He stopped suddenly, his face red and swollen with anger.
Graveson was sobbing underneath the parcel tape.
Gill got a grip on himself, calmed down and shook his head with a little chuckle, pleased that he could laugh at himself. Able to keep a sense of humour and perspective while around him the whole world had gone completely mad. ‘Sorry, sorry about that,’ he said, apologising profusely, even blushing a little. ‘High horse galloping merrily away. Not good to lose it. . so, what was the question. Oh, yes, why? That’s why. What you are and what you do and what you represent, Lucinda. And your colour doesn’t help much, admittedly. Happy now?’ He placed the palm of his right hand over his heart. ‘Heck: beating like an express train. Better calm down. Don’t want to lose my sense of reason, do I?’
He took a few deep, steadying breaths.
‘That’s better. . now, back to you, Lucinda Graveson. What am I going to do here? What will the police think when they find you? What blind alley should I send them whizzing down, incompetent bunch of bastards? Slaughtered by a jealous lover? You know the kind of thing — tits hacked off, something stuffed up inside you; make ’em think you’re really a lesbian. That would send everyone into a real tizz, wouldn’t it? — for you to be revealed as a lesbo, even though I know you’re as straight as a die. Or how about battered to death in a frenzied attack after discovering a burglar in your house? How should I make this look? Ho-hum, decisions, decisions.’
Gill turned to the assortment of tools on the towel. He selected a ball hammer, testing it for weight and effectiveness by smacking it gently into the palm of his left hand. He stopped and looked at the woman in the bath. He sniffed. ‘Actually I quite fancy giving you a “Yorkshire Ripper”.’
He said it as though he was about to give Lucinda Graveson a cut and blow dry.
Over the last six months, Gill had studied Lucinda Graveson’s habits quite closely. He knew enough to switch off all her house lights at 11.30 p.m. This chore done, Gill sat behind drawn curtains in the darkened house for another forty-five minutes, looking out through a narrow gap at the street outside.
He used the time for some deep reflection about the future. Making plans, deciding the way forwards.
At 12.15 a.m. he went into the kitchen and stepped carefully over the body of Lucinda Graveson’s husband before letting himself out of the back door. He edged to the front corner of the house and stayed there for a while.
Nothing moved. Few lights shone in the surrounding properties. It was one of those neighbourhoods — weren’t most? Gill pondered depressingly — in which everyone kept themselves to themselves, kept their noses out of other people’s business and curled up in their alarm-protected houses. It was the sort of community that, directly and indirectly, people like Lucinda Graveson contributed to, Gill firmly and obsessively believed.
Five minutes more he waited. Still no movement. When he was certain there was nothing to worry about, he flicked the hood of his coat over his head and trotted confidently down the drive, past Lucinda’s natty little MGF and her husband’s BMW.
Gill walked down the avenue and criss-crossed his way through a large good-class housing estate until he reached a main road. In a few more minutes he was at his motorcycle, which he had left secreted between two units on a crappy industrial estate. Over his shoulder he carried the black plastic bin liner which contained the protective clothing he had worn and the tools he had used while committing his crimes, including the electric-shock baton with which he had subdued the Gravesons before killing them. As he stuffed the bag into one of the panniers he reminded himself to check the baton because he’d had to give Mr Graveson a second blast with it when the first one hadn’t worked. Maybe there was a loose connection in it somewhere, he thought. From the back box he removed his full-face helmet and pulled it on over his head and mounted the big bike.
He was aware of the possibility of getting pulled up by the police on his journey, but the chances of it happening were remote and even if it did happen there was little chance of the panniers being searched. Gill acknowledged the risk, but was prepared to take it because he knew that the hundred per cent safe disposal of the clothing was guaranteed at home. In this game, the gauntlet sometimes had to be run.
The machine fired up first time, its engine ticked over smoothly.
Within minutes he was on the motorway, accelerating easily up to his cruising speed of eighty. Just about right to make good progress but not too fast to attract any unwelcome attention. Less than an hour later his bike was parked up in a secure garage and Gill was walking into his flat.
He chilled out, wound down for a while, wrote things up and glanced over some old articles. He bathed in a little self glory and patted himself on the back, wondering how his latest exploit would hit the news. While relaxing he lifted a few weights, did fifty press-ups, a hundred sit-ups and 5,000 metres on his rower, just to keep himself buzzing.
Just before 4 a.m., he left the flat to make his way home.
The urge to kill again was already permeating through his soul.
Miami, Florida, US
The bomber — his name was unknown — had planted nineteen bombs and spent six years making the world’s most prestigious law-enforcement agency look stupid.
The first bomb had been a low-key affair — as bombs go. It had been placed in any bomber’s favourite location, a bar. This one was in San Francisco and was frequented by the gay community. An easy target on a steamy Friday evening in June when the place was heaving with vest-clad, muscle-bound bodies. The surprise was that it only ripped the guts out of three people, those unfortunate ones seated on the bench under which the innocuous looking sports bag containing the bomb had been placed. Four others were maimed, another dozen injured.
The bomb had been a try-out. It had worked.
Each subsequent bomb was better, more powerful, more deadly and sophisticated than its predecessor. The death toll could easily have passed one hundred, but twenty-four it was, with two more in comas from which they would be unlikely to surface, eight wheelchair bound and another forty with lost limbs.
The FBI had reacted predictably, throwing the bulk of their resources at the numerous right-wing terrorist groups which were sprouting up across America like cancerous tumours. They did their best to infiltrate this movement — fast becoming very clever and more security-conscious where law enforcement tactics were concerned; a movement that had studied, liaised with and learned valuable lessons from other terrorist groups, particularly the successful European ones, such as the Provisional IRA, and had begun to operate in self-contained units, making it virtually impossible for an outsider such as an undercover officer to penetrate successfully.
And so the Feds had tried and tried and, humiliatingly, discovered nothing. No hints. No whispers. No names. Not a thing. The bomber remained nameless, faceless, untouchable, able to conduct a campaign of terror with impunity across the country, wreaking havoc, misery, mayhem and death, inducing fear into his targets.
The FBI began to suspect the bomber was a loner. He (although the actual gender of the individual was not a certainty to them, it was unlikely to be a female, according to the behavioural psychologists) was, they deduced, either not affiliated to any particular group or was operating independently on the periphery of several. He was classified as a New Offender Model Terrorist, acting out his deadly rages and frustrations in total anonymity. . and outwitting the FBI at the same time.
The twentieth bomb exploded in Miami. Another gay bar. The eighth such target chosen by the bomber.