The Principle of Evil: A Fast-Paced Serial Killer Thriller

Stefan knew different though.

After a high-profile case the previous year, Claire had put Haverbridge back on the map. Not always for the right reasons, but in Claire’s case, any publicity had turned out to be fairly good publicity. She’d become one of Haverbridge CID’s best, and had ridden out the storm, forging some close allies amongst her team, and Stefan was one of those people.

Despite Claire’s misgivings about herself, she was extremely good at her job, and respected. No one would’ve been justified in calling her incompetent, or an easy target.

But Stefan had seen the signs, seen the cracks appear since that investigation. It had exhausted her, changed her forever in some ways.

The murdered priest case – how could anyone come back from that completely unscathed?

More fireworks whizzed skywards, drawing appreciation from the assembled mass around them. Stefan watched Claire from the corner of his eye. Whilst she looked to the heavens with everyone else, he saw the glassy look of her eyes. She was there in body but the mind was elsewhere.

‘The kids would’ve loved this,’ he said, his blue eyes scrutinising every twitch in her face when she heard him speak.

She glanced at him, gave a weak smile.

Stefan would normally take his kids to Haverbridge Lake’s annual firework display, but his ex had changed her plans and he was expected to fall in line. He felt sad at not seeing his children but, surprisingly, he was very glad to have Claire’s company.

In the past, Claire had had a few detective sergeants as her subordinates. Most hadn’t lived up to her expectations but Stefan had been different. Having watched him come into his own, and making DI in recent years, she’d relished the chance to work alongside him permanently, where possible, as an equal, despite the difference in rank.

‘They wouldn’t have liked the cold, Fletch’ she said, at length. ‘The kids I mean.’

Stefan shook his head. ‘Kids are tougher than they look.’

He saw her bite her lip. Claire didn’t have children, or was ever likely to. Sometimes he felt like he was walking on eggshells in the last year. He didn’t know what might upset her, so topics of conversation sometimes felt stilted.

Claire had her vulnerabilities as much as the next person. She had closed the gap between them earlier, something she’d never admit to if he called her out on it.

He’d noticed her weight loss, although he’d never say so. Her face had become more chiseled, cheek bones sharp.

Those ice-blue eyes looked permanently sad.

Stefan pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to draw the life back into them. The night air was bone-chilling and the breath of the eager crowd hung in the air like thick white smoke.

He breathed in deeply; the air was heavy with the smell of bonfire smoke and fast food. He followed the line of people surrounding the huge lake and caught sight of the fast food stands. His stomach growled.

‘Do you want anything to eat?’

Claire was rubbing her gloved hands together for warmth and her breath cast out in clouds around her face. She shook her head.

‘Mind if I?’

Claire either didn’t hear him or was too cold to answer. He shrugged and pushed his way through the crowd.

When he returned, hotdog in hand, Claire saw he looked troubled.

‘What’s wrong?’

Stefan gave half a shrug as he bit into his hotdog. ‘I wanted to talk about DS Crest.’

Claire waved her hand, dismissing the very mention of his name. ‘Not while I’m enjoying myself.’

‘He speaks highly of you too.’

‘Look, I really don’t need this right now.’ Her voice turned hard. ‘I couldn’t care less what that Armani-wearing-metrosexual-walking-cliché thinks of me.’ She turned to face him.

Detective Sergeant Elias Crest was a new addition to her team.

The last man Detective Superintendent Clifton Donahue had placed under Claire’s watchful eye had lasted barely six months. Claire had hoped DS Crest would be different, but they hadn’t exactly hit it off.

Elias had transferred from Merseyside after spending five years in Liverpool South’s CID team. There were official reasons given for the transfer, but the real reason wasn’t quite so clear cut.

Claire knew that more than anyone.

A steeliness had returned to her voice. ‘I take it by you mentioning him, he’s been kicking off?’

‘He’s found a few things out about you from your reputation alone. He thinks you hate him.’

‘He’s close… Hate is such a terrible word. He knows where the door is and it’s open any time, day or night, if he wants to walk…’

Stefan nodded to himself, taking in her words. Then his eyes met hers. He saw the seriousness in her face.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just wanted you to know he’s not happy.’

