《With Time to Kill》


 Chapter One

    Something incredible happened to Garry Plumb last summer. For the first time in his life, he made a friend and it changed everything.


    Up until the first half of last year ¨C stretching back all twenty-eight years of his existence ¨C Garry had failed to connect with a single other human being, something everyone else seemed to be able to achieve without effort.


    He was the kind of man who would go unnoticed in a busy caf¨¦, bar or even a small meeting room; the sort of presence waves of people would course around without acknowledging.


    He wasn¡¯t odd to any great extreme. Sure, he liked computers a bit more than the average man his age, but numbers and algorithms were his job. Besides, throughout his life he watched on as others like him, and even those further along the nerd scale, found kindred spirits, both in the platonic sense as well as romantic.


    Garry also wasn¡¯t repulsive. Although he hunched, he stood at five-feet-ten ¨C pretty average for an adult male in Scotland. He walked most places and while he was a little softer around the middle than he would have liked, he wasn¡¯t overweight and he kept good personal hygiene.


    Location wasn¡¯t the issue either. He¡¯d grown up in the town of Falkirk, surrounded by 160,000 other individuals trying to find their way in the world. He wasn¡¯t confined to some rural outpost hours away from civilisation. His school classes averaged thirty-six kids and with each new school year and each new group of classmates, he saw an opportunity to wipe the slate clean. Start over.


    He would spend the intervening summers subtly reinventing himself in the belief that this year would be the year he made a friend, but those hopes did not materialise.


    Later in life, he moved to Scotland¡¯s capital city of Edinburgh where he jostled for position amongst half-a-million connection-seeking humans, and worked in close quarters with twenty-five of them.


    Those who¡¯d encountered Garry prior to last year¡¯s summer described him with words like ¡®shy¡¯, ¡®meek¡¯, ¡®timid¡¯. The word they really meant but wouldn¡¯t want to say because humans are generally good, was ¡®uninteresting¡¯.


    At a young age Garry became aware that others viewed him this way and, in one of his many attempts to offset his inability to impress, he adopted the name ¡®Garry¡¯. On his birth certificate, he was an average single-r ¨C Gary Alan Plumb ¨C but since leaving home, everything he signed declared him as the marginally less common and, in his mind, more quirky ¡®Garry¡¯.


    It didn¡¯t change anything. Of course it didn¡¯t.


    Nor did the night classes he¡¯d dragged himself to in his early twenties in an effort to develop common interests with those who coasted by him in his daily life. Ballroom dancing was a poor choice ¨C it was difficult to display a reverse fleckerl or a cross-body lead when the thought of dancing a Viennese Waltz with him didn¡¯t even factor in the mind of a potential partner outside of the class. Inside the class, Garry was ¨C without exception across each one of the fourteen sessions he slogged through ¨C left to dance with the instructor, Jaime.


    Amateur dramatics was just as disappointing. Despite his hopes that the friendship demanded by the performance would translate to the real world, the reality was that the actors never became the friends that their characters were. He stuck with the acting classes long enough to see out a live show (Made in Dagenham ¨C he was given the role of Barry, despite auditioning for Eddie) and when the curtain fell on the last night, the entire cast went for drinks at a nearby pub.


    Everyone except Garry.


    There was no malice in the cast¡¯s failure to invite him. Rather, it was as though a collective amnesia enshrouded them; they simply forgot Garry Plumb existed.


    And on it went deep into Garry¡¯s twenties. By this time, he¡¯d resigned himself to a life of solitude.


    He accepted that he would never fuse a wounded palm with a blood-brother. Would never wreak havoc during a ruckus-filled sleepover. Would likely die with his only romantic encounter coming at the age of twenty-three, when an unknown drunk woman several years his senior had hauled him into an unwanted wet kiss as he shuffled home from the local corner shop with a frozen pizza and a share-size bag of Doritos he¡¯d consume alone.


    She¡¯d been heading the opposite way, bar-hopping for hours, and had mistaken him for an ex-boyfriend. The mystery lady would have no idea that her invasive tongue and fumbled grope of Garry¡¯s crotch represented his entire life¡¯s experience with the opposite sex. He had come to terms with remaining a life-long virgin, hadn¡¯t had much interest in sex and, up to that point, had never even pleasured himself.


    What the experience taught him was that he was, in fact, not asexual. He¡¯d felt an electric tingle as the woman¡¯s fingers delicately cupped his balls through his joggers that sparked a new era in the life of Garry in which his favourite pastime was frantic sexual exploration. Solo, of course.


    Garry grew certain that his inability to connect with others was because some part of normal childhood development had passed him by. It could have been a nature thing, but he tended to believe that the reason for the empty part of himself was rooted in nurture.


    All the shit stuff was because of an event in your childhood, isn¡¯t that what the psychologists said? Garry¡¯s life was peppered with so many episodes that even Erikson and Piaget would¡¯ve struggled to pinpoint a singular cause.


    He was bullied in school, but so were lots of kids. He didn¡¯t belong to any of the usual target groups. He had no distinguishing features. He was clever enough to be at the smart end of the spectrum, but not so obviously clever as to be an outlier. He played sports when the curriculum demanded it and, while no athlete, he was not so inept as to warrant attention.


    White. Scottish. Religiously unassociated. Socioeconomically he was slap bang in the middle of the road for the area he lived in, which was towards the lower end nationally. He was a stock representation of the majority. In adulthood, he would come to consider that his bullying was the result of being entirely unremarkable.


    He was the only child of sometimes-barmaid/most-times-on-benefits Stacey Plumb, who raised him in a rented two-bed terraced bungalow provided by the local housing association. Garry knew nothing about his father. Once, when he was eight years old, he¡¯d asked his mother about dear old Dad.


