But when she turned back to pick up her son, something was different. Richard’s arm was no longer by his side. Instead, his palm was face up and his baby son’s hand was pressed firmly inside it.
Mandy took a sharp intake of breath, not believing what she was witnessing. She watched as Richard’s fingers slowly and purposefully entwined with his son’s.
Chapter 101
AMY
Amy couldn’t bring herself to look at the blank, motionless face of the man she’d loved and whose life she’d ended.
Slumped in the chair she had tied him to, Christopher’s head tilted backwards and tears were still visible in the corners of his bloodshot eyes. She desperately wanted to bring the man she had adored back to life, but even if she could raise the dead, he’d bring with him the compulsions that she loathed.
For the sake of every other woman and herself, it had to be this way and it had to be Amy who’d set his tortured soul free. ‘Hold it together,’ she told herself and clenched her fists into tight balls so as not to give in to sorrow. Her body still shivering, she clambered back to her feet and sifted through Christopher’s backpack, using his equipment to clean up any trace of her presence in the home of the terrified woman she’d left tied up in the bedroom, oblivious to what had just happened under her roof.
Amy harked back to just a few days earlier when, after discovering the love of her life was a serial killer, she’d put on a brave face in front of him while silently beginning the grieving process for what she was about to lose. And just as Christopher had planned to kill his final victim, after much soul-searching and internal deliberation, Amy had decided to kill him.
She’d followed his car one night as he drove to a quiet residential street in Islington, and she’d watched from a safe distance as he patrolled the road on foot, making mental notes of the position of street lights, access to the rear of a ground-floor flat and a probable escape route. She placed her hands over her mouth to stop her sobs from being overheard outside her vehicle.
If she’d followed his timeline of kills correctly, his next strike would be within the next forty-eight hours. And when he cancelled their planned evening together, blaming a rushed editorial deadline, she knew exactly where he was going and arrived there before him.
Once inside the property, she’d watched in horror as he revealed his true nature, a ruthless, efficient psychopath gearing up for the kill. She’d waited, buried in the shadows inside the girl’s home, as he made his way into position and placed his bag by his feet, removed the cheese wire and then a billiard ball, which he’d thrown at the wall to gain Number Thirty’s attention. Standing behind Christopher with the taser gun in her hand, she could smell the adrenaline flowing through him and it made her nauseous.
Now with the crime scene cleaned up, Amy searched Christopher’s pockets. All they contained were two phones – his regular mobile and a burner he’d used to check Number Thirty’s location. Neither contained any clue of their owner’s identity but she took them anyway.
Amy stood in front of Christopher and took a deep breath. Then with all her strength she dragged him and his chair, inch by inch, through the kitchen, towards the rear door that Christopher had broken through, and out into a courtyard. She went back inside and took a duvet from the spare room and covered Christopher in it from head to toe. She dialled 999 from the girl’s landline, asked for the police and whispered ‘help me’ when connected with an operator. Then she discarded the phone on the kitchen worktop and assumed the police would arrive within the hour and find the girl.
Outside, she removed two litre bottles of white spirit she’d brought with her in her own kill kit and poured them over Christopher’s shrouded frame until the duvet absorbed the liquid. Then she stepped away, lit a match and threw it at him. She turned her back and walked away as Christopher caught light – she had no desire to witness the flesh melt from the bones of the man she had loved.
Given what you’ve just heard about those fake Matches, was he really the one or were you just in love with the idea of finding your Match? she asked herself suddenly. Think about it, surely to God someone like you who wants to do good couldn’t have been Matched with a man like that? Your results must have been hacked. You just got caught in the moment.
Amy nodded and decided it was the only logical explanation, even though deep down she wasn’t sure. The thought of choosing to love a man who turned out to be a serial killer was just bad judgment, and far better than having her DNA Matched to him. It was the lesser of two evils and, in time, she might just about live with it.
As Amy left a painted stencil mark outside Number Thirty’s home, she knew it could be months before Christopher’s body was positively identified. She drove back to his home and let herself in with his keys and planned to clean the place from top to bottom over the following week to remove as much of her DNA as possible. Then she would leave his car with the keys in the ignition in a South London crime hotspot, certain it wouldn’t remain there for long.
