Secrets of a Serial Killer
ROSIE WALKER

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Rosie Walker 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Rosie Walker asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008399979

Ebook Edition © 2020 ISBN: 9780008399962

Version: 2020-05-21

Please be advised this book features the following content notices: abduction, murder, violence and captivity.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Day One

Helen

Zoe

Helen

Thomas

Helen

Thomas

Helen

Him

Zoe

Thomas

Zoe

Thomas

Zoe

Helen

Him

Zoe

Thomas

Zoe

Thomas

Day Two

Helen

Zoe

Thomas

Him

Helen

Zoe

Helen

Zoe

Helen

Zoe

Thomas

Him

Helen

Thomas

Him

Helen

Him

Zoe

Thomas

Zoe

Him

Zoe

Thomas

Helen

Thomas

Alexander

Thomas

Helen

Day Three

Thomas

Helen

Alexander

Zoe

Helen

Thomas

Alexander

Zoe

Helen

Thomas

Helen

Thomas

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

To my grandparents:

Ted and Joan Phenix

Harry and Phyllis Walker

Map

Detail from the 6-inch OS map, surveyed 1891.

Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland

Letter from the Leonard McVitie Archive,

John Rylands Library

Date: 1959–1985

Lancaster Lune Hospital

Lancaster, Lancashire

LA1 3JR

23 November 1984

Dear X,

I have watched the life leave the eyes of so many that I easily identify the signs as my own body begins to shut down. I know I will soon die, so I write to inform you that it is your turn to take up the mantle.

Work your charm; they will like you. You wear it well; they won’t sense who you are underneath. They can’t understand that you’re not interested in their thoughts, their feelings, their love. You’re interested in their fight, their attempts to flee, the smell of fear oozing from their skin.

I know that fear has always been your favourite, especially when you are the cause. Fear is vigilance. It’s universal to all animals, but only humans can override it and pretend it’s irrational. Only humans would experience fear, push it away and instead share a conversation with the predator; accept an invitation, smile and flirt and hope for more than they deserve. You were born for this life.

My teachings are complete, and your personal range of emotions is small yet efficient: joy, neutrality, or pure rage. All other emotions you choose to project are the result of careful study, manufactured for the benefit of your audience. The slight drop of your eyebrows to demonstrate disappointment. The narrowing of your eyes to indicate disgust. The barely detectable dip of your head to suggest disapproval. You have mastered it all.

You have been my best student. I trust that you will protect and enhance my legacy.

Yours sincerely,

Leonard McVitie

DAY ONE

Helen

Helen leans her elbows on the railings and gazes up at the Gothic turrets of the derelict hospital as the sun begins to rise. A light mist hovers just above the ground, highlighting the dew on the grass.

Some window panes are broken, probably by stone-throwing vandals before the security company began twenty-four-hour patrols. She’s been taking regular walks around the grounds for the past couple of months, getting a feel for the building in all seasons and weathers.

She scans each window, searching for movement inside. As a child she was fixated on the supernatural, but now that she’s in her fifties, the history of such places is far more fascinating than spirits and ghouls. She shakes her head, smiling at her overactive imagination.

The wind picks up, rustling through the trees above her head and needling her skin through her woolly jumper. She shivers.

Why did the architects build their ‘lunatics’ such an ornate prison? It is a magnificent structure; she loves the flying buttresses, like the legs of a spider about to scuttle away. The dirty red sandstone seems more suited to a reclusive prince living on a stormy cliff-top in a Victorian novel than for the so-called ‘feeble-minded’ of nineteenth-century Lancashire. This massive building was once known as ‘The Annexe’, an extension of the original County Lunatic Asylum constructed in the 1880s to house the masses of mental patients shipped to the county from all across the north of England.

Once looming over barren moorland and visible for miles, it’s now almost hidden from the city, concealed within the trees. She loves the way that nature takes over a building once mankind abandons it: shoots sprouting from rooftops and ivy pushing apart the brickwork. It feels life-affirming that the natural world will still continue after we’re gone.

It’s a shame they can’t just leave it as it is: retain the ivy and the moss and the spindly saplings that grow from the gutters. But, sadly, people want to make money, and part of Helen’s job is to help carve up this beautiful old building.

Alfie pulls hard on his lead, his tongue hanging from his mouth as he struggles against the collar. She bends down.

‘Alright, but don’t run off,’ she says as she releases the clip.

As expected, the dog immediately disappears into the nearest clump of bushes, flushing a squawking pheasant into the air and away. She hears him burst out from the other side of the undergrowth and jogs ahead to keep him in sight. He is running away, and fast. Helen shouts and whistles as she sees him push through a gap in the fence and run towards the building.

‘Alfie! No! Bad dog!’ she calls, but he ignores her and continues running until he is out of sight. She knows he won’t run far; he just gets excited. But the building is derelict and riddled with asbestos.

Helen groans.

She follows at a jog, squeezing through the gap in the fence and pushing across the overgrown lawn in front of the hospital, thistles tugging at her jeans.

It’s thrilling to get closer to the building, with a genuine reason if anyone challenges her. So far in this phase of work she’s only seen dusty floor plans, concept sketches and asbestos reports during dull scoping meetings and budget discussions.

She slows for a moment to take in the imposing façade up close, initials carved above each tracery window and ornate parapets along the roof. The six-storey water tower looms over the main entrance, where a stone staircase rises up to wooden double-doors. The basement floor is half-submerged, with letterbox windows at knee-level.

She remembers the floor plan she pored over last week: there’s a double-height entrance hall behind those doors, with a sweeping staircase in the centre, and long corridors branching off to the east and west wings: the wards and seclusion cells. East for female patients, west for male. The hospital was designed to house the infirm in small rooms, crammed to maximum capacity and maximum practicality.

She passes the main entrance, where the doors are secured with a chunky padlock and chain. ‘Alfie?’ she shouts, but he still doesn’t return.

She passes through a stone archway into a horseshoe-shaped courtyard, which must have been the loading dock with access to the kitchens, laundry and store rooms. A door stands open in the far corner where the main hall branches into the west wing, a dark hole gaping in the stone wall.

She feels a shiver of anticipation. Alfie must have gone inside. She has to go after him.

It is at least fifteen years since she was last inside the Lune Hospital, completing an inspection before the hospital closed. She remembers the eerie quiet on the upper floors, punctuated with sudden shrieks and howls. Hunched figures rocking incessantly in chairs, back and forth, staring into space. And, Helen remembers with a shudder, one female patient who followed Helen for the duration of her visit, bare feet shuffling ten feet behind, black eyes glinting at Helen through her straggly hair as she hissed insults under her breath.

Now, Helen ducks through the open door, holding her arms in front of her face to break the cobwebs, which cling to her hands. The air in the corridor smells damp, and she covers her nose and mouth with her scarf. It’s so quiet.

She pulls her phone from her pocket and switches on the torch, shining it around to peer through the dark hall. She marvels at the changes time has wrought on the empty building. Mould covers the ceiling, and the wallpaper has peeled from the walls to reveal old layers in many colours: deep red, a bit of yellow, and, underneath it all, a light sky-blue.

Her footsteps crackle in the quiet. Every flat surface is coated in dirt and tiny shards of broken glass.

She reaches the main entrance hall and gazes up at the huge Imperial staircase in its centre. The first flight rises to a half landing, where the staircase divides into two symmetrical flights which curl around to the first floor. There’s a wooden barrier across the landing, with a crudely-painted sign hammered into the wood: ‘DANGER: WEAK FLOORS. ASBESTOS!’

Chipped white paint edges the treads of the stairs, with bare wood running up the centre where a carpet used to be. Strips of torn wallpaper litter the ground, and each bare expanse of wall has been a canvas for amateur graffiti artists.

A door is tucked away in the corner of the entrance hall, almost out of sight. It stands slightly open: the door to the basements. Helen would love to pop down quickly and get a look at the layout down there, assess if they could tweak the plans to bring in more natural light.

A sudden skittering of glass shatters the silence. She gasps and drops her phone to the floor.

Alfie bounds around the corner, his tail wagging, his claws clattering on the bare floorboards. ‘Alfie! You scared me,’ she says, laughing with relief. Helen bends and ruffles his dusty fur. ‘Where’ve you been?’

He shakes, and dust plumes from his shaggy coat. He peers up at her through the black and white fur that almost hides his eyes. He looks a bit like an English Sheepdog from this angle, but he’s much sleeker under all that fur.

She picks up her phone, brushes it against her jeans to get rid of the muck from the floor.

The dog drops something at her feet and bows to ask her to play, gazing at her with his big brown eyes. His legs are dark with grime that she’s sure he will rub all over the kitchen walls when they get home.

She takes a step forward, reaching out to Alfie’s toy. ‘Come on then, let me have it.’ She stops. ‘What have you got, Alfie?’

On the floorboards between Alfie’s paws is not the usual stick or muddy ball. He’s got a small shoe; a ballet flat like all the teenage girls wear now. It’s electric blue under the mud caked to its surface. She picks it up, examining it. Not mud, but darker, like tar or something. Alfie looks up at her, expectant.

‘No, it’s not a toy.’ A gust of wind rushes through the empty windowpanes and Helen shudders. ‘Come on, let’s get out.’

She drops the shoe back on the ground, and Alfie scrambles to pick it up again, thinking it’s a game. She turns to leave, takes one step.

‘You shouldn’t be in here.’ A voice from behind her.

Helen freezes, dragging air in through her teeth and deep into her lungs. Her heart pounds as she turns towards the voice.

A man stands in the shadows, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall. In the murky light, Helen can only see his silhouette and a faint impression of his face. White teeth stand out against the darkness. He’s smiling at her.

She flattens her hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow. ‘You made me jump!’

Before the man can say anything else, Alfie rushes at him, barking and snarling, hackles raised and muscles tense.

Helen reaches down, grabbing her dog’s collar. ‘Sorry. He’s not normally like this,’ she says. ‘Shhh, Alfie, it’s alright.’ She strokes him but he ignores her, all senses trained on the stranger.

The man steps forward into the light. Alfie stops barking but remains with his nose thrust forward, emitting a low warning growl.

‘Sorry about that,’ says Helen. ‘We were just on our way out.’

‘Not a problem.’ Now that the morning light has touched him, she can see his features easier. She’s seen him before, but they’ve never spoken; he’s one of the security guards that patrol the grounds. They’ve nodded to each other in passing on a few exterior site visits with the NHS Planning Team. His head is closely shaved, and he’s got a short black goatee. His nose is bent, probably an old break. His piercing green eyes reflect the light shining in through the panes above the front door.

‘Do you know you’re trespassing?’ His voice is smooth and low. He takes a step forward again.

‘I’m the architect on the redevelopment.’ Alfie backs behind Helen’s legs, his warm fur pressing against her calf. ‘Getting the property ready to sell.’