‘Boo-fucking-hoo.’ Stefan rolled his eyes and she leaned in closer to him. ‘I’m not going to apologise for who I am, Fletch. I have to be hard and when arrogant screw-ups like him are sent my way, they need to learn to toe the line.’

Stefan narrowed his eyes. ‘Screw-ups?’

She fell silent.

‘Is it something to do with why he was transferred? ’Cos you do realise not everybody is buying into the close-to-family excuse.’

She kept her face neutral.

Stefan shrugged. ‘People talk, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘It’s nothing, Fletch, forget I said anything.’ She felt the weight of his stare but avoided his eyes. ‘So,’ she said, trying to deflect attention away from Crest, ‘what happened to that girl you were dating? Doesn’t she like fireworks?’

Stefan grimaced. ‘Leigh couldn’t make it. I think she’s about to chuck me anyway.’

‘Really?’

Stefan gave a mock laugh. ‘Don’t pretend to care.’

‘You’re questioning my sincerity?’

‘Personally, I always thought that divorce of yours left you dead inside.’

She gave half a smile. ‘Touché, Stefan.’

‘Oh, first name for once. I’m flattered. Did I touch a nerve?’

‘Simon didn’t cut it enough as a husband to even come close to touching a nerve, Fletcher.’

Stefan glanced at her. ‘I heard DCI Forester is dating again.’

Claire raised an eyebrow and sniffed with indifference. ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip.’ She knew he was talking in jest and on the surface she grinned, but inside she felt a little sad.

Claire had been married to DCI Simon Forester for three years. He served at Welwyn Garden City police station, some eight miles from Haverbridge. They’d met at a charity ball, and after a brief engagement, they’d married too quickly without really knowing anything about each other.

The relationship had turned sour after the first year and the pressure of their jobs helped drive a wedge between them, and they became more friends than lovers.

When Claire had risked an affair with another man, they became even less than that and it was Claire who filed for divorce, and immediately reverted back to her maiden name.

Surprisingly, despite feeling little for Simon, she felt the twinge of jealousy. It wasn’t as if her love life was flourishing. Her dedication to her job didn’t allow much time for a personal life, but she hated the thought there could be anyone else in her ex’s life. Certainly not someone who could compare to her anyway.

As more fireworks erupted overhead, Claire pushed Stefan towards the edge of the lake, until they stood just feet from the edge of the frozen water.

He shoved the rest of his hotdog into his mouth and grinned. ‘You’re aware you’re supposed to be playing the part of the submissive Leigh, aren’t you?’

‘Submissive? You’re well shot of her, Fletch, by the sounds of it.’

‘When I spend my working days with you, I need dominant like a hole in the head.’

‘It’s less crowded here, stop moaning,’ Claire said. Then she saw Stefan’s eye was trained on something else off to their left.

‘You see that?’ he said.

CHAPTER 3

The group of teenage boys continued to shove each other, shouting and laughing, goading each other towards the lake’s frozen edge. One of them, Sean, who was much fatter than the rest, shoved his shoulder into his friend, Harry, with such brute force that the boy spilt his drink.

‘You fat fucker,’ Harry said, wiping the beer from his jeans.

‘Such a hard man,’ Sean jeered, the rest of the pack laughing and jumping around in a drunken mess. ‘Too scared to go on the ice.’

‘Don’t see you on it, you fat twat,’ Harry said, shoving his fist hard into an ample shoulder. Standing a good head taller than Harry, who was thin and wiry, Sean squared his large frame up to his opponent.

‘Twenty quid says you’re a fucking wimp.’ His voice was low and the alcohol seemed to roll off his tongue in an invisible boozy haze. Harry looked over Sean’s shoulder at their peers.

One boy was trying to chat to a group of young girls, who clearly weren’t interested. The rest were lighting up, drinking or pushing each other closer to the lake’s edge, laughing like a pack of hyenas.

Looking back into Sean’s eyes, Harry raised his chin. ‘Make it thirty. You’d better have the money.’

