Deadly Still

PROLOGUE

The killer looked down at the body with a critical eye. Something wasn’t quite right about the way it would look to someone discovering it. The position of the legs would look too contrived.

I can’t risk that. It needs to look natural, as if there had been a sudden seizure and the body slumped forward and fell flat on its face. That would be in keeping, for everyone knows how much the bastard drinks at nights. I’ll reposition them afterwards.

The killer lifted the head by the hair and the torso by the collar until it was raised as far as the spine would allow. Then, placing a foot on the back of the neck and stamping down hard at the same time as letting go with the hands, the head was forcibly driven onto the bare wooden floor. A sickening thud ensued and a crunch as the nasal bones shattered. A pool of blood immediately started to form around the head.

Gingerly lifting the whisky glass in a gloved hand and holding it above and to the side of the body the slayer threw it at a slight angle so that it smashed and splashed its contents forwards. For added effect the empty whisky bottle was rolled across the floor, sloshing liquid as it went until it stopped against the skirting board.

Good, a masterful touch there. It looks as if the glass fell forward out of one hand and the bottle out of the other. A waste of good whisky, they’ll say! OK, maybe not good whisky, but that’s for them to find out.

At least I didn’t spit in your face, like you deserved, but I’m not going to risk leaving any of my DNA around this place. Not when I was so careful to wear gloves as always in this pigsty. Not that there will be a need for anyone to even look for such ephemera when the cause of death is so obvious, you drunken sot.

If you were still alive you’d realise it was all your own fault. If you hadn’t been such a greedy bastard and forced my hand you’d still be leading your dirty little life and you’d be able to keep your murky secrets to yourself. Lucky for your legacy, if there was such a thing, I’m here to clear your crap up for you.

The killer picked up the phone and carefully checked that there were no photos in the phone library before tossing it onto the kitchen table beside the bottles of insulin and the used syringe.

It all went according to my plan, even though you thought you were in charge. The drink did the trick and then a huge insulin dose made sure, so all I had to do was slip the tube up your nostril and down into the stomach and pour the contents of a whole bottle into it via the feeding bag.

I expected that there would be some vomiting, a gag reflex I suppose, but that little bit of gubbins on your clothes makes it look even better. That fit you had was spectacular, especially with all that frothy spittle. Another nice touch that they’ll put down to a seizure while pissed out of your head.

Beautiful! Untraceable! Just bad whisky, they’ll think. If they think at all!

And now with that smashed nose there is no trace of where I shoved the tube. So it’s goodbye then, you fucking toad. I’m glad I had the pleasure of snuffing your miserable life out.

The killer put the nasogastric tube and the feeding bag in the plastic rubbish bag along with the laptop and the other potentially incriminating things that had been carefully stowed there.

Taking out the mobile phone the killer sent a quick one-word text before spending a few minutes minutely removing all possible traces from the other room. Then, after one last look around to check that no traces had been left, opened the door and slipped out into the night.