    Once was enough. Most of what followed he would never be able to recall ¨C he was out cold for some of it, other parts were just gone like time had been replaced by a thick fog ¨C but he remembered that she had said no words.


    Her right hand found the handle of the pan she had been using to fry cheap, greasy burgers and snapped it up with such pace that Garry couldn¡¯t react. It had connected with the left side of his face and then the fog came rushing in.


    One part he would always remember was the pain he endured as his fractured eye socket healed and the sling he¡¯d worn for six weeks after the doctors reset his dislocated shoulder.


    As he grew, both in height as well as his comprehension of the world around him, he began to doubt his mother even remembered which of the unpleasant pattern of grotesquely abusive relationships had sired him. Some of them stayed around for as long as a season. Most were flings which began when she was on nights at the bar and lasted the length of the average British family summer holiday.


    Most of the relationships he couldn¡¯t remember, but some deep pocket inside of him housed a feeling that the ones who hung around for a season or more were always those who were always the most awful to him.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.One thing he¡¯d figured out far too young was that Stacey Plumb did not love her son. She didn¡¯t even like him. This much was clear from the constant put-downs and frequent bouts of violence. But he came with financial benefits, so she kept him around.


    She collected the government Child Payment while he was at school, and when he was old enough to work part-time jobs she took any money he made.


    Into his teens, he was bringing in a decent sum from cleaning out the council¡¯s dogshit bins for two hours every morning before school, and litter picking for three hours after. On top of her government payments and council-tax reductions, Garry was lucrative to Stacey, and there was no way she would ever let a steady stream of profit slip through her claws.


    Garry knew her plan was to trap him even after he¡¯d outgrown the support payments because, by then, he¡¯d be of an age to command a higher hourly rate which would help plug the income gap.


    As such, when the time came to consider further education, he approached his favoured university without her knowing.


    He¡¯d developed an infatuation for numbers and data and code ¨C things which possess no emotion nor capacity to pass judgement ¨C and his preferred destination was Abertay University in Dundee. He¡¯d hoped to gain a Bachelor¡¯s degree in Computing Science from the same institution that birthed the Grand Theft Auto series of video games, but perhaps the most attractive aspect of studying in Dundee was that it was far enough away that he¡¯d need to move into student accommodation.


    Mr Kinning, a good man who was Garry¡¯s IT teacher at school ¨C and the closest anyone had come to being his friend ¨C had encouraged him to call Abertay admissions office to discuss his chances of acceptance, even providing his own mobile phone for Garry to use.


    The call was short, as was Garry¡¯s elation when he was assured he¡¯d be accepted to the course. That night, he¡¯d told Stacey that Abertay would accept him.


    After a tirade of verbal abuse ¨C by this time she¡¯d mostly stopped hitting him, afraid that his greater strength might one day be used against her ¨C Garry had unhappily relented, although he had obtained a concession.


    Stacey had agreed to his studying computing, but it would be at the community college which was walking distance from their shabby little bungalow. It wouldn¡¯t be a degree, but it was something.


    After two years, Garry earned a diploma in computing and he was exhausted.


    The study was fine ¨C easy, even, as he had discovered a talent for code in his early teens and had taught himself most of the college curriculum by the time he was fifteen. The problem was the need to work every evening and weekend to generate income for Stacey. Throughout those two years, she spent more time drunk and unemployed than she did at work. The one good thing about it was that Garry rarely had to listen through the paper-thin walls of the house to her getting fucked by some undiagnosed alcoholic from the bar.


    Two wonderful things happened in the same week Garry turned twenty. A hardware manufacturer with an Edinburgh-based distribution centre hired Garry as a data analyst.


    And Stacey Plumb died.


    When lunchtime arrived on that Sunday in May and Stacey hadn¡¯t yet emerged from her room at the end of the dank corridor, Garry went to check if she¡¯d spent the night elsewhere. He¡¯d come home late from work the previous night, and had assumed she was already in bed. It was possible she¡¯d gone out for the night, hooked up with a random drunk, and would drag herself back home when she¡¯d grown tired of him.


    He tapped the door a few times, and wished he¡¯d held the handle at the same time. As each tap eased it open a fraction further, Garry was hit with the putrid stench of vomit and faeces. He had to step back into the hallway to gag, then pulled his T-shirt up over his mouth and nose before venturing back to the doorway.


    ¡°Mum?¡± he whispered. ¡°You OK, Mum?¡±


    There was no response. The curtains were drawn but Garry could make out her shape on the bed. It looked like she was lying on her back, arms and legs spread wide. He couldn¡¯t tell if she was under the sheets or lying on top of the bed.


    He clicked on the ceiling light and saw the thin duvet curled up at the food of the bed. Stacey lay spread-eagled on top of the mattress, her glassy eyes gazing at something unseen on the ceiling. Her mouth hung open and he could see the puddle of vomit which had likely ended her life. His eyes followed the trail down to where what little had been ejected from her throat had pooled between her exposed breasts, each one pointing towards opposite walls.


    Beneath her rear-end, Garry saw a pool of thick faeces and was thankful she¡¯d been wearing shorts, otherwise the sight might have been enough to cause him a mental breakdown.


    He stood frozen and indecisive, unable to peel his gawping eyes away, and each passing second served only to etch the revolting scene deeper into his brain.


    The investigation didn¡¯t last long. Toxicology reports highlighted an extreme quantity of alcohol had been consumed. The officers attending the scene had already identified seven empty one-litre bottles of vodka, rum and whisky lying around the room. The conclusion was that Stacey had drunk herself to death.


