While Kennedy investigated an unrelated matter, another gang of workers was found murdered in a boarding house not ten miles from the town of Nattawa, in the exact same fashion as the other men. Again cards were left on the victims’ foreheads. And, after a thorough forensic examination of the crime scene, no physical evidence was found. “How could this many men be killed in their sleep, and not a single trace be left behind?” Chief Forensic Officer, Lee Rinder, shook his head. “Hell if I know, Pete. Looks like we really are dealing with the bogeyman.” In this second set of slayings, however, two of the murdered men were well-known to local police. Miguel Munez and Hector Rodriguez were wanted in three states for a string of sexual crimes, including the rape and kidnap of two young girls under the age of consent. When Kennedy studied the case files, he found links to a string of other sexual assaults, one of which included a rather bizarre complaint against Rodriguez, filed by a woman who claimed to be his common-law wife. In the writ, she accused Rodriguez of knowingly infecting her with a sexual disease. In the margins of this typewritten report, someone had written out

in block capitals: WOMAN NOW DECEASED, CAUSE OF DEATH, SECONDARY INFECTIONS ASSOCIATED WITH UNNAMED SEXUAL COMPLAINT. Certain he was onto something Kennedy looked through all outstanding cases of sexual assault, rapes and kidnappings that had taken place over the last few years. Plotting a course across his own and neighbouring states, tallying up unsolved cases, he was able (and this was a laborious, time-consuming process) to connect a string of sexual offences to certain locations at a time of the year when strawberries, for example, were in season, another case, asparagus. In this fashion, he proved that men murdered at both scenes had been picked up by police for minor offences – drunkenness, petty theft, vagrancy – placing, at any one time, a handful of workers in that particular gang within the vicinity of a sex crime. More tenuous, but nonetheless telling, he stumbled upon an article from a medical journal highlighting a dramatic increase in the spread of sexual infections in those areas around the time the migrant workers were in situ. In particular, there was contemporaneous evidence of an unexplained sexual disease, the likes of which medical practitioners had never seen before, a black rash oozing a curious oily discharge. But all those infected with the rash, and all were poor, working

class people, or those of the lower criminal classes, prostitutes, especially, either disappeared or were found dead from an undiagnosed illness. Frustratingly, after convincing his superiors that there was a sexual angle to the murders, they stopped. And to this day, the slayings remain unsolved. As a postscript to these bizarre events, Pete Kennedy, who lived to be ninety-three years old, never got those gruesome killings, and the mystery surrounding them out of his mind. In his retirement years, he became obsessed with examining the case, going over files, witness statements, even taking the time to visit people from the Native American community, especially those of advancing years who may well have remembered both sets of killings. And although he turned up no new evidence as such, nothing that could shed any real light on the murders, let alone indicate who the killer was, he did find one chilling coincidence: the dates and timelines of each set of murders had some kind of pattern or correlation with the ancient story of Chief Wanayama, who, so legend has it, was violently slain, along with his entire village, by original European settlers. If Kennedy’s calculations are correct, the killings will recommence on October twenty-ninth 2014. So beware:

The Boge, the Boge is not a real man The Boge, the Boge will kill you out of hand The Boge, the Boge will make you understand The Boge, the Boge is the bogeyman As soon as Katie had finished reading the article, she called Ryan. He picked up on the fourth or fifth ring. From the background noise, the splashing water and echoey laughter, she could tell he was bathing the twins. “Give me your email address, will you?” “My email address?” “Yeah. I need to send you a link. I just read something on the internet that really freaked me out, something I think you should look at, something important.” “Erm, okay.” He gave Katie the address. “Great. Cheers. When you get the twins settled, read it and call me back, okay? Like I said, it could be important.” *** “Where did you find this stuff?” asked Ryan. “On some website,” Katie replied. “I remembered the story, the one about the Indian tribe, Chief Wanayama, the one the Boge told you and Jacque that time, and…Look. I know it sounds stupid, but do you think the Boge might be some kind of nutcase, that he read the same story on-line and is planning to recreate the murders? I mean,

there’s been one body washed up already, and in the paper, it said that the back of her head had been hacked off.” “Yeah, I know. But they also said it could’ve been done by a boat propeller, you know, after she drowned, and her body was bobbing up and down in the sea.” “Still, there are far too many coincidences. So, what I think we should do is meet up tomorrow, maybe go and see the Boge, have a look around his place. Who knows? He might have got Jacqueline hidden away up there somewhere. You said yourself that he was the only one who’d give her weed on tick. Perhaps she went back for some more and –” “I can’t – not tomorrow. I’m working two shifts. Henry’s going to take the kids. Maybe you should just tell the police, show them the article, tell them everything you know.” “No way. They’d think I was off my head. What about the day after tomorrow, then? Let’s meet up, talk things through.” As they made arrangements, the front door swung open. A moment later, she heard Michael’s booming voice – evidently, he was talking on the telephone. “Cheers, Ry. Give me a call when you can get away. Better shoot off now. Michael’s just got home from work and he’s a bit funny about me

talking to other fellas on the phone.” When she finished with the call, she shut her laptop down and listened in to Michael’s conversation, which had continued all the way into the kitchen. “Yeah, the Old Bill has been asking questions ‘bout a missing girl…Look, Jase, no-one’s gonna find her, all right. If push comes to shove, tell ’em the truth – two birds up and did one, not the first time, won’t be the last. We’ve got all bases covered. If they look into the operation, we’ll get a slap on the wrists, no more…I might have to call in a favour or two, though. But as long as you’ve behaved yourself we shouldn’t have any problems.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight Two Days Earlier: The Saturday Night Michael Babb hadn’t won a single hand at cards all evening. A creature of habit, he liked to call into the Warwick Club every Saturday night, early doors, to have a drink with the lads, in the private room out back, sit around a card table, smoke a few cigars (fuck the smoking ban), knock back a dozen or so Jack Daniel’s and cokes, relax, and take a few quid off a few local mugs. Only tonight things hadn’t gone to plan. Already he was three hundred quid down, hadn’t been dealt any decent, half-playable cards. Like a twat, he’d tried to bluff his way to a couple of respectable pots, but hadn’t been convincing enough to scare anybody off (who’d put his cards in if he was holding a straight flush or four bullets, eh?) Just as Michael was starting to lose his cool, to feel that prickly anger rise, just as he was starting to feel his drink, to look around the table, to try and find something to take offence at, the door creaked open, and in rushed Jason. “Mike,” he leaned close and whispered, “can I, erm…have a quick word, like? It’s important.” Strangely enough, this interruption didn’t piss Michael off as much as he would’ve expected. Perhaps an excuse to leave a game that had given

him not the slightest sniff of good fortune was just what he’d been looking for. Getting up, he made his apologies (“bloody work, eh, lads? Never stops – not even on a fucking Saturday night!”), called Jason a total cunt for interrupting the game, and then led the way to the corridor outside. “What is it?” Jason, looking fidgety and nervous, gulped back some saliva. “It’s, erm…one of the birds at the house, she’s only gone and got herself dosed up with a S.T.I. or something, had to go up to the hospital today, so she reckons, keeps harping on about needing her passport back to get a prescription.” Babb took a step back into the light, and fixed Jason with the kind of hard-faced, murderous stare that had reduced far more resolute men to shivering wrecks. “And you wouldn’t have anything to do with this, by any chance, would you?” “No, no,” he said. “I just didn’t know what to do – ’bout the passport – and would never have dreamed of bothering you here at the club.” Babb checked his watch – a jewel-encrusted Rolex Oyster Perpetual – half-ten. “Well, look, it’s too late to do anything tonight, and it’s Sunday tomorrow. So just tell her I’ll be round first thing Monday to sort this shit out. Soft-

soap her, say I’ll pay for any prescription she needs, say it’s in her contract of employment, that the welfare of our workforce is very important, blah-blah-blah. That should satisfy her, all right.” *** Michael Babb stepped out into the cold, dark, blustery night. There was no-one else around; the narrow back streets were empty, the only sound the swirling wind blowing in off the sea. Pulling up the collar of his camel-skin coat, he looked right and left, and crossed the road in the direction of the taxi rank. “Oi, Michael!” He swung round to see Jacqueline Franklin, Katie’s nightmare of a druggie mate, striding over, her heels clopping against concrete, her body language bristly and confrontational. “What’d you want?” “I wanna have a word with you, you bastard.” Somehow, and rarely did any restraint police Michael’s more violent reactions, he refrained from smacking her straight across the face – no-one ever, ever spoke to him like that and got away with it. “Drop your fucking tone.” He rounded on her, fists twitching; fit to strike out if she said another word. “Hit a woman, would you, Michael? Yeah. Just your style, that. One of those Polish girls you’ve got locked up in that house told me all about it.”