‘I see. It’s early in the day to start work.’ The man smiles at Alfie, but Alfie’s growling increases in volume again. The man looks up at Helen, still smiling. ‘And this must be your architectural assistant?’

She reaches down and strokes Alfie, trying to reassure him everything’s okay. She glances around to assess the nearest way out. There’s something unnerving about chatting with a stranger inside this building, out of sight from anyone. Even if he’s just doing his job.

‘Yes, I’m walking my dog. I thought I’d get a quick look at the building from the grounds, but then Alfie ran inside. I wasn’t intending to trespass.’ She feels a kernel of frustration now. Why should she defend herself to this guy just because he’s wearing a ‘Security’ badge? She’s a grown woman with full professional right to be here, and she’s spent her whole life doing exactly as she should. She shouldn’t have to explain herself.

The man’s expression shifts; he smiles and steps forward. There’s a small dimple in his left cheek when he smiles. ‘I’m Alexander, a security guard here. I do the night shift for Diamond Security.’ His handshake is firm, his skin soft and dry. ‘You shouldn’t be in here, it’s not safe. Especially for dogs.’ He reaches towards Alfie as if to stroke him, but Alfie shrinks away. The man frowns, as if disappointed.

‘I had to come in to find him,’ she says again.

‘Let me see you out,’ says the security guard. ‘The floors aren’t secure in places. Some rotten floorboards and joists. Don’t want anyone getting hurt.’

Reaching down, she clips the lead onto Alfie’s collar, patting his head in reassurance. He hasn’t moved from behind her legs and the vibration of his neck under her fingers tells her he is still quietly growling. She scratches him behind his ear.

Outside, Helen can see the man better. His shoulders and arms look solid, like he lifts weights. She feels small walking alongside his large frame; her head barely reaches his shoulder.

‘I heard they’re still waiting for planning permission to carve it up into flats,’ he says. His tone is chatty and relaxed now they’re out of the building.

The air is cold against her cheeks and hands. She shoves her fists into her pockets, Alfie’s lead looped around her wrist. ‘Actually, things are starting to move forward. Pretty soon you might see some big changes happening around here.’ She smiles at him.

‘Sounds exciting,’ he says. His tone is casual, but he doesn’t return her grin. ‘Sorry, I’m sure you can understand it’s a bit unsettling for our team. Our jobs depend on this old place being empty, patrolling the grounds, you know.’ He waves a hand at the building, with its broken windows and weeds sprouting from the brickwork.

‘Don’t worry though; I’m sure they’ll still need a security team for a long time yet,’ she says. Helen supposes his job might be threatened once the redevelopment begins.

They walk across the grounds towards the driveway, where grass pokes up through cracks in the tarmac. He glances at her occasionally, and then over his shoulder back to the hospital.

‘Well, at least they’re not knocking it down,’ he says. ‘It’s an important building.’

‘Yeah, that really would be a tragedy. So many people love this place; it’s a bit of the town’s history. The whole county’s history, really.’ She looks back. Bushes grow along the front of the hospital at either side of the entrance. The grounds were once a huge open space where patients got fresh air and exercise, but after years of neglect the whole area is tangled with brush and thistles. ‘It’s great to be involved in its future and imagine what could be done with it.’

‘Oh yeah?’ the man asks. ‘To me it’s the building’s past which is more interesting.’

‘The architecture, you mean?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. The old mental hospital. There’s still some old wheelchairs and beds kicking around the corridors, things they just left behind when they locked it up. There’s an old ECT machine down in the basement.’

Helen’s mouth drops open. ‘I thought they stopped doing that.’ In Helen’s mind, electro-convulsive therapy belongs with trepanning and lobotomies in the category of ‘barbaric treatments from centuries ago’. Perhaps ECT isn’t so far in the distant past after all.

He shrugs. ‘The machine looks pretty old, probably hasn’t been used since the sixties. Interesting to see, while you’re on patrols.’

‘What does it look like?’

‘Just a box with buttons and dials, and two metal things.’ He points at his temples with a grin, demonstrating where the electrodes would go. ‘It’s part of history but that stuff will all get chucked away soon, I guess. Modernisation and sanitisation.’

She nods and smiles over at him. ‘It’ll never be lost though. There’s some interesting videos on YouTube, nurses talking about working at the hospital before it closed. A typical day in the life kind of thing.’ She remembers the petty arguments at her office in recent weeks about flat sizes and light. ‘You’re right that they’ll strip a lot of the old features out. Still, it’ll make beautiful flats. Even better would be a school, or a fantastic hotel, like what Urban Splash did with the Midland in Morecambe.’

He continues as if she hasn’t spoken. ‘There were some interesting patients locked up in here too. Clever people who just didn’t fit society’s mould.’

They reach the narrow drive, which slopes downhill through the trees and out of sight. She expects him to leave her and return to his office, but he continues to walk beside her.

Alexander looks at his watch. ‘We don’t get many people up here at this time of the morning. This shift is usually very quiet.’ He looks right into her eyes, and Helen wants to hold his gaze but has to look away. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his black fleece. ‘Don’t go inside the building again without an appointment. It’s not safe.’

Helen nods and glances back up the drive at the building. Through the trees she can just see the slate roof, tinted gold with the autumn sun. They have reached the end of the driveway and the main road into the town.

‘Nice to meet you,’ he says.

A red car slows and turns into the drive, the driver’s face obscured by the peak of a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. The car rolls past and up the driveway towards the hospital; the driver raises a hand in greeting. Helen nods, and the guard waves back.

‘That’s Paul, come to start the day shift,’ Alexander explains. The red car has pulled up outside the old gatehouse. The driver gets out, gathering a bag from the passenger seat. ‘He’s worked here since he left school. Knows the whole place inside out.’

Helen and Alexander watch as Paul enters the office, leaving the door open. He crouches at a mini fridge, unloading his lunch and getting ready for the start of his shift.

‘How many in your team?’ she asks, wondering how many guys will lose their jobs when the building sells.

‘There’s another full-timer called Bruce. Bit of a creep.’ His grin and quick shrug indicate this might be an in-joke at Bruce’s expense. ‘Then some contractors come in for holidays and sick cover. It’s pretty solitary work, a bit like being a lorry driver I suspect.’

‘It was nice to meet you, Alexander.’ Helen smiles and walks away with Alfie towards the road. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day.’ She turns back before she rounds the bend in the lane, taking a last glance at the building.

Alexander stands at the end of the drive watching Helen leave, his hand raised in a motionless wave. At this distance, his face seems finely sculpted, almost beautiful.

Zoe

Dane grumbles and turns over in bed, pulling Zoe into his arms. He kisses the back of her head, mumbling ‘Morning Zo’ into her hair.

She smiles. ‘I’ve been awake for ages.’

‘Mhmmm,’ Dane replies, clearly still half asleep.

Zoe reaches for her phone, pulling out the charging cable. Abbie’s added loads of Instagram posts overnight, mainly filtered selfies and elaborate poses taken in her bathroom mirror. She looks amazing in all of them, of course, and Zoe raises an eyebrow at Abbie’s attention-seeking hashtags: #doilookfat and #balletdancer. The comments are unbearable.

A Facebook message pops up from Max, Abbie’s boyfriend. As Zoe clicks the notification, Dane rests his chin on her shoulder, peering at her phone. He smells of shampoo, and a faint tang of the outdoors. ‘What’s Max saying?’

Zoe skims the message. ‘Nothing really.’ She locks her phone and puts it on the bedside table, next to her old Simpsons alarm clock.

She feels Dane’s muscles tense.

‘Aw, you jealous?’ She giggles. They’ve only been together four months, so another boy messaging her overnight must make him nervous. She turns over to look at his face. Light filters through her thin curtains, illuminating two tiny frown lines etched on his otherwise smooth forehead. A faint dimple on his left cheek tells her he’s not too worried about Max’s text. ‘It’s only Max. You’ll meet him tonight, in the pub with Abbie. He’s really sweet, crazy in love with Abbie, and obsessed with serial killers. And comics. And trespassing in derelict buildings.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not my thing at all.’

His dimple deepens as a grin spreads across his face. ‘Sounds like we’ll have a lot to talk about.’

She nods, and points at her phone. ‘He sent me another message about weird murder stuff. Freaks me out a bit, but it’s classic 2am Max.’

Dane rubs his face with both hands, then digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes. He shrugs. ‘You could ask him to stop.’

‘I’ll definitely tell him tonight. He’s an insomniac, stays up all night creeping around weird sites. Dark web stuff sometimes, true crime and murder blogs, that sort of thing.’

‘Sounds pretty normal to me.’ Dane sits up, leaning his bare shoulders against the headboard. He lifts his knees and pulls the quilt up to his chest. ‘The dark web’s harmless really. Not much going on.’

Zoe gapes at him. ‘You’ve been on the dark web?’ Even though she’s creeped out by Max’s obsession with true crime, she feels a thrill of excitement thinking about this network of people whose interests are so illegal that they have to make their own illicit underworld to pursue them. ‘What’s it like?’

He shrugs again. ‘Dunno really. There’s a lot of stuff that’s pretty similar to the normal web. And a lot of people who like to think they’re doing something illegal, but they aren’t really. To be honest, I’ve seen worse things on the normal internet.’

‘Places to buy drugs and stuff?’

‘All sorts. Lots of data, like people selling stolen logins and credit card details. That’s what we were there for, me and my friend Niall. You can buy a pre-paid Netflix account for a tenner.’

Zoe’s transfixed. She doesn’t want to visit the dark web, ever, but she also somehow wants to know everything about it. ‘What about the murder stuff that Max finds?’

Dane’s mischievous grin disappears. ‘We didn’t see any of that sick stuff. We weren’t looking for it. But, I mean, it’s probably there. Everyone’s into that kind of thing these days. Murder podcasts and DIY detective stuff.’

‘I just think it’s creepy. Melanie – Dad’s wife – she’s really into it all too. Keeps trying to get me to listen to some podcast about a teenage girl that got murdered. I just don’t want to know.’

‘Fair enough. I think it’s all quite interesting, serial killers, but only when they’ve been caught. What’s interesting about a mystery where you never find out the answer?’

‘Max sent an article he’s written for a creepy website, Urban Dark Reporter. Not on the dark web though.’

Dane smiles. ‘Oh, I’ve heard of that site. It’s pretty good.’

Zoe’s surprised. Dane seems a lot cooler than Max, so she thought he’d just laugh. ‘What is it?’ she asks, picking up her phone again and clicking the link.

‘It’s like cool local weird news; they write articles about mysteries, hoaxes, conspiracies and some urbex stuff too. I’ve heard that most of the contributors are anonymous – they don’t even know who each other are. Even though they’re all from around Lancashire.’

‘That does sound cool.’