    The absence of any kind of note suggested it was unintentional, and Garry was certain she hadn¡¯t tried to kill herself. After all, his wages were due the following Thursday and she¡¯d have wanted to spend those before shuffling off the mortal coil.


    The housing association allowed Garry to remain in the bungalow for three months rent-free while he arranged his next step. Luckily, it only took a fortnight for him to find a flat on the outskirts of Edinburgh. He packed up the belongings he wanted to keep into a single Aldi bag-for-life and said goodbye to Falkirk.


    He soon settled into life in Scotland¡¯s capital. In fair weather he would rise early and walk the couple of miles into the city centre office. On other days, he hopped on the bus that conveniently left from the nearby shopping centre and dropped him a few hundred yards from the business complex.


    Garry enjoyed his work. It was both well paid and easy, given his extensive coding skills. He performed well, never took a sick day, and attended all company events and excursions, but still, he remained on the periphery. His colleagues at least knew who he was, but no one knew him. When it came to relationships, all Garry¡¯s move into working life had achieved was an extra twenty-five people whose description of him contained those same words: shy, meek, timid. Uninteresting.


    But all of that changed last summer.


    Ask those around Garry today and the words they¡¯ll use will be polar opposites.


    Confident. Assertive. Bold. Just enough arrogance to convey unwavering faith in his convictions, but not so much as to appear offensive. A man who perfectly straddles the border between persuasive and manipulative to get what he wants, but makes sure others want it too.


    People trust Garry Plumb. Today, he is seen as a mentor, a leader and a protector. Those reliant on him feel absolutely secure under his charge. Outside of his professional life, those who meet Garry find him enthralling, charismatic, interesting. When he engages someone, they feel like the only person in the room.


    The people in Garry¡¯s life feel like he knows them, and they know him.


    What they don¡¯t know is that Garry Plumb is one of the most prolific serial killers no one has ever heard of.

 Chapter Two

    Ping! A notification popped up in the lower right corner of Garry¡¯s screen. The hardware manufacturer who had employed him for the past eight years, sourced L-brackets from a vendor based in Prague, and their stock was running low. Not dangerously low, but enough to warrant an amber rating.


    Soon after Garry joined, he¡¯d identified a recurring issue the company was facing. While they were a successful hardware supplier, they were much smaller than their immediate competitors, with less disposable cash. As such, they sourced materials from smaller, cheaper, and unfortunately less-reliable vendors. The trouble was that these vendors often didn¡¯t have stock to meet their demand, especially when it had the tendency to fluctuate without much notice when a new client order was received.


    In the years prior to Garry¡¯s employment, several potential long-term customers had severed ties as a result of too many deadlines being missed.


    His solution had been to code an algorithm ¨C a piece of cake for a man of his ability ¨C which would monitor stock at every one of their one-hundred and thirty-seven suppliers, correlate that figure to the stock currently held in-house, then factor in any planned projects and the number of each individual item required to deliver upon live contracts. If the number of a specific part fell below a predefined threshold, Garry would receive an alert which he¡¯d triage to procurement and the relevant project team leader so that they could scoop up the vendor¡¯s remaining stock before they ran out.


    Sitting at his undecorated, functional desk with the low dividing walls between himself and the commercial team surrounding him ¨C his employers believed in an open-plan workspace to encourage collaboration, but that only worked for those fortunate enough to be noticed ¨C Garry forwarded the notification to the relevant people.


    Mike, the lead salesman working on the diagnostic machine contract, wasn¡¯t at his desk, but he was the first to reply to Garry¡¯s email. A simple thumbs-up emoji which suggested he was elsewhere and using his phone.


    Garry liked Mike, even if he was one of those top-knot sporting protein drinkers. He was four or five years younger, always had a smile on his face, and the glow which lit up the faces of each of the sales girls who sat near him whenever Mike popped over for a chat told Garry that Mike was charming.


    He stared at the emoji on his screen, the little fist flicking the thumb out over and over, and imagined what it would be like to get to know Mike.


    In a bar, he¡¯d be the guy who¡¯d easily strike up conversation with other patrons, and he¡¯d be the one who¡¯d come back from the bar with a tray full of drinks before orchestrating the joining up of multiple tables to accommodate those he came with, and the friends he¡¯d just made in the drinks¡¯ queue.


    Garry would be the quiet one who¡¯d sacrifice himself by taking the chair closest to the toilet, sparing others the unpleasantness. He¡¯d cower with his round shoulders hunched, smiling into his glass of beer while the others roared with laughter at the latest funny story from Mike. And that would be OK, because when everyone was distracted by something else, Mike would place a reassuring hand on Garry¡¯s shoulder and whisper, ¡®You¡¯re doing good, mate.¡¯


    But he didn¡¯t know Mike, or his top-knot. In the four years they¡¯d worked together in the same open-plan office, they¡¯d barely exchanged words. The only acknowledgement Garry had ever got was a quick nod of the head as Mike turned back to his own corner of the office, leaving behind him the elated cackle of giggling women.


    With an almost inaudible sigh, Garry scooped up his empty coffee mug and trudged across to the little kitchenette for a refill. He flicked his eyes up from the floor only once on the twenty-four-step journey to glance over to Nisha, in procurement. She was the one recipient of his email that he really hoped would respond.


    For three years they¡¯d shared the same space for eight hours per day, five days a week, and he couldn¡¯t remember a time when her eyes had ever met his.


    Just once, he would love for her to see him.


    As he filled his mug, Garry imagined a life where he and Nisha owned a house with a garden. They¡¯d invite everyone from the office over for a summer barbecue. He would take charge of the grill while she would see to drinks and accompaniments.


