Blood of Babes: The Slasher Files: Britney Allen: The London Crime Syndicate, #1

By Dylan Keefer

A deadly game of cat and mouse, but who is hunting who?

A down on her luck police constable in the heart of London is determined to break The Slasher Murder case wide open whether her commanding officer lets her work on the case or not. Danger at every turn and a plot that thickens with each clue. Can Britney Allen Solve this case that seems to have the city in an uproar and fearing for their lives? She is determined to see this case through until the end, but The Slasher has other plans for Britney Allen".

A grizzly serial killer London crime thriller it's "Jack the Ripper" meets "Happy Valley."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Purple Press
• Release date: Jul 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386316527

Book preview

Chapter One

Body by the Thames

The investigation of the Westminster Slasher started in much the same way it would end: with the discovery of an irreparably maimed body. Both the first and final bodies were found by Police Constable Britney Allen. Though she had an unassuming name, she would later become the single thread woven through a conspiracy that began with the Slasher and ended with the Shepherd. In an effort to unfurl the conspiracy linearly, the Shepherd shall be forgotten until he sees fit to emerge from the shadows—he will bring the identity of the Slasher's final victim with him .

Focusing on the first thread, that of the Westminster Slasher, finds the first body, that of Candy the Prostitute, lying twisted and broken on the rocky shores of the River Thames, some eighteen miles downstream of its intended resting place. Being less visible than if it had remained in said intended resting place, Candy the Prostitute's body was found by a woman who tended to stray off the beaten path—Police Constable Britney Allen, as was mentioned previously.

It was a day like any other in London; that is to say, it was depressing, both literally and figuratively given the cloud cover, even in the absence of something as morbid as a deceased whore arriving on one's proverbial doorstep. In a most fortuitous coincidence, Allen had followed the whim of her usual morning run to a new destination. Unknowingly, this whim aligned with the unexpected final journey of Candy the Prostitute's cold and long-dead body, leading both to the Rainham Marshes Nature Reserve. Though Allen usually ran in the heart of London in some attempt to imagine a life in which she lived comfortably within the heart of London and did not spend at least half an hour each morning arriving with the morning traffic, some unknown urge had superseded this and taken her directly to the reserve.

As the wet, dark yellow grass rose tall around her and brushed against her outstretched hands, it was difficult to regret following that urge. As Britney Allen huffed from exhaustion and slowed to a stop by the shores of the River Thames, she spotted the twisted body of a woman near the water. The last vestiges of regret faded as excitement began to slowly seep over her. A cool breeze blew teasingly over her face, tugging at her dark hair and making it whip across her vision wildly, Allen wiped it away to keep her eyesight clear as she stared at the body.

Candy the Prostitute, though Allen did not know her name or profession at the time, was almost immediately identified as such. Her skin was pale blue and blotched from exposure to water, and her petite body was bloated, but it was clear that she had been a beautiful woman. Allen's hand inched hesitantly towards her pocket to grab at her phone; she chose instead to walk hurriedly towards the woman's prone form to look at it more closely. Her hair was blonde and long, patched in places from her rough journey downstream, and her eyes were sealed tight shut by the purple bruises that surrounded them.

As Allen examined the body, her gaze focused on that which was immediately apparent but immediately grotesque in a way that had made Allen hesitant to look freely; the woman was only wearing the remains of a thin, silk nightgown. Its pale pink fabric was torn, revealing deep slashes across her body. The largest split her stomach in two, from which organs peeked gruesomely, while the most terrible mutilated her breasts and genitalia. Even Police Constable Britney Allen, who prided herself on professionalism and emotional strength, averted her eyes and valiantly calmed her turning stomach.

Slightly ashamed that she had delayed, Allen edged the phone from her pocket. She hurriedly notified the groundlings at New Scotland Yard of her discovery, then shoved her phone unceremoniously back into her pocket. Taking a closer look, Allen noted that she was very young; much younger than Allen.

Only a child, Allen thought uneasily as she crouched by the body. She couldn’t be much more than fifteen years old—she was all long and skinny limbs, and newfound curves. Allen thought, for a moment, of covering the young woman’s body with her jacket, but decided that she couldn’t afford to fall victim to any further lapses in professionalism.

It took almost half an hour for Allen’s fellow police officers to reach the scene, but then the muddy water of the Thames was lit up by the vascilating dull blue and red of the lights of many police vehicles. Despite her relatively new status as a police officer, Allen stood steadfast by the young woman’s body, hovering over it as though to protect it from the callous gazes of those who had begun to surround her like hawks.

‘You the one who found the body?’ a brusque voice sounded in her ear. Allen turned, and startled as she saw Detective Chief Inspector Lanningham’s face near hers. His deeply-lined, pale, drawn countenance reminded her of some dreaded ghoul in the morning light. The flashes of blue and red only made his features more ghastly.

‘Yes. Police Constable Britney Allen. Sir.’ Allen added the respectful term somewhat belatedly in an effort to appease her boss. He seemed unimpressed, but then Allen knew him to be unimpressed in most circumstances.

‘You didn’t disturb it?’ he asked, his frown deepening as though he expected her to answer incorrectly.

‘No, Sir.’ Allen was proud of her burgeoning quickness in using respectful terms.

Lanningham huffed through his nose. Allen tried to not be offended.

‘Very well, then.’ Lanningham nodded his head vaguely towards the raised marshes, in the opposite direction to the prostitute’s body.

Allen faltered for a moment. ‘What?’

‘You’re off duty, Constable. To the Yard, if you must.’ Lanningham turned from her and began speaking with one of the detectives.

Allen’s eye twitched. Then she followed Lanningham’s order, a frown settling onto her face as though to match his. With