The killer inside them, p.1
The Killer Inside Them, page 1
THE KILLER INSIDE THEM
A. S. FRENCH
NEONOIR BOOKS
Copyright © 2022 by A. S. French
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, businesses, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ALSO BY A. S. FRENCH
Crime Fiction and Thrillers
* * *
The Astrid Snow series
Book one: Don’t Fear the Reaper.
Book two: The Killing Moon.
Book three: Lost in America.
Book four: Gone to Texas
* * *
The Detective Jen Flowers series
Book one: The Hashtag Killer.
Book two: Serial Killer.
Book three: Night Killer.
Book four: The Killer Inside Them
* * *
Northern Crime Fiction
Where The Bodies Are Buried
* * *
Crime Short Stories
Call Me: An Astrid Snow Short Story
Dark Snow: An Astrid Snow Short Story
* * *
Writing as Andrew. S. French
* * *
Science Fiction
The Time Traveller’s Murder
* * *
The Arcane Supernatural Thriller Series
Book one: The Arcane.
Book two: The Arcane Identity.
* * *
The Ella Finn Fantasy Novella Series
Ella and the Elementals
Ella and the Multiverse
Ella and the Monsters
Ella and the Dreamers
* * *
Supernatural Short Stories
Dead Souls.
Go to www.andrewsfrench.com for more information.
CONTENTS
1. Pandora: The Rescue
2. Jen: The Game
3. Pandora: The Hospital
4. Jen: The Hospital
5. Pandora: The Date
6. Jen: The Memories
7. Pandora: The Prison
8. Jen: The Mother
9. Pandora: The Redemption
10. Jen: The Fire
11. Pandora: The Aftermath
12. Jen: The Husband
13. Pandora: The Job
14. Jen: The Bridge
15. Pandora: The Party
16. Jen: The Psychologist
17. Pandora: The Journalist
18. Jen: The Reunion
19. Pandora: The Rebirth
20. Jen: The Pub
21. Pandora: The Notebook
22. Jen: The Flat
23. Pandora: The Celebration
24. Jen: The Attack
25. Pandora: The Reports
26. Jen: The Detour
27. Pandora: The Bus
28. Jen: The Family
29. Pandora: The Noise
30. Jen: The Basement
31. Pandora: The Friend
32. Jen: The Reports
33. Pandora: The Truth
34. Jen: The Past
35. Jen: The Money
36. Pandora: The Reunion
37. Jen: The Blood
38. Pandora: The Beauty
39. Jen: The End
Thank You!
About the Author
1 PANDORA: THE RESCUE
I knew before the weekend was over, I’d kill someone.
However, today was different. I saved a life. It was ten years too late, but it happened.
Exhaust fumes filled the air and my lungs as the pensioner stood frozen in the middle of the road. A flock of seagulls squawked above him as I gripped the lamppost, the metal chilling my skin. There were others around me, London’s Saturday morning shoppers and tourists, but they only stared at him.
The old man resembled a tree in a petrified forest. A wrinkled face peered out from under the brim of a black hat, his eyes heavily lidded and weighed down by the dark lines covering his skin. He was stooped over, shopping bags in both hands as if he was a living sculpture by Anthony Gormley.
It wasn’t the sea heading straight for him, but a motorbike going at full tilt, one of those that delivered barely edible food which was cold before you got it. But not as cold as the old man. His skin chilled my hand as I leapt into the middle of the road and dragged him away. The tyres screamed as the bike missed me by inches, or so I thought until I sat both of us down. Just below my knee, the trouser was torn and dark red. I touched it and my fingers came away wet. Something unpleasant surged up that leg, but I ignored it and phoned for an ambulance. I couldn’t tell if he was in shock or suffering a heart attack, but his eyes were glazed over and he was unmoving.
One of the bags tumbled over, spilling fresh fruit and rotten vegetables over the pavement. The smell of decomposing carrots assaulted my nose while people strolled by without a care in the world. I glanced up to see the takeaway driver stuck at a red light, his helmeted head aimed at us as he waved his fist. If my leg hadn’t felt like it was in a microwave, I might have chased after him.
‘Are you okay?’ The old man didn’t respond. ‘Can you hear me?’
I took his hand in mine, checking to see if there was a pulse. It was there, but very faint. There was a scar on his cheek that looked as if he’d tried to shave that day and the blade had refused to cut through the leather of his skin. I gazed into his pale blue eyes, seeing an echo of my father there, of how he was before the memories went and he forgot to feed himself.
As we waited for the ambulance, he told me his name was Tommy. We spent the time getting to know each other, though I did all the talking. I continued to grip his hand, hoping some human contact and the sound of my voice would keep him stable and bring him out of his inertia.