    Everyone would remark on Garry¡¯s apron, a gift from Nisha, which proclaimed him The Grillfather but printed in the style of his favourite mafia movie.


    Once their guests had gone, Garry and Nisha would snuggle up on the sofa with a wine or a beer or some other drink ¨C he didn¡¯t know Nisha¡¯s preference ¨C and would watch The Godfather for the umpteenth time. And maybe they wouldn¡¯t get through the whole film. Instead, maybe they¡¯d¡ª


    ¡°Plumb!¡±


    Garry spun round, heart racing, to face the managing director of the office, Ella Gault.


    ¡®Miss Gault¡¯, as she demanded everyone address her, had moved to the Edinburgh branch from her leafy Buckinghamshire pad eighteen months previous and had set about making her presence known. She made no effort to hide the disdain she had for her current posting, and reminded anyone who¡¯d listen that managing the Edinburgh branch was a mere stepping stone to an executive position based out of the Chicago HQ.


    Aside from obsessively micromanaging every function under her charge, Garry had heard comments from the majority of people in the office which suggested she had been universally deeply unpleasant to all.


    At the most recent office Christmas party, held in a plush Edinburgh gastropub, one of the young engineers from the manufacturing site just outside Edinburgh ¨C a new starter called James, Garry recalled ¨C had approached her.


    ¡°Ella?¡± James had said.


    Garry was standing within earshot and admired the young man¡¯s courage. He could see the pint glass in the lad¡¯s hand quivering and yet, he stood tall and broad.


    ¡°I just wanted to thank you for today. I¡¯ve really enjoyed getting to meet everyone from the office. You know, being based out in the workshop, us engineers sometimes miss out¡ª¡±


    Miss Gault raised a palm and held it inches from young James¡¯ face.


    ¡°Never, ever call me Ella again,¡± she said through gritted teeth. Then she raised her voice. ¡°To you, and to every other one of you backwater fucks, I am Miss Gault!¡±


    She had wheeled away amid gasps from the onlookers and sauntered over to the bar for another Prosecco. Garry heard murmurs from his colleagues suggesting James should go to human resources to complain, but Garry knew that was pointless. Scanning the room, he located Eric Dixon who represented the Edinburgh office¡¯s entire HR department.


    The word which came to mind when thinking about Eric Dixon was ¡®clammy¡¯. Red-haired, overweight and sweaty, he spent his working hours either watching rugby on his phone or clicking through Facebook. He was exactly the kind of man no one wanted fighting their corner.


    That night, he was sitting slumped over a whisky glass at a corner table and either hadn¡¯t seen the altercation, or didn¡¯t care.


    Eight years of working near the man told Garry to bet on the latter.


    ¡°Are you just going to stand there, Plumb, or do you have anything to say? Uh?¡±


    Gault¡¯s nipping, nasal voice snapped back to the present. That little noise ¨C somewhere between a grunt and a dry heave ¨C that she sometimes stuck on the end of a statement made the contents of his stomach churn.


    She adopted one of her trademark power-poses ¨C hands planted on her waist, legs akimbo. Ready to do battle.


    ¡°S-sorry, Miss Gault, wh-what¡¯s the problem?¡±


    ¡°Your piece-of-shit algorithm! We¡¯re going to miss the deadline on the NHS contract because your toy didn¡¯t flag that the Bulgarians don¡¯t have enough stock of their diodes to meet our demand.¡±


    That was impossible. Garry¡¯s algorithm was bullet-proof. As long as the correct data were available¡­


    Ah, damn it. Poor James.


    Garry understood what had happened. James, the engineer working on the NHS project, had forgotten to update his material use, so the algorithm hadn¡¯t factored the true internal stock levels into the calculation. But James had been on Ella¡¯s shit-list ever since the office party, so Garry couldn¡¯t allow this to be put on him.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.¡°Ah, you see, Miss Gault, the algorithm ¨C like any algorithm ¨C is only as good as the data it interrogates,¡± he pleaded. ¡°What has likely happened is our vendor in Bulgaria hasn¡¯t updated their stock levels¡ª¡±


    ¡°No excuses!¡± Gault¡¯s hands left her hips and flapped in the air a little too close to Garry¡¯s face. ¡°I need you to own it and to fix it, or else I¡¯ll have your ass. Understood?¡±


    Before he could respond, she snatched up a half-lemon ¨C caffeine was beneath a woman of her standing, only hot water with lemon and ginger passed those reptilian lips ¨C and whirled away towards her office.


    ¡°Be a leader, Plumb. Like me,¡± she called over her shoulder.


    As she passed the bank of desks at procurement, she paused to look over Nisha¡¯s shoulder at an email she¡¯d been drafting. Something deep in Garry¡¯s gut flared when he saw how violently Nisha flinched as Ella literally breathed down the back of her neck.


    ¡°What¡¯s this semi-colon bullshit?¡± Ella snapped. ¡°If I received that email, I¡¯d think you were an arrogant bitch. Get rid of it.¡±


    No one who knew how to use a semi-colon would ever think that, Nisha, Garry tried to transmit across the desks.


    Nisha whimpered her compliance and wilted into her chair as she patted the backspace key over and over.


    Garry released his breath, filled his coffee mug and shuffled back to his desk. Just as his backside settled into the groove his seat had spent most of a decade forming, an email arrived from Nisha, causing his stomach to flutter.


    However, his excitement dissipated when he saw his name was in the ¡¯cc¡¯ line. The email was to notify all relevant parties that the vendor in Bulgaria had pledged meet their order of diodes and as such no deadlines would be missed.


    Garry hit reply ¨C not reply-all, because Nisha was the only one who¡¯d saved him ¨C and typed up an email draft.


