Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
FREDDIE
My laptop dings as I exit the bathroom, enveloped in steam, with a towel around my hips. It’s nearly five am. Who the hell is emailing my work address at this time of morning, and on a Sunday, no less? I’ve submitted my puff pieces for tomorrow already.
I almost dismiss the email as bullshit. The address is just a string of numbers and letters.
URGENT
Hardly an inventive subject title for spam.
I select the box next to it, then move to the delete icon, but something stops me from pressing it. The email opens to a line at the top.
The story you’ve been chasing
.
A chill runs up my spine.
I can offer you the biggest story of your career in exchange for a favour to be determined later, at a time of my choosing. If you accept, you have ten minutes to post a picture of a tree on your social media.
What the fuck?
A prank, maybe? There’s no signature of any kind. Could a rival reporter be winding me up? Or Ellie?
No, she wouldn’t. Not about this.
Owing a stranger a favour is ominous. I don’t like that one bit. The idea of a career-making story… that’s a whole different matter. It starts as a burning low in my stomach that flares up and eradicates any sense of self-preservation I have.
I’ve got a pine tree posted everywhere within three minutes.
The email comes a few minutes later.
There’s a map. What looks like a house floor plan, crudely drawn. The crosses inside, and one outside.
I actually wriggle with excitement before I catch myself and calm the fuck down. Externally, at least.
An address, followed by instructions.
Wear gloves. Try not to leave DNA lying about that might implicate you. Bring a camera. Photograph everything. Go home. Hide everything. Then go back and call the police. Only then, because they are way more involved than you think.
What in god’s name is this? DNA. Implicating myself?
Alarms blare in my head, warning me to call this in straight away. But if there is some kind of cover-up, what would I be letting them hide? It’s probably just some nut job.
I definitely shouldn’t go.
Yet I’ve already discarded my towel and pulled on my boxers.
It’s insane to get involved in whatever this is.
Hoodie and coat on, rubber gloves found, albeit yellow washing-up ones.
You could be being framed.
Camera packed, spare battery included.
You could go to jail.
I print off the address and the crude map. If this turns out to be nothing, all I’ve lost is a morning. If it turns out to be something, I might have my break. A break that comes without trying to force more information out of the woman I’m quickly falling for.
That’s the part that truly clinches it for me. A chance to potentially get both of the things I want. The story and Ellie. Even if I have to wait for her to travel and hope she comes back. This gives us a chance.
I’m out the door within minutes, heading toward god knows what.
The long, winding track opens out to a charming little cottage. From the road, you wouldn’t know it existed at all. There’s nothing to see but thickly gathered trees and overgrown hedges.
Pale skies sit above the one-story building, the sun not quite out of bed yet. A shiver runs through me, and I’m unsure whether it’s from the cold, anticipation or dread.
My camera weighs heavily in my hand as I switch it on, ready for whatever awaits. Plants dance in the early morning breeze around the picture-perfect garden.
Should I knock?
I cross to the door and raise my fist. The first knock sends the door swinging open. A wet, coppery smell greets me, almost like soil after a heavy rain.
Shit, nearly forgot the gloves.
Feeling somewhat ridiculous with my bright yellow washing-up gloves, I flick the light switch just inside the doorway.
My breath feels sharp as I step inside.
‘Holy fuck,’ I say at the sight that greets me.
A dead guy strapped to a chair in the middle of the kitchen. Fresh enough that there’s no sign of decomposition. Covering my mouth with my arm, I swallow down a heave. Robotically, I lift my camera and take a photograph.
As I approach the body, I note the injuries, of which there are many. The primary one looks to be a slit throat.
Where’s his fucking nipple?
Glancing around the kitchen, I spot it, sitting neatly on the dining table. A fresh wave of vomit hits the back of my throat, and I force it back down. I photograph that too, before spotting a note on the fridge.
They deserved it. You’ll see. Make sure everyone knows. The families need closure.
The families? Multiple? I think back to the map. All the crosses. Fuck.
Body number two is behind a sofa, on the floor of the sitting room. Seeing it makes me clutch the sofa and cough, desperately fighting the urge to flee.
Fuck this.
Someone sent me here. To what? Implicate myself in killing these guys?
I keep snapping as I step closer. This one's trousers are around his ankles, nothing but a dark, gaping wound where his tackle should be. That has my balls fucking shrivelling.
It doesn’t take long to find the discarded schlong. The balls are all bunched up between the dead guy’s teeth. The eyeless, cockless dead guy.
Fucking hell.
What does it say that whatever sick fuck wanted me to find this? The fact that the killer knows I exist has my stomach churning. Or maybe that’s the dick in the mouth; I don’t know.
As much as I don’t want to touch anything, I really want to know who these fuckers are. Are they linked to the other dead guys in Ashworth’s case? And Sam? Crouching next to the corpse, I pat down the pockets of the trousers gathered around his ankles.
A wallet.
The license reads Gregory Everly. It’s nearly impossible to tell if he’s the same guy with a distorted, distended mouth and no eyes, but the hair looks right. I photograph the license before putting it back where I found it.
I’m prepared for another body on the third map cross, but there’s nothing in that corner but a chest with blankets on top.
Kneeling, I move the blankets and open it.
Please don’t be a head.
Please don’t be a head.
The horror that meets me beneath the blankets is notably worse.
Photographs that I wish I could unsee. Amongst the depravity, I see faces I recognise.
A young Sam, the same scared face as in the newspaper image.
Some photos are likely from thirty years ago, while others look like they could have been printed recently.
Every one makes my heart ache. I catalog as many as I can.
Among them are faces I recognise from the news. The missing and dead men, including the ones out there. The cottage is the backdrop for most of it.
My breath catches as I see one image that sets my brain aflame.
Ashworth.
A recent picture.
A horrific picture.
I photograph it and go to put it back with the others. A creeping voice in my head tells me to hold onto that one.
They are more involved than you think.
That’s why the killer is warning me to take and conceal evidence. If Ashworth gets his hands on this, I can imagine the photo would disappear like magic.
He’s not just consulting on the investigation; he’s hiding in plain sight. Likely altering evidence to keep his name out of it.
And that will make career-changing news.
This is more than a serial killer. This is vigilante justice, confronting systemic corruption. Revealing that will set fires under so many asses.
And no one knows, as far as I can tell, except Ashworth, the men involved, the killer, and now me.
Placing everything as I found it, I close the door behind me, leaving it unlatched, just as I found it.
Dew drops collect against my shoes as I cross to the one clue I haven’t checked.
There’s nothing there but slight mounds of turned soil. I look down at them as some animal part of my brain screams at me not to look. But I have to.
Like it or not, this is my story now, and I need to know what the killer meant for me to see.
Two sticks are crossed at one end of the mound, and I crouch beside it, gently sweeping the soil aside.
A flash of pink glitter.
Oh god.
It takes minutes before I can force myself to continue, my pulse thudding in my throat as tears prick.
The pink gives way to a small shoe covered in sparkles and unicorns. And it’s not just a shoe. The shoe leads to an ankle. Purpling and dark with decomposition.
‘Fuck,’ I cry, covering my mouth as the smell hits. Grief strikes me as realisation hits. It’s not just an abuse ring. It’s murder.
Suddenly I can see exactly why the killer did what they did to the men inside. And these are the families they meant.
The people who need closure.
My story might make my career, but it will devastate so many lives.
I sit there, next to the poor little foot, for so long that I lose track of time.
The sun is cresting the sky by the time I trudge back to my car. I need to go thoroughly hide my camera and the physical photograph. When I come back, I’m going to call the local police station directly. I need someone else to see this before Ashworth gets his despicable mitts into it.