The Rain Killer

‘Not possible,’ Sean insisted. ‘Probable. He’s a thinker and a planner and he’s in control of what he’s doing. If the circumstances aren’t exactly what he wants, he’ll drive away. He’ll just walk away and wait for another opportunity.’ He’d just reminded himself of something she’d said. ‘You said the times between the murders varied by as much as a few weeks?’

‘Yes,’ Townsend confirmed. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any particular pattern.’

Sean massaged his right temple with his middle finger and stared at the photographs of the victims for a long while before speaking. ‘Remarkably similar in appearance, aren’t they?’ he finally said.

‘That much, we had noticed,’ Townsend answered, sounding slightly annoyed.

‘Apart from some of the age differences they could be the same person – slightly built, pale skin, straight black hair. What colour were their eyes?’ he suddenly asked without looking away from their faces.

‘Varied,’ Townsend answered. ‘As far as I can remember some had blue eyes, some green, others brown. Why? Is it important?’

‘No,’ Sean answered, although he wasn’t sure of his own answer – not yet. ‘Just an idea. But look at them,’ he told her, waving his hand past the dead faces. ‘For him, only they would do and we know he’s not particularly driven by a time scale, so …’ he paused to allow his thoughts to form into something tangible. ‘So it’s the availability of this particular type of victim that … women that look exactly like these that dictates when and where he strikes.’

‘We assumed he’d selected the victims because they probably reminded him of someone from his life he has a serious grudge against,’ Townsend explained. ‘His mother. An ex-wife. An ex-girlfriend.’

‘You’re right to assume that much,’ Sean agreed, ‘but which is it and why?’ Townsend just shrugged as Sean continued to stare at the photographs in the boards. ‘Can’t be easy finding street girls that look so similar,’ he told Townsend, ‘not as and when he needs them.’

‘Maybe he pre-selects his victims,’ Townsend suggested. ‘DI Ramsay seems to think he could be.’

‘Possibly,’ Sean partially agreed, ‘but people in their line of work are unreliable. Just because they’re there one week doesn’t mean they’ll be there the next. And don’t forget he needs the right weather. He needs the rain.’

‘So you think he cruises for victims rather than pre-selects?’

‘When the need to take another overwhelms him he waits for the rain,’ Sean explained, never looking away from the photographs, ‘then he goes searching – searching for the perfect victim. If he can’t find exactly what he’s looking for he goes home. If it stops raining he goes home. He has control, but it still means he spends a lot of time cruising, which means he’s driving around the streets a lot – and always in the rain. He’s giving us a chance to find him and stop him, and find him and stop him we have to, because this one won’t give it up unless we make him.’

‘I know he won’t,’ Townsend agreed, ‘they never do, but why? Why can’t he stop?’

‘Because whatever it is he’s trying to satisfy can never be satisfied,’ Sean explained. ‘The more he feeds the beast, the hungrier it becomes.’

***

His entire body burnt with pain as he forced himself to complete yet another set of press-ups – the smoke from the dozens of candles and joss-sticks swirling around his body as he pumped his arms over and over again, raising his body from the floor until finally, drained of oxygen, the fibres of his muscles could lift his weight no more and he collapsed on the ornate rug that covered the centre of the living room in his small rented flat.

Exhausted as he was, he still managed to control his breathing – not gulping for air, but breathing in slowly and deeply, everything under control – just as he’d trained himself to do over years and years of practice. The mind must always control the body. After less than a minute he was able to spring into a standing position and walk slowly to a large mirror dominating one entire wall. He glanced at the television that quietly played a sadistic pornographic film, but his interest in it was passing. It was his own reflection that he longed to see. His toned body glimmered with sweat – every sinew defined and visible – but it was the beauty of the colourful creature that wrapped itself around him that transfixed him. The huge head of a mighty serpent, mouth gaping with fangs bared, covered his chest and the thick scaly body trailed over his shoulder and wound down his back before coiling back around his lower torso and then spiraling around his right leg – the tip of the great beast’s tail resting on his foot.