    ¡®Thank you :)¡¯


    He stared at his prose, cursor hovering above the send button, battling with the voice in his head telling him not to do it.


    Smiley face or no smiley face? A full-on emoji? No, too much. He deleted the smiley face.


    ¡®Thank you¡¯


    Full stop? No. Too formal. He typed the smiley face back in, trusting his initial instinct.


    Just as his finger tensed above the left mouse button, ready to click ¡®Send¡¯, a response from James appeared at the top of his inbox.


    ¡®ah brilliant thanks nisha your a lifesaver :)¡¯


    Garry scoffed under his breath then swept his cursor over to the discard icon. This time, he clicked without hesitation. Furious with himself, he downed the remainder of his too-hot coffee, locked his screen and scurried outside to join the lunch queue at the sandwich shop across the street.


    When he reached the front of the queue, the server ¨C Dave, according to his name badge ¨C initiated his daily interaction with Garry.


    ¡°Buongiorno, big man! The usual?¡±


    Garry nodded.


    ¡°Like total clockwork, man,¡± Dave gushed, gesturing to his watch. ¡°Four-pound-fifty when you¡¯re ready, chief.¡±


    Garry tapped his phone on the card reader and gave Dave the same courteous smile he offered up every single day.


    With ham and cheese panini and a Coke Zero in hand, Garry walked the familiar route a few hundred yards to the grassy area at the end of the street, and plonked himself down on the bench he¡¯d come to think of as his.


    As he slurped at his drink and bit into the same lunch he¡¯d eaten every working day for the past eight years, he watched the people of Edinburgh pass by. Some scuttling to make one of the many buses circling their routes, others ambling towards eateries or shops. The majority smiling or laughing in tandem with a companion.


    Not a single person among them so much as glanced towards Garry¡¯s bench. It was as though he wasn¡¯t there.


    Once upon a time, such things would¡¯ve ripped Garry¡¯s aching heart to pieces but he¡¯d grown weary of those feelings ¨C they served no usable purpose ¨C and had accepted his invisible existence.


    Still, it would be nice to have someone.


    Letting out a soft groan, he stood from the bench, pitched his scrunched-up wrapper through the opening of the bin ten feet away ¨C he¡¯d long ago stopped looking around to see if any passers-by had noticed and wanted to celebrate his athletic prowess ¨C and returned to the office to see out the remainder of another mundane day.


    As six o¡¯clock approached, Garry collected his things ¨C his notepad in which he¡¯d written nothing since October, his coffee mug which he preferred to wash at home rather than risk someone else using it, and his headphones that he brought into work even though he had only ever had to video-call someone three times in eight years ¨C and shut down his terminal.


    He swept the room and saw only Eric remained, watching the last minutes of a rugby match which, based on banter he¡¯d overheard during the afternoon, Garry knew was between Fiji and Samoa.


    Of the twenty-three other workers who¡¯d been in the office that day, not a single one had bid Garry a farewell as they left.


    Just another normal day.


    Garry offered a wave across to Eric, who didn¡¯t respond.


    Outside, the sky had grown unseasonably ominous and Garry was glad he¡¯d brought a coat, but not just because of the weather.


    While he wasn¡¯t always successful, every time the weather necessitated an extra layer, he tried to hang his as close to Nisha¡¯s as possible so that it might pick up a hint of her perfume. On this day, he had even discreetly moved someone else¡¯s ¨C he thought it might have been Eric¡¯s ¨C so that his could lie overlapping hers.


    He pulled up his collar and breathed deeply, savouring the light, sweet scent of her.


    After a brief visit to a nearby shop to pick up a four-pack of beer, a microwaveable mac and cheese and a large bag of Mini Cheddars, Garry hopped onto the bus for the journey home.


    Despite the hour, he found a free seat although he soon regretted it when four teenage boys bounded onto the bus. One took the seat next to him, one sat in the seat in front of him, and the other two settled directly behind.


    The boys were loud but good-natured, joking with one another and gesticulating around. The boy next to Garry repeatedly jostled him as he swivelled to interact with his friends, seemingly unaware that a grown human was sitting beside him.


    Garry tried to distract himself by planning his night ahead. Last night¡¯s dishes remained in the sink, so he¡¯d wash those as soon as he got in. Next, he¡¯d take a shower. After that, the headline act: his synthetic, plasticky macaroni that would undoubtedly burn his mouth. The stuff was like magma for at least twenty minutes after it emerged from the nuclear furnace that was his microwave.


    He¡¯d eat his meagre dish on the sofa and would try to find something to watch on one of the many streaming platforms he subscribed to. The likelihood was that the irritating clack of the selector as he cycled through the suggestions ¨C none of which were ever remotely like anything he wanted to watch ¨C would get on his nerves so much that he¡¯d give up and eventually just stick on an episode of Doctor Who or Stargate which he¡¯d seen almost a hundred times.


    The four beers would start to work and, when his eyes became heavy, he¡¯d shuffle into bed where he¡¯d read for a while, then set his alarm ready to do it all again tomorrow.


    It could be worse, he told himself. He didn¡¯t know quite how it could be worse, but he was sure it could be.


    Angling his nose towards his collar, he breathed in another dose of Nisha and smiled to himself as he scanned the city rolling by outside the bus window.


    He was completely unaware that he was being studied ¨C and had been every single one of the eighteen times he¡¯d caught the bus at this time for the past six months ¨C by the keen, cold eyes of the bus driver in his rear-view mirror.