This took him aback. He lowered his fists. “What are you on about? You been smoking something again?” “No,” she said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “I happened to bump into one of your bloody slave workers, in bits she was, told me all about Jason creeping into her room at night, having his way with her, forcing himself on her, promising all sorts, and the way you rip them off, taking all their money, so they’ve got nothing left at the end of the week.” Having just spoken to that soppy, cry-baby wanker Jason, he knew that this had more than just a semblance of truth about it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Yes I do, Michael. What’s more, so will the police. There’s nothing I hate more than bastard men like you, exploiting women, treating them like objects, like we’re nothing but –” “You’re way off the mark. You’re talking shit. You’re –” “You won’t mind me making a report to the Old Bill, then?” Their eyes met. A car with a loose fan belt screeched its way along Church Street. A gust of strong wind sent a stray carrier bag rustling high up in the air. “What’d you want?” said Babb. “Money? A few quid to get you out of the shit?”

The way her features, so implacable a moment ago, softened, the way she bit into her bottom lip, told him that all her good intentions, principles, her fighting for the righteous cause, sticking up for those foreign birds, had gone straight out of the window. Like everybody, Jacqueline had her price. “Look. I ain’t done nothing wrong, Jacqueline. I just supply accommodation and jobs to a few foreign workers, people who were starving, who couldn’t make a living in their own country, that’s all. If any of my employees have stepped over the line and taken advantage, I’ll look into it – you have my word on that. But I don’t need no aggravation, the law sniffing ’round, so why don’t we come to some arrangement, eh?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine Emergency Town Council Meeting “Such is the seriousness of the outbreak,” said Dr Preston Gambil, “it presents a very real and present danger to the health and well-being of local people. In my opinion, therefore, we have but one course of action available.” He made brief yet meaningful eye contact with each of the eight men sat around the conference table. “Firstly, we must close the town for seventy-two hours, call in the military to block each and every exit road, allowing no vehicles to leave or enter the exclusion area. Secondly, we must undertake a leaflet drop, informing residents of the outbreak of an unknown, potentially dangerous infection. Thirdly, we must set up a quarantine zone, perhaps a tent on the local football pitch would suffice.” “Quarantine!” said Lord Campbell-Harding. “Isn’t that a tad drastic?” “Drastic?” cried Gambil. “Didn’t you listen to my colleague’s presentation? In the last week alone, over one hundred local residents have contracted some kind of virulent sexual infection. Rigorous tests have been undertaken at the main hospital, but this is unlike anything we’ve ever encountered before. The incubation period is far from straightforward, cells appear to mutate quicker in some than in others, attacking healthy

cells, destroying the immune system. If we don’t try and isolate it at source, we could have an epidemic on our hands.” “He’s right, Bertie,” Dr Mitchell said to Lord Campbell-Harding. “I myself have examined thirty or more cases. Extreme as these measures may appear, I feel we have no other option.” “Thank you, Dr Mitchell.” Gambil nodded appreciatively. “Now, I’ve already liaised with local police.” He glanced down at a piece of paper on the table. “A, erm…Detective Inspector Hepworth has been conducting an investigation into a missing local woman, who may have been knowingly infecting her partners with the very disease that has baffled our laboratories. In the course of his enquiries, he’s interviewed a number of infected men, and has information regarding dozens of others who may have been at risk.” “So this is definitely a sexually-transmitted infection, then?” said Councillor Wilmot. “Like A.I.D.s in the nineteen eighties, something the youngsters have been passing around amongst themselves?” “At this stage,” said Gambil, “we can’t categorically state where and how this infection originated or how it’s been transmitted, as not all problems with the genital region are contracted through unprotected intercourse.” “But surely,” said Lord Gerald Fellows, a retired

judge, the oldest man present, “if a young man puts his private part inside a young woman and next day it looks like it might fall off, then chances are he’s got himself a dose of the clap or something, what?” Gambil let out a weary-sounding sigh. “Look. Whatever we’re dealing with here, it needs to be isolated and monitored, in a controlled environment. We need to undertake more tests, and, ultimately protect other residents from potential infection.” He looked around the room again. “So can we take a vote, please? Everyone in favour of closing the town for the seventy-two-hour period suggested, raise your hands now.”

Chapter Thirty Leaflet Distributed to All Householders, 4th November, 2014 DO NOT IGNORE – IMPORTANT GOVERMENT INFORMATION Dear Householder, Please read the following information very carefully. Due to the outbreak of a rare and potentially dangerous infection, the town will be closed for the next seventy-two hours. No persons or vehicles will be permitted to leave or enter the town and its environs during this time period. Anyone found violating these conditions will be put under immediate arrest and face prosecution and a heavy fine. If any person in this household has had unprotected sexual intercourse, suffered loss of blood, or come into direct contact with anyone else’s blood in the last 21 days they should report immediately to the quarantine zone set up at the local football ground. There they will be tested, monitored, and, if necessary, offered a course of

treatment. Please do not panic. This is a purely precautionary measure. As the origins of the infection remain unknown, the Local Authority will take any action it sees fit to protect the wider community. If anybody has any problems, be it a shortage of food, water or power, or concerns about an elderly, disabled or sick member of the family, please contact the helpline below. Helpline: 0800 987987987 Signed: Councillor G.W. Wilmot By Order of North Norfolk District Council Dozens of police cars and military vehicles lined the streets leading up to the football ground. Both ends of the road had been cordoned off. Armed troops patrolled the gated entrance, surrounding woodland, and a perimetre wall fitted with reams of barb-wire. Inside the ground stood four portakabin buildings, one for catering, one for medical supplies, the other two makeshift sleeping quarters for military personnel. The huge tent erected on the football pitch itself contained two hundred metalframed hospital beds, covered with fresh white sheets. In the centre of the tent were temporary

bathroom facilities, male and female, plywood huts with a shower unit, two sinks and two toilets. For the last two hours, those suspected of carrying the infection had been transported to the quarantine zone. Before being allocated a bed, they had to fill out a comprehensive form. “Here,” said Sergeant Harris, a stout, punctilious officer who’d been charged with overseeing the internment. “Fill out this form. When you’ve done so, hand it back to me, and I will allocate you a bed.” When Jonathan Reynolds received a form, he rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. “For pity’s sake!” he grumbled. “Not more bloody forms. It’s the –” “Silence!” Harris bellowed right into Reynolds’ startled face. “You might be infected with a highly contagious disease, sir. It’s your right and duty to your fellow citizens, therefore, to fill out that form to the best of your abilities.” Red-faced, Reynolds skulked off to one of the tables set up by the entrance, sat down, and hurriedly filled out the form. By early evening, all beds had been taken – to the right, females, the left, males. Aaron Wells found himself situated in between Ray MacArthur and Jonathan Reynolds. “So, erm…how come you two ended up in here, then?”

Still smarting from his reprimand, Reynolds turned his back on the younger man. MacArthur, however, was more than happy to start up a conversation. “Stupidity,” he said with a self-deprecatory shrug. “At my age, I should have known better.” “What?” Aaron almost whispered, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up. “You had unprotected sex, did you? Or was it something to do with coming into contact with blood?” “The former, unfortunately,” said MacArthur. “Ironic, really. Not exactly been the most active of men in the bedroom department over recent years. The one time I have a few drinks and meet a nicelooking young lady, I end up here. Ha!” “Yeah.” Aaron stared blankly into space. “I know how you feel. Same thing happened to me. Split up from my long-term girlfriend a while back now – s’pose I never really got over it, and never had much luck meeting anyone else. Then I ran into Jacqueline one night and –” “Wait. Did you say Jacqueline?” Aaron nodded. “Not Jacqueline Franklin?” “Yeah. We were, erm…sort’a going out.” “Going out!” MacArthur failed to mask his surprise. “But not so long ago I slept with her without any, you know.” He looked around the tent, at the scores of other men lying on their beds, men

of different ages, professions, walks of life. “Not to be rude, but I wonder how many other men have been with Jacqueline. Maybe she was going around deliberately infecting people, eh?” Aaron knew that was indeed the case, but didn’t say anything else, anything that might put him in an awkward position. “Make that three.” Reynolds turned round, having clearly been listening in. “I had a one-night stand with that Jacqueline as well.” Now he was sitting directly under the main lights, Aaron recognised him as one of the men Jacqueline had met in the Black Swan, a face he last saw across a busy barroom. “Well I never,” said MacArthur. “Quite the gathering of unfortunates, eh? Who’s more foolish, the fool or the fool who follows him?” Reynolds saw nothing funny in that, or the situation as a whole. “You know what? I think you might be right. I think she deliberately infected us with this, erm… whatever it is. I think she’s a bitter, twisted piece of work, a man-hater, trying to exact revenge for some calculated infidelity.” “No she isn’t,” said Aaron. “She’s just been a bit unlucky with men, that’s all.” “Unlucky with men!” cried Reynolds. “And what are we, then? – or the other one hundred and ninety-seven people locked up here – the lucky

