In the Still of the Night

‘That’s probably it,’ Marty agreed. Knowing Derek, if he had the flu he would dose himself heavily with whisky, his favourite medicine, go to bed and stay there in a stupor, ignoring ringing phones and knocks on the front door.

When Marty went over to Derek’s flat, she met Sean on the pavement. ‘I got the key,’ she told him. ‘But you’d better wait outside until Derek has said you can come in – he won’t like it if I let you into his home without permission.’

Sean shrugged and followed her to the front door. She unlocked it and walked inside, calling, ‘Derek? You home?’ There was no answer. ‘Smells musty in here, as if nobody’s been here for days,’ Marty said, opening doors and

looking into rooms.

Sean’s nostrils quivered. He knew that smell. His gorge rose. He saw Marty push open the sitting-room door and freeze on the threshold. Her hand went up to her mouth as if she was about to be sick, and she made a choked, retching sound.

‘Come out of here,’ Sean said, running.

He put an arm round her and half pushed, half carried her out of the flat.

‘He … he … he’s …’ she spluttered, skin a whitey-green and eyes dazed with shock.

‘I know, go outside, into the fresh air, sit down and just keep quiet,’ Sean said. ‘I’ll ring the police.’ He pulled the front door shut and pocketed the key. ‘We mustn’t touch anything in there. Off you go, Marty.’

As she staggered out, Sean began to use his mobile phone.

8

The murderer sat outside the block of flats, watching the coming and going of the police, watching Sean Halifax talking to them. Halifax had known Derek Fenn – how had he felt seeing him like that, strangled, the black tights still tied around his neck, his face contorted in his last agony, laid out stark naked on the couch? Naked, that is, except for the satsuma in his mouth, injected with a couple of mind-bending drugs, and, of course, wearing the frilly black silk knickers dotted with red satin bows which had been a sudden last-minute inspiration.

The man deserved to die looking like the clown he was.

No blood this time. Too much trouble, cleaning up afterwards, if there was blood. You only had to miss a little spot of it to be in trouble. Safer not to shed blood. There were lots of ways to kill which were clean and safe. But it had been fun to dress the body up a little, arrange the scene as if for a TV soap – Fenn was an actor, after all. And it would all confuse the police, keep them guessing.

The murderer’s mouth twisted – had Sean Halifax liked what he saw? Didn’t look as if he had. But he hadn’t liked Derek Fenn much, had he? Everyone knew the two men disliked each other. Even the press.

Did the police know that? Oh, but they wouldn’t suspect Sean … not at first, anyway. He was one of them, or had been, and they all stuck together. And, anyway, it would soon come out that the last person to be seen with Derek was a woman.

The murderer glanced at Derek’s windows. Photographers were up there now. The flashes of their cameras came like summer lightning in the room. The curtains had been opened, you could see the flashes clearly.

Well, that was one picture the papers wouldn’t be printing.

Bet they’d love to, though. It would sell a lot of papers if they did. But they’d never get away with it, not even today.

The murderer smiled, then stopped, eyes irritated. Derek was safely dead, but the old lady in hospital was still alive. She’d somehow survived what should have been a lethal injection. She must be tougher than she looked.

Couldn’t let it go, though. No, she couldn’t be left alive. His body surged with excitement and he checked it, held it down. Don’t get excited, don’t give yourself away. Look cool.

But she had to go. Give it a day or two and then … another try. And this time she must be killed outright, no trying to dress it up as an accident. Strangling, like Fenn? Too noisy; might attract attention. A knife? Blood. No blood. He hadn’t liked the blood the first time, he had had nightmares about it afterwards, the splashes of blood over the walls, the floor. He’d been afraid to sleep alone, he had crept into bed with her and he’d felt her body warm and soft wrapped round him. He hadn’t needed to kill again for a long, long time. He had had all he wanted and nobody tried to take it away or hurt her.

It wasn’t fair. He never wanted to kill anyone. It was just that he had to; he was forced to.

A pillow over the face might be the best answer for the old woman, clean and quiet. Yes. That was a good idea.

But he wouldn’t be finished even then because now he knew Sean Halifax had to go. He was too nosy. Once a policeman always a policeman. He was asking too many questions.

The murderer stretched like a cat, yawning; it had been a long night. Killing made time pass quickly but it left you sleepy – such intense, consuming emotion was draining, and there had been two last night, two in one night.

Funny, that; there had been years between the first murder and the second. Years and years. You could easily have forgotten it ever happened. It had seemed like something in a dream, a fantasy, something rather shocking but secretly pleasant to remember. Killing had brought him so much happiness. He had often thought it might be good to kill again – and then one day he was alone, and to get happiness back it had been necessary to kill again. Just as he always thought. That time had been deliberate, planned; that was when the first queer tremor of pleasure had showed up and he’d known he liked doing it. Admitted to himself. It was the sense of power it gave him.

Power of life and death; one minute blood was pumping through their veins, their hearts were beating and they gave you that look that said they were better than you, you were dirt under their feet and they were going to beat you to a pulp – and the next they were still and silent and turning cold. And you had done it. You had the controls – you flicked the switch that turned them off. Only God could do that. God – and you.

Several people came out from the flats; they weren’t police, surely? No, one of them was wearing fur slippers and huddled in an old dressing-gown. They must be other tenants of the block of flats. They were talking to the police – had any of them seen anything? For a second there was a quiver of fear, then the murderer relaxed.

Didn’t matter if they had. Annie Lang’s face and soft blonde hair was so well known. If anyone had seen the pair who went into Derek Fenn’s flat last night, they must have recognised her.