‘What did you think when you found out what had happened? About the accident …’ Chloe asked and passed a mug of tea to Mandy.
‘It sounds silly when I’ve never even met him, but I was devastated,’ Mandy admitted. ‘I guess it’s like when people find out they can’t have children … the choice has been taken out of their hands and they mourn the loss of something they never had. I felt like that. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?’ The thought of children sent a pang through her. Despite what had happened in the past, she had taken many tests and found that she was indeed able to conceive. She’d always thought herself lucky that she wasn’t one of those poor women she spoke of. But now she’d lost everything – Richard, the chance of ever having kids, a future …
‘Don’t be silly,’ Pat said to her and placed her hand over Mandy’s. ‘You have lost exactly the same thing as us, it’s just that we were fortunate to have him with us for his whole life. What you’ve lost, well, it’s just so unfair.’
Pat’s words gave her the reassurance she needed that she wasn’t letting her emotions get the better of her. ‘I didn’t think anyone else would understand,’ she said quietly, and swallowed hard.
‘Would you like to see his bedroom?’
‘Mum,’ interrupted Chloe. ‘Give her some time, she’s only just got here. It might be a bit much to take in.’
‘No, it’s all right, I’d love to.’ Mandy nodded and followed Pat towards the stairs.
‘Richard moved out to go to college, then came home, and left again when he went travelling,’ Pat explained. ‘Chloe used to joke that we should have had a revolving door installed for him because he was always coming and going. Then when his personal-training business took off he saved up for a deposit on a flat.’ Pat opened the door ahead of her. ‘Go on in and have a look around if you like. I’ll give you some privacy.’
Richard’s bedroom was tidy and spacious. Mandy made her way towards a wall decorated with hundreds of photographs of his travels around the globe: Australia, Asia, South America, Eastern Europe and even Alaska. Next to his bed was a wardrobe which housed his shirts and trousers, all neatly pressed, she found. Mandy ran her fingers over a chunky-knit jumper and drew it up to her face to smell – but all she could detect was fabric conditioner.
She moved towards an armchair in the corner of the room, which had a scarf draped over the back. She picked it up and inhaled deeply, desperately wanting to feel a connection with him. Suddenly, Mandy’s legs felt like they were about to give way as the scent of Richard’s aftershave and him hit her. She couldn’t fully describe the sensation, but she later likened it to sinking into a warm, soapy bath or falling into a strong, reassuring pair of arms.
Then suddenly, to her surprise, Mandy found herself beginning to cry. Looking at photos of Richard and meeting his family was one thing, but actually breathing in his scent was something completely different altogether. It knocked her for six, and she had to steady herself against a chest of drawers before leaving the room. Closing the door behind her, she had to wipe the tears from her red-rimmed eyes.
There and then she knew that she was more deeply in love with a dead man than she could have ever thought possible.
Chapter 27
CHRISTOPHER
Christopher opened the sash window to let the smoke seep out from the kitchen and into the air outside. He cursed himself for using too much chilli oil in the skillet.
The fillet steaks were too burned on the outside for his liking, so he heated up a microwaveable bag of peppercorn sauce and closed the kitchen door, so Amy couldn’t hear the bell ping. He’d already encouraged her out of the kitchen, boasting that steak, home-made sweet potato wedges and sauce were his signature dish, one of the many lies he’d used on her. He couldn’t help himself; something within him needed others to be impressed by him: his actions, his appearance, his work – and now his anonymous killings. Tonight, it was his food’s turn to take centre stage.
His wounded thumb – savagely bitten by Number Nine – still ached under the bandage five days later but Amy had had no reason to doubt him when he told her he’d clumsily trapped it in the bathroom door.
Christopher blamed sleep deprivation for the overcooked meat. Since he’d met Amy, it was proving nigh on impossible to grab more than a few hours at a time. She stayed over at his house on alternate nights as it was much closer to her job at the Metropolitan Police’s HQ, and her sexual appetite was almost as insatiable as his. This meant that the time he’d usually spend monitoring the whereabouts of the rest of the Numbers on his list had to be crammed into the nights he spent alone.
Amy was proving to be an added complication in an already complicated life. He’d had girlfriends before, but she was truly different for the fact that in the three weeks since their first date, he had yet to fantasise about killing her. She was his Match and he considered that someone like him could possess genuine feelings for anyone. Her presence was throwing him off kilter, yet there was a quality about her that made him want to keep her around, at least for the time being.
