Shattered Seed: The Reclamation Wars, #1

By TP Egar

When fear becomes the goal of fanatics, and blind ignorance is the flavour of the day, then mad men come to dine.

Creation isn't an idea, we are, and it's noticed we're dreaming too hard. Monsters used to be the things of fairytales and childrens nightmares. But not anymore. Now we have pushed passed a line we couldn' possibly see the other side of.

 

Now our children will pay for the power we have released, and the planet we've been raping will fight back, and fight without comapsion, jsut as we have broken it.

Now, he comes...

• Language: English
• Publisher: TP Egar
• Release date: May 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798396062924

Book preview

1. Momma’s Boy

John Gray wakes up screaming in a cold sweat, scratching, and beating the front door to his house. Desperately trying to escape. But from what, he has no idea. He can never remember the nightmare, but it terrifies him every night. Something terrible waiting for him in the shadows. Something almost familiar to him. A cold hand around his throat, and a smell of copper and water. It was so terrifying to him that he had almost taken his own life once. What stopped him was the fear that this could be his own personal hell. Just waiting to invite him in.

John is a man with few friends and no inclination to make more. He is a carpenter by trade but can turn his hand to anything DIY. This morning he is returning to his psychiatrist who has assured him that these events are simply stress and anxiety, nothing more. All that time and money to have some head thumpers tell him he needed a holiday. He looked in the bathroom mirror and what stared back at him was almost unrecognisable. Where jet black hair had once been was now a salt and pepper explosion. Hanging in his face like it was trying to hide the visage from him. He's never been considered a handsome man, but he was usually noticed in a room full of friends. He normally got the girl. His mother always said he had the profile of a Roman Emperor. He just hoped she didn't mean Nero. He reached for the towel and dried his face. Patting away the fear. Off to his shrink. He dressed and left the house. Car keys rattling in his still shaking hand.

He parked his car in the usual spot and lit a cigarette. He inhaled so hard the stub almost erupted into flames. As he sat and watched the end of his cigarette smoulder, he contemplated what was happening to him. What if he was crazy? Would he be the first delusional carpenter in the world? John’s religious beliefs fell short of none, but he was always happy to tell people why. Particularly after a few whiskies.

An average man, with average ambitions. Although only 5' 7", he was always certain he would be taller one day.

The police were at a total loss. How the hell had someone managed to remove the doctors’ legs without leaving a single shred of evidence in the room that might help? Also, why the fuck did no-one hear anything? There was no sign of a gag being used and little evidence of any kind of restraint. The office, right in the centre of London, was a large room that was fairly obvious in its layout. Large oak desk, fake, in front of the window where the body still sat. Slumped in its chair. Rope wrapped around the torso of the doctor, keeping him in position, as there was nothing left to make contact with the floor. Like the walls, the carpet had once been an unobtrusive cream colour, but now it was a strangely ominous brown colour. Sticky and thick with the life force of the once prominent psychiatrist hovering above it.

There were two brown leather high back chairs in front of the desk facing the windows. Here would sit the client revealing all their fears and woes. Hoping for salvation in the face of a once inquiring mind. To the left of the desk and slightly to the rear of the chairs was the even more clichéd couch, with a comfortable and obviously well used leather armchair positioned at a right angle from it. The blood hadn’t managed to reach that far but had definitely made a bid for more coverage. Whoever this mad man was. He obviously enjoyed his victims’ screams. This was the seventh victim that Inspector Jordan had seen, and he knew deep in his gut that it would not be the last. Each new victim was mutilated more savagely than the last and he knew there was worse to come. He looked around the room, raising his left hand to squeeze the muscles at the back of his neck, which now felt like a concrete collar. Wearing his usual black leather sports jacket, at least ten years old. His face was probably once considered handsome. But this case had taken years away from him. The grey of his sideburns now somehow much more obvious. His eyelids were half closed; hiding the hazel colour his wife swore was the first thing she'd noticed about him. He was normally 5' 10" but these days he was at least two inches shorter.

