Free The Rule Book by Rob Kitchin Page B

not hiding the killer from me, Karen. You never know, you could be next.’
    She stared up at him with defiant eyes, trying not to shiver.
    He closed the door and headed back down the stairs. He shook his head at the squalor, kicking aside junk. How did anyone end up in such a mess? Shooting up shit; trying to block out the world; living like shadows. He thought of Gemma and vowed to find some quality time with her. He slipped out through the kitchen and back into the dull light and drizzle.
     
     
    The man jerked his head back out of sight and then eased it forward slowly, peering through the dense foliage at McEvoy’s tall, lean figure emerging from the alley. It hadn’t taken the superintendent long to make his way to the squat. Perhaps he should have taken Laura last not first, but there was no point worrying about that now. What was important was to make sure The Rule Book was published in full.
    He watched McEvoy ease himself into his car and a few moments later pull away from the kerb, heading away from him. It had been stupid to follow him – against all the rules. He was putting himself at unnecessary risk, yet he’d felt compelled to see what was happening – to judge how well the guards were getting on; to see that everything was still going to plan; to try and control and shape things. He knew he needed to back away and let things unfold as they should.
    At the minute the guards still seemed to be concentrating on Laura, the body in Maynooth not yet discovered. Instinctively he glanced at his watch. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to give them a pointer; it wouldn’t do for the third chapter to be released before the second. The second body would also send them into a flatspin, dividing their attention and resources. He headed back to his dark blue Ford Fiesta and trailed after McEvoy, driving slowly past the squat, staring up at the boarded-up windows.
    The second killing had almost been a textbook affair. The victim had known nothing of the attack except for the brief millisecond between the satisfying, hollow thwack to the skull and unconsciousness. The only worry had been controlling his anger as he had approached Hennessey. It bloomed as a bright red sun, threatening to boil over and consume him. It had taken all of his self-control to keep it in check, to manage and harness it, rather than be engulfed by it.
    He was now its master, not the other way round. Not like when he was a child when he would fly into fits of uncontainable, blind rage-driven tantrums. As he’d grown older, become a teenager, he’d learnt to manage his anger, found ways to vent it in controlled ways, although occasionally it welled up and exploded into violence. Now he knew how to cultivate and harness it, draw strength from it.
    Once the figure had hit the tarmac he’d easily suppressed his fury. After that it had been easy, slipping the bag over the bloody and lifeless head and pulling the dead weight down through the yew trees to the cemetery wall.
    As he stripped the clothes from the body he’d felt as he imagined a pathologist or funeral director would do when they worked with the dead – cold, distanced, measured. He felt nothing for the victim; seemingly felt nothing at all.
    McEvoy was signalling right, waiting for a gap in the traffic. He approached slowly and as he pulled to a halt McEvoy darted out, slipping into the traffic. He smiled to himself and turned left, heading to the site of the next attack. He wanted to make sure everything was as it should be before he headed to work.
     
     
    Dessie Carthy threw the tennis ball in the air and swung the hurley in one motion. The ball sliced off the face of the stick and shot between the lime trees, across the moss-ridden tarmac and through the second set of trees that lined the path. A blur of golden retriever bounded after it, snatching the ball out of the air as it bounced through the undergrowth on the edge of a yew tree avenue. As the dog started to head back it