ones! Jesus! I should’ve sensed something wasn’t right with her when we met for a drink. Huh! But I just let my prick do the thinking for me. And I mean, in my own defence, you don’t expect it these days, do you? Attractive young women in their twenties being infected with God knows what. Not surprised she’s gone missing, doesn’t take a modern-day Sherlock Holmes to work out what happened to her, does it?” “How’d you mean?” said Aaron. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Some poor chap, a chap just like us, slept with Jacqueline, contracted the infection, and was so angry, he went around to her house to confront her, and ended up doing something stupid.” “What? Like killing her?” “Exactly,” said Reynolds. “Least she bloody deserves, ruining people’s lives like this.” “She’s hardly ruined anybody’s life, has she?” Aaron argued, feeling as if he had to defend Jacqueline to the last. “For all we know, she might’ve been a victim in all of this – just like us. She might’ve been infected by some bloke.” Reynolds flashed Aaron a darting-eyed stare. “So you know something, do you?” “No. Not really. I’m just saying it might not be her fault.” “Tut! Oh, never mind.” Reynolds shrugged, showing weariness for an argument. “Let’s change

the subject.” He pointed to Aaron’s arm. “What’s that on your wrist, anyway?” Aaron gave a start, as if he’d forgotten about the tattoo Bogdanovic had scraped across his skin. “This? Oh, just a bit of body art I got done the other day.” He rolled his sleeve up and gave both Reynolds and MacArthur a better look at the bloodied, beaten pig’s head mounted on a stake. “The bloke who done it is proper talented, reckons the pig is a dead symbolic creature.” “Symbolic of what?” spluttered Reynolds. “Wallowing around in its own shit all day?” “No.” Aaron ran his fingers protectively across the tattoo. “He told me this story ’bout how this big American gun company bought up some land ’round here, along with hundreds of pigs, and how they slaughtered them all in a field, just to test out this new super bullet. Proper gruesome, it was, in all the papers and on the news at the time.” “That’s not a real-life story,” said Reynolds, “but the plot from a famous film – A Red Sky in Morning, came out five or six years ago, was directed by independent film maker, RB Arthurs, the British Tarrantino, as the press has dubbed him.” “You what?” said Aaron. “That was the story the tattoo bloke told me, not some film.” “I’m afraid he’s right, erm…what is your name, by the way?” said MacArthur. “I’m Ray.” The

three men exchanged names. “We’re going to be here for the next few days so we may as well get acquainted.” He turned back to Aaron. “And yes, Jonathan’s correct – that is the plot from A Red Sky in Morning, winner of the Palm D’or, if I’m not mistaken, bit of a modern classic. So perhaps your tattooist friend was just spinning you a line, trying to get you to buy a certain tattoo.” Aaron lowered his eyes. “But he – he told me it symbolised innocence in the face of the capitalist greed machine. He said that it would impress Jac –” hurtling through the air, an Adidas trainer hit Aaron smack across the top of the head. “Hey! Who threw that?” All three men swung round to see Anita Jones and Karen Jenkins walking over, stepping in between beds. “Remember us?” Anita scowled and put her hands on her hips. “Huh! We’ve just been having a very interesting chat about you, Aaron, comparing notes on how you talked your way into our beds. Funny that – how we both slept with you last week, and how we’re both here now.” “But – But we used protection,” he gabbled, still rubbing the side of his head. “So how could –?” “That’s what we thought!” Anita interrupted. “Now we’re not so sure. Neither me nor Karen had had sex for ages before last week, ’specially not unprotected. And if both of us have been infected

with something it could’ve only come from one person – you!” Hearing raised voices, perhaps bored as much as curious, dozens of women walked over from the other side of the tent, falling in behind Anita and Karen. This altered the other men, many of whom shuffled closer or swung round on their beds so they could listen in. “You should hear this, girls,” Karen said over her shoulder. “We might just have found the source of the infection, the bloke who started this whole thing off.” “Well, in Aaron’s defence” – MacArthur got to his feet – “and as you both just confirmed: he did attempt to use contraception. If the condom fell off or split or something went wrong, the poor young lad can hardly be to blame.” “Fell off! Split!” Anita snorted. “Twice in the space of a week! What are the chances of that – zero, I’d say. No. I reckon he did it on purpose.” She jabbed a finger in Aaron’s direction. “I reckon he’s one of those twats who don’t like wearing a condom. I reckon he whipped it off before he got started, just to increase his own pleasure, and in doing so, infected both me and Kaz with some bloody awful disease.” “What an arsehole!” one woman behind Anita shouted. “Yeah,” said another, flinging a paperback book

at Aaron, narrowly missing his head. “It’s that sort of selfish disregard which spreads these things through town.” “It’s probably his bloody fault we’re all here.” Another projectile, a pound coin, struck Aaron full in the chest. “Ladies, please.” MacArthur, still standing, raised his hands defensively. “Calm down. We’re all in the same boat, falling out amongst ourselves, trying to apportion blame to one individual, will do us no good at all.” Reynolds shot to his feet. “Come on, Ray. Don’t try and reason with the stupid bloody cows. If anything, it’s their sort that got us into this mess, not Aaron. If only they could learn to keep their legs shut, and if they can’t manage that, then at least they could have the decency to keep themselves clean.” “Why you arrogant –!” Anita rushed over to confront Reynolds. “It’s bastards like you that ruin young girls’ lives on a daily bloody basis. Why should it always be the woman who carries the condoms, who has to think about protection? It’s you that causes all the problems – men like Aaron Wells, men who can’t keep it in their trousers.” “Bollocks!” said Reynolds, his top lip curled in disgust. “You small town girls are nothing but sluts.” “Sluts!” Anita lashed out at Reynolds, scratching

his cheek with her nails, drawing blood. “Ah! You bitch!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and wrestled her to the ground. “Get off her!” Karen jumped over a bed, swooped down and beat Reynolds on the back with her fists. Sergeant Harris came rushing into the tent. “Stop this instant!” he roared. “This is ridiculous!” His booming voice brought everyone to their senses. They stopped fighting, got to their feet and moved sheepishly away from each other. “Calm down, for goodness sake?” Harris stood there shaking his head. “Each one of you is carrying a serious infection, one which has so far baffled medical experts. In the coming hours, you could well fall seriously ill, be in dire need of medication, proper treatment. This whole quarantine zone has been set up for your benefit, and you see fit to fall out amongst yourselves.” “It was them that started it,” said Anita. It was them that –” “Silence,” shouted Harris. “Return to your beds, don’t move, talk or interact in any way. Not until the doctors have done their rounds.” Ten minutes later, two white-coated physicians entered the tent. In turn, they went from bed to bed asking each internee a few brief questions regarding the state of their health – if they felt okay, did they

have a fever or a sore throat, were they subject to any aches or pains, had the genital rash altered in appearance, did they experience any pain when urinating, had they found any blood in their stools? “Thank you,” one of the doctors said to Aaron. “In the morning, we’ll come and take your temperature again, and undertake a few more tests, all routine stuff.” Afterwards, Sergeant Harris called for quiet. “In light of earlier events,” he said, pacing up and down the centre aisle, “we have no other option than to assign armed guards to the tent. In approximately twenty minutes, catering staff will provide you with an evening meal. When you have all finished eating, you will then be escorted to the bathroom facilities to attend to your standard ablutions and bodily functions. After that, you will return to your beds for the night. Although relatively early, we will turn off the lights, to encourage you all to try and get some rest until morning.” He paused significantly. “Any repeat of the earlier violence will result in individuals being locked up in solitary confinement. Anybody who fails to comply with our explicit instructions risks criminal prosecution at the end of the seventy-twohour quarantine period. Do I make myself understood?”