When was he found? Jordan had been staring at the blood-stained carpet for what felt like hours. He startled himself hearing his own voice ask the question.

8 am, by his business partner. A Dr Kimmel. The reply came from Dr Michael Sheene, head of forensics on this case, and all of the previous ones. Sheene was 6' 2", with a muscular build, and according to Jordan’s partner, detective Nerise Morcambe, he had a ‘great arse’. Like Jordan, Sheene’s eyes were hidden by fatigue. Deep blue and ageless. The face of a male model and the brain of a scientist. More than a catch. Jordan didn’t comment on this last observation. However terrible these murders were, he wasn’t quite ready to discuss another guy’s arse, and probably never would be. Strange the thoughts that go through your head in moments like these. Almost amusing, but no punch line here.

Sheene looked up at Jordan. Haven’t got an actual time of death yet, but you can bet it will be around 2 am. Just like the others. I just haven’t found the watch yet. He’s getting more complicated with his hiding spaces.

You sound tired Mike. How long have you been working this time? Jordan was well aware it was too long, whatever the reply.

I don’t actually know, but suddenly I feel very old. Mike rubbed his eyes with his index finger and thumb slowly as he spoke. Too old for this shit anyhow.

Tell me about it. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night. Nerise Morcambe always seemed to arrive in the middle of a conversation and always with an appropriate comment.

Well, this bastard isn’t sleeping nights, he’s too busy carving people into finger food.

Nerise smiled. There really is no need for that kind of language Inspector Jordan.

Oh, excuse me, I meant to say hors d’oeuvres.

She smiled and bowed her head. Jordan instantly saw the smile on Sheene's face. Even in all this horror, Nerise made him forget anyone else was in the room. If Cleopatra had been 5' 11" with olive skin and eyes greener than grass then Sheene would happily let her betray him for a moment of love. Her smile could probably stop an army.

As Gray turned the corner, he saw the Inspector and his colleagues leaving the building. ‘So even cops need shrinks’ he thought before realising why he recognised the man. Wasn’t that the cop involved in the ‘Red Death’ murders? The press had managed to get hold of certain details about the killings and, due to the amount of blood supposedly involved, they had come up with that dramatic but very unoriginal name.

Gray stopped in his tracks. Maybe they had come to ask his shrink Bradley something about the killer? God. Bradley would love that! He could see him now telling his secretary to mail all his clients informing them of the ‘small’ increase in fees due to his new position as ‘Police advisor’. Not that he would be of any fucking help. He couldn’t even explain the dreams of one man never mind a psycho tearing across the city hacking people to pieces.

As John arrived at the door to Dr Bradley’s office, he realised there was much more going on here than a simple consultation. The door was sealed off with police tape and the amount of people coming in and out of the building was startling. He looked up to Bradley’s window on the second floor that was part of a once beautiful Victorian building that was now in desperate need of some TLC. He found himself frozen on the spot. Not really taking in what he surely knew at the back of his mind. Bradley was dead. Not just dead, but probably in pieces. John was still staring up at the window when he realised someone was speaking to him.

Can I help you? Jordan had been standing directly behind Gray, watching him with interest. His hands in his pockets, he had a look on his face that wouldn’t be out of place in an old seventies’ spaghetti western. Unshaven, but clean. Just under six feet tall with salt and pepper hair greased back by some basic hair product to simply keep it off his face. A very chiselled chin, that accented his cheekbones, it could deceive if you tried to guess his age. Gray expected Lee Van Cleef to be standing just behind him with gun in hand. Gray managed to answer.

Why are you here? What’s happening? I'm just here to see Dr Bradley. He’s, my doctor. He cringed as he said it. The cop probably heard, ‘hello, I’m barking mad, and I have no alibi whatsoever.’ but it was too late now, the words were out there hovering above his head. My name’s John Gray.