 Chapter Three

    ¡°Good morning, fabulous Major Investigations Team of this fair city.¡± DCI John Waters¡¯ booming voice announced his arrival into the weekly briefing. He wasn¡¯t a tall man, but he was broad and strong, and carried himself in such a way that made people want to listen to him. ¡°What great duties and chores do grace our inboxes on this finest of days?¡±


    Hailing from the north of Scotland, his melodic cadence was typical of the Highlands and often put others at immediate ease, but it also conspired to create an impression many had misconceived over the years.


    Where some foolish individuals saw only the quaint eccentricity of a jovial Highlander, they simultaneously underestimated both his keen intelligence and his fiery opposition to those who acted contrary to his own principles.


    When assembling his team, he sought out people with a similarly scrupulous outlook and demanded the highest level of morality from them. In return, he offered an environment in which every person was treated fairly and was afforded every opportunity to develop themselves.


    It was clear to anyone observing Waters and his team that the level of respect he commanded and, in turn, the support he provided, was unparalleled.


    Now, though, his team appeared sombre and the typical electric atmosphere generated by their energetic exchanges was flat.


    ¡°Another homicide, Boss,¡± sighed Detective Constable Rose McDare when it became apparent no one else was going to speak.


    Waters had personally selected Rose to make the move to his MIT unit from CID two years earlier following a coffee-room discussion with his counterpart who had been her supervisor.


    The CID Detective Chief Inspector, Neil Kelly, had described a tenacious young detective constable with a fire in her belly matched only by her hair colour. One who had rounded on the more senior officers on his team when she felt they were taking the easy road to solving a case.


    It transpired DC Rose McDare was absolutely right, and the suspect her colleagues had pegged for a robbery was, in fact, innocent.


    ¡°Twenty-two-year-old female,¡± she continued. ¡°Blunt-force trauma. The body was discovered in St Mark¡¯s Park shortly before five this morning by a runner. We think the intention was to dump the body in the Leith Water but the killer got spooked.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous, DC McDare.¡±


    ¡°Sir?¡± Rose McDare gaped back at her boss, struggling to figure out what she¡¯d said that was so wrong.


    ¡°What kind of person wakes up and decides ¡®I tell you what, I could fair go a run¡¯ at five in the morning? Absolutely ridiculous behaviour.¡±


    There was a silence lasting around a second before Waters saw the penny drop. In an action which contradicted her usual composed decorum, Rose McDare snorted a laugh, causing the rest of the room to erupt in raucous uproar interspersed with playfully well-intended grunting noises.


    John Waters was of the opinion that, in this line of work, laughter could be the tether anchored to the right side of sanity and, right now, his team needed a laugh.


    ¡°OK,¡± he said once the racket subsided. ¡°Does anyone feel like something¡¯s amiss here?¡±


    ¡°Well, she¡¯s been murdered, Boss. That¡¯s amiss,¡± chirped DC Dougal Flynn, the youngest and most cocky of DCI Waters¡¯ troupe. Despite his conceited exterior, Dougal Flynn had a heart the size of mainland Scotland, and John Waters had always trusted that, when one of his own was in trouble, Dougal would run through walls to help them.


    Still, when an opportunity to take him down a peg or two was presented, it was only right to take it.


    Character-building, Waters told himself.


    ¡°Aye, very good, Einstein.¡± He rolled his eyes as the others sniggered. ¡°Alright, here¡¯s a question for you, Detective Constable Smart Arse: how many homicides, on average, do we record each year in this capital city of God¡¯s Own Country? I will accept a ballpark.¡±


    ¡°Eh, twenty?¡±


    ¡°Are you asking me or telling me, son?¡±


    Dougal Flynn cleared his throat before repeating the same statement, this time forcing his inflection to drop rather than rise on the final syllable.


    ¡°Twenty you say¡­¡± Waters looked off out of the window towards Arthur¡¯s Seat, his hand at his chin in an exaggerated pondering pose. ¡°Twenty¡­ that¡¯s not very many¡­ or is it?¡±


    ¡°Are you asking me, or telling me, sir?¡± Dougal needled with a mischievous grin.


    ¡°It¡¯s wrong, is what it is. But that¡¯s no¡¯ really a big surprise seeing as it came from you. Any advance on twenty from the rest of you wonderful examples of police intelligence? DC Kumar, higher or lower?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll go higher, sir,¡± said DC Mani Kumar, the only one of John Waters¡¯ team who had dared to make the switch from the west side of the M8 to the east.


    ¡°Ooft! Detective Constable Kumar thinks higher, but then again he¡¯s maybe influenced by his history in Glasgow. We¡¯re much more civilised over this way, DC Kumar. It¡¯ll rub off on you eventually. DC McDare?¡±


    ¡°Lower, sir.¡±


    ¡°See that, detectives? Not a flicker of hesitation. No hint of a question. DC McDare just made a bold statement and one she is confident in. But is she correct?¡±


    Waters slid one of the meeting room chairs to the front of the room and bundled Dougal Flynn onto it.


    ¡°OK. This chair here represents our first guess from DC Bigmouth. There you are, you sit your smart arse down, please, Detective Constable. Now, those who think lower, stand to my left, and those who think higher, stand to my right. If anyone stands in the middle then you¡¯re relegating yourself to an even lower position than Dougal here, and I will lose all respect for you as I¡¯ve already told you he¡¯s wrong.¡±


    After some shuffling and screeching of chairs and tables being shoved out of the way as the group of sixteen homicide detectives aligned themselves in one camp or other, DCI Waters surveyed the scene. There was an almost even split.