‘Yeah, but the comments section is always full of really dark stuff. Those kind of subjects really bring out the weirdos.’

Zoe shudders and hands him her phone. ‘I think I’ll give that one a miss, then.’

He glances at the headline and pulls her to his side. ‘Read with me, this one’s not too bad.’

Lancaster’s Predator Professor: Investigating Leonard McVitie

By Urban Dark Reporter

New details reveal insight into the mind of our city’s twisted genius, who ended his days in Lancaster County Lunatic Asylum.

Leonard McVitie was born in 1923 and lived a life of identity theft and serial murder until his incarceration in Lancaster County Lunatic Asylum at age thirty-six.

Until his capture in 1959, McVitie exploited his unique ability to impersonate and assimilate his identity into that of others, who often were accused and convicted of the crimes McVitie himself had committed. It is estimated that he was directly responsible for the incorrect incarceration of at least seven men who were found guilty of McVitie’s crimes, while the criminal walked free to select up to 48 suspected victims.

McVitie is now famous for his meticulous approach and the detailed planning of his crimes. He carefully selected a ‘false suspect’, often a similar height and build to McVitie himself. He would then observe them for months, entering their homes and stealing small personal items he could plant at a crime scene or in a victim’s home to connect the ‘false suspect’ to a killing. He would even disguise himself as the false suspect and introduce himself to people, blending his life into theirs until the two people were virtually indistinguishable. It seems he particularly enjoyed selecting people who worked ‘behind-the-scenes’: porters, caretakers, and cleaners – people with low levels of job responsibility who also hold the master keys.

Some of McVitie’s false suspects include:

 Colin Redpath, aged twenty-five in 1948 at the time of his guilty verdict: Thought to be one of McVitie’s first framings, Redpath was a porter at Cambridge University where McVitie studied. After observing Redpath’s movements for over a term, McVitie began introducing himself to students as Redpath and even managed to take on some of Redpath’s portering tasks without detection. By the time the body of Maureen Blast (eighteen) was found in a University porter’s lodge, McVitie was long gone to another life, and Redpath was hanged.

 Phillip McNeil, aged twenty-five in 1952 at the time of guilty verdict: McNeil was a cleaner at Royal High School, Edinburgh, arrested for the murder of four teenage girls (ages fifteen to seventeen) whose bodies were found on Calton Hill on the morning of 1st May 1951.

After his eventual arrest and imprisonment in the lunatic asylum (later renamed Lancaster Lune Hospital, after the River Lune which flows through the centre of the city), McVitie turned his attentions to study and correspondence. He gained a reputation for his sharp intellect, often contributing to local presses in a similar manner to W.C. Minor’s contributions to the Oxford English Dictionary. He died in the asylum in 1985.

Manchester’s John Rylands Library holds the archives of his correspondence, donated after the Hospital closed in 2010. The archives have now been fully catalogued and are available for registered readers to view by appointment.

Comments:

rogersmith52: Check your facts. I think you’ll find that McVitie was born in 1924, not 1923 as you wrote. I do hope this site gets more careful with accuracy if you’re going to write about historical killers. Please email me if you have any questions; I have a very extensive knowledge of such people.

Phoneguy: I’m intrigued by this approach, with an added twist: why not frame the victim themselves? Make it look like a suicide, or slowly erase all evidence that they ever existed – by the time you’re done, there’s no victim left for the police to find. No victim, no crime. Job done.

When they’ve finished reading, Zoe stands up and picks up some crumpled clothes from the heap on her bedroom floor. She pulls an old t-shirt over her head and smiles at Dane, who’s grinning at her from the bed. ‘Can’t believe that weirdo lived so close to here after he was caught. If he was still alive and stuck in there—’ She points in the direction of the old asylum, just half a mile down the road. ‘—I’d be terrified he would escape and break into my house or something.’

Dane nods and runs a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. ‘What an interesting guy though. I’ve never heard of a serial killer stealing people’s identities before, and getting away with it for so long.’

She loves seeing him from a distance like this, five or six feet away. They’re usually sat next to each other or lying down together, and that close up you can only see individual features: a nose, the eyes, teeth. But from this distance she can see the whole of him, head to toe in detail, and he’s so striking. He looks a bit like Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You: he’s got the same wild curly hair and cheeky smile.

‘You said Max is into urban exploring stuff. You ever been tempted? My Dad’s got an old Canon we could take and get some sick photographs inside some of the old buildings around here.’ He pulls back the quilt to reveal his legs, and swings his feet to the floor.

‘Wait a second,’ she says. He looks up at her, puzzled. ‘I just want to look at you for a minute.’

He grins. ‘Perve.’

She stares at his legs with their dusting of dark hair, tanned up to the thigh where he wore shorts to work all summer. ‘Have you ever considered getting a statue commissioned?’

Dane looks confused.

She laughs. ‘You know, a naked one like Michelangelo’s David.’ She keeps giggling and crosses the room to wrap her arms around him. She’s standing next to him as he sits on the bed; she pulls his head to her chest and kisses the top of his curly hair. ‘You’re smoking hot, is all I’m saying.’

He raises his face to hers and kisses her on the lips. ‘Come back to bed then?’

She looks in his eyes, and for a moment she’s tempted. She could so easily slip back beneath the covers and into Dane’s arms. It’d be so nice to feel the remains of his touch against her skin during her morning college classes.

This could be the day they go all the way. She’s been waiting for the right time, and everything’s going so great between them. He almost said ‘I love you’ last night. He stopped himself at the last minute and changed it to ‘I like you so much.’ She smiles thinking about it, how nice it feels to have that expectation, and know it’s going to happen soon. She’s about to remove her t-shirt, but then she hears the front door open and close.

‘No luck, Mr D. Mum’s back from her walk.’

Dane doesn’t argue. He never does; he lets her set the pace and just goes with the flow. Not like guys her own age, who’re always push push push.

He stands up and pulls on his trousers. He searches around the room for his shirt, finally finding it under the bed. He pauses with it halfway over his head, arms lifted up. ‘Zoe?’

‘Mmm?’ she looks up from her phone where she’s typing a reply to Max. ‘Your Mum doesn’t know I stayed over, does she?’

Zoe gives him her best wide-eyed, innocent face. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ she lies, and picks up her hairbrush. Her phone buzzes.

Dane glances at the screen. ‘Max again.’

She groans and sets her hairbrush down. ‘What does this one say?’

Dane opens her phone and reads Max’s message aloud: ‘Please, Zo: I think I’ve found something big. Talk tonight?’

Helen

‘Zoe? You home?’ A dull thud indicates that her daughter is in her room.

Helen steps into the hall, dropping her keys into the basket on the table. She toes off her muddy shoes by the door.

Alfie runs past her, straight into the kitchen to lap at his water bowl. She pauses, listening to the house. There’s no sound except for Alfie’s collar clinking against the bowl.

Five minutes later, Zoe pads into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, hair sticking out in all directions. Zoe’s a beautiful girl, brown hair down to her waist and blue eyes, with a mouth that turns up at the corners. A mole on her left cheek reminds Helen of the beauty spots that Hollywood silent film starlets would draw onto their faces to look more sophisticated.

‘What are you up to? Don’t you have class?’

‘Hey Mum,’ she mumbles, sitting down at the pine table. ‘Got a free period first thing. Not been up long. I see Alfie enjoyed his walk.’ She looks down at the dog’s muddy paws.

Helen flicks on the kettle. She pulls a couple of teabags from the cupboard, and waves one in Zoe’s direction. Zoe shakes her head.

‘I thought you start at eight on Tuesdays,’ says Helen. ‘Are you skipping class again?’

Zoe grunts, non-committal, and gets up from the table. She opens the fridge and stares inside, the light illuminating her cheekbones.

‘We’ve talked about this so much – now is not the time for messing around.’

Zoe raises her hands like someone with a gun aimed at them. ‘No, Mum. Chill. I’m not a skiver.’

‘Don’t tell me to chill.’

Zoe shrugs. ‘Where did you and Alfie go for a walk?’

‘Up at the old Lune Hospital—’

‘That asylum gives me the creeps. Proper,’ she says through a yawn. ‘I can’t believe you walk up there on your own.’

‘I like it up there. There’s a comforting feel to the place, not scary.’

‘I’d be scared that some crazy person would come running at me, straitjacket flapping behind him …’

‘Not very politically correct, Zo.’

Zoe sniggers, unrepentant. She grabs a yoghurt and closes the fridge.

‘Anyway, some of the patients in there weren’t even mentally ill by today’s standards. Annoying wives, epileptics, promiscuous daughters of disapproving families, even just people being a bit eccentric … Oh! And new mothers with postnatal depression.’

Zoe’s eyes are wide. ‘What?’

‘Yep. I’ve been reading about it lately, since this new project started. Some really interesting cases up at the Lune.’ Helen watches as Zoe peels open the yoghurt and spoons it into her mouth. ‘And I bumped into one of the guards this morning. Appeared completely out of nowhere. Alfie wouldn’t stop growling at him.’

‘Ha! Good old Alfie, cramping your style.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. But we talked about the building, it’s history. He’s worried about his job once the work starts, I think.’

Zoe slowly licks the last traces from her spoon, thinking. ‘Was he good-looking?’

Helen puckers her lips sideways, pretending to think about it. ‘I suppose he was quite handsome.’ She ignores Zoe’s raised eyebrows. ‘But—’

‘You should ask him out for a drink.’ Zoe grins, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She goes through phases like this, when she fixates on matchmaking Helen with a guy. But Helen suspects Zoe would change her tune if Helen did meet someone; both Helen and Zoe like their cosy twosome. The times when it had looked like someone was taking an interest in Helen, Zoe took an immediate dislike to them. Maybe that’s why Dane makes Helen so uncomfortable – his relationship with Zoe threatens to disrupt the last few years of just-the-two-of-us. Or maybe it’s something else, something about Dane himself; even at this stage of life, Helen still has to remind herself not to disregard her instincts.

‘No way. I’m not asking him out for a drink.’ Helen’s perfectly happy on her own. ‘Plus he was closer to your age than mine.’

‘I really don’t get it: you’re lonely, you’re bored, and you’ve got nothing to think about except me and what I’m doing—’

‘Hey.’ Helen’s voice is quiet.

Zoe doesn’t seem to notice her Mum’s cautioning tone. ‘Seriously, though, it’d be great if you got a boyfriend. You’d be less stressy about me and what I’m doing all the time, for one thing.’

Helen opens her mouth to argue. ‘Not everyone wants a—’

‘Hi, Mrs Summerton.’

Helen jumps at the male voice in her house. Dane is, as usual, lurking – this time in the darkened corridor outside the kitchen. He sidles into the room, bringing with him the smell of patchouli, sweat and wood.