Jordan took note of this and continued. How long have you been seeing Dr Bradley? Suddenly Clint Eastwood junior was questioning him. The dry-cleaned version, that is.

John replied trying to keep his voice steady. About seven months. Why?

The Inspector paused. You must surely have some idea why we are here?

Gray felt a cold sweat brewing at the back of his neck. I’m assuming it’s nothing good. Gray could see a multitude of images flashing across his consciousness, all depressing and all distressingly violent. On this day of all days, he had chosen to have it out with his psychiatrist who was probably smeared across his office like marmalade. Why was this cop looking at him like he ate children?

Jordan looked up at the same window Gray had been watching moments before, and then looked back at Gray.

Dr Bradley was murdered last night Jordan watched the man’s face. He never understood people who couldn’t deal with their own problems. Paying someone to listen to problems that were generally a pile of shit. Listened to by someone who didn’t give a shit.

I’m sorry. Did you say murdered? Gray felt his gut tightening as he looked Jordan in the eye. Has this got anything to do with the Red Death killer? Suddenly there was a banging noise against the inside of his skull! Why did he mention the Red Death! Say something quickly! I recognise you from the papers. That was a reasonable thing to say, wasn't it? You’re an Inspector or something aren’t you? Gray was starting to calm down a little but suddenly felt the urge to explain his entire life to this man.

That’s right sir, my name is Inspector Jordan. Strange name for a mother to call her son Gray thought. But managed to keep the sarcasm to himself. You seem very well-informed Mr Gray. Was he looking suspicious? Gray was panicking again.

There’s a maniac in town and he’s in party mode. Who isn’t well informed? That seemed like a reasonable answer.

Are you feeling alright Mr Gray? You’re very pale. Jordan was staring into his eyes now as he asked his question. There was something vacant in Gray, like something was out of place. It made Jordan uncomfortable. He could usually read someone in seconds.

I’m fine. It’s just that I wasn’t thinking particularly good thoughts about the Doctor on the way here. Now you tell me he’s dead. Misplaced guilt I suppose.

Jordan picked up on the word, ‘misplaced’, killers often came back to the scene to view their handy work.

Where were you around midnight last night Mr Gray? He knew this was probably a waste of time, but it was an instinctive question.

I was sleeping. Alone. I have no alibi unless you can talk to cats. But I would have just strangled him. Simple and effective. Gray looked the Inspector straight in the eye. But I’m assuming that if you thought I had anything to do with it, we wouldn’t be standing here, would we? He could feel his throat tighten as he spoke. Even though he was innocent he felt he should be confessing to something. Cops always had that effect on him.

Thank you for that splendid analysis of your present situation Mr Gray. Now John wished he hadn’t kept the sarcasm to himself earlier. But I never said it wasn’t strangulation. Gray pondered for a moment.

Touché Inspector but given the fact that you are here I’m betting it’s much worse. Gray suddenly realised how calm he had become. It was a strange feeling, considering that only minutes before he thought he was going to have a mental breakdown right here on this spot. I think it’s time I left Inspector, before you clap me in irons. Jordan tilted his head like a dog weighing its options.

Probably a good idea Mr Gray. You wouldn’t want your face to be all over the tabloids for our party friend to see, would you? Jordan didn’t smile as he turned away from the man. Nothing to smile about. Instead, he frowned and walked over to two parked cars where Nerise and Mike were waiting for him.

They had been watching this scene take place intently. Nerise looked at Mike. He’s onto something Mike looked at her as he spoke. She really was wasted as Jordan’s detective. Apart from the fact that she was stunning, a goddess in fact. She was also the most intelligent detective he had ever worked with. She had a gift for this work. Took everything in around her in what seemed like seconds and could recall anything on request. And all that done through the greenest eyes any man has ever seen. He smiled wearily. I don’t know but there’s something going on in that head. He’s looking confused and when was the last time you saw that look on his face? But the guy he was talking to did seem a bit weird. It was like he wasn’t really there. Nerise smiled back. You’re probably right. Just one of the partner’s patients. Nerise found herself watching the stranger walk away. Mike was right, there was something ‘not right’ about the guy. Mikes voice drew her back to their conversation.

