American Devil

The streets of the Financial District in New York are much like many other streets across America. The sidewalks are flanked by towers in light shades of concrete grey. Originality can be seen in the little early twentieth-century architectural flourishes around the entrances and windows, but these minor stylistic touches are secondary to the great power of economics and the need to maximize floor space.

Sebastian walked past the buildings, enjoying the sight of their stately confidence. He was carrying a suit bag and feeling good about things. He liked to walk and watch. The traffic streamed down the street and he looked at the rows of expensive cars parked up and down. He came to the entrance to Le Monte, a luxury hotel with a gold and green sign. It lacked any of the pomp of the old buildings and asserted its status with curly gold lettering and plush colours.

Sebastian entered. He had an appointment with an English tailor. He had a weakness for clothes, in particular for bespoke Savile Row suits. He only had one, but loved it each time he wore it. He always thought that it gave him a kind of religious feeling of forgiveness, just like Dee said Christ could. But the suit was more convenient than Christ. He could put it on whenever he wanted the clear lines and balance of superbly tailored fine wool to wash him clean of sin and make him a perfect citizen again.

Sebastian took the elevator to the conference suite for his appointment with the visiting tailors from William and Roger Burke & Co. of Savile Row, London. Many English tailors had taken to these visits to the bigger American cities and the local businessmen and dignitaries loved the old-fashioned glamour and deep subservience involved in being measured and made for.

Sebastian was met at the temporary reception area by a delightfully fresh-faced English girl, who introduced herself as Melissa. She was so finely dressed, so elegant in every way that Sebastian thought she might have been turned on a lathe and made in some gorgeous London babe factory. A twinge in his stomach made him want to reach out and grab her.

The thick red carpet, gold and red colour scheme and low lighting of the suite managed to give this hotel an old English feel. He was met by the tailor and the cutter, Messrs Henry Oldfield and Graham Winder. Henry was in his fifties, white-haired and tanned, wearing a blue pinstriped three-piece suit with a plain blue tie. Graham was in his early forties and wore a rather striking electric blue suit with a red tie.

The new and the old, thought Sebastian. Catering to all tastes, no doubt. He glanced again at Melissa as she placed a champagne bucket and glasses on the coffee table. His mind wandered momentarily into a fantasy and then snapped back to the gentlemen offering their cream-softened hands.

Sebastian liked being called sir. He turned to Melissa and met her gaze. He smiled. He could do anything. That’s what his gaze said and Melissa lowered her eyes. So like animals, aren’t we? Just a pecking order based on power and the capacity for violence and love.

‘Is it for a special occasion, day wear, evening wear or business wear?’ Henry was leaning in, his kind, understanding head tilted and his warm grey eyes searching to please.

Sebastian didn’t know what was next. The Progession of Love was finished, but already Sebastian felt that it was not going to be enough to make him stop. Maybe he would appear to his next victim as the perfect, well-dressed gentleman and become in an instant the ogre of unimaginable debauchery. If he was not feeling so cautious, he would have loved to have chosen Melissa as a delicate taster. He’d never killed an English victim. He was interested to see how the different culture might express itself at the moment of death. Would the English reserve remain, or give way to uncontrollable cries?

‘I have brought a specimen suit,’ said Sebastian. He indicated the suit bag, and the fleet-footed and slender-ankled Melissa held it aloft.

‘Unzip, please,’ said Sebastian to Melissa. His thumb rubbed against his forefinger as he watched her reveal his suit and hold it up. The two tailors looked at it.

Henry went across and looked at the suit carefully. Every so often he murmured to himself. Finally he returned to his client.

‘I would like to show you something a little different. I can see the elegance of the long lapel and the single button, it is flattering and undeniably sharp. What would suit, sir, might be something with a little more hint of the dandy. I’m suggesting perhaps a double-breasted classic two-button double-vented jacket with jetted side pockets in a fine nine-ounce worsted flannel. Very elegant. Cut double-pleated trousers with a two-inch turn-up. Very unusual in these parts but just the mix of tradition and modern style.’

Graham went to the long bench behind them to find a nine-ounce Super 100 worsted flannel. He brought a roll of material to Sebastian and offered the edge to his fingers.

Sebastian said he would, and stood, turning slightly so that his eye fell on a folded newspaper that was sitting on the table.

Sebastian’s attention was drawn by the first word of the bold headline. He tilted his head to one side to see the picture. It was a face. A girl’s face in a grainy unflattering photograph. ‘A second,’ he said to the tailors, and moved to the table.

He took up the afternoon edition and opened it. There in the centre was a large photograph of his Mo, flanked by photographs of two women, Lottie and Lucy.

Sebastian was aware of the people behind him watching him, but the emotion building in his chest was taking all his energy and strength to suppress. He read the opening.

HARLEM KILLER DEAD

KILLER OF TWO YOUNG WOMEN DROWNS AFTER POLICE CHASE

After an intense and dramatic chase, the serial kidnapper and murderer known as ‘Redtop’ was hunted down to a pig farm in upstate New York in the early hours of this morning.

Detective Tom Harper of the NYPD, working with the FBI, located the killer as he attempted to dispose of the body of recent victim Lucy James.

As the killer fled, Detective Harper chased him through dense woodland before cornering him and watching him jump to his death in a holding pond of slurry.

Sebastian’s heart was beating ten times per second. Sweat formed on his brow. He wanted to scream, to run, to kill. His body was caught in a crossfire of emotion - pain and anger in a cauldron of fire.

He wanted to cry. He never cried. He hadn’t known what grief felt like and now the unfamiliar feeling was drowning him. He reached out for the table to steady himself.

No. He didn’t want water. He wanted one thing only - to kill. Tom Harper had taken the only thing he loved in the world. Harper had killed his brother. His little brother Mo. His simple little brother who’d done nobody any real harm.