‘Dane. Didn’t know you were here.’ She opens the fridge and peers inside. She can’t look at him while she feels invaded like this. A virtual stranger in her house first thing in the morning is not comfortable. She grabs the milk from the fridge door and turns back to the room, trying to arrange a welcoming smile on her face.

He smiles sheepishly and looks at his hands. ‘Yeah, I was just upstairs.’

Even from across the room, Helen can see the dirt on his hands, ingrained in all the creases and under his nails. He’s a carpenter specialising in turning huge fallen tree trunks into beautiful coffee tables, stools and other furniture. According to Zoe, they met when Dane was invited to Zoe’s college to speak about ‘alternative career paths’ – vocational careers which don’t involve going to university. Helen suspects that Zoe met Dane long before that day at her college, and kept his existence secret for a couple of months because she was afraid to tell Helen about their seven-year age gap.

‘You stayed over last night?’ She doesn’t want to think about what they were doing in Zoe’s room before Helen came home.

He leans against the door frame, taking up a lot of space with his six foot four-inch height and wide shoulders. He tucks his hands behind his back, looking strangely military.

‘Dane, I’m afraid you can’t stick around this morning. Zoe’s got to get to college.’

Zoe opens her mouth in protest. She seems happiest when Dane hangs around at their house, taking up too much space in their living room, eating all their food, his giant shoes cluttering their front porch.

‘I’ll see you tonight, though, babe?’ Zoe says to Dane.

Helen cuts her off. ‘Zoe has plans to go over to her Dad’s house tonight.’ She turns to Zoe, who is midway through rolling her eyes again. ‘Remember?’

Zoe scowls, and Dane just looks confused. Zoe’s clearly forgotten that plan. Zoe looks over at Dane and shrugs. Dane shrugs back, looking even more gormless than usual.

‘Plus, don’t you have coursework?’ Helen doesn’t know what it is about Dane’s presence that puts her in this snarky, naggy mood. Something about him turns her into a shrew. Perhaps she’s trying to make up for the negative influence he’s clearly having on Zoe’s college work.

Zoe groans. ‘I don’t have coursework today, Mum.’

‘Revision then. Or reading. I’m sure there is something you’re supposed to be doing which will prevent you from failing your A Levels. Plus, your Dad will want to catch up with you.’

Zoe groans and turns to Dane. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she says, as if Helen is the teenager and Zoe is the adult embarrassed by Helen’s behaviour. ‘Wanna go back up to my room?’

Helen grits her teeth.

‘I think I should head off,’ says Dane.

Helen flashes him a thin smile. Maybe he’s not that bad after all if he can pick up on some social cues.

‘Got work, you know,’ he mumbles.

They wander down the hall to the front door; Helen hears them whispering while Dane prepares to leave. There are whispers about a pub, but Helen chooses not to hear whatever it is. There’s a limit to how much hovering and nagging she can do for one morning.

After a few minutes, the door shuts and Zoe stomps down the hall back into the kitchen, where Helen has poured herself a cup of tea in preparation for the upcoming argument.

‘Why do you have to be like this? I’m actually embarrassed,’ Zoe says, folding her arms and looking remarkably similar to a photograph Helen remembers taking when Zoe was about three years old, mid-tantrum because she could no longer fit her feet into a favourite pair of red shoes.

Helen takes a sip from her mug, delaying the start of the argument for an extra five seconds. ‘This is the most—’

‘Important year of my life,’ interrupts Zoe. ‘I know that. You tell me that all the time. Dad does too. But I still need a life. I’m allowed a social life and a boyfriend, for God’s sake.’

‘Remember last term? You skipped so many History classes that they wrote a letter home. And you got a D on your Spanish exam. You need to pull your socks up if—’

‘What a stupid phrase, pull my socks up.’

‘My choice of phrase is not relevant here.’

‘You got a D in one of your A levels. AND you were dating Dad at the time. You’re such a hypocrite and you think you can somehow fix it all by nagging at me. You won’t fix it, Mum – you won’t fix YOUR bad decisions by obsessing about my life.’

‘That’s enough.’ Helen taps her hand on the worktop. They’ve had this argument so many times, and it’ll just go in circles. There’s no point. Helen remembers being that age: no clue about consequences, no idea that danger might sprout from your decisions like a dandelion through gravel. ‘This has nothing to do with my life or my past choices and everything to do with your future.’

During the argument, Zoe has been edging closer and closer to the door, ready to implement her usual tactic in the end stages of a disagreement: drop the last word like a bomb and then stalk out of the room, stomping upstairs and slamming her bedroom door.

‘My choices are fine. Go on a date or something. It’s not my fault you don’t have a life of your own.’ Her last word is shouted, and sure enough, she then storms out of the kitchen.

Helen tries to chuckle. She remembers similar arguments with her own parents at the same age, but she can’t help feeling stung by Zoe’s final parting shot.

Helen is proud of who she has become, although now Zoe is the same age that Helen was when she met Tony, a new panic has set in. She doesn’t want to see history repeat itself, and there’s something in the self-assured sparkle in Dane’s eye that reminds her of Tony and his cheeky charm, which may have seduced more women than she knew of while they were still married.

She switches on the television and flicks to BBC News, as the coverage flashes to a photograph of a young girl wearing a graduation robe, flanked by two proud parents. Even though the volume is low, the grave expressions on the newsreaders’ faces tell Helen that this girl’s future is not bright, promising or full of potential. There are bigger dangers out there lurking for carefree teenaged girls: much, much worse than a boyfriend with a roving eye.

Helen shivers and takes another sip of tea. As she drinks, something catches her eye in the middle of the corridor just outside the kitchen. A dark shadow, the size and shape of a rat. Her muscles clench with dread. Please, not rats.

She slowly lowers her mug to the countertop, staring at the ominous shape on the floor. It doesn’t move. If it’s a rat, it’s already dead.

She crosses the kitchen slowly and sighs with relief as she moves closer. Not a rat. She bends down to pick it up. It’s a blue ballet flat, stained with mud. The one Alfie found at the hospital; that silly dog must have brought it home. She turns the shoe, examining it from all sides. Something about it doesn’t look right. Under the orange-tinged hall light, the shoe’s stain is metallic and brown, like rusted metal.

Thomas

Thomas pushes down on the handle and nudges the kitchen door inch by inch, wincing at the creaks and clicks. He steps into the still-darkened room.

Light sifts through the blue curtains, staining everything as if the room is underwater. The air smells musty with a faint reminder of dinner: southern fried chicken and baked beans.

He pulls open the curtains to let in the morning light. It is a combined kitchen-and-living room with high ceilings and windows that rattle when trucks drive by. He considers opening a window, but the traffic noise might wake Mum in the next room. She needs as much sleep as possible when she works long hours at the paper and does research late into the night.

He pulls the Coco Pops from the cupboard, the orange juice from the fridge, and is reaching for a bowl when Mum walks in. She is dressed for work in a smart skirt and jacket, her long brown hair tied in a low ponytail and an ID badge clipped to her pocket.

‘You look pretty, Mum,’ says Thomas.

She looks at him from under slightly swollen eyelids. ‘Thanks, baby. I don’t feel pretty; I feel knackered. You’re dressed for school already? You’re a good boy.’ Mum stares at him, frowning. ‘Where are your glasses?’

He reaches up to the cupboard where they keep the tumblers for juice.

‘Thomas?’

‘I maybe left them at school.’ That could be true, he thinks to himself, hoping they are safely in his desk in Room 5B.

Mum doesn’t say anything else.

She pours two bowls of cereal, Coco Pops for Thomas, muesli for herself. Mum’s muesli looks to Thomas like the food they give to Ronald, the big fat hamster in 6D.

Thomas settles down on the sofa and reaches for the remote to see what good programmes are on.

‘Did you remember Maggie’s staying over for the next few days? I hope you cleaned your room last night.’

Thomas groans. ‘Why does she have to sleep in my room?’

‘Because we don’t have a spare room.’

He frowns. ‘But it’s my room.’

‘And Maggie’s part of your family, and family shares things.’

Thomas folds his arms.

‘You used to love it when Maggie stayed over.’

‘Yeah, but that was before.’

‘Before what?’

‘Don’t know.’

Before Dad disappeared and Mum got sad and busy and was always at work. And before Thomas began to spend more time outside, exploring nearby woods and paths because it gets him out of the house that smells different now Dad’s gone. The only part of the house he likes now is his own bedroom, and he doesn’t want to share it with Maggie. Maggie has her own dad and her own bedroom on the other side of town. And he doesn’t want to share Mum with Maggie either.

‘Why does she have to stay here anyway?’

She looks cross. ‘Because my sister has no idea that other people have lives and thinks I can just drop everything for her whenever she wants to swan off on a last-minute holiday. You’d think she’d have some consideration, what with everything that’s been going on.’

‘What about Duncan and Sandy? Where are they going to stay?’ He hopes they can stay, too. They’re much more fun than Maggie and they want to do daring stuff like rope swings, climbing over walls and staying up late.

‘Julie says they’re old enough to take care of themselves.’

‘But not old enough to take care of Maggie?’

‘Kinda makes sense,’ she says with a shrug. ‘I wouldn’t want those two boys looking after anyone either. They’re wild.’

Thomas frowns. ‘Why can’t Auntie Julie take Maggie with her on the holiday?’

Mum drops her spoon in her bowl with a clatter and looks at him, her eyes fierce. Her frown lines deepen and her lips get thin. She doesn’t look as pretty anymore. ‘Listen, I’m the mum here and I’m saying you have to let Maggie sleep in your room with you and be nice to her. You used to be best friends.’

‘She’s bossy. And she never stops talking. She’s really annoying.’

‘So what?’

‘She always wants to play stupid pretend games.’

‘Pretend games are normal, TomTom. You’re ten.’

‘Pretend games are for little kids. And I’m eleven, not ten.’ He looks down at his cereal, where the milk has turned chocolate-brown and the pieces of Coco Pops are bleached a strange grey colour. ‘Eurgh. Fine,’ says Thomas. ‘But she doesn’t get to use the iPad.’

He does like Maggie really; he just doesn’t want her in his room touching his stuff. She’s nosy and she fiddles with everything.

‘Weren’t you two doing a school project together? Maybe you could work on that tonight.’

Thomas nods. The teachers always put them together for pair work because they’re cousins. It’s annoying sometimes, like when they’ve had a fight (like the time Maggie broke Thomas’s massive Lego Star Wars project that he made with Dad. It took weeks to build and Maggie broke it when she picked it up and pretended it could fly like the real Death Star).

But other times it’s quite fun being partners. Maggie is clever and has good ideas, so they get high marks.

‘We did some of the project, but we’ve got to finish the ending. It’s a ghost story in an old farmhouse and there’s an old smugglers tunnel like in the Famous Five. It’s got pictures we got from the internet and everything.’