‘I’m Pandora and I grew up around here.’
I glanced at our surroundings, staring at all the things I didn’t recognise, all the new buildings and shops which had sprung up while I was away. I was the only person with my head held high; everyone else was bent over, gazing into digital devices and oblivious to the world. Headphones dangled from their ears; they preferred listening to electronic voices rather than actual ones, choosing recorded sounds over what was in the air. Still, you either forget everything or remember everything with the right music.
I didn’t blame them. There is comfort in finding connections through technology, especially if you don’t have any in the real world. I was thinking about what I’d lost when the old man squeezed my hand. His lips trembled as he spoke, only moving on one side of his face.
‘What happened?’
‘You had an accident. The ambulance will take you to the hospital.’ It had pulled up next to us, its flashing lights hurting my eyes. He gripped my fingers again, finding a strength I’d thought beyond him a second ago.
‘You won’t leave me, will you?’
Daggers stabbed at my heart when I recognised the fear in his face.
‘Where are your family and friends?’
A sheen of grey clouded his eyes. ‘I don’t have anyone. They’re all gone.’
Many things separated us. Gender, upbringing, circumstance and at least forty years of experience, but we shared that one thing. We were solitary humans, not by choice, but by chance. He lifted a trembling arm and put it around me as the paramedics approached. One guided him to the ambulance while the other spoke to me.
‘Are you a relative?’ What could I say? Not by blood, but something else had bonded us. ‘If you are, you can go with him.’ He noticed my wound before I could reply. ‘What happened here?’
‘A motorbike clipped me when I dragged the old man from the road.’
‘You better come with us anyway.’
I didn’t argue. It was the first bit of company I’d had in a week.
My knee creaked as I climbed into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics strapped the pensioner into a seat and checked him over. They asked him questions, which he mumbled answers to while he peered at me. His lips shook as he mouthed those words again.
Please don’t leave me.
‘I won’t,’ I said, knowing it was a lie.
He’d closed his eyes by the time we got to the hospital. Even so, he reached out a trembling hand to me. I took it as the paramedics led us inside the building.
‘Help me,’ he whispered as they wheeled him into a ward.
But how could I help him when I couldn’t help myself?
2 JEN: THE GAME
The screaming wounded my brain. I’m sure it had nothing to do with my hangover.
The screams increased, so loud they drowned out the thump of the rain bouncing off my head, the air so cold it hurt my teeth. The weather forecast was a brisk but sunny day, but I should have known better for early September in England. I also should have worn a raincoat or brought my brolly. Only I didn’t own an umbrella, and I wanted to show off my new jacket.
God knows why, though. I dragged my head up from staring at the ground and the soup of mud washing over my shoes. The air stank of dead meat drifting off an unseen burger van. The shouting grew more boisterous, coming from a horde of men and women here to watch their little darlings hoofing a football in the downpour.
I appeared to be the only one aware of the horrendous conditions, guessing it was because the rest of them were more invested in their children’s sporting endeavours. The rain seeped into my face as I wiped it from my eyes, searching for Abbey on the pitch closest to me – six games were going on simultaneously – struggling to find her in a sea of teenage legs and excitement.
She’d surprised me several times over the last two years, but I thought she was joking when she said she’d joined the girls’ school football team. I realised she was serious when she spent her pocket money on a pair of football boots, but I assumed she was going through her usual short-term obsession with one thing before moving on to another. Music had been that fixation now for six months and she took it seriously, writing songs with her best friend Francine and practising with their band three nights a week. I didn’t mind about the mess they left everywhere or how their tunes had upset the cat so much, she’d started leaving little bundles of shit around the house. I even liked some of their music. Abbey appeared dedicated to it, recording stuff on the computer and uploading it to various websites. The online interactions made me nervous, but I understood it was part of the process. It wasn’t affecting her schoolwork; it had sparked a new impetus in Abbey to do well in her subjects, so I was happy to let her continue her musical obsession.
Yet I was a little startled to think she might give all of that up for football, though also glad because I was worried about her getting involved in the music business full time as she grew older. But when she told me she was continuing with the band and playing for the team, my concern was different.
‘How will you do all that, love, and keep up with your schoolwork?’
She brushed off the question with a wave of her hand.
‘Oh, Mum, you worry if I don’t have hobbies, and then you fret if I do.’
So here I was on a wet and windy Saturday morning, watching the game and trying to remember what I knew about football, while all around me, the other adults were acting as if it was the World Cup Final.
