Target

As the hunter and the soon-to-be victim converged, the searing purpose of dark intent blazed black in the killer’s heart. Unshaven and unwashed, the donkey-jacketed, thick-set, bearded man, black woollen beanie pulled down over his ears, remained locked onto his quarry, his face expressionless, his pace an unstoppable march of inevitability. The slim young blonde bounced jauntily on, swinging her designer bag, the embodiment of carefree and footloose. He was certain she was unaware of her pursuer. She could have no inking of his plans. God, why did they dress like that? Still, he wasn’t about to complain.

The killer knew location was everything. Murder on a busy high street would be a career-ending mistake. And this particular killer’s career was certainly set to be memorable.

Her route was always the same. He’d been watching her for weeks, waiting for the right moment. It was two months since he’d murdered her workmate. She’d been his seventh victim. The police were never going to catch him, or they’d have done so by now. He was invincible. Once he got them into his hideaway, they became so talkative. Told him everything about their friends and their habits, eagerly swallowing the lies he fed them about letting them go if they cooperated. Loyalty? The word was a joke. They’d sell their grandmothers for a rum and coke, never mind their best mates, if there was a chance of escaping a serial murderer. The priceless look on their faces, when it dawned on them they weren’t going to get away. He made sure they knew, no matter how stupid they turned out to be. He thanked God for not creating him stupid. He’d always been the cleverest in his class, among his friends, and now he was cleverer than the sluts he rid the world of. The last one had begged him, on her knees, told him she had a kid, when he’d brandished the knife before her terrified eyes, making sure the polished blade reflected the unshaded bulb’s glare straight into them.

When he’d finished this one, it had been such a let-down. Hardly worth all the times he’d followed her, making his plans. As the blood spurted and flowed, rich, red and hot, over his knife hand, her throat slit down to the white bone of her spine, he’d missed the exquisite satisfaction of previous killings. Like all addicts, he needed a bigger and stronger fix. It had to be the blonde, her bestie, Susanna. He knew stacks about her, from that gullible bitch Shannon’s pre-execution betrayal. He knew all Susanna’s boyfriends; he knew who she fancied at work. He decided he’d keep her alive as long as he could, go for the full value. This was going to be really good. Her time was near, and so was the next major advancement of his métier.

The killer smiled inwardly, savouring the moment to come. The knife was polished and prepared.

The girl had just a few steps to go before she reached the alley, where her pursuer intended to strike. His hand in his pocket, he felt the reassuring presence of the weapon, the one that made the rest of the plan a breeze. It was there, cold and ready, concealed from the prying eyes of the world, a secret known only to him. It had never let him down. If anything, this was getting too easy.

Echoing steps as she turned into the black-bricked alley. No-one there except them. Exactly according to plan. The killer’s tongue moistened drying lips, hand hefting the lethal knife, as the moment drew to within a heartbeat. Closing the gap, the pursuer brought the weapon from his pocket, his hand arcing around toward her unseen but pretty face, and the exposed, soft, white flesh of her unblemished neck.

The steel toecap of his boot clacked against an uneven paving stone. She wheeled and the blade flashed, the stroke perfectly timed and right on target. Blood spattered the sooted Victorian brickwork. The victim’s life flowed crimson before the killer’s satisfied gaze. It was quick, and it was perfect.

The victim gurgled and bubbled wetly before finally falling silent. The killer waited, savouring every second. She knew she wouldn’t be caught; wouldn’t even be suspected. It would be hours at least before the police found him. She’d carefully chosen the blood-red blouse and jeans. She’d packed the newly bought, untouched-by-ungloved-hand filleting knife in her handbag. Skin-tone vinyl gloves were so easy to get in these post-pandemic times, which also made for fewer people on the streets, exactly what she needed.

Shannon had been convinced she was being followed. Day after day, she’d harped on about her stalker. At first, Susanna hadn’t believed her mate, prone as she was to exaggeration. But after a fortnight of the same story, Susanna had been uneasy, on the point of going to the police. She’d tried to persuade Shannon to tell the police but she wouldn’t. Then, when Shannon’s body had been found in the canal, face down with her throat cut, Susanna had tried her best to recall everything her friend had told her, in precise detail. She’d found her own memory to be remarkably accurate, because when she’d checked the details of Shannon’s daily recounts against the streets and alleys of Fulchester, she’d found an exact match. Certain that her friend had fallen victim to the serial killer who’d been evading the bungling Fulchester police for several months, Susanna had resolved not to go to the authorities. They were a waste of time. Better to sort things out her way. So, she had set about entrapping the stalker by following the same route every day, making sure she dressed provocatively, illegal pepper spray at the ready in case he (or anyone else) made an unexpected move on her.

“Rest in peace, mate. I’ve got him,” she breathed.

Two days later, munching her cornflakes over Apple News, she read of the dead man who’d been found in Bowker’s Alley, his throat slit, a chloroform-soaked pad of cotton wool in his hand, the knife that had killed him on the ground by his side, free of fingerprints. Police investigations were ongoing, it said.

Altogether too easy. Time to action the next phase of her vocation. She Googled the words: women, stalker, unsolved.