    ¡°The group who receives a free beer ¨C courtesy, this week, of Detective Constable Flynn for once again thinking he¡¯s a big shot ¨C is¡­¡± Waters hissed a sharp intake of breath in lieu of a drumroll. ¡°Lower!¡±


    No sooner had the DCI¡¯s mouth formed the ¡¯L¡¯, than the winning portion of his previously flat team erupted as though Scotland had just scored the winning penalty in the World Cup Final. He held out large hands ¨C which many throughout his adult life had described as shovels ¨C in a calming gesture.


    The respect his team had for him meant the ruckus stopped almost instantly.


    ¡°Over the past decade, the yearly average number of homicides is five in the whole of the City of Edinburgh, and not once in those ten years has the total ever exceeded nine. Any idea what our current standing is as we approach the end of June?¡±


    ¡°Eight, sir.¡±


    DC Rose McDare was correct again, but Waters noted the moment¡¯s pause she¡¯d given to allow someone else to answer. From the moment she¡¯d joined Major Investigations, she¡¯d been the smartest copper in the room and Waters knew that such a burden brought its own anxieties, especially for someone like Rose who had never enjoyed being regarded as superior to anyone.


    ¡°Correct, DC McDare. Eight murders in less than six months. Does anyone know how many of those have been solved?¡±


    ¡°Two were the result of domestic violence and the perps are in custody,¡± Dougal Flynn began, demonstrating the smarts that Waters knew lay beneath the laddish surface. ¡°One was a drug-debt killing. The rest, I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, DC Flynn. So, our solved cases total three which sounds about normal for this point in the year. But we¡¯ve also got five unsolved murders¡ª¡±


    ¡°Six, sir. This morning¡¯s homicide is yet to be solved,¡± Mani Kumar interjected.


    ¡°Of course. Thank you, DC Kumar. Six unsolved murders. This is quite the exponential increase, is it not? Why? Why are people all of a sudden killing each other at a significantly higher rate than we¡¯ve ever seen?¡±


    ¡°Money? Fuel prices, politics, wars? Being generally pissed off at the world?¡± Dougal Flynn ejected.


    ¡°Ah, I see where you¡¯re going with that, but the Office for National Statistics reports state we¡¯re all happier ¨C we even beat some of our Scandinavian cousins in the rankings. Who¡¯d have expected that, eh? No. It has to be something else.¡± Waters regarded the room, looking from face to face. ¡°Let¡¯s look for a simpler explanation. And one that isn¡¯t so much verbal diarrhoea, please. If I need to see your working, I¡¯ll ask for it.¡± Waters shot Dougal a friendly wink.


    ¡°That¡¯s Occam¡¯s razor, right, Boss?¡± offered Mani.


    A grimace adorned the DCI¡¯s face. ¡°Well, now, you see Detective Constable, this is one of those common misconceptions that I¡¯ve got a real problem with. Allow me to educate you.¡±


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.At that, the entire room groaned as one. DCI John Waters was famous for veering off in all sorts of conversational tangents, especially if there was a learning opportunity to be had. While the team lightheartedly expressed frustration, the truth was that every one of them loved it when John adopted his professorial air.


    ¡°Now, now, my talented underlings, you will hear me out because I am your senior officer and I have an adoration for the imparting of knowledge.¡±


    Waters perched half his backside on the edge of a table and invited the standing officers to sit for his lecture.


    ¡°This William of Occam fella gets all the credit for suggesting that the simplest explanation is most likely the correct one, but he¡¯s standing on the shoulders of others. You see, as far back as Ptolemy in the first century AD we can find a quote attributed to him that says: ¡®We consider it a good principle to explain the phenomena by the simplest hypothesis.¡¯¡±


    The audience before him was a sea of sealed mouths and blinking eyes.


    ¡°Folk had been applying this logic for centuries before Occam¡¯s razor became a known thing, and yon William laddie started taking plaudits. Gets my back right up, so it does.¡±


    He paused expecting some kind of response from someone in the room, but, instead, was met with a silence in which the only thing missing was a passing tumbleweed.


    ¡°Och, fine!¡± he scoffed. ¡°Aye, in principle, you¡¯re right, DC Kumar. Occam¡¯s razor. So, what is the simplest explanation?¡±


    The group collectively shuffled in their seats. Not a pair of eyes met another. A few throats were cleared and all heads tended downwards, away from the DCI¡¯s stare.


    And he knew why.


    They¡¯d all followed his thought process and had each come to the same horrific conclusion.


    ¡°A single person is responsible,¡± Detective Inspector Leanne Dewar, who¡¯d been silent until that point, said.


    Waters looked to the ceiling and gave a deep sigh that he didn¡¯t know he needed until he heard those words said in a voice that was not his own internal monologue. At once he felt a fatigue that shouldn¡¯t have gripped him so early in the morning.


    ¡°Aye,¡± he croaked before clearing his throat. ¡°Aye, I think that¡¯s correct, Leanne. I¡¯ve thought it for a while now.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t often that he used an officer¡¯s first name in the presence of others, so his use of hers caused a lump to form in her throat.


    ¡°In my opinion, the simplest explanation is a single perpetrator, who may not have been present in Edinburgh ¨C certainly one who has not been active ¨C until this year, is responsible for the sharp rise in homicides we are witnessing,¡± he concluded.


    Those words landed like echoless thuds in the hearts of each and every police officer in the room and no one could find a word in response.


    After allowing himself roughly thirty seconds to feel the fear and trepidation he needed to feel in order to process the gravity of what they might be facing, DC Mani Kumar mustered that granite-like strength Waters had fought so hard to bring to the team from Glasgow, and burst out of his seat.