A woman shouted so loudly next to me, I thought she was crawling into my ear. The rain increased, sweeping across my face as I stared at the harpy, her teeth promising to leap from her mouth as she bawled at the girls attempting to kick the ball through the mud. Perhaps she was the team’s manager, but it seemed more likely she was a parent. I glared at her through the downpour, but she ignored me.
I turned from her and focused on the pitch, searching for Abbey and finding her sliding towards me. I thought she was leaving the game for a second until she took the ball from an opponent and sprinted for the opposition goal. She skimmed past two players and thudded the ball into the top corner of the net; my mouth was so wide it was like a fleshly bucket catching the rain. I spat into the grass and shouted with the rest of the crowd, all apart from the noisy woman next to me who had a face borrowed from a cadaver. I guessed she was supporting the other team.
‘Abbey’s the best player here by a country mile.’
I turned to my side to see Francine, my daughter’s best friend and the other half in the two girl musical combo Abbey fronted. She was dressed tip to toe in black, a singular dark presence in this terrible weather. There was more makeup on her face than usual, a sludge of Stygian charcoal so thick, even the rain couldn’t make a dent in it. A hood covered her head, I guessed not just to hold off the downpour, but because she was embarrassed by her alopecia.
‘I thought you were on the team, Francine.’
Earlier in the year, she’d wanted to be called Ladybird, but she seemed to have forgotten about the name change. She pulled her top closer to her eyes, obscuring the one closest to me as if wanting to hide her face.
‘Something came up at home, Ms Flowers, so I had to miss this game.’ She glanced at the team, watching them control the ball in difficult conditions. ‘It looks like they’re doing okay without me.’
‘What position do you play?’ I knew Abbey was a striker because she’d spent all the car ride telling me.
‘I’m the number ten who plays off Abbey, like Lionel Messi.’
I nodded, vaguely knowing who that was. The shouty woman had inched towards me, listening to our conversation. I stared into her agitated eyes.
‘Can I help you?’
She pointed at Abbey on the pitch. ‘Is she yours?’
Her voice shook as she made it sound like I’d purchased Abbey from a slave market.
‘She’s my daughter, if that’s what you mean?’
‘How old is she?’ Her hand trembled as if strangling an invisible rabbit. ‘She looks about eighteen, and these kids are all supposed to be under sixteen.’
Abbey was fifteen, but I could see what the woman meant. Looking at my daughter as she defied the conditions and glided across the muddy pitch like a gazelle, I realised she’d grown a lot in the last few months, gaining a few inches in height and confidence in her manner, so she appeared more of a young woman than a girl.
‘She’s under sixteen.’ As I spoke, Abbey scored another goal. ‘I guess she’s just better than the other girls.’
I tried not to smile, but couldn’t help myself. The woman swore under her breath and turned from me.
‘Are you upsetting people again, Jen?’
A familiar voice spoke at my side. I kept my gaze on the game as I replied.
‘I didn’t know you liked school football, Detective Inspector Monroe.’
My partner touched my shoulder, his fingers protected by a stylish glove.
‘I go where the wind takes me.’
I turned to face him. ‘I’m surprised you’re not halfway down the Thames in this weather.’
He removed his hand and shook the water from the leather. ‘Abbey told me she was playing today and I promised I wouldn’t miss it.’ He stared at the game. ‘It seems like she’s the star player as well.’
I nodded as the rain stopped and the halftime whistle went.
‘Is there somewhere to get something warm to eat and drink?’
‘Of course. I know the best pie and Bovril place in London, and it’s five minutes from here. Shall we go?’
I didn’t need asking twice. Jack led me away as I left Francine to join her teammates as they dried out in one of the changing rooms. We trudged through the mud towards a mobile food van and joined the small queue. Two minutes later, we were served and I was warming my hands on a hot drink. As I did so, a commotion centred around a group of six people striding into the field.
I nodded at the hubbub. ‘Do you think they’re gangsters?’
He laughed in between slurping at his Bovril.
‘Don’t you know who that is?’
I shook my head. ‘Should I?’
‘Then I’ll enlighten you, DI Flowers. The tall bloke in his fifties with the lean, chiselled cheeks, dimpled chin, steel-blue eyes, distinguished grey hair and permanent smile is Robert Randolph.’
I stared across at the man, watching as he signed autographs for a bunch of over-excited adults.
‘I still don’t know who he is.’
Jack finished his coffee and dropped the empty cup into a bin.
‘He formed a tech company twenty years ago, and now he’s a multi-millionaire.’
‘Who’s the woman with him?’ She seemed a lot younger than Randolph and looked like she’d just come from a shopping trip at Harrods.
