The Dead Place

Stephen Booth

For everyone who has everhad to deal with death.

‘For what is it to die, But to stand in the sun and melt into the wind? And when the Earth has claimed our limbs, Then we shall truly dance.’

Kahlil Gibran (1883–1931), ‘The Prophet’

The Death Clock really exists, but try it at your own risk!You can find it at: http://www.deathclock.com

Title PageEpigraphChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty OneChapter Twenty TwoChapter Twenty ThreeChapter Twenty FourChapter Twenty FiveChapter Twenty SixChapter Twenty SevenChapter Twenty EightChapter Twenty NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty OneChapter Thirty TwoChapter Thirty ThreeChapter Thirty FourChapter Thirty FiveChapter Thirty SixChapter Thirty SevenAbout the AuthorBy the Same AuthorCopyrightAbout the Publisher

1

Soon there will be a killing. It might happen in the nextfew hours. We could synchronize our watches and countdown the minutes. What a chance to record the tickingaway of a life, to follow it through to that last, perfectmoment, when existence becomes nothing, when thespirit parts with the physical.

The end is always so close, isn’t it? Fate lurks beneathour feet like a rat in a sewer. It hangs in a corner ofthe room like a spider in its web, awaiting its moment. And the moment of our dying already exists inside us, deep inside. It’s a dark ghost on the edge of our dreams, a weight that drags at our feet, a whisper in the ear atthe darkest hour of the night. We can’t touch it or seeit. But we know it’s there, all the same.

But then again … perhaps I’ll wait, and enjoy theanticipation. They say that’s half the pleasure, don’tthey? The waiting and planning, the unspoiled thrill ofexpectation. We can let the imagination scurry ahead, like a dog on a trail, its nostrils twitching, its tonguedribbling with joy. Our minds can sense the blood andsavour it. We can close our eyes and breathe in thearoma.

I can smell it right now, can’t you? It’s so powerful, so sweet. So irresistible. It’s the scent of death.

Footsteps approached in the corridor. Heavy boots, someone pacing slowly on the vinyl flooring. Here was a man in no hurry, his mind elsewhere, thinking about his lunch or the end of his shift, worrying about the twinge of pain in his back, a waistband grown too tight. An ordinary man, who rarely thought about dying.

The footsteps paused near the door, and there was a rustle of papers, followed by a moment’s silence. An aroma of coffee drifted on the air, warm and metallic, like the distant scent of blood.

As she listened to the silence, Detective Sergeant Diane Fry rubbed at the black marks on her fingers with a tissue. The fax machine invariably did this to her. Every time she went near the damn thing, the powder ended up on her skin. There always seemed to be a spill from a cartridge, or fingerprints left on the casing. But tonight she felt as though she were trying to wipe a much darker stain from her hands than fax toner.

‘He’s seriously disturbed,’ she said. ‘That’s all. A sicko. A Rampton case.’

But she didn’t expect a reply. It was only a tactic to delay reading the rest of the transcript. Fry scraped at her fingers again, but the marks only smeared and sank deeper into her pores. She would need soap and a scrubbing brush later.

‘Damned machines. Who invented them?’

On the other side of the desk, Detective Inspector Paul Hitchens waited patiently, rotating his swivel chair, smiling with satisfaction at a high-pitched squeal that came from the base at the end of each turn.

Fry sighed. Waiting for her in the CID room was the paperwork from several cases she was already up to her neck in. She was due in court tomorrow morning to give evidence in a murder trial, and there was a conference with the Crown Prosecution Service later in the day. She didn’t have time to take on anything else, as her DI ought to know.

She’d also slept badly again last night. Now, at the end of the day, her head ached as if steel springs had been wound tight across her forehead and driven deep into the nerves behind her eyes. A growing queasiness told her that she ought to go home and lie down for a while until the feeling passed.

And this will be a real killing – not some drunkenscuffle in the back yard of a pub. There’ll be no spasmof senseless violence, no pathetic spurt of immaturepassion. There’s no place for the brainless lunge of aknife, the boot in the side of the head. There’ll be nopiss among the blood, no shit on the stones, no screamingand thrashing as a neck slithers in my fingers like asweat-soaked snake …

No, there’ll be none of that sort of mess. Not thistime. That’s the sign of a disorganized brain, thesurrender to an irrational impulse. It’s not my kind of