Chapter Eleven Who’s Gonna Hear Their Wish?
Chapter eleven
Who’s Gonna Hear Their Wish?
Kenny set his phone down on the dining table, screen facedown, and braced his hands on either side of the sprawl of case notes. Aaron had called him, out of nowhere, to say he loved him. No provocation. No coaxing. Just raw, unguarded truth slipping past those sharp teeth.
What it meant was simple.
Aaron was ready.
Utterly, devastatingly ready.
And that knowledge lit something in Kenny he couldn’t afford to touch. Not yet.
The half-drunk coffee beside him had gone cold, a ring staining the yellow legal pad covered in his looping script.
He hadn’t moved in over an hour. Not since he’d come downstairs chasing the leftover heat from the fire.
He’d tried pacing, burning off the restless pulse of wanting.
But stillness had claimed him again, as it always did when he needed control.
Stillness was his shield. His discipline.
Even when it hurt.
Because that was when patterns emerged.
The same information cycled beneath his ribs like an ache trying to become meaning.
Three dead. All young. Invisible before they were found.
They’d slipped through cracks no one noticed until their bodies were posed, carefully, symbolically, staged as if they were stories instead of people.
Messages tucked into the shape of them. Candy in palm.
A childhood ritual, warped into absolution.
It wasn’t the bodies haunting him now. Not even the presentation. It was how this killer didn’t panic. Didn’t fumble or flee. And they believed, deeply, that what they were doing wasn’t a crime, but a calling. Not violence. Sacrament. Mercy. Judgment.
A holy correction.
Exactly like Roisin Howell.
She still hadn’t shown an ounce of remorse.
No real ownership of her crimes, only rehearsed justifications.
Even the letter she’d sent Aaron, ostensibly to reach out, had been all about her.
Her grief. Her legacy. Her twisted longing.
Nowhere in it had she acknowledged what she’d done to the boy she claimed to love beyond anything.
But Kenny knew better. She couldn’t love him.
Not truly. Not in any form that resembled care.
What Roisin wanted was possession. Control.
She didn’t see Aaron as a son. She saw him as a mirror, a symbol, a belonging.
Her creation. And Aaron had grown up believing that was what love looked like.
Not affection, but ownership. Conditional safety.
Attention wrapped in control. So now, he craved it.
Not because he was broken, but because it was wired into him.
Imprinted too early, too deep. A need for containment disguised as comfort.
Kenny would give it to him.
But not Roisin’s version. Not fear-dressed-as-devotion.
He would give Aaron control through surrender. Structure through softness. He would offer power, not take it. He would hold him, guide him, claim him. But with love, not possession.
Because Aaron didn’t need to be owned.
He needed to be safe.
The fire cracked behind him, too sharp in the open-plan quiet.
Kenny’s mind went elsewhere. Buried in the folder spread across the table.
He dragged a hand over his face, pushed back from the table, and crossed to the alcove where his desk sat tucked beneath the stairs.
The laptop was already open. He hesitated, staring at the faint glow of the screen.
Luke was the first on the island.
The others, if linked, had all been on the mainland. Which raised the question: Had the killer come here intentionally? Was this a new hunting ground? A pilgrimage? An escape? What was the Isle of Wight to them? Hiding place? Final act? A test?
Kenny didn’t believe there were only three.
That wasn’t how this kind of pathology worked.
Not if the stillness was already this refined.
Not if the staging had already reached this level of confidence.
There would be more. Had been more. He needed to go back.
Further. Deeper. Into the places no one had drawn a line between yet.
He sat down, fingers moving automatically across the keys, pulling up every system he still had access to without clearance.
He logged into the public police data feed, filtering for unsolved cases involving youth victims by region, time of year, narrowing to November and December.
Then he opened the ONS mortality database.
Cross-referenced unexplained deaths of youths during winter. Cold weather spikes. Anomalies.
Patterns emerged.
Not loud ones. Not ones lighting up a dashboard. But patterns, nonetheless.
A sixteen-year-old boy in Nottingham, found in a bus shelter after hours. Death ruled exposure. No foul play suspected, but the placement was odd. Arms folded, head tilted. A lollipop in his hand.
A girl in Glasgow. Fifteen. He should have ruled her out as there was no sweet link.
No costume either. But as she was found behind a nativity display at a community centre in a red wool coat with her hands curled as if in prayer, he couldn’t ignore the prickle at the base of his spine and the familiar whisper of experience telling him to look closer.