‘Honestly, it’s all ghost stories and secret passageways with you and Maggie.’ She stands up, yawning. ‘I need to go to work. Feels like I’ve hardly been home five minutes.’ She ruffles Thomas’s hair. ‘Short shift today. I’ll pick up you and Maggie after school.’

He pushes his spoon into the chocolatey milk in his bowl, letting the liquid seep onto the spoon and not allowing any of the Coco Pops to breach the dam of the spoon’s sides.

‘Look at me,’ she says, bending down to lift his chin with her hand. Two faint frown lines between her eyebrows make her look even more tired than usual. ‘You’re a big boy, nearly all grown up and able to do anything you like, but I still need your help. Sometimes I need your help with chores in the house, and other times I need your help by making things easier for me, like not making a fuss when Maggie’s coming over. You’re the man of the house for now, alright?’

‘Alright,’ he says in a quiet voice. He wants Dad to be the man of the house, though, so he can be the kid of the house again, even though eleven feels much more grown up than ten. And Mum could be the Mum of the house instead of trying to do everything and not having any time to relax or play silly games together.

‘I wish it wasn’t just me, but I’m doing my best to be the best mum in the world.’

He nods. He does want to help. He’s just so cross with everything and sometimes he’s cross with her. Sometimes he thinks it’s her fault Dad left. Maybe if she was different Dad would still be here. Maybe if he was different Dad would still be here.

She smiles at him. ‘Now it’s your cue to tell me I am the best mum in the world, silly billy.’

He smiles. ‘You are the best mum in the world. Really truly.’

Mum kisses him goodbye, a big sloppy kiss on his forehead, which makes a loud noise and causes him to giggle. Mum’s really funny sometimes, when she’s in a good mood.

He hears the front door open and close and then his mother walks briskly past the window, turning to wave at him like every morning. Thomas finishes his cereal and takes both bowls to the sink, rinsing them under the tap and then laying them out to dry on the draining board.

Then he goes into his bedroom and hides the iPad under his pillow, so Maggie doesn’t use it.

It was the last thing Dad gave him before he disappeared.

Helen

Huge thumps down the stairs herald Zoe’s re-entry into the room, the air around her crackling with chaos.

‘Thought you were running late ten minutes ago?’ Now she’s had a few minutes of quiet, she’s ready to tease Zoe and be friends again.

Zoe groans. ‘Yeah, yeah. If I didn’t have to get the stinking bus, I’d have loads more time. It’s full of wankers, by the way.’

Helen chuckles. ‘Did you find your folder?’

‘Yes, but not the homework. Mr K is literally going to shit on me.’

‘I don’t think you mean that literally.’ Helen suppresses a smile. ‘And watch your language, Zoe.’

‘Whatever,’ Zoe mumbles, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and shouldering her backpack. ‘Don’t suppose you could give me a lift?’

‘Sorry. Got a conference call in ten minutes.’ Helen grimaces.

Zoe pulls a face right back. ‘Sounds boring.’

‘Probably will be quite boring, yep. Building regulations, council regulations, and historical considerations and blah blah …’

Zoe pretends to fall asleep, making enormous and exaggerated snoring noises as she pulls open the front door. ‘Have fun with that, Mum! Laters.’

Helen gathers up her breakfast dishes and stacks them in the dishwasher. ‘Looks like it’s just me and you for the day now, Alfie.’

In his bed in the corner of the kitchen, Alfie thumps his tail in acknowledgement, his head resting on his paws. He’s always a little glum when someone leaves the house. When Tony left, Helen worried about Alfie more than Zoe – he wouldn’t get out of his bed for three days except for wees in the garden. That suited Helen at the time, however, because she couldn’t get out of bed very easily either.

Helen pours herself another tea and carries it to the desk in the living room. Piled high with papers and tucked into a corner surrounded by bookshelves, this desk is exactly what teenaged Helen would have imagined as the ideal workspace. The only difference from her youthful imaginings is that instead of drawing elaborate children’s book illustrations, she drafts architectural concepts for the NHS’s Property Services, getting outline planning permission for the sale and eventual redevelopment of former care homes. It’s Helen’s job to visualise the transformation of large crumbling buildings into perfect little units for upwardly mobile young professionals, so that big property companies will buy them and inject much-needed cash into NHS coffers.

Secretly, Helen thinks the kind of apartments she designs on projects like these are soulless and identical, like a dozen prefabs stacked on top of each other. And the insides of these beautiful buildings are often gutted, with only the outer walls remaining to fulfil a local council’s minimum preservation requirements for maintaining the historical features. There’s no real desire for anything with aesthetic merit; just box ticking to avoid getting sued. Still, at least these buildings no longer get demolished under the guise of ‘progress’, like in previous decades. Helen shudders to think of it; such waste.

In Helen’s ideal world, the Lune Hospital would be made into a museum, exposing and showcasing the evolution of mental health treatment and its brutal history. They could start on the ground floor with the unethical freak shows of the Bedlam era, where the nobility used to pay to gawp at the poor souls. Then move up the floors ascending through lobotomies, ECT and padded cells to modernisation and the present day, which is hopefully much more civilised. Unfortunately, Helen is an architect, not a museum curator.

She dials into the conference call and waits on the line, listening to the tinny music piping in her ear before the next attendee dials in. She opens Firefox and clicks to the news, trying to find that news story from the TV earlier – she’d only caught the last few seconds before the next story began, but something about the faces in the picture looked familiar.

Alfie shuffles into the room and flops down in the corner to watch her from his paws.

‘Hey doggie,’ she says, glancing over to smile at his furry face. ‘Have you come to join me on this deathly dull conference call?’

‘TREVOR has entered the call!’ a computer voice announces.

‘Morning Trevor,’ says Helen brightly, hoping he didn’t hear her. She minimises the browser window and clicks through to the conference call agenda. ‘How are you today?’

Trevor is the NHS’s Historic Buildings Regulations Officer, seconded from Lancaster City Council, appointed to respond to every one of Helen’s designs with a mealy-mouthed whine of ‘I’m afraid the regulations won’t allow you to do that.’

They make small talk until Pam hops on the call thirty seconds later, followed by Craig. Pam and Craig both work for the property development firm which might buy the Lune Hospital; they are driving the redevelopment into ‘luxury living spaces for professionals’. They want it to look great, but to spend no money achieving that.

Helen sits in the middle of all of them, feeling like the only voice of reason and the ambassador for good design, fighting off bad decisions with her drafting board and carpenter’s square.

Today’s call is particularly frustrating because it’s about the basements: big storage chambers connected by breeze block-lined service tunnels with concrete floors. Pam and Craig want to cram as many ‘apartments and townhouses’ into the Lune site as possible, and that includes extending development into the basements.

Helen finds a gap in the chatter and tries to break into the call. ‘I just think that these flats—’

‘Luxury living spaces,’ interrupts Pam. ‘We need to use the right words, Helen, so we keep in mind that we’re not building anything less than luxury. Flats is just so … brutalist.’

Helen runs her hands through her hair and grits her teeth. Just a few more weeks and this project will be over, planning permission granted and all the contracts signed. ‘We need to incorporate larger windows. If we’re extending into the basements, they need light so they aren’t depressing caves of misery. It’s dark down there with the current windows; they’re like letterboxes.’

‘It would compromise the façade of the lower levels,’ whines Trevor. Helen can hear him shuffling his papers on the other end of the phone.

‘If we can’t put windows in, we shouldn’t extend the living spaces into the basement,’ says Helen. ‘They should be storage only.’ She lowers her forehead to the desk and clunks it gently against the wood a couple of times, taking deep breaths. There should be a Project Manager to handle these tedious conference calls and just relay any decisions back to Helen, but sadly Maxine went on maternity leave a couple of months ago, and the NHS decided they didn’t need to replace her. Helen suspects the pregnancy was purposely timed, and respects Maxine’s well-planned reproductive decision to avoid this particular part of the development process.

Nothing gets decided about the basements, and the call veers into ways to decrease space and cram in extra units. Pam asks whether people really need all that storage space when minimalism is so chic right now.

Helen clicks back to the news website and opens the headline article.

Lancaster’s lost girls: Runaways, or something more sinister?

By J. Mitchell

Parents of missing teenager raise questions for Lancaster’s police

Five years ago, the mysterious disappearance of 17-year-old Sadie Duncan shocked the market town of Lancaster. It was the end of August, and Sadie’s suitcase lay half-packed on her bedroom floor, never taken to Leeds University as planned.

Sadie’s mother, Charlotte Duncan, 45, still holds out hope that she’ll come back home. ‘Maybe she just didn’t want to go to university. She was nervous about it. But she’s just not the type to leave and not say goodbye, you know.’ Tears slide down her cheeks, as they have every day for the past five long years.

The day she went missing was just like every other day, with nothing unusual and no arguments. Sadie went into Lancaster with her friends for a birthday drink and has not been seen since leaving the pub alone at 10.30pm.

With no sightings and very few working CCTV cameras in Lancaster’s pedestrianised city centre, the hope of tracing Sadie’s movements quickly faded. Her bank account remains untouched, her belongings and bedroom exactly as they were the night she disappeared.

Work of a serial killer?

‘I think it was a serial killer,’ says Charlotte’s husband, Bill, whose hands shake as he talks of his missing daughter.

Bill continues: ‘There are other teenage girls gone missing from roundabout [the local area]: Preston, Manchester, and one from Garstang a couple of years ago. They’re all our Sadie’s age. The police call them runaways but most of the parents are like us, with good kids from loving homes.’

I looked into Charlotte and Bill’s claims, finding a rate of missing teenagers slightly higher than the national average. Potential victims include Joanna Bamber, 18, from Heysham; Roberta Clarkson, 16, from Morecambe; and Anna Keyne, 18, from Caton.

Police refuse to comment

Lancashire Constabulary refused to contribute to this story, stating that they could not comment on an active or unsolved investigation. Does this mean that there is an ongoing investigation?

With little forensic evidence and no bodies, it’s hard to determine if this is the work of a serial killer or just a coincidence that these girls have all disappeared within the same area.

Anyone with information about any of the missing women in this article can contact Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111 or email j.mitchell@lancasternews.com.

‘Helen?’

She shakes her head, trying to forget the news story now rattling around her brain.

‘Sorry – what was that?’ she asks, minimizing the browser. ‘The line went fuzzy for a second.’

Pam clears her throat. ‘Craig was suggesting that nobody needs kitchen worktop space, because they just put their dishes in the dishwasher and they’re all probably going out for dinner every night anyway.’

After more than an hour, she finally hangs up the phone with very little decided except for the date of the next conference call.

‘What a waste of time. Glad that’s over,’ she says to the dog. ‘Now to start actual work.’ She opens her A1 folder of sketches, floor plans and sepia photographs of the old hospital, but something niggles. What is it?

She flicks back to the news article, skims the text, but can’t find what she’s looking for. When she read it the first time, on the call, there was something familiar.