There were very few ways Christopher and Amy could be linked once the police discovered who he was. He’d always paid cash so there’d be no credit card trail of where they might have eaten or visited together. His computers were heavily password controlled but she would destroy them with a hammer anyway and dump them. And as they hadn’t met each other’s friends, families or colleagues, there’d be nothing tying them together as a couple – with the exception of their Match Your DNA link. However, no proof would ever be found that they’d taken it a step further. Even their few introductory text conversations were to Christopher’s anonymous pay-as-you-go phones, which she would also smash to pieces.
In the months to come, Amy’s colleagues would never discover why the last person to die in the baffling, unexplained serial killer case was male, why he’d been chosen and his body set ablaze. It would be an added twist to the story and she was sure Christopher would approve of her self-preservation skills.
Christopher had reached his target, only he’d been the thirtieth kill. He’d also kept the anonymity he so desired and the only thing his story lacked was the nickname he’d been affronted not to have been given. Suddenly, it came to Amy.
When I go to work tomorrow, I’m going to suggest they call you The Saint Christopher killer, she said to herself, imagining him watching her and picturing his smile. Thirty kills and a name … you got your wish in the end, didn’t you?
Chapter 102
NICK
The town was more grand and picturesque than Nick had given it credit for after having looked it up on Google Street View.
The climate was balmy and almost Mediterranean and he wore his cargo shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops as he’d wandered around the well-kept streets that surrounded the town’s Spanish mission-style architecture. He now sat on a wooden bus stop bench, taking in the hot December morning. The rows of shops he faced were tidy and organised, and there appeared to be enough there to satisfy each of the town’s 73,000 inhabitants.
Every now and again, Dylan made a cheery gurgling noise from his stroller, both amused and excited by the plastic ring of colourful farm animals attached to his wrist, which rattled every time he waved his hand. He had coped with the twenty-three-hour flight remarkably well for a four-month-old, with only the occasional outburst of tears during some particularly troublesome turbulence.
Mandy took a sharp intake of breath, not believing what she was witnessing. She watched as Richard’s fingers slowly and purposefully entwined with his son’s.
Chapter 101
AMY
Amy couldn’t bring herself to look at the blank, motionless face of the man she’d loved and whose life she’d ended.
Slumped in the chair she had tied him to, Christopher’s head tilted backwards and tears were still visible in the corners of his bloodshot eyes. She desperately wanted to bring the man she had adored back to life, but even if she could raise the dead, he’d bring with him the compulsions that she loathed.
For the sake of every other woman and herself, it had to be this way and it had to be Amy who’d set his tortured soul free. ‘Hold it together,’ she told herself and clenched her fists into tight balls so as not to give in to sorrow. Her body still shivering, she clambered back to her feet and sifted through Christopher’s backpack, using his equipment to clean up any trace of her presence in the home of the terrified woman she’d left tied up in the bedroom, oblivious to what had just happened under her roof.
Amy harked back to just a few days earlier when, after discovering the love of her life was a serial killer, she’d put on a brave face in front of him while silently beginning the grieving process for what she was about to lose. And just as Christopher had planned to kill his final victim, after much soul-searching and internal deliberation, Amy had decided to kill him.
She’d followed his car one night as he drove to a quiet residential street in Islington, and she’d watched from a safe distance as he patrolled the road on foot, making mental notes of the position of street lights, access to the rear of a ground-floor flat and a probable escape route. She placed her hands over her mouth to stop her sobs from being overheard outside her vehicle.
If she’d followed his timeline of kills correctly, his next strike would be within the next forty-eight hours. And when he cancelled their planned evening together, blaming a rushed editorial deadline, she knew exactly where he was going and arrived there before him.
Once inside the property, she’d watched in horror as he revealed his true nature, a ruthless, efficient psychopath gearing up for the kill. She’d waited, buried in the shadows inside the girl’s home, as he made his way into position and placed his bag by his feet, removed the cheese wire and then a billiard ball, which he’d thrown at the wall to gain Number Thirty’s attention. Standing behind Christopher with the taser gun in her hand, she could smell the adrenaline flowing through him and it made her nauseous.