*

‘You see that?’ he said.

Claire followed Stefan’s gaze and sighed.

A boy, aged around thirteen, was walking on the ice, about twenty feet from the embankment. Even from this distance, they could see that the ice grew thin towards the middle of the lake.

Claire shook her head. ‘Why are kids so bloody stupid?’

Stefan sighed and dusted his hands free of crumbs. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’d better break this up.’

*

Harry, the boy on the ice, barely registered any fear, even when the ice underneath his feet started to crack. He looked back to his friends on the bank and laughed.

Trying to play the hard man, he took another step towards the middle of the lake and slipped, crashing down on the ice with brute force.

He felt the cold seep through his clothes almost immediately. He looked towards the embankment and heard his friends shouting.

A sea of faces now watched him in horror, just as he heard a cracking sound underneath him.

Before he could think, the ice gave way and he sank into the freezing cold water.

His head disappeared under the ice.

He gasped involuntarily with shock, his mouth filling with water. He kicked his legs until his head broke the surface, spitting the water from his mouth, before he went under again.

On the embankment, Stefan had slowly begun to edge himself out onto the ice, trying to distribute his weight evenly, while Claire called for an ambulance.

Harry was growing tired, his body shutting down, but he still managed to grab hold of the edge of the ice, trying to haul his body from the water.

Stefan heard the ice creaking under his own weight. He paused, dropped slowly to his knees and straightened his body out along the ice and shuffled closer on his belly.

Harry’s head went under water again, and Stefan moved faster, putting the sound of the creaking ice to the back of his mind.

Underneath the water, Harry was losing the fight.

His body ached to shut down, as the cold tore through his flesh. He was holding his breath, lungs aching for air.

Then he felt something against his foot catch and drag him. He kicked out, his foot colliding against something solid.

He risked opening his eyes and peered down. The light from the fireworks overhead sent down little chinks of light that fractured in the water.

He saw a face, pale and ghost-like.

Instinct caught him.

He opened his mouth to scream, water flooding into his airways, as he stared down into dark dead eyes.

Scared, and knowing this would be his last effort, he mustered his last ounce of strength and kicked his legs hard.

On the surface, Stefan was shivering, his breath coming in short sharp bursts as he edged as close as he dared to the hole in the ice.

Harry’s head then broke the surface, his body propelling forward, landing with his arms outstretched, flailing for something to grasp on the slippery surface. He began to slip back down again, but Stefan grasped his wrist.

‘Kick with your legs!’ he shouted, reaching out his other hand to grip the boy’s right arm. Harry kicked again and again, and even when his body was out on the ice, clear of the water, he didn’t stop.

Stefan pulled him to the embankment.

‘I need blankets,’ Claire shouted out to the gathered crowd. ‘Coats, anything.’

A few men took theirs off and started to wrap them around Harry. He’d been in the water less than ninety seconds, but to Harry it had felt like hours of having needles pushed underneath his skin.

He coughed up some water when Claire sat him forward, and before she could speak, she heard his rasping voice from behind his chattering teeth.

‘B… b… body.’

Stefan looked confused and lowered his face to the boy’s eye level. ‘What did you say?’

Harry grabbed Claire’s hand and looked deep into her eyes.

‘Body… in the water… Dead. Body.’

Claire saw the fear in his eyes, just before they closed and he fell unconscious in her arms.

Four Days Earlier

1st November – 11:02 p.m.

‘It’s your time.’

He stood watching her from the street corner, icy rain soaking him to the bone. He could have gone back to his car, chosen another night, but no matter how hard reason pleaded with him, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Everything about her disgusted him. The way she walked, the way she dressed, the way she talked.

Everything.

To him, her whole life was just a game determined by how much someone was willing to pay for her. The fact she was now with child complicated things, but also gave further justification to carry out what he’d planned for her.

Nola Grant stood at the side of the road. Her lanky, painfully thin frame cut a sombre stance under the street lamp. The fluorescent light cast shadows across her face but strangers could still see her wide-eyed vacant stare. She was tall and her bones jutted out at sharp angles, which were further exaggerated by her tight-fitting clothes.