Chapter Thirty-One “Please, take a seat.” Jason directed the police officers to visitors’ chairs. “I’m happy to help in any way I can, but I’m a bit pushed for time today, so…” “No problem, Mr Leach,” said Hepworth. “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. Now, just to confirm, you’re employed by Mr Babb, aren’t you?” Jason hesitated. He knew he had to answer the question, he knew he couldn’t lie, but still hated the idea of mentioning Babb’s name to the police – it felt like he was grassing him up, telling tales, something which could lead to a nasty scene, a beating, a few broken bones, a dreaded date with Mr Machete. “Erm, sort of, yeah. In as much as this house is rented to workers from the factory, and that, erm… Mr Babb owns the factory.” Hepworth and Priestly exchanged a slightly confused sideways glance. “Right, I see,” said the Detective Inspector. “And you’ve not been in post very long, have you? – a matter of a week or two. And the rooms you were kind enough to show us a few minutes ago are all occupied by immigrant workers, in the main, Eastern and Central Europeans?” “Well, I’m, erm…not quite sure what you mean

by immigrant workers. We’re all part of Europe now, aren’t we? Way I understood it these girls were desperate for work, desperate to come over here, and the bosses at the factory signed up to some initiative to help ’em. This place is just temporary, somewhere cheap to get ’em settled in the area, before they move onto a proper flat in town or something.” “I see, Mr Leach, very worthy, very noble. Now, as you’re probably aware, a body washed up on the beach recently belonging to a young woman of, we believe, Polish origins. So have any of your workers left the house recently, maybe out of the blue, without giving any kind of notice?” Even though he’d prepared himself for the question, Jason still took far too long to come up with an answer. “Yeah, a couple of, erm…workers from the factory, not been here long, did do a bunk, as it goes.” “A couple of workers, you say?” “Yeah. Two Polish birds, Katarina and Agna they were called – don’t ask me their surnames, though; couldn’t pronounce ’em for the life of me – just upped and cleared off, good few days back now, didn’t notice at first, on a day off, see, and never thought to check their beds. We run a pretty informal, come and go as you please operation here, so it’s not like I was keeping tabs on ’em or

nothing.” “And why didn’t you report this to the personnel department at the factory, or to local police, for that matter?” “I did,” said Jason. “I called the factory to inform ’em, but, apparently, it’s not that uncommon. Once people get over here and realise it’s not the greatest of jobs, that it’s hard bloody graft, they often try their luck somewhere else, piss off down to London or up to Manchester.” “So the young women took all their belongings, then?” Again Jason took far too long to answer – he just couldn’t seem to get the words out quick enough. “Yeah, yeah, far as I know.” “And did you talk to the other girls, their friends here, girls they perhaps confided in, told of their plans?” “I tried my best, but they don’t speak very good English, and I just presumed they’d hitch-hiked it down to the smoke.” Hepworth nodded his head a few times. Priestly jotted rapid-fire notes into a pad. “Okay, that’s very enlightening, Mr Leach. Now, onto another matter: the disappearance of Miss Jacqueline Franklin. You were a couple at one time, weren’t you? – boyfriend and girlfriend.” “Sort of,” he replied. “Didn’t last very long, though, bit of a nutcase, that one, loose bloody

cannon, off her face half the time, didn’t know whether she was coming or going. So I got rid of her.” “So we understand, having spoken to a few of Miss Franklin’s close friends. Now, have you any idea where she might’ve disappeared to?” “No. None. We, erm…didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. It was a bit messy. She sent me a good few abusive texts, stuff like that.” “And did you reply to the texts?” “No, I ignored ’em, ignored her. I wanted to move on.” “Okay,” said Hepworth. “I can understand that. And when was the last time you saw or spoke to Miss Franklin.” “Cor, don’t know off the top of my head, probably one of those texts was the last time she contacted me, but I hadn’t seen her, face to face, since I gave her the elbow.” “And during the time you were with Miss Franklin, did you have genuine feelings for her?” “What?” “I ask the question because some of the people we’ve spoken to suggested that you were guilty of infecting her with a venereal disease. And if that’s the case, Mr Leach, then why haven’t you reported to the quarantine zone? As you must be aware, for their own well-being, all people who’ve had unprotected intercourse in the last twenty-one days

are –” “Venereal disease! Me? Never! Always use protection. Besides, I haven’t got any symptoms, no rashes, no nothing.” Hepworth took a notebook out of his inside pocket and opened it on a marked page. “What about your liaison with Ruth Green, the sixteen-year-old sister of Mandy? According to her, the two of you were engaged in sexual relations up until a few weeks ago when she informed you she was pregnant with your child. The same goes for a, erm…Diane Peterson, one of the first young women in town to be tested positive for a sexual infection, which, she alleges you passed onto her via unprotected sex.” Hepworth looked up at Jason over the notebook. “Both young women are currently at the quarantine zone, so I suggest you pack an overnight bag and come with us immediately. We’ll drive you out there so you can undergo tests.” “Oh, come on, mate. If I ain’t got no problems downstairs then I’m in the clear – surely. And you shouldn’t listen to what all those local slappers say, full of shit, most of ’em. And I’ll get the bullet if I have to piss off from work for best part of three days. Can’t you –?” “No. I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist.” *** “Right,” said Hepworth, from behind his desk at

the local police station. “Now we’ve got the names of the two missing girls, all we can do is wait until we hear back from our Polish counterparts. But if they left the house, factory and their jobs together, the chances are they could very well have decided to try their luck somewhere else.” “Maybe,” said Priestly. “Although there was something very shady about that Jason Leach, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Clearly he’d been briefed by Babb, told exactly what to say to us.” “Oh, without a doubt, the question is why? Because he knows what happened to those two young girls, or because he runs a shady operation bringing unskilled workers over here and paying them peanuts, like an unsavoury, whip-cracking gang-master in an Armani suit?” “Maybe both,” said Priestly. “And what about this Bogdanovic character? I had HQ run a check on him.” “And their findings were?” “To say not a great deal would be an understatement. No-one by that name has ever been on the electoral register. The land he lives on belongs to a farmer Stiles, a man who committed suicide ten or more years ago. As the deceased had no direct descendants and left no will, things, apparently, have got very sticky in the legal sense – outside parties making a claim for this and that, the

Town Council trying to have the entire area levelled for construction of a new surgery. As a result, the plot of land Bogdanovic occupies, and most of the surrounding fields and woodland, have just lain fallow.” “And the clever chap has decided to pitch up home there.” “So it seems,” said Priestly. “What we do know is that he’s been living in and around town for that ten-year period, but has never had any official employment as such, never claimed any state benefits, never been in trouble with the police. To all intents and purposes, he’s an invisible man.” “An old gypsy type, living off the land but, undoubtedly, someone connected with local criminal elements, someone we need to speak to again. We’ll call in to see him sometime tomorrow.”

Chapter Thirty-Two Two Days Earlier: Late on the Saturday Night When she got home, Jacqueline’s heart was still pounding against her chest. To try and calm down she poured half a bottle of wine into her last surviving wineglass (one of those fancy, deep and wide middle-class receptacles, a gift from her dad one Christmas), guzzled most of it back, took out the remainder of her weed, and started to roll a joint. Only she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. In the street earlier, she’d been sure Michael Babb was going to hit her. And in that split second, or series of seconds, when he raised his fists, she almost wished he had; because she knew it would’ve given her unlimited power over him. After another big mouthful of wine, she was finally able to control her fingers, to break off a little weed and load it into a cigarette paper. Be a while before we get hold of any more of this stuff, said a voice in her head. No it won’t, another, sterner, far more persuasive voice argued. It was then she remembered exactly what Michael Babb had said, exactly what had passed between them. And it was then she started to feel guilty and ashamed. It was then she remembered standing in the bathroom looking at that poor young Polish girl, at that ugly rash. Had she really sold her out for

money, a bribe? Had she really let Babb, and all those bastards like him, off the hook, just when she’d got him exactly where she wanted him? But it was a hell of a lot of money, Jacque, the persuasive voice reemerged. Think what it could do for you? – wipe out all your debts, a few quid for clothes, records, maybe even a ticket to Glastonbury, a holiday for the kids. But, Jacqueline, said the other voice, if you take the money, you’re letting Babb win, Jason win, you’re letting them walk all over you all over again, you’re betraying everything you’ve ever believed in, and all the hard times, the heartbreaks and disappointments, would’ve been for nothing. Think about it. Jacqueline buried her face in her hands. The last seven or eight years flashed through her head. What was she doing with her life? Since leaving school she’d never had a proper job – bar one summer working in a local pub before she fell pregnant with the twins – had just stumbled from one bad relationship to the next, had never felt happy or fulfilled. And she couldn’t see that changing for the next ten years, when the twins would be getting ready to leave school. And ten years seemed like a lifetime. By then she’d be approaching forty, middle age, and knew she’d have so many regrets, that she’d look back and realise she hadn’t achieved anything, that her best years had been wasted, spent staring at these four

ugly walls. And this really, really scared her. *** In pitch darkness, Jacqueline woke up on the settee, a strange prickly sensation needling away at her wrist, near the tattoo of the Indian chief she’d had scraped across her skin all those years ago. Sitting up, she turned her arm over and looked at the image of Chief Wanayama just as a bright lustrous light emanated from the tattoo itself, illuminating her lower arm. To her complete astonishment, the Chief then turned his head and started to talk to her in a deep, booming voice. “Please, do not be alarmed, Jacqueline. You are not hallucinating, nor are you are in the midst of a terrible nightmare. It is I, your great spiritual teacher, Chief Wanayama, the man you have always felt such affinity with.” Jacqueline tried to respond, to say something, to move, to shake herself from what she was sure was a drug-induced, paranoid delusion, but all she could do was stare at her wrist, at the very real and human face now talking to her. “I have travelled across many oceans of time to speak to you.” Wanayama stepped out of the tattoo, out of her wrist, into the room. Now he stood in front of Jacqueline, a full life-size man, his arms folded across his chest. “In moments of great crisis, pure noble souls such as yours need guidance. Life has not been very kind to you,

