The Serial Killer's Girl Read online

  THE SERIAL KILLER’S GIRL

  L.H STACEY

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgments

  More from L.H. Stacey

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  For my amazing godsons, Matthew, Andrew and George.

  You’ve all grown to be wonderful young men and I’m so proud of each and every one of you.

  Each one of you is in charge of writing your own life story.

  Make sure you write a good one… always be happy and don’t let anyone else hold the pen!! xx

  1

  I’d always promised myself that revenge would be sweet, that it would give me closure and that once I’d taken someone from him, someone he loved, I’d consider myself his equal.

  Yet tonight I stand here, knowing how close my moment is. It’s a feeling that makes me both excited and anxious with a trepidation that’s almost too much – my whole body feels as though it’s turned into a huge mixing pot of emotions, all whirling around together, as a million questions form in my mind. Questions I’ll never be able to answer.

  I stare into the night and imagine the ghost of my young, beautiful sister. She floats before me, gives me a sad, painful yet hopeful smile, with eyes that are now dull and distant. They no longer sparkle, and I watch the vision that circumnavigates my mind as she tries to speak to me – but sadly, I can’t hear her. Not any more. Her laugh was lost forever. Her voice a distant memory. And once again, my heart shatters into a million pieces as a sob rises to my throat and, angrily, I swipe at my tears, wish for the years we should have had, for the life that was stolen from us all and with an anger that threatens to erupt from my throat by way of a scream, I try to calm myself, knowing that right here, right now I’m about to get my revenge and, once I have, our beautiful sister will finally be laid to rest – exactly twenty years to the day after she was murdered.

  Stepping behind the old, rusty fire escape, I use it as a camouflage, pull my jacket tightly around me and give a shudder as I try to get warm but feel the frost bite angrily at my cheeks. I have no choice but to bide my time, to wait impatiently, and like a child I begin to play a game with myself, laugh as the breath leaves my lips, fogging the air with an ephemeral white cloud, one that barely has the chance to dissipate before the next warm breath is released again. I watch it plume from my mouth and disappear into darkness. The chill makes me think of snow, and I roll my eyes towards the powder-grey sky in an attempt to look for the stars, and just for a second, I realise that a strange numbness has clouded my mind, and nothing feels real. It’s as though my brain hasn’t engaged, hasn’t admitted what I’m about to do and with angst my heart constricts like it’s held in a vice. My breathing suddenly becomes laboured. Bile burns my throat, and I take several deep inward breaths until the nausea stops and, in its place, I feel a constant internal trembling that refuses to stop.

  Concentrating, I try to focus. I think back to the hours, the days, the years I spent studying what he’d done. The people I had no choice but to get close to, the forced friendships, relationships and the enemies I made along the way. Each one a necessary part of the jigsaw, one I’ve been slotting together for half of my life, learning just a little bit more with each new acquaintance I made. All the time wishing I could fully understand his reasons, or motives. I studied them and him and the calculated way he’d killed each of the women, how he’d arranged them, placed a red silk scarf around their necks, always tied to the left, and then, as a final act of control, the way he’d placed a small chess piece within the folds of the material. Each piece ranging from a pawn to a queen, depending on how valuable he’d thought the kill had been.

  His murders had become a regular event. An apparent surge of power that had given him an adrenaline buzz like no other, until the day he made an obvious mistake. A murder that hadn’t gone to plan. One that hadn’t happened quite the way he’d wanted it to. And in his annoyance, he’d taken my sister’s body, and dumped her in an unmarked grave, a place where she’d been cruelly lost to us forever, and I wonder what it was that went wrong, why he couldn’t leave her to be found, like he had the others. And what chess piece he’d decided to award her in his final act of power.

  Glancing down at my watch, I note the time, the date. The fact that tomorrow, like he does every year, he’ll demand an outing. A search of another area. Another day of him pointing to spots, laughing as the dig begins, only to shake his head, and with amusement, he’ll point to another area, another spot where the body of my sister might or might not be. And every year, I watch from a distance, wait, and hope that this year will be the year he takes us to her grave, gives us closure for what he did. Rather than leaving her cold and alone where no one can visit, leave her flowers, or whisper a prayer.

  Looking up, I take in a deep breath. Try to remember what I need to do. How I need to be. What I need to emulate. When he hears the news, he just has to know it’s a sign. He must know I’ve copied his ways and that she was taken by way of revenge, and repeatedly I go over the steps, one by one, all the time worrying that I’ll make mistakes and even though I’ve killed before, I wonder what will happen if I’m caught. When I’m caught. Which prison I’ll be locked in. The thought of small places, locked doors, gates or restrictions of any kind terrifies me and, while I can, I take in huge gulps of cold, sharp air, allow it to hit the back of my throat as the breeze blows down the ginnel to hit me in the face and, while hovering behind the fire escape, I take a moment to free my mind, to look up at the rusty structure, at the way it twists around itself, with metal footplates that are far too old and weak, and casually I lean against it, feel it move and creak beneath my weight.

