DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw

The game machines by the front door were a sign. A beacon to the young homeless. Runaways from the North and Midlands often made it no further from the railway station than this café. From here, they would be farmed out to various pimps across London. That would then be their life. Prostitution, crime, drugs and early death.

Other hunters visited this place. It was like an African watering hole. Most hunting illicit under-age sex. Some, very occasionally, hunting to kill, but none quite like me.

She was right where she should be. Pumping money into a fruit machine. A lost cause chasing a lost cause. She must have been between fourteen and sixteen, about five foot three, long dirty blonde hair, white skin, beautiful like marble. Slim. Half my size.

I’d been watching the place off and on for a couple of weeks. Nothing took my fancy, but I persevered. After a few days she appeared, rucksack in hand. From the first moment I saw her, she was mine.

I hadn’t been any closer to her yet than this. I hadn’t heard her speak, so I didn’t know where she was from. I didn’t know the colour of her eyes yet either. I hoped they were brown. Brown eyes set against that marble skin would be stunning. I needed to see her blood on that skin. I started getting an erection. I took some deep breaths and calmed myself down.

During the times I’d watched her, she hadn’t been taken away by anyone. I didn’t think she’d succumbed to the inevitable life of prostitution yet. Good. The more innocent they are, the greater my pleasure is. Is there anything sweeter than violated innocence?

I kept watch. Waiting for her to make a deadly mistake. No one noticed me. There were thousands of people around the station. For once the weather forecast had been accurate and it was drizzling, hence my raincoat seemed perfectly normal, even at this time of year.

She did it several times a night. Walked out of the café and around into a side street, close to where I’d parked the car. At first I wondered what she was doing. Urinating? Giving clients fumbling oral sex? Then I saw her. She was going for a cigarette. She didn’t want to share it with the other runaway fuckers. And why should she? They say smoking is bad for your health. If only she knew.

I patiently watched her. Still excited, but less agitated now. I had more control over myself. I could wait. It was only a matter of time.

My patience was rewarded. I saw her speaking to the other youths huddled around the machine. She was making her excuse to leave. The others didn’t seem interested. She stepped out of the café, looking up and down the street. She knew she was mere prey. She was nervous about moving away from the safety of the herd. She disappeared into the side street. I crossed the road by the pelican crossing. The light rain made the yellow, red and green lights of the street dance on the shiny road and the vehicles that passed.

The girl was out of view now, but I could smell her. Feel her. I moved in closer. Drawn to her. I had the police identification in my coat pocket. My hand rested on it. Ready. In the other pocket I had a small carving knife in case she tried to run or squeal. I’d bought the knife months ago and hid it in my study at home. It was a common brand. Very good for slicing tomatoes, or so the sales assistant had told me.

I saw her clearly enough. Standing in the doorway of a derelict shop, smoking her cigarette. She watched me walking in her direction. I sensed her caution, but no real fear yet. Nothing that would make her take flight. I was careful not to look at her as I approached. I used my peripheral vision to watch her. I got to about five metres away from her. If she’d run then, she might have lived. Any longer and she couldn’t have got away. I am strong. I am fast. Much stronger and faster than I look. I exercise a lot. Secretly.

I drew level and turned to face her. She was trapped by railings on either side of the doorway. With the survival instincts of a wild animal, she spoke immediately: ‘Come near me and I’ll fucking scream. I’ll scream rape and I’ll tell the coppers you touched us up.’ She had a Newcastle accent.

I smiled at her. I thought about pulling out the knife and slaughtering her right there. There was no one around. I stuck to the plan instead. I pulled out the police badge and showed it to her. Casually.

‘Oh fuck,’ she whispered.

‘Name and age?’ I asked. She huffed, like a spoilt teenager being asked to make her bed by weak-willed parents. ‘Name and age? I haven’t got all night to waste fucking around with you,’ I lied.

‘Heather Freeman.’ She finally looked me in the eyes. Hers were blue. Never mind. ‘And I’m seventeen.’

I laughed. ‘I don’t think so, Heather. Your parents reported you missing over a week ago. You’re under-age and that means you’re coming with me,’ I lied again.

‘Where to?’ she asked. She sounded slightly panicked, but not scared. She certainly wasn’t scared of me.

‘The police station. And then we’ll call your parents. See if they can come and pick you up.’

She argued a little more and I told her she had no choice for now but to come with me. I needed to get her moving while the road was still quiet. I took hold of her upper arm and gripped firmly. She winced.

‘You’re hurting me arm,’ she complained in her north-eastern accent.

‘Can’t have you running off again, can we?’ I explained. She huffed, her skin was as soft as warm water under my fingers. She would bruise easily. I relaxed my grip somewhat. I didn’t want to leave an impression of my hand in her soft skin. ‘Come on. My car’s around the corner.’

‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than hassle me?’ she asked, her accent increasingly annoying.