Jacqueline. True, you bear a certain responsibility for your misfortune. You have made many bad decisions. You have allowed yourself to be pulled by the tide of other people’s lives, unworthy people, to the extent that you have almost drowned in foreign waters. But do not let that deter you from your greatest challenge.” “My greatest challenge?” “Yes,” said Wanayama. “I am, of course, referring to the money you have been offered. In normal circumstances, it would be a great moral crime to accept this evil white devil’s proposal, for he would be buying your very soul with a handful of banknotes. However, my true dear strong fiery powerful, Jacqueline, these are far from normal circumstances. There are dark forces at work in this town. You yourself have fallen victim to them many times before. For there is no sin greater than to spark the light of love in another’s heart when you feel nothing but cold indifference stirring in yours.” “To lead someone on, you mean? To say you love someone when you don’t? To sleep with them when you don’t find them attractive, when you don’t really want to see them again?” “Exactly. Never doubt the power of your own intuition and intelligence. It can serve you well, never more so than now.” Wanayama crouched and put a hand on Jacqueline’s shoulder. “So this is what I propose you do: take the white devil’s

money, all of it, store it away in a safe place, then exact revenge on him and all those like him.” “Revenge? What kind of revenge? What do you mean?” “You must break in the way you yourself have been broken, Jacqueline. Only then will you be able to become the pure, beautiful, talented person you were once destined to be.”

Chapter Thirty-Three When Jason Leach was escorted into the tent Sergeant Harris had to switch on a section of the main lighting, so soldiers setting up a camp-bed could see what they were doing. This disturbed those who had struggled to get off to sleep. One by one heads rose from pillows to see what was going on. “What?” “Who’s that?” On recognition, the mere sight of Leach nearly started another heated argument. Ruth Green and Diane Peterson (who, ironically, had been allocated neighbouring beds) started to shout abuse at him. “That’s Jason bloody Leach, that is, the bastard who infected us!” “Him and that little twat Aaron are the main culprits, you can bet your life on that.” This, in turn, alerted many other women, who had, up till that point, been fast asleep. “What? That’s the bloke you were telling us about earlier, the one who got you pregnant, dosed you up with a S.T.I., and then didn’t want to know?” Before things got out of hand, Harris marched over to the women’s side of the tent. “Ladies! Don’t make me haul you out of bed. Don’t make me place any of you in solitary

confinement. Whatever your relation to the new arrival, keep your anger in check. In the morning, the doctors will hopefully confirm a course of effective treatment, allowing you all return to your homes. Until then, I will not tolerate another disturbance.” Across the tent, Aaron studied Jason Leach intently. This was, or so he thought, the first time he’d ever seen the man Jacqueline hated so much. But as his eyes adjusted to the light, he recognised Jason from high school. In particular, he remembered his very first day, when he was all nervous, shy and awkward, a twelve-year-old dreading big school, and the terror of being around so many new faces. At lunch-time, having not made any new friends, having barely spoken a word to anyone else, he went inside the main building to use the toilet. Outside a nearby classroom were a group of much older boys, scruffy, unruly, in their final year. “Look at this little wanker,” one said in reference to Aaron. “Looks like an extra from Revenge of the Nerds, with his rucksack, sideparting and shiny new blazer.” Before Aaron knew what was really happening, one of the boys, Jason Leach (although he had never put a name to that face before), grabbed him and wrestled him to the floor. Too afraid to struggle, to kick out, to put up any kind of resistance, Aaron

just closed his eyes and hoped everything would be over quickly. Roughly, he was whipped over onto his front, his face pushed right up against the cold stone floor. Groping hands unzipped the rucksack and rummaged around inside. “Jackpot!” said Leach. “A bloody king-size Mars and a shit load of tuna and mayo sandwiches!” Hungry as he had been, Aaron felt a strange relief wash over him, presuming that now the older boys had got what they wanted they’d leave him alone. But that didn’t prove to be the case; the worse wasn’t over yet. Leach rolled him back onto his front, grabbed pieces of discarded, mouldy orange peel from the dusty floor, and started to force them into Aaron’s mouth, one at a time. “Open up, shit for brains.” He jabbed the peel against Aaron’s pursed lips. “You’re gonna have to have something for lunch, now we’ve nicked your sarnies and chocolate. Wouldn’t want to see you go hungry now, would we? Ha!” And he wouldn’t give up until Aaron had opened his mouth and started to chew on the rank, disgusting orange rind. “That’s it, needle dick, you chew your way through that lot, swallow it all down like a good little boy.” As hot tears filled Aaron’s eyes, he realised that a big crowd had congregated, that they were laughing at him, that they were egging Leach on, encouraging him to insert yet more orange peel into

his mouth. *** With a start, Aaron woke up in the dead of night. What time it was he couldn’t have said. All around him he could hear the steady rising and falling of breath, the odd low persistent snore, cough or splutter. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to force himself back to sleep, to attach his mind to an involving, slumberous thought, only for a strange prickly sensation to needle away at his wrist, near his new tattoo. Sitting up in bed, he turned his arm over and looked at the severed pig’s head just as a bright lustrous light emanated from the tattoo itself, illuminating his lower arm. To his complete astonishment, the pig started to talk to him in a low yet clear human voice. “Do not be alarmed, Aaron. Keep your composure. Do not lose your head. I am not a product of your imagination. You are not in the midst of a terrible nightmare. No. I am a very real and powerful spiritual presence in your life, your very soul. Ever since you learned of my brethrens’ fate, slaughtered en masse, cut down by the evil white man’s murderous weapons of destruction, you have not been at peace, have you?” “No. No I haven’t.” “And now you find yourself in this humiliating position –” the pig stepped out of the tattoo, out of Aaron’s wrist, and into the tent. Now it stood on its

hind legs by the bed, a full life-size pig, not just a severed head on a stake – “incarcerated with these wretched non-entities, symbols of retarded lethargy, the kinds of people who see nothing wrong in slaughtering innocent creatures, the kinds of people who have always tried to put you down: the bullies at school, the teachers who told you you were stupid so many times you came to believe them, the childhood sweetheart who claimed you had just drifted apart, when, in fact, she had been seeing another man for many months. And while they may be innocents themselves, guilty only of ignorance and indifference, you need to exact revenge, you need to make a statement, one as grave and symbolic as the agents of the great Satan in that field all those years ago. Come.” The pig gestured for Aaron to get out of bed. “Let me show you exactly what you have to do.” With Aaron following on close behind, the pig trotted over to each and every person in each and every bed, pulled the covers down, exposing their shoulders, and rolled them onto their sides. “Here.” It plucked an incredibly large, incredibly sharp machete from the air. “Take this.” He handed the weapon to Aaron. “What you must do, my young friend, is aim the machete at the top of the head, at the back. Here.” He pointed a trotter at Jonathan Reynolds’ scalp. “Focus, do not rush. Imagine you are at your place of work, the drawing

tool in your hand. Imagine these people are no more than plucked fowl-like cadavers. Then, when you are ready, bring down the machete with true and terrible force, slice the scalp from the top of the head, and when the poor unfortunate jerks up, crying out in pain, as all will surely do, slice their throats, quieting their pitiful screams once and for all.” He turned and gestured to the main entrance. “Pile the severed scalps over there by the door. They will be your offering to the great Chief Wanayama.” Aaron stared at the machete in his hand. “I – I understand,” he said, feeling as if this was the only available truth left to him, as if this was the moment he had been waiting for all his life. “Good.” The pig patted Aaron’s shoulder. “Your destiny is assured. No-one will find you until your deed is done. The fate of the other soldiers and policemen, the forces of oppression, is already sealed. It will be dark again before they seek you out.”