  Hearing a noise, I look to my left, to a door in the wall. It’s a door that leads to the village shop. A shop I used to go in and I wonder if old Mr Wilson still owns it and how he will feel when he finds out that a body has been found, murdered in his alley, and with a wry sense of amusement, I try to imagine him on the local news in the morning, standing in the shop’s doorway, with its dirty, unkempt windows, wishing he’d swept the causeway, or created a window display that looked warm and inviting, rather than the way it has always looked with piled-up boxes all standing on top of each other, like a warehouse that sells everything for less than a pound.

  Moving my hand to my pocket, I momentarily lose my concentration. Allow my fingers to rub against the pliable texture of the red silk scarf, the smooth ivory of the solid chess piece. A bishop. A stalwart piece for the one woman who stood by him. She’d always remained tall and steadfast t
o the end, and I laugh at the irony, look up to the sky and realise that my mother would approve of my actions. Finally, she’ll get the justice she deserved for the daughter she lost. She’s no longer here to see it but as I stare into the cloudless sky, I can still imagine her pale, drawn face, the way she used to rock back and forth in her armchair, or pace up and down the hallway. She’d waited patiently for hours. Then for months that turned into years, hoping her daughter would come home, and with every single second, her heart would break just a little bit more. The happy, vibrant mother I’d once known had quickly disappeared into herself. To a place where every birthday and Christmas was pushed into the background. A place where nothing mattered. Not until my sister was found. And in the end, she sat, broken, withdrawn, without any wish to live or function, in a world where she’d felt it wrong to smile, to be happy or to show that she’d moved on, just in case the world thought that she didn’t care. And in her final days, the days when she wished and prayed for death to take her, her whole life had been centred around watching the television, reading newspapers and scouring the internet, searching for clues. She’d been trying to prove that somehow, somewhere, my young, beautiful sister might still be alive. Until eventually, when it no longer seemed feasible, she simply prayed that she’d live from one anniversary to the next, for that day when, once a year, he’d walk free. A day when she’d watch the news with a strange intensity, watching the way he made a huge pretence of looking for her. All the time knowing that the day he found her, the day he gave her back to us, would be the last time he’d ever be allowed any kind of freedom outside of the prison walls.

  The sound of a door slamming across the road brings me back to reality and I look up. Study her, the woman I’ve made it my business to know. She’s all legs and stilettos. Her bright copper hair falling casually onto her shoulders, where a Bardot-style top is worn, to reveal a long, pale, slender neck. They’re clothes made for someone much younger than she is and, impatiently, I take a step forward and force myself to wait and watch as she places the long leather strap of her handbag over her head, twists it to lie flat across the thin, tight-fitting clothes that would be more suited to a warm summer evening, rather than the chill of winter.

  Suddenly, I begin to laugh, an internal giggle that threatens to explode, as I realise how worried she is about losing the bag, about it being taken from her. When in reality, she’s about to lose so much more. She just doesn’t know it – not yet.

  Taking a single deep breath inward, I hold it. I’m almost too terrified to breathe. To move. To do anything that would give me away. Then, swiftly, I pull the scarf from my pocket, twist it around my gloved hands and watch as she foolishly and unknowingly strides towards me…

  2

  Watching stealthily over the top of her monitor, Lexi Jakes tapped her pen against her teeth, rolled her eyes towards the clock and began counting the seconds, in the hope that the time would pass quickly, that the news she’d been expecting for every minute of that day wouldn’t happen. And that, for once, she’d be able leave the office completely unscathed by the past.

  Anxiously, she listened to the buzz of the office; every sound infiltrated her mind as she subconsciously listened for any change, any sound that was different to the norm. Which was close to impossible in an office that was never quiet. There was a persistent murmur of voices, of excitement, of men’s shoes as they moved heavily across wooden floors, while papers were shuffled, phones rang and reporters shouted between themselves as they constantly threw information from one desk to another.

  Surreptitiously, she cast her gaze across the long rows of bench desks, watched the flurry of activity, the way that every desk was covered in files, pens and Post-it notes – all of which were being moved around at speed, like a giant game of dominoes with each of the players trying to take his move at the same time as his opponent. But this wasn’t a game; this was real life. It was a place where investigations, features and columns were written. A room full of desks where random stories or articles were picked up, tossed down, approved and dismissed, all in a split second. And more so, it was a place where other people’s devastation satisfied the morbid curiosity of others and sold the newspapers of tomorrow.