What do we know about Bradley’s clients? We’ve not had time yet to look through his files but knowing you I’m sure you’ve had a little browse through them. She was single minded when it came to searching for evidence.

Her instincts were as sharp as her dress sense.

Of course, she said dryly. Acknowledging his respect for her work. However, she still saw fit to reply sarcastically. The first thing she had done when she arrived at the scene was start looking through the Doctor’s appointment book and the corresponding files. Most of them are basically stressed-out suits or neurotic housewives whose husbands are screwing their secretaries.

Such cynicism in one so young Mike smiled again as he caught her usual warm look for him. More here than friendship, and soon, he hoped.

Thank you, Dr Sheene. But most men really are that predictable. He did have a couple of clients who seem to be suffering more than just anxiety.

And what exactly would they be suffering from ‘Doctor’ Morcambe? He cocked his head to one side as he spoke, making him even more handsome in her eyes. It took all her strength to stop herself leaping into his arms. She almost laughed at that last thought. All that was missing was the staircase and a cotton plantation.

Well smart arse. He has one who thinks he killed his own mother from the womb and one whose nightmares appear to be driving him crazy. And at a rapid rate.

What kind of dreams? I mean is he dreaming of murder, or does he think he’s the second coming?

Nerise looked at Mike silently for a moment. He doesn’t know, but he dreams about three rooms and whatever it is he sees in them is scaring him quite literally out of his wits.

You think this may have something to do with the Red Death killings? Mike was paying very close attention to what Nerise was saying now. He knew she never jumped to conclusions and certainly did not suffer from hysteria.

Judging by Bradley’s notes he was really worried about this one. He had already consulted his partner about him and although he hasn’t said so directly in his notes, it’s obvious that he didn’t want to carry on seeing this patient. He certainly thought this was out of his comfort zone. And how many shrinks would admit that? Mike looked at her as he stood away from the car, adopting a more upright stance. Concerned now that this might be a real break.

What was the patient’s name? He was suddenly wide awake. Nerise looked back at him, she was now standing away from the car in a mirrored image of Mike.

His name is John Gray. And I suddenly have a very uneasy feeling that he just walked away from our crime scene. As she spoke, she looked to Jordan as he arrived at the car. Mike looked at Jordan as he asked the obvious question of Jordan.

What was that guy’s name? Jordan instantly picked up on the tension from both of his colleagues. John Gray. Why?

Nerise answered. He’s a client of Bradley and Bradley wanted rid of him as quickly as possible.

Jordan sighed. Do you think I would have let him walk away if I had any reason to think he’s involved in this?

Nerise could hear the exhaustion in his voice. No. Of course not. But surely, we should keep an eye on him for now?

You’re right. There is something about him that doesn’t feel right. But it’s not psychotic urges to dismember people. He feels ineffectual, a remnant almost, of something long past. Jordan heard himself and knew it was time for caffeine. He hated part time philosophers and now he sounded just like one.

Nerise opened the car door for him and got in behind the wheel. Mike smiled at her once more and went to his car too. As they drove back to the station Nerise couldn’t help thinking that John Gray was going to be in her line of sight again. And it scared her.

Kimmel was driving as fast as he dare without risking being stopped for speeding. His thoughts raced through the morning’s events. How could this have happened? This was certainly not part of the plan! He had no idea what had gone wrong with the programme. He had to get to a phone. A phone box, his mobile was not secure. He had to contact Ryker, and soon.

Jordan was milling everything around in his head. His left hand back at its station on the base of his neck. When they reached the station, he went straight to his office and picked up the phone before he sat down.

