Free What Lies in the Dark by CM Thompson Page B

had seen her, insisted on seeing her. Didn’t want her to spend a minute longer in the Morgue, wants her to come home, to be safe. He has heard of cases, of tombstonevandalism, of killers returning to graves and can’t face it, can’t face him taunting her again. He is torn between tears and anger until finally they decide that she should come home. She will be safer at home. Shannon hated fuss, had always hated fuss, even their wedding was simple. Her dress had been brought on sale, nothing could be flamboyant. Robert knew his wife well, she had never wanted to be a victim and he could not stand her being remembered as one. Finally, they agreed on a small ceremony, allowing the police force to honour the fallen, no cameras, no press, no well-wishers.
    Then just as quickly it is over. The phone keeps ringing. Little notes and cards are still pushed through his door. Robert knows they will stop after a while, they will give up and circle the next tragedy. The ashes of his wife are now safe, hidden away from the scavengers. He sits alone in his empty house, his hands clutching a carefully worded note from one Mrs Jennifer Taylor.

Chapter Six
    The rumours have twirled into the air, and they are everywhere, twisted into every conversation, every thought. Everyone has a theory on who the murderer might be. Everyone has a theory on what he has done to his victims. Although no official police statements have been released, the public are aware that the police are appealing for information on several different murders – murders, the rumours insist, that are definitely linked. The numbers slashed into hands has so far remained a secret, but everyone knows that the bodies have been mutilated in some way. Some insist that their hearts have been taken, some argue that it was their fingers, others say that’s absurd, the murderer was definitely taking pieces of their hair. Everyone seems quietly confident that this murderer is definitely a male, perhaps between the ages of twenty to thirty. They speculate that he is a man of a broken home, his wife has probably cheated on him and bled him dry in a bitter divorce. Now, as a result, he is an inferno of rage towards women in general. Others scoff at these theories. He is a drug addict, killing for jewellery and purses, most surely. Some are still convinced that all four women were secret prostitutes and their pimp was wiping them all out.
    Outright accusations so far have been silent, but the bookies do have a few favourites. The Krill is still the biggest contender, leaving his house in the middle of the night, unseen. The surveillance on his house has been increased, more and more people are trying to see the evil behind the black-out curtains. There are other rumours, of course. Some think the school’s headmaster may be a dark horse. Some parents never quite got the right impression of him, something just not quite right about him, there is something sinister about the smile that hides behind his owlish glassesand that cold clammy handshake. Fat Crack is the two to one shot, since most of the theories involve drugs in some way. And where there is a drug, there is Fat Crack. But then how can that mass of disorganised blubber even convince a woman to say hello to him let alone meet him in an abandoned warehouse, field or alleyway? Sometimes those who are pointing fingers rarely consider logic or reason. The main problem though is that people are scared. They are extremely scared. They know for sure there have been at least four women, at least four, there could be more. Every female could be in danger, every male could be a suspect.
    The police station has set up special hotlines, one for each of the fallen women, broadcasting appeals for information. Has anyone seen anything suspicious? Anyone with blood-stained clothes? The phones ring and ring, hundreds of calls pounding through the lines, demanding information and attention.
    “This is ridiculous, I have kids who want to play