‘Because he upped the ante this time. The poor girl had been beaten to a pulp, her teeth were smashed in, her ribs were broken and bleach poured down her throat. He stabbed her in the eyes.’
It was a necessity, thought Christopher.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d raped her too,’ Amy added.
Christopher was offended by the suggestion. ‘Gosh,’ he replied instead. ‘How do you know all this? I didn’t think you were working on that case?’
‘I’m not, but a handful of us were asked to conduct some door-to-door enquiries today because it’s all hands on deck until they catch him. This was his ninth victim. Can you believe it, Christopher? Nine poor girls.’
They’ll find Number Ten soon, Christopher thought and folded his arms in satisfaction.
‘Before we talked to her neighbours, the DI leading the case showed us the pictures of the girls. I’ve never seen so many bodies relating to one case.’
Christopher only just contained a smile at the thought of how the police were discussing the fruits of his labour. And, even better, they were being discussed with someone he was close to.
‘All the others had just been strangled,’ Amy said. ‘But this attack was personal, like he knew her … like he really wanted to make her suffer. It’s totally changed our psychological understanding of him.’
That wasn’t the plan, thought Christopher, but it’s a useful little diversion.
‘In what way?’ he asked.
‘Well, there’s no doubt that he’s an evil fuck up,’ she replied, making Christopher bristle. ‘But now it appears he’s a vindictive one too. Not only does he focus on women, but it seems that he has a deep, ingrained hatred of them as well, which is why this attack was so vicious. I don’t know, maybe his mum abused him as a child or something.’
Christopher forced himself to keep a straight face – she couldn’t have been further from the truth. He identified himself as a primary psychopath, one who had been born with the condition – or gift as he’d come to think of it – as opposed to being a secondary psychopath and a product of his environment. His environment had been perfectly suburban, with two parents who often told him they loved him, even if he couldn’t actually feel it.
He dealt with their premature loss to cancer and heart disease as matter-of-factly as losing a pet rabbit. He remained in sporadic contact with his brothers, specifically Oliver, the eldest. Try as he might, Christopher never got to grips with the importance of money and it was Oliver who’d assisted him with his share of the substantial inheritance each son received. With the correct investments, it gave Christopher a regular monthly income that was enough for him to take on graphic design work only when he wanted to.
‘Did they find a picture of the next victim on her?’ he inquired. He hated the word ‘victim’ because it implied they were innocent in all of this. In his eyes they were volunteers, as they had offered him their telephone numbers when they chatted on dating apps; they’d made themselves too available and there were consequences in doing so. None of them had Matches; they were all seen as second-class citizens, pitied by those who had found true love.
But it was a win-win situation for all involved – when this was over, he’d be happy with his continued anonymity while the ‘victims’, as Amy called them, would be rewarded by being part of a case that would go down in British criminal history. They’d become the subjects of books, featured in TV documentaries and dramas, and the case would be theorised for decades. They’d have accomplished so much more in their deaths than they ever could have hoped to in their pedestrian lives.
‘Yes, there was another photo,’ Amy replied, and took a seat at the dining room table, propping her head up with her hands. ‘It’s pretty much a certainty she’s dead, of course, but there’s no indication of where the body could be. We’re now playing the waiting game, hoping that somebody’s going to spot a stencil painted on the pavement.’
‘Why can’t you release her photo to the media?’
‘Because none of the newspapers or television channels will show the face of what’s probably a dead girl. Thankfully the Internet doesn’t have such high moral standards and every victim is now online. We’ve done an artist’s impression of the latest girl for the papers and TV, so maybe that’ll speed things up.’
The spray-painted stencils left by Christopher had certainly captured the public’s imagination, he realised. He had reached Number Five before the police had linked them, but in making it public, there’d been a smattering of copycat paintings around the capital.
Investigators had yet to connect all the women with the same dating app, UFlirt. It was an off-shoot of Match Your DNA, designed for those who’d yet to find a Match to meet others in the same, lonely boat. Back when he was making long and shortlists, Christopher experimented with other apps and found some of the girls were registered there too, so maybe it was too difficult for the police to narrow it down to one common link.