He was calling his superior. Chief Inspector Dell. A man who wanted a body on his desk before he would consider leaving it.

Chief? It’s Jordan. I think we might have caught a break. Hand squeezing his neck with far more purpose now.

Please tell me you caught this maniac chewing someone’s leg off. No emotion in the chief’s voice. Well, maybe a touch of apathy.

Obviously not, sir. But we may have come closer to a viable suspect. Will that do? Jordan could feel his hand working on his neck now. Wishing it was round the throat of his chief. There was no love lost between them. Both thought the other was an idiot.

What do you mean? How do you suspect someone of this kind of atrocity? There’s no type for this kind of horror. Either you know who it is, or you don’t. The last sentence only highlighting Dells ineptitude. This of course was discussed at length daily around the canteen.

No sir, but we have found a client of the late Dr Bradley who’s certainly not dealing a full deck. Jordan could feel his blood pressure counting off the lost minutes of his later years.

Does this make him a murderer Jordan? Aren’t there quite a few nutters on Bradley’s patient list? Isn’t that the point?

The urge to scream down the line was getting harder to resist and Jordan knew he had to come to the point and get off the line as quickly as he could. I’m particularly interested in this one sir. Now speaking through gritted teeth.

Evidence? Dell snapped. Have you brought him in?

No sir. We can’t actually prove he was at the crime scene last night, but he’s certainly involved in something that might be connected to the case. His will to live was slowly backing away from the conversation. Dell sighed audibly down the phone, uninterested in where this conversation was going. The hairs on the back of Jordan's neck stood to attention. He had to cut to the chase.

I want to keep an eye on him for a while. See what he gets up to. I need a surveillance team...starting from tonight. There was silence at the other end of the phone. Then Dell spoke.

Can’t be done. There are maniacs on every street corner in this city. And your budget is already causing concern upstairs. Upstairs. The fucking moron was on the top floor. Too many American cop shows and not enough grey cells. Even if you could find a team. After everything that’s happened over the past weeks, they’d be too exhausted to know what they were doing. Dell wasn’t interested in assisting, just taking the credit. Jordan took a silent but deep breath.

So...Ok... What if I put my own team together then? Guys who’ll volunteer? Jordan was shouting now, without realising it.

Dell grunted. Do what you have to do Inspector. But don’t bother me till you have results. The line went dead.

Fucking moron! Jordan's voice was heard throughout the entire department. Several young constables decided this was as good a time as any to go for coffee. But two people remained outside his office. Two people who cared too much about him to worry about his temper.

Jordan stomped out of his office. You two busy for the next few years?

I’m a scientist, not a spy. Mike was trying hard to remember who was on call for the next few days in the lab and if they were people, he could trust to cover for him.

I’m your partner. I’ll support you whatever happens. Nerise was just as tired as Jordan but just as desperate to get this monster as everyone else.

Thanks guys. We’re on our own now thanks to Dell.

I’ll call the lab, pull a few favours in. Mike was torn between the lab and helping Jordan. He knew what was needed. But also knew that his home was the lab. His domain. On the other hand, they had no forensic evidence, so what was the emergency?  As they were pooling their resources a young officer stepped toward Jordan. I can watch this guy tonight sir. I know you need the help. We all know. The young man was a constable with ambition. But the right kind. Or so Jordan thought. I don’t have family waiting for me so there are no problems on that end. He brushed blond hair back over his forehead and nodded to the three of them.

Jordan nodded back to him. Thank you, officer... He realised he didn’t even know the boy’s name.

Painter, sir.

Thank you, Painter. This is a great help and won’t be forgotten.

Kimmel picked up the receiver and dialled nervously. The answer was from a childlike voice at the other end of the line.

Ryker. The voice was very still, ice cold. Kimmel sometimes felt he had a direct line to the morning star himself, which was not a comfort.

Ryker. What the hell do you think you're doing? Kimmel knew this might not be the wisest approach, but this was his project, and no stupid grunt was going to fuck it up.

