Kissing the Demons

McNeil couldn’t talk but he could write. At first his account of his crimes had been coherent and had provided the solution to all Joe’s unanswered questions. But now nothing he wrote made any sort of sense. It was as if his mind had been taken over by some chaotic force. Madness maybe. Joe sat by his carefully guarded hospital bed and watched him scribbling words on a notepad. In times gone by, he thought, people would have assumed that he was possessed by some sort of demon. But in the rational age of reason and mundane explanations, no doubt the hospital’s psychiatric department would claim to have the solution to the riddle that was the killer’s mind.

He seemed almost unaware of Joe’s watchful presence and from time to time he’d tear sheets of paper off his notepad and chuck them on the shiny linoleum floor. Joe picked them up and read the scribbled words. Demon. Kill. Grace. Laugh. Punish. Demon. He folded them carefully and put them in his pocket.

If you knew the truth about the murder of Grace Cassidy, Andy’s sister who laughed at her brother’s socially awkward friend, there was a kind of logic behind the words. Grace had offended him and she was punished. As was Sharon Bell, Den’s girlfriend who used to object when he stared at her, who used to urge Den not to see him because he gave her the creeps. She’d been his enemy so she’d had to die and he’d put out her eyes – those big blue eyes with the long lashes he’d found so fascinating. Then there was the whore in London who’d asked for more money. Then there was Pet who’d asked those awkward questions about her mother and who’d looked so tempting at that party when he’d watched her, dressed as death. And Anna who’d seen him leave Cassidy’s house early and suspected the truth. She’d called him, wanting money to ensure her silence and her fate was sealed.

But in all McNeil’s ramblings there had been no mention of Pet’s mother. And yet he’d been in possession of her photograph. The leaflets Paolo had given him suggested that McNeil had shown her round a number of properties before she disappeared. Had he killed her too because she rebuffed his advances? There was no evidence either way. Perhaps it would remain one of those unsolved mysteries that frustrate the police from time to time.

McNeil was so engrossed in his writing that he didn’t even look up when Joe’s phone rang. Joe took the call outside the room, nodding to the constable who had been given the tedious task of guarding the prisoner.

The call was from Emily and she wanted to know whether McNeil was in any condition to provide a formal statement. Joe said he didn’t think so but Emily seemed unfazed. They had more than enough evidence now, she said.

And there was something new: the search team who were taking the Flower Street house apart had just made a discovery in the garden. When they’d dug up an area near the house they’d found a body buried about three feet down. The body was that of a woman in her thirties and, obligingly, her handbag and a holdall had been buried with her.

Kirsten was in Eborby General Hospital for a week before the doctors reckoned she was well enough to be discharged. Joe visited her whenever he called in to see how McNeil was doing. It seemed like the right thing to do.

And when she was discharged he told the ward sister that he’d be willing to look after her. She was Kaitlin’s sister after all, his only link with the woman who’d been most precious to him. And besides, he wanted the opportunity to convince her once and for all that he had nothing to do with Kaitlin’s death.

However, he was hardly surprised when she refused his offer and told him that she was going back down south. They parted at the hospital entrance, crowded with visitors and outpatients unaware of the little drama going on a few feet away.

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t let that lunatic kill me.’ Then the defiance appeared in her eyes and Joe saw he had failed. ‘You would have done if other people hadn’t been there to see.’