She wore a low-rise, sleeveless top, no coat despite the cold, flaunting her many tattoos. The ink covered nearly all the flesh up both arms, and also found its way over her left shoulder and down onto her breast. Her light brown skin made the faded designs appear more muted in colour, but still made her stand out more than the other girls. Many men seemed intrigued to know just where else she had been scarred by the tattooist’s needle.

As a car pulled to a stop in front of her, she bent her head to see inside the open window. The harsh night made her even more eager to get away, to seek shelter from the rain that grew heavier by the second.

A price was quickly agreed, and the man across the road saw her disappear inside the car. He wondered how far gone she was with child, spawned by an unknown faceless punter. He hazarded a guess at no more than eleven weeks, since her belly showed no signs of swelling.

As the car pulled away into the unforgiving night, something inside spurred him on. He charged across the road, giving chase. The driver put his foot down before he could get close enough.

The man stood staring after the lights as they grew smaller by the second. What had he been thinking? He would have to make his move later, and promised himself that she would not leave him until he knew she was ready and she’d earned the right of safe passage.

*

Inside the car, Nola lit up a rolled cigarette, relishing the small amount of warmth and comfort it gave her. The sickly scent of cannabis swirled into the punter’s face and his mouth pulled into a hard line of disgust. He took one hand off the wheel, violently plucked the cigarette from her mouth, and discarded it out the window.

Nola risked a sideways glance at his face but stayed silent. He had paid for submissive and she had agreed to play the part in his twisted fantasy, no questions asked. As she sat in the passenger seat, rainwater dripping from her tightly curled hair, she was indifferent when the car turned down a dark lonely side street.

Deep down she had never felt any shame in the fact that sometimes she enjoyed this job. The fact that she now carried another life inside her never even crossed her selfish mind and had no bearing on her decisions. Little did she know, or could have ever imagined, just how quickly this was about to change.

11:57 p.m.

It was nearly midnight when she was pushed from the car as it parked up outside the back entrance to a nightclub down another dark side-road. She hit the concrete, landing hard on her knees, cutting holes in her leggings.

The car door slammed shut behind her and tyres screeched on the wet tarmac. She pulled herself up, but fell forward onto her hands, feeling the raw sting as the surface cut her flesh. As if to add insult to injury, the heavens opened once again, and large drops of rain engulfed her.

‘You fucking prick!’ she screamed, as the car’s headlights disappeared into the darkness. She looked up to the night sky, but saw no moon. It had been raining heavily since early October with no signs of letting up. The bleak weather was in keeping with her mood.

She pulled herself to her feet, teetering on her thin high heels. She winced as a sharp surge of pain ran up through her groin. Nola was hurt, inside as well as out. If she hadn’t needed the money so bad, she’d never have got into that man’s car.

She inspected the grazes on her knees through the holes in her leggings, and then held her hands out in front of her. The falling rain stung the cuts on her palms, and she tucked both hands under her armpits. She was trying to get her bearings when she suddenly felt she was not alone.

‘Are you OK?’

The calm voice came from the darkness. Nola whipped her head around and saw a man approach her through the torrent of rain.

‘I saw what happened.’

Wary, she took a few steps back and the man slowed his pace, holding out his hands to calm her. ‘It’s OK. I just wanted to check you were all right.’

She searched his face, but it was hard to make anything out in the shadows.

She felt a flicker of recognition as she looked into his eyes and listened to his well-spoken, controlled voice, but it quickly passed. He wasn’t from Haverbridge, not this part anyway. She could see it in his clothes, the way he held his head high, the way he carried himself.

Cars whipped past down the main street several yards away, tyres cutting through puddles. Shrieks from those caught in the downpour rang out in the distance and the smell of fast food filled the air, carried on the wind, down towards them.

Nola longed to be anywhere but here with this man.

‘You’re bleeding,’ he said, venturing forward.

She took a step back. ‘Stay away.’

‘I just want to help.’

‘And I said stay the fuck away.’

‘But you’re hurt.’

She stepped back again and looked for an exit. There was none. He was blocking any hope of getting to the busy street ahead. ‘Let me help you, please.’ His voice sounded gentle enough.