I think Doctor that you should remember who you're talking to, and how much I dislike the tone of your voice. If you're referring to your moronic partner, he had to go. He was panicking and he couldn’t handle the package. He could no longer be allowed to continue. Ryker remained monotone throughout his statement, hypnotic.

Why did you have to make it the ‘Red Death’? My God, We had every kind of cop and reporter all over the building. Not exactly conducive to secrecy, is it? He chose to ignore Ryker’s comment about tones and finish as he had started.

I agree Doctor, but this way, when the killer denies this particular murder, the police will be far too confused to worry about poor Dr Bradley. Please try to understand, Dr Kimmel, that this is not just about your ‘project’. The line went dead. Kimmel was shell shocked. He could suddenly feel everything slipping away from him. He was now an errand boy.

Gray sat at home pondering the morning’s events. What could Bradley possibly have done to attract the attention of such a monster? Even though he knew it was a stupid question it was reason enough to stay awake and ruminate, rather than go to sleep and scream. Even the hypnosis had not stopped the onslaught of his nightmares. He need not have worried though. He was not sleeping alone tonight.

Inspector Jordan was parked three houses away from John Gray’s house on the opposite side of the street. Gray lived on Holm Street. A little place, on the outskirts of the city. Not a particularly impressive place, just a small semi-detached house with a broken wooden fence protecting a patch of weary grass. Which was desperately trying to survive the weeds that were infesting it?

The light was on in the living room but there were no real signs of activity. The curtains were thick enough to provide privacy, but not so thick as to exclude an outside silhouette. The occasional shadow would pass across the curtains as if to prove the point. But there were no signs of the light shining from a TV set or any other company, perhaps there to comfort him after the day’s events. The only thing trying to leave the house was the paint on every window frame, and all at once, apparently. Jordan drove away, his head pounding. He knew he was on to something with this guy. Painter had followed in another unmarked car and positioned himself in the space Jordan had left. Switched the engine off and shuffled around in his seat. It wasn’t going to be a comfortable night.

Nerise was back at the station working on background checks. Whether he was married, divorced, gay... whether he had any kind of record. Even a parking ticket would give them an idea of where he roamed in the city. Show them if he’d been near any of the murder scenes. Jordan was patiently waiting to hear from her while the young constable he had sent to watch Gray’s house sat looking at nothing. Just an empty little street in the suburbs of London. Really, really boring. But he sat and watched Gray’s house. He’d told her to use her mobile just in case this guy had a Police scanner. It had been the downfall of many a good stake out. The phone rang.

Jordan, it’s me. I’ve found nothing on this guy. He’s cleaner than soap. Nerise sounded disappointed. She had obviously hoped, as he did, that something would turn up on this guy.

Don’t give up yet Nerise. This could simply be his first outing. They all start somewhere. And remember, like it or not, we’re following a hunch.

He tried to sound optimistic for her sake, not that he’d outwardly admit he cared for her. But she was like a daughter, he felt sometimes.

Yeah. I know, you’re right. I just hoped something was there. But this guy has never even double parked.

That might be a good sign. I mean, if you were committing this kind of crime you would want to be anonymous, a shadow. He heard himself say it but wasn’t buying it either. I’m here until five am. If he moves, we’ll know.

Nerise sounded frustrated. And if he doesn’t?

Then we’ll be back here tomorrow and the day after. There’s definitely something about this guy. You picked up on it right away and that’s good enough for me. He meant that sincerely. Like Mike Sheene, he knew very well what Nerise’s instincts were like. We’ll keep an eye on him until we know. One way or the other. He fits our profile, but then so does every other man over 25. We need to get someone else involved on that side. Thatcher has been no use and he just wanders around telling everyone how he’s profiled so many investigations. I could have done better over a cup of tea and a Kit Kat.