    ¡°We need to examine every homicide file from this year with a tooth-comb ¨C what does that even mean? Why is that a thing?¡±


    ¡°A fine-tooth comb,¡± Waters corrected. ¡°It¡¯s a comb with fine teeth. Not a tooth-comb that happens to be fine.¡± Mani¡¯s blank expression stared back at him. ¡°The teeth of the comb, they¡¯re fine as in narrow¡­ Och, forget it. Carry on!¡±


    ¡°Right, sorry. Let¡¯s get all the files and see if there¡¯s any kind of correlation.¡±


    ¡°Rose, bring the records up, please.¡± DI Leanne Dewar, John¡¯s second-in-command, borrowed some of Mani¡¯s energy and bounded across to the whiteboard. ¡°Let¡¯s get started with what we¡¯ve got in our heads. Everyone, start calling out case details.¡±


    All sorts of details, demographics and deadly weapons volleyed around the room. Leanne Dewar expertly swept each out of the air and documented it in place on the large whiteboard. John Waters sat back and watched his team of diligent detectives, a tiny smile caressing the corners of his mouth and a much larger lightness inflating in his chest.


    Despite only working from memory, the team were able to recall a surprising amount of information which was augmented once DC Rose McDare had cast the case files up onto the screens.


    Over the next hour, additional facts trickled in from the team processing that morning¡¯s case, and those were instantly added to the already burgeoning mosaic which spilled from the screen to the whiteboard, to the walls to the desks. Waters¡¯ fatigue had evaporated, his team¡¯s fervour and enthusiasm invigorating him with each passing minute.


    Once every last detail from each case file was on display somewhere in the room, the real pattern-spotting process began. Waters facilitated it by calling out the most common facets of a homicide where investigating officers could expect to see connections.


    ¡°Method?¡±


    ¡°Varied,¡± Dougal Flynn replied, then he moved around the room pointing to various cases and punctuating his answers. ¡°Blunt-force trauma with a hammer or mallet ¨C unrecovered. Stabbed in the abdomen from behind with a kitchen knife. Stabbing to the abdomen from the front twenty-six times, again kitchen knife but smaller. A paring knife; the other was a chef¡¯s knife. Strangled with some kind of synthetic rope. And blunt-force trauma with a stone or brick ¨C also unrecovered.¡±


    ¡°And this morning¡¯s weapon?¡± Waters asked.


    ¡°Something pointed and heavy, Boss. SOC tentatively think a pick-axe.¡±


    ¡°OK, thank you, DC Flynn. What about the victims themselves? Any correlation there?¡±


    ¡°No, sir,¡± Mani Kumar said, taking over. ¡°Ethnically diverse, so the motive isn¡¯t hate-crime. Same can be said for sexual orientation and gender. We¡¯ve got representation from across the board.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± Dougal yelped.


    The others obeyed as he took his time scanning each piece of paper, section of board and pixel of screen. Waters felt an impatient tension begin to rise, but he knew better than to try to force the young officer to a conclusion before his mind had gone through its process. ¡°Why didn¡¯t I see this before?¡± he muttered eventually.


    ¡°See what?¡± Mani was the type of detective who wanted the full story in one go and Dougal Flynn¡¯s piecemeal approach irritated him no end. Both young men complemented the other better than they would likely ever realise, and Waters knew his team would be nowhere near as efficient without either of them.


    ¡°They¡¯re all girls.¡±


    ¡°Incorrect, Detective,¡± DI Dewar interjected. ¡°Two victims over here are men. Alix Bergen and Bo Carter.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know, but I mean they¡¯re actually girls, though¡ª¡±


    ¡°AFAB,¡± Rose corrected as she approached the screen. Waters saw the workings of her mind all over her face. They¡¯d found something.


    ¡°You what?¡± asked Dougal.


    ¡°AFAB ¨C Assigned Female at Birth.¡±


    When she saw the blank look on Flynn¡¯s face, that fire which had so often spurred the team on in the past emerged.


    ¡°Oh, for goodness sake, Dougie! See if you actually paid attention to the world around you, or at least went to the diversity training just once, you¡¯d be a better man.¡±


    ¡°Aye, well, whatever you call it. They¡¯ve got the machinery is what I mean.¡±


    ¡°So, could the motive be sexual?¡± asked DI Leanne Dewar.


    ¡°Ah, no. Not likely. See, this is how I saw that they were all¡­ what do you call it? AFAB? Aye, AFAB. I mean you¡¯d never guess looking at the pictures. Look at this one! Never in a million years¡ª¡±


    ¡°Thank you, DC Flynn,¡± Waters sighed. ¡°Get on with it, please.¡±


    ¡°Aye, sorry. It¡¯s the coroner¡¯s report. Each one says there was no sign of molestation or penetration. I wondered why they would specifically use that word and that made me realise they all had a¡­ you know¡­¡±


    ¡°A vagina.¡± Leanne Dewar rolled her eyes. She often thought working with Dougal Flynn was like working with a child. She turned to Waters. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I like how he got there, John, but he¡¯s got a point.¡±


    ¡°It could be something,¡± he agreed, then regarded the room. ¡°Good work, detectives. Now, let¡¯s see if we can figure out what this means.¡±


    He turned back to the DI.


    ¡°Humour me for a spell, won¡¯t you?¡± he whispered. ¡°Go see if our Uniform colleagues have any unexplained deaths that didn¡¯t make their way to our merry little band.¡±


    There was a moment when Leanne¡¯s face was blank as she tried to figure out out Waters¡¯ logic, and then she gasped. ¡°You mean unexplained deaths that weren¡¯t listed as homicides, don¡¯t you?¡± She ran a hand through her blonde hair which had been pulled back into a tight ponytail. ¡°John¡­ you don¡¯t think there are more, do you?¡±


    ¡°Just humour me. Please.¡±