Christopher removed the cooked potato wedges from the oven and arranged everything symmetrically on their plates. He added organic salad leaves and a splash of balsamic vinegar, and carried their dinners to the table in his dining room. He then dashed back into the kitchen – an act completely out of character – to hide the empty food packets at the bottom of his pedal bin.
‘You’re a dark so and so, aren’t you?’ Amy said. He returned to find her standing in front of his bookshelves, her head tilted to one side, reading the titles printed on their spines. Each shelf was colour co-ordinated and placed in size order. ‘Inside The Mind Of A Serial Killer, The Zodiac Killer, Serial Killers Anthology,’ she read out loud. ‘Plus four books on Jack the Ripper and two on Fred and Rosemary West … I’m sensing a theme here, Chris.’
‘I like to know what makes people tick,’ he replied matter-of-factly, and poured two glasses of wine, making sure their levels were identical. ‘Human behaviour interests me. Even if it’s dark.’
He recalled reading many biographies about Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, who’d murdered thirteen women back in the 1970s and 80s, right under the nose of his unsuspecting wife. Christopher had wondered how he’d got away with it and what fulfilment he’d gained from taking such a risk. Had he truly loved his wife, or in Sutcliffe’s world of paranoid schizophrenia, had she been the anchor that’d kept him from setting sail into complete insanity?
He had begun to spot parallels in their lives, all bar the mental illness. He knew one of the many advantages he had over Sutcliffe was that he didn’t need such ballast as he wasn’t insane; far from it, in fact. All the studies and tests he’d taken proved he was operating well above the average person’s level of intelligence. His killing spree was a challenge, not a compulsion.
‘Even your choice of fiction is macabre,’ Amy continued, ‘Hannibal Rising, American Psycho, We Need To Talk About Kevin, Donald Trump’s autobiography …’
Christopher had read and watched many depictions of psychopaths, but he had very little in common with them. So many like him had had their images misused, misrepresented, exaggerated and caricatured by novelists and scriptwriters because they were easy targets and shocked audiences. American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman, Hannibal Lecter, Gone Girl’s Amy Dunne or the malformed soul of Cathy Ames in East of Eden all had varying degrees of psychopathic traits, but none like his.
‘It sounds silly when I’ve never even met him, but I was devastated,’ Mandy admitted. ‘I guess it’s like when people find out they can’t have children … the choice has been taken out of their hands and they mourn the loss of something they never had. I felt like that. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?’ The thought of children sent a pang through her. Despite what had happened in the past, she had taken many tests and found that she was indeed able to conceive. She’d always thought herself lucky that she wasn’t one of those poor women she spoke of. But now she’d lost everything – Richard, the chance of ever having kids, a future …
‘Don’t be silly,’ Pat said to her and placed her hand over Mandy’s. ‘You have lost exactly the same thing as us, it’s just that we were fortunate to have him with us for his whole life. What you’ve lost, well, it’s just so unfair.’
Pat’s words gave her the reassurance she needed that she wasn’t letting her emotions get the better of her. ‘I didn’t think anyone else would understand,’ she said quietly, and swallowed hard.
‘Would you like to see his bedroom?’
‘Mum,’ interrupted Chloe. ‘Give her some time, she’s only just got here. It might be a bit much to take in.’
‘No, it’s all right, I’d love to.’ Mandy nodded and followed Pat towards the stairs.
‘Richard moved out to go to college, then came home, and left again when he went travelling,’ Pat explained. ‘Chloe used to joke that we should have had a revolving door installed for him because he was always coming and going. Then when his personal-training business took off he saved up for a deposit on a flat.’ Pat opened the door ahead of her. ‘Go on in and have a look around if you like. I’ll give you some privacy.’
Richard’s bedroom was tidy and spacious. Mandy made her way towards a wall decorated with hundreds of photographs of his travels around the globe: Australia, Asia, South America, Eastern Europe and even Alaska. Next to his bed was a wardrobe which housed his shirts and trousers, all neatly pressed, she found. Mandy ran her fingers over a chunky-knit jumper and drew it up to her face to smell – but all she could detect was fabric conditioner.
She moved towards an armchair in the corner of the room, which had a scarf draped over the back. She picked it up and inhaled deeply, desperately wanting to feel a connection with him. Suddenly, Mandy’s legs felt like they were about to give way as the scent of Richard’s aftershave and him hit her. She couldn’t fully describe the sensation, but she later likened it to sinking into a warm, soapy bath or falling into a strong, reassuring pair of arms.