Chapter Thirty-Four From the front page of the Coastal Courier’s Website, 5th November 2014 SECOND BODY FOUND WASHED UP ON BEACH – POLICE SAY DISCOVERY COULD BE CONNECTED TO FIRST WOMAN In the early hours of the morning, a second body belonging to what is thought to be another young woman in her mid- to late twenties, was found washed up on the town’s east beach. Because the injuries found on the second woman appear identical to those found on the first, a police spokesman has refused to rule out a direct link, “After rigorous D.N.A. testing, we can confirm that the first body discovered on the beach did not belong to missing mother of two, Jacqueline Franklin. And while the investigation into the incident so far has yet to yield a positive identification, we now believe that the deceased may not have been a U.K. national, but will not know for sure until we hear back from our international colleagues.” Understandably, local residents are extremely concerned by these unsettling developments. With so much happening in the area at present: missing

persons, dead bodies, the outbreak of a mysterious infection, a quarantine zone, and with the town being closed for the best part of three days, we can only hope and pray for a swift return to normality. Anyone with information regarding either unidentified body, please contact the police immediately. Steven Bland (Deputy-Editor) Both Hepworth and Priestly shot to their feet when Chief Medical Officer Jake Jones walked down the corridor. “Here.” He handed Hepworth a sealed plastic evidence bag containing the deceased’s final belongings. “When her body was discovered the young woman was wearing a pair of jeans, a woollen pullover, T-shirt and underwear. From a preliminary examination of the corpse, I cannot immediately confirm a cause of death. But, like the first body, this young woman had suffered a serious injury to the back of the head. If we take into account the fact that two corpses have been washed up on the same stretch of beach in such a short space of time, both suffering severe trauma to the skull, I think we can safely rule out any accidental collision with a boat propeller after drowning.” “So what do you think happened to them, then?” “Until I do a full autopsy, Dan, that’s a difficult

question to answer. But if I was to hazard a guess I’d say that both women had been scalped, dying of severe blood loss before they were dumped at sea.” “Scalped!” said Priestly. “I know it sounds rather macabre, but it’s the only wound consistent with this type of trauma.” Jones gestured to the plastic bag. “In the back pocket of the jeans, officers at the scene found what appears to be part of a strange puppet, animal bones held together with string.” “Really?” Hepworth darted a significant look at Priestly. “Thanks, Jake. We’ll let you get back to it now. If you find anything unusual during the autopsy, please contact either myself or Detective Priestly straight away.” “Will do.” After watching Jones disappear down the same corridor, Hepworth unsealed the evidence bag and pulled out the animal bone puppet parts. Priestly was first to speak. “I’d bet my house that those bones came straight from Bogdanovic’s place, by the gate.” “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Hepworth. “Come on. Time we paid him another visit.” *** When Hepworth drove up the dirt-track he didn’t immediately notice that a shiny new metal gate had been installed across the entrance, and almost

crashed straight into it. “Shit!” He slammed down hard on the brakes, jolting them both forward. “Sorry, Di. I didn’t expect to…I didn’t notice the new gate there.” “Me neither.” Both got out of the car and walked over to the gate. Wedged in between the top rails was a piece of plywood, on it, painted in neat, slanting letters: Goodbye, In Memoriam, From the Joker to the Thief. But beyond the gate, everything was just how it was before; nothing had been moved or removed: the two caravans, pigpen, outbuildings, phone box, rows and rows of gnomes, stuffed crocodiles, all of which suggested that Bogdanovic, if really planning to leave, hadn’t done so just yet. “Let’s have a little look around,” said Hepworth. “Let’s see if Mr Bogdanovic really has left town.” After opening the gate, driving in and parking up, they knocked on each caravan door – no response. They tried both door handles but neither would yield, to the extent that the doors themselves appeared to have been welded shut. “Look,” said Priestly, examining the door-frame on the first caravan. “Something’s not right here. There doesn’t appear to be much of a gap, like he’s sealed the door shut from the inside.” “How odd.” Hepworth gave the door a push, confirming this. “But if he’s done that from the inside then how did he get out again?” He walked

around to the side window, the only one that hadn’t been boarded-up, but it was covered in such a thick layer of grime he couldn’t really see anything other than the bulky outline of the furniture, certainly not a human shape moving around or collapsed out on the floor. “Maybe we should force one of the doors or windows open, break in somehow.” Priestly turned and looked around the yard. “Hey, why don’t we grab one of those metal stakes from over there?” Hepworth took a stake from the barbeque pit, wedged it crowbar-like under a piece of plywood covering one of the windows, and tried to wrench it away from the caravan’s outer shell. “Jesus!” he said, straining, only managing to force out one single solitary nail, so firmly had the wood been secured. “Here.” Priestly leaned her weight against the caravan, to give him more leverage – but it didn’t seem to do any good. “Maybe I should get another stake.” As she rushed over and pulled another stake out of the ground, she felt something soft and warm land on her hair, face and arms – like a strange sprinkle of snow. She looked up. Sparkly, twinkling snowflake-like shapes were falling from the sky, directly over the heads of the black and white gnomes. “What?” she mouthed, looking on as the gnomes

blinked their eyes, yawned, rolled their necks and flexed their arms, as if shaking themselves from hibernation, as if these inanimate objects were slowly coming to life. Dropping the stake to the ground, she dashed back over to Hepworth. “Dan, you better –” the sound of hundreds of tiny almost indistinct voices breaking into song cut her short. Hepworth swung round. “What the –!” The army of gnomes was now marching towards them in neat ordered columns, like toy soldiers infused with a magical life force all their own, singing: The Boge, the Boge is not a real man The Boge, the Boge will kill you out of hand The Boge, the Boge will make you understand The Boge, the Boge is the bogeyman “What do we do?” Priestly looked right and left for something, anything to defend herself with. Before Hepworth could respond the first row of gnomes leapt towards them, hurtling through the air, tiny fists raised. Thud, thud, thud, they landed on the police officers, grabbing onto their clothes, scratching their faces and necks with razor sharp nails, biting into wrists and ankles.

“Get ’em, lads,” the others yelled. “That’s it, hit ’em where it hurts.” “Kill ’em, take ’em down.” Recoiling, both Hepworth and Priestly tried to swat the miniature attackers away, but no sooner had they repelled one advance, then another set of gnomes propelled themselves forward, with all the venom and frenzy of the first wave. Ducking and diving, shaking gnomes from their arms and legs, they tried to run back to the car, but another battalion of gnomes appeared from behind the caravans, blocking their path. Grabbing the stake that had been wedged in the window frame, Hepworth rushed forward and swung it around and around, windmill fashion, knocking scores of gnomes off their feet, knocking heads clean from shoulders, arms and legs from sockets, clearing a path over to the wooden outbuildings. “Over there,” he said to Priestly. “Climb up, use the wall. If we can get to a high point, chances are these little bastards won’t be able to follow us.” But as she tried to get away even more gnomes appeared, singing the same chant as before: The Boge, the Boge is not a real man The Boge, the Boge will kill you out of hand The Boge, the Boge will make you understand The Boge, the Boge is the bogeyman

Frantic now, Priestly kicked out her legs, sending great swathes of tiny snarling attackers toppling over onto their backs, while Hepworth smashed gnome after gnome to pieces with the flailing metal stake. But still their efforts were in vain, for as soon as they destroyed an entire batch of gnomes, they either miraculously repaired themselves or were replaced with another wave of battalion strength. Before they knew it the police officers were almost worn out, backed into a corner, and Hepworth had no other option than to draw his gun and start shooting, cutting down dozens of gnomes, blowing off even more arms, legs and heads, reducing them to chalky pieces of rubble. “He’s got a shooter,” shouted one gnome, “scarper, lads.” “Ooh, ah, that’s not fair. Come on, boys, let’s get out of here.” As quickly as they had appeared the retreating gnomes started to disappear in puffs of pink smoke, until all that was left were piles and piles of crumbly plaster remains, strewn across the yard. “My God,” panted Priestly, sinking down to her haunches. “Did that really just happen?” Hepworth, breathing just as heavily, took out a handkerchief and wiped it around his face and neck. “Yes. I think it did.” He stared at the ground, prodding a decimated gnome with the toe of his

shoe. “I don’t believe – “ as he turned to Priestly, he saw the huge dark monstrous shape of a crocodile lunge forward, its wide open devastating jaws clamping down on her shoulder and neck, almost ripping her in two. “Diane!” But his warning words were far too late, the crocodile had already torn into Priestly, tossing her bloodied body to the ground, and was now frenziedly chomping its way through her sternum, crunching through bone, ripping into flesh, and all Hepworth could do was look on in horror. Frozen to the spot, he heard a snorting rasp, and another crocodile, all of thirty foot in length, appeared, leering up at him. “Jesus Christ!” Instinctively he aimed and fired at the crocodile, but the magazine only clicked – the gun was empty. Dropping it to the ground, he turned and ran towards the car. All the time he could hear the gigantic reptile’s talons and swishing tail scrape across the dusty ground, concrete then shingle. But somehow he managed to wrench the door open, swing his body into the car, then slam the door shut behind him, just as the crocodile bashed into the side of the vehicle, making it shudder and shake, pitch violently from side to side, like it was about to topple over. Mastering his panic, Hepworth took his mobile phone out of his pocket. “Shit,” he cried, unable to stop his hands from

shaking, hitting out at the keypad, scrolling through his contacts, finally finding the number for the local station “It’s Detective Inspector Hepworth. I’m up at Bogdanovic’s place…Yes, that’s right. I need immediate assistance. One officer dead at the scene. Get back-up out here as soon as you can. We’ll need tranquilizer guns Two large crocodiles are on the loose, extremely dangerous…That’s right, crocodiles…” a thundering crash reverberated against the side of the car, sending the phone flying from Hepworth’s hand. “Damn!” As he scrambled across the seat to retrieve it, he caught sight of both crocodiles, stopped dead, and slowly sat upright again. The first still had Priestley’s mutilated body wedged in its jaws; one of her arms dangling down, the fingers still twitching. Circling the car, the reptiles hissed and snorted, treading their way around, scrunching ominously over shingle, as if sizing up the vehicle, as if deciding on the best way to get inside, to get at him. After a complete circuit, one crocodile went to the passenger side, the other to Hepworth’s. “What – What are you doing?” In a choreographed series of seismic blows, they bashed great muscular tails into the sides of the car, crumpling metal – crash, bang, crash, bang – inflicting huge dents, making the vehicle shudder and shake, shudder and shake, the windscreen and

windows crack, great spider web patterns breaking out across the glass, as if close to shattering. In what felt like seconds, Hepworth’s side of the car had been so badly damaged the battered door had pinioned his leg up against the steering wheel. Had he wanted to move now, he couldn’t have done so. Through another pounding series of whiplash blows, the decimated car was tossed up and over onto its roof, all remaining glass exploding into fragments, blinding Hepworth’s eyes. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was feeling a crocodile’s cold scaly snout jab its way in under the shell of the car, trying to burrow him out, trying to get at him for good this time.