She reads it again, but nothing resonates now.

She lets her eyes wander over the web page, blurring the words. And there it is, like mist burning off on a warm spring day:

The author at the top of the article. How does she know that name?

Thomas

‘I reckon the blue flame would be the worst, though,’ Maggie says, colouring in their Science homework; a flame to show when there’s oxygen in the pipe (yellow and wavy) and no oxygen (blue and straight). ‘You know, if we put one of Josie Steadman’s plaits into the burner.’

‘I bet Josie would be bald on one side so fast that you couldn’t even put the fire out before all her hair goes.’ Thomas laughs at the idea of Josie bald on one side of her head. It’s the best type of giggling because he knows he shouldn’t be laughing at all. ‘It’d be funny, but we might get in trouble.’

‘Yeah. I don’t need any more de-merits this term.’ Maggie looks at her new smartwatch she got for her birthday last week. Maggie’s mum and dad don’t need to be careful with money, and she gets loads of new stuff whenever she wants it. But she still prefers coming over to Thomas’s house after school instead of going over to her own house.

‘Why do you like coming to my house anyway? You’ve got a giant TV and a PS4.’

Maggie shrugs. ‘Duncan and Sandy never let me play on it. And Auntie Janet lets us do whatever we want.’

He supposes that’s true: even when Mum’s at home, she’s busy with house stuff or Important Top-Secret Research. Or falling asleep in front of their TV, which is much smaller than Maggie’s.

Mum is sitting with them at the dining table, but she’s not paying attention. The overhead kitchen light lights up her hair, so shiny it’s almost like she’s wearing a gold crown. She props her chin up with her hands and stares at an old book, newspapers spread around to cover every inch of the table. Her face is blank and her eyes unfocussed, like she’s been hypnotised by that guy Derren Brown from the TV.

Mum looks up from her papers, frowning. ‘Guys, you remember I asked if you could play outside while I finish this article?’ She looks out of the kitchen window. The sky is blue tinged with pink and the oak tree in the garden looks dark against the bright sky. ‘You’ve still got another few hours of daylight. Could you go to the play park? Take a torch so cars can see you on the way back – and look both ways crossing that road. Back at nine for bed.’

Maggie taps her posh watch. ‘Back at nine, no problem.’

‘Okay Mum!’ Thomas pulls on his wellingtons and grabs the massive torch from the shelf by the door. Then he looks around the porch.

‘What else would be useful?’ He picks up Dad’s posh birdwatching binoculars from the coat hook, the ones he’s never allowed to play with because they’re not a toy. ‘If Dad’s not coming back, he won’t need them,’ he says, watching Maggie’s expression.

She scrunches her nose and shrugs. ‘They’re practically yours now anyway.’

He loops the leather cord around his neck and lets the weight of the binoculars hang from his shoulders. They’re surprisingly heavy, but the cord feels soft against his skin, which makes the weight bearable.

Maggie leans over to whisper in Thomas’s ear: ‘I stole a penknife from Duncan’s drawer this morning. We can cut up sticks and build a campfire for our den.’

Thomas unfolds his arms. He can’t help but smile back; Maggie looks so excited and making a den does sound really fun. He nods. ‘Good idea.’

He’s always wanted a penknife, but Dad wouldn’t let him; said it’s too dangerous. Well, Dad’s not here anymore.

They call goodbye to Mum and set off along the garden path and onto the road, which is too narrow to have pavements, so they walk single-file near the hedge, facing oncoming traffic like they were taught.

‘Where are we going, then?’ asks Thomas, as they walk past the play park.

Maggie stops walking and grabs his arm. ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t tell you yet. I didn’t want your mum to hear, because she’d not let us go out if she knew.’

She pauses for dramatic effect and Thomas frowns. ‘We’re not building a den in the woods?’

Maggie jumps up and down with excitement, her heels bouncing off the pavement. ‘We don’t need to build a den, because there’s a whole den ready out in some trees, and no one goes there anymore.’

Maybe it’ll be a little tumbledown shed, like the one their Grandpa has on his allotment. It would be fun to have one like that of their own. Or a treehouse, that would be even better.

Thomas is getting excited. ‘We can hang posters and play noisy games with no grown-ups to tell us to keep the noise down. And maybe next summer when it’s warmer, we can have sleepovers out there and keep each other awake telling ghost stories! I hope the roof doesn’t leak. Grandpa’s shed roof does.’

Maggie shrugs. ‘Duncan told me about it. He said your Dad took him there once.’

A thrill of excitement; this is his Dad’s secret, too. They’ve never had a secret together before. He skips a little. ‘I can’t wait to tell him we’ve been there! I wonder how Dad found it.’ Thomas peers into the hedge alongside them, checking for creepy stuff. ‘This den’s not, like, haunted or anything? Where is it?’

‘In the woods, near the old asylum. The one that’s falling down. Properly hidden in the trees, though. Barely anyone knows it’s there anymore because everyone’s forgotten about it.’

‘Is it a shed?’

‘It’s an old caravan. Someone dumped it years ago.’

Thomas knows he should feel excited, but there’s a part of him deep in his stomach that feels afraid and hopes they don’t find it. It’s probably mouldy and damp. If they don’t find it then they can have fun exploring the woods, but they don’t actually have to go inside and get all dirty. And in the future, they can talk about that fun day they went looking for the caravan and didn’t find it, instead of talking about that time they found a caravan and Thomas didn’t want to go inside. Yeah, Thomas hopes they don’t find it.

He slows his steps a little and fiddles with the strap on the binoculars. They’re actually quite heavy. Maybe he could hide them in a hedge and pick them up on the way home.

‘What if someone’s living in it? It could be some homeless guy’s house or something.’

Maggie looks at him, wide-eyed. ‘That would be so cool.’

Thomas doesn’t say anything to that. He doesn’t think that would be cool.

‘Duncan says they used to play poker there, it was their gambling den. Some kids from his school used to go there but no one uses it anymore.’

‘Why not?’

Maggie looks at Thomas and purses her lips. ‘Probably because they’re too old and boring now.’

Thomas feels a gnawing, uncomfortable clenching in his gut, like when he’s on a long car journey and is worried he needs to pee. ‘Yeah, but why, though?

‘Doesn’t want to share the fun, I bet. He made me promise I’d never try to find it.’

Helen

Helen’s cutting cloves of garlic when the doorbell rings. Her fingers are sticky with residue.

‘Zoe, can you get that please?’ she calls up the stairs, where Zoe’s packing her bag to stay overnight at her Dad’s.

No answer.

‘Zoe? The door.’

Still no answer. Helen can hear Zoe wandering around, and the low thump of bass on her stereo, but either Zoe didn’t hear or she’s choosing to ignore her.

Helen rinses her hands and walks to the door while she dries them on a tea towel. She pulls open the front door. Tony’s standing on the step, his face yellow in the porch light.

‘You’re not my daughter,’ he says with a chuckle. He’s grinning; clearly he heard her shouting for Zoe. He’s teasing, but Helen’s not feeling jovial this evening. She steps aside to invite her ex-husband into the house. ‘She’s still packing her bag; you might have to wait a while.’

‘That’s not unexpected.’ He steps into the hall and picks up the ballet shoe, examining its stains with a curious look on his face. ‘I won’t ask.’

‘Alfie brought it home.’ She tells him about the Lune Hospital while Tony examines the shoe.

‘Sounds like your kind of project, cool architecture with a side of local history.’ Tony drops the shoe back onto the carpet. ‘Need to wash my hands now, though. Train your dog not to pick up rubbish.’

‘He’s untrainable,’ she jokes, and Alfie wags his tail as she ruffles his ears.

He rinses his hands in the downstairs loo and follows Helen into the living room, where he throws himself onto the sofa and puts his feet on the coffee table without removing his shoes. Helen winces but doesn’t say anything. Let Melanie whine about shoes on the coffee table in their own house.

For a moment, Helen feels light, more carefree. She doesn’t have to nag another adult about anything ever again if she doesn’t want to. Her only responsibilities are to herself and Zoe, no one else. It’s quite liberating, given enough distance from the pain of a divorce. And it did need four years of distance to really appreciate.

‘Fancy a glass of wine while you wait?’ she asks, waving her own glass of red at Tony through the doorway from the kitchen.

Tony gives her a thumbs up. ‘Just a little one; I’m driving.’

She hands him a glass and sits next to him on the sofa.

‘How are you doing?’ he says in that voice he reserves for friendly concern, as if she’s ill or someone’s died.

She can’t let him use that voice on her, not anymore. ‘Really great, thank you. Never better. Looking forward to a night in on my own, actually. I might open another bottle.’

He chuckles. ‘Good for you.’

‘How about you?’

‘I suspect we’ll have our hands full with the twins and Zoe all night. I think they’re dying to play some new game with her.’

Zoe enters the living room in a cloud of perfume, her hair backcombed and a huge amount of eyeliner on her lower lashes.

‘Hey, panda-eyes!’ teases Tony.

Zoe ignores his remark. ‘I can’t play with the twins tonight, I’m afraid. I have plans.’

Tony’s face falls, and he looks like a young man again, the young man Helen met years before. ‘But you’re coming over to ours to stay,’ he says firmly.

‘Well, no one asked me what my plans were. And I have plans already, so yes I’m sleeping at yours but I’m not staying in.’

Tony sits forward, lowering his feet onto the floor and setting down his wine glass where his heels were. ‘Yes, you are. We have a standing arrangement with Melanie and the twins.’

‘I’ll have dinner with you guys, but I’m going out later with my friends. It’s been arranged for ages.’ She sits in the armchair and pulls her denim skirt down her thighs to cover some skin.

Tony shakes his head and looks at Helen, his eyes pleading with her to fix this somehow.

Helen shrugs. This one’s Tony’s to fix; Helen has to battle with Zoe’s teenage strops most days, and now it’s his turn.

Tony stands up and drains his wine glass, grabbing his car keys off the table. ‘Come on, then. You’re at least having dinner with the family before you go anywhere.’

‘That’s fine,’ states Zoe. She stands, pulling down her skirt again and shouldering her backpack.

‘Did you bring clothes for college tomorrow?’ asks Helen. ‘Wouldn’t want you to have to wear that outfit in class.’

‘Yes, Mum.’ Zoe leans down and kisses Helen on the cheek.

‘Bye, love you,’ calls Helen as Zoe head out of the door. ‘Be careful, Zoe, okay?’ she calls, remembering that newspaper article. Outside, there’s a slam as Zoe gets in the car and closes the door behind her. Through the passenger window, Helen can see Zoe’s face lit up blue by the light on her phone as her thumbs tap on the screen to share the injustice of being a teenager.

Tony turns around and frowns at Helen, rolling his eyes slightly.

‘Find out where she’s going and who with before you let her go anywhere. And make her wear jeans if you can.’