Then suddenly, to her surprise, Mandy found herself beginning to cry. Looking at photos of Richard and meeting his family was one thing, but actually breathing in his scent was something completely different altogether. It knocked her for six, and she had to steady herself against a chest of drawers before leaving the room. Closing the door behind her, she had to wipe the tears from her red-rimmed eyes.
There and then she knew that she was more deeply in love with a dead man than she could have ever thought possible.
Chapter 27
CHRISTOPHER
Christopher opened the sash window to let the smoke seep out from the kitchen and into the air outside. He cursed himself for using too much chilli oil in the skillet.
The fillet steaks were too burned on the outside for his liking, so he heated up a microwaveable bag of peppercorn sauce and closed the kitchen door, so Amy couldn’t hear the bell ping. He’d already encouraged her out of the kitchen, boasting that steak, home-made sweet potato wedges and sauce were his signature dish, one of the many lies he’d used on her. He couldn’t help himself; something within him needed others to be impressed by him: his actions, his appearance, his work – and now his anonymous killings. Tonight, it was his food’s turn to take centre stage.
His wounded thumb – savagely bitten by Number Nine – still ached under the bandage five days later but Amy had had no reason to doubt him when he told her he’d clumsily trapped it in the bathroom door.
Christopher blamed sleep deprivation for the overcooked meat. Since he’d met Amy, it was proving nigh on impossible to grab more than a few hours at a time. She stayed over at his house on alternate nights as it was much closer to her job at the Metropolitan Police’s HQ, and her sexual appetite was almost as insatiable as his. This meant that the time he’d usually spend monitoring the whereabouts of the rest of the Numbers on his list had to be crammed into the nights he spent alone.
Amy was proving to be an added complication in an already complicated life. He’d had girlfriends before, but she was truly different for the fact that in the three weeks since their first date, he had yet to fantasise about killing her. She was his Match and he considered that someone like him could possess genuine feelings for anyone. Her presence was throwing him off kilter, yet there was a quality about her that made him want to keep her around, at least for the time being.
Christopher removed the cooked potato wedges from the oven and arranged everything symmetrically on their plates. He added organic salad leaves and a splash of balsamic vinegar, and carried their dinners to the table in his dining room. He then dashed back into the kitchen – an act completely out of character – to hide the empty food packets at the bottom of his pedal bin.
‘You’re a dark so and so, aren’t you?’ Amy said. He returned to find her standing in front of his bookshelves, her head tilted to one side, reading the titles printed on their spines. Each shelf was colour co-ordinated and placed in size order. ‘Inside The Mind Of A Serial Killer, The Zodiac Killer, Serial Killers Anthology,’ she read out loud. ‘Plus four books on Jack the Ripper and two on Fred and Rosemary West … I’m sensing a theme here, Chris.’
‘I like to know what makes people tick,’ he replied matter-of-factly, and poured two glasses of wine, making sure their levels were identical. ‘Human behaviour interests me. Even if it’s dark.’
He recalled reading many biographies about Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, who’d murdered thirteen women back in the 1970s and 80s, right under the nose of his unsuspecting wife. Christopher had wondered how he’d got away with it and what fulfilment he’d gained from taking such a risk. Had he truly loved his wife, or in Sutcliffe’s world of paranoid schizophrenia, had she been the anchor that’d kept him from setting sail into complete insanity?
He had begun to spot parallels in their lives, all bar the mental illness. He knew one of the many advantages he had over Sutcliffe was that he didn’t need such ballast as he wasn’t insane; far from it, in fact. All the studies and tests he’d taken proved he was operating well above the average person’s level of intelligence. His killing spree was a challenge, not a compulsion.
‘Even your choice of fiction is macabre,’ Amy continued, ‘Hannibal Rising, American Psycho, We Need To Talk About Kevin, Donald Trump’s autobiography …’
Christopher had read and watched many depictions of psychopaths, but he had very little in common with them. So many like him had had their images misused, misrepresented, exaggerated and caricatured by novelists and scriptwriters because they were easy targets and shocked audiences. American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman, Hannibal Lecter, Gone Girl’s Amy Dunne or the malformed soul of Cathy Ames in East of Eden all had varying degrees of psychopathic traits, but none like his.