Chapter Thirty-Five “The other night,” said Katie, “after we spoke on the phone, I did a little more digging around.” She handed Ryan a piece of paper. “Take a look at that.” He unfolded the sheet and scanned the dates highlighted with a fluorescent maker. “What?” He looked across at her. “What does all of this mean?” “Hopefully nothing, hopefully it’s just a load of nonsense that me, a bored housewife, has dreamed up. Only I checked the dates of the killings, from Chief Wanayama’s tribe, the oil worker massacre, to the later copycat murders, where the Boge was first mentioned.” “And what did you find out?” “In each case, the first set of murders took place on the twenty-ninth of October.” “That’s the day Jacqueline went missing.” “Exactly. And it doesn’t end there.” She pointed to another set of dates on the piece of paper still open in Ryan’s hands. “I also checked into any unsolved murders over the years, and there are like hundreds of them, across the world – America, Europe, Asia, Australia – starting on that exact day, like little spates, unexplained incidences, cases never closed. I’ve got all the information at home.” Ryan took a few moments to take all of this in.

“Katie, look, I know you mean well, that you’re a top girl, but what you’re saying can’t be possible. It’s like something from a Stephen King book – bloody ghosts and ghouls going around murdering people. It just sounds like superstitious nonsense.” “I know that, Ry, but let’s face it, some pretty weird, unexplainable shit has happened already, hasn’t it? So let’s just suppose that the vast majority of what I’ve just said is nonsense, okay? But what we can’t dismiss is the fact that me, just an ordinary person, messing around on the internet, has managed to get hold of all this information – because that’s a fact, right?” “Yeah, course.” “So let’s just assume that the Boge, or someone else ’round here, did the same thing, and you told me yourself, he’s into all kinds of superstitious stuff, just like Jacque is. So perhaps they got talking about all those conspiracy theories one night. Perhaps he completely lost it. Perhaps he got it into his head that he’s the reincarnation of Chief whatever-his-name-is, and decided to try and recreate all those killings. Perhaps, on a very small scale, he’s trying to exact revenge on people who exploit others, women, especially.” “Erm, maybe, but that doesn’t account for why Jacqueline went missing, or why those two women washed up on the beach, or why there’s some contagious infection going around town. I mean,

how could he have gone and done something like that – infecting a couple of hundred people with a disease? It’s impossible.” “But it’s true, Ry – Jacque has disappeared, two girls have died, and the entire bloody town’s been shut down.” She took a few deep breaths and massaged both temples. “Now, look, Mike’s got the boys till lunch-time. I told him I was going to my mum’s to get some stuff from her freezer, just in case the shops aren’t open today. So we’ve got a couple of hours. What I suggest we do is go up to the Boge’s place, look around, talk to him – you’re mates, aren’t you? So if he’s got nothing to do with all of this, then he’s not like he’s going to attack us. And if he is a nutcase we’ll just get the hell out of there as quick as we can.” They drove in silence, every now and then stealing a glance at each other, as if they both wanted to carry on talking but didn’t quite know how to go about it. “You know something,” Ryan said, finally, “I often think back to the time me and Jacque were living together, especially just after the twins were born, and things started to go wrong. This one time I walked in on her in the bedroom. She’d just had a bath and was getting changed, was naked, standing in the front of the mirror, holding her slack stomach, the stretch marks, and her eyes were all red, like she’d been crying. At first, I didn’t say

nothing. I just sort of stood there, looking at her. Only she must’ve heard me, ’cause she turns round and says in this really cold, hard, emotionless voice, like a robot or something, “Look what you’ve done to me.” *** As Katie drove to the end of the dirt-track, she saw Bogdanovic leaned over a shiny new gate, hands working away intently, as if he was trying to remove or fasten something to or from one of the rails. Hearing an approaching engine, he gave a start, turned and ran over to the car, waving his hands above his head, gesturing for her to wind down the window. “You can’t come up here,” he panted. “There’s been a…something’s happened.” Both Katie and Ryan looked into the yard, seeing an overturned car, all dented up, the bodies of two dead dogs, and loads of debris, like broken concrete, scattered all across the ground. “What’s happened, B?” asked Ryan, leaning over Katie. Police sirens sounded in the distance. Bogdanovic’s face creased anxiously. “The – The infection, it’s spread up here, it has, killed my poor ole dogs.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Best you get out of the car. Come with me. I’ll give you something to protect you from the Black Death.”

“Black Death?” Ryan and Katie said at once. “Aye,” the Boge replied, opening the car door. “Come, quickly, we don’t have much time.” Katie grabbed the handle and tried to wrench the door back shut. “No way. We’re not going with you. We’re getting out of here.” With her free hand she slipped the car into reverse and pressed her foot down on the accelerator, only for the engine to instantly die on her, spluttering to silence. “What?” “Do not fear,” said Bogdanovic, patting her gently on the shoulder. “Jacqueline has marked neither of you with the blackness. If you put your trust in her, you will leave here unharmed, of that I give you my personal guarantee.”

Chapter Thirty-Six When Hepworth was pulled from the car wreck he had difficulty piecing things together. While paramedics treated, what were, incredibly, only superficial injuries, cuts and bruises, a gash to the forehead that required a few minor stitches, he looked around the yard strewn with piles of rubble, two stuffed crocodiles, a corpse covered by a white sheet, that of his partner and friend, Diane Priestly, and two dead dogs, each riddled with what were clearly gunshots. With a battering ram, a policeman forced a caravan door open. “Over here,” he heard someone shout. Inside they found a body in such a bizarre state of decomposition it was impossible to positively identify it as Bogdanovic, or tell exactly how long the man had been dead. And as the police had no record of anyone of that name ever existing, they could only suppose that it was indeed the strange character who’d inhabited this stretch of disputed land for the last ten years. “What happened?” Hepworth asked no-one in particular, his eyes clouding with both tears and confusion. A man behind him said, “Looks like your partner was mauled to death by a pair of vicious fighting dogs. Looks like the guy who lived here died some

time ago. Maybe that’s why the dogs were so vicious – they were hungry, hadn’t been fed for days. You were just unlucky, Sir.” “But the – the crocodiles, they killed. They –” he trailed off, feeling someone’s hand rest on his shoulder. “You took a nasty bang to the head, Sir. We better get you to the hospital, run some tests. Maybe you’ve got a concussion.” *** When armed soldiers stormed the quarantine tent they found a scene of bloody carnage. Two hundred people had been murdered in their sleep, hacked to death, scalped, their throats cut. Piled by the entrance was a great mound of matted hair, the tops of severed skulls, left like some kind of sacrificial offering. On one of the beds, mumbling to himself, blood-spattered against his naked body, a wooden stake in his hand with a severed pig’s head on top of it, sat Aaron Wells, deranged, completely out of his mind. As soldiers encircled him, rifles aimed, he lifted his head and smiled at them. “Now – Now they can’t hurt her anymore.” *** Katie and Ryan woke up naked in bed, snuggled up in each other’s arms. “Jesus!” she pushed him away and gathered up the bed sheets, trying to cover herself.

