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CHAPTER SIX
From the worn bench perched on the cliff's edge, the killer sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the churning sea below. The beach stretched out in front, its sands untouched, a clean slate unlike the turmoil within him. The cold wind whipped around, but he hardly noticed, lost in the tumult of his own thoughts.
Had he gone too far this time? He had always been cool and calm, collected. But that mask was beginning to slip. Had he jeopardized everything?
The questions echoed in his mind, a relentless tide that eroded his once steadfast resolve. He had always been meticulous, careful to leave no trace, no link back to himself. But this last act, it was different—more impulsive, less controlled. It was as if something within him had snapped, unleashing a recklessness he hadn't known he possessed.
As he sat there, the killer couldn't help but feel the weight of what he had done. The flood, the bodies, the panic he had sown—it was all becoming too real, too tangible. He wondered if he should have let the women go, but what then? They would talk, and the game would be up. That couldn't be allowed to happen.
For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine being caught, exposed for the world to see. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, not from the cold, but from the fear of consequences he had long believed he could avoid.
The waves crashed against the shore, their relentless rhythm a mirror to his racing heart. He had always prided himself on his ability to remain detached, to view his actions as necessary steps in a grander scheme. He was a professional, and professionals always acted with purpose, not fury. But now, doubts crept in, casting shadows over the justifications he had carefully constructed.
What would happen to him if he were caught? Prison, disgrace, his allies trying to wipe him out to stop him from talking, the unraveling of everything they had all built together—these were the stakes. He had started this with a purpose, a mission to fulfill. But now, as he gazed out at the endless expanse of water, he wondered if his purpose had been lost along the way, drowned in the very chaos he had created.
He stood up slowly, his body stiff from the cold and the tension that gripped him. He needed to think to plan his next move. There was still a chance to regain control, to cover his tracks and emerge unscathed. He couldn't afford to make any more mistakes.
With one last look at the tumultuous sea, the killer turned and walked away from the bench. The beach behind him remained silent and desolate, but the killer's intentions were anything but. They were to right a wrong, and to kill in pursuit of that right, no matter what.
As he walked out towards the moors, one thought coursed through his mind: "More will die if needed". But how many remained uncertain.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Finn sat in the makeshift headquarters they had been given at the local run down police station in Helford town, the locket still in his hand as he studied it intently. He had spent the last few hours pouring over every detail, every engraving, every possible clue that could lead them to the identity of the woman whose body had been found in the river. But so far, the locket had only raised more questions than answers.
Engraved inside was a date and the initials H. B.
They set up their makeshift headquarters in a room that looked more like an old schoolroom to Finn, laying out their notes and evidence on the dusty table at its center. At the front of the room was a whiteboard, and that was as technologically advanced as the place had gotten.
Finn sighed. Amelia was off gathering some files for the room, and Mulberry was trying to hunt down some computers for them to use. The wait was frustrating.
Amelia walked in, her eyes taking in the cramped room that served as their temporary base of operations. She was carrying a stack of folders and files, the latest reports from the forensics team. "Anything new on the locket?" she asked.
"No," Finn said, quietly. "They haven't set me up a computer yet, so Mulberry is next door searching for anyone with that date of birth. We're focusing on anyone attached to the St Martin Castle."
Amelia nodded and put the files down in a pile on a large desk at the front. Finn felt like he had gone back in time. At the Mesmer building back in in Quantico, he was used to touch screens and cutting edge technology. He had to admire a local rural police station like that, working with what it had.
"Photographs of the scenes," Amelia said, pinning several photos up on a whiteboard. "And a witness statement for the person who found the first two bodies."
"Who was it?" Finn looked up.
"Reading this," Amelia said. "He claimed to be a local out for a walk, but given the weather, my money is on him being an illegal poacher."
Finn nodded. "What about the autopsy?"
"Still waiting," Amelia replied. "But the local pathologist messaged me to say that the wounds were caused by a knife. It's murder, like we thought. Ulman won't be amused."
Finn turned his gaze back to the locket. "Such a small precious thing..." It reminded him of a necklace he had once bought Demi. For a moment, he thought of her being the one dead amongst the branches. The fear of anything bad happening to her was a sign of something, of something rekindling inside of himself. But although his wounds were healing, he was unsure of whether that fire should ever be lit again.
Constable Mulberry, slightly red-faced from the antiquated technology he was wrestling with, finally walked through the door and placed an old laptop and some cables down o desk-table. Setting it up, he apologized for its outdated state. "Sorry, it's not the newest, but it should work."
As Mulberry plugged everything in, Finn Amelia asked: “Mulberry, the description of the man who found the bodies?”
“Ah, yes," he answered, looking up. "That was Old Fred Parsons. He's well known around here. Wouldn't harm a fly."
“Is a he a poacher?” Finn followed up.
The laptop sprung to life, and Mulberry looked sheepish in its glow. "He lives in a homeless shelter."