‘Saving you from yourself, young lady,’ I answered. ‘These streets are no place for someone like you. There’s a lot of bad people out there.’

She huffed again.

We reached my rented car without incident. No one had seen us. I’d checked the route several times before. It wasn’t overlooked by any residential buildings. No matter how busy King’s Cross and the Euston Road were, the side streets were more often than not deserted of life. Just the occasional vermin looking for a whore.

I stood her by the boot of the car, so she was slightly side-on to me. I opened the boot, which was already lined with plastic sheets. I’d bought them a few weeks ago from Homebase. You use them for decorating.

Fear flashed into her body. It electrified her every muscle, every nerve. Her eyes widened and her pupils dilated. ‘What’s this for?’ she was almost pleading.

I smashed my right fist into her jaw, careful to avoid her mouth. I didn’t want to leave my skin on her teeth. She spun around on the spot and began to fall. I caught her as she did. She was limp. Moaning quietly.

With almost no effort I threw her into the boot of the big saloon. I picked up the roll of gaffer tape, another purchase from Homebase, and neatly bound her wrists behind her back. I also bound her ankles, knees, and gagged her pretty mouth. I looked around calmly. Still no one in sight. I stroked the pale skin around her neck. God, I wanted to slice it open right there. I slammed the boot shut before I lost control. All in good time, I told myself. All in good time.

I drove east along the Pentonville Road. Through wealthy Islington, immigrant-swamped Shoreditch, decaying Mile End and immediately forgettable Plaistow. Finally I reached my chosen destination. A large piece of wasteland in South Hornchurch, not far from the Dagenham Ford factory. A suitably grim and dark place for little Heather Freeman to meet her end.

I drove along the clean tarmac road to a small brick building in the middle of the waste ground and parked close. I put on a pair of rubber gloves and made sure my coat was fully buttoned. When I opened the boot, she was lying on her side. Tears ran down her face and across the tape over her mouth. Her wet eyes shone like the purest diamonds. I wondered if she had ever looked more beautiful. She was too terrified to manage much more than a whimper.

I pushed her face into the plastic sheets and turned her on to her stomach. Her crying became more desperate. I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and by the tape around her knees and lifted her easily out of the boot. She was even slighter than I imagined. I carried her like an old suitcase into the building and threw her on the hard, cold ground. If she hadn’t been gagged, she would have called out in pain.

I grabbed her hair and pulled her face close. Those beautiful eyes stared into mine. ‘I’m going to cut you free now. Do as I say and you’ll live. Fuck up or scream and you die. You die slowly. Understand?’ She closed her eyes and nodded frantically.

I pulled the knife out and made sure she saw it. She was squealing again behind the tape. She pulled away from me. I yanked her back painfully. She got the message.

First I cut the tape around her ankles. Then I pulled it away from her mouth. She gasped for air. I sensed she was about to speak. I pulled her face closer. ‘Speak − you die.’

I cut the tape from around her wrists and she rubbed at her skin. I let go of her hair and stepped back five paces. I wanted to see all of her. It was how I had foreseen it. How I had imagined it would be.

‘Take your top off.’

Her face was twisted in fear and shame. She began to unbutton her dirty shirt. She moved slowly and that suited me fine. When she had finished unbuttoning it, I ordered her again to take it off. Slowly she pulled it off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her young breasts didn’t need one. They were small and unattractive. The nipples pink and pointed.

‘Take your trousers off.’

Again I could tell she was about to speak. I put my finger to my lips. ‘Shhh.’ She understood and struggled out of her training shoes before removing her trousers. They lay at her feet.

‘The rest,’ I demanded quietly.

Her sobbing intensified. She pulled her knickers off with one hand. The other covered her inadequate breasts. She turned sideways to me. The headlights from my car illuminated the inside of the building perfectly. She was perfect. Her pubic hair was still soft and feather-like. I would ensure she never became anything less than perfect.

I moved close to her again. ‘Get on your knees and take me in your mouth.’

She mouthed a please. I pointed towards my groin with the knife. Her face was becoming even more twisted with fear and disgust.

I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her on to her knees. She began to untie the front of my tracksuit bottoms. As she did so, I grabbed her hair and bent her head back as far as it would go. Her slender neck stretched out below me. In one motion I stepped away and swept the blade across her throat. I severed her jugular and cut through her trachea.

I kept moving backwards as she held her throat in both hands. The blood seeped quickly through her fingers and dropped on to her naked chest. It ran across her small breasts and on to her stomach. She fell sideways to the floor before the blood reached her pubic area. That was a shame. I considered picking her up so it could reach there, but decided not to.

I watched the last few seconds of her worthless life. At least now she would be remembered for something. Her death had more meaning than her life could ever have. She had become the purest work of art. I resisted the temptation to masturbate over her warm body.

She died still clutching her throat. Thin lines of the reddest blood streaked her face. Her eyes stared lifelessly. Diamonds. Perfection.