‘I don’t need your help,’ she spat. ‘I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches.’

He looked away, deep in thought. Her eyes never left his face. ‘I… I can pay you.’

‘What?’ Her face twisted. ‘Thought you were offering me help?’

‘I am, but since you seem reluctant to accept my help at face value, I thought I’d offer you something you weren’t used to turning down.’

Nola’s face screwed up with disgust. ‘Just fuck off,’ she said, her arm waving him away. She edged around him but he blocked her path.

‘You misunderstand me. I meant I’ll pay you if you let me help you.’ He reached out and lightly touched her arm.

‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Please, I just want to help.’

‘Fucking weirdo,’ she said, pushing him aside.

‘Don’t be like that, Nola.’

She froze. The weight of his stare was crushing. ‘How’d you know my name?’

He smiled, stepping closer. ‘I know many things… Let me help you.’

2nd November – 00:48 a.m.

It was a welcome relief, as she slipped down lower into the hot bathwater. The man, who said his name was Aaron, had taken her back to his home and tended her wounds, fed her well, and explained how he’d watched her for some time now and felt he had to help her. Nola had thought it was creepy at first but the pull of a hot meal and a bath had been too great for her to dwell on it much.

She smiled as he handed her a bottle of shampoo. He returned the smile, for appearance’s sake, and went to leave her in peace.

‘Wait,’ she said, sitting up in the bath. ‘Would you mind?’ She held the shampoo bottle towards him. He looked down at her, his face blank. Only a few soapy bubbles covered her modesty, and he felt embarrassed. Eventually he nodded. He lathered up the liquid in his hands as he perched on the edge of the bath.

When he massaged the shampoo into her hair, he felt her shoulders relax beneath his touch. He realised that no matter how much mental and physical torture this whore could endure, deep down, when it came to it, at every opportunity she would use her body to her advantage. It made him sick. Still, it was this flaw that had made it easier for him to lure her into his house.

Stupid bitch.

Nola had no knowledge of his actions behind her, and he was free to cover her nose and mouth with the chloroform-soaked cloth he’d concealed inside his trouser pocket. She whipped her hands back, scratching at his arms as he held the rag tighter against her face. Bathwater sloshed over the sides as she thrashed her legs, until she became limp, sliding deeper into the unknown.

He dragged her body from the tub and let her fall, her limbs hitting the cold tiles, hard.

Nola Grant was not destined to drown in her own filth. All he knew was that she would be tested and she alone would decide the outcome. He would make her responsible for either her life or her death.

His face remained resolute as he dried her body and pulled her clothes on roughly, disgusted by her thin nylon underwear.

*

He barely struggled down the stairs to his basement; she was so light to carry. Once he had shackled her wrists, he looked down on her sleeping face and pushed stray strands of wet hair away from her eyes. In another life, she might have been pretty. Maybe she would have made her parents proud. Yes, maybe in another life. For now at least, Nola was going nowhere.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he looked back. His eyes did one final sweep of the room, then her body, before switching out the light and locking the door behind him.

02:03 a.m.

She was freezing.

That was Nola’s first thought when she opened her eyes for the first time since being attacked in the bath. She didn’t know how long she’d been out cold. There was no concept of time down there with so little light, just a sense of dread and heaviness in the air.

She noticed the small lamp on a table in the corner. She tried to think but her head felt heavy, especially when she tried to pull herself up from the floor. She felt a sharp tug at her skin when she moved her hands.

She stared at the medieval-style shackles that circled around a pipe fixed to the wall and, instinctively, pulled the chain hard. The pipe vibrated, and metal bit tighter into her skin. She stifled a groan of desperation and pulled at the shackles again and again until she broke the skin and her wrists ached. She felt tears wash her cheeks as she began to sob.

*

Upstairs, the man smiled as he turned the volume down low on his television set. He wanted to imagine her pain, her desperation. It felt empowering. Although the basement was carefully soundproofed, he still heard the rumble in the pipe. Nola was finally awake, and probably cold and hungry. She would also be very scared… perfect.