Chris Simms: Killing the Beasts

And it came to pass at the seventh time, when the seven priests

blew with the seven trumpets, Joshua said unto the people,

shout; for the Lord hath given you the city. And they utterly

destroyed all that was in the city, both men and women, young

and old.

Joshua.

Jon walked quickly round the house and back to the waiting car. 'Nobby, there's something very strange going on here. Can you take these two back to the station? And get a SOCO sent round here, too.'

Sergeant Darcourt slid his chubby frame across into the driver's seat. 'How do you mean, strange?'

'Drop them off and you can come back for a look yourself,' Jon called out, heading off round the side of the house. Slipping through the French windows, he looked at the next sheet of paper. Titled 'Shakespeare', it read,

Touch . Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause. As You Like It .

Jon carried on staring at the sheet of paper for long after he'd finished reading it. Like someone in an art gallery, he began walking slowly along. Each sheet of paper he read added to his sense of trepidation. He reached the end of the wall, looked to the next one, saw more pieces of paper stretching away. Quotes from the Koran and something called Rig Veda.

From somewhere inside the house he heard a sniff. Jon remained absolutely still until he heard it again. It was coming from across the corridor.

He stepped into the dining room.

The man he remembered as Creepy George was kneeling on the floor. His shirt was off and he was trying to unbuckle his belt. Before him, stretched out on her back, was Charlotte. A rosette of blood showed on her chest and a pool of it was spreading out from below her right shoulder. On the carpet next to her was an empty drawer, a scattering of napkins and a gun.

Quickly, Jon bent down and grabbed it by the barrel. He flicked the safety on and then said with as much force as he could muster, 'Police. Move away from the woman.'

A string of drool began to drip from George's chin.

Seeing his words were having no effect, Jon stepped forwards and kicked George hard in the stomach. He keeled over onto his back, the breath driven from his lungs. Jon grabbed a wrist, snapped a cuff on it, dragged George across the room and locked him to the radiator pipe. Then he stepped over to Charlotte and felt for a pulse. It was faint, but there. As Jon started to pack napkins beneath the exit wound, George began to cough and cry behind him. He pulled out his mobile, walked into the front room and called for an ambulance and support.

Hanging up, he let out a long and shuddering sigh. Now being careful where he stepped, he looked at the pile of boxes. The lid of the first one was open and he could see stacks of X-treme gum inside. Next to them was a larger box. He lifted the flap up with the end of the gun and saw the tubes of silicon gel inside.

He looked round the rest of the room and noticed the wall above the fireplace for the first time. Row after row of much smaller pieces of paper. He stepped across for a closer look, the red lines drawn through the top row of competition entry forms catching his eye. He read the names: Polly Mather, Heather Rayne, Mary Walters, Liz Wilson, Gabrielle Harnett, Emily Sanderson.

Oh, Jesus.

Striding back into the dining room, he grabbed George by the hair. 'You sick fuck. Where's Tom?'

George's eyes were tightly shut. 'I didn't mean to hurt her.'

Jon yanked his head back. 'What have you done with Tom Benwell?'

George started crying again.

'When did you put all that stuff in there?'

'What stuff?'

'Those entry forms. The chewing gum. How long have you been living here?'

'I don't know what you mean. Tom lives here.'

Jon stood up and went back into the living room. On the small mantelpiece above the fireplace was a stack of passports. Using the barrel of the gun, he opened the uppermost one and saw the name Emily Sanderson.

He ran back into the dining room, grabbed George by his throat and rammed the end of the gun into his fat cheek. 'What the fuck is going on?'

George tried to shrink backwards, eyes still shut.

'Open your eyes!'

George did as he was told.

'Who's been living here?'

'Tom. He's always been here.' Jon could see he was telling the truth. He returned to the front room, placed the gun on the mantelpiece and scrutinized the entry forms. They were all in rows of seven. Except the uppermost one, which had only six. The killings had started six days ago, with no body turning up on the fourth day. There was no line through the fourth entry form — Liz Wilson's. And there was no seventh form, just a tiny hole in the paint where a drawing pin had been.

'Oh my fucking God, what have you done?' he whispered, reaching for his phone to ring the station. It went off.

Transferring the call to answerphone, he punched in the number for Longsight, barking out that he needed the works sent out to Sixteen Moorfield Road, Didsbury. 'Also, send a car immediately to…' he looked at Liz Wilson's entry form and read out her address. 'Also, put out a general alert on a Tom Benwell. White, mid-thirties, blond curly hair, five foot eleven, medium build. He's probably wearing a light green Armani suit and carrying a briefcase. I think he's currently en route to his next victim's house.'

As he said 'next victim's house', the words of Nikki Kingston rang in his head. She had told him that she'd got her pack of gum in some sort of a freebie promotion a while ago. The forms he was looking at were headed 'Win a year's supply of X-treme gum and an all expenses paid luxury holiday for two in Malaysia.'

Frantically he started scrolling through his phone book, knowing that, after being knocked over by Sly in the Arndale, she'd been signed off work with a stiff neck.

Her phone began to ring.

'Nikki, it's Jon!' He realized he was shouting.

'OK — I hear you. Christ, Jon-'

He cut her off. 'Nikki, do not open the door to anyone, do you understand?'

'What do you mean?'

'Just say you'll keep it shut!'

'OK, OK! What's going on?'

Jon breathed out. 'That pack of X-treme gum you gave me. When you picked it up, did you fill out a competition entry form?'

'Yeah, how did you know?'

'Just lock the door, will you?'

'OK, I'm locking it now. What's all this about?' Jon was able to speak a little more calmly. 'Where did you get it again?'

'One of those promotional giveaways, at Piccadilly station.'

Suddenly everything made sense. All of the victims lived around the south and east of Manchester, by rail lines that led into Piccadilly station. 'It's how he's selecting his victims. He's got all the entry forms to that competition in his house. He must have been picking the ones filled in by single females. There's just a chance your entry form is in there too.' He didn't mention that one was missing from the kill list on the wall. 'Just keep your door locked, OK?'

'Don't worry. Shall I call the police?'

'I'll have a car sent round. What's your address?'

He repeated it back to her to make sure he'd heard it correctly, then hung up, called Longsight and ordered a patrol car to be sent round immediately.

Back in the front room, he checked Charlotte's pulse once more. He could only just feel it. He grasped her hand and began to rub it vigorously. 'Charlotte, stay with me. Do you hear? Stay with me!'

A siren was growing louder.

'Can you hear that, Charlotte?'

George's sobbing filled the room. Jon turned on him and snarled, 'Shut the fuck up!'

George bit on his lip, snot and tears making his face glisten.

Jon heard the siren come to a halt on the road outside. He jumped up and opened the front door. Two paramedics were hurrying up the driveway, cases in their hands. 'Gunshot wound. Her name's Charlotte. She's lost a lot of blood!'