  ‘I don’t want good news,’ Simon, the chief, had often said. ‘Good news doesn’t sell papers. Readers, they have a sick sense of curiosity that simply isn’t quelled by a nice little story, so get out there – find me some bad news.’

  Picking up her mobile, Lexi began to scroll. She was looking for any mention of her father’s name, of the barbaric way he’d killed one woman after the other. Every year, on the date of his last murder, she fully expected to see his name flash up in the news and, as always, she found herself shocked and emotional by everything she read. Yet today, for the first time in twenty years, there was nothing. Which was odd. And strangely, she felt unusually discomfited by its absence. Without thinking, she pulled her chair closer to her desk, flicked through the pages of her diary, checked that she had the right date. Then, through squinted eyes that were almost too afraid to look, she saw the telltale star, the number twenty that she’d scrawled in the margin, took note of the way she’d angrily circled it in red. It was something she’d done for as long as she could remember, an annual reminder of what he’d done. Of how many women he’d killed. The families who still didn’t have all the answers and the fact that it was twenty years since the worst day of her life, when she’d watched her father hauled out of her childhood home by a barrage of armed police, who’d all thundered through their house like a hundred elephants, stampeding past her all at once, in the same two minutes.

  Desperately, Lexi tried to dissipate the image. Tried to remember what life had been like before that day. What it had been like to have a daddy, rather than the person everyone either hated or described as ‘that serial killer’, for a father. She rolled her eyes away from her monitor, tried to think of the daddy who’d simply smiled at her, been kind to her and praised her for doing the tiniest, most insignificant thing, and for the first six short years of her life, that’s what he’d done. He’d been there, he’d looked after her. And then, as though he’d never existed, he was gone, taken away from her, and locked up like a caged, angry animal with the whole world hating him for what he’d done. A moment in time that had left her with constant flashbacks, visions of him being dragged away, screaming, his face all contorted, and how as they’d dragged him past the room, he’d clung painfully to the door jamb with his eyes fixed on hers.

  ‘Alex, you be a good girl for your mummy and… and don’t forget, your daddy loves you. He’ll always love you…’ he’d shouted arrogantly as, finally, his fingers were prised free, and he was dragged out of the house, leaving her to watch as the police had pushed him unceremoniously into the waiting vehicle.

  At the time, she hadn’t understood what was really happening or why they were taking him away and, fearfully, she’d stared into his eyes, momentarily begged for the truth, for answers to the questions she couldn’t bear to ask. Little did she know that the only time she’d see him after that day would be the once a year, when, without exception, he’d appear on the local news and there’d be pictures of his face spread all over the television, or the internet, for all the world to repeatedly judge and jeer over.

  Which was why today, on the twentieth anniversary of his twentieth kill, she’d fully expected the press to mention him, to make a big effort, to talk about what he’d done, the women he’d killed, concentrating as they normally did on Melissa Jameson, the one woman whose body had never been found – but, unusually, there was nothing.

  Hearing a last-minute flood of phone calls vibrate through the office, it became more than obvious that the final sprint to the finish line had begun. That within the next hour or two, the paper would go to print and for the few hours that followed, a sense of achievement would circulate the office. It was always a time of informal celebration that happened just once a week, before everyone sprung into action and t
he planning of the next week’s edition would begin.

  Glancing at her column, she read and reread the article she’d written. She knew that something was missing but couldn’t work out what. Gave a half-smile at the headline, ‘Million Pound House Draw!’ It was a prize draw like no other and for the price of a pound, a luxury house could be won. It was her job to create a hard-hitting campaign. Her job to ensure it sold tickets. For the fourth time that hour, she rearranged the photographs, chose an internal one with soft amber lighting that seeped warmly from the image. ‘That’s the one,’ she whispered as she flicked through all the other pictures, admiring them.

  Rolling her eyes enviously towards the desks opposite, she watched the investigative journalists, the way they worked, answered phones, and knew that if anything new came in, it would land on their desks first. They’d get the tip-off. And initially, it looked as though they were winding things up, leaning back in their chairs, watching the clock. But then Lexi noticed a shift in their mood. It was as though someone had plugged them in, and they began to scurry around at speed, with an enthusiasm that bounced between them. And, with interest, she sat forward in her chair, felt the nervous adrenaline surge through her until it filled her mind. With her hands pressed tightly together, she steepled her fingers, held her breath and watched as one reporter after the other took on a new and excited look. And even to an outsider, to someone who couldn’t read the signs, it would have been more than obvious that something new had come in – and she watched as a tidal wave of emotion surged through them all.