2. Rooms

First, the screaming. A man’s voice from another room. The room Gray is standing in is blue. This is the one he always starts in. A very peaceful place, despite the screams from somewhere outside. All he knows is that this room is safe, but this is only the beginning. He knows that now he has to move on. He has to move to the red room. A very large room, completely red from floor to ceiling. The colour is not made by paint. It is the red of human suffering and it’s getting worse every time he visits. The screams are coming from a young man in the far corner of the room. He is nailed to a plank that intersects the two far walls of the room, giving his persecutor total access to his body, and he has certainly had that.

The young man is covered in so much of his own blood that it’s hard to tell just how much damage he has suffered. But as Gray focuses on him, which it’s impossible not to do, he begins to see the real damage. There are tiny but deep cuts around his thighs and lower torso. They circle his genitals. From here there are blade marks leading up to his nipples and on toward his throat. But the face is the worst. If this man was ever attractive no one will know it, because there is no face left to speak of. It has been systematically peeled from the bone, but the eyes left untouched are now staring, pleadingly, into the eyes of John Gray. But no words leave the man’s devastated lips. Only screams. But the worst of this horror is that this man is nowhere near death. His suffering could continue for hours. Maybe longer, and all Gray can do is watch.

Gray flung himself from the chair screaming. Fleeing for the door of his house. The indentations from his fingers still showing in the worn leather of his armchair. As he reached the front door he came to his senses and stopped, just short of opening it as usual and running down the street. He looked back down the dark hallway. Nothing moved in the shadows except the cat. He was peering through the darkness from the living room door, doing what cats do best. Investigating the scene with an air of indifference. Gray got his breathing under control and called the animal to him. Trying his best to sound soothing and relaxed. Hey boy, you, OK? the cats name had come about in an unexpected way. As a kitten he had a talent for destroying a room in seconds. If it wasn’t nailed down, it got knocked down. So, Gray had spent rather a lot of time using one particular name to express his exasperation at the animal’s skills. The cat over time just assumed that was his name. Gray bent down, offering his hand to the animal. Come on Jesus. It’s OK. We’re fine now, aren’t we? The sweat clung to his clothes which in turn clung to his body. He hoped the neighbours hadn’t heard him again. They already gave him a wide berth if they saw him at night. But whether they had heard him or not someone certainly had.

Jordan realised that whatever it was about John Gray that made him uneasy was also dangerous. Something that maybe tied him to this investigation. The scream was heard over the constable’s mobile as he called in to say nothing was happening and was unlikely to at three am. It had pierced the air like a siren. Chilling to the soul.

A tap on the car window made him jump so violently that Painter’s head nearly hit the roof of his car. Jesus Christ!

Sorry son. I thought you saw me coming. It was Gray’s neighbour. An old looking man with white hair. It’s like this every night you know. Screaming. Banging. Sometimes he’s running down the street almost naked. Are you here to do something about it?

Jordan heard the man complaining and wondered how the voice on the other end of the phone had known Painter was a cop? We don’t even know if this guy really is involved or just in need of a quiet padded cell for a few years. There was silence for a few seconds and then Painter’s voice was back on the line.

Sorry sir. He thought I was from environmental health or something. Don’t think he quite knows what is happening. Might have wandered out of the house himself. Someone just came out to get him home anyway. Gray just sounds like he has bad dreams. Loud, bad dreams.

He may not be involved with this case but believe me he’s not running on all cylinders. Jordan’s hand was once again kneading the back of his neck. He looked exhausted.

Mike walked back into Jordan’s office. Go home Jordan, get some sleep. If he moves, you’ll be the first to know, promise.

Just as he got out of the chair his mobile phone rang. Jordan here. His face became very pale. What! Are you sure? I’ll be right there. He moved the cell phone away from his ear and looked at Mike with panic swimming across his features like a slowly dying wave. We just got a call from the Red Death killer. He’s saying Bradley’s not one of his! Jordan's face was stark white. Even with the lamp light, coming through his office window from the street, his usual