Drinks had been hastily arranged at a pub a quarter mile from the office building. Never had there been such a week in the history of the firm. Head of litigation was apparently dead in circumstances shrouded in mystery. The police had descended and taken items from Bronson Chapel’s room, and Bronson himself appeared still to be missing. Perhaps he was dead too? The gossip engine had cranked up to hyper-drive, burning like a white-hot comet. Most of the staff were flocking to the bar, to discuss, speculate, hypothesise, and get drunk.
Stark had no desire to join them. He went straight home. Jenny had joined the others. Fine. He was in no mood for socialising. The image of Hutchison lying dead in the dirt, face still and white, little pig eyes devoid of spark, was something not easily shifted. The death had been unintended. A balance had been struck. Nevertheless, the event weighed on his conscience. Now a new dread was rising – Marie Thomson. Blunt force trauma. The name held vague meaning. He couldn’t quite fix it down.
He got in, changed into running trousers, trainers, top, then decided he was in no mood for a run. Much more appealing was the act of finishing off the whisky left over from the previous evening. He toyed with the idea of phoning his sister, for no other reason than to hear her voice. She would be working. He dismissed the notion. Instead, he unscrewed the whisky bottle, poured himself a healthy amount into his Iron Man mug, took a swallow, topped it up. He was definitely acquiring a taste. He opened his laptop, and googled the name, “Marie Thomson”.
And found it, in uncompromising detail. And now knew where he had remembered it from. The nature of her death was the stuff of gold for the tabloids, and gruesome enough to reach national news.
Marie Thomson. The first victim of the serial killer christened The Surgeon. Her date of death matched precisely the date mentioned in the death certificate. Twenty-nine years old. Student. On the screen, a picture – reddish dark hair brushing her shoulders, a somewhat mischievous curl on her lips, her eyes clear and candid. Studying veterinary science at Glasgow University. A life cut short. Unimaginably disfigured and left for dead by a madman. The first of many.
He snapped his laptop shut, swallowed back a quiet surge of panic. Was this then to be his nightmare? No. He refused to believe it. He would simply not allow it. It was Friday night. Regardless of his mood, he would set off on a long run, come back in a state of exhaustion, get blind drunk, sink into oblivion, and sleep a deep dreamless sleep. And the next night? He would take it one at a time.
“No more,” he said aloud, and not for the first time, wondered if he was going insane.
He remembered his sister had said she would come round after her shift. That, he decided, would not be a good idea. A morose drunk was not ideal company. Plus, he didn’t want to worry her. He had done enough of that over the last five years. He phoned to cancel, leaving a message on her answer machine, keeping his voice light and flippant. “Out on a date, unbelievably. Will catch up tomorrow. Later, dude.”
He left the flat, hit the streets at a pace, and tried to think of nothing, save keeping to a rhythm, putting one foot in front of the other, and allowing the world to drift by. But a shadow lurked in his mind, and the terror didn’t leave.