Even when the police examined their phones, they would find no link to Christopher among their messages. He had created more than one hundred email addresses, assigned to dozens of untraceable burner smartphones, hidden away in a disused freezer in his basement.
He’d used software downloaded from the dark web to keep tabs on their texts, photographs, social media, cloud storage devices and GPS locations, but he had never spoken to them again. It seemed incredible to him that people were stupid enough to store their entire lives on five inches of plastic for anyone to poke about in.
‘I just don’t think I’ll ever understand it,’ said Amy. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get my head around why someone could be compelled to take so many lives. What’s the point?’
For the challenge, Christopher thought to himself. For the fun of it. For the history books. For having the balls and ambition to decide to be a serial killer rather than fall into it or be compelled to do it. To actively choose this life and then to actively stop it. Because nobody has ever done it like this before. And because there’s no other feeling quite like being in control of someone else’s life.
‘I don’t know,’ he instead replied, and thought it best to comfort her again. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, bringing her towards him. ‘Maybe it’s because he simply can,’ he added, kissing the top of her head. ‘So he does.’
Amy clung to the security of her boyfriend’s strong, warm arms for a moment as he remained behind her, wishing he could have seen the expression on her face when she first saw a photo of what he was capable of. Even he might have identified what revulsion looked like.
Chapter 38
JADE
Jade was awake for much of her first night in Australia and not just because of the jetlag.
Coming to terms with the news of Kevin’s terminal illness and the realisation that she didn’t love him had left her bewildered; angry at him and even more angry at herself.
In the quietness of the farm’s guest house, she turned on the bedside lamp and logged on to the Wi-Fi to research whether this was normal – not feeling anything for her Match. She knew there was a love between them but she hadn’t experienced the deafening, booming, colourful fireworks or rainbows that the films and TV programmes she’d watched depicted. Fictional couples with a DNA Match always fell hook, line and sinker for one another the instant they came into contact. Why wasn’t it happening to her?
It was a necessity, thought Christopher.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d raped her too,’ Amy added.
Christopher was offended by the suggestion. ‘Gosh,’ he replied instead. ‘How do you know all this? I didn’t think you were working on that case?’
‘I’m not, but a handful of us were asked to conduct some door-to-door enquiries today because it’s all hands on deck until they catch him. This was his ninth victim. Can you believe it, Christopher? Nine poor girls.’
They’ll find Number Ten soon, Christopher thought and folded his arms in satisfaction.
‘Before we talked to her neighbours, the DI leading the case showed us the pictures of the girls. I’ve never seen so many bodies relating to one case.’
Christopher only just contained a smile at the thought of how the police were discussing the fruits of his labour. And, even better, they were being discussed with someone he was close to.
‘All the others had just been strangled,’ Amy said. ‘But this attack was personal, like he knew her … like he really wanted to make her suffer. It’s totally changed our psychological understanding of him.’
That wasn’t the plan, thought Christopher, but it’s a useful little diversion.
‘In what way?’ he asked.
‘Well, there’s no doubt that he’s an evil fuck up,’ she replied, making Christopher bristle. ‘But now it appears he’s a vindictive one too. Not only does he focus on women, but it seems that he has a deep, ingrained hatred of them as well, which is why this attack was so vicious. I don’t know, maybe his mum abused him as a child or something.’
Christopher forced himself to keep a straight face – she couldn’t have been further from the truth. He identified himself as a primary psychopath, one who had been born with the condition – or gift as he’d come to think of it – as opposed to being a secondary psychopath and a product of his environment. His environment had been perfectly suburban, with two parents who often told him they loved him, even if he couldn’t actually feel it.
He dealt with their premature loss to cancer and heart disease as matter-of-factly as losing a pet rabbit. He remained in sporadic contact with his brothers, specifically Oliver, the eldest. Try as he might, Christopher never got to grips with the importance of money and it was Oliver who’d assisted him with his share of the substantial inheritance each son received. With the correct investments, it gave Christopher a regular monthly income that was enough for him to take on graphic design work only when he wanted to.