Tony salutes and follows Zoe out of the house.

The front door closes behind them and the house is quiet. Helen glances at Alfie, who’s on his bed looking at her, his head resting on his paws.

‘Peace at last, Alf.’

Him

‘Petra?’ he whispers. No response.

He stops in the hall, silent, listening. Nothing. He moves down the darkened corridor, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards. The kitchen is dark, blinds drawn against the daylight, a plate waiting to be washed by the sink.

Even though he didn’t choose it himself, this house is ideal for his purposes: at the end of a quiet street where everyone is too concerned with what others think of them to notice what is actually happening around them.

It was his childhood house, where he learned to be the person he is now, under the firm guiding hand of his mother. For him, it is the place where he sleeps, the place where he stores his belongings, but it is not his home. She had an inkling of the full depths of who he is, he suspects. Enough to teach him how to hide it, to use it. She showed him how to keep his intense anger inside, to store it and channel its power for useful purposes. He will always be grateful to her for the lessons she taught him, even though the process of learning was painful.

He has lived alone since his mother departed. The mere thought of sharing his space with another makes him shiver. But Petra is different.

He opens the back door, stepping out into the garden. It’s a small patch of grass bordered by high wooden fences on either side, with man-height hedges to block out the neighbours.

‘Petra?’ He hears a bell tinkling and a muffled mew. Petra emerges from under one of the bushes, her tail upright, mouth stuffed full of something furry. She meows again. He is always surprised by how loudly Petra can call while her mouth is full. She’s a beautiful cat, larger than a normal tabby. She looks more like a miniature leopard than a domesticated feline. She drops her prize at his feet.

Petra has caught a vole. It tries to scuttle away, dragging a broken leg. Its black eyes shine with fear. She’s clearly been playing with it for some time. Domestic cats can play with an injured animal for hours before killing them.

Petra reaches out with her paw, pinning the creature to the patio. She looks up at him, seeking approval.

He understands feline emotions, they’re so legible. He moves his features into a smile, sure the cat can read his expression too. He reaches down to stroke Petra’s neck, behind her ears. She pushes against his hand, brushing his palm with her whiskers, acknowledging his superiority.

‘Good girl, you’ve brought home a plaything for us.’ He settles on the step, leaning against the doorframe. There’s going to be a nice little performance. Petra likes to play with her food.

The cat lies down, tucking her front legs underneath her and smothering the vole. She can probably feel it wriggling under her chest. He imagines the cat’s satisfaction at feeling the creature’s futile twitches; the mastery of knowing there is no way she can be thwarted.

Petra watches him, her steady gaze trained on the human’s, eye to eye. He respects this cat more than any human. She knows her own mind, asks for nothing, does whatever she wants, and causes destruction without the encumbrance of remorse. Remorse is a waste of time. It’s a weakness, a pointless construction of the inferior brain. The big cats feel no remorse; you don’t see a lion apologising to the disembowelled zebra, crying over its bloodied corpse. No. The lion is a survivor, fighting to get what it needs and consuming where it can.

One could argue that the domestic cat is an unnecessary killer: with a bowl full of cat food on their owner’s kitchen floor, why do they slaughter unsuspecting and undefended rodents and birds? Why torture them before they put them to death? But he understands and respects that. It’s entertainment. Instinct. Desire. And all without remorse.

Petra digs her claws into the fur of the vole, tossing its broken body into the air. It lands on the concrete with a small thump. The helpless creature tries to get away, but now both of its rear legs are broken and it drags the back half of its body behind it along the patio. Petra watches the painful progress, letting the vole believe it has a chance of escape. She follows slowly, legs retracted into her body, muscles taut, stomach and head close to the ground. A little killing machine.

He leans forward, hands on his knees. There’s a delicate trail of blood spotted across the flagstones, and Petra releases the vole for long enough for him to see that the small intestine is hanging out of a gash in the abdomen. Nice work, cat. The vole lies on its side, belly heaving with its last breaths. Its eyes still sparkle. He stands up and walks over to the creature.

‘My turn,’ he says to Petra. The cat steps back to watch. She respects her master.

He steps forward, placing the toe of his boot on the vole’s head. Transferring his weight into his right leg, he prepares to press down on the skull, anticipating the crunch through the sole of his boot.

The vole’s whiskers shudder, nose still sniffing the air in its last moments. Its eyelid twitches, its black eye shines. If he moves closer, he would see his own face reflected back at him in that vole’s eye. He’d see the grimace on his face as he took its life.

The muscle in his thigh flexes and he’s ready to stomp, to crush the bones.

He sucks in air through his teeth with a hiss. ‘No.’

Something stops him at the last moment. He lifts his foot off the creature and stands, hands on hips, staring out into the garden, the grass high and waving in the breeze.

He nods at Petra and leaves her with the vole, still shivering on the patio. Let nature take its course today.

There’s no time to waste; it’s time to make some plans. He needs to get the wheels turning faster on his next victim. Years of waiting; years of biting his tongue, doing as he’s told. The meek good-boy who never put a foot wrong. A servant.

***

He enters the house through the patio and gathers two surgical gloves from the kitchen cupboard where he keeps his cleaning supplies. He pulls them over his hands and flexes his fingers until the fit is snug. From his bag he removes his most recent plunder: a stolen baseball cap and woollen gloves. He lays them out on the kitchen table, the clean oak his mother used to polish every Sunday.

Next, he picks up one of the gloves, pinched between his thumb and forefinger as if it’s poisoned. He pulls it over his surgically-gloved hand, testing the fit. They’re slightly large on him, which is fine – better that he can wear the surgical gloves underneath: uncontaminated DNA can mingle with the blood of victims to produce the perfect frame.

Inside the hat, loose hairs and skin cells hide in the folds of the material. He sits for a moment, staring at the ring of dried sweat and the back of the embroidered letters inside. Then: an idea. He climbs the stairs and opens the door to his mother’s bedroom.

The air smells of her talcum powder and Chanel No. 5 perfume, which he still sprays into the air every month or so when the scent starts to fade. Everything is as she left it when she went to hospital and never came home again: the chintz bedclothes are perfectly smooth, with one cushion positioned in the centre of two pillows. The dressing table is framed by a row of her ‘lotions and potions’, as she called them: face moisturiser, night cream, serum, face powder, and many other creams, powders and gels of unknown purpose.

He sits at the dressing table, where his mother sat for hours as she rolled curlers in her hair or wrapped it around tongs for a night out. She was glamorous in her youth; she knew she was beautiful, and she liked to attract men to her ‘like bees around a honeypot’; another one of her little phrases.

She liked to entice men and see what she could get from them, how far they’d go to win her favour. Her son was no exception. She was proud of how men strove to impress her; she played a game to win their hearts and then stomp on them. A game that she showed her son how to play, on a different scale.

She liked to toy with men’s hearts – particularly those who were easily won and easily hurt. She liked those who didn’t question what she wanted from them: the ones less clever than the rest, or those who thought that attractive women owed them attention. She taught him not to push, not to question her, to give her the respect she deserved.

His fingers stray to the raised scar on his left forearm, the white circular burn, like a button to push when he wants to remember. He still loves her, even now. Misses her presence around the house, even though part of him sighs with relief every time he returns home and remembers that she’s no longer here. That she can’t hurt him now.

She taught him well, although she was a brutal teacher. His own methods take his mother’s approach one step further. He likes those who are easily tricked, enticed away from their friends, into a car, down the dark alley. They deserve to be taught a lesson. They shouldn’t be so stupid. They should sense the danger in him because it leaks from his every pore: if he can feel it, why can’t they? They deserve their fate, just like his mother’s men deserved to be cheated out of whatever they would give her.

He picks up the lotions and potions, feeling the weight of the pots and the cut-glass bottles. His mother’s hands once held those jars too, not so many years ago. No one else has touched these objects. Just him. He’s careful, placing them back in the exact position, lining up the edges where the ring of dust begins. He was a careless child once. He’s not careless anymore. The silver scars threading across his palms tell the story of a boy forced to pick up the jagged shards of anything he broke. But he’s not angry. He’s grateful.

He opens the top drawer, where her silken undergarments are laid out in folded rows. Pinks, creams, light blues – all pastel colours. No black or red; his mother wasn’t a whore.

He reaches to the back and finds what he knows is there: a pair of sheer stockings in a light colour, like skin.

It seems a shame to take them from his mother’s drawers, as if his collection will be incomplete now. He shakes his head. His mother has no use for a pair of stockings now, and she would understand.

Staring at his reflection in the dressing table mirror, he pulls the end of the stocking over his scalp, making a tight hat from the material. There. Now he’s protected from the baseball cap and the flakes of someone else’s skin and dried sweat. He ties a knot into the leg of the stocking and cuts off the remaining fabric with Mother’s nail scissors. Then he pulls the hat onto his head, tucking the stocking away and out of sight.

In the mirror, he doesn’t look like himself anymore.

‘Hi,’ he says to himself in the mirror. He smiles a little, practicing a friendly, open expression. He lifts his eyebrows up from their usual hooded frown. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Then again, it never has. Even in the old school photos stacked in the dresser drawer, never hung on the walls. She wasn’t like other mothers, with school portraits on proud display. They weren’t a normal family, inside their house with the doors closed and curtains drawn. Even then, he was pretending to be normal to the outside world, just like now.

He nods at himself in the mirror, smiles once more. His teeth look nice and white. ‘Nice to meet you.’

His voice seems to echo, even though the room is furnished and carpeted. It’s been a long time since someone spoke out loud in here.

‘Okay’ he says to himself. ‘Tonight, we’ll go out and paint the town red.’

Anonymous: How to get away with murder

By Urban Dark Reporter

Anonymous contributor claims to advise readers on the best techniques for committing horrible crimes*

* Editor’s note: This article is for entertainment purposes only; Urban Dark Reporter accepts no responsibility for any harm caused by following the directions outlined below.

Inspired by Leonard McVitie’s lesson plan (check back in a few days and all will be revealed), here’s an imagined syllabus for a willing pupil:

Location, Location, Location

Find a location with no connection to you; remote with no danger of being overheard. Your prey can run away, but you’ll soon catch them nearby with no witnesses. If you’re indoors, ensure it’s easy to hose down, and be ready to abandon it if it’s compromised.

Frame someone else

Plan in advance: select an unwitting person and plant evidence throughout their life. Sow seeds of doubt in the minds of their loved ones, charm their wives and children, go for dinner, and all the time, remove things and leave things behind. Steal their underwear, the hair from their hairbrush, their soiled clothes. Secrete tokens from your victims in a place they won’t be found until a police search, even a box of trophies if you can bear to part with it. They’ll be hard to leave behind but you will always know where they are.