“What?” said Ryan, jolting upright. “What’s happened? Where are we?” Both looked around the room – Ryan’s bedroom, with Nirvana and Primal Scream posters on the walls, shelves straining with vinyl records, a state of the art stereo system, bass guitar and a rail full of clothes. “How did we get here?” said Katie. “I – I don’t know. Last thing I remember we were up at the Boge’s and there were sirens, and then the car wouldn’t start and –” “Look.” Katie pointed to a single sheet of paper at the end of the bed. “That’s Jacqueline’s handwriting. I’m sure of it.” She picked up the note and they both started to read: Get together, be happy, take care of the kids, become one family. You’ll do a much better job of bringing them up than I ever could. Life twisted me too far out of shape, I didn’t recognise myself anymore. And I knew a long, long time ago that everyone I loved would be far better off without me. *** On the strength of an anonymous tip-off, police conducted a thorough search of Michael Babb’s house. “Don’t know what you expect to find,” he was

quoted as saying. “I ain’t done nothing wrong. Search away, no skin off my nose.” In the double garage officers found a machete, the blade congealed with blood and clumps of matted hair. Later D.N.A. testing confirmed that the fingerprints on the handle belonged to Babb, and samples of blood and hair on the blade belonged to the murdered Polish women and some of the victims found inside the quarantine zone. As they delved into Babb’s business interests, police discovered that he was not only transporting desperate workers from the continent illegally, exploiting them, providing forged documents and defrauding the tax system, but driving the women into prostitution, supplying local men in positions of power – councillors, judges, members of parliament – with a steady supply of sex workers, in exchange for favours, in turning a blind eye to his criminal activities. Within a week, Babb was charged with multiple murders, including that of missing single mother Jacqueline Franklin, as money deposited into her bank account was traced back to an off-shore account in the Bahamas registered to one of his private companies. Even though a body had not been found, there was enough corroboratory evidence – phone records, threatening text messages sent to her mobile number – to suggest that Babb was responsible for Franklin’s

disappearance, probable murder, and the disposal of her body. A police spokesman said: “Undoubtedly, we have thwarted serious criminal activities here, an unprecedented spree of killing and exploitation of vulnerable females. Clearly, Michael Babb is a very dangerous man, a serial killer the likes of which this, or any other country has never seen before, a man destined to spend the rest of his life behind bars.” *** Calling out excitedly, Liam and Pippa ran down the hallway, the little boy carrying a shoebox under his arm. “Look, Nanny, look.” At first, Jane Brooke didn’t realise that the bundles of used fifty pound notes inside the shoebox, secured with elastic bands, were real. “My God!” she said, picking up a bundle. “Where did you get all of this?” “The voices told us to look under the bed,” said Pippa. “They told us it was a present from mummy.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven So traumatised was Detective Inspector Hepworth, the police force had no other option than to recommend that he go into early retirement, with immediate effect. In the months that followed this once level-headed, dependable man underwent extensive psychiatric counselling, but none of the specialists who treated him could ever get to the bottom of his problems, or make him realise that the inexplicable events he insisted took place in that small coastal town were a product of a disturbed mind. “Are you still troubled by the same dream?” “Yes,” said Hepworth, much aged, his hair having turned snow-white within days of the incident which cost his partner her life. “In the dream, I’m rowing down a vast river, like the Amazon, when my canoe gets overturned. As I swim to the river bank, and haul myself out of the water, a crocodile grabs me. Just as its jaws clamp down on my chest, I feel this incredible sense of warmth and well-being, and hug the croc’s cold, scaly snout with all the tenderness of a lover.” “But you do realise that this dream is no more than a projection of your unconscious guilt, don’t you? That you associate the crocodile with the death of Diane Priestly, simply because of the stuffed crocodiles found at the scene of the tragedy,

that they’ve become a motif for your problems, because you feel you should’ve saved your partner’s life.” At this point, Hepworth, in the methodical way he always approached investigations, listed one anomaly after another: “What about the damage done to the car? Noone has ever accounted for that. What about the bite radius on the injuries Diane suffered? – far too big and extensive to have been inflicted by a pair of dogs. What about the gnomes, hundreds of them smashed to pieces?” “Mr Hepworth, Daniel, please, take a step back, think about what you’re saying: magical gnomes, giant crocodiles. These are figments of your traumatised imagination, things that defy all reasonable explanation.” With a generous pension provision, and careful management of his savings, Hepworth, a bachelor with no children, was able to maintain a comfortable if modest existence. But he could never accept that what he’d experienced that day was a paranoid delusion – it had all seemed so real. And he devoted himself to investigating the matter, reading through old files, case reports and witness statements, and talking to people involved in the original search for Jacqueline Franklin, including her friend Katie Davison. In a series of telephone conversations and the exchange of hundreds of

emails, he followed up on all the information she gave him, the links to websites, connecting the killing spree in the small Norfolk town to those in America. But all he was left with was a series of compelling coincidences, interconnecting strands, deeper and deeper layers of mystery, the likes of which, had he fully confided in his psychiatrist, would’ve probably led to his indefinite internment in a mental institute. Regardless, it brought him no closer to solving the mystery. Not until some twenty years later, when Hepworth was approaching his seventieth birthday, did he make a significant breakthrough. One morning in late October (although the fact it was the twenty-ninth completely escaped his notice at the time, and in the subsequent weeks that passed), he received an email and attachment from a cyber friend, whom he could only have described as a conspiracy theory enthusiast, a young Texan of only twenty-five, who, like Katie had been following the Boge killings for years, going so far as to set up a blog (which had accumulated an impressive ten thousand followers), making the connection between each killing spree. To: [email protected] From: [email protected] 07:13 October 29th 2035

Daniel, RE: The Boge Killings Please find attached photographs of a patient at a high security mental facility near the small town of Nattawa, California. Apparently, she’s been there for the last twenty years, suffering from severe drug-induced brain damage, a form of a permanent vegetative state, and has never uttered a word. She came to my attention completely by chance, because she was described as having a tattoo depicting the Indian spiritual leader, Chief Wanayama, on her wrist. But perhaps, even more intriguingly, this woman hasn’t aged at all in those twenty years (see two attached photographs – before and after shots, if you like). Maybe we’re onto something, maybe not – but your thoughts, as always, would be greatly appreciated. Kind regards Your friend, Jinx Hoover III When Hepworth downloaded the photographs he almost toppled out of his chair – for there was Jacqueline Franklin, a face he first became

acquainted with when scrolling through endless photographs on her Facebook page some two decades ago, a face that had since become embedded in his mind. When he exchanged this information with Katie (who had long since married Ryan Carmichael), it was agreed that they had to proceed with utmost caution, as both Jacqueline’s children were grown up now, happily married, young professionals, who, moreover, retained very little memory of their birth mother (in fact, both had come to call Katie their mother). Eventually, the subject was broached, and after much soul-searching, the family decided to take a trip out to California. In the spring of the following year, Hepworth, Katie, Ryan and their four children arrived at the institute, where friendly staff members directed them to the patient’s private room. “Before we go in,” said a kindly-faced nurse. “I think I better warn you about Jane’s – that’s what we’ve always called her, like a Jane Doe – condition. For some reason, she doesn’t seem to age as quickly as normal folks. Why that is the specialists just don’t know. But, suffice to say, she doesn’t look no different from the day she was wheeled in here.” In an eerie scene, like something from an old episode of The Twilight Zone, the visitors looked in

on a perfectly preserved flesh and bone image of Jacqueline Franklin, the young woman she was twenty years ago. In a plain nightgown, her hair up a scruffy bunch, she sat in the white-walled room, eyes closed, in a chair by the window. “My word,” Hepworth was the first to speak, advancing into the room. “The likeness is uncanny. It must be her, mustn’t it?” Ryan fell in beside him. “I don’t know,” he said, crouching down and rolling up one of her sleeves, finding a single tattoo on her wrist, that of Chief Wanayama. “The exact same tattoo, in the exact same place. What are the chances?” He stood and straightened, turned his head, but his wife and children were no longer standing in the doorway. Hepworth patted him on the shoulder. “It’s probably too much for them.” “Yeah, I know.” Ryan tried to force out a smile. “I think it’s probably too much for me, too.” Hepworth stole another glance at Jacqueline’s all too familiar face. “But – But how did she get here? And what happened to the other tattoos?” In the corridor, Katie gave Pippa and Liam a big hug. “That’s just how I remember her,” sobbed Pippa, “– zonked out, unable to talk.” While the family went off to discuss things,

Hepworth spoke to the institute’s senior administration officer, Frank, an incredibly helpful, organised and amiable man, who offered the former policeman complete access to this mysterious woman’s records – not that there was particularly much to disclose: admitted in late 2014, brought in by a man who never identified himself, her fees, which were substantial, were paid promptly every month, indicating that whoever was paying them was extremely wealthy “And from our records,” said Frank, “it would appear that she only has one visit a year.” “Really?” said Hepworth. “And who might that be?” “Here.” Frank slid the visitors’ book across the desk. “That’s the guy, or I should say guys, who’ve paid her a visit once a year, every year, on the twenty-ninth of October. They don’t stay too long, by all accounts – in and out.” The register bore two signatures, for the first five years: B. Bogdanovic, and for each year thereafter: C. Wanayama.

THE END

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