‘Did they find a picture of the next victim on her?’ he inquired. He hated the word ‘victim’ because it implied they were innocent in all of this. In his eyes they were volunteers, as they had offered him their telephone numbers when they chatted on dating apps; they’d made themselves too available and there were consequences in doing so. None of them had Matches; they were all seen as second-class citizens, pitied by those who had found true love.
But it was a win-win situation for all involved – when this was over, he’d be happy with his continued anonymity while the ‘victims’, as Amy called them, would be rewarded by being part of a case that would go down in British criminal history. They’d become the subjects of books, featured in TV documentaries and dramas, and the case would be theorised for decades. They’d have accomplished so much more in their deaths than they ever could have hoped to in their pedestrian lives.
‘Yes, there was another photo,’ Amy replied, and took a seat at the dining room table, propping her head up with her hands. ‘It’s pretty much a certainty she’s dead, of course, but there’s no indication of where the body could be. We’re now playing the waiting game, hoping that somebody’s going to spot a stencil painted on the pavement.’
‘Why can’t you release her photo to the media?’
‘Because none of the newspapers or television channels will show the face of what’s probably a dead girl. Thankfully the Internet doesn’t have such high moral standards and every victim is now online. We’ve done an artist’s impression of the latest girl for the papers and TV, so maybe that’ll speed things up.’
The spray-painted stencils left by Christopher had certainly captured the public’s imagination, he realised. He had reached Number Five before the police had linked them, but in making it public, there’d been a smattering of copycat paintings around the capital.
Investigators had yet to connect all the women with the same dating app, UFlirt. It was an off-shoot of Match Your DNA, designed for those who’d yet to find a Match to meet others in the same, lonely boat. Back when he was making long and shortlists, Christopher experimented with other apps and found some of the girls were registered there too, so maybe it was too difficult for the police to narrow it down to one common link.
Even when the police examined their phones, they would find no link to Christopher among their messages. He had created more than one hundred email addresses, assigned to dozens of untraceable burner smartphones, hidden away in a disused freezer in his basement.
He’d used software downloaded from the dark web to keep tabs on their texts, photographs, social media, cloud storage devices and GPS locations, but he had never spoken to them again. It seemed incredible to him that people were stupid enough to store their entire lives on five inches of plastic for anyone to poke about in.
‘I just don’t think I’ll ever understand it,’ said Amy. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get my head around why someone could be compelled to take so many lives. What’s the point?’
For the challenge, Christopher thought to himself. For the fun of it. For the history books. For having the balls and ambition to decide to be a serial killer rather than fall into it or be compelled to do it. To actively choose this life and then to actively stop it. Because nobody has ever done it like this before. And because there’s no other feeling quite like being in control of someone else’s life.
‘I don’t know,’ he instead replied, and thought it best to comfort her again. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, bringing her towards him. ‘Maybe it’s because he simply can,’ he added, kissing the top of her head. ‘So he does.’
Amy clung to the security of her boyfriend’s strong, warm arms for a moment as he remained behind her, wishing he could have seen the expression on her face when she first saw a photo of what he was capable of. Even he might have identified what revulsion looked like.
Chapter 38
JADE
Jade was awake for much of her first night in Australia and not just because of the jetlag.
Coming to terms with the news of Kevin’s terminal illness and the realisation that she didn’t love him had left her bewildered; angry at him and even more angry at herself.
In the quietness of the farm’s guest house, she turned on the bedside lamp and logged on to the Wi-Fi to research whether this was normal – not feeling anything for her Match. She knew there was a love between them but she hadn’t experienced the deafening, booming, colourful fireworks or rainbows that the films and TV programmes she’d watched depicted. Fictional couples with a DNA Match always fell hook, line and sinker for one another the instant they came into contact. Why wasn’t it happening to her?