Choose your victims

The ideal prey won’t be missed. However, children are easy to grab and transport, and most of them follow instruction from adults. Adult males are available and incautious, often putting themselves in risky situations. Teenage girls won’t fight, and often don’t recognise a threat until it’s too late. And they can’t take their booze. Adult women are a viable target but you must ensure vulnerability and lack of self-defence skill. Avoid fat ones of any demographic. They’re hard to transport, difficult to undress and disposing of their bodies is annoying.

Destroy all the evidence

If there’s no body to find, there’s no murder investigation. After death, a body is a big sack of meat between 5 and 6 feet long, and it is difficult to transport. Transport to the kill site while still alive. After death, chop it up into small pieces. Do that naked if you can: clothing fibres get everywhere. Work fast before it starts to smell.

Don’t get caught

The most admirable hunters were never caught: Zodiac, Jack the Ripper, Gilgo Beach Killer. But even better are the ones we don’t know about: who covered their tracks so well that no one realises there’s a serial killer at work. In my town, there’s no police investigation. No missing persons posters. No one looks for my victims, because no one knows they’re even missing. Clean up your mess and leave no trace.

A clean getaway

Be ready to abandon your life as soon as your crimes are discovered. Waste no time. If you have followed my instructions then you, too, can flee without repercussions.

Comments:

1488-HH: LOL avoid the fatties. That’s some advice everyone should take in all situations

OGmagus: This is DARK. Has anyone called the police on this guy?

DDT: This is disgusting and should be taken down immediately. I used to come to this site for the interesting snippets of ‘little-known’ Lancashire history, but this post proves that this site has gone to the dogs. You’re going to lose a lot of readers over this.

Phoneguy: I have several books on hiding evidence. While all of them have useful ideas, guidance on outdoor, structural, and away-from-home hiding places is always the most useful. You simply must have some carpentry experience and a lot of patience.

Rogersmith52: I suspect you’re talking about publications from Paladin Press? Interesting yes, but not well written. In many cases they’ve deliberately withheld information to prevent being liable for readers’ crimes. Defeats the purpose, surely?

420blaze: So how do you get rid of a body though? Like … meat grinder? Wood chipper? It’s all very well telling us to get rid of it, but I need some concrete tips here. And wait though, if you do it naked doesn’t that mean you leave skin flakes and pubes and stuff?

Urbandarkreporter: The police may not be looking for you, but we are.

Combaticus: Unsubscribed. This website needs to be shut down.

Zoe

‘Mum’ll say I need to know where you’re going tonight and who with,’ says Dad.

Zoe’s phone vibrates in her jeans pocket, but she can’t check it easily, not without Dad getting pissed off. She glances at the clock on the wall above the oven, a giant train-station-style clock that she knows Melanie probably bought in TK Maxx thinking it looked real classy. Wrong.

‘You can call her Helen, Dad. I’ll know who you’re talking about.’

It’s nearly seven, and Dane said he’d pick her up about ten-past. Maybe that’s why her phone is buzzing; maybe he’s outside, waiting for her. She jiggles her leg under the table, jiggle jiggle jiggle. It gets some nervous energy out, but also she read in a magazine that it helps you lose weight if you’re always fidgeting. Maybe if she jiggles her leg enough she can burn off the milkshake she had with Abbie today when they should have been in IT class. Abbie had wanted to talk to her about something, but they got distracted by a comment from Abbie’s most recent Instagram stalker.

Melanie sees her looking at the clock and smiles at her. Zoe doesn’t smile back. Mel doesn’t notice, she’s already too busy trying to get Bennie to eat a chicken nugget. He won’t open his mouth and keeps turning his head away and shouting ‘noooo’. It’s quite funny to watch.

Dad cuts a piece of chicken nugget and offers it to Lucy, who opens her mouth straight away because she’s never said ‘no’ to a morsel of food in all three years of her life. Bennie wriggles off his chair, trying to climb down. ‘No, baby. It’s dinner time,’ Melanie begs her son. ‘You still need to eat. Just one nuggie.’

Zoe winces at ‘nuggie’.

‘So?’ says Dad.

‘Oh, the pub. With some friends.’

‘And Dane?’

She nods.

‘How old is he again?’

‘Fifty-seven.’

Melanie looks up at Zoe, eyes wide, and then quickly gives Tony a sharp look as if to say ‘and you’re alright with this?’

Zoe suppresses a grin.

Tony shakes his head and pats Melanie’s free hand. ‘And how old is he really?’ he says in a calm voice.

Zoe laughs. ‘Twenty-four. Same age gap as you and Mum had. And you guys were really happy for years.’ She sneaks a glance across the table, but Melanie doesn’t react.

He nods. ‘Which pub?’

‘None of the bad ones,’ says Zoe. Having a former police officer for a Dad has some advantages and some disadvantages. She knows which rough places to avoid, but she also knows he hates her going out drinking when she’s still underage. Him and Mum did it when they were the same age though, so he can’t say much.

‘Don’t go to the Phoenix. There’s some really rough types drink in there.’

‘Ew, that’s a smelly old man pub anyway.’

‘Be back by ten.’

Zoe opens her mouth wide in shock. She’s gutted. She needs to stay out as late as Abbie, otherwise she’ll have to leave Abbie and Dane alone in the pub. ‘Abbie gets to stay out as late as she likes.’

‘You’re not Abbie.’

Even though Abbie insists she doesn’t fancy Dane and is back with Max, she probably wouldn’t say no if she got the chance. Abbie’s the kind of best friend that’s really fun, but you wouldn’t pick her as your first choice for help in a life-or-death situation. Or go to her for advice. She’d ditch you in a second. Only a good friend for a fun situation.

Zoe can feel her face getting hot. She jiggles her leg some more and the table wobbles. ‘Come on, Dad. This isn’t fair. It’s better if we stay in a group instead of all separating anyway.’ She’s quite proud of that point.

‘Okay, half ten, then. You’ve got college tomorrow, mate.’

‘Not your mate.’ Zoe’s phone vibrates again in her pocket. There’s a text from Dane, from ten minutes ago: ‘I’m outside’, and another from just now: ‘You coming? Or shall I go without you?’

Her heart sinks. She shoves down the last couple of mouthfuls of food, grabs her handbag and rushes out of the door, calling ‘bye’ over her shoulder.

The air smells of bonfires. A sudden gust of wind grabs at a kite caught in their silver birch, the kite’s white tails flapping against the greying sky like they’re begging for rescue.

Dane’s waiting on the drive in his old Mercedes, playing weird jazz music on the stereo that she has to pretend she likes so he thinks she’s cool.

‘Took you long enough,’ he says as she gets into the car, slamming the door hard behind her.

Zoe ignores him and slides into the bucket seat. Dane inherited the old car from his Grandpa, and he’s absurdly proud of it. He waxes and polishes it once a week, and watches loads of YouTube videos about car maintenance. To Zoe it’s just an old car with a funny smell inside and a tendency to struggle climbing steep hills without a jerky gear change halfway up.

She leans across and kisses Dane on the mouth, but he doesn’t respond straight away. She pulls back, stung. ‘Fine,’ she says, folding her arms.

‘I’ve been waiting for ages,’ he says.

‘You were early.’ She shrugs. Tonight isn’t starting off well. ‘Sorry, okay? I can’t help it if I have to justify all my actions to my Dad before I go anywhere. He even made me get changed.’ She points at her jeans. ‘I’m lucky to get out at all, really.’

‘I nearly left without you.’

‘Why are you so desperate to get to the pub anyway? It’s only Abbie and that lot.’ She watches his face carefully when she says her friend’s name, but he doesn’t react.

Dane sighs. ‘I don’t like waiting around. And I’m not used to parents like yours anymore: it’s been a while since my mum cared about stuff like that.’

‘Coz you’re old,’ Zoe jokes.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He starts the car and checks his mirrors. ‘It’s nice that your mum and dad worry about you.’

She kisses him on the cheek and he smiles as he pulls into the road.

She wants tonight to be fun, for her friends to be at their best, and for Dane to see her surrounded by people who like her and think she’s cool.

‘Who else is going?’ asks Dane, his tone friendlier now he’s made it clear he was irritated. He’s kind really, and a sulk never lasts long.

Zoe looks out of the window, watching the dark outline of hedges pass by the car as they whiz through the countryside into town.

‘Who’s going … erm. Well, Abbie and Max—’

‘Back together?’

‘Yep, for now.’ She puts on a light-hearted voice. ‘Oh and watch out for Abbie; she likes older men. Like you.’ She laughs and gives him a playful poke, hoping he’ll tell her that she has nothing to worry about, that Abbie’s dull, that Zoe’s perfect.

Dane doesn’t respond to the bait. He’s met Abbie before, but not Abbie’s long-suffering boyfriend Max. Dane actually met Abbie before he met Zoe; Abbie was the one who introduced them to each other. Abbie likes to joke that she would have got together with Dane first if she hadn’t been back together with Max in an ‘on again’ section of their ‘on again, off again’ relationship. Zoe doesn’t think that’s a funny joke.

‘And we invited Phil and Freya, but I don’t know if they’re coming. If Phil’s there then Freya probably will be, too.’

‘Which pub are we going to?’ asks Dane.

Lancaster is small for a city, but there are a lot of pubs. Some good, some bad. There are some cool student bars but they are the ones most likely to ask for ID, and it’s another few months until Zoe turns 18. Most are ‘old man pubs’ with sticky patterned carpets and a betting machine in the corner flashing its lights. Some are rough like the Phoenix, with frequent fights and a bouncer on the door even on a Tuesday night. Zoe’s friends don’t go to those pubs; they go to the pubs that don’t check your age, the ones which accept the fake IDs Max buys on the dark web for a tenner.

‘We’re meeting at Richard the Lionheart, but we might go somewhere else once everyone’s there. Max likes their pool tables.’

Dane nods. Zoe thinks he’ll get on well with Max. She hopes so: if the two guys become friends, then Dane won’t flirt back if Abbie tries anything. Not that she would in front of Max. Zoe hopes.

She reaches out to hold Dane’s hand, but he only gives her fingers a squeeze and then lets go, resting his hand back on the gearstick. Zoe puts her hand back on her lap and looks out of the window.

Dane slows the car as they pass some children walking down the lane.

‘Stupid kids,’ he mumbles, skirting the dark silhouettes walking along the verge. ‘What are they doing out here in the middle of nowhere?’

Zoe leans forward, peering into the dusk. It’s a boy and a girl, about 10 or 11, wandering along the road in the dark. ‘I can barely see them. They should have a torch or something.’

Dane passes them and speeds up again once they’re clear. Zoe turns in her seat to look back at them, watching them grow smaller in the back window until the car drops into a dip and they disappear out of sight. Where are they going, she wonders? There’s nothing along this road – no houses. And no pavement. She shakes her head slightly and turns back to face forward.

‘They’re gonna get killed.’

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