Cause of death was listed as probable overdose, despite no clear toxicology match.
The date: twenty-first of December. Ten years ago.
He needed a deeper dive into this.
He opened his phone. Scrolled to DS Imogen Parry’s number. Pressed call.
“Dr Lyons?”
“I’ve found something.” Kenny spun in his chair. “Several things, actually. Cold cases across multiple jurisdictions. Staged youth deaths. December-focused. There’s a pattern.”
A rustle on the other end. Papers shifting, keyboard clicks, muffled voices in the background. “Go on,” she said over it all.
“I’ve been combing broader data sets, but I’ve hit a wall. I need access to historical scene reports. Post-mortem files. Any behavioural notes flagged but never escalated. Especially those buried in cold case summaries or logged with signature elements but no linkage.”
“What kind of access are we talking? Oh, hang on…yeah, Duffy, I’ll look at that after this call…Sorry, go on.”
“Case files. Raw scene notes. Internal memos. Anything the NCA might have archived under seasonal clusters, youth fatalities, or victimology links. I’m betting someone noticed something but didn’t know what to do with it.”
A beat. She exhaled.
“That’s above my clearance. I can pull anything from our own case management system—witness statements, lab reports, the postmortem from Luke Wells. But if you want national behavioural logs or flagged-but-closed cross-jurisdiction cases…” she trailed off. “I’d need a DCI to sign off.”
“I thought that might be the case.” Kenny rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just…
I’ve got three officers out canvassing the Ventnor charity shops, two more chasing down costume rentals across the island, and I’m still waiting on toxicology.
We’ve got alibis for every lead. Every single Santa on the island has a bloody alibi checked out. ”
He nodded to himself. “You’re in triage mode.”
“Exactly. We’ve got the Christmas fair committee chair scheduled for interview, and I’ve requested door-to-doors from anyone near the green on Friday night. But we’re stretched. I can put in for clearance, but it might take time. And if you’re right…if this is bigger than here…”
“I’ll try another route.”
“Do you have anyone you trust?”
He hesitated. Then thought of the red coat on the girl in Glasgow.
“Yes,” he said, and hated it.
“Okay, great. While I’ve got you, though.
Prelim pathology came in this morning. No overt trauma.
No restraint marks. No signs of sexual assault.
Possible exposure as cause of death, but tox is still pending.
There was residue in his mouth. Something sugary.
Might be the candy. Might be something else. ”
Kenny’s mind whirred. “Sedative delivery method?”
“Maybe. Lab’s chasing it.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Nothing direct,” she said. “But a dog walker swears the tree lights weren’t flashing the night before he was found. We’re narrowing it down to a window sometime between ten and six.”
“And the Santa suit?”
“No missing uniforms. No costume thefts. No hits on local grotto rentals. If he got it, it wasn’t from around here. Could’ve been bought online years ago.”
“Or deliberately untraceable. Prints?”
“None. The whole scene’s frustratingly clean. Not staged in a panic. No drag marks either. Means he was carried with gloves. Placed.”
That stillness again.
Calculated. Controlled.
“We’re still waiting on hostel staff to confirm if he’d mentioned anything odd lately. But it doesn’t sound like he had anyone close.”
“Might be an idea for me to go talk to them.”
“If you think it will help?”
“Can’t not help. Another thing while I have you…can you confirm the sexuality of all three victims?”
“Might be tricky. But I’ll try.”
“Thanks. Could be important.”
She hung up. The line went silent.
Kenny stared down at the note he’d written on the edge of his legal pad. One name. One date. A breadcrumb on a trail he already knew he shouldn’t be following.
Then he picked up the phone.
Jack answered on the third ring. “If this is you confirming my address again, I swear to God—”
“We’ll send the card.” Kenny’s exhaling laugh didn’t quite reach his chest.
“Sure you will.”
“We’re not all as pathologically prepared as Fraser. Sending Christmas cards in November isn’t festive. It’s a controlled bleed.”
“Stop diagnosing my husband.”
“I can’t when the symptoms come with a table of contents.”
“Try diagnosing your own relationship for once.”
“I do. Regularly. That’s why it works.”
“Sure, sure. Okay, so what’s this about?”
Kenny let the silence stretch enough for Jack to feel it. Then, “I need a favour.”