Now with the crime scene cleaned up, Amy searched Christopher’s pockets. All they contained were two phones – his regular mobile and a burner he’d used to check Number Thirty’s location. Neither contained any clue of their owner’s identity but she took them anyway.
Amy stood in front of Christopher and took a deep breath. Then with all her strength she dragged him and his chair, inch by inch, through the kitchen, towards the rear door that Christopher had broken through, and out into a courtyard. She went back inside and took a duvet from the spare room and covered Christopher in it from head to toe. She dialled 999 from the girl’s landline, asked for the police and whispered ‘help me’ when connected with an operator. Then she discarded the phone on the kitchen worktop and assumed the police would arrive within the hour and find the girl.
Outside, she removed two litre bottles of white spirit she’d brought with her in her own kill kit and poured them over Christopher’s shrouded frame until the duvet absorbed the liquid. Then she stepped away, lit a match and threw it at him. She turned her back and walked away as Christopher caught light – she had no desire to witness the flesh melt from the bones of the man she had loved.
Given what you’ve just heard about those fake Matches, was he really the one or were you just in love with the idea of finding your Match? she asked herself suddenly. Think about it, surely to God someone like you who wants to do good couldn’t have been Matched with a man like that? Your results must have been hacked. You just got caught in the moment.
Amy nodded and decided it was the only logical explanation, even though deep down she wasn’t sure. The thought of choosing to love a man who turned out to be a serial killer was just bad judgment, and far better than having her DNA Matched to him. It was the lesser of two evils and, in time, she might just about live with it.
As Amy left a painted stencil mark outside Number Thirty’s home, she knew it could be months before Christopher’s body was positively identified. She drove back to his home and let herself in with his keys and planned to clean the place from top to bottom over the following week to remove as much of her DNA as possible. Then she would leave his car with the keys in the ignition in a South London crime hotspot, certain it wouldn’t remain there for long.
There were very few ways Christopher and Amy could be linked once the police discovered who he was. He’d always paid cash so there’d be no credit card trail of where they might have eaten or visited together. His computers were heavily password controlled but she would destroy them with a hammer anyway and dump them. And as they hadn’t met each other’s friends, families or colleagues, there’d be nothing tying them together as a couple – with the exception of their Match Your DNA link. However, no proof would ever be found that they’d taken it a step further. Even their few introductory text conversations were to Christopher’s anonymous pay-as-you-go phones, which she would also smash to pieces.
In the months to come, Amy’s colleagues would never discover why the last person to die in the baffling, unexplained serial killer case was male, why he’d been chosen and his body set ablaze. It would be an added twist to the story and she was sure Christopher would approve of her self-preservation skills.
Christopher had reached his target, only he’d been the thirtieth kill. He’d also kept the anonymity he so desired and the only thing his story lacked was the nickname he’d been affronted not to have been given. Suddenly, it came to Amy.
When I go to work tomorrow, I’m going to suggest they call you The Saint Christopher killer, she said to herself, imagining him watching her and picturing his smile. Thirty kills and a name … you got your wish in the end, didn’t you?
Chapter 102
NICK
The town was more grand and picturesque than Nick had given it credit for after having looked it up on Google Street View.
The climate was balmy and almost Mediterranean and he wore his cargo shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops as he’d wandered around the well-kept streets that surrounded the town’s Spanish mission-style architecture. He now sat on a wooden bus stop bench, taking in the hot December morning. The rows of shops he faced were tidy and organised, and there appeared to be enough there to satisfy each of the town’s 73,000 inhabitants.
Every now and again, Dylan made a cheery gurgling noise from his stroller, both amused and excited by the plastic ring of colourful farm animals attached to his wrist, which rattled every time he waved his hand. He had coped with the twenty-three-hour flight remarkably well for a four-month-old, with only the occasional outburst of tears during